by R. F. Long
“They aren’t bloody bluetits, Ro.”
“Milk. They love it. Everyone says so. Get up the stairs. They’re coming.”
The front door bowed in and the horseshoe nailed above it ignited, white hot, scorching the wall behind. As the door splinted into nothing, the old iron plummeted, slamming into the head of the first intruder. The rest of the Sluagh trampled over its body.
The foremost mounted the stairs, but stopped suddenly, holding out its arms to stop the surging mass behind it. Lifting its snout, it sniffed the air and then grabbed the milk bottle in it silver-taloned hands. Its neighbour caught the scent too and in an instant ripped out the throat of its rival. Another and another fell as they turned on each other for a bottle of milk.
Rowan crouched at the top of the stairs. Faced with the carnage below, she fought the urge to scream. It was madness to think such old wives tales held even a grain of truth and yet here were the Sluagh, slaughtering each other for so little a thing as a bottle of milk. No matter how nightmarish the creatures looked, their howls of pain, the splatter of their blood, and the twitches that possessed their mangled and severed limbs were real.
Finally, one brute as wide as three of the others lifted the bottle and drained the liquid inside. It belched loudly and some of its companions laughed. Unkind malice-filled laughter grated against her ears. Then the creature started up the stairs after the humans, foot by meaty foot, each step making the whole structure groan and shake.
Matthew shuffled back, trying to draw Rowan with him, but she held on, needing to know if it had worked, if the other bottles she had planted around the house would gain them anything at all. Ridiculous as the plan felt, it had passed the first test. Now she needed to see if the rest of the tales she relied on could also be counted as true.
The demonic looking Sluagh warrior on the stairs stopped, a puzzled expression passing over its misbegotten features. Then it roared, clawing at its own belly with frenzied hands, shredding armour, cloth and the flesh beneath. It reeled back and fell, crushing those behind it. Spasms wracked its body and it screamed like an infant, long and shrill screams, one after the other. Finally, it lay still.
Rowan left the last bottle at the top of the stairs. All through the house, the Dark Sidhe and the Sluagh started howling in agony.
“What did you do?” Matthew asked as they fled into the attic.
“Iron filings.” She couldn’t help but grin, her heart racing, her blood pounding with the mania of even a small victory over such a foe. “They can’t resist milk, or cream, so I laced them with iron filings. And when I ran out of bottles and filings, I just put the milk in the old iron bowls.”
They plunged into the near darkness of the unlit attic. Light fell in two puddles in the centre of the studio. Rowan closed the door and turned the key, leaving it in the lock. Any metal was some help, the smallest amount of iron an alloy might contain a boon, and it might hold them a little longer.
Outside, the wind was rising and she looked up to see the clouds scuttling across the newly risen moon. It was full, bright and a sense of finality closed around her heart. It was just after six and the full moon had risen on Halloween, on Samhain’s night. If he had not come by now, when the gateway shifted, Daire would never be coming back. As if a great hand closed around her heart, slowly squeezing it, she stared at the moon through the open window, accusing it of all her misfortunes.
The open window.
Rowan yelled a moment too late as a shadow, darker than the night, rose behind Matthew. Her brother turned, swinging the poker in an arc, and hit his mark more through luck than skill or design. Lorcan snarled, twisting against the iron of the poker, and Rowan screamed as Aynia’s second-in-command batted both the makeshift weapon and Matthew aside. Her brother hit the wall, bounced like a rag doll, and fell, lying there without moving.
Lorcan stepped towards him and drew back his blade ready to finish him off.
“Get away from him!” Rowan ran towards them, but Lorcan swung around and came at her like a bulldozer, burying his hand in her hair and seizing it by the fistful. He pulled her off her feet, his free hand running up her torso to her throat. Then he laughed, a sound which set her skin shivering with disgust.
Chapter Nineteen
The Sluagh had lit a bonfire in the middle of Rowan’s lawn, brightening the twilight. It transformed the sedate cottage garden into an infernal scene worthy of Dante. Around a circle of ruddy light, heartless things savaged the corpses of those her tricks had killed.
Lorcan dragged Rowan past them, still gripping her by the knot of her hair, using that agony to control her and keep her subdued. One of the Sluagh launched itself at her and she glimpsed its fearsome maw, glistening with saliva, for just seconds before Lorcan kicked it back into the throng. Its kin fell on it, slashing and tearing at its flesh. It screamed, but Lorcan kept on going, hauling Rowan behind him.
Aynia waited by the fire, a dreadful silhouette. Her arms were folded and she tapped her nails impatiently. As they approached, she pursed her lips, barely suppressing a smile of triumph. Lorcan hurled Rowan to the ground before her.
Rowan lifted her head from the ground and the heat rolled over her. But no warmth reached her. She looked up into Aynia’s violet eyes, watched them narrow, the look that Rowan was beginning to know all too well.
A heavy weight dropped to the ground beside her. Matthew. Rowan spared only a glance for her brother to be sure he was still alive. Blood ran down the side of his face. It matted his thick hair, glistening. But his chest stirred. Not dead, she thought and wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. She didn’t want him dead. But he might come to regret living. Alive, he was of use to the Dark Sidhe.
Come to that, so was she, if Aynia’s hatred didn’t demand her life. Rowan swallowed hard and met her adversary’s cold gaze once again. No, Aynia didn’t want her dead. Not when she could make Rowan suffer.
“You’ve just cost me a substantial portion of my Sluagh.” Aynia didn’t move, just said the words and glared at Rowan as she struggled to her feet. “They take time to root out, time to subdue and train if they are to be of any use. I admit a small measure of admiration. I had thought, now Daire has deserted you, you would be an easy enough fruit to pluck. Perhaps you have Unseelie blood in you after all.”
“If I did, I’d—”
Lorcan’s open palm caught her face, impacting against her cheekbone, and her world burst into red and black fireworks of pain. She thudded to the ground and lay still, breathing hard. The grass felt warm and crisp, but underneath it the earth was cold. Blood welled from the new gash in her skin, dripped down her face, filled her mouth.
Aynia’s perfect feet approached, crushing the dry grass beneath her tread. Rowan looked up the pale, slender length of her leg, up her toned body to her breathtaking features. Aynia’s eyes devoured her and Rowan huddled on the ground, her earlier bravado and determination draining away. Aynia studied her and Rowan cowered.
“You’re pathetic,” the Dark Sidhe said. “No wonder Daire fled back to his own kind. Once he had used you to survive he could see you as you really are. And I thought such actions were beneath him. But then, I would have roundly sworn that debasing himself with such as you was beneath him, but needs must when the devil drives.”
Rowan pushed herself up on trembling arms and tried to force herself to face Aynia. But she couldn’t. How could she even dream she would be able to? She was nothing compared to the Sidhe. Nothing but a mortal. Her blood, even as it slid down her face, was riddled with iron.
Aynia’s pearl-like teeth closed on her lower lip, nipping at the full ripeness. Realisation soaked through Rowan like a bucket of icy water.
Aynia Ní Fuamnach was afraid. Of her.
The spell around Rowan cracked. She dragged her arm across her face, banishing her terrified tears. Anger took their place.
“It seems to me—” she got to her feet slowly, each movement carefully measured, “—like you’re talking about
yourself.” Drawing herself to her full height, she still stood more than a foot shorter than Aynia, but she didn’t care anymore. Part of her thought she had to be going insane, or simply didn’t care enough to live any more.
Only one thing mattered. Aynia was not going to make her grovel. Aynia was not going to win. She was a fool, she knew that, but she would not be a coward. She thought of Grams, of the iron she had inherited from her ancestors, iron born and iron bred, everything someone like Aynia feared.
Rowan brushed down her clothes and smoothed back her hair. She revelled in making Aynia wait, in baiting the beast, because if she wasn’t going to do it now, when would she? She might die afraid, but Aynia would never know it.
The mask of beauty crumbled away from Aynia’s face. The inhumanity behind it flared with life and Aynia snarled, raising her hand as if to strike her again. But the blow never fell.
From the trees, the clear note of a horn rang out. It hung on the air, echoing in the distance, setting the breeze trembling.
“The Host,” Aynia breathed and her eyes locked with Lorcan’s. She grabbed Rowan’s upper arm and thrust her at the Dark Sidhe. Lorcan’s hand closed on her blouse, but Aynia didn’t release her. The material ripped, leaving Lorcan holding a rag of red silk.
“You want her?” asked Aynia.
Lorcan’s eyes answered for him, hungry, dangerous and raging with desire.
Aynia chuckled softly, stroking her long fingers through Rowan’s hair. “Of course you do. She’s like an aphrodisiac to our kind, isn’t she? Very well. She will be yours. Your reward. But I have two demands. Kill Daire first and, when you’re finished with her, kill her too. You’ll enjoy that.” She shoved Rowan back beside Matthew and raised her arms to the Sluagh. “Our enemies approach. The Seelie Host is nigh. Rise, my Sluagh. Ride forth to meet them and destroy them. All of them!”
With a deafening roar, the Sluagh took up the cry. “Destroy!” Their mass seethed towards Lorcan, who thrust his sword into the air. Something fluttered from the crossguard like a line of blood in water, and Rowan recognised the red silk of her sleeve. The blade caught the firelight as if already smeared with blood.
“Destroy the Seelie,” Lorcan roared. “Destroy them all!”
The Sluagh charged, stampeding by her. Rowan ducked, covering her head with her hands and trying to huddle over Matthew in order to protect him. They rushed by her like a black hurricane, plunging into the darkness beyond the fire and merging with it, an oncoming storm in the night.
–—
Daire lifted the silver horn of the Sidhe Host and blew again, a challenge, a summons. The light of the newly risen moon glinted off its surface. The roar of the Sluagh filled the air and the ground beneath him trembled with their charge. The little patch of ancient forestland shuddered with their approach, a wave of darkness which ploughed across the land, churning up the mud and mulch, scattering the leaves around them. Daire stood firm in the trees atop the ridge, the silver horn in one hand, his sword gleaming in the other.
The strength of the Sluagh was twofold, their numbers and the reaction of opponents to the cumulative horrors in their ranks. But Daire had faced this nightmare almost daily for hundreds of years on the frontline of battle. Only the terrain was different. He had to keep telling himself that. Otherwise he would listen to the voice of his doubt and panic, the voice which said he had come too late and that Rowan was already lost.
Aynia held Rowan captive. His scouts assured him of that. Though she had put up a valiant fight, Aynia had triumphed. It had been inevitable, they said, when a mortal fought against the Sidhe. Daire reserved his judgement on that opinion. At least Rowan and her brother were still alive when the last report came in. It was a sliver of hope, but one to which he could not help but cling.
Thinking of her now would gain him nothing. He knew that. But still, the rash side, the side which Aynia had awoken, wanted to charge to the rescue. Or maybe Aynia had not woken it. Maybe it was Rowan herself. All he wanted was to ride to her aid, into the oncoming assault, sword in hand, fighting his way through until he reached her or fell in the process. And then what? Logic told him such a course of action would see him dead and then who would come to Rowan’s aid?
Of course, Rowan would tell him she would come to her own aid.
The thought of her in danger dragged around his body like a taut wire, more constricting than the iron chains, paralysing, burning at his mind the way the chains had burned his flesh. He couldn’t lose her to the Dark Sidhe. He had to deny the faintest possibility of that happening because even the prospect threatened to unman him. He could not allow Aynia to take Rowan, or Matthew, but what he feared more was that having Matthew, Aynia would have no further use for Rowan. No one could handle two Blood Witches. One was difficult enough and not even Aynia was that greedy.
Was she?
Part of him prayed she was.
Daire raised the horn to his lips and drew in another breath as the Sluagh reached the concealed marker. On the opposite ridge, stark against the crest of the rise, he had nowhere to run, but running was not his intention. They bore down on him, stampeding across the hollow.
He sounded the horn again, a different note this time, just as clear, but a tone lower.
Lorcan followed the first wave of Sluagh. Daire could make out his hulking form. Good. Daire swung the horn to one side and held his sword aloft. Moonlight gleamed down the blade and in answer, amid the encircling trees, other flashes of reflected moonlight sprang to life.
The Sidhe Host charged in silence, their passage fleet amid the trees. With a noise like the expulsion of air, a brief gasp, arrows soared overhead. The Sidhe moved like a pack of direwolves, and Daire ran with them. He sank into their collective consciousness, his orders obeyed as quickly as thought, their reports received like his own thoughts.
The Host crested the slope above the stream, each one as intimate with the terrain as Daire himself now. As they burst into view above the Sluagh charge, circling them on three sides, they yelled their battle cries, crossing the swift-flowing water. Fierce anger flooded Daire, pounding his blood through his veins. Ancient enemy, his body howled as the Sluagh came within reach, foul creatures, traitors, defilers.
Not quite demons, the Sluagh surged towards the Fair Host, slavering jaws ready to bite, rend and devour, clawing their way over their kith and kin to be the first to taste Unseelie flesh. The two armies slammed together and the rage drove through Daire like a spear, his mind consumed with war.
With but one objective Daire hacked his way through the first wave. Lorcan stood ready for him, fresh and rested, waiting. He wore that infernal sneer. Hard to believe he had once been a trusted friend. The Dark Sidhe spotted him and hefted his sword in response, presenting it as a challenge. Something red fluttered on the hilt, a scarlet enticement in silk. The same colour as Rowan’s blouse.
Deep inside him Daire felt something crack, the shell behind which he had piled his tangled emotions. They spilled out, riddling his body with fear, with concern for Rowan. He drew back from the fight, letting Conall and his men engage the foe while he struggled to contain the maelstrom of his emotions.
They had Rowan. Logically, he had admitted as much, though his hope had told him that his scouts could have been wrong, that she might have escaped. He had allowed himself to hope. Fool that he was, he had prayed for her safety and had felt sure that his prayers would be answered this time.
Love was a weakness. It stole Daire’s heart, left him vulnerable. Lorcan knew it. Clearly, he intended to use that.
“I had to leave her to Aynia’s tender mercies for now,” Lorcan shouted across the hollow, his voice carrying even over the noise of battle. Daire wondered if he used a glamour to do that, if Lorcan’s pride would extend to squandering his power to goad his enemy into a rash move. “But afterwards, Daire…” He sneered and his laughter rang around Daire as if he stood right behind him, leaning over his shoulder ready to drive a blade into his exposed back. “Af
terwards, your mortal woman is mine for as long as I want her. As long as she amuses me.”
The anger of the darkness within himself had nearly consumed Daire once. This time, its resurgence felt different and far more terrifying. The fire of the sun exploded within his body. An alternate rage took hold of him now. Instead of drowning him, it lifted him above himself, filling his body with soul fire and determination. Where it came from he had no idea, but he tasted Rowan’s kiss on his lips once again. The soul fire blossomed, filling him beyond his abilities to control it. Rather it seemed that it controlled him.
Daire threw himself forwards, ignoring the mental protests of the other Sidhe, the cries in his mind for restraint, to stick to the plan of campaign, to hold his position. Running at the Sluagh ranks, he picked his target, a hulking beast that seemed a cross between a wild boar and a rhinoceros. Daire pitched himself straight at it.
The creature broke off from combat and tried to charge him. Just when he saw the maddened points of its eyes, when its putrid breath washed over him and the ground trembled under its charge, Daire leaped into the air. His free hand caught its horn and he launched himself back, over the line of the Unseelie and behind enemy lines. The air lifted him, blowing him like a leaf on the wind. He twisted, arcing his body according to his will. The earth itself reached up and snatched him to safety and he landed, squarely on his feet, opposite Lorcan, behind the battle.
Across the broken ground, Lorcan thrust his sword into the ground and clapped slowly.
“Artful, Daire. Maybe we should make a clown of you once all this is over. Will you walk a tightrope next?”
Daire didn’t answer. The length of material from Rowan’s blouse fluttered in the breeze, beckoning him. It carried a speckling of blood.
Lorcan seized his sword, pulling it free and displaying it. He held it just a fraction too tightly, his knuckles white. “Aynia will kill her.” He brought the blade up in the formal salute of a duel. “The moment you come into view, Aynia will burn her with all the fires of hell she can summon.”