“ON YOUR FEET!”
Bann grunted when something hard and wielded by someone who knew how to inflict pain, and enjoyed it, nailed him in the ribs. He peeled up an eyelid. A workman’s boot sat inches from his face, which was pressed against the cold earth. Certain that if he didn’t move, and move right smartly, the next kick was going to break his nose, he rolled over and pushed up on one elbow.
Lebor hovered over him. Nearby, the rest of the Fir Bolgs, over a dozen strong now, milled around. Two of them guarded a spitting-mad Shay. One of her guards breathed heavily through his mouth due to a shattered nose; blood created a Fu Manchu mustache around his lips. Bann could guess who’d broken it.
When Lebor drew his leg back again, Bann forced himself to his knees, then lurched to his feet. His head throbbed out a beat. Swaying slightly, he wondered at the white dots fogging his vision. He realized they were snowflakes. Already, the landscape was taking on a powdered-sugar appearance. Beyond Shay and her captors, dead Fir Bolgs, a number of them without their heads, were sprawled in what looked like pools of ink.
Bann glanced around the clearing as he was pushed over next to Shay. No sign of Gideon or Cor. Hoping against hope, he spoke in a low voice. “Cor?”
“Escaped with Lir.” A faint smile touched the corners of her lips.
Relief flooded Bann. He took a deep breath. The cold air helped clear his head. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” She grinned, then jerked her chin at the Fir Bolg with the broken nose. “Better than that fuggy-ugly.” She raised her voice. “Although he’s actually better-looking now that I did a little reconstruction on his face.”
“Fey bitch.” Before Bann could stop him, the Fir Bolg backhanded Shay across the mouth.
A volcano erupted inside Bann. The warp spasm. Heedless of his captors’ weapons, he leaped on Shay’s assailant and knocked him to the ground, fingers knotted around the creature’s throat. Squeezing in a convulsive fit, he dug and gouged and clawed until, with a moist pop, he broke through the skin. Blood, thick and dark as chocolate pudding, squirted out in a hot gooey mess across his face; he could taste it on his lips. A club cracked his back; the warp spasm growled at him to ignore it. He squeezed harder, his one goal now to get his fingers to meet, preferably inside the creature. Fists and boots rained down on him, each blow making his grip slip on the wet meat.
It took four Fir Bolgs to haul him loose of their dead comrade.
“Tie him up!” Lebor shouted. “The female, too. They don’t need their hands to walk.”
They bound his arms behind his back at the wrists and elbows with cords. Meanwhile, Shay was saying something to him while they bound her. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear over the high-pitched hum in his ears. He shook his head, trying to clear it, then sucked in a deep breath, then another, as he waited for the warp spasm to return to its den until called upon again. Grimacing at the vinegar-sour taste of the Fir Bolg on his lips, he spat to one side.
“Bann?” Like the volume on a television being turned up, her voice grew louder. “You with me?” she asked.
“Aye.” He spat again, then wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his flannel shirt. A commotion at the clearing caught his attention.
Lebor and most of the other creatures—those not guarding Shay and him—were listening to another Fir Bolg who had just sprinted into the clearing. He was talking between gasps as he pointed to the west. Voices rose in a hum of excitement tinged with scorn. Clapping the messenger on the shoulder, Lebor strutted over with a look of satisfaction.
“You know,” the leader drawled, “I always thought that the Red Boar and his tribe’s reputation as warriors were overrated. I was right.”
“What do you mean?” Bann was certain he already knew what Lebor was going to say. Not Hugh and Ann. Not them, too. He cringed as he recalled Ann promising last month that if anything should happen to him, they would raise Cor as one of their own.
“I mean, right now, the rest of our pack, under the Lord Cernunnos’s blessing, is probably feeding on some Doyles while making themselves comfortable in the Boar’s home. Permanently.” Lebor beamed at Shay’s gasp. “That’s right. Seems like those wards weren’t as strong as the shapeshifter’s rising powers.” He pointed his blade at Bann. “And just to make it hurt even more, just to twist the knife a little deeper, Cernunnos got those powers from your offspring, by the way.” Before Bann could ask, he turned away. “Gag them so they can’t use the Song. Then, we march.”
Separated by Fir Bolgs, Bann tried to edge closer to Shay. A punch in the ribs shot down that idea. Struggling to breathe around the gag, he concentrated on negotiating the rocks and stumps and fallen trees made treacherous by the wet snow, his movements clumsy with his hands tied. The route became more difficult as the terrain steepened. Every bruise, every knife wound, every abused muscle, reminded Bann of just how bad a beating he had taken. A stitch began to gnaw at his side, eating a hole in lungs already burning from the restricted oxygen flow.
A few yards ahead of him, he caught glimpses of Shay surrounded by her own guards. Every time she stumbled, his gut clenched, certain the creatures would hurt her for slowing them down. Once, she lurched sharply to one side, then went down, landing heavily on her hip and shoulder. A muffled curse as the Fir Bolgs gathered around. One of them prodded her none too gently with his boot, laughing, while she struggled to her feet. That one, I kill second, Bann thought. After I kill Lebor. Him, I kill first. Unless she gets to him before I do.
Bann plodded along. Another half-hour passed. Flakes, white and lacy as the crocheted doilies made famous by the craftswomen of Éireann, drifted down and dusted the tops of limbs and bushes and heads and shoulders alike.
Finally, his captors slowed. Bann lifted his head. The roof and upper floor of Hugh’s home loomed up through the snowstorm. It was eerily like the day he and Shay and Cor had fought and killed the Stag Lord. Until the shapeshifter had come back to life by taking over the body of Shay’s beloved hound.
Bastard god. Next time, I’ll make sure he remains dead. Even if I have to chew the monster into pieces and spit the chunks into a fire.
As he neared the stone wall, he spotted a pile of bodies. Fir Bolgs all. Many of them missing body parts, they were heaped in front of the gate, which hung by a single hinge. Blood darkened the ground and coated the dried grass. The snow was laboring at covering up the carnage. His heart lifted a little when he noticed there were no dead Tuatha Dé Danaan mingled with the Fir Bolgs. In his mind, he could see Hugh and Ann, and Rory and James right behind—and most likely arguing cheerfully about something ridiculous—taking a stand by the gate, using the narrow opening to slow the flood of attackers. Celtic Spartans at the gates of Thermopolis.
And if it had been Celts instead of Greeks, our three hundred would have been overkill by two hundred and ninety-nine.
“You four.” Lebor pointed at the Fir Bolgs closest to him. “Clean up this mess.” He waited while they dragged the bodies to one side and threw them into a heap.
The other Fir Bolgs were surreptitiously counting the fallen. Many of them exchanged furtive looks of alarm. Aye, that’s right. A hot pride filled Bann. Count the cost. And know it will only grow.
Lebor must have sensed their dismay, for he cuffed the nearest gawker, then pointed at the dead. “You idiots. Don’t you see?”
“See what?” one of them asked.
“This mob tried to breach the wall before Lord Cernunnos could run over here from helping us with the bitch’s wards. But, once he got here, I heard the Fey pretties went down like sheep.”
With a look of triumph, Lebor pushed Shay through the gate, then Bann. More dead creatures lay in a straggling line from gate to back door. Blood, like crude oil seeping up from the ground, pooled around them.
When they reached the door, Bann could see that the wooden panels were marked with a strange pattern. As he followed Shay inside, he slowed to study the mark. About a foot long, it consisted of a vertical line bisected by a series of five short slashes set at an angle from left to right, as if a bear had swiped its claws across it. It looks like an ogham letter. Duplicate letters were painted in blood on the side of the house at the far corners. He wondered what they were and in whose blood they were written.
“Move!” His guard shoved him through the door.
In the kitchen, Lebor barked orders, then left. A guard untied Bann’s gag and yanked it out hard enough to take teeth with it if Bann had not been careful to relax his jaw. He licked the corners of his mouth where the cloth had rubbed them raw, heart sinking at the devastated room.
The large farmhouse table lay on its side, as if someone had toppled it over to slow the enemy. Chairs, most whole, but some with legs snapped off, were scattered about. Mud and blood and something that looked—and stank—like excrement fouled the usually gleaming floor. Meanwhile, another Fir Bolg was removing Shay’s gag. Once it was free, she spat a few choice words at her captor, then eased closer to Bann. Around them, the Fir Bolgs milled. A few slipped out the back door.
“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.”