Children of the Veil (Aisling Chronicles)

by Colleen Halverson

  “It’s the second largest Faerie Market in the world,” Malachy said, puffing his chest out as if he owned the place. “Second to Galway, of course.” He turned to Finn. “Don’t they have one in Chicago?”

  Finn’s eyes scanned the market, taking in the crowds of Fae, disbelief marked in his eyes. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then the wards are working.” Malachy’s smile widened.

  A feral tribe of young dearg-dubh giggled past us, their canines flashing as they called out to each other, throwing a bottle of some blue substance over the head of a leprechaun merchant.

  Malachy reached a hand up and snapped the bottle of blue stuff in the air, handing it readily to the leprechaun who screeched something at the little urchins before turning away. The small dearg-dubh children scattered, but Malachy grabbed one by the back of his shirt.

  “Cá bhfuil Morven?”

  Where is Morven?

  The little dearg-dubh shook his head and tried to wrench away.

  Malachy flashed his fangs, and the child withered like a dandelion, his eyes widening.

  “Thall ansin!” Over there. He pointed at a ragged brown tent standing like a wallflower in a sea of brightly colored debutantes.

  Malachy smiled and tucked a stray lock of hair behind the boy’s ear. He flinched, but his eyes sparkled when the dearg-dubh made a coin appear between his fingertips. He snatched it up and ran off.

  “Fan amach as trioblóid!” Malachy called after him. Stay out of trouble.

  “Póg mo thóin!” the urchin flashed two fingers and sped away.

  I stifled a chuckle and Malachy gave me a dark look before brushing past me.

  “These kids today,” he muttered.

  We wandered to the small tent, and Malachy raised the flap and ushered us inside. We had to stoop to enter, and the smell of incense overpowered me as soon as I stepped through the small opening. I had to blink to make sure I was seeing things correctly. Lined with books, potions, skulls, and carvings, the inside of the tent was the size of a library, much larger than the tiny five-by-five hut would have suggested.

  “What the hell?” I whispered beneath my breath, taking another glance at the canvas flap behind us.

  “Malachy Moray,” a gruff voice called from the back of the structure. “I wondered when you would show your pale face in here again.”

  Standing in the corner with his back turned stood a man in a long red robe, worn and shabby at the hem. His hair, brown and peppered with grey, extended wild and straggly from the crown of his head. He slammed a book shut before turning to us, his fingers wrapped around the cover and holding it against his chest like a shield. He had the shimmering skin and slightly pointed ears of the Tuatha Dé Danann, but his face was a mess of scars and runes mottling his otherwise delicate cheekbones.

  I gave a small gasp, noting the Children of Lir swan tattoo on his hand.

  “Finn,” I whispered. “His hand.”

  Finn nodded in understanding.

  “Druid,” Eamonn breathed. “A Red Druid. I can’t believe it…”

  “Hello, Morven,” Malachy said cheerfully. “Still minding the shop, I see.”

  The pair of them faced each other from across the structure. A fire blazed in a makeshift stove, and a trickle of sweat crawled down my spine from the stifling heat. Morven narrowed his eyes, taking stock of Malachy. The dearg-dubh merely smiled and outstretched his arms in the universal signal of “I’m not packing heat.” Morven snorted and turned, throwing the tome in his hands against his desk with a hard thud. I relaxed and let out a gasp of air, not realizing I had been holding my breath.

  “Yes. I’m still here,” he grumbled, wandering over to the stove and then picking up a teapot. “I imagine you’re up to no good.”

  Malachy laughed. “Oh, Morven. You always assume the worst.”

  The Druid collected a series of primitive cups on the shelf and poured some liquid into each of them. He handed one to Malachy.

  “If Malachy Moray has the audacity to show his face in the Underground, then the situation must be dire indeed. There are many who wouldn’t mind seeing your head on a stick.”

  Malachy sniffed the liquid in his hand and took a sip. He picked up one of the skulls and eyed it like Hamlet. “And you?”

  “I don’t need another worthless dearg-dubh hide for my collection.” Morven glanced in our direction and beckoned to us. “Let’s see the riff-raff you dragged in.”

  Finn, Eamonn, and I edged closer. The Druid handed me a glass but then paused, his fingers still gripping the cup. “Niamh?”

  My blood turned to ice at the sound of my mother’s name. He knew her, and that meant he might know where to find her. My heart pounded, and I rolled words over in my mind, trying to strategize how I might get information out of this strange Druid.

  Malachy sidled up to him. “The likeness is uncanny, isn’t it? This is Elizabeth Tanner, Niamh’s daughter.”

  Morven raised an eyebrow, the puckered scars swirling on his face, tightening painfully. “The lost child,” he whispered, letting go of my tea.

  I sniffed, clutching the cup to my chest. “I’m not a child. I am Elizabeth Tanner the aisling, Princess and heir to Tír na nÓg. We seek the witch Anny Black. Do you know where we could find her?”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” Malachy spluttered into his teacup. “Let’s not get down to business so soon.”

  Morven studied me with his dark eyes, and I rolled my shoulders back a little to meet his gaze. His face cracked into a ghoulish smile, the runes tattooed on the side of his face crinkling. He chuckled and wagged his finger at me.

  “Oh my, you sound like something straight out of Lord of the Rings. ‘We seek the witch Anny Black.’ Did you memorize that speech?”

  Heat bloomed in my face, and my hands tightened around my tea. “You don’t have to be rude,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Morven handed a cup to Finn, who merely frowned at the Druid and puffed out his chest. “The lady asked you a question.”

  “Oh hoh, big Fianna man.” The Druid turned to Malachy and pointed to Finn. “Is he going to arrest me?”

  They both burst out laughing.

  Finn seethed and stepped forward with a menacing frown. Malachy pressed in between the pair of them, patting Finn playfully on the arm.

  “Don’t mind the Fianna. He’s a little protective of Elizabeth.” Malachy’s eyes narrowed on Finn and me. “Settle down,” he hissed. “Both of you.”

  Morven turned to Eamonn with a cup, and the Druid took it gratefully.

  I clutched Malachy’s sleeve and whispered in my ear. “He might know where my mom is. He might—”

  “No one knows where your mother is!” He spat under his breath, wrenching his arm away. A splash of hot tea landed on his palm, slipping past his tattoo.

  “Excuse me,” Eamonn said shyly. “Are you Morven the Faerie Druid? One of the original creators of the Veil?”

  My ears perked up at that, and I leaned toward them.

  Morven merely made a low sound in his throat and folded his robes around him as he sat before a desk and fiddled with a few loose papers.

  Eamonn pressed, his eyes glittering. “You are, aren’t you? You’re a legend! You practically invented the seven septs of—”

  “Yes, yes, and a lot of good it did me,” Morven grumbled, taking a sip of tea.

  Eamonn looked around the shop, his eyes scanning the crumbling books lining the shelves. “Forgive me, but what are you doing here?”

  Morven looked up from his desk and studied Eamonn with a slight sneer. “You’re a Druid, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Well…I was.” Eamonn’s eyes shifted downwards. “I was sort of…exiled.”

  “Then we’re in the same club.” Morven raised his glass in cheers. “Let’s just say that there are some people who would rather I not know the things I know.”

  “Like how the Veil was built?” I stepped forward, questions bubbling on my lips. I only learned so much from
Lorcan, but here sat the man who might be the key to unlocking the mysteries of the Veil to me. Perhaps there were things I didn’t know still, and my mind buzzed with possibilities.

  “I was wondering if you could tell me about the nature of the spell,” I piped up. “What sort of magic went into making the Veil?”

  Morven studied me for a moment and then threw his head back and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I shared a glance at Eamonn, who merely shrugged.

  Morven howled louder, banging his fist on the table so his cup rattled.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Oh, Princess…” He wiped tears from his eyes. “I’ve kept the secrets of the Veil locked away in my head for thousands of years, and you thought…you thought…” He doubled over and guffawed, his shoulders shaking.

  I let out a long frustrated sigh and turned to Malachy. “Are we done here?”

  The dearg-dubh ran his hand through his hair and turned to the Druid. “Do you know where Anny Black is?”

  Morven raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “That old witch hasn’t been seen in years. The cenn fine keeps her very well hidden.”

  “Where can we find the cenn fine?”

  “He’s at the old bath works on Ames Street.” The Druid leaned forward, his chair creaking, his dark eyes boring into me. “But I can’t imagine how well you’ll be received. There’s bad blood between the Tuatha Dé Danann and Torc.”

  Malachy laughed. “Oh, I can handle that old boar. Don’t worry.”

  I glanced at the dearg-dubh, noting the thread of anxiety in his voice. Finn picked up on it, too, and placed a gentle hand on the back of my arm. We needed a better plan. Both of us knew it, but I had no idea what to do next.

  “Would you mind helping us get to the station?” Malachy wandered to the shelves and ran his thumb across the volumes stacked there.

  Morven nodded and shrugged past the dearg-dubh. He pulled a book from the shelf and then another and another, pushing them back and forth. Something clicked behind the wall, and it turned inward like something out of a mystery novel. A narrow tunnel sloped downward into darkness.

  “Seriously?” I said. “Where does this lead?”

  Malachy jumped into the tunnel, his lithe body framing the gaping opening. “To our old headquarters. We should be able to hide out there for the meantime.”

  Morven called up to the dearg-dubh. “Be safe,” he said.

  He clapped Morven on the arm. “Tá mé bréan de sábháilteacht.”I have had enough of safe.

  Malachy waved to us with a dazzling smile before sliding down into the tunnel.

  Finn made a low sound in his throat, and Eamonn jammed his hands in his pockets, his brow knitted beneath his shaggy hair.

  “It’s fine,” Morven said. “It’s an old air vent. It evens out after a while.”

  “That’s not what I’m concerned about,” Finn grumbled, his mouth set in a grim line. He glanced at Eamonn and me. “I’ll go first to make sure it’s safe. You follow right behind me, all right?”

  Finn slipped into darkness, and I gestured to Eamonn. “After you.”

  The Druid took a deep breath and shut his eyes before sliding into the tunnel.

  I was about to dive in when Morven grabbed my arm. He pulled me in close. “You’re in danger here.”

  I wrenched away. “Yeah, no shit.” Placing one foot on the edge of the tunnel, I crouched down, peering into the darkness. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Wait!” Morven called.

  I hesitated.

  He rummaged through his desk and pulled out a pistol dangling from a leather holster. He drew it out of the case and glimmering piping caught the light, tiny glowing gears clicking together in place as Morven held it out to me.

  “Word has it the Fir Bolgs are producing these by the dozens. You’ll need a little more fire power than your abilities to keep yourself safe.”

  I grabbed the pistol, weighing it in my palm. The hard grip hummed with energy, and it made my hands tingle.

  “The genius of it,” Morven said, hovering over me, “is that it takes ordinary bullets, but infuses them with magic in the chamber.”

  “Huh.” I studied the intricate mechanism. “Why are you giving this to me?”

  The Druid’s eyes clouded over. “Your magic is young and you battle a very old foe. Perhaps I cannot teach you what you need to know, but I would betray Niamh’s memory if I did not try to aid you in some way.”

  I weighed the pistol in my palm, turning it over. Dad had given me extensive gun training as a child, and we went on a few hunting trips together. It was maybe his only real way of bonding with me. That, and baseball. Gun safety mattered to him, but the weapon I held in my hand hummed with an unruly power. It probably wouldn’t do much next to an assault rifle or an enchanted tank, for that matter, but something about the feel of it made me uneasy. I pushed it back toward Morven.

  “Thanks, but I don’t need it.”

  His hands closed over mine. “Believe me, Princess. You are going to need all the help you can get.”

  I stared into his dark eyes and saw myself reflected in his pupils. I looked so small, my face a haunted image floating up to the surface of two black pools. I gripped the weapon once more and shoved it into the back of my pants, hiding it beneath my sweater. He was right. The Fir Bolgs had us out-gunned, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a little fire power if I exhausted my powers.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, strapping the holster under my sweater “Oh, hey.” I glanced over my shoulder at the Druid. The light from the fire flickered on his scarred face, casting strange shadows against the planes of his cheekbones.

  “I know you have secrets about the Veil,” I said. “But I have secrets, too. And one day, we’re going to need each other.”

  Collecting his robes, he turned from me and shuffled off into a dark corner of the shop.

  “One day, Princess,” he said. “One day.”

  I nodded and shoved myself off into the darkness, sliding between walls of smooth rock, twisting my body to keep my pistol from scratching against the side. The tunnel sent me careening through space, and my stomach dropped to my knees as I whirled around an impossible bend, grabbing at the sides, unable to gain traction on slick stone. Just as I thought for sure I would land in a splatter of bones and blood, the tunnel evened out, and like the end of a children’s slide, deposited me easily onto a dusty marble floor.

  I let out an involuntary laugh as I stumbled to standing, brushing off the dirt from my jeans. Looking up, I spotted Finn standing over me, his lips in a tight line.

  I punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me that wasn’t fun?”

  A wide smile stretched across his face, and he ran his finger across my cheek. I shuddered against his touch, and he caught my gaze, a hungry look in his gray eyes. I flashed him a knowing stare, humming low in my throat.

  With our hands clasped together, we turned toward Eamonn, who was forming tiny little orbs of light in his hand. He blew them up to the ceiling like bubbles, and they cast a spooky blue glow over the large chamber.

  “What is this place?” I whispered.

  We stood on the platform of an abandoned train station, dark tunnels twisting into darkness in each direction. A curved ceiling lined with smooth glass tile in colors of turquoise and emerald arched above us, and great gilded chandeliers swayed in the drafts, clinking like wind chimes. All around us, broken chairs, discarded blankets, and shattered bottles lay scattered across the mosaic tile. My eyes drifted toward the back, and I let out a gasp. A rounded wooden bar stretched across the wall. In reality it was an old ticket counter, but in my mind’s eye, I saw the Children of Lir milling across the edge, my mother’s face half in shadow.

  I turned to Malachy. “This is it.”

  He nodded, picking up an old book from a pile next to a pillar and then casting it to the floor with a loud thud. “Welcome to headquarters. I haven’t been back
since…” His voice caught in his throat, and he coughed, picking at an invisible piece of lint on his jacket. “We should be safe here. There’s no way we can go back to the motel, not if the Fir Bolgs are after us.”

  “I’ll create a ward, just in case.” Eamonn’s body bristled with energy as he stretched out his arms.

  Malachy stepped toward me and took my hand. I shivered at his cold touch and the gravity in his usually animated face. “There’s something I want to show you.” He let go of my hand and turned to Eamonn. “Druid, could I borrow some light?”

  Eamonn wove an orb into his palm and blew it toward Malachy, who lured it into his hand like an oversized firefly. He led me through a wide entryway and into a foyer, Finn hovering behind on my heels. Raising the light a little, Malachy gestured toward the wall, and I sucked in my breath as an intricate mural took shape before my eyes. The patterns emerged out of the darkness, and the graceful curve of a swan in flight dominated the picture, its black eyes staring up toward the ceiling as its wings stretched into darkness. Finn let go of my hand and pulled me close to him.

  “This was your mother’s work.” Malachy let out a long exhale. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but when I glanced at him, his translucent eyes shimmered.

  “I didn’t know she was a painter.” My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. “There’s so much I never knew about her.”

  I looked back at the wall, my eyes overwhelmed by the shapes and stories Niamh had spun from her paintbrush. She had drawn the various invasions of the Fae, each history folded into the snow-white feathers of the swan in a circular pattern—the Fir Bolgs, the Fomorians, the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Celts. She had also depicted origin stories for the dearg-dubh, the púcas, leprechauns, and other magical races. They all swirled around together, turning in toward the eye of the swan. She had left part of it unfinished, but to the right stood Niamh herself, her hand outstretched to someone who looked a lot like my father. She held another hand aloft, and in her oversized palm lay a tiny baby, a doll figurine really, curled up and fast asleep.

  “Is that supposed to be you?” Finn squeezed my shoulder, noting what had drawn in my gaze.