by Megan Chance
And not to fate.
Patrick was just finishing dinner—alone, because he was in no mood for company—when Daire Donn arrived.
“The sidhe are good for something, it seems,” he said, striding into the room with a victorious smile. “Our men came upon three of them near the waterfront in Brooklyn. They were talking of a Fianna warrior who’s training a gang in a tenement there. The Dun Rats.”
“And?” Patrick asked.
“The Dun Rats are known to be allied with Finn’s Warriors. The sidhe were also buzzing about a girl with power.”
“Grace,” he breathed.
Daire Donn nodded. “Yes, my friend. We know where they are.”
That evening
Diarmid
It’s getting late. We should go back.”
Grace nodded. After that, she didn’t say anything at all, and frankly Diarmid was relieved. The beach had lost its appeal. The day seemed distant already, like a dream he couldn’t quite remember—leaving behind only his damp trousers, the itch of sand, and saltwater against his skin.
The sun was dipping toward the horizon as they went to the depot. Mostly families waited there—the roughs lingered on the beach, drinking and carousing until the last train and the last steamer, and so he and Grace didn’t have to fight for a seat.
She sat silently beside him, but he heard what she was thinking as if she shouted it: Don’t touch me. I don’t trust you. You’re lying to me.
He was suddenly so tired he didn’t think he could move. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep during the journey, but he stayed vigilant as always. They passed nothing more threatening than a lowing cow. By the time the cars pulled into Brooklyn, dusk had fallen. No one bothered them as they walked to the tenement. Bridget was sewing at the table, while the boys and Molly played cards and Sara played with a train made of spools. The room was sweltering.
Bridget raised an eyebrow as they came inside, obviously seeing the tension between them. Diarmid was too exhausted to care. Let her think they’d quarreled—they had. “Long day, eh?” she asked.
“Yes,” Grace answered, the only thing she’d said in more than an hour. Diarmid threw himself into the only empty chair, slouching until he could lean his head against the rickety spindle back, closing his eyes.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he told her.
“I won’t.” She sounded sad. He told himself he didn’t care. She’d rejected him—again—and it hurt, no matter that he knew he deserved it. He tried to remember if a girl other than Grace had ever told him no. Never. Not once, whether he’d used the lovespot or not.
Finn’s orders circled in his head: Use the ball seirce. Make her fall in love with you. Diarmid was tired of calling himself a fool. Tired of being one. He’d made a mistake and fallen in love with her. He should never have allowed himself to ignore the geis. All he could hope now was that he could convince her to choose the Fianna. Then, Finn might forgive him for not using the ball seirce, because Diarmid wouldn’t now. It was the time to do it—she was clearly never going to feel for him what he had hoped she would—but he knew himself well enough to know that if he used it, it would only make things worse. He wanted her too badly. If she made a single move toward him, he would be more helplessly in love than ever.
He had to protect himself and his brothers. They were his life, and he meant to keep it that way. He had to be able to kill her. He couldn’t count on an archdruid or anyone else to change things, no matter how much he hoped. Which meant that he had to somehow make himself stop loving her—was that even possible? She’d given him the chance to try. No talk of love. No kissing. No touching.
But he didn’t want to try tonight. Tonight he was tired of everything.
He fell into a restless sleep where he dreamed about her. Part of his mind heard the talk in the room, the children laughing—and yet, he wandered into a dream at the same time, the dream he’d had once before: kissing her, and then screaming and a knife flashing. He jerked awake so abruptly he nearly fell out of the chair as Miles rushed into the room, breathless and wild-eyed.
“They’re here,” he said to Diarmid. “You and Grace got to go!”
Diarmid was immediately alert. “Who’s here?”
“You got to go now. The police—”
“The police?” Bridget looked horrified.
Diarmid heard a commotion below.
“They’re looking for you and Gracie. They know you’re here. Get out!”
Diarmid sprang to his feet. Grace sat on the floor beside Sara, and he was there in two strides, grabbing her arm. “The fire escape,” he said tersely.
Miles slammed shut the door of the flat and braced himself against it. Bridget said to him, “You go with them. Show them where to hide. I’ll take care of the police.”
Shouts came from the stairs, and blows—the Dun Rats trying to slow the police. Diarmid half pushed Grace out the window onto the metal platform and leaped out himself, jerking loose the ladder, which crashed and squealed as he lowered it. Miles was just behind them.
“Go down,” Diarmid told Grace. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She looked back, and he knew what she was thinking. The police. The Fenian Brotherhood. Patrick.
Fiercely, he whispered, “You promised. You promised to stay.”
Her gaze grew distant for a moment, as if she were listening to something far away.
Miles shouted, “Hurry!”
Grace came to herself and started down. Diarmid went after her, their combined weight making the flimsy metal shake. When she was on the ground, he jumped the last few feet. Miles scurried after.
Someone shouted, and Diarmid saw police coming around the corner with a group of Fomorian warriors.
“Stop!” a policeman shouted. “We’ve got you surrounded!”
“No he don’t,” Miles muttered, dodging the other way, toward the cesspool. “This way!”
Diarmid yanked Grace after him as he followed Miles. They skirted the cesspool and the leaning privies and ran to an alley between two tenements. Miles plunged into it. The alley was very narrow, less than a foot and a half wide, so they couldn’t really run, but then they were through and on the next street over. He heard shouts and thudding footsteps—too close. Grace stumbled—the skirts and corset were impossible. Her breathing was ragged. He ordered, “Don’t you dare slow down.”
Miles dodged into another mazelike corridor. Where he was taking them, Diarmid had no idea, but there was no time for questions. Night was coming on now; they ran past two lamplighters so quickly and close the men had to leap to avoid them.
But they couldn’t get enough of a lead to hide in the growing shadows. Grace was having trouble keeping up, but Miles didn’t slow and neither did Diarmid. He only tightened his hold. Finally, she jerked back, trying to free herself, panting. “Diarmid . . . I can’t . . .”
More shouts behind them. Miles called, “Come on! Hurry!”
“Leave me,” she gasped. “They . . . won’t . . . hurt me.”
He said, “Get on my back,” and bent to take her piggyback. One moment of hesitation and then she did as he asked, and when he had a tight grip, he ran again.
The warriors were gaining; Diarmid was slower now, carrying her. Her arms clutched around his throat. The ogham stick in his pocket jabbed into his thigh. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.
He’d been known for his speed, and it didn’t fail him now, even carrying Grace, but the Fomori met every turn and twist, dodged through every narrow passageway. They were always just close enough that there was nothing to do but run.
They careened around a corner. The waterfront was before them. Miles dashed down a dock. It was nearly dark. All Diarmid could see was the looming shadow of an old oyster sloop at the end. Miles raced up to it, sliding to a stop when a man stepped out of the gloom holding a pistol.
The man put up his pistol and launched into action. He called over his shoulder, “Let’s take ’er out, boys!” Suddenly, the dock swarmed with young men unmooring the boat. River pirates.
He reached to loosen Grace’s choking hold, and she protested, “Diarmid—”
“Get on board!” Miles cried.
“We’ll fight ’em off, lad,” the man with the pistol promised. “We welcome it.”
Diarmid hated boats and the water, but he could see no other way. The river pirates formed a wall protecting him and Grace from the approaching Fomorians. He heard the hiss of blades drawn from belts and scabbards. A boy on board the sloop yelled, “Come on!”
Diarmid raced up the gangplank, which was lifted the very next moment.
Again, Grace said anxiously, “Diarmid, no—”
“We’ve no choice.” The boat was moving already. The clash on the pier was loud, the grappling boys turning to shadow in the darkening twilight. Fomorian warriors, river pirates, and Miles. The police shouted, “Stop that boat! We order you to stop!”
But the sloop kept on. Diarmid let go of Grace. She slid down his back, gaining her feet. Her fingers bit into his arm; her face was very white. “Diarmid, they’re glowing.”
He stared blankly at her, his blood still pounding, dizzy at their near escape.
“They’re fairies,” she said.
He looked at the boys on the deck and saw what he should have seen before. Their pale skin in the darkness. The way they watched her as they readied the boat to sail. Their beauty.
The sails raised, catching the wind as the boat raced into the channel. They were trapped with the children of the sidhe. There was no escape.
The next moment
Grace
No,” Diarmid said softly. He raced to the railing, gripping it, staring off toward shore and the fight across the water. “No, no.”
We were moving quickly; within minutes I could no longer hear the fight and the shore became just twinkling lights, the sails huffing in a steady wind that breathed the yearning of the sidhe—that seductive song I had to struggle to resist. Touch us. Let us kiss you and hold you. We will give you everything.
I wished I had fallen or hung back. That I hadn’t heard Aidan’s voice in my head—the voice from my dreams—saying, Stay. You need him, that had made me keep the promise I’d made Diarmid. I wished I was with the police, on my way back to my family, instead of standing here fighting the sidhe’s yearning, and Diarmid’s—
And my own.
It had been bad enough before he’d told me he loved me. I hated how much I wanted to believe him. I hated that I must remind myself every second that he was a liar. But what if he’s not lying? What if it were true? What would it change?
I didn’t know. I loved him, and I was afraid of what I might do because of it. I was already on the verge of not caring that it wasn’t real. His kiss made me forget it entirely.
But my family needed me. They were depending on me. Patrick needed me. I had to go back. I had another life to live.
Assuming I could live it.
Yet . . . I couldn’t help anyone without the archdruid, and to find him, I needed Diarmid. The faint silver glow from the sidhe sailors working the sloop brightened the night. A fey boy stood beside me, watching me with greedy eyes as he coiled a heavy rope, and I remembered what Miles had asked for. Battle Annie and sanctuary.
I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, “Take me to Battle Annie.”
The boy said, “Oh, you’ll see her soon enough.”
“We’ve asked for sanctuary.”
“And you have it.” Tentatively, he reached out—
“Touch her and you’ll be missing a hand,” Diarmid snapped, striding over from the rail.
The boy drew back, glaring at Diarmid. “What a great warrior you are. You are on our property now. You have no say in this.”
“Maybe not. But you’ll still be missing a hand.”
I touched Diarmid’s arm. He stiffened, but went silent, and I said to the sidhe boy, “We would see Battle Annie now.”
He glanced at Diarmid, and then back to me. “This way.”
He led us across the deck. I felt the hunger of those we passed, pressing, almost unbearable. The boy took us to a slightly raised cabin at the center of the boat, down a short flight of stairs, into a hallway that glowed even with no lamp. The hall opened into a room with a low, bowed ceiling and trapdoors set in the floor opening to the hold. Stacked hammocks swung from a double row of beams on either side; some of them held sleeping boys. They woke as we passed, raising their heads to watch, their shining gazes glued to me, their hunger like a fine mist stinging my skin.
At the far end, the boy stopped and knocked on a door. “Our guests request a word, milady.”
From the other side of the door, I heard a woman’s laughter. “Send them in.”
The boy stood back to let us enter. I had to stoop to keep from hitting my head. Diarmid had to bend nearly from the waist. We’d no sooner stepped inside than the door slammed shut behind us with a hard, grinding click.
The room was bigger than I expected. It ran the entire width of the sloop. There was a bed, a table covered with rolled charts, a stool, and an open trunk exploding with clothing. In the middle was a desk. A woman stood behind it, with two boys flanking her.
“Well, well,” she said. She, too, was haloed with a pulsing silver glow, brighter than the others. She wore trousers and a shirt with the sleeves cut off. She was tall and her arms were as muscled as a man’s; she looked stronger than any woman I’d ever seen. Her black hair was looped in braids, some of which had been tied in knots while some dripped down her back. She had tied feathers into them. Her sloe eyes were bright blue, and her skin was pale and marked with ink—a double stripe on her left cheekbone, and crossed swords on her shoulder. She wore huge golden hoop earrings—three in each ear—and at least ten necklaces, beads and chains and shells. Shoved in her belt were three daggers and a club. There was a pistol on the table, along with a flagon of wine and a cup.
“’Tisn’t often I host one of the Fianna. And the veleda too. Quite a day. Quite a day.” She smiled at Diarmid—a terrifying smile that revealed two front teeth filed to points. She jerked her head to the two boys standing behind her. “Disarm him.”
They were on either side of Diarmid before I had time to draw a breath. He lifted his arms, but didn’t fight them as they patted him down, removing a dagger from his belt, another from his boot. One of them pulled the ogham stick from his pocket.
“No, you can’t—” I began.
Diarmid gave me a quick shake of his head.
The boy put the stick on the table before Battle Annie, who picked it up, turning it in her hands. It didn’t seem to burn her any more than it had Diarmid. She spat, “Druid words. What does it say?”
Diarmid said, “Nothing. ’Tisn’t a spell.”
“Not a spell? What do you take me for? Why would you have it if it means nothing?”
“We got it from a Druid at Coney Island. Your folk had already ruined him.” Diarmid’s voice rang with disgust.
“Deirdre sent us there,” I said. “She thought he might know of an archdruid. There’s one in the city and we need to find him.”
Battle Annie’s blue gaze settled on me. “Why?”
Diarmid tensed. I wondered what was safe to tell her, but in the end my need to find the archdruid was too great. “I need him. For the prophecy.”
Battle Annie stepped around the table, still holding the ogham stick, and sauntered over to me. I smelled her sweat and her perfume—ylang-ylang and sandalwood. I felt her hunger for my power as an itching in my fingers and in my blood. I saw it in her blue eyes and hea
rd her singing in my head: Let me. Let me touch you.
She shoved the ogham stick at me. “What do the words say?”
I didn’t take it. “I can’t read ogham.”
“You’re a Druid priestess. Tell me what it says!”
“I told you I can’t read it.”
She shoved the stick into my stays. Even through the layers of whalebone and cotton, the stick burned, radiating, hotter and hotter. I stepped back, shoving her away without thinking. “Don’t touch me with it!”
Her gaze narrowed. “It burns you.”
Diarmid broke in. “It says nothing. ’Tis a prophecy, but one neither of us understands.”
She looked at him. “Ah yes, I’d forgotten. You can read it.”
“It means nothing.”
“Do you think me a fool, Diarmid Ua Duibhne? If it’s meaningless, why does it burn her? Why does she protest when it’s taken away?” Battle Annie threw the ogham stick to the table, where it skittered nearly to the edge. “What does the stick say, lad? Who knows—perhaps my boys and I can help.”
Diarmid didn’t answer.
Help. That was all I heard. Perhaps they could help, just as my grandmother had said. “It says something about the sea being a knife—”
“Grace,” Diarmid warned.
“—and things being broken. To harm and to protect become as one, and everything is in pieces.”
“Grace.”
“Perhaps she knows what it means,” I hissed. I turned to Battle Annie. “The man who gave it to us said it needs a key. But we don’t know what that is, or what the stick would tell us if we found it. I hoped it had something to do with the archdruid.”
Battle Annie was thoughtful. “You are not what I expected, veleda.”
“If you help me, I’m willing to bargain.”
“No,” Diarmid said. “No more bargains.”
“I have to find him.”
He ignored me and said to Battle Annie, “We’ve asked for sanctuary. Safe passage out of Manhattan and Brooklyn. In return, I can offer the thanks and loyalty of the Fianna.”