by Megan Chance
But it was the intensity of an apprentice trying to concentrate on something new. He wasn’t aware of what was around him. Patrick muttered, “Watch yourself, Aidan.” He saw Aidan frown, looking about, and he knew that Aidan had somehow heard him and was looking for him.
Patrick told Bres, “Don’t hurt him. I don’t want Aidan hurt.”
“We’re not likely to harm a stormcaster. Not when we need him ourselves.” Bres gestured at Miogach, who stood a few feet away, surrounded by gang boys—some of the groups that hated the Fianna had joined with them. Miogach pulled one aside, murmuring something, and the boy shoved through the crowd toward Aidan. A guard, Patrick thought with relief.
Patrick felt Aidan’s power grow. He couldn’t take his eyes from his old friend, who moved as if he were in a dream, raising his arms, his hair whipping around his head like writhing snakes.
The back of Patrick’s neck prickled. The smell of smoke dizzied him, though he couldn’t see any smoke at all. He saw the police trap Ossian; Finn and Goll surged toward them.
The skies opened up.
Patrick was soaked through. Those who were there only to watch the fight rushed to escape the rain. Aidan raised his face to the heavens, and the gang boy that Miogach had sent drew a dagger. Just to protect him, Patrick told himself. Aidan wasn’t to be hurt. But the boy advanced toward Aidan, and there was something in his face—
“No!” The thunder drowned out Patrick’s warning. He plunged into the crowd toward Aidan, brushing off Bres’s restraining hand. Behind him, Bres called for the guards to follow, but Patrick was already pushing through the crowd. Aidan frowned in concentration as he directed lightning that forked and split into a dozen different fingers, not noticing the gang boy intently moving toward him.
“Aidan! Watch out!” Patrick shouted. He tried to get through; the crowd blocked him. The boy had reached Aidan. Patrick gasped as someone elbowed him in the ribs. “No! Stop that boy! Stop him!”
The crowd cleared as the boy raised his knife. “Aidan!” Patrick ran toward him. “Aidan! Look out!”
Aidan spun around. Lightning flashed from his fingertips, catching the boy and flinging him through the air. The boy slammed into Patrick. They crashed to the ground, the boy heavy on top of him. Someone screamed. Someone else shouted, “’e’s dead!”
Patrick scrambled and rolled, throwing off the body. The boy was dead; there was no doubt. Patrick wiped rain from his eyes, looking for Aidan, but he had disappeared into the mob. The street was mud. The thud of clubs and shouting filled his ears. People shoved to get away, others to get closer; everyone was fighting. Patrick struggled to his feet. Balor stomped through the teeming mass, tossing boys aside with a single thrust of his mighty hands. Two police went down, one beneath Oscar’s dagger and another under Finn’s fist.
Balor snarled, “Now!” and police streamed into the crowd, forming a line, separating the Fianna’s makeshift gang militia from their leaders. Thunder roared. Ravens dove among the police, frenzied.
Finn and Oscar and Ossian turned to face the police and Balor, knives drawn. Finn called, “Stormcaster!”
Aidan stepped from the crowd, spreading his hands wide. Lightning ricocheted off the street, forming a pulsing electric barrier between the police and the Fianna. The police staggered back.
But Balor walked into the lightning. It spun and chased over his skin. People gasped and screamed. He kept going. Aidan redoubled his efforts, the lightning growing brighter, stronger, faster. Still the giant didn’t stop.
“Now!” Finn shouted. He and the others raced forward, daggers flashing, clubs raised.
The crowd surged in front of Patrick. He couldn’t see. He could only hear shouts and screams, thunder and the cries of ravens.
There was a crash and the earth beneath his feet shuddered. Cracks shattered the ragged cobblestones. There was more screaming, and gunshots joined the cacophony. When Patrick finally managed to push through the crowd, only Balor remained, standing over a great pothole in the street. The Fianna were gone; the gang boys had scattered.
Aidan was gone too. Gone and safe.
Suddenly, Bres was beside Patrick. “That was foolhardy of you, Devlin.”
Patrick heard the anger in Bres’s voice, and when he turned to look at the Fomori king, Bres’s eyes were cold, and Patrick saw that, whatever Bres had said, the Fomori had wanted Aidan dead.
“You hadn’t seen the stormcaster before today,” Bres said. “Is that right?”
Patrick’s own anger exploded. Rain slashed over his face, falling into his mouth as he spat, “I said I didn’t want him hurt. You told me he wouldn’t be. Aidan is Grace’s brother. If something happened to him, whoever was responsible . . . she would remember it when it came time to make her choice.”
“Ah. And is that the only reason you wish him kept safe? The veleda’s love for him?”
The sun burst through the clouds, too bright, glaring over the cobblestones. The police shoved people about, shouting, “Go home! Go home unless you want to be arrested! Fight’s over!”
The uncertainty that had dogged Patrick returned, the sense that things weren’t as they should be. “Isn’t that enough reason? Besides, Aidan’s an old friend.”
“We all have old friends who have become our enemies,” Bres said. “Your loyalty to him is admirable, but I wonder—is he as loyal to you? He is not on our side—he would harm you if he could.”
“So it was me that Miogach was worried about?”
“You left your guards behind. The stormcaster was too close. He would have killed you. Remember what we fight for—old associations, old loyalties . . . sometimes they must be put aside for the greater good.”
Patrick had to remind himself that the Fomori—his allies—knew nothing of the vow that he and Aidan had just made to each other. Of course they’d thought he was in danger. Why wouldn’t they? He should not be so suspicious. He had no reason, only old stories that he knew could not be true.
Bres said, “The boy is lethal. He has more power than we thought. Or he’s been trained since we saw him last.”
“I thought training needed an archdruid.”
“Yes,” Bres said.
“You mean the Fianna have found him?”
“I don’t know.” Bres’s glance skipped past Patrick. “Ah. Well. I imagine we’ll soon find out.” He smiled in triumph. Patrick followed Bres’s gaze.
Fomori warriors emerged from the alley. They had someone with them, a young man whose white-blond hair dripped into his eyes as he struggled in their grip.
Oscar.
That same day
Diarmid
Diarmid woke to find he was holding Grace so tightly his arm had gone numb.
He’d known how difficult it would be to resist her once she saw the lovespot, but he hadn’t had enough imagination to foresee the torment it actually was.
He wished he were in the city, with Oscar and the others, fighting police and the Fomori and other gangs, battle lust and anger firing his blood instead of this ceaseless, relentless wanting. Though he knew that if he were there, he would only be wishing for her.
Some god somewhere was laughing at him. Probably Aengus Og. Certainly Aengus.
Gently, Diarmid disentangled himself. Grace made a little murmur, but she didn’t wake until he’d pulled completely away. She opened her eyes sleepily and smiled; he wondered what it would be like to wake to that smile every morning. In the days they’d spent together, Grace had never before given him that soft, welcoming look.
It was only the lovespell.
He looked away, hearing the roughness in his voice when he said, “Battle Annie told you something on this island would help us find the archdruid?”
Grace stared at him blankly. “Oh. Yes.”
“And she gave you no idea what or where?”
“No. But
it’s a small island.”
“Too small. Especially with a hundred or so troops about.” He rose. “Well, I suppose I’ll start looking. I don’t know when Finn will send for us, assuming Battle Annie tells him where we are. We may not have much time.”
She scrambled up. “I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“She said it was for me to find.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“You sound like Patrick now. You said yourself that this is my quest. I have more at stake than anyone.”
Not quite true, but he let it be. He supposed if she were with him, he wouldn’t worry about her being alone in the storehouse. So, despite his best intentions, he nodded. “All right. We should get started.”
She opened the leather bag and took out two of the apples and what he knew were the last rolls. It would be good to find some food on this expedition, so he took the bag with its remaining apples and tied it to his belt to carry whatever they found. He shoved the door back into place as they left, pulling the vines to half cover it again.
He led the way down the clay scarp to the beach. Castle Williams, at the other end of the island, was barely used, an armory only; people came to the island to sightsee all the time, so he doubted he and Grace would be noticed. The tide was out, and it wasn’t difficult to wend their way to the grassy slope near the fort. Diarmid heard the shouts and laughter of children. Boys and girls raced up and down the hill from Fort Jay.
“The orphan picnics,” Grace said.
“Orphan picnics?”
“The city sends groups of them here through the summer so they can play in the fresh air.”
“The city does that?” It seemed at odds with cutting off aid to the poor, the lack of jobs, and the increasing police brutality. The city had done everything it could to make life worse for those who had nothing; this little kindness was hard to believe. Diarmid was immediately suspicious. “Why?”
“I don’t know. They always have.”
Diarmid thought of Finn marshaling gangs into a militia, bending the anger and despair of the poor to his purposes. Now he watched the children racing up those hills, and he wondered if perhaps there was more to the story.
In any case, the children were a good shield. There were adults with them, along with a few older children wandering about the beach, and he and Grace looked as if they belonged with them.
Grace said, “I wish I knew what we were looking for.”
Diarmid tried to remember what he knew of the island. He hadn’t been the one to scout it—that had been Keenan. There was Castle Williams, of course, plus Fort Jay and the barracks, a few officers’ houses that were mostly empty, and the parade grounds where the military band practiced. No shops, restaurants, or other types of entertainment. What exactly had Battle Annie thought they would find?
Diarmid led the way toward the round, red sandstone walls of Castle Williams. Children dashed about, shouting as they played hide-and-seek. A soldier guarded the entrance, keeping people out. Not that Diarmid expected there would be anything inside to find.
Grace glanced up the steep slope that led to Fort Jay. “Are we going up there?”
“There’s nothing else but that.” Diarmid began to climb. The apples in the leather bag thudded against his thigh. Children dodged past them, squealing and laughing—at one point he had to back up sharply to avoid a small boy barreling into him, and Grace grabbed Diarmid’s arm to steady him. He jerked away—too hard—and saw the hurt in her eyes.
They were near the top when the music from the military band began. Groups of children gathered around the parade grounds, watching in awe. Beyond were the walls and peaked roofs of Fort Jay.
Diarmid paused. The walls of the fort were too high and smooth to climb. There were no trees. The second-story windows of the buildings gave a far-reaching view. There might be only a small military presence on the island, but they were all gathered here, and he didn’t relish the thought of taking on a hundred soldiers—and for what? He and Grace didn’t even know what they were looking for. They didn’t know if Fort Jay held any clue at all. They had only the word of Battle Annie, whom he didn’t trust.
“How are we to get in there?” Grace asked in a low voice behind him.
“We can’t. At least not now. Maybe tonight.”
“We wouldn’t get to the wall without someone seeing us.”
The band began playing “Yankee Doodle.” It was an obvious favorite of the children, who clapped and cheered. One or two threw themselves into a dance.
Diarmid asked, “Are you sure Battle Annie said there was something to find here?”
“Yes. Something I would need, she said.” Grace’s forehead furrowed as she thought. “What could soldiers have to do with an archdruid?”
He’d been wondering that himself.
“I don’t think they sit around reading tarot cards,” she said.
“Maybe there’s a Seer among them. It doesn’t have to be cards. It could be . . . entrails or smoke. Or watching the patterns of birds.”
“Entrails?” she said skeptically. “Bird watchers?”
“You never know.”
“What if there’s nothing here at all? What if Annie was only playing games?”
“You thought she was telling the truth,” he reminded her. “You told me I was wrong to doubt it.”
“But maybe I’m the one who’s wrong. Everything feels so . . . uncertain. Perhaps I shouldn’t have trusted her. We should be in the city. How will we ever find the archdruid from here? This is pointless and stupid and—”
“Grace,” he said quietly. “Despair is our enemy. I’ve seen men so afraid of dying that they just stop fighting, and so they make their death true when it didn’t have to be. You can’t give up hope. I won’t, and I won’t let you.”
She caught his gaze. The connection leaped between them, and his heart sped.
A crack split the air. Grace looked up. “Was that thunder?”
The sky was cloudless. There was a faint breeze coming off the bay, and none of the suffocating heaviness that usually came with heat lightning.
Another rumble, louder this time. The military band kept playing, but some of the men looked nervously at the sky. One or two of the younger children ran to a stern-looking man and woman.
Then the sky darkened, clouds appearing suddenly, in a way Diarmid recognized. The children began to shriek. The woman called, “Come, children, hurry now!”
The military band trailed off.
In the distance, Diarmid saw a flash of purple lightning above the buildings of Manhattan.
Grace said, “Aidan.”
Yes, Aidan. A Druid storm, and no doubt a fight. Diarmid thought of his brothers, and a battle he should be in, instead of standing on a hill on Governors Island, helpless. The clouds boiled; the wind picked up.
Lightning scored the sky. Thunder crashed so loudly that Diarmid winced. Then the rain began, icy cold and relentless. Trust Aidan not to conjure a warm rain. Children raced off, trying to escape the deluge. The military band hurried awkwardly back to the safety of Fort Jay, a tuba jerking and slipping, the drummer struggling to keep the strap on his shoulders.
Diarmid motioned for Grace to follow him down the hill as he searched for some kind of shelter. But there was no safety outside the circular walls of Castle Williams, not a single overhang. He made for the trees farther down the beach, back toward the storehouse. The rain pelted hard, pitting the surface of the water, stinging his eyes. He heard Grace stumbling over the wet stones behind him in her thin, smooth-soled boots. By the time they reached a solitary tree arching over the shore, they were both drenched.
He fell against the trunk, huddling in the scant shelter of the leaves. The foliage wasn’t thick enough to protect them. Grace’s hair hung lank, her dark lashes spiky with rain.
“God forbid Aidan should ever do anything that doesn’t affect me as well.” Her face was pale with chill, her lips colorless. “I’m freezing.” He fought the urge to take her into his arms.
The clouds showed no sign of parting. Thunder still roared. The fight must be fierce. Finn wouldn’t have asked Aidan to cast such a storm for just a gang fight.
“It’s not stopping.” Grace shuddered. “What does it mean that he isn’t stopping?”
“They’re fighting the Fomori.”
“How you must wish you were there instead of with me.”
Deliberately, he said, “Aye.” It was to save himself, but when he saw the hurt in her eyes again, he hated himself for it. “Grace . . . it’s not so easy. You know that.”
“Yes, I know.”
The sky was blacker than ever. “Who knows how long this will last? D’you want to try to make it back to the storehouse?” he asked.
“I want to get out of this rain.”
He set out. She slipped before they had gone three steps, and he reached back and took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers, which were cold and wet, but the heat that fired told him even that was a mistake. The clay was greasy and slippery. He pulled her with him, because those boots of hers were impossible, and she fell against him more than once. When they reached the storehouse, they were muddy and bedraggled, and yet he was burning even as he was freezing.
Grace stood in the middle of the floor, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. The heavy fabric of her dress dripped into a puddle at her feet. Rivulets ran from her hair over her shoulders. Her skin looked blue.
He knew she needed to get warm and dry. He didn’t like where that thought led him. Reluctantly, he cleared his throat and said, “You should take off your gown.”
Her pause was so loud it seemed to echo. “You’re always asking me to undress.”
“’Tis for your own comfort. You’d dry off faster and be warmer, too, without all that wet. Just to your shift. I’ll keep to this side. I won’t come near.”