I recognize the elven guard that I kicked in the jewels earlier, glaring at me across the room, but even he says back. I waltz out of there feeling like it’s way too fucking easy. The second my foot leaves the threshold of the door I bolt, running as fast as my battered legs will carry me, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds expecting to see headless men giving chase. But there’s no one. Not even a tail, as far as I can tell.
I’m not sure who’s lying to me. Maybe everybody is. My mind flits to Castor, and I can’t help but feel a slight sting of betrayal. Had he been manipulating me the entire time? Goading me into coming here so that he and his uncle could, what? Kill me? Use me? Turn me against my parents?
But you know what? This is all my own goddamn fault. It’s not like Castor dragged me here kicking in screaming. It was me who fell for the bullshit, me who decided to come here. I could have just kept working alone. No lies, no deceit, no betrayal.
Well, whatever the hell is going on here, whatever really happened in Dublin, in San Francisco, on my fucking front lawn—I’m going to find out what it is. Straight from the horse’s mouth.
The snow is thick on the ground as I march through it, the sun barely peeking over the horizon despite the late hour. By the time my grandmother’s cottage finally comes into view, I’m sore, freezing, and soaked to the bone. Maybe I should take a nap before confronting Seamus. Grab a hot bowl of porridge from the dining hall. But it doesn’t seem that I’ll get the opportunity for that small luxury.
As I draw closer, I see them standing there—a whole gaggle of Slayborn, all fully dressed in their armor, swords shifting into stance when they spot me. And at the head of them, Seamus’s star pupil, the Queen Bitch herself. Sabrina.
She looks me up and down, apparently disgusted by what she sees. I can’t help but balk a little. I mean, I can’t possibly look that bad. I did take a bath, after all. I probably still smell like rose water.
“Berkeley,” she drawls, her tone more scathing than usual. “What the hell do you think you’re wearing?”
Oh, yeah. That. I’d completely forgotten that I was still decked from head to toe in Unseelie armor, the deep, sapphire blue standing out starkly against the cold black of the Slayborn uniforms. Well, I guess there’s no lying about where I’ve been. I was kind of hoping I could just say I spent the night at the bartender’s place. He’d been good-looking enough.
But judging by the way my welcoming committee greets me, they’re already well aware of what I’ve been up to. Sabrina steps forward, flicking a honeyed curl from her forehead.
“Seamus warned us this might happen.” Her glossed lips curl. “I wasn’t so sure. I mean, you might be incompetent, but I didn’t think you were an idiot as well.”
“Oh, yeah? And what exactly did Seamus warn you about, Succubus?”
Sabrina lets out a tittering laugh. “That you’d defect, silly. Just like your parents did. Hand yourself over to be the Underking’s bitch.” Her eyes scan my skin-tight outfit, and her sneer twists into a smirk. “Or his whore. Whichever.”
It’s true.
Everything Gentry had told me were true. Seamus wasn’t working with my parents. They had never been loyal to the Làidir to begin with. Because Seamus, apparently, was a balls-to-the-wall maniac. And if that part was true…
I feel like my legs are finally going to give out, just like they’ve been threatening to do all night. I want to laugh, to cry, to scream. Honestly, I don’t know what I want to do. But I know what I need to do.
If my parents are alive, I need to see them. I need to get back to them, to talk to them—to finally get the answers that I damn well deserve. But my stomach twists as my eyes flicker between the Slayborn before me. I recognize all of them, some of the best fighters in the ring.
The brunette to the left has given me more than one concussion during training, and the boy on the right—he kicked my ass so bad once that Seamus actually intervened. Even weedy little Jasper, who stands directly behind Sabrina’s shoulder, has beaten me on plenty of occasions.
But you know what? None of them have lived the kind of life I have. None of them have fought the Underking and lived to tell about it.
None of them are fucking Gallaghers.
With a shout I launch myself at Jasper, shoving Sabrina out of the way before she realizes what’s going on. While he’s not the biggest threat here, he’s the easiest to take out—and I need a sword. I smack a fist square into his snout, and I feel the shatter of bone under my knuckles.
Jasper cries out, stumbling back, and before the others can close in on me I pluck the sword straight out of his hand. Sabrina immediately comes in swinging at me but I manage to throw myself to the side before her blade makes contact.
When I look up, it’s just in time to see her raising her sword over her head, ready to slam it directly down into my skull. I roll out of the way just before the blade drops, crashing to the ground where my face had been a second before with brutal force.
I scramble to my knees and fling a spray of mud and horse shit directly into her eyes. She shrieks out a curse, staggering as she tries to wipe it off.
And then there were four. Revenge is so close I can almost taste it—and it’s delicious. Whoever said it’s a dish best served cold was probably the same sort of psychopath who chooses gazpacho over chowder.
I twirl around to face my next attacker, sword still in hand—but this time, I’m a fraction of a second too late. His sword swings so fast I can hear it slicing through thin air, and the blade slams down into my arm. At first, I’m sure I’ve just lost the damn thing. My first thought is how difficult it’s going to be to win this thing one-armed.
When I look down, though, it’s just a flesh wound. Despite how thin it is, how supple the material, the Unseelie armor manages to stop the blow before it took a limb clean off. Color me impressed.
I don’t have time to dwell on my wardrobe choice, though. The boy is coming after me again, and he’s not the only one. He seems to have teamed up with the bitch who gave me the concussion. The two of them are coming from either side, him aiming to take me out at the neck, her at the knees. Literally the only thing I can do is dive forward and hope that they both end up sticking each other.
I’m not so lucky.
They dive past each other, skidding to a stop and immediately rounding on me again. The other two have joined them, and Sabrina’s managed to clear enough shit from her eyes to face me once more. Whereas she was annoyed before, now, she’s angry. Enraged. I can practically feel the red-hot energy radiating off of her.
Me, on the other hand—I’m just so exhausted. I just want to fwump down into a big feathery bed and lie there for days. I want a Mojito and sexy bronzed men waiting on me. There are so many things that I want right now. But more than anything—I want blood.
“Hey, Sabrina.” I breathe hard, struggling to catch my breath. “You wanted to see what I can do, didn’t you? Well? What the hell are you waiting for?”
For a moment she stares at me, nonplussed. And then, she breaks into an almost genuine grin. All strawberry-pink lips and flashing white teeth. She glances around at the Slayborn surrounding her, all nodding in turn.
“Alright, Gallagher,” she smirks. “I suppose Seamus never did say we had to bring you back alive.”
And with that she’s diving for me, sword held up like a club. She assumes I’m going to strike high like I usually do. But I crouch down, thrusting my sword out in front of me, swinging in a wide arc right at belly-height. A gutting hit.
Before the blade can strike, though, a strangled shriek rings out across the clearing and a blur of unruly brown hair is hurling itself in front of my sword. Instead of slashing into Sabrina it’s Jasper who faces me, skewered on the end of my sword.
The blood drains from my face just as it drains through the gaping hole in his chest. He gasps, unable to speak. Eye trained on Sabrina. Unblinking. I freeze up as I watch him fall. I mean, I’ve struck down plenty—fae of al
l shapes and sizes, fenyrodees and coin-sìth and elves and even pretty little gancanagh—but this is the first time I’ve spilled from my own bloodline. Sabrina lets out a gut-wrenching shriek.
“Jasper,” she gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth. Tears spring to her eyes, a red flush splotching its way over her cheeks. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her lose composure. She turns her away from Jasper’s body as it falls, shoulders arched, shuddering with each ragged breath that she takes.
“I was just going to kill you before, you bitch,” she snarls, her voice hitching slightly. “But now, I’m going to enjoy it.”
I almost want to apologize. I didn’t mean to kill Jasper, really. I want Sabrina dead, Seamus dead, the Dullahan riders dead. There are plenty of people I want dead, but Jasper? He was sweet. Gangly. Goofy. He didn’t deserve to get stabbed. Especially not for a walking cumstain like Sabrina.
When she comes at me, I’m ready for her. I’m just not ready for the three other Slayborn that come at me as well. I stumble back, raising my sword, but it’s no use. Sabrina knocks it out of my grip with a vicious swipe, while one of the boys stomps me down to the ground with a heavy boot on my chest. I struggle to move under his weight, but it’s no use. I’m trapped.
He raises his sword. The sunlight glints off its blade in bright silver waves. His muscles tense to deliver the execution blow.
And then, in the blink of an eye, there’s a dagger sticking out of his forehead, blood dripping down between his vacant eyes. He begins to tumble forward, and I roll out of the way as quick as I can to avoid his falling sword.
The other Slayborn stare down at his body, stunned, before their gazes shift behind me. And when I turn around there he is, emerald eyes aflame, dark hair dancing in the wind.
Castor Blake, my fucking unshakable knight in shining armor. Although this time, I’m not entirely sure if he’s coming to my rescue. He stares between us all, eyes narrowed—me in the dirt and the slush, blade covered in blood, Sabrina standing there with sword raised and shit on her face, the other Slayborn drawing in for the kill—and takes a slow stride toward us.
“What in t’hell is goin’ on here?” he asks, hand migrating to the spare dagger at his hip. I don’t miss the way his gaze trails over my uniform, nor the shock in his expression.
“Castor, what the hell?” Sabrina gestures toward the dead body at my feet. “Why did you kill Tommy?”
“What,” Castor repeats, ignoring Sabrina’s question, “is going on here?”
“Dealing with a traitor.” Sabrina snaps, pointing her sword my way. “Don’t you see that tacky getup she’s wearing?”
“I don’ wanna hear it from you,” Castor growls, shifting his gaze from Sabrina to stare hard at me. “I wanna hear it from her. So tell me, Berkeley. What all’s exactly goin’ on here?”
I’m still not entirely sure he’s not bluffing. Sent here by Seamus to throw me off guard, convince me I have a chance of escaping before killing me in cold blood. But honestly, I don’t have much of a choice other than to trust him right now.
“It’s Seamus, Cas,” I gasp, struggling to my feet. “He controls the Dullahan, he killed those Slayborn at my house, and my parents...he didn’t kill them, Castor—not Seamus, I mean, even though he tried, but Gentry—I mean, the Underking—”
“Ooh, so you’re on a first-name basis now?” Sabrina sneers. “Guess I was on the nose with the whore theory.”
“Sabrina, I swear to God, for just one second, would you shut that dick portal you call a mouth?” I shoot back. Castor just stares between the two of us, looking utterly lost.
“Berkeley, none of that can possibly be true,” he says, shaking his head. “Just how much did you have to drink last night?”
“I’m not drunk!” I protest, but even I can tell that I’m still slurring my words just a little. “Okay, well maybe just a little. But that’s not the point. The point is—”
“That what Berkeley here says is true, though she seems to have left out some crucial details.” Everyone around me falls silent when Seamus’s voice suddenly booms out through the paddock. “Castor, my boy,” he says, stepping out of the shadows. “You and I have some things to discuss.”
Chapter Sixteen
Another Name on the List
Seamus rises up out of the well, his hulking figure clad in ink-black armor, a sword strapped to his side. In his hand—a fucking flail. It swings to and fro like a wrecking ball, lined with spikes that look too well-used for my liking.
Jesus H. Christ. I gotta hand it to him, if the guy knows how to do anything right, it’s how to make a fucking entrance.
“Castor.” Seamus’s voice is calm. Collected. It only makes me angrier. “I’m sure you’re a little bit confused right now about all this.”
“You’re damn right I am.” Castor sounds just as agitated as I feel, the thick ropes of muscles across his back tensing under his tunic. He draws his sword, shaking it in his uncle’s direction. “And I suggest you start talkin’ before I start at you.”
“Slayborn like the Gallaghers were making our bloodline weak,” says Seamus, venom in his voice. “Letting the Unseelie walk all over us. Breeding with humans, for God’s sake! Slayborn like them—they would have been the end of us.”
“So...you killed them? My parents? Your brother?”
“I did what I had to do. And now, we’re stronger for it.”
Castor’s shoulders heave. His pupils contract down to pinpricks. His muscles swell against his uniform.
He’s pissed. Beyond pissed. But me? I feel a flare of hope rise up in the pit of my stomach. Castor hasn’t been lying. He hasn’t been manipulating me. There’s no way that he could have known about Seamus’s plan.
I might not have anyone else in this world right now, but at least I still have Castor.
With a roar he lifts his sword, the screech of steel cutting air, immediately sending it slicing down toward his uncle. Seamus doesn’t bat an eye. With a flick of his wrist he sends the spiked ball of his flail swinging, the chain knocking against Castor’s sword and wrapping around it. Castor manages to yank the blade free with a grating protest, but in the precious few seconds that he’s lost, the other Slayborn are on him.
And here I am, watching and gawking like an idiot.
I spring back to life, grabbing a sword and snapping it around, slicing directly into the girl diving for Castor’s exposed back. Her shriek catches in her throat as a gurgle. She tumbles the rest of the way forward, head lolling abound at an unnatural angle, detached from her spine and connected only by the thin tendons of her neck. I don’t take my eyes off of hers as her body hits the dirt.
Sure, the girl had given me concussion after concussion in training. She even seemed to revel in it. But she’d also handed me an ice pack once. I also heard her call Sabrina a bitch on multiple occasions. I couldn’t help but like her a little.
And now I’d all but chopped her head clean off.
I start to tremble, knees weak, watching the ruby red soak through the snow and toward my feet. But even through the impossible pounding in my ears I can still hear Castor calling my name, voice hoarse with effort. I snap back to reality, the cold hitting me like a wall, sobering me and steadying my aching legs.
Castor needs me. My parents need me.
I lunge for Seamus who, despite the sweat on his brow and the flush to his cheek, looks completely calm. He knows exactly how his nephew fights. He steps past each blow as if dancing a waltz, swinging his flail in tempo, forcing Castor to duck and roll each time it comes crashing down into the earth. I come in from his flank, hoping he won’t see me, but he knows how I fight too.
I just barely manage to duck as the flail goes screaming overhead, one of the spikes scraping into my scalp. Castor shouts my name again, and a searing pain goes rushing through my shoulder. I shriek as I’m sent whirling back, the world moving around me, completely outside of my control.
I look up to see Seamus looming over me,
flail in hand and a grin on his face. Castor stands in the distance, bloodied, standing over two bodies—one with a mop of honey-blonde hair, darkened with blood.
“Uncle!” he roars, taking a bold step forward. “You’re gonna kill a girl, defenseless on the ground? Come fight me, ya coward! Fight like a fuckin’ man!”
A girl? Defenseless?
Why do all the honest people in this world turn out to be such raging assholes?
My legs scream in protest but I rise to my feet anyway, if not anything to spite Castor. I step back around toward him to join him.
Two against one now, bitch.
Between the two of us I’m sure we can beat him. Seamus must know it too. He’s a dick, not stupid. But he remains suspiciously calm, almost smirking as he glances back and forth between Castor and I.
“You disappoint me, nephew,” he says. He heaves a sigh. Insincere. “I had hoped things would turn out differently. That you, Berkeley—all of us—could rebuild the Làidir together. But I suppose even the best of us make mistakes.”
“Quit stalling, you pussy.” I raise my sword. Square my feet. “Face it. You’re gonna die today.”
“So, it’s your choice,” Castor continues for me, raising his own blade in turn. “You gonna die a coward? Or are ya gonna die a man?”
“Neither,” Seamus says. This time, he’s definitely smiling. He snaps his fingers, and suddenly, three shrouded figures arise behind him. It’s like they were there the whole time. I have to shake my eyes and blink a few times just to make sure I’m seeing right—I have had quite a few tonight, after all.
But no. They’re there, alright. Three of them, draped in tattered black, withered white fingers clutching yellowed bone hilts. Gaunt faces staring straight at me.
The Dullahan. The abominations that killed all of the Slayborn in San Francisco.
All but me.
Men. Women. Children.
I can feel Castor go rigid next to me, his normally bronzed face going pale. Still, he stands his ground. Seamus holds back as the Dullahan advance, still staring, obsidian swords raised high. From this distance I can smell them—the acrid scent of decay, rotting meat and mold, all flies and maggots and death. I can feel the nausea rolling in my gut, but I fight to keep it down. I can’t lose focus. Not now.
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