Silver Skin (A Cold Iron Novel)

by D. L. McDermott

  “Why all the weaponry?” she asked.

  “A precaution,” he said evasively.

  “Against what?”

  “Against the thing the Fae fear most. Druids.”

  • • •

  Miach wished he had been able to get out of the house without waking Helene, but he couldn’t find the silver dirks without opening drawers and he wasn’t foolish enough to go without them. It was arrogance that had been his race’s undoing, twice over. First had been the way the Fae used their power. They took and took, and gave nothing in return. Second had been their obliviousness to the plotting of the Druids.

  He and Elada passed to the Prince Consort’s sprawling palace near Clonmel. The pale Georgian granite had a desolate, disused air about it. The grass in the parterre was growing wild, the hedges had lost their neatly manicured shapes. The flower beds were choked with weeds.

  When the Prince Consort had abducted Beth to this place, she had been dying, bleeding out from an internal hemorrhage. Her ex-husband, who had turned out to be a weak half-blood Fae, had poisoned her and caused her to miscarry Conn’s child. The Prince Consort had healed her and taken her here to force her to open the solstice gate in the Druid mound on the estate.

  By the time Miach and Conn had rescued her, she’d wanted nothing more to do with the place. And Miach had been too concerned with the Prince Consort’s silver severed arm to make a complete inspection of the house and grounds. Which was, he now suspected, based on what Conn and Beth had described, a mistake.

  “Conn said it was on the other side of the mound. Some kind of research facility.” Elada pointed and they set off.

  They both skirted the glimmering granite walls of the mound, staying as far away as the tree line permitted. Conn had not been tortured by the Druids in their temple complexes, and he felt no aversion to them. He had been hidden away with his grief, sleeping through centuries, in the quiet of what had been meant to be his tomb. But most Fae, including Miach and Elada, despised the places, the scenes, for almost all the free Fae, of their degradation at the hands of the Druids.

  The Prince Consort, though, had built a veritable palace near his own mound. He must have looked out upon it every day that he’d spent in his sprawling Georgian manse. It spoke of either obsession or madness. Possibly both.

  On the other side of the mound, hidden from the main house, they discovered a little complex of modern structures, like a miniature office plaza, all cinderblock, concrete, and glass.

  The cubicles, conference tables, and generic desktop computers did, in fact, give the interiors the banality of a business park, but the grass was clipped and the grounds were neatly maintained, indicating more recent occupancy. The flickering light at the end of the first narrow structure came from an enclosed office, and it was here that Beth and Conn now sat, poring through a database.

  “The Prince Consort spent millions trying to find Druids,” Beth said. “Tapping into government records and private data. Creating programs to sift information and find patterns that might indicate Druid heritage.”

  The hairs on the back of Miach’s neck rose. “How many did he dig up?”

  “A few dozen,” Conn replied, looking up from the computer. “I printed their records.” He indicated the stack of papers in front of Beth.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Beth. “There can’t be only a few dozen Druid descendants in the world. Even if only one family survived—and I’m evidence that one did—there would have to be tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people living today with a Druid heritage.”

  “May I?” asked Miach, picking up a handful of files. He flipped through the folders. The first was a circus performer. The second was a psychic. The third a stage magician. Several were tattoo artists.

  “We combed through the results of his search,” said Conn. “His program must have had a significant flaw, because it never identified Beth.”

  It was typical of the Prince Consort. He was the purest kind of Fae, lacking empathy for other creatures and, as a consequence, failing to comprehend them. “The Prince Consort never understood the Druids,” said Miach, who had trained so many of them. “He was looking on the surface, for the trappings of Druid lore, not the substance. His search was intended to find magical talent, because he thinks our enemy used magic to defeat us. But they didn’t. Not really. They used scholarship. Research. Years of study. The Prince Consort was looking for mediums and sideshow acts. He should have been looking for people like Beth Carter.”

  “It appears that they eventually realized that,” said Elada, who had been engrossed with something on another computer these past few minutes.

  “Here.” He pointed to the screen. “This is a query on a new search. Dated three months ago. Not thousands, but hundreds of names. Scholars and librarians mostly.”

  Elada’s penchant for hacking video games clearly translated into more useful arenas. “Was he in contact with any of these potential Druid descendants?” Miach asked.

  “We don’t know,” replied Beth. “Conn checked to make sure the buildings were empty, but this is the only one we’ve had time to search so far.”

  “Print the records, Elada,” said Miach, “and transfer the databases to our servers in Boston. You understand this stuff.”

  Then another idea struck him. “Beth, call Helene and ask her to cross-check the names of these Druids with the museum’s donor and member databases.”

  • • •

  Helene knew better than to tempt danger and leave Miach’s house, no matter how badly she wanted to go for a run on the beach or stretch her legs in the park. She joined Nieve, little Garrett, Liam, and Nial for a subdued breakfast in the dining room, where the floral wallpaper and Duncan Phyfe furnishings were comfortably homey and worn.

  Liam and Nial were still sheepish around her. They offered to take their meal in the kitchen if she preferred, which would have been absurd considering that the dining room seated twenty. Still, she couldn’t quite feel at ease around the brothers.

  She knew that Miach had ordered them to protect Helene as well as Nieve, but they’d been protecting her and Beth the last time, when their older sibling—or really cousin, Helene supposed, as Liam and Nial were grandchildren or great-grandchildren or more and Brian was Miach’s son—convinced them to betray their patriarch and kidnap her.

  Miach trusted them, had forgiven and forgotten the episode. That much was clear. Helene couldn’t do the same. If her Fae attacker was a stranger, she expected they would obey Miach’s orders and protect her. If the assailant turned out to be Brian MacCecht, Helene wasn’t as certain.

  She buttered her toast and watched Garrett work his toddler energies off running laps around the table and saluting the marble cherubs of the fireplace mantle every time he passed.

  “He’s overexcited from his visit to Finn’s,” explained Nieve.

  “You should take him to the beach,” said Helene. “Let him run around and enjoy the weather. I’ll be fine here.”

  “Nonsense,” Nieve replied. “The Old Man doesn’t have prisoners often. It would be poor manners to leave you on your own with these two.”

  “And you’re not supposed to go out alone, Nieve. I’ll take Garrett to the park,” said Liam. He swept the boy up onto his shoulders. Nieve thrust a bag of toys into Liam’s arms, and he left with the excited toddler.

  Helene’s phone rang a few minutes later. Beth’s request surprised her, but it took only a few minutes sitting at Miach’s computer in the library to log in to her account at the museum and access the institution’s funding database. It was the latest development software on the market. If you used it well—and Helene did—you could have every fact you needed about your donors at your fingertips with the click of a button. The program indexed donors to their annual gift amounts, kept track of which museum events they attended, kept tabs on their other institutional affiliations, and flagged the ones who were also alumni and couldn’t be cultivated for direct gifts to the museu
m without the permission of the university.

  Cross-referencing the list wasn’t difficult. She found what she was looking for quickly: a name from Beth that matched one in the museum’s database. A relatively new donor. Helene tried to picture the man in her head, but his image was blurred. He’d made his first gift six months ago. Fifty thousand dollars and a few good but not distinguished sculptures. Enough money to warrant invitations to high-level events, but no sign that more would be forthcoming.

  He had been at the gala.

  Helene picked up the phone, but instead of dialing Beth, she called Miach.

  “Ransom Chandler,” she said. “He’s on Beth’s list and he’s a supporter of the museum. He was at the gala.”

  “Where does he live?” asked Miach.

  Helene pulled up the address. “That’s odd. Winthrop. Out past the airport. Not exactly the kind of place you expect a wealthy man to live.”

  “Nor,” said Miach drily, “is South Boston. But I suspect in this case that the money he donated to your museum wasn’t his. It came from the Prince Consort, or whoever has been managing the Prince’s affairs. The man is a Druid, like Beth. Or at least he has the potential to be one.”

  “So Deirdre was right after all. It is Druids.”

  “Of a sort,” said Miach. “We think the Prince sought out Druid descendants in an attempt to open the solstice gate and free the Fae Court. But Druid training takes years and ideally begins in childhood. And it is less about power—all Druids tap into the shared hereditary source of knowledge—than the ability to control and channel power. To study and harness it. The Prince himself never worked closely with Druids and has only a limited understanding of their nature. He may have had time to teach this Ransom Chandler a few gaesa and some basic casting, but once we find him, a single novice Druid will be no match for three Fae. We’ll be back in a few hours,” Miach assured her. “And then we will go to Winthrop and deal with him.”

  Relief coursed through her. No more blackouts, no more terror, no more Fae magic.

  Unless she chose to continue this affair with Miach. In which case she must take the good with the bad. He had not tried to hide the danger threatening his world from her. And Deirdre had told her: the Wild Hunt was coming back. The wall would come down eventually. Miach would fight to preserve it, but there was a chance he would lose.

  It wouldn’t be an easy decision, but it was impossible to know how she would feel until she was free of the summoning spell.

  Miach hung up and Helene decided to explore Miach’s library. He had an exhaustive collection of books on most of the painters he collected. She was engrossed in one of them when she heard the roar of an engine and the screech of tires. She looked out Miach’s picture window and saw a cargo van tearing up the road that ran parallel to the beach. The windows were blacked out and it didn’t have plates.

  Which wasn’t all that unusual in Southie. There were some decidedly sketchy vehicles parked in between the yuppie Bimmers and hybrid cars. No, it was the way this particular van was roaring straight up a road that went nowhere but Miach’s house, and heading for the closed gates of the drive.

  It passed out of sight below the window and crashed with a loud crack into the gates. Helene could hear tires skid, the van doors open, glass break.

  Everything had happened so quickly that she didn’t know what to do. Before she could react, she heard a door crash open below and then shots rang out. Four in quick succession, and then two in answer.

  Then she heard Nieve screaming. It rose in pitch, then was cut off abruptly.

  Male voices, terse, issuing commands. Then feet on the stairs. Helene looked for an exit, but there was no way out of the library except for the door—and it was right at the head of the stairs.

  Miach had a small bronze figure on his desk. She grabbed it and looked for a place to hide, but the room had no closets and the furniture was all pushed to the walls.

  The doorknob turned.

  Helene darted behind the door. It swung open. Her heart hammered.

  A man entered. He was dressed for a day at the country club. His polo shirt was tucked into red chinos cinched with a needlepoint belt. His back was to Helene, but there was something familiar about the close-cropped sandy hair.

  He turned. His features were regular, his face, though too round to be handsome, was affable. His eyes locked on Helene, and he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. His smug expression triggered Helene’s memory. He was the man she had been talking to the night of the gala, at the bar in the square.

  She whacked him in the side of the head with the bronze sculpture. He staggered back and fell to his knees howling. She scrambled around him and lunged for the door.

  And came face-to-face with her worst nightmare. The man who had held a knife to her throat in Beth’s apartment, who had abducted her to an island in Boston Harbor and forced her into a tiny attic and whispered from the other side of the door all the things he was going to do to her, just because his father had marked her as his own—and because he could: Miach’s banished half-blood son, Brian MacCecht.

  Chapter 13

  Helene screamed.

  Brian laughed and pushed her back into the room.

  She brandished the bronze sculpture.

  Ransom Chandler climbed to his feet and cursed. “Watch out,” he said. “She’s dangerous with that thing.”

  “Stay away from me,” Helene said.

  “Put it down, Helene,” said Brian. “And I won’t hurt you.”

  He was using compulsion, as he had in Beth’s apartment when he’d held a knife to her throat and thrust a hand down her shirt and his thoughts into her mind. But this time she was wearing cold iron and she could hear his effort to control her—and the lie in his voice.

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  He cocked his head and looked her up and down, his eyes settling on the iron torc wrapped around her ankle. His lip curled. “Who gave you that?”

  “Your father.”

  Brian looked at her with pure fury in his eyes. “Just for that, I’m going to make him watch when I kill you.”

  He lunged for her. She sidestepped but didn’t see the device in his hand until too late. A Taser. She felt it connect with her rib cage, and then every muscle in her body spasmed. She dropped to the carpet, twitching, unable to move.

  Brian turned her over, pushed her hair out of her face, and touched the weapon to her shoulder. She convulsed, and his eyes lit up with pleasure.

  “Where’s the arm?” said Chandler. Helene could hear him moving about the room, knocking books off shelves, pulling drawers out of the desk.

  “It will be in the safe behind the painting,” said Brian, without looking over his shoulder. “If you wanted to be with a Fae,” he said to Helene. “You should have chosen me. Or even Finn. But not my father. He’s hardly Fae at all anymore. He’s weak, gone native from living among your kind.”

  Helene heard something heavy crash to the floor, then a curse. “The box is sealed,” said Chandler.

  “Open it,” said Brian.

  “I can’t. The magic is too complicated.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Brian, yanking down Helene’s camisole and turning her roughly on her side. “My father will open it for us, to get his property back.” Brian traced the geis on her shoulder. Then he thrust her back on the floor and ripped the torc off her ankle.

  He held it up in front of her face. “Do you think this makes you special?” he asked. “Do you think you’re better than the other women he takes to his bed? You’re not. He’ll use you and toss you aside like all the others.”

  “It doesn’t sound particularly Fae,” she said, “to be so hung up on how Miach treated your human mother.”

  Brian snarled and backhanded her across the face. She tasted blood.

  “You know nothing about the Fae,” he said. “We hold grudges for a long time.”

  He ripped the strap of her camisole and pulled down her bra. Then he held
up the Taser. “These can be used to stun, or they can be used to inflict pain. Torture is a Fae specialty. When the Court comes back, they’ll like toys like this. Maybe I’ll keep you alive for them. They’d delight in playing with the whore of Miach MacCecht, the Fae who could have opened the gates and set them all free, but left them to rot in the void.”

  He touched the Taser to her nipple. She shrieked from the pain.

  “Keep her quiet,” said Chandler. “We don’t want the neighbors to call the police.”

  Brian laughed. “You don’t know the first thing about South Boston, Druid. No one in this neighborhood is going to call the police on Miach MacCecht’s house.”

  “Yes,” said Chandler, looking at Brian with obvious distaste. “I forgot you were raised in a ghetto.”

  Brian glanced at him slantwise and Helene knew the Druid’s days were numbered. “Take the box,” said Miach MacCecht’s son. He stood over Helene. “Get up.”

  With the torc gone, his voice reached deep inside her. Not as powerful as Miach’s, but powerful enough for a mortal without the skills to resist. Helene tried to recall the tricks Beth had told her about: counting backward, reciting a sonnet, anything to focus the mind and shut out the Fae influence. It was impossible. Helene couldn’t concentrate. She was too frightened.

  “Follow us,” said Brian.

  She followed them. Hating every step. Wishing Miach would come back.

  In her pocket, her phone began to ring.

  “Don’t answer it,” said Brian pleasantly.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. Nial was sprawled facedown in a puddle of blood. Helene couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. She reached down to touch him but Brian said, “Leave him.” And she did.

  Nieve sat huddled in a corner of the kitchen, surrounded by broken glass from the back door, two gunmen training their weapons on her.