Castor is nearly there as well. I can tell by the beads of sweat trailing down the lines of his chest, the way his hair slicks back against his forehead, the increasingly erratic movements of his hips. I close my eyes, shutting everything out but the raw nerve endings set alight in my core, the slow build of pressure, and then—
“Fuck.”
Castor spits the syllable out with a final thrust, right at the same time that I reach a breaking point. I shatter beneath him, only the wall and his weight keeping me from collapsing on the floor. He holds me there for a few seconds, allowing my legs to resolidify and the hormones to drain from my brain.
It’s not until then that I realize what a horribly bad, stupid, dumbass decision this was. Fucking Castor? What the hell was I thinking?
That he’s gorgeous.
I really need to start being pickier about my liaisons.
Without looking at him I pick my clothes up off the floor, trying not to think about whatever fresh fluids are coating them as I tug them back on. Castor is more leisurely in redressing, fastening his pants and swinging his tunic around in his hand as he watches me. I pointedly ignore him, grabbing my phone just so I have an excuse not to look at him.
36 missed calls.
Huh. And I thought that no one would notice if I skipped tonight’s party. I tuck my phone back away, figuring I had better at least make an appearance. I’m technically the hostess, after all.
“Alright, well, while this has been great and all,” I tell Castor, zipping up my shorts, “I gotta split. Things to do, people to see. All that jazz.”
“People to see?” Castor lifts a brow. “From what I know about you, you don’t keep the best company.”
“Yeah, hence why I’m hanging out with you.”
“And here I thought we were forming a bond.” Castor clutches his heart, feigning hurt. All I can concentrate on is the fact that he’s still shirtless, the tensing and flexing of each sculpted muscle perfectly clear. I wish he’d put that damn tunic back on.
“Look, not that it’s any of your business,” I say, unlocking the door, “but I have a party to go to. So, if you don’t mind—”
“No, I don’t.” Castor smirks, stepping in front of me and opening the door in a sweeping gesture. “So, where is this party we’re going to?”
“We?” I snort. “Never said anything about a ‘we,’ Casanova. This has been fun and all, but it was a one-time deal. Like I said—”
“You work alone.” Castor rolls his eyes, finally tugging his tunic back over his head. “Yeah, I got that. But if you get your ass kicked—again, I might add—you could die, and I lose out on one of the best Slayborn left in the world. Trust me,” he adds, “I’m not hanging around to enjoy more of your warm and fuzzy disposition.”
“So, what? Are you offering to be my bodyguard? Butler? Ooh, I wouldn’t mind that at all.”
“No,” Castor snaps, shooting me a glare. “I’m offering you a free plane ticket to Dublin. Which you should just bloody fuckin’ accept.”
“Sorry, no-can-do,” I say, shrugging. “You wanna come to the party, then fine. But I swear, you bring up Dublin one more time and I’m gonna shove that pretty little knife of yours so far up your ass that you taste steel.”
I hear Castor snicker as he follows me back out into the diner, both of us ignoring the horrified glares we get from the other patrons. “You’re right,” he mutters, voice low. “I do like it when ya talk dirty.”
Chapter Five
Dead on Arrival
Even though I’ve crossed the line from fashionably late to downright disrespectful, I still have a pit stop to make before I head to the party. While I may not have technically killed his monster, Fawkes still owes me my cash. I mean, I doubt those Dullahan are gonna hit up the arcade for a second time. Especially since I’ve vowed to never set foot in that shithole again.
Fawkes is hanging out at his usual haunt down by the docks, chatting up some women returning from the fishmonger. I snort and roll my eyes.
“Hey, Fawkes. You heard back from the doctor about your syphilis test yet?”
The women both pale, making hurried excuses as they rush past him. Their faces have nothing on Fawkes, though. He looks like he’s seen a ghost when he spots me.
“Berkeley!” He gasps, taking a step backward. “You’re alive!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, ass,” I snap back. “You think I can’t handle a fucking cù-sìth? Or were you just hoping you wouldn’t have to pay up?”
“No, it’s not that.” He shakes his head, still staring at me in disbelief. “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what, you big loon? I swear, if you don’t have my money—”
“They’re all dead, Berkeley.” Fawkes looks to the ground, avoiding my eyes. “They killed ‘em all. Every last one.”
Even though I still have no idea what the hell he’s going on about, Fawkes’ words send a knot twisting through my stomach. Warm. Sick. I can feel Castor step up behind me, body tense.
“What do you mean, Fawkes?” I ask. “Who’s dead?”
The man takes a deep breath, gaze flickering between Castor and I. “There was an attack,” he says. “Bunch of Slayborn, all together at a party. Slaughtered.”
I swear the world slows around me, though my heart rate remains the same. It’s not until I feel the hand on my shoulder that everything comes rushing back, and I realize that my pulse is pounding so fast that I can feel it throbbing in my ears. Without a word I shove past Fawkes, hurrying back down the docks, and Castor follows hot on my heels
Slaughtered. Killed at my house. My party. How many Slayborn had been there? Twenty? Fifty? And the whole time they were calling me, desperate for help, I was in some dingy bathroom fucking a near stranger.
God. I really am a disappointment of a Slayborn.
On any given morning, my lawn is strewn with bodies. Half-naked, tangled together, noses dusted with Crux. Looking over the yard now, I can almost imagine I’m just seeing the aftermath of some wild rager.
Almost.
The bodies are spattered with blood, limbs splayed at awkward angles against the dew-laced grass. Dozens of blank eyes stare up at the sky, glassy and dry. I spot some movement on the far side of the lawn, though—for a second, my heart perks up. But then, I start to notice something strange. The silhouette isn’t right. Even hunched over, I can tell that there’s something off about it. And then the figure straightens.
Castor wraps an arm around me, clamping a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp. He drags us both down into the hedges, out of sight. The move seems moot, though. Because the man standing across the lawn, framed in dim lamplight and shrouded in mist—he has no head.
The Dullahan Riders. It wasn’t just me they were after.
Castor’s body covers mine, his dark armor keeping us both hidden from view. We peer out through the veil of branches around us, watching as the headless Rider makes his way across the lawn in slow, steady strides.
Suddenly, one of the battered bodies move, reaching for the man—a final plea for help. The Dullahan stops, turning his headless body to face the poor girl gasping for air at his feet. He kneels down, producing a knife from his boot: the hilt made of carved bone, the blade dark obsidian. Silently he grabs the girl by her hair, yanking her head back and slicing the knife through the tendons of her neck in one clean motion. She gargles out one last breath and collapses back into the grass, unmoving. In the distance I spot a second silhouette doing the exact same thing. And then, not ten feet away, my eyes land on another body.
I’m almost surprised I remember his face, considering how hard I had been concentrating on that ass—but I know beyond a doubt that it’s him. Derek, Dink, whatever his name had been. It doesn’t matter now, though. Because his throat is slit to the bone, just like the others.
But the girl had been alive. They’re not all dead.
I’m not dead.
I shove Castor with both hands, tryin
g to force him off of me, but he remains stubbornly in place. I struggle silently underneath him, trying to wriggle free, until he finally loses patience and pins me by the wrists.
“Let me the fuck go,” I hiss, and he has the nerve to glare down at me.
“No,” he says. “You go in there, you die. Just like the rest of them.”
“No, I go in there and those headless fuckers die. I’ll sink my knife right into their goddamn neckholes.”
I can’t let them get away with this. They’ve murdered my people, on my turf. Maybe if I had done my job, managed to kill them in the arcade...but it’s not too late. I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. All I know is that they have to die, and I’m the one who’s gonna make it happen.
I struggle against Castor with renewed vigor, not caring if I attract the attention of the Dullahan. Castor has other ideas, though. His hand slaps over my mouth once more and he wraps an arm around my waist, half-carrying, half-dragging me away from the house. I buck and writhe against him, calling him every name in the book, spouting off every creative threat I can think of, but it’s all muffled by his palm.
He whisks the both of us away from the house, not stopping to check if we’re being followed. He doesn’t let me go until we’re at least a mile away, the two of us completely alone in some overlit parking lot.
“What the hell was that?” I snap, shoving him back away from me the second he releases his grip. “They were killing those people, you asshole!”
“Do you believe me now?” Castor asks, still breathing hard. “You’re not safe here. Come with me, to Ireland. Come join the New Order of the Làidir.”
“Fine,” I growl, hand going to the knife on my hip. “I’ll join your little club. But not because I need protection, and not because you asked me to. I’m doing it because those fuckers back there—they’re gonna pay.”
Chapter Six
An Indoor Cat
I’ve always hated airports. They’re too big, too loud. Too many angry, antsy people all crammed together like sardines in a can. The second you step into an airport you leave polite society. I’m pretty sure it’s the closest any of us will ever come to experiencing the apocalypse. Every fucking man for himself.
At this hour, though, the only people flying are tired businessmen and the unlucky SOBs who missed their connections. Castor and I are nearly alone in the departure lounge, and so I stretch out over an entire row of seats. It’s not easy with the armrests in the way, but I manage.
“So when are we gonna do it?” I ask, picking at my fingernails.
“Do what?” Castor leans back in his seat, arms folded and brow furrowed.
I roll my eyes, letting my head loll back. God, I could use a smoke. This is gonna be one long-ass flight. Maybe I should pick up a bottle of liquor for the ride. Duty free.
“Kill the Underking, genius,” I say, rolling my eyes. “When are we gonna do it?”
Castor chuckles and shakes his head. “Easy there, tiger. You’re a decent fighter, but you need training. You need to learn what the Unseelie are like, how they move. And most’a all, you need to learn how to work in a team.”
Me, working in a team. Yeah, right.
“Like hell I do,” I snarl, shifting so that I can sit up. “Soon as we land I’m gonna rip the Underking’s fucking head off with my bare hands and shove it up his—”
“Look, I know you’re used to being an outdoor cat,” Castor says, cutting me off. “But you can’t be pissin’ on the furniture, alright? You’re gonna have to answer to people if ya want to be a part of this. And I know that you do, Berkeley.”
I sigh, flopping back down again. He’s right, of course. Not that I’ll ever admit it to his face. I rub my temple with one hand, staring up at the harsh fluorescents lining the ceiling.
“I don’t care who I have to play buddy-buddy with,” I growl. “As long as it’s me who gets to stick a knife into the Underking.”
“And ya will.” Castor sounds weary. Looks like hell. I wonder when he last slept. Hell, I can barely remember the last time that I slept. “But right now,” he continues, almost as if reading my mind, “it’s time to rest. Get some shut-eye. I’ll let ya know when it’s time to board.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. Despite the blaring PA around us, the whine of jet engines, the invasive stares of passing suits and ties, I close my eyes and sink into the deepest sleep I’ve had in a long time.
“You sure we left San Francisco?”
I lean my forehead against the window, staring out at the grey sky overhead. The fields around us are shrouded in a fine mist, one that obscures the trees rising from the ground in the distance. The only sign that we might be anywhere else besides the Bay Area are the sheep dotting the landscape and the occasional cottage, all timber trim and thatched roofs. Definitely no crowded apartment complexes. No trendy coffee shops. No overdressed hipsters silently judging the passing public. I don’t think I’ve seen a single human face since we left the airport.
It’s nice.
Our little powder-blue Fiat winds through the countryside, shuddering with every bump and crack in the road. Castor can barely fit behind the wheel of the rental, his knees scrunched up next to his elbows and his neck hunched so that his head doesn’t graze the ceiling. Judging by the mood he’s in, he’s just as uncomfortable as he looks.
“Quit your whinin’,” he grumbles, side-eying me with a frown. “Can’t believe you don’t know how to drive a bloody stick shift.”
“Maybe I do.” I grin, grabbing a bag of stolen airline peanuts from my bag. “Maybe I know perfectly well how to drive stick, and I just wanted to watch you suffer.”
“I’d believe it.” Castor falls silent, still scowling, so I hold up the peanuts. A peace offering. At first he looks like he’s about to refuse out of sheer spite, but grudgingly, he gives me a nod and extends his hand. Maybe getting some food in his belly will untwist his panties. He refused to eat the lasagna that the airline served, but in his defense, it might have been the right choice. I’m fairly certain that they used cardboard in there. I can practically feel it churning through my gut right now.
Or maybe it’s just nerves. Castor hasn’t told me where we’re going—the Làidir’s new headquarters, I assume. He’s being very dramatic about the whole thing. The entire first hour of the drive was spent pestering him for details, but all he would tell me is that I’d find out later. I wanted to throttle the sonofabitch, I really did. But like he said—I don’t know how to drive stick.
As we continue, though, the landscape starts to look eerily familiar. I haven’t been to Ireland since I was a teenager, but I could swear I recognize the ancient, gnarled oak tree that I see craning over the side of the road. And then stony wall of the sheep pasture just beyond it.
“Castor, I’m gonna ask you one last fucking time,” I say, my voice low. “Where are we going?”
“Well, I suppose if you haven’t figured it out by now, it’s no’ happening,” Castor says, smirking at me. “Aren’t a very attentive granddaughter, are ya?”
My stomach seems to lift and drop at the same time, leaving me feeling slightly nauseous.
My grandmother.
We’re going to see Meemaw.
I can feel the heat rushing to my ears as I scramble to flatten out the wrinkles in my shirt, tug my shorts down to an appropriate height. When I yank open the visor to check myself out in the mirror, I nearly shriek at what I see. It doesn’t matter what my clothes look like, because my makeup is terrifying. It’s no wonder the TSA pulled me over for additional screening. I look like a clown gone wrong, Pennywise dolled up for a date. And my hair? I doubt there’s anything I could do there, even if I had a brush on me. I’m really regretting not packing a suitcase.
Castor watches me as I freak out and chuckles. “Since when do you care what you look like?”
“I haven’t seen my grandma in years,” I snap back, patting down my hair. It’s a futile
effort. “Last time I was here was to bury my parents. Wasn’t exactly gung-ho on coming back to visit after that.”
The smile fades from Castor’s lips, and he gives me a solemn nod. “I get it. Had trouble looking at my uncle for a while after I lost my parents. He and my dad...they look so much alike. Some say they coulda been twins.”
“And now?”
“I see him every day,” Castor says. “He’s the one who’s trainin’ me. Helping me to avenge my parents, his brother. He showed me how to channel all of the grief, all the rage, into my work. Before him, I was a lot like you. Aimless. Useless.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know it’s true.” Castor’s grip tightens on the wheel. “If either’a us want to face the Underking, we need to know what we’re doing. We may only get one chance to end him. To set things right.”
“And how does my grandmother fit into all of this?” I ask. “I know that she’s Slayborn, but come on...she’s ancient. You guys so desperate for hands that you’re sending geezers out on the front?”
“Your grandmother has been integral to rebuilding the Làidir,” Castor says, slowing for a sheep crossing the road. “After the old headquarters were destroyed, we needed to find another space. Your grandmother’s land is some of the last left in Ireland with a Veil strong enough to keep out the Unseelie. Even the Underking himself couldn’t set foot there.”
My grandma’s cottage. I remember spending summers in it as a child, dashing through the thick carpet of grass over the garden as my parents sipped wine and watched the sunset. Catching glittering pink and yellow and blue pixies, chasing leathery little trolls through the flower beds, baking cookies to leave for the Alp-luachra so they wouldn’t raid the pantry.
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