The Stag Lord

by Darby Kaye

  I am the meaning of poetry,

  I am a spear on the attack, pouring forth combat,

  I am the god who fires your mind.

  As his father continued to chant, Cor tugged on Shay’s sleeve. “Why don’t they all charge him at once?” Even as he asked, he cringed at the words, certain that by saying them aloud, he’d somehow make it come true.

  “They’ve tried twice now. He’s just too fast.” She let out a low whistle. “By the Goddess, I thought my guys were pretty good.” She gestured with her chin to the others who were mocking Rory while they cleaned up the remaining goblins. “And they are. But your dad is something else.”

  Counting the number of creatures encircling his father, Cor gulped. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Ppfftt.” Shay blew a raspberry. That action alone eased Cor’s dread. “Kiddo, I’ve tried twice to go help him, but no.” She raised her voice. “Clearly, he doesn’t believe in sharing. Wants them all to himself. Don’t you, Boru?”

  “Go find yer own to play with,” he shouted back, laughter in his voice. “There’s more than enough without ye trying to thieve mine, woman. Why, I’ve just got this lot trained. Dinna I, ye manky beasties?” He stomped a foot at them. The ones in the front row scrambled out of the way, desperate to avoid the knives that had destroyed more than half their numbers in less than four minutes.

  Cor almost passed out when a group behind his father decided to charge. Even as he opened his mouth to warn him, the goblins lunged for the Knight, fingers outstretched.

  His father spun on his toes. A blur of motion. A flash of bronze.

  Five Amandán stood in shock. Fingerless. They stared at their paws, suddenly small knobs without the appendages. Then, with a ka-whoof, they exploded as a group. The rest turned and fled into the woods. Cor just knew if they had tails, they would be well and truly tucked.

  “Whoa,” Shay and Cor breathed at the same time.

  Wiping his knives on his jeans, Bann sauntered over, chest heaving. Ash coated one side of his face like they were part of a weird parody of Braveheart. He spat once. “Well, that was grand fun.”

  “Show-off.” Shay snorted. “Were you trying to impress me?”

  “Oh, aye.” Bann’s teeth flashed white in the mask of goblin remains. He finished cleaning his blades. Shoving one back in a holster, he kept the other one out. “And were you?”

  Shay shrugged. “Meh.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  An odd joy oozed from Cor’s father. It seemed to grow when Hugh and the younger Knights joined them, all talking and laughing at once, Rory still as red-faced as his hair.

  Cor looked down at his knife. Hating to destroy his dad’s mood, but knowing putting it off would only throw him arse over teakettle into a bog of troubles, he took a deep breath, certain it was his last.

  “Um, Dad?”

  “A moment, son.”

  Cor waited the obligatory count of ten, then tried again. “Dad, I have to tell you something.” He held up his weapon and steeled himself. “I broke your knife.”

  The other hunters exchanged grins when Bann plucked the blade from Cor’s hand. “And how did this happen?”

  “I dropped it.” He just knew his father was going to yell at him in front of everyone. Or worse. “I didn’t mean to. I was holding it and—”

  Rory took the broken blade from Bann. “I broke it. I stepped on it during the first skirmish.”

  “Actually.” Hugh indicated for Rory to pass him the blade. “I am to blame. I should have kept the lad closer to me instead of—” He blinked in surprise when James took the knife next.

  “Nope, my fault. I bumped into Cor and made him drop it.” He passed it to Shay. “Your turn.”

  She scrunched up her face for a moment, turning the knife to and fro. “Um…it’s my fault because…” She clucked her tongue a few times, than gave up. “Yeah, I got nothing.” She handed it back to Cor. “Sorry, buddy.”

  Cor opened and closed his mouth in confusion when they all burst out laughing. Sometimes, I just don’t get grown-ups.

  19

  BANN BLINKED AWAKE. THE dream that had jerked him out of sleep faded, leaving a trace of a memory of water. Then even the trace faded, too. With a yawn, he stretched, grunting at the satisfying pop of his spine. One hand reached for the knife on the floor beside his bed while his eyes swept the room, an old habit. A few feet away, Cor was a boy-sized lump under the comforter in the middle of the other bed.

  The door was shut. Bann had closed it before retiring, just in case, for some reason, Shay had decided to allow Max the run of the house. Nothing short of a closed door would stop the dog from making a beeline for Cor whenever possible. And vice versa.

  Sitting further up, he pushed the curtain aside on the window next to his bed with the tip of the knife and peered out. The front yard was empty, as was the street leading south. Almost out of view, his truck sat tucked around the corner of the house; only its fender poked out. To the east, a streak of pale blue on the horizon marked the beginning of the new day, that in-between time when magic happened. Not that Bann believed in magic anymore.

  Well, maybe just a little.

  Knowing he would never get back to sleep, he rose, dressing as quietly as he could, one eye on his sleeping son, hoping for a few minutes alone before buckling on fatherhood for another day. Not that he didn’t love his son beyond insanity, but still…

  As he tugged on briefs and jeans, he wondered briefly when he had switched back to his old habit of sleeping in the nude. He picked up his knife and T-shirt, then eased out of the room on soundless feet. Closing the door with a wary snick, he paused in the hallway and stared down the dim hall at Shay’s door.

  For the past few days, ever since the hunt, he’d found himself comparing Shay to his wife. Elizabeth, a beautiful and highly refined woman from one of the oldest and most prominent Fey families, who’d had high standards and even higher disdain for those who did not meet them. Bann had often wondered if she was more enamored with the idea of wedding the descendent of the High King than with the descendent himself. The first few years of their marriage had been marked with an endless procession of soirées amongst the other elite clans of the East Coast who were eager to meet the long-son of the Boru. A Knight for whom those parties were endured rather than enjoyed. But later, as the years passed, Elizabeth had grown disappointed in who and what he was—a roughhewn bogtrotter from the Old Country, with archaic manners and a hunter’s mentality, both out of place in the twenty-first century. His insistence that they live a simpler lifestyle than Elizabeth was accustomed to—which was followed by a series of arguments that flayed both of them—had been the first stake in the heart of their marriage. Cor’s arrival had helped bring them together for a few years, until Bann began talking of training their son to hunt. That’s when the real battle had begun. A war made up of brutal skirmishes—each side determined to win, whatever the cost.

  The old question haunted him: Did Elizabeth marry me for my lineage or for myself?

  But now, there was Shay. If Elizabeth had been high heels, black tie, and the tink of martini glasses, Shay was barefooted mornings, faded jeans, and fresh coffee in a thick mug.

  Shay Doyle. There was something about her that soothed the burn of the hell he had been living. He found himself wanting to know her. Her thoughts. Her opinions. Her dreams. He wanted to know what made her laugh and what made her weep.

  To be sure, he also found himself wanting her. To explore her body in the coracle of the night and have her explore his. If she appeared and beckoned for me to join her in her bed, would I go? He snorted. The question is not would I, but how swiftly would I run?

  As if on cue, her door opened.

  Bann held his breath.

  Max appeared. The dog trotted past him toward the kitchen, the beat of gottapeegottapeegottapee in his gait. An unaware Shay stumbled after him, yawning. Hair tousled around her face and shoulders, she was dressed in a plain
cotton camisole and a pair of plaid flannel boxers. Although baggy, they were short enough to trap Bann’s gaze.

  Which was good, since the cami was stretched tight across her breasts. And the morning air was cold. From the looks of things under said shirt, really cold.

  Fumbling with his own shirt, he pulled it over his head to blindfold himself. A faint squeak of surprise. The whisper-hiss of bare feet scampering away. By the time his head poked through the neck hole, the hallway was empty. From the kitchen, Max whined.

  After letting the frantic dog outside, Bann flipped on the coffeemaker. As it spat and complained, he made a lap around the island, trying to think of anything other than Shay.

  Shay’s smile.

  Shay’s voice.

  Shay’s body.

  “What are you, man?” he muttered to himself in Gaelic. “A besotted, downy-cheeked boy?”

  “They say talking to oneself is a sign of mental illness.” Shay appeared, barefooted like himself, and dressed in jeans and a hoodie, much to Bann’s disappointment. And relief. But mostly disappointment. “Especially if it’s in Gaelic.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Liar.” She moved toward the back door. “Sorry Max and I woke you up.”

  “I was already awake.” Bann snagged two mugs from the cupboard. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” As he poured, Shay slid the door open. Max bounded in, banging into the glass and almost knocking it off its runners. He scampered over to his food dish. At the sight of the empty bowl, he looked up at Shay with a what the hell expression.

  “It’s like having a child,” she grumbled. She picked up the bowl and disappeared into the pantry where she stored the forty-pound bag of dog food.

  “Care to trade?” Bann called, rummaging in the refrigerator for the cream.

  “Dad?”

  “Ah. Speak of the devil.” He turned at his son’s voice.

  Wearing an old T-shirt and sweat pants, Cor leaned his elbows on the island’s countertop, face wrinkled with pain. He cradled his head in his hands, fingers buried in his hair.

  Bann winced in sympathy. “Another one, eh?”

  Shay appeared with the dog’s bowl filled to the rim with dry kibble. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” After placing it in front of an ecstatic Max, she walked over to Cor. “Not feeling well?”

  “He often wakes up with right fierce headaches.” Bann explained. “I do not know what brings them on, but they have plagued him since he was a toddler.”

  “Migraines?” Shay cupped Cor’s chin in her hand and peered into his eyes.

  “The Healer back home said no—the symptoms are not the same. And, anyway, Fey are not prone to migraines.” Bann joined them. “They usually last an hour or so, then dissipate. The sláinte potion has no effect on them.”

  “Hmm.” Shay leaned against the island. Drumming her fingers on the Formica, she studied the boy. “Only in the mornings, Cor?”

  Cor nodded, then grimaced at the movement.

  “Sometimes, he gets them after a nap. What?” Bann asked when Cor glared up at him through his pain.

  “I don’t take naps.” Cor curled his lip. “I’m not a baby.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Bann hid a smile behind his mug.

  “I’ve got an idea. A remedy we can try, at least.” Shay fished a hair band out of her pocket and pulled her tresses back into a ponytail, the act signaling Healer mode. “Cor, go lie down on the sofa.”

  As Cor shuffled over, Shay took a gulp from the mug Bann had handed her, then returned to her storeroom. He could hear the tinkle and rattle as she moved bottles and other objects about. Something fell to the ground with a dull whump.

  “Son of a—” She bit back the rest of the curse. “I really need a ladder in here. Or longer legs.”

  The phrase longer legs had Bann moving toward the pantry. To be of help, nothing more. He paused in the doorway of the tiny space.

  “Watch your feet.” Shay was on her knees, sweeping up pea-sized nuts strewn across the floor and dumping them back into a small burlap bag. After cleaning up the mess, she tossed the bag into a trash can and rose. Dusting her hands on her jeans, she sighed. “Well, that was a waste of some perfect good piñon.”

  “Can I be of help?” he asked.

  “Yeah, can you get that for me?” Looking up, she pointed to a Mason jar on the highest shelf. “The one with the purple label.” She scooted closer to the shelves to give him room.

  Bann squeezed in behind her. He tried to ignore the warmth of her body against his. Tried to ignore the brush of her butt against his thighs. Tried not to breathe in the scent of her shampoo, or her soap, or just the scent of her.

  Okay. To be honest, he didn’t try very hard.

  Reminding himself that his son was just a few yards away, he reached over her head and grabbed the container half-filled with a pale liquid. It gurgled and sloshed in the jar as he edged sideways out of the room. Shay followed.

  “Thanks.” Taking the jar from him, she walked over to the counter and unscrewed the lid. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Oh, that’s nice.” She sniffed again with a smile. “Got this idea from the mortals.”

  Intrigued, Bann leaned around her and took a whiff. Summer filled his nostrils. “What is it?”

  “Lavender oil. According to humans, the aroma is supposed to soothe headaches. I thought I’d try it on Cor. Figure it can’t hurt, and it just might help.”

  Bann trailed her over to the sofa. Not sure what to do, he hovered to one side as Shay sat down by Cor’s knees and placed the open container on the coffee table. His son lay with his eyes screwed tight, hands fisted on his chest in misery.

  “Cor?” The Healer reached over and uncurled his fingers, holding his hands flat between hers. “You need to relax. You’re only making it worse when you tense up your body that way.”

  “Hurts,” Cor whimpered. He squinted up at her. “Make it stop.”

  “I’ll try.” She let go. Dipping into the jar, she moistened the tip of her finger. “Okay, I’m going to rub some oil on your temples. It’ll feel a little cold at first.” With that, she dabbed the lavender on the side of his head.

  Bann sank down on the arm of the nearby chair and watched as she rubbed Cor’s head in a slow, circular motion. The aroma of a late June morning filled the room. She dipped again and applied the oil to his other temple.

  Gradually, Cor’s body relaxed. His face smoothed out. He took a deep breath, then another, and sank farther into the sofa’s cushions.

  “Better?” Shay whispered.

  “Better,” Cor whispered back. Blinking sleepily, he smiled up at her, then closed his eyes.

  “Good.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. Leaning closer, she brushed the hair off Cor’s forehead as he dozed. Her gaze was fixed on the boy’s face.

  Bann’s was fixed on hers.

  By all the gods, she is beautiful, he thought.And not just on the outside.

  “Loosen, ye son of a bitch.” Squatting by the camper, Bann fought to unscrew the cap on the wastewater tank, the afternoon sun autumn-warm on the back of his neck. Thoughts about nothing more pressing than obtaining a Colorado driver’s license, ordering plate tags, and opening a bank account drifted through his head. He grinned as he wrangled a vise grip around the cap. May the mortals never find out how easily we Fey can procure illegal documents when necessary. The vise grip slipped, and he scraped his hand along the undercarriage. Wincing, he examined the wound. Each knuckle had a neatly rolled spool of skin on top. He glanced along the east side of the house. Making sure the Healer wasn’t in sight, he licked the beads of blood welling up. Her voice drifted from the backyard, mingling with Max’s barking and Cor yelling commands at the dog between fits of giggles.

  Bann smiled at the sound as he worked. We should do something today. The three of us. Something simple and pleasurable, like a meal out. Maybe stroll about downtown afterwards. Something that has nothing to do with killer gods and vengeful monster
s—

  A shadow fell across him like a shroud.

  Bann’s knife was in his hand before the vise grip hit the dirt. Every nerve in his body screamed at him. Strike! Strike now! Drown your blade in the shapeshifter’s blood! The war cry swelled in his throat, almost choking him. He whirled around.

  Quinn Tully stood a few feet away. Even with the sun casting his face in shadow, Bann could see the traces of the bruises he had put there ten days ago. He wondered how the younger Knight had managed to approach Shay’s secluded house without his knowledge. Furious with himself for allowing it to happen, he shifted his feet under him. Ready for battle. “What are you doing here?”

  Quinn’s eyes darted once to the weapon in Bann’s hand, then toward the backyard and Shay’s disembodied voice. “I’ve come to talk to Shay.”

  “No.”

  Quinn snorted. “Screw you.” He started toward the side of the house.

  Bann slapped a hand on the younger man’s chest, halting him in his tracks. “I said no.”

  “Back off.” He knocked Bann’s arm aside. “Or—”

  “Or what? Ye’ll strike me? But, no, ye would not dare.” He crowded closer. “Ye only hit women.”

  For a long minute, they stood chest to chest. Quinn’s breath was a mix of nerves and beer fumes and whatever processed meat he had had for lunch. A voice in Bann’s head, one he always associated with the warp spasm, began whispering to him. It coiled around his neck like a lover’s arm, lips close to his ear as it murmured, urging him to attack first and attack hard. Preferably by breaking Tully’s nose. Or jaw. Or both. Perhaps loosening a few teeth along the way. Then a knee to the balls with another blow to the face as the bastard collapses in agony. Just to make certain he understands us, eh? Just to make certain he never raises his hand against Shay again. A feral smile bared his teeth.

  Quinn blinked.

  Ah, victory. Bann’s smile widened when the younger Knight eased back a step, clearly sensing the Knight’s willingness, nay, eagerness, to beat the crap out of him. Again. “Leaving so soon, are ye, then?”

  “Just remember, Boru.” Quinn’s lip curled. “Certain people know where you are. And know where your kid is.”