by M. D. Massey
“You got it, boss.”
“That’s ‘mistress’ to you, loverboy.”
I laughed and kissed her again as we headed for the stairs. Did it bother me that I’d just seen Carver kill himself? Not really—the fact that it didn’t bother me was what really worried me.
15
I called Finnegas on my way back to the junkyard, explaining what had happened. “And you say you couldn’t shift?”
“Nope. I think the Eye did something to my brain, to prevent me from hulking out and going on a killing spree.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, considering how your change has been affecting you lately. Colin, did you remember what you did at Mateo’s party?”
I paused to consider the question. “Not at first, but later it all came back to me.”
“Hmm. Okay, head back to the junkyard and wait for me. I’ll bring what I need to patch you up.”
The painkillers Bells had given me were already wearing off when Finnegas arrived. “Oh, holy lizard shit, this hurts.”
“It’s going to hurt worse before it gets better. Strip down and let me get a look at you.” I did as requested, and Finn whistled. “Well, this hunter was nothing if not thorough. You should be glad that everything is still all in one piece.”
“I was more worried about losing teeth, but now that you mention it…” I covered my junk with my hands out of reflex rather than modesty. “I suppose it’s a good thing Carver wasn’t a complete psycho.”
Finnegas examined my wounds, shaking his head. “None of these wounds are life-threatening, but there are so many of them that I can’t treat them individually.” He dug around in a knapsack he’d brought with him, pulling out a stoppered glass bottle. “Here, drink this.”
Again, I complied. “Tastes like ass, Finnegas.”
“You’d know,” he mumbled as he rooted around inside his bag. “It’ll dull the pain, and help you go deep into a trance so the magic can fully facilitate your healing.”
Finnegas pulled out a stone mortar and pestle, and soon he was grinding various herbs, leaves, and other ingredients into a thick paste.
“That smells like how the potion you gave me tasted.”
“All magic has its costs. In this case, you’ll smell like you’ve been mating with a she-troll for a few days.”
“Great. Alright, let’s get this over with.” I raised my arms out to the side with a groan, and Finnegas started rubbing the paste into my injuries. “Ah, damn it, that burns!”
Finnegas snorted. “Stop being a baby. If you’re going to rush into impossible situations, then you can’t complain about suffering the consequences of your poor judgement.” He rubbed more of the goop into my cuts and burns, taking his time in getting the concoction deep into every wound. Minutes later, he set the mortar down and took a seat. “There, all done. Now, tell me about what happened at Luther’s duel. Leave no detail out.”
I recounted the story as best as I could, and in as much detail as possible. When I finished, Finnegas sat stroking his beard. “And once your memory came back to you, you say you recalled the entire evening, with no blackouts whatsoever?”
“No, none. I remember the whole thing. Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? That means you were in control the entire time.”
“But, how? I mean, that wasn’t me who wanted to kill Luther—was it?”
Finnegas pulled his tobacco pouch out and began rolling a cigarette. “Remember, I was there to witness Cú Chulainn’s trials and travails, and I saw how the ríastrad affected him. When the battle frenzy seized him, it was still Cú Chulainn at the helm—a darker and much more bloodthirsty side of him, but it was him nonetheless. He remembered every murderous act he committed while under the effects of the ríastrad, and it haunted him all his days.”
I took a deep breath, considering the implications. “I guess I wanted to keep believing the beast was separate from me somehow, a different entity inside me—kind of like the Eye, you know?”
Finnegas blew smoke out his nostrils and shook his head. “I used to think so as well, but as your training with the Pack revealed, you have a split in your personality—one that occurred when you accidentally killed Jesse.” Even now, recollections of that horrible night stabbed me right through the heart, and Finn must’ve read it on my face. “Now, now, I know you still blame yourself for that, but you mustn’t. Even in the knowledge that it was you who killed her, and not something inside you.”
“Finnegas, does it really matter if I was in control or not? It was still me who did it, and I’ll never forgive myself for Jesse’s death. Never.”
Finnegas stood up, patting me on the shoulder as he passed by to retrieve his things. “Never is a long time, Colin. Believe me, I should know. It’s no platitude to say that time heals all wounds. Chances are that you’re going to walk this earth a good long time, so trust me—this pain will fade, eventually.”
“And you, Finnegas? Have you forgiven yourself for Jesse’s death?” I said it not as an accusation, but an honest question.
Finnegas sighed heavily, avoiding my eyes as he packed his bag. “No, my boy. It’s much too soon for that.” The old man stood, more slowly than I would have expected. “Now, sit down, cross your legs, and breathe. You’ll be spending the night in a druid trance—it’ll help the medicine do its work, and when you’re injured it’s a much better way for you to regain your strength than sleep.”
I sat cross-legged on the floor, closing my eyes and then opening them again. “Speaking of which, something happened when I was trying to keep Carver’s crew from killing me. I went under, just like you taught me, but I went a hell of a lot deeper this time.”
Finnegas took a puff of his cigarette, burning the cherry down to his fingers. His hands were so weathered and calloused he didn’t even notice. “How so?” he asked with interest.
“Well, I sensed things—not just the elements around me, but plants and animals as well.”
Finn’s eyes widened slightly. “Now, that is interesting,” he said as he stomped his cigarette out on the floor.
“Damn it, Finn, can’t you use an ashtray?” I growled. “An empty beer can? Your pocket? You know, something other than my floor?”
“It’s a concrete floor, so it’s not like I burned an expensive Persian rug. Now, as for your trance—I want you to try to repeat that experience tonight. And remember that you’re supposed to be in meditation, not counting sheep. Report your experiences to me in the morning.”
“Yes, drill sergeant,” I said.
He smirked as he licked and sealed another cigarette, lighting it as he walked out the door. “You should be so lucky. If what you told me is true, well—now the real work begins.”
I did as Finnegas asked, taking myself deep into a druid trance. That is, after I grabbed a towel to sit on, because that floor was damned cold. I stayed in the trance all night, but this time it was much, much different than when I was in the forest waiting to be buried alive by Carver’s goons.
Despite being under duress, back in the forest it was a lot easier to connect with the plant life and animals around me. Here, inside the concrete and metal of the junkyard warehouse, I found it difficult to find something to connect with. Eventually, however, I detected a plethora of life around me, much more than I had ever realized might exist within the confines of the yard.
There were ant colonies underneath the building, mice in the walls, rabbits and birds nesting deep within the stacks, rats everywhere—which kind of grossed me out—and of course, Roscoe and Rufus, guarding the yard as always. Carver had trapped them in another part of the yard when he’d attacked Elmo, which was too bad because they’d have made him regret his trespass.
Just for grins, I made an attempt to touch Roscoe’s mind, but all I did was frighten the poor dog. That in turn caused him to start barking, pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. I decided to experiment and see if I could send the dog a message to calm him down.
&n
bsp; Roscoe! It’s me, Colin. Settle down, already.
I heard a whine and a short “woof,” but rather than sensing distinct thoughts all I got from Roscoe were impressions of his emotions. Maybe dogs were different than rodents—hell, I didn’t know. But what I did know was that Roscoe soon quieted down while sending me feelings of vigilant calm. What was really weird was that, once he figured out that I was communicating empathically, he was completely okay with it. It made me wonder if dogs normally communicated in that manner, just as the Pack did.
I spent the remainder of the night letting my focus and awareness drift around the junkyard. I’d locate an animal, “feel” what it was thinking or doing, observe it for a while, and then move on. After a while I got bored, so I brought my awareness back to my own body and just kind of sat there feeling the mellow.
That’s when I noticed something really weird; it felt as though there was another intelligence inside my room. The presence was just below the level of my conscious awareness, and was too subtle for me to notice normally. But when I was this deep in the druid trance, I was hyper-aware of my surroundings and every life-form present. Still, this wasn’t so much a life-form as an intelligence.
Eye, is that you?
The Eye’s response was different from what I was accustomed to “hearing” inside my head. It was muted, and sounded like it was coming from a great distance.
-No, although I am pleased that you’ve discovered a means for us to communicate when you’re not in your Fomorian form.-
To tell the truth, this is a pleasant surprise for me as well. Okay, so if it’s not you, then what is it?
-My inclination is to state how this should be obvious to you, but I also realize what is obvious to me is not always clear to mortals. The presence you are detecting is your Craneskin Bag. I would advise that you not attempt communication with it, as it is an intelligence that is wholly and completely foreign to the human mind.-
I would’ve said the same about you, Eye. Before I got to know you, that is.
The Eye paused before responding. -I shall take that as a compliment. It is… peculiar for me to experience the companionship of others. However, after all these centuries alone I am coming to enjoy it.-
I’ll take that as a compliment as well. Now, getting back to my Bag—what exactly is it? The intelligence I’m sensing, I mean.
-It is an intelligence only in the vaguest sense of the word. Think of it as a simple AI made completely of magic. It was created for a specific purpose and with very clearly defined directives, in order to serve the MacCumhaill heirs for the length of its existence.-
Okay… so that thing is watching me all the time?
-Yes, and attempting to decipher your intentions as well as anticipate your needs. In the past, when it released magical items of its own accord, it was likely making crude attempts to assist you. But make no mistake—it is a fae artifact, and therefore entirely unpredictable and completely capricious in nature.-
Capricious? Really? But I’ve always found it to be absolutely reliable.
-That’s because the Bag likes you. However, I doubt it has performed so well for each and every one of your forebears, and I’m certain at least a few of those who carried it before you tried to rid themselves of it. Imagine if the Bag decided it didn’t like you, and consider the havoc it could wreak if it was so inclined.-
I considered the Eye’s commentary carefully before responding. Eye, what do you think it would take to make the Bag turn on me?
-Primarily, trying to harm its creator. Or doing something that misaligns with its creator’s wishes.-
Any idea who or what made it?
-Lugh did, of course. Who else could’ve crafted such an item?-
So, don’t piss Lugh off then.
-I would certainly not advise it.-
I conversed with the Eye until it informed me that morning had arrived. Realizing it would be difficult to explain the dried green crap I had all over me, I brought myself out of the trance so I could shower before Ed and the morning shift arrived.
Interestingly, I wasn’t nearly as sore and stiff as I would have expected, considering the state I’d been in the night before. I knew from experience that Finn’s healing draughts and poultices didn’t work that quickly, at least not unless he gave them a boost of his own magic. So, I could only assume it had been the trance that had accelerated my healing.
Oh, I was still beat up alright, but not nearly as bad as I had been. Moreover, I felt completely rested. Better than rested, actually. I felt alive.
Finnegas was waiting for me when I walked out of the warehouse to my outdoor shower. “Trouble. I found this pinned to the front gate with a fae arrow when I arrived this morning.”
He handed me a rolled piece of parchment, made of a thin translucent material that almost felt like leather. I unrolled it, revealing a few lines of unfamiliar script written by hand in intricate calligraphy and scrollwork.
“I can’t read this crap. What does it say?”
Finnegas spat. “It’s a missive from the queen, requesting your presence. Immediately.”
“Maeve?”
“Is there another queen I should be aware of?”
I tsked as I looked the document over. “Only the ones who hang out with Luther,” I stated absently. “She sent for me once already, actually.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame you for not making an appearance.”
“Considering that her messengers tried to kill me, I wasn’t exactly inclined to pay her a visit.” I waved the parchment at him. “You think she’s going to try something?”
Finnegas’ eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t think so. A royal invitation like this one comes with an inherent promise of safe passage. The high fae may be treacherous, but they do have manners.”
“I’ll go armed, just in case,” I said as I handed the parchment back to him.
Finnegas took it, looking it over one more time. “Hmm…”
“What’s up? See something you missed earlier?”
“Yes, this is human skin. See the tattoo? Fae don’t mark their skin in that manner.” He held up the parchment to give me a better look at the markings.
“Shit, I recognize that tattoo—Carver had one just like it. Damn it, they’ve been tracking my movements… or someone’s been tipping them off.”
Finnegas chuckled. “Surprised?”
I rubbed my face, exhaling heavily. “I guess I shouldn’t be. Maeve’s assassin squad sure knew how to find me quickly when they jumped me outside of Rocko’s club.”
“She sent assassins to deliver a message to you?” Finnegas sat down on a nearby bumper, reaching for his tobacco pouch. “Between that and the material she chose for this invitation, I’d say she’s sending you a very clear message.”
“Which is?”
Finnegas finished rolling his cigarette, lighting up and taking a long pull before answering. “You’re not going to see her alone.”
“Fine, I’ll take Belladonna.”
He spat a fleck of tobacco and shook his head. “No, she’s out of her depth with Maeve. Besides, I’d say there’s more than a little jealousy brewing between those two, considering how possessive they both are of you.”
I snorted. “Oh, come on, Finn. Seriously?”
He pointed a finger at me as he blew smoke from his nostrils. “That’s why the stunt you pulled with the Treasures wounded her so deeply. I think she actually cares about you, and frankly that scares the shit out of me. You think hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned? Tell that to someone who spurned the attentions of a faery queen.”
“Finn, you’re kind of grossing me out. I mean, she’s like my grandmother or something. Not that she’s not hotter than a two-dollar pistol, but damn—that’s pretty much incest. No thanks.”
The old man flicked me on the forehead with his fingers, making a loud thunk. “Think, Colin! She’s not romantically interested in you—at least I don’t think she is, although fae see acts of incest muc
h differently than humans. No, I believe she has taken an interest in you because you remind her of Oisín.”
“Oh, damn.”
Finnegas stabbed his cigarette at me. “Exactly. When that idiot decided to go to Underhill with Niamh I told him not to do it, because I knew he’d miss his home eventually. And that would mean spurning her—or, at least, that’s how she would’ve interpreted it.”
I raised my hand. “Wait a minute—you knew Maeve was Niamh?”
“Of course I did. Now, stop interrupting me. Where was I? Ah yes, Niamh and Oisín.” He took a drag on his coffin nail and blew it out the side of his mouth. “Let me ask you a question—do you think the steed she gave Oisín was a gift, or merely a device to ensure he returned to Underhill?”
“I don’t know. I just figured it was to prevent him from staying here on Earth.”
Finnegas tsked. “The opposite, actually. That horse was a trap. Even though Oisín fully intended to visit his family and then go back to her, Niamh couldn’t stand the thought that he loved his family as much or more than her. That’s why she sliced the horse’s girth before gifting it to Oisín.”
“Damn, that’s cold.”
“Colin, I’ve told you time and again, the fae don’t think like us. Everything with them is about power and lording it over others. Maeve might care about you, but that’s only because she wants to possess you. No, you absolutely cannot visit her alone.”
I scratched at one of my wounds. The poultice Finnegas had applied was starting to itch. “Alright, fine. I won’t go alone. But who should I take?”
“Me, that’s who. It’s time I reminded that faery queen why the fae have reason to fear druidkind.”
16
When we pulled up to Maeve’s mansion in the work truck, Finnegas placed a hand on my arm. “Listen, I know The Dagda gave you something in Underhill.”
“You mean the—”
Finnegas clapped his hand over my mouth. “Ssh! I only bring it up to tell you that you should never speak of it or reveal it to anyone. I’ll not say more on the matter, except that you should never gift or barter it away, nor reveal where you keep it hidden.”