Chapter Fourteen

Bullets streamed across the catacombs, slicing through the air. Fae dropped like dolls, their bodies trampled beneath the stampede of huddled, screaming masses careening into each other trying to escape the onslaught. Men in black tactical gear swarmed the market, calling out orders. Smaller figures followed them. Fir Bolgs. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, the temperature rising from the flames as the men marched through the stalls setting fire to the tents. I scanned the crowd for Morven’s tent, but a wall of flames shot across the aisle, and I scrambled away, trying to keep low.

The realization hit me— The Fir Bolgs had discovered the device. They might have been tracking it all along. I slammed my fist on the ground, cursing my stupidity for leaving it with them. A lump rose in my throat. Finn. Eammon. Morven. Slaughtered.

Finn.

White-hot rage surged through me, and I shot to standing, my power unleashed. The flames buckled as a rush of air blew through the catacombs. Bullets whistled toward me, but I slowed time, tapping into the delicate waves of the current, my energy riding the seconds and making them bend to me. With all my strength, I sent a surge of power toward the black figures, and they flew back into the shadows. A noise to my left alerted me, and I whirled around.

A woman stood there, her helmet discarded, long white-blond hair blowing around her face. She had a delicate nose and big ice-blue eyes that gave her an almost ghostly appearance. Her lips parted as if she recognized me, and both of us stood stock still for a moment, the Faerie market disappearing around us. Magnetized by her presence, I didn’t notice the weapon in her hand. The bullet discharged before I had time to move a muscle.

Something large and hairy barreled into me, and the bullet whistled near my ear as I tumbled to the ground behind a wall. I grunted, the weight of the person above me crushing my lungs. Opening my eyes, I startled at the whisky-colored eyes twinkling at me.

“Mind your head, Princess,” a familiar voice said. “Wouldn’t want a bullet to ruin that pretty face of yours.”

Torc Triath. The Cinn Fein of London. Leader of the London Fae underground. He grinned at me through his thick red beard. He appeared thinner than I remembered, his face haggard.

I heaved him off. “What’s happening?”

“It’s a goddamn raid, that’s what’s happening.” He peered around the corner. “She’s gone, but more are coming. We need to get out of here.”

He placed two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me down a long tunnel. Members of his tribe spilled out of a side grate, their red hair unmistakable even in the dim light. We took a sharp right, and it led us to a small wooden door.

Torc raised his hand and drew a rune on the door. It lit up bright white and the door squeaked open. Shouts echoed through the tunnel, and we tumbled inside, shutting it behind us. Torc drew another rune on the door and it disappeared, turning into blank gray stone.

We stood in the dark tunnel, the only light emitting from a small grate high above. Our heaving breaths filled the air as we panted in the shadows.

“Who were those guys?” I asked, gasping.

“Who do you think?” Torc laughed bitterly. “Fir Bolgs. Americans. It’s the eighties all over again, but this time they’re better armed.”

The eighties all over again. I closed my eyes and leaned against the damp stone for a moment. Apparently, the American government had worked hard to eradicate Faeries back then, moving secretly into the London Underground to take control of the city’s Fae. That was how my dad met my mom. He spied for the military, and she spied for the Fae. Star-crossed lovers and all that. Nine months later, my mother had me, sacrificing her life to keep me hidden from all things Fae and magical. Long story short, it didn’t last and there I was, in the thick of it.

Torc nudged me, and I opened up my eyes with a quiet curse.

He lifted the butt of his M16 with a bitter sneer. “It’s genocide. Those bastards. Can’t leave us alone.” He gestured to his crew toward a side tunnel. “Let’s get back to base.”

“As I recall,” I called after Torc, “one of the last times I visited your headquarters, you almost sold me to those Fir Bolgs.”

Torc turned, a lurid smile painted across his rugged face. “Aye, I did. War makes strange bedfellows, innit?”

I returned his grin with a hard stare. I had warned Torc, but he hadn’t listened, and now he found himself right smack inside a battle zone.

“Have you seen Finn?” I asked, trying to keep the shaking out of my voice. “And two Druids with him?”

The púca spit out the side of his mouth and shook his head.

A cold sweat swept over my skin, and my chest tightened thinking of the flames consuming the catacombs. There was a chance they were still alive— I would have to go back when it was safe. Perhaps the Fir Bolgs captured them, but that was impossible. My mind wandered to the dreamworld, where I had confronted Thornton. He held the device in his hands. It was what they wanted, after all. I patted the canteen, still snug at my side. I didn’t have much at that moment, but a bottle of goddess blood could still turn the tide in our favor. Somehow.

We didn’t walk far. Torc led us to a secret door hidden in the brick of the tunnel. He made a quick movement across the surface and the bricks slid away, revealing a perfect circle for us to climb through. As soon as my boot hit the glass tile floor, I gasped, glancing around in surprise.

“Welcome to the Children of Lir’s headquarters,” Torc bellowed, raising his hands to the ceiling. “Where the past is prologue.”

I took in the mosaics on the floor and the marble pillars holding up the tiled ceiling. The last time I walked through the abandoned train station, layers of dust covered the turnstiles and benches. Now the station sparkled, a series of desks lining the platform, púcas from Torc’s tribe clicking away on laptops, rummaging through papers. Even more púcas shuffled back and forth, gathering weapons and disappearing into back rooms. No one looked up as we hurried through the bustling throng, intense conversations buzzing around us about various missions. The occasional burner phone rang out in a metallic, tinny call before someone snapped it to life, ducking into corners for a secret conference. The sound of resistance.

“Elizabeth!” a voice boomed through the station.

Tears erupted in my eyes and my shoulders trembled as Finn barreled toward me. He smothered me against his chest, his arms like iron clamped around my back. I sank into him, choking back a sob of relief. I hadn’t lost him to time, and I had returned with the blood I had promised. I pulled away and looked up at his face, touching his jaw, his neck.

“Oh, my God,” I said in a strained voice. “You’re alive.”

He swallowed hard, his face white.

“What is it?” I said.

Eamonn appeared behind Finn’s shoulder, his eyes red and his fingers trembling.

“What happened?” My voice came out low and shaking.

Finn released me, his eyes locked onto mine. “It’s Morven. He’s dead.”