by R. F. Long
Rowan’s limbs ached, her legs growing heavier as she pressed on. Her chest now felt as if something was wedged inside it, slowly prising her ribs apart. Still, she kept running, though the world was growing misty and indistinct through her eyes, though her feet started to stumble over each other.
Just when she thought her legs would melt away, or tangle together and send her thudding to the unyielding ground, she broke free of the forest. Up ahead, her cottage stood in silhouette beneath the orange-and-pink stained sky. The path had never seemed so long, but from deep inside the most primal part of her body she found the strength for a final sprint. She threw herself at the door with a grunt, aware that Matt tried to lean against the wall beside her, but just slid to the ground, his chest heaving for air. Rowan fumbled in her pocket for her keys and fell inside as she flung open the door.
The maelstrom of the Sluagh spilled from the tree line, scaling the fence and pouring through the broken section like a black wave of oil. They stampeded across the open ground. Rowan pulled Matt inside and slammed the door, the iron latch snapping neatly into place. She turned the key and stepped back, staring at the wood, praying for it to hold.
The Sluagh hit the wall and door with a crash like a roll of thunder directly overhead. Glass from the kitchen windows exploded inwards, showering them both. Even the iron lattice caved in for just a moment before springing back and holding. Rowan breathed hard, staring at it, willing it to hold firm.
“What are we going to do?” Matthew asked, his eyes wide.
“Stay inside,” she said. “And make sure they can’t get in. Then wait for morning.” She backed up to the range, digging out the matches. She fumbled as she tried to strike a light, cursing under her breath. Opening the metal door, she lit the range and stuffed the matchbox into her pocket. She picked up the poker, a long piece of beautifully wrought iron, heavy, pointed.
Iron. Iron works. That was what she had told Matthew, right before he—
Matthew started towards her but she swung around, holding the poker like a weapon, her arm quivering but unfailing.
“Rowan?” He looked both surprised and indignant.
“I need to know she can’t get at me through you, Matt.”
“I said I was sorry,” he protested. “She turned up a couple of nights ago, a new client. Said she wanted to stop someone from trusting the wrong man. She said Daire was a conman, out to rip you off.”
“And you believed her?”
“What was I meant to think? I couldn’t find any record of him. Then she came again and this time we…” His voice faltered and he turned scarlet with shame.
“Oh Jesus, Matt!” Rowan gasped, the traditional cry of a sister presented with too much information.
Matthew hung his head. “She made me believe she was everything I ever wanted. I couldn’t think, Ro. She wrapped herself around my soul and my mind until I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t hope to think straight. Then she started to ask more of me and I… I didn’t know how to say no…” He started to shiver.
Shock, she realised. You didn’t need to know Matt well to read the sickening guilt that clung to him, devoured him inside. To admit this to her, especially to her, took all his strength.
Gently, Rowan slipped her arm around his shoulders, pulled him close and hugged him. Her brother’s head sank to her shoulder and she closed her eyes, just grateful to have him back.
Matthew’s hand curled around the poker and he wrenched it out of her grip. With a cry of betrayal, she fell onto the tiles, skidding backwards, her body colliding with the table, which blocked her retreat. His eyes blazed with anger like Daire’s rage in the cave. Rowan had never seen him look so murderous. She barely had a chance to drag in a breath before he charged, crossing the room in two strides, right past her. She twisted round to follow him. He plunged the poker into a long and sinewy arm groping through the window.
Outside something gave an unnatural scream and the arm ripped itself away, back into the twilight. Matthew wrenched the poker free and staggered back as blood splattered across his face. A force thudded against the door, the rhythmic beat of a battering ram. Rowan imagined one of the larger creatures beating its shoulder against it, trying to force their way inside through brute strength alone. The shelves bucked and the plates toppled down, crashing on the tiled floor. She covered her head as best she could as the remains of her crockery shattered to smithereens around her.
The world went quiet. She chanced looking up and saw Matthew wearing a look of satisfaction as he examined the bloody end of the poker.
Putting out his hand, he pulled Rowan to her feet. “Right, you’re the expert. How do we get rid of them?”
“Maybe moonrise,” she replied. “If not, dawn. At least, I hope so.”
Matthew frowned. “It’s a long time until dawn, Ro.”
“I know, but we have to keep them out until then. There’s a fire laid in the living room.” She dug out the matches and tossed them to him. “Go light it. I’ll work out something in here. Make sure every window is latched and pull the curtains. I don’t want to see those things watching us. Get to it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Daire staggered through the mists of the veil, too keenly aware of the distortions in time eddying around him. In the distance, he could still hear the Sluagh, could still hear Rowan calling his name, but he pressed on, his determination to get help the only thing that could make him leave her now. Weariness rose in him like lead flowing though his veins and he slid to his knees as his last reserves drained away. Behind him…behind him, she was in danger. His Rowan was in mortal danger.
Fresh strength fired through him by that single thought of her and forced him to his feet. He concentrated on each movement, demanding that his body do as he bid it until he could go back to her aid. The acorn key, reunited with the Seelie magic which had created it, began to glow against his chest, bright as the evening star. The marks of the iron bindings with which Aynia had tortured him flared red, scalding against his skin again as the air of his home reacted to the taint of iron they still carried.
The sound of horses’ hooves and the jingle of bells hung on tack forewarned him of the approaching riders. Relief saw him the last few steps clear of the veil and he stumbled into his own world.
The sunlit, endless summer fell about him like a cloak of welcome. He lifted his face to its caress and nearly dropped to his knees again as the magic of this place drenched him. The rolling plains that greeted him shone with the green of eternal summer and in the distance, the towers of the Seelie Court’s Royal Palace glistened in the light of a fresh, crisp morning. A breeze rippled the long seed-heavy grass and carried the scents of wildflowers, underpinned with the haunting aroma of his mother’s roses, coming straight from the garden in the heart of the palace.
Home. Tears stung his eyes at the thought. He had finally made it home. And now he knew he could not stay, no matter how it welcomed him, no matter how much it filled him with a feeling of belonging. Part of him no longer had a place here. He belonged back there, protecting Rowan.
Two horsemen galloped towards him. Their long-legged white mounts gleamed, the liquid movement of their muscles carrying them to him at speed. Daire shouted in greeting.
The first to reach him reined in, his horse prancing on the spot at so abrupt a halt. Conall, Captain of the Sidhe Host, held a falcata in his hand, the sunlight gleaming off the curve of the polished bronze blade.
“Prince Daire!” he exclaimed, and quickly sheathed the sword. Turning to the second guard, he signalled a stand down and on the edge of his consciousness Daire heard the whisper of two Sidhe warriors communing.
“You came to me armed?” Daire asked in amazement.
“We sensed your transit through the veil, Your Highness, but not that it was you. Much of what we felt spoke of iron, and the king feared an attack.”
“No attack, Conall, but I am in great haste. I need a swift mount and an audience with my father as soon as I reac
h the palace.”
“Ferdia will oblige you,” Conall said, and as his companion drew level, he dismounted and bowed fluidly.
“The honour is mine, my prince.”
Too rushed to allow himself to sink into the collective consciousness of the Sidhe Host, the manner by which they communicated without need for speech, Daire contented himself with a courteous nod of his head. Then he swung himself up onto the skittish mare and rode hard for the palace.
Startled faces greeted his wild arrival but Daire ignored them, passing the reins to a guardsman.
“Where’s the king?” he demanded.
“With Prince Aidan, your highness,” replied an elder courtier. “He and the queen have both attended him since he returned.”
Attended him? That didn’t sound good. “The infirmary?”
“Surely you want to refresh yourself and change your…”
Daire seized the pompous fool, nearly lifting him off the ground entirely. The wild rage of the Dark Sidhe still lurked within him and, with the thought of Rowan in danger from the Sluagh, from Aynia, it was all he could do to control it.
“Get out of my way.”
The undercurrent of power in his voice made the courtier’s eyes widen, horror sliding across a face which had feigned impassive perfection for centuries.
The tower room had served as the royal infirmary since time immemorial. Aidan lay in a bed of pristine white linen sheets, almost as pale as his surroundings. King Finbar knelt at his youngest son’s side, his head bowed in prayer. When Daire entered, unable to be silent about it thanks to the fool of a courtier, his father looked up. Surprise and then relief flooded his worn features.
Daire had never seen his father look anything less than the strongest warrior the Realm had to offer. The lines etching his brow and the bruise-like circles under his eyes spoke of worry and sleeplessness, of a peril far worse than an injured son.
“Daire. Thanks be.” He rose and crossed the room in a few strides, clapping his son’s hand first and then pulling him into a powerful embrace. “When Aidan was found thus at the edge of the veil, we feared the worst.”
“What happened?” Daire returned the embrace, and then crossed to Aidan’s side. His brother’s chest rose and fell feebly, his face a hollow mask.
“We would ask you the same question, Daire. For a night and a day now, he has not awoken.”
“A night and a day?” Daire shook his head. No wonder rescue had not come. “It was three nights and a day ago that I sent him back. Wounded, certainly, but nothing like this. He lost his key.” Daire trailed his fingers across the pendant. It warmed beneath his touch and on the air he caught a scent of jasmine and rose entwined, a hint of his connection to Rowan still lingering. The aroma of her naked skin. He could taste her kiss, the soft brush of her lips to his. Startled, he lifted his head and found his father staring at him.
“You spent all that time in the Iron World of men?” asked the king. He squeezed Daire’s shoulder and concern flickered deep in his eyes.
“Aynia followed me there. Even now she has set the Sluagh on those who helped me. Father, I need the Host. We have to drive our enemies back to their own Realm.”
“The Host is engaged here, Daire, to the west. You know that as well as I.”
“But the Sluagh is not. Aynia called them to—”
“Aynia.” Queen Úna’s voice filled the room, rich with venom. She stood in the doorway holding a wide bowl filled with crystal clear water. Her samite gown glistened in harmony with the shining gold of her hair. The songs of his people spoke of her eyes being more precious than emeralds, for they saw into the heart of every Sidhe. Now, she frowned at her eldest son and Daire wondered what she saw there that created such an expression to mar her flawless face. “What has she done to you, Daire? To you and to Aidan?”
To him? What did that matter? He gazed at his mother, struggling to keep his tone even and controlled. “I’m more concerned with what she intends to do to the woman who helped us.”
“Gratitude is seemly in a prince, but not at the expense of his kingdom,” she snapped. “This woman is but a mortal. If she dies she is saved, if she lives she is saved. If Aidan dies…” The thought made her choke on her words. He watched her still her features, driving away her growing anger and smoothing out her façade. Daire wondered how he could suddenly see through her, through the illusions she wove around herself of the perfect queen, the perfect mother. She was afraid, desperately afraid, and equally terrified of being seen to be so. “We have other concerns. So do the Sluagh. Without you there, they will leave her be. Meanwhile, my youngest child languishes under the enchantments of that treacherous Unseelie bitch. How can I think of some mortal at a time like this?”
“Rowan is a Blood Witch, Mother. I have never encountered anyone with so great a well of soul fire. If Aynia captures her, or her brother…”
Úna swept by him, ignoring his words, and set the bowl down at Aidan’s bedside. She dipped a cloth into the water and draped it across Aidan’s forehead. His face remained immobile. Úna stared at her youngest son, as if willing him, or perhaps ordering him to awaken and smile at her. When he did not, it was like her heart broke. Like her heart had broken every time since his return when she tried something to save him, however small, and failed.
She sighed, the air driven from her lungs stirring Aidan’s hair. “A Blood Witch could bring him back from this sleep of death.”
“She would. I know she would. But she cannot do it if she’s dead or held in thrall to the Unseelie. Even if she could not help Aidan, we would be obliged to help her. She is a good soul, Mother.”
Úna cast a glance over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing. “And what do you know of her soul, my son?”
Daire’s face heated, but he held Úna’s penetrating glare. He allowed her to study him, felt her magic tingling against his skin, like biting winter’s rain.
“This woman has changed you, this witch. Something…something deeper, more fundamental. Daire…” She turned to him and it shocked Daire to see her hands tremble. She spoke with exaggerated patience, as if to an infant. “I would ask you to put her from your mind, to leave her to her fate if—”
“No!” The black rage swelled inside him and he struggled to suppress it. “That I cannot do. I love her!”
Úna flinched back as if he had struck her. Finbar went to her side and put his hands on her arms, a comforting and perhaps restraining touch which the queen shook off. Her face hardened and she dropped her gaze back to her younger son, locked in the spell of deathly sleep.
“I was about to say,” she continued, the same maddeningly calm tone shaming him, “if Aidan did not need her help.” She lifted her head, her chin jutting out, but she looked past him, no longer deigning to make eye contact. “Very well. Call the Host. Take the battle to the Sluagh, but understand me, Daire, if this girl cannot save Aidan I will exact dire recompense.”
“And what does that mean?”
“She is mortal, Daire. Do you understand that? Truly? I loved a mortal once, but I watched him wither and die. And I continued. They are not of our kind. They change us and show us the one thing we can never have. They treat their own souls so casually, but we are not as they are. Any love you feel for her…” Her perfect brow wrinkled and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Sidhe and human love always comes with doom. You say you love her, but you don’t know mortal love. None of us do. Two mortals in love have but one soul, my son. You have none.”
To hear such words from his own mother’s lips went beyond bearing. Daire scowled and clenched his fists, holding them tight against his side, as if Aynia’s chains still held them there. He had what he wanted, though it was given in poor grace. He could not afford to lose that one hope for Rowan.
“You both give your permission to summon the Host?” he asked, forcing courtesy he did not feel into his voice.
His father nodded curtly and Daire spun on one heel. As he walked away, stiff backed, head held hig
h, he could hear Úna’s voice, frail and uncommonly upset, drift after him.
“Finbar, can it be that we have lost them both?”
–—
The Sluagh roared around the outside of the house, screaming their frustrated wrath. Rowan dragged the mirror from the hall across the broken window in the kitchen and the clawing hands fell back in horror at their monstrous reflections. The fire in the sitting room filled the air with the fresh white smoke of dried broom. As she retreated there to find Matthew, the sound of something scrabbling in the chimney stopped and then the screams began.
She tried to close her ears to the noise, tried to shut compassion away and remind herself that whatever it was would gladly rip her limb from limb. The noise just grew louder, sharper as the smoke and flames reached it, and the smell of burning meat began to filter over the scent of the wood smoke. It reminded her of a barbeque, and her stomach clenched before it heaved. Matthew clutched the bloodied poker, but his eyes looked wilder by the second.
A crash from the kitchen indicated that their makeshift barricades were failing.
“I thought they weren’t meant to be able to get in here,” Matthew protested.
“So did I. But there are so many of them. Aynia has thrown her whole army at us. Upstairs?” She didn’t like the idea. It left them trapped. But what other options did they have left?
She gathered up the bottles she had filled in the kitchen against her chest. They clanked as she climbed the stairs backwards.
“What are you doing?” asked Matthew.
“Hopefully I’m saving our asses, Matt. Hopefully.” With deliberate care, she put one bottle at the foot of the stairs, opening the screw-top lid. Some of the contents sloshed over her hand and she shook the white liquid off. Milk. They liked milk. As much as Daire had, she hoped. And thanks to him, she had a lot of milk in the house. She planted another bottle halfway up, another at the turn of the stairs, and the last one at the top.