by Megan Chance
Patrick tensed. Eubages, brithem, and vater. The Seer, the Judge, and the Prophet. The veleda played all these roles. Let them read it only as that. Don’t let them see the goddess that the Fianna do. Why would they save her life, if her death would release such staggering power?
Then Simon said, “It’s not that. The runes seem to indicate a greater power.”
“A greater power?” asked Lot.
Here it is, then.
“The power of a goddess,” Simon said.
“That can’t be,” Patrick protested. “I know Grace. She doesn’t have that kind of strength.”
“She was very unformed when you saw her last.” Bres’s voice vibrated with excitement. He strode to the table and contemplated the rune sticks. “If this is true—such power could win us this city. It could win us Ireland. With her, we could have it all easily. It could give us the world!”
“But we don’t need the world,” Patrick said. “We need only Ireland’s freedom. I thought we were agreed that we would try to save Grace’s life.”
Lot’s water lily perfume filled his nose as she squeezed his arm. “Yes, of course, my darling. Gaining her power without her death is what we still hope for.”
“Aye,” Bres said shortly, though he did not meet Patrick’s eyes. “We’ll find another spell.”
“But if there’s not another spell, we may not have a choice,” Simon added. “Think of what’s at stake, Patrick.”
“Think of the cost, Simon,” Patrick countered. “We aren’t murderers.”
“This was all your idea. Yours,” Simon reminded him. “Have you changed your mind now that things have got a little dirty?”
“Not just a little dirty,” Patrick snapped. “You’re speaking of the death of the girl I love.”
“You loved Ireland too. Once, you were willing to do anything for her. You made the vow, as did we all. Do you mean to take it back?”
Patrick knew Simon was asking only what they all wondered. Just where did his loyalty lie? He looked at Jonathan, who looked away. “No. But I’m begging you all—find another spell.”
Lot pressed into his side soothingly. “We will. Your wedding will go on as planned, darling, and you’ll spend the rest of your life with your love.”
“But first we must find her,” Bres said.
“Which may be another problem,” Simon muttered, consulting the runes again. “There’s something else that keeps coming up.”
“Another obstacle?” Daire Donn laughed. “Have there not been enough?”
“Otherworld,” Simon told them. “It keeps reappearing.”
“Does it predict her death?” Bres asked.
“This isn’t a prediction. It’s what’s happening now.”
“You mean she’s already dead?” Daire Donn asked in alarm. “But what about the prophecy?”
Patrick’s heart seized. “She’s not dead. I would know.”
“You would know? How?” Bres’s eyes were hard.
“Because I love her,” Patrick said, though that was only half the truth. He didn’t tell them about his dreams of stone walls and oracle fires, which felt more and more real, so that sometimes he wasn’t certain when he was awake and when he was dreaming. In them, he was racing to protect the veleda—Grace. She was in danger, but she was alive, and he knew it the way he knew the sky was blue. It was her presence he felt in those dreams, though it sounded mad to say it.
Though which was more insane? Feeling the girl he loved was alive or being afraid to admit it to gods and men who’d burst to life from stories?
Once again, Simon pushed at the runes. “Otherworld can mean uncertainty or change or danger. But I think here it means another place. Time that passes differently.”
“The sidhe. Time passes differently inside a glamour. She must be in the hands of the river pirates.” Bres commanded Balor, “Double efforts to find them. If the veleda is with the sidhe, we have no time to lose.”
Simon picked up the sticks, tossing them in a small leather bag so they clattered together, then spilled them again onto the table. The smell of hemp smoke filled Patrick’s nose. Oracle smoke, like that in his dream. It stung his eyes and choked him as if he were standing in a cloud of it. He felt lightheaded. The veleda is in danger. The air around him shivered.
The hallucinations were happening more and more often too, but this . . . this was so real, as was his panic. He should tell the others. Patrick clutched the windowsill. The Fomori might know why it was happening and what it meant. They were in this together, after all.
But he turned away to watch the bright green peppers roll about the street. And he said nothing.
That same day
Diarmid
It was late morning when Diarmid reached the brambly clay scarps on Governors Island where he’d left Grace. He climbed quickly to the vacant storehouse, impatient to see her. A vine snagged his boot, nearly tripping him as he shoved his way inside, calling, “Grace!”
The storehouse was empty. No Grace. No sign of Miles, the boy he’d left her with. Miles was a member of the Dun Rats, the gang from Brooklyn that Diarmid and Grace had stayed with for a time. Diarmid had trained the lad himself. He knew Miles would not fail in his vow to guard her.
Don’t panic. They’d probably just gone in search of food. Grace had promised to wait for him, and he knew she would. The lovespell had been soft in her dark-brown eyes. Where were they?
He heard a sound coming from outside and stepped against the wall, waiting. A footstep, a low curse—Miles. They were back, thank the gods! Diarmid stepped out just as Miles came through the door.
The boy stopped short. “Derry!” A look of alarm crossed his face.
And Diarmid knew.
“No. No. Don’t say she’s gone. Don’t tell me that.”
“I don’t know what happened!” Miles cried. “I been looking for her half the night and all morning. She was here. Then she just disappeared! ’Twasn’t my fault.”
“How isn’t it? You were to guard her.”
“I did! She was right here with me! We played some cards, and then she went to sleep. I promise, Derry, she was here! When I woke up in the night, she was gone. I didn’t hear nothin’! I’ve looked all over. Even went up to Fort Jay this morning. ’Twas like a spirit swept her away or somethin’. There weren’t a sound! She just . . . disappeared. Like into thin air.”
She’d promised to stay. The lovespot would have guaranteed it. She wouldn’t have left of her own volition. Which meant either that she had to be on the island somewhere, doing something innocent like looking for food or water, or she’d been taken.
“Like a spirit swept her away.”
He remembered Aidan’s fear in the night. The sidhe could have taken her. Or the Fomori. But last night, Balor had asked him where the veleda was. Patrick Devlin had told him to keep her out of the city. The Fomori didn’t have her. But the sidhe . . . the sidhe had known she was here. Battle Annie knew.
Diarmid should never have trusted the river pirate. He told himself he was wrong. It wasn’t Battle Annie. Grace must still be on the island. She’d ventured out—aye, that was like her—and got lost. She was picking berries or talking to soldiers or drowned in some little eddy because her boots were made for city walks and not climbing and she was always tripping—
Stop. Diarmid took a deep breath, trying not to think of Aidan and his “Grace, no! Too late!” When he had some measure of control, Diarmid said to Miles, “We’ll search every stone on this island.”
It took all day. The sun was dipping below the skyline before Diarmid had to admit defeat. Grace wasn’t there. Back at the storehouse, he found the ogham stick, but other than that, there was nothing to show she had even been here.
He picked it up, feeling her in it, though that was impossible. It was his imagination, wanting her to be where he’d left her, wanting to see her, to touch her. How can she be gone? What a fool he’d been to leave her. He should have known . . . By the gods, where i
s she?
“She’s probably gone back to the city,” Miles tried. “This ain’t no place for a girl like her. She was bored once you left.”
She is gone. Diarmid loved her, and he’d failed to protect her. What would happen to her, the dangers . . .
He couldn’t bear to think of it. He refused to imagine. What was there to do now, beyond going back to the others and telling Finn—sweet Danu, telling Finn. Diarmid would be lucky if he survived the hour.
But there was no help for it. He and Miles hailed a couple of boys out fishing who took them to Manhattan. It was dark when they arrived. Miles took the ferry back to Brooklyn, and Diarmid trolled the waterfront, looking for Battle Annie’s sloop, or any of the sidhe. He saw only “Wanted” posters bearing his face, and homeless and drunks and thieves. The night began to turn ugly, and he knew he could delay no longer. He made his way back to the tenement, sick with dread and worry.
Grace, where are you?
Diarmid was halfway down the dark, narrow steps to the basement flat when Aidan bounded up to meet him. Grace’s brother stopped, his gaze leaping beyond Diarmid, to nothing.
“You were right,” Diarmid said hoarsely. “It was too late. She was gone.”
“Gone?” Aidan echoed, as if the word were foreign. “What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean she wasn’t there.” They reached the bottom of the steps. “The guard I ordered to stay with her said she’d disappeared in the night.”
“Disappeared?”
The others gathered around. Oscar raised a brow, but Diarmid turned away from his friend, to Finn. “We searched the whole island. There was no sign of her. She’d promised to stay. She was bound to me. She wouldn’t have gone on her own. Someone must have taken her.”
“Someone got past the guard you left?” Finn asked, his expression settling into a chill that Diarmid knew to be wary of. “He didn’t wake? He heard nothing?”
“Yes.”
“This was the guard you said you trusted?”
Diarmid answered uncomfortably, “Aye. Miles can be trusted. I’ve trained him, but . . . ’twas only a few days, and he’s just a gang boy.”
“Not a good enough guard then,” Finn said.
Diarmid felt the noose, and he was so miserable and afraid for her, he didn’t care about walking into it. There was nothing but the truth. “Aye. I shouldn’t have left her.”
“The ball seirce worked? You’re certain?”
“She’s in love with me. There’s no doubt.”
“The Fomori must have her,” Ossian said, crossing his arms and looking murderous. “Who else?”
Aidan said, “I don’t think so. Remember what Patrick told Derry? What he told Oscar? Why would he tell us to keep her out of the city if they had her?”
“I’d thought maybe the sidhe,” Diarmid said. “I told you she made a bargain with the river pirate queen.”
“And you think they may have spirited her away?” Finn asked.
“Maybe. I didn’t trust them, but Grace did.”
Finn rubbed his chin. “We’ve little time. We’ll spread out across the city—all of you go now but Oscar, who’s in no condition, and Diarmid. Look for the sidhe. Find out what they know. Especially where this Battle Annie and her gang are.”
“I know what Battle Annie looks like,” Diarmid protested. “I should—”
“You should stay here and follow orders for a change,” Finn barked. “We’ve some things to settle, you and I.”
Diarmid’s heart sank, but he stood back to let the others pass. He glanced at Aidan, who was intently weaving threads of purple lightning through his fingers. Oscar clapped Diarmid’s shoulder, leaning close to whisper, “Finn’s watching you. Don’t look so love struck.” And Diarmid realized he’d been so worried, he’d made no attempt to hide his feelings for Grace.
Oscar went back to the mattress. Finn motioned for Diarmid to follow him to the far end of the room, where barrels served as stools near an old coal bin. Finn leaned against the metal bin.
“I’m sorry,” Diarmid said. “I thought I was helping—”
Finn waved off his excuse. “You’ve lost the veleda, possibly to the sidhe. Have you thought about what will happen if they destroy her?”
Diarmid hadn’t thought past his fear for her, but Finn’s words reminded him how disastrous it would be if they didn’t find her and the ritual wasn’t performed on Samhain. The Fianna would fade, never to return to any world. The Irish would be left to the Fomori—to chaos and terror and enslavement.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?”
Diarmid let out his breath. “Aye. She’s the veleda and—”
“She’s much more than just a veleda.” Finn glanced at Cannel, who was spreading his tarot cards. “There have been troubling elements to her, things we haven’t seen in a veleda before.”
“Something’s not right,” Aidan had said. “Grace is not as she should be.”
“Cannel’s seen the triune in her,” Finn went on. His full lips curved in a smile that was a bit too satisfied. “She has the power of the goddess.”
Diarmid stared at his captain. “Grace?”
“You released her power. Did you not feel the strength of it?”
Diarmid struggled to think. He’d felt power in Grace, but that kind . . . “I never felt anything like that. Are you sure?”
“The cards say it. And I’m thinking you aren’t the most reliable judge of whether or not ’tis there. You didn’t see such power in her brother either.”
That was true. He hadn’t seen the stormcaster in Aidan, as obvious as it was. Diarmid didn’t know why.
Finn leaned closer, his bright hair coming forward to narrow his face and frame the pale fury in his gaze. “It’s also clear you’ve fallen in love with the lass.”
Diarmid’s chest tightened so he couldn’t breathe.
“How often must you make this mistake?” Finn asked, low and lethal. “Why is it that every time I turn around I’m questioning your loyalty because of love? Did Aengus Og addle you so when you were a boy that no common sense remains?”
“This isn’t the same as before—”
“No, last time, ’twas only me you offended. This time, you put all of us at risk. I’ve grown weary of being at odds with you, Diarmid. I want to know I can trust you. So perhaps you can tell me: Are you one of us? Or do you care more for the veleda?”
“I’m one of you,” Diarmid insisted. “I won’t fail you.”
Finn paused, measuring, deciding. After everything that had happened between them, Diarmid did not think he could bear losing Finn’s trust again, and so he was relieved—more than relieved—when he saw his leader’s face soften. Finn had chosen to believe him.
Finn said, “Good. Then you’ll have no complaint of the task I assign you.”
“None,” Diarmid said, though his every muscle tensed.
“You’ll find her, and you’ll bring her back here. And then you will leave her to me.”
This was what Oscar had warned him of. The thought of what Finn would do, what he could do— “He’d seduce her himself and make sure ’twas well done.”
Diarmid opened his mouth to protest, but then realized this was a test. He’d longed to be one of the Fianna since he was a lad watching them march through town, spears raised, banners flying. He’d defied Aengus Og, his foster father, for them. It was all he’d ever wanted.
“Is this to be Grainne all over again?” Finn asked gently.
The sound of her name on Finn’s lips startled Diarmid, reminding him of his guilt and regret. Everything he’d promised to make up for.
This was his punishment, and he deserved it. “I’ll do as you wish.”
“As I wish,” Finn repeated mockingly. “Aye, ’tis what I wish. The love I bear you makes me stupid, I fear, but killing you for disobedience as I should would only ruin morale, and I can’t lose a good man now. We all love you—I wish you would remember it.”
“And you
need me for the geis.” Diarmid couldn’t resist a touch of sarcasm.
“Yes,” Finn agreed. “You’ll thank me for this when the time comes to kill her. ’Twill make it easier if you’re not resisting out of love. Because she does have to die, Diarmid. For us. For our people. Her death will release a power that will win us anything—everything.”
Goddess power. Uneasily, Diarmid asked, “Do the Fomori know about the triune?”
Finn shook his head. “Not as yet, according to our spies. But ’tis certain they’ll discover it soon. You’d best find the lass quickly. And Diarmid . . . betrayal will mean your death this time. If I have to bind your hand to mine to take her life, I’ll do it. And then I’ll slit your throat as well, however much I love you.”
Diarmid knew his captain meant it. He and Finn were at odds; they had been for years. He had no choice but to put his feelings for Grace aside. If she had goddess power, keeping her alive was not an option. Such power released upon her death . . . Finn was right: the Irish people were what mattered. Restoring the honor of the Fianna. Saving the Irish from the Fomori.
But . . . how had he not felt such a power in her? Had he been so distracted by desire and love that he hadn’t seen it? Or was it that she was unformed still? Untrained, unfinished?
When Finn dismissed him, Diarmid went to Aidan, who was slumped against the wall, his white face and shirt appearing disembodied in the shadows. Diarmid squatted beside him, saying quietly, “Finn just told me that he thinks Grace has goddess power. When you told me she isn’t as she should be, is that what you meant? Is that what you think?”
Aidan raised haunted eyes. “Why ask me? Does it change what you feel for her?”
“It changes everything,” Diarmid said bluntly. Everything he must do, everything he must feel. Fate is ever-changing. He felt it working upon him now, moving things about, a giant game in which he was only another pawn. “I have to find her. You said you felt a connection to her. She said she spoke to you in her dreams. Where is she now? What do you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“You don’t?” Diarmid asked suspiciously.