by Megan Chance
Lucy blinked as if she’d suddenly awakened. She jerked away from him. “Grace?”
“Sssh. Not so loud,” he said.
“You’ve come back for Grace, not me.” Her voice rose. “They were right. Everything they said. She eloped with you. It’s Grace you’re in love with!”
Frantically, Diarmid tried to cover her mouth again. She pushed him away in a fury. “Don’t you dare touch me! How dare you come here!”
“Lucy, please—”
“She’s not here!” she shouted. “She’s gone. I hope she’s dead and you never find her!”
“Someone’s coming,” Oscar said urgently.
“Help!” Lucy screamed. “Help! Help!”
A slamming door, racing footsteps. Lucy screamed again. There was only one way out. Diarmid dashed for the window, Oscar on his heels. He jerked it open. A two-story drop. He slung himself over the sill. Just below was a small roof over a bay window.
Oscar yelled, “Jump!”
Diarmid heard Lucy’s door crash open, and he released his hold on the sill. He hit the roof below hard. The shadow of a guard raced into the yard. Diarmid clutched the edge of the bay roof and dropped when Oscar landed, his boots scattering bits of shingling over Diarmid’s shoulders. Patrick Devlin leaned out the window above, shouting, “Stop them!”
Diarmid hit the ground just as the guard reached him. He grabbed his dagger from his belt, shoving the blade into the man’s gut. The guard fell, but there were others rounding the corner of the house, more than a couple—where had they come from?
Oscar landed, and they ran out of the yard, into the park, the guards close behind. The shadows of the park seemed to mass and move; it was rapidly alive with policemen—Fomori warriors—and he and Oscar were running for their lives.
They dashed down the back streets, past the middle-class homes. The streets were mostly empty here at this time of night, which was good, because despite their deformities, the Fomori were fast. Diarmid’s lungs burned.
Oscar gasped, “This way,” and dodged down an alley, through a pile of emptied kegs, sending them rolling across broken cobblestones. The fetid contents of the gutters splashed over Diarmid’s boots.
They spun down another alleyway, skidding around corners. The buildings turned to slums. More and more people about, drunks and homeless mostly, starting awake as they raced past. The police and the guards were gaining, the Fomori shouting, “Stop them! Stop them!”
Diarmid felt as if he’d been running forever. They were near the East River, Corlears Hook. If they hadn’t lost the Fomori by the time they reached the piers, there would be nowhere else to go. Someone fired a shot; Diarmid heard it whizzing by him, a high whine in his ear.
Oscar looked wildly about. “There,” he rasped. A pawnshop. Probably a fence used to evading the law. Diarmid and Oscar crashed through the door.
The place was a madhouse, piles of junk everywhere, and at the far end, a glass-enclosed counter where an old man stood. He looked blearily up at them.
Diarmid slammed home the bolt on the door. Oscar shouted, “We need a place to hide. Quickly!”
The old man jerked his head to a door in the back. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Diarmid and Oscar hurled themselves into the storeroom, which was tiny, barely big enough to hold them both. Diarmid got a glimpse of sagging shelves holding old wooden boxes, rusted tools, and jars of nails before Oscar shut the door, closing them in darkness. The smells of oil and dust filled his nose.
They listened for footsteps, voices. It was profoundly quiet. Eerie even. Diarmid’s skin prickled. He didn’t like the feel of this place. There was something off. Something . . . wrong.
“I don’t hear anything,” Oscar said finally. “I think we’ve lost them.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Diarmid said.
“Another moment yet. Let’s be sure.”
The eeriness only intensified as they waited. By the time Oscar said, “I think it’s all right now,” Diarmid would have braved the hounds of hell to get out of the room.
Oscar cracked the door, peeking out, before they emerged.
“They ran on by,” the old man said. “I think you’re safe enough.”
“Thank you,” Oscar said.
There was something familiar about the old man, although Diarmid knew he’d never seen him before. At his side stood a thin whippet with unsettlingly watchful eyes. The man put a distracted hand to the dog’s head as if he meant to calm it. His gaze went beyond them, behind. Diarmid looked over his shoulder but saw nothing.
The old man said, “Are they? Are you sure of it?”
The hair on the back of Diarmid’s neck rose. Oscar rolled his eyes and mouthed, Crazy. He jerked his head toward the door.
Diarmid said, “We owe you a debt. If you’ve ever any need of Finn’s Warriors—”
“Ah, that’s who you are?” The old man’s bleary gaze sharpened, and again Diarmid felt that disconcerting sense of familiarity. “’Tis you it all settles on, is that it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Something brushed past him, a fleeting touch that coursed through him like fire, rocking him. But there was nothing there.
The old man stared past him again, as if he were listening to someone. “Do you want me to keep him?”
Diarmid grabbed Oscar’s arm. “’Tis time we’re gone.”
Oscar nodded. “Aye. Thanks again.”
Diarmid half expected something to keep them from reaching the door, and when they were out of the shop, he felt an overwhelming relief.
Oscar glanced up and down the street. “Let’s circle back before the Fomori figure out they’re chasing no one.”
Diarmid followed Oscar, but escaping the Fomori seemed less important than escaping the pawnshop and that fiery, ghostly touch.
“The old man was mad as a hatter, wasn’t he?” Oscar said when they finally slowed.
“Did you feel it?” Diarmid asked.
“Feel what?”
“That touch . . . ’twas like . . . I don’t know. A spirit maybe, but—”
Oscar laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time with the sidhe.”
And then Diarmid realized what had been so familiar about the old man. He’d seen that look before. On Druids sucked dry by the sidhe. It was what had felt familiar about the pawnshop, too, the aura of lingering Druid magic, the presence of the sidhe.
“We have to go back there,” he said.
“Go back? Are you mad? We can’t go back now. The Fomori will be all over!”
“That old man was a Druid who’s been drained. What if he can help us find Grace?”
“How can he, if he’s been sucked dry?”
“He must know something,” Diarmid insisted.
“Why should he?”
“Oscar, don’t you think it odd? A drained Druid no one’s heard of—”
“And you’ve been right about everything so far, have you?” Oscar pointed out. “When it comes to her, you’re grabbing at shadows. If he does know anything, he’ll still know it tomorrow, when there aren’t a dozen Fomori looking for us. Come on, Derry. ’Twas too narrow an escape for my liking. Tomorrow, if you still want to, we’ll come back.”
Diarmid had been wrong about Grace being in Patrick’s house, and he might be wrong here. But something told him he wasn’t. A drained Druid, the feel of the sidhe . . . No, it wasn’t a coincidence. But Oscar was right. They could not go back now. But tomorrow—
He prayed it wouldn’t be too late.
That same night (sidhe time)
Grace
When the door jerked open, and Diarmid came running into the shop with Oscar, I’d thought him another of Iobhar’s tests. Everything I felt for him—love and fear and desire—rushed back like Cliodna’s Wave, threatening to sweep me away.
“Give them what they seek,” Iobhar directed Roddy. When they disappeared into the storage closet, I leaped to my feet. My skirt caught the corner of
the fidchell board, sending pieces scattering.
Iobhar said, “Stay, veleda. ’Tis none of your concern.”
“It’s Diarmid! And Oscar.”
“I know who it is. You were running from him when you came here, were you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“You should be running from him still. Sit down.”
“I can’t,” I said helplessly.
“There they go,” Sarnat said, glancing toward the window. A group of warriors—Fomori—ran past.
I missed Diarmid; I yearned for him. But at the sight of his pursuers, I remembered why I had left him, and Iobhar was right—my reasons hadn’t changed. But to see him again, to touch him . . . how could I resist it?
I waited with nervous joy for the door to open. When it did—and Oscar stepped out, and then Diarmid—I said, “Derry.”
He didn’t turn around.
I said more loudly, “Diarmid.”
Again, he didn’t seem to hear me. I looked at Iobhar in confusion, but he only said to Roddy, “They’re Fianna.”
Roddy said, “Are they? Are you sure of it?”
Diarmid looked over his shoulder. His eyes were such a deep blue, they made me shiver. I remembered that last morning with him, how loved and desired I’d felt. How strong. But now he looked right past me as if I were invisible. It hurt more than I could have imagined.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Derry—what is it? What have I done?”
“He can’t see you, veleda,” Iobhar told me. “You’re glamoured. He sees only the shop and Roddy. He can’t hear a word you say.”
“Then unglamour me,” I demanded.
Iobhar regarded me steadily. “No. There are things you must do yet, veleda. This warrior has no part in it. He’ll only distract you. Nothing has changed. Not the choice, not the geis.”
Roddy said to Diarmid, “’Tis you it all settles on, is that it?”
Diarmid said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I wanted to hear him say my name in that deep voice. I could not bear being so close without his knowing it.
“Please,” I said desperately to Iobhar. I touched Diarmid’s arm, and he brushed at his sleeve. “Look, he can feel me.”
“As if you were a breath. You’re behind the veil, veleda, invisible to those who would use you for their own ends.” Iobhar’s amber eyes glimmered. “Which will win, I wonder? His love for you or his honor?”
Roddy said, “Do you want me to keep him?”
Iobhar waved a hand. “Send them on their way.”
I was going to let him go. I was. Iobhar was right. I wasn’t ready. I still felt too much for Diarmid, and there was still so much training to be done. But then he and Oscar started for the door, and I hurried after. I wanted him to see me, at least; and outside the shop door, I would be visible again.
But when I tried to follow them into the night, a force stopped me. A wall between me and the world.
“I can’t go out,” I said.
Iobhar’s smile was self-satisfied.
“You told me I wasn’t a prisoner here.”
Sarnat snarled, “He’s a spider, and he’s got us caught in his web. I told you he was a liar.”
He pointed at Sarnat.
“Don’t hurt her,” I demanded.
“So many orders,” he said lightly. “‘Unglamour me, let me go, don’t hurt her.’ What is it you want, veleda?”
“I don’t want to be a prisoner,” I said.
“Your own fate keeps you so.”
“You told me I could leave when I was done with you.”
“Which you are not, are you?”
I heard the tinkling of his bells, his music, his temptation. “You can’t keep me forever.”
“Your warrior cannot help you now.” His eyes turned dark, and I was afraid, though I couldn’t say exactly why. “You will see I’m right when ’tis done.”
I looked out the window. Diarmid and Oscar were gone. There was no sign they had ever been here. Even now, the whole thing seemed not quite real, like a vision brought on by one of Iobhar’s potions. Except . . .
I felt Diarmid still. He was an ache in me that never went away, no matter how often I told myself we had no future. And now it was worse, because I felt the weight of the task I’d set myself more intently than ever, and I realized there was a part of me that had hoped for his rescue.
But Iobhar spoke the truth. The task was mine, and there could be no rescue. I was alone—and I had to remain so until it was done.
Whatever it cost.
Later that night
Patrick
The house was in turmoil. It was 2:00 a.m., and every lamp was lit, servants rushing around in robes and nightcaps, Mama urging everyone to take a cup of tea as if it could cure all the world’s ills. Mrs. Knox looked troubled; Lucy was alternately sobbing and railing.
That two of the Fianna had managed to bypass the guards and break into the house, that one of them was Diarmid, and that they’d thought Grace was here, seemed impossible.
“Your guards,” Patrick said again to Bres, who looked as weary as any man awakened in the middle of the night to deal with unexpected chaos, “how the hell did they get past your guards?”
“Our warriors won’t let them escape now.” Bres’s eyes were dark with determination. “They’ve been told to track them to the ends of the earth if they must. And they will. Or pay the consequences.”
Patrick glanced across the room to where Lot, beautifully gowned and coiffed regardless of the hour, had her arm around Mrs. Knox. They’d become fast friends. It was good, he supposed. It meant that Mrs. Knox was on his side and could help persuade Grace—assuming they ever found her. He buried the thought, along with his despair.
There had been no repeat of her swoon, and she’d said she had only been overwrought. As for the Gaelic . . . “Mother spoke it. Some words must have stayed with me.”
Perhaps that was true. But there had been something disingenuous in her tone, though he didn’t know why he thought so. He’d said nothing of the incident to the Fomori—what was he to tell them when she shrugged it off that way? Still, it made him uncomfortable. That, and the fact that he’d begun to notice the way she watched him sometimes, as if she were afraid . . . of him?
And his dreams . . . No. He didn’t want to think of those just now.
Bres said, “I want to hear again what happened.”
“Is that truly necessary? Lucy’s already beside herself.”
“Perhaps we’ve missed something.”
Patrick rubbed his face and nodded. He went to Lucy, who stood, red eyed, by the French doors, staring out as if she expected Diarmid to materialize from the shadows. “Bres wants to hear what happened again,” he told her softly.
She said, “Fine. As long as he brings Derry back so I can stab him in the heart myself.”
Patrick sighed and led her back to the Fomori leader.
“So you heard a noise.” Bres steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “A scuffling.”
“I told you. I thought it was rats.” Lucy clutched the fringe of the huge paisley shawl she’d thrown over her already voluminous chenille dressing gown. “I was going to find John so he could do something about it. I hate rats.”
“But it wasn’t rats you saw when you stepped out.”
“Oh yes it was. A particularly large and nasty one.” Lucy’s face contorted. “And I was so overjoyed to see him. I thought he’d come back for me. But it wasn’t me he was looking for. It was Grace.”
“He asked for her specifically?”
“He said he was here to find her. He wanted to know where my brother was keeping her.”
“And you told him . . .”
“That she wasn’t here.” She glared at Patrick. “I told him I hoped she was dead and he never found her.”
“Lucy,” Patrick admonished.
“I told you she was in love with him. I told you she’d run off with him. A
nd you wanted to think she’d been kidnapped. Sometimes you’re so naive, Patrick.”
“You’re the one foolish enough to think he came for you,” Patrick shot back.
Bres mused, “What I find most curious is the fact that he thought she was here. Why would he think that, I wonder?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick said.
“You’ve no idea?”
“None.” It was true. Aidan knew she wasn’t here, and Patrick assumed he’d told the Fianna.
“Curious. You’ve been most helpful, my dear Miss Devlin. And I assure you, we will find this young man who’s wronged you. He will get his just punishment. Perhaps then you may find some measure of peace.”
Lucy’s big blue eyes filled with tears. “That’s all I want. I don’t want to think of him anymore.”
“That, too, will pass, though it may not seem so,” Bres said kindly. Again, Patrick saw the compassionate smile that had won the loyalty of a country, the king that Patrick wanted to believe in. “We have all suffered in love, and we all survive to realize how foolish we’ve been.”
“I can’t stand to think of how Grace betrayed me.” Lucy scowled.
“Perhaps ’twas not a betrayal. Blame the lad, if you must blame anyone. Miss Knox is to be your sister-in-law, I believe. ’Twould not do for sisters to dislike each other. I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive her. After all, it seems clear this lad has abandoned her as well. She will need your kindness.”
Lucy favored Bres with a thin smile. “We’ll see.”
When she left, the kindness in Bres’s expression fled. “Sit down, Devlin. You make me nervous, hovering about that way.”
“I don’t feel like sitting.”
“I suppose not. Your fiancée is missing, and the Fianna traced her here. I imagine you have a great deal to be anxious about.”
Patrick started. “You think the Fianna traced her here?”
“They had a reason for believing you held her.”
“I haven’t seen her since the day before she was kidnapped! I don’t know where she is any more than you do.”
Bres glanced at Mrs. Knox and Lot. “Perhaps the Fianna suspect that she will return to her family soon. Her morai is still comatose?”