Unholy Blue

by Darby Kaye

  “If Rory were here,” Shay muttered to him, “he would joke they were going out to that pile by the gate for dinner. Fir Bolg fast food.”

  Bann nodded absently. Why did they remove our gags? They must know we will use the Song. He whispered the first line, hoping the crowd noise would drown out his voice. Nothing happened. One of the guards laughed, pointing at Bann and nudging his pack mate.

  He tried again. Nothing. “Something’s wrong, Shay. The Song—it’s not working.”

  At that moment, Lebor returned. “And it won’t,” he said, catching Bann’s remark. “Not as long as you’re inside the confines of those marks on the outside of the house. Another little trick of Lord Cernunnos. Although, if it were up to me, I would’ve just sliced off your tongues.”

  A nearby Fir Bolg smacked his lips. “Why can’t we now? I sure could go for some fresh tongue.”

  “Shit, who wouldn’t? But for now,” Lebor said, “he wants them whole and alive. Put them with the others.”

  The guards hustled them out of the kitchen and through the dining room. The table was shoved up against the sideboard. Chairs were thrown about. Even the antler chandelier had been yanked from the ceiling; it lay shattered on the floor where someone had taken time to destroy it antler by antler. Broken tines crunched under Bann’s boots. Battlefield debris.

  In the entryway, the guards pushed them toward the staircase. For a moment, Bann thought they were going upstairs. Instead, they continued around to a paneled wall under the stairs. A pair of Fir Bolgs, apparently on sentry duty, loitered in the dim corner. At the command of Bann’s guard, one of the sentries unlocked a narrow door set in the wall and skillfully designed to look like one of the panels. Most of the panels had what looked like graffiti scratched on them, probably by the bored sentries.

  The door swung open. A set of wooden treads fell downward into darkness.

  A guard drew his knife, yanked Bann around and sliced through the cords, then did the same for Shay. Hot needles stabbed him from the tops of his shoulders to the tips of his fingers as blood began to flow properly. He flexed his hands.

  “What does the shapeshifter want—” he began. Before he could finish the sentence, the guards shoved him and Shay through the door. One of them stuck out a foot, tripping Bann. Only a hasty grab from Shay kept him from tumbling arse over teakettle down the stairs.

  The door slammed behind them.

  Bann hurled himself against it. The stout panel resisted him and flung him back. Laughter and a few coarse remarks about Bann’s reproductive anatomy came from the other side. Rubbing his shoulder, he felt his front pocket for his moonstone. Too late, he remembered leaving it on Shay’s dresser with his spare change. “Where are we?”

  “Wine cellar.” She led the way down the wooden treads. A light drew a circle at the bottom.

  “Is there another way out?”

  “Do you not think, Bannerman Boru,” a deep voice growled from below, “if there was another way out, we would’ve fokking escaped by now?”

  Hugh Doyle stepped into the light. He was followed by Ann, cradling her left arm across her chest. As Shay raced the rest of the way down the stairs, Bann followed, sweet relief sweeping him at the sight of them alive.

  They were in a narrow room about ten yards long. Both sides were lined with empty shelves from floor to ceiling, except for the one nearest the steps, which held a handful of wine bottles resting on their sides. A thick oriental carpet ran the length of the room, protecting their feet from the chill of the stone floor.

  A few feet away, James sat against the wall, legs splayed out. Rory squatted next to him, holding a wad of material against the side of his cousin’s face.

  Ann waved Shay’s concern away and pointed at James. “I’m fine. See to him.”

  Shay hurried over and knelt. He raised a hand in weary greeting.

  “Hugh.” Bann clasped him gingerly by the forearm. The older Knight had a few cuts on his arms, and the entire front of his shirt was soaked in drying blood and what looked like bits of hamburger.

  “Not mine, I can tell you that,” Hugh said, noticing Bann’s gaze. “We gave as good as we got before we were outnumbered.”

  “Better, I would say—I saw the bodies. Ann?” He took her uninjured hand and held it between the two of his. “How bad?”

  “Pfftt. Just a strained shoulder from a certain someone”—she glared at Hugh, who grinned sheepishly—“shoving me to one side. More of an annoyance than…” Her voice trailed off. “Ye gods,” she breathed. Her fingers tightened around his hand. “Where’s Cor?”

  “He’s with Lir. Safe, I hope.”

  “What? The Black Hand is involved?” Hugh motioned for him to take a seat on the lowest step. “And sit before you keel over.”

  Bann eased himself down, wincing at the reminder of every bruise and cut. Ann squeezed in next to him. “I called on Gideon for aid in tracking the Fir Bolgs who had taken Shay and Cor from our yard.” While Shay worked on a complaining James, he recounted what had happened since the morning. It felt like a hundred years ago. “When last I saw them, Lir was fleeing into the woods with Cor. Where they are now, I have no idea.”

  “Bann? Hugh?” Shay looked up. “Do either of you have a handkerchief?”

  “I do.” Hugh pulled one from his back pocket. “I’ll not vouch for its cleanliness after today’s events.”

  “Not a problem.” Ann rose. She stepped across the narrow room to the far shelf and picked up a bottle, then handed it to her husband. “Here. Rinse it in this.” She passed him a corkscrew that had been lying on the shelf next to a couple of empty wineglasses.

  Hugh studied the bottle and the handkerchief with a dubious expression. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. A white Zinfandel goes with everything.”

  After removing the cork with a pop that seemed too cheerful for the situation, he rinsed the cloth, wrung it as dry as he could, then handed it to Shay. He peered into the bottle. “’Tis a shame to waste the rest of it.” He offered it to his wife. Ann took a swig and handed it to Bann next.

  As the drink made the rounds, Shay finished cleaning the deep gash on James’s face that stretched from his right temple to his jawbone. “That’s the best I can do for now. You’re going to have a scar, though.”

  James shrugged. “Most of us do. It’s a Fey thing. And, dude.” He frowned at Rory, who was squatting next to him, a look of misery on his filth-streaked face. “Let it go. Things happen in a fight, okay? You can make it up to me by passing me that bottle.”

  Bann scooted over when Ann resumed her seat next to him. “What happened here?” he asked. “And where’s Isobel and the others?”

  “That’s the only thing that actually went right today. Well, two things, really. First, Isobel left early this morning before the attack. And Sean and Jenny were right behind her.” Ann shuddered. “Ugh. I still get sick thinking about what might have happened if they had had the kids here. The other good thing was that James and Rory had stopped by to say good-bye before everyone left, which meant there were four of us, instead of two. But how those creatures got through the wards, we still don’t know.”

  “I do.” Bann looked at his hands. “Or I think I do. There is something about Cor that gave Cernunnos a power or an ability to get through our wards. At least, that is what Lebor claims.”

  “Who’s Lebor?” Hugh asked.

  “The leader of this pack,” Bann said. “By the way, did you know about the ogham letters on the outside of the house?”

  “I thought that’s what those were.” Sitting on the rug cross-legged, Shay swirled the bottle around before taking a sip and handing it off to Rory.

  “Oh-em?” Rory raised his eyebrows as he drank.

  “To answer your question, Bann,” Hugh said. “We do. They were just painting them as they dragged us inside. And ogham letters,” the clan leader explained to the younger Knights, “were an ancient alphabet used by both mortal and immortal Celts centuries ago. When
imbued with magic, they can be used as a kind of counter ward. This particular one seems to have the power to inhibit our use of the Song.”

  “Which letter is it?” James asked.

  “I’d have to look it up. Anyway, we were outnumbered.” Hugh continued the story. “Once they had us, Cernunnos ordered his minions to put us down here for now. He spoke of using us as hostages if the other plan failed. I’m thinking now that other plan was to snatch Cor after breaking through your wards.”

  “Which means every minute Lir keeps Cor hidden is more time for us,” Bann said. “We need to find a way out of here.”

  “I’ve been wondering,” Ann said, “why didn’t Cernunnos take Cor when they were in the woods together?”

  James shifted, wincing as he straightened. “Well, since he was still in dog form, maybe his mojo hadn’t gotten to full strength yet. Our arrival may have stopped him or something.”

  “And what about the rest of the clan?” Shay asked. “Why aren’t they attacking already?”

  “We tried to get a call through, but we were a little busy,” Rory said. “And afterwards, they took away our cells.”

  The door above their heads opened. Brightness cascaded down the steps. Bann rose along with the others. A figure appeared, silhouetted against the light.

  “Boru.” Lebor pointed to him. “Lord Cernunnos wants to talk to you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Lebor snorted. “That means get your ass up here. Now.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we start cutting off fingers, starting with your females.”

  23

  AT THE TOP OF the steps, Bann hesitated in the doorway, wincing until his eyes adjusted to the light after the dimness of the cellar. He noticed the same two guards were standing by the door. More waited nearby. Satisfaction, tinged with a touch of pride, filled him at the realization that they feared him enough to make sure he was outnumbered four to one. They fell in behind him, flanking him, as he followed Lebor around the staircase and across the foyer. A quick glance out the windows on either side of the front door told him it was still mid-afternoon and snowing.

  He stepped into the living room. The furniture had been pushed against the walls, except the wingback Ann had always favored; that chair had been positioned in front of the fireplace like a throne.

  A throne that now held a figure.

  Lebor gave Bann a shove to the center of the room while his guards fanned out behind him. Other Fir Bolgs ringed the room. All were armed with knives and clubs and, in a few cases, hatchets. They stood at attention, guarding the figure that sat sprawled in the chair.

  In human shape and naked, and with his legs splayed as if to show off junk that wasn’t really all that impressive, the figure had a mane of thick tawny hair with streaks of black that reached to his shoulders. The color reminded Bann sharply of Max’s black and tan coat. Smooth golden skin covered lean muscles, marred only by a still-healing scar that formed a pink necklace across his throat. An older scar drew a pale line across his chest. Even from several feet away, Bann could feel an odd heat, like that from a blacksmith’s forge, emanating from the seated body.

  But it was the face that held Bann’s attention. The countenance, with its strong, chiseled features, had the looks one would find on the cover of a high-end fashion magazine. What Shay would call a “hottie,” and what Bann would call something else if Cor was not in earshot.

  The figure smiled, exposing teeth that were a startling white and with canines slightly longer than was normal. “Bannerman Boru.” The voice was low and whiskey-rough.

  “Lord Cernunnos.”

  The god’s brown eyes—the same shade of brown as Max’s—gleamed at Bann’s use of the title. “Ever the Knight.”

  “I honor my people’s heritage, which has always acknowledged the gods. Nothing more.” Bann spotted his iron knife, the one he had found in a West Virginia antique shop over a year ago, lying on the coffee table off to one side. The same weapon that had almost killed the shapeshifter last month. He tried to gauge the distance between himself and the blade and the shapeshifter’s chest. Knowing his timing was off, his body weak from the fighting, and that he would most likely die, he readied himself anyway.

  The god’s next words stopped him.

  “So, Bannerman Boru.” Cernunnos looked knowingly from Bann to the iron weapon, then back again. “Before you cast away your life in a futile attempt to take mine, allow me to ask you one question. Have you not wondered why I want your child?”

  Only every hour for the last month. “I have,” Bann said warily.

  “Then I shall tell you.”

  “Why?”

  The shapeshifter slouched lower and flung a leg over the arm of the chair, then flicked his fingers at the encircling Fir Bolgs. “It would be a respite to have speech with a warrior of your ilk. Until such time as I have more… worthy…followers.” He paused, eyebrows raised as if waiting for Bann to ask.

  Bann played along, knowing that every minute he gained was another minute Cor was safe. And to give me time to get everyone out of this hell. “What do you mean?”

  “This is a new age. A new world. A time and place that is ripe with possibilities for a god such as I to regain the status I once enjoyed. And more. Your offspring’s blood will help me achieve that.”

  “Why my son? Why his blood?”

  “Why? Because your son was born here.” At Bann’s confused expression, he rolled his eyes. “Royal stock? Born in Westernoc? The founding of a new reign for the long-sons of the Boru?” he said, as if that explained everything.

  A click went off in Bann’s head. “That is only a wistful tale.” Is that why Elizabeth was so eager to marry me? Because of the legend that the clan of Boru will rise again to power in a faraway land? In Westernoc?

  “Do not be so certain. Legends are simply truths that have been armored against the slow decay of time and disbelief. And according to this particular legend, the blood of the first offspring of the Boru line to be born in Westernoc contains powers that are enhanced by the vigor of this new world. A land I had once thought to rule through those straw-headed Norsemen who were already gaining a foothold here. But a certain High King put an end to my scheme”—he pointed to the scar on his chest—“and left me in a weakened state for centuries.” He made a face at the memory. “However, Brian Boru did me a good turn, in a matter of speaking. For during my slow recovery, I made a discovery that has given me another purpose. An even higher one.”

  Bann wondered why villains always felt such a need to explain themselves ad nauseam. He shifted his feet, easing his body’s bruised and battered muscles. In this case, though, the monster can pontificate all he wants. “Which is?”

  “To cease being just a shapeshifter. A mere demi-god.” Cernunnos spat the word out of his mouth, then sat up and gripped the arms of his chair. His nails dug in, tearing the fabric. “I wish to be more god and less animal. And your son’s blood will help me make the transformation.” He spread his arms wide. “See? Already, the change has begun.” With a look of wonder, he ran a palm along his chest and down his ribs, then cupped his testicles. “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

  Grateful beyond measure that Shay wasn’t standing next to him, no doubt ready with an insult that would get all their throats cut in a matter of seconds, Bann kept his mouth shut and his face impassive.

  Taking the Knight’s silence as interest, Cernunnos continued. “And this with only a single taste of the boy on my tongue. Imagine what I could become with the hot blood of the child coursing through my veins.” He grinned, revealing his canines again.

  “A taste of…?” Bann’s voice faded as he recalled Cor’s recent encounter with Max.

  “Here, Cor,” said Shay. “Let me see your hands. What are these scratches from?”

  “Bushes.” Cor held out his hands, the backs tattooed with thin red lines.

  “Not…not him? Not the shapeshifter?”

  �
��No.” Cor hesitated, then added, “He licked my scratches when I gave him another treat.”

  “A chance encounter in the woods whilst I was testing the strength of the Red Boar’s wards,” the shapeshifter explained. “Would that I had been strong enough to take him then. But no matter. I will have him soon enough.” He smacked his lips.

  His mind reeling from the number of puzzle pieces crashing into place, Bann shook his head. Exhaustion made his brain feel like clotted cream—soft and thick and slow.

  Movement behind him in the doorway. A murmur and a rustle of clothing. The heavy clump of a steel-toed boot. The prickling of his skin that signaled an enemy was right behind him. Possibly armed. Undoubtedly vengeful.

  “Ah. Speaking of such.” Cernunnos lifted his head, eye alight with anticipation. “Tell me,” he said to whoever was standing behind Bann, “that you were successful in locating the child.”

  “I was, Lord.”

  The wine Bann had drunk changed into vinegar in his gut at the sound of that particular voice.

  Weston Tully walked past him and took a position a few feet away. “Lebor was correct—Gideon Lir has him.”

  Cernunnos stiffened. “The Black Hand?”

  “Yes, Lord. I’ve already called him and ordered him to deliver Boru’s son to us, alone, and within the hour. Or we start killing hostages.” Tully sneered at Bann. “Of course, once your kid is here, we’re going to kill the hostages anyway, starting with the Healer. That’s going to put a real damper on your wedding plans, won’t it, Boru?”

  In spite of the voice of reason imploring him not to do anything stupid, something snapped inside Bann. “Ye son of a bitch!” He lunged for Tully, who jumped back a step before whipping out his knife, just as eager for a fight. Only a hasty grab by the guards stopped the Knights.

  “I warned you what would happen, Boru, if you stuck around.” Tully jerked free of his guards. “You brought this on yourself.”