Fuck. This really is it. This is how I die. So close to doing something—God, anything—right.
Then I hear it again, closer this time: the sound of a blade whistling through the air. Another dagger, this time razor-sharp obsidian, lashes forth from the darkness to taste my blood. I try to avoid it, but I’m not quick enough. I’m sent spinning to the floor in a spiral of blood and dirt and sweat, my forehead smashing into the ground at Clíodhna’s feet.
So this is what it feels like to die. All I want to do is close my eyes. Sleep. Let the tendrils of peace forcing their way into my mind to take over. But then, I hear the sounds of a scuffle from behind us. I just barely manage to lift my head and glance over my shoulder.
Seamus is striding into the room, his hand twisted up in a thick mess of white-blond hair. He drags Gentry into view, pale skin bruised to black, a vicious cut pouring blood down his forehead. He looks about as good as I feel. He barely struggles against Seamus—eyes half closed, powerful muscles limp, body spent.
But when he throws a weary glance to the side and sees me, lying face first in a pool of my own blood—his eyes grow wide. Distraught. He immediately bucks back to life, almost breaking free of Seamus’s grip as he throws himself my way. But Seamus catches him, yanking him back and shoving him to his knees next to me.
“Well look at this,” Seamus says with a smirk. “Two birds with one stone.”
Gentry says nothing. He just glowers up at the man above us, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Seamus releases Gentry, holding a blade to his neck as he walks in a circle around the two of us.
“Oh, Berkeley.” Seamus lets out a sharp tsk. “You could have been so much. But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
“Fuck you,” I snap. Seamus throws back his head and barks out a laugh.
“No, it most certainly does not,” he chuckles. “Apparently, I didn’t succeed in eliminating your mother and father. But you know what? I’m glad I didn’t. They wouldn’t have been around to see their bloodline come to an end.”
“Blake,” Gentry growls, struggling to look upward. “Do you really think this is what Clíodhna would have wanted?”
Seamus whips around, face red, a vein popping in his forehead. “You don’t get to speak her name!” he roars, flecks of spit spraying from his mouth. “She died because of you. You and that horsefucker you called a father.”
Gentry grits his teeth, but at least he has the common sense not to say anything. I don’t, though.
“You’re slaughtering her people, Seamus.” I look up, fighting to keep both eyes open as I stare at him. “You’re slaughtering your own people. And for what? Revenge on a dead guy? I mean, where does it end?”
“I used to be like you. Young. Idealistic. But above all, foolish. You think the Unseelie can live in harmony with humans? With Slayborn?” He scoffs. “That’s a pipe dream. The fae aren’t like us. They’re sick, twisted. Evil. And it’s in our blood to rid the Earth of evil, Berkeley.”
“No kidding. Why do you think I’ve been trying so hard to kill you?”
Seamus smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know, I really did want you to be a part of the Làidir, Berkeley. It’s been a true loss, you turning against our kind. You turning my nephew against our kind. It was never my intention to kill you. And yet, here we are.”
“It’s not her that you want.” I hear Gentry’s voice next to me—hoarse, rasping. “You want to kill the Unseelie? You want to dethrone the Underking? Well, here I am. Just let the girl go.”
“Let her go?” Seamus’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of us, narrowing as he puts two and two together in his head. “Ah, I see. You...and her? Oh, this is too perfect.”
He strides around behind me, out of view. I feel a searing pain in my scalp as a fist yanks me back by the hair. Though I can’t turn to see him, I can feel Seamus crouching down next to me. He’s close enough that each breath blows hot against the mist clinging to my skin.
“Berkeley Gallagher deserved to die. But what does the Underking’s whore deserve? I wonder?” He leans in closer, until I can feel the tip of his nose brushing up against my neck. He takes a deep sniff, moving from my collar bone all the way up to my cheek. No matter how much I try to draw back from the intrusion, he holds me firmly in place.
“Get your hands off of her.” Gentry’s voice drops an octave, taking on a dangerous tone. Seamus laughs, sounding positively delighted.
“I always wondered if you had any idea how it felt to lose Clíodhna.” Seamus continues as if Gentry hadn’t said anything. “To love someone so deeply, only to have them ripped away. To lose any traces of a past and a future together.”
There’s the metallic grating of a knife leaving its sheath. And then, the cold press of steel against my throat. Gentry shouts out, moving to stand, but the Dullahan grabs him and forces him back down.
“Blake!” he shouts, though with his waning voice, it almost sounds like a croak. “Don’t do this. I’m the one you came for. Berkeley has nothing to do with what happened to Clíodhna. She’s one of your kind—a Slayborn.”
“She’s about as much a Slayborn as you are, Gentry.” Seamus presses the blade into my neck harder. Gentry’s eyes are wide, wild as he watches a droplet of blood trickle down my chest. When he looks back up, the two of us lock eyes. The panic in his face is gone, replaced by something deeper, darker. Pure determination.
“Revenge is hollow, Blake,” he says slowly. “How many people do you need to kill before you see that? No amount of pain, no amount of blood, can replace what’s been taken from you. The only way to find peace in this world is to let go of your hatred.”
As Gentry speaks, I see his hand inching its way toward his boot, the slight glint of a knife tucked away inside. He glances my way, his eyes almost apologetic.
The idiot is going to try and fight the two of them. Alone.
I lock eyes with Gentry, reaching for the knife in my own boot. It’s a small thing, barely big enough to skewer a rat. But I’m not letting him fight these bastards without me. He can’t take on the world by himself any more than I can.
A muscle in his jaw tenses. His eyes darken. He gives me a single, shallow nod.
In an instant the two of us spring up, back to back, leaning against each other for support, daggers held out in front of us. If Seamus is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He eyes the tiny blade in my hand with a smirk, raising his massive sword in turn. I hear the whisper of metal cutting through the air as the Dullahan follows suit.
Gentry gives me a gentle nudge—a wordless communication. And somehow, I know exactly what he wants me to do. We move at the same time, each step slow, calculated. Following Seamus and the Dullahan as they circle around us, never letting them leave our sight. Seamus is still wearing that easy smile of his, flicking his sword to and fro in his hand. Taunting us into making the first move.
Gentry and I lunge at the same time, straight at the blades in front of us. At the last second we both duck down, and I feel a sword slicing through a few stray hairs on the top of my head. Gentry ducks past me and I do the same, both of us swapping places quickly that for the first time since I met him, Seamus seems dumbstruck.
With deadly precision Gentry strikes out toward Seamus’s chest, and the man moves to dodge the blow. What he doesn’t anticipate is the blade clutched in Gentry’s other hand—the one that I just passed to him behind my back.
He sinks the knife deep between the bones of Seamus’s wrists, drawing out a furious howl. The Dullahan immediately dives at Gentry, sword raised high in the air. From where it holds its head, the sallow yellow eyes don’t catch Gentry tossing his blade my way—not until they see it flashing directly toward them. I drive the dagger as hard as I can into its forehead, the brittle bone giving way with a sickening crunch. The creature’s mouth hangs open in a silent wail, blackened clots of blood dripping down its face and plopping onto the floor.
Its cloak billow
s, as if a wind whips up around it, though the air is perfectly still. And then the blackness disintegrates, dark smoke propelling itself into a frenzy before disappearing entirely. All that’s left of the Dullahan is the faint smell of sulfur that lingers in the air and the sword still clattering down to the ground.
Without waiting I make a grab for the blade, fingers wrapping around the carved bone hilt, and turn to face Seamus. Gentry is already there, dagger to the man’s throat.
“No amount of death will ever be enough for you, will it?” he asks. I can hear the wear in his voice. Thin, strained. Close to giving out.
“Your people are the murderers,” Seamus spits out. “Not mine. This world won’t be whole until you and every piece of filth that follows you lies dead in the gutter.”
“Are those your last words, Blake?”
Seamus sneers. “What? Are you going to kill me, boy?”
“No.” Gentry smiles, shaking his head. “Berkeley is.”
Both of their eyes flit over to me—Gentry’s bright, Seamus’s clouded in a haze of rage. He makes a move like he’s about to lunge at me, but Gentry presses the tip of his knife harder against Seamus’s neck, forcing him to go rigidly still before the blade slices straight through. Seamus doesn’t break his eyes away from mine.
“All of those pretty words about revenge,” he hisses, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against Gentry’s knife. “Why are you doing this then, hm, Berkeley? When you thought that the Underking had killed your parents, why did you want him dead?”
“I used to want revenge, sure.” I saunter toward Seamus, flicking my sword back and forth—the same way that I had seen him do a hundred times before. “I used to want to stick you like the pig that you are because I thought it would make me feel better. And you know what? It will.”
Seamus lets out a harsh laugh, about to interject, but I cut him off by bringing the Dullahan’s blade up to meet the other side of his throat.
“I’m not killing you for revenge. Don’t fucking flatter yourself. I’m killing you because you’re a liar. Because you’re a murderer. Because you’re a piece of shit. It’s like you said, Seamus—killing evil? It’s in my blood.”
He snarls at me. Opens his mouth. But before the words can come dribbling from his lips, the black blade is slicing through the air. Slicing through his neck. The flesh, the tendons, the sinew all barely slow the swing of my sword. It whips clean through his neck in a single swipe.
For a second, its as if time stands still.
Seamus is still staring at me, his mouth still open, still trying to spit out whatever his last words might have been. And then, sickly slow, his head begins to slide from the stump of his neck, finally toppling sideways and landing on the floor with a heavy thud. It rolls back, almost as if so it can still stare at me.
Gentry scoffs, kicking it away with the toe of his boot as the body drops behind him. He looks up at me, still breathing heavily. Suddenly, he looks weary. The spark is gone from his eye. And I start to realize—I’m not in much better shape. The adrenaline alone is what’s been keeping me going, and now that Seamus lies dead at my feet, it’s starting to drain from my system. We continue to stare at each other, but I can’t hold it for long.
My legs give out under me and I collapse, hitting the ground hard. Thank God for that cushion of grass. Gentry allows himself to fall as well—much more gracefully than me—a long, ragged exhale drawing itself from his lungs.
“So,” I say, lying on my back, slowly bleeding out. The misty rain is a mercy, cool on my face. “I guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”
Gentry laughs, but it turns into a sputtering cough. “We do indeed,” he rasps, “though I was hoping we’d fuck just once before we died.”
I bark out a laugh, then grab my shoulder where the Dullahan’s knife pierced my it. “Oh, ow. Christ. Sorry, I didn’t know that kings talk like that.” I don’t have to look to know that Gentry is smiling at my side. My arm is against his, and for a second, our fingers intertwine. Then the blood loss takes over, and the sky above us fades. Calm. Serene.
Finally at peace.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
“Berkeley.”
The voice is fuzzy. Muted. Like someone speaking underwater. I groan, grabbing the pillow next to me and dragging it over my head.
A pillow. Something about that just doesn’t seem right.
And then, it all comes rushing back to me. The garden. The rain. Seamus. Gentry.
“Where is he?” I sit up, so quickly that the blood rushes from my brain and I have to lie back down. I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, and when I look up, the first thing I see is my mother and father standing over me.
Mom claps a hand over her mouth, and maybe for the first time ever, I see a lone tear crawl its way down her cheek. Fuck. If she keeps it up, it won’t be long before I get the waterworks going as well.
“You’re okay,” she mutters, diving in and wrapping me up in an almost too-tight hug. “You’re okay.” It’s almost like she has to keep reminding herself. I move to return her hug, but feel a sharp pull in my shoulder that draws an undignified yelp from my throat.
“No, honey. Don’t move.” My father gently pushes me back down, fluffing the pillow under my head. “You took quite a beating, you know. We weren’t sure that you were going to make it.”
Suddenly, my mind flashes back to Gentry. Skin bruised. White-blond hair matted with crimson. Bleeding out.
“Where is he?” I ask again, trying to move as little as possible as I glance around me. All I see is a blazing stone hearth and a table heavy with delicious food that doesn’t look the least bit tempting.
No Gentry, though. I can feel the panic starting to rise in my gut, taking over any pain that I’m feeling. I need to get up, get out of this room. Find Gentry. But the second I try my father smirks, shaking his head.
“Relax, Berk,” he says. “Gentry is fine—the fae heal much more easily than we do. But I have to ask—should I be concerned about this sudden interest in the Underking?”
My mother smiles too, though she’s clearly trying to hide it. “Oh hush, Conor. Stop your prying and go find the king.”
My father rolls his eyes, but still, he obliges with an over-exaggerated bow. He leaves the room, softly latching the door shut behind him, and my mother turns to me.
“You’ve been out for five days,” she says, her voice hushed. Almost reverent. “I can’t believe you’re okay.”
“Five days?” I groan, slapping a hand to my forehead. “Then why does it feel like I just spent all night out pounding forties?”
“Pounding forties?”
“I mean...studying.”
My mother purses her lips, but still, I see a twinkle of amusement flash through her eyes. “Well, however you feel, at least you’re alive.” She sighs, lowering herself down to sit on the bed next to me. “And Seamus…”
“Is gone. Good riddance.” I scoff. If my mother weren’t in the room, I’d hock a loogie on the ground in his honor.
“Yes.” Mom nods, staring at the opposite wall. “And you know, with him gone, the Làidir will need a new leader.”
I snort. “Oh yeah? And what poor idiot’s been suckered into that?”
“Your father and I have.” My mother glances over, smirking as I quickly try—and fail—to backpedal. “We’re going to train the remaining Slayborn as a part of a new Làidir. One that works alongside the fae—both Seelie and Unseelie alike.”
“What Slayborn?” I ask, scowling. “Seamus killed them all. Him and his Dullahan lackeys.”
“Not all,” she replied. “There are still plenty of us left out there. Many in hiding, thanks to Seamus’s efforts.”
If only the poor bastards at my house party had the good sense to have gone into hiding. I shake my head, trying to force the thought from my mind. The images of all of those bodies. In San Francisco. In Dublin. In the Unseelie Court. Just bodies, bodies, and more bodies. And
all it took to end the bloodshed was a single man’s head.
“How are you planning on finding them?” I ask, frowning. “A Facebook invite?”
“Castor,” my mother answers simply. “He’s offered to serve as the Làidir’s envoy. To travel the world finding new recruits for our cause.”
I snort. “Castor? You really think he’s the best one for the job?” As much as I like him, I can’t say he’s the most personable sonofabitch on the planet.
“Well, he convinced you to join, didn’t he?” my mother says, shrugging. “After everything with his parents—with Seamus—I think he needs to spend some time away from this place.”
Before she can say anything more, the door comes bursting open, swinging so hard that it nearly cracks against the far wall. Gentry rushes into the room, steps ahead of my father, immediately crouching down to check my shoulder, my ribs, my face, finger trailing over any traces of damage that he finds. Even in my state, his touch sends a jolt of electricity shooting through my veins. My eyes meet his gray ones, the relief clearly visible on his face.
“I’m glad to see that you’re well, Miss Gallagher,” he says. His voice is deep, hoarse. His finger lingers on my collarbone just a little bit longer than appropriate before he glances over at my dad, who’s watching the two of us like a hawk. Gentry takes a quick step back, giving me one last once-over.
“I trust you’ve brought her up to speed?” he asks my mother. Suddenly, he’s all business again. Mom gives him a nod, absentmindedly smoothing the sheets over my legs.
“They have,” I answer for her, drawing Gentry’s attention back to me. “But I haven’t caught all of you up to speed.”
His brows furrow, a single strand of hair falling across his eyes. “You’ve been asleep for five days. What could you possibly have to catch us up on?”
I manage a grin, though I can feel it straining each individual bruise decorating my face. “You think I want to be left out of the new Làidir?”
Slayborn Page 17