Helena stood in front of her full-length mirror, clutching her walking stick, and observing the reflection staring back at her. She looked so young, this woman with the steadfast gaze and apathetic face. What secrets was she hiding behind the unflinching set of her mouth and the confidence in her stance? With an innocence to her countenance, but a certain guile in her eyes, were the many wars she’d lived through and the countless deaths she’d ordered written on the planes of her face?
Would someone know, for instance, just by looking at her, the immeasurable feats she’d accomplished, the many times she’d survived the unthinkable and the multitude of ways she’d escaped death? Probably not, she decided. Most people don’t bother to peer that closely. She tightened her grip on Scobert’s shillelagh and considered leaving it all behind—the magnificent room she was in, the Seelie Court, the realm, and multiple lifetimes worth of victories and losses.
In the blink of an eye, she could disappear and never return. The prospect was so tempting that her heart fluttered in excitement. Her mind travelled to faraway, exotic locations; her imagination ignited. Would the realm suffer her loss? A queen can easily be replaced, she decided solemnly. As long as peace prevailed, mouths were fed, and battles were won, it mattered not who sat on the throne. She mattered not.
With one focused thought, it could all be over. She could finally be free. As she closed her eyes and gripped the handle of her walking stick, she sought to choose a location, a place where she could be herself, where she could experience true joy. A barrage of images and experiences filled her mind, like a catalogue of possible futures to sift through. The shillelagh fell limply to the ground when her thoughts conjured up a person, rather than a place. Her face contorted in pain as she cursed the irony of her predicament. She was given a gift that had the power to free her by the man who held her heart in chains.
Liz entered her rooms tentatively. “My Queen? Is everything all right?”
She straightened, almost welcoming the distraction. “Everything is just grand. What do you want?”
“Scobert is outside.” Liz shifted nervously. “Will you see him in here or the throne room?”
Helena let out a breath. “Send him in.” She picked up the walking stick and laid it on a nearby settee. She took one last glance at her reflection and turned to face the entrance.
Scobert walked in, looking as conspicuous as ever. With his large, muscular frame and bushy beard, he looked like a conquering barbarian, only a tad better groomed. The fact that his hair was still damp from a bath sent an irrational bolt of anger up Helena’s spine. It wasn’t the first time he’d spent the night in court. It was the first time he’d spent the night with somebody else.
“I trust you had a good evening,” she said, hating the venom in her voice.
Scobert’s gaze sought the ground briefly before his steady, brown eyes settled on Helena. “Are we going to talk about this or are we going to skirt around it for the rest of eternity? You have to understand how impossible this situation is. I never intended to hurt you. Helena, you know how much you mean to—”
“Stop. Don’t say another word. There’s nothing to discuss. Not anymore. You and I—you and I are no longer. Please don’t concern yourself with my ruffled feelings because I am fine. Such is life. An endless chess match where everyone is a pawn. I can no sooner fault you for your moves than chastise myself for my countermoves. All is fair, Scobert. Let’s leave it at that.”
Scobert took in a breath like he wanted to say something, then shook his head, a look of defeat in his eyes. “Why have you asked to see me this morning? My Queen.”
“The Unseelies. I will not wait for them to attack before I defend my throne. We’ve played that game already. I want you to coordinate with our top men and formulate strikes. I don’t intend to charge their court. For now, I intend to weaken it. Find out who their best soldiers are and carry out the tasks. You are free to command my army as you see fit. That is, if you’re still willing to defend the Seelie Court.”
“My loyalty to you and the throne has not changed. I stand ready to do as you command. Do you wish for these attacks to be performed in stealth or overtly?”
Helena smiled, marveling at how quickly her greatest strategist donned his old hat. “Your thoughts?”
Scobert shrugged. “Either way, the message is clear: We’re not taking this sitting down. Dealer’s choice, I guess.”
“Do you have a crew in mind?”
“I have a few lads in mind. Mackey, definitely. I could use Finn when he’s back. By then, he’d have accomplished his mission and our army will be at full strength. The Unseelie King will not stand a chance.”
“Good.”
A tense silence filled the room, snaking between them like a raging river. Scobert rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze tracked on the ground once more. When he finally looked up, Helena thought she glimpsed his eyes water. “Is that all, Queen Helena?”
Helena considered his question, answering as honestly as she could. “Yes. I suppose that is all. You may go.”
It had taken Finn nearly two weeks travelling via portals to round up about fifty of Queen Helena’s soldiers, who were scattered worldwide. He made easy work of it. Scobert was right. When it came to a question of loyalty between him and Alistair, the soldiers unerringly chose Finn and were more than ready to heed Helena’s battle call. Manhattan was his last stop, where a majority of Helena’s semi-retired soldiers had taken residence. He had travelled from the Pont Neuf in Paris to the Manhattan Bridge in under two seconds flat. A convenient perk of travelling faerie-style were the thousands of portals connecting tunnels and bridges like a supernatural transit system across the globe. Working ahead of schedule and with plenty of time on his hands, Finn decided to take the evening off to catch up with an old friend.
Back in his old stomping grounds, walking the streets of the East Village, nostalgia hit hard. He’d spent the past two decades living in New York City and it had been some of the most memorable of his lifetime. It was the time he’d spent looking after Clover. He had no way of knowing then what he knew now: that obeying Alistair’s order to grant the child luck for eighteen years would change his life irrevocably. Little did he know then that he would fall in love, or that he was even capable of real love. Now, he was in danger of losing the only girl he’d ever truly cared for, and he doubted whether a bigger knucklehead had ever walked the planet. His spirits lifted somewhat when he turned a corner and glimpsed the gaudy neon sign with the blinking shamrock: The Blarney Boulder.
Picking up his pace, Finn soon pushed open the door to the downtown dive and instantly took comfort in the dim lighting, the smells of pool cue chalk mixed with stale beer, and the familiar face who smiled widely at him from behind the bar. Finn chose a barstool and clasped hands with the clurichaun.
Shamus instantly started pouring him a pint, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “I was worried about you, mate. I’ve been hearing strange things. Is it true? Is Alistair the new Unseelie King?” he asked, sounding Alistair out like it was a bad word.
Finn nodded somberly and took a big gulp. “Yup.”
“Unbelievable.” Shamus shook his head and wiped the bar down. “And the girl? Is she really—”
“Half-Fae? Yes.” Finn downed his beer and slid the empty glass forward. “Keep ‘em coming.” He rubbed a hand across his head. “Since last I saw you, things have been insane. Alistair almost succeeded in killing Clover and closing the portals between Earth and Faerie forever. King Boris unsuccessfully attempted to overthrow the queen. He got himself killed, and Alistair somehow managed to elect himself king. Clover’s still in danger and I’m up here herding the queen’s men when I should be down there protecting her—that is, if she’ll ever speak to me again.”
Shamus refilled the beer and took out two shot glasses. He poured tequila into both and raised one in a toast. “Cheers.”
Finn raised his glass with a smirk. “Long live the queen.”
Shamus gulped down the tequila like it was water and refilled both glasses. “I see you’ve taken my advice to heart.”
Finn eyed him quizzically. “And what advice was that?”
“Last time you were here, I warned you not to start a war with Alistair McCabe. I also cautioned you against falling in love with a lackey. It appears you went ahead and did both.” He raised his glass again. “Cheers, mate.”
Finn burst out laughing. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of saying I’ve brought this upon myself?” He tipped his tequila back and coughed. “I suppose I deserved that.”
Shamus refilled their glasses and offered up another toast. “Here lies Finn Ryan. Taken at the ripe, young age of several hundred and so-and-so. Death by lackey-lust and misplaced alliances. May the good Lord above have mercy on his wasted soul.”
Finn laughed and picked up the shot glass. Before he could bring it to his mouth, he was in a headlock from behind, his bar stool nearly tipping from underneath him. A familiar voice spoke menacingly near his ear, “Didn’t I tell you to be smart, alert, and fast? All you are is dim, daft, and dopey.”
A huge smile broke out on Finn’s face. “Garrett.”
“The one. The only,” his attacker acknowledged with a smile. The chokehold quickly turned into a hug between old friends.
“What are you doing here?” Finn asked, incredulous. The last time he’d seen his friend was at the battle with the Unseelies, when he’d shown up out of nowhere to rescue Clover’s grandmother from one of Boris’s minions. Garrett had an unusually handy talent of making appearances at the most opportune moments, saving the day, and leaving the scene even quicker than he’d arrived. Somewhat of a pariah, he lived by his own rules, not fully able to bow to anybody’s power but his own—and boy, was he powerful. Pookas were considered the most feared of the supernatural creatures, and Garrett the most formidable of the lot.
He took the empty seat next to Finn. “You think you can go on a transatlantic crusade, sniffing the globe for errant Seelie soldiers, and I’m not going to hear about it? Please,” Garrett scoffed. “You insult me.” He turned to Shamus and pushed the tequila bottle in his direction. “Let’s bring out the good stuff, shall we?”
Shamus bent to open a cabinet under the bar and brought out a crystal decanter half-filled with a rich mahogany liquid. “Irish single-malt. Sixty-five years.” He unstoppered the bottle and poured them each a glass. “It’s good to see you, Garrett. It’s been too long.”
“That it has.” Garrett swirled his glass and took a sip. “This city is but a sanitized caricature of what it used to be. Unfortunately, when the hookers and the hustlers made their exits, so did I. Luckily for the natives, I’ve returned, daring New York to prove me wrong. Now, tell me. What sort of sappy drivel has this love-sick leprechaun been feeding you?”
Shamus wiped the bar down. “Usual stuff. Faerie wars. Lovers’ quarrels.”
Garrett clicked his glass with Finn’s. “I see Clover finally came to her senses. It took her long enough.”
“You’re hilarious. You know that?” Finn mock-punched Garrett’s shoulder, connecting a little harder than he’d intended.
“Nobody likes an angry drunk,” Garrett shot back. He took another sip of his whiskey, then turned to Finn, a trace of seriousness on his face. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think so. We haven’t really spoken since I left.”
Garrett rolled his eyes at Shamus. “Should I tell him, or will you?”
“What?” Finn asked, his hands in the air.
“You chose the futile pursuit of wooing, seducing, and ill-advisedly falling madly in love with this girl. The least you could do is be good at it. You wouldn’t want a certain lurker of a soldier snatching her up while you’re radio silent, now would you? Have you completely lost all your game?”
“It’s not like I can text her or call. She’s in another realm.”
“Oh, please. You and I both know there are an infinite number of ways around that. We are supernatural creatures and magic courses through our veins. You’re telling me you can’t find a way to send a message to your girl?”
Shamus chuckled into his drink.
“You, too?” Finn spat. “First, you both discouraged me from getting involved with Clover. Now, you’re a couple of Casanovas giving me love advice?”
“You’ve already gone off the deep end. The least we could do is throw you a dinghy,” Shamus retorted, followed by another heartfelt chortle at Finn’s expense.
“You don’t see me interfering with your love lives,” Finn joked as he grabbed a fistful of peanuts from a nearby bowl.
“Mate,” Shamus said before Finn could pop one in his mouth, “I wouldn’t.”
Finn released the peanuts back into the bowl. “A fine establishment you’re running here, old friend.”
Garrett suddenly raised a finger, his expression cautious and serene. He closed his eyes as if listening to some faraway sound, his left palm flat on the table. Having seen it countless times before, Finn knew that face well. Garrett was tracking.
“What is it?” Finn whispered.
A devilish smile found its way to Garrett’s lips. “Speaking of this establishment.” He turned to Shamus. “How much do you value it?”
Shamus scanned the crowd and downed his whiskey. “Quite a bit, actually. Explain.”
Garrett stretched his neck from left to right, as if limbering up for a fight. “Back booth. Four morons—Unseelies I presume. Heads bent low. Plotting an attack.”
Shamus casually glanced in their direction while Finn scoped their reflections from the mirror on the wall.
“I’m about to literally rip some heads off and cause serious property damage. If you don’t want that to happen in here, then we better take this fight elsewhere—quickly,” Garrett said.
“Definitely not in here,” Shamus confirmed.
Finn nodded. “Let’s step outside then.”
“Wait,” Shamus said. “Outside isn’t much better. A fight to the death in front of my bar? With who-knows-what type of animal our dear pooka here decides to morph into? No. The only reason this place has been around for so long is because I keep a low profile, and my guests feel safe—both supernaturals and lackeys. I can’t have a massacre anywhere near here.”
Garrett stretched his arms forward and cracked his knuckles. “This is going to happen no matter what. They followed Finn in here to kill him. If I have to drag them up the block before I beat them to a bloody pulp, then that’s what’s going down.”
Shamus leaned forward and whispered, “There’s an abandoned pub on the Upper West Side. Clurichaun-owned.”
“And this information serves me how?” Garrett asked.
Finn had understood right away. “Pub crawl,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Clurichauns are able to teleport to any pub in the world in an instant. As long as the pub is owned by another clurichaun.”
“Crafty. So, we take this fight to an even lesser establishment. I’m all for it. Where’s the portal and how do we get these four ninnies through?” Garrett asked.
Shamus grinned. “I’m the portal. I could teleport every single person in this pub in the blink of an eye.”
“All I want is the booth in the back,” Garrett said, chomping at the bit.
“Done,” Shamus said, and all went dark.
In the next instant, they were in a similar looking pub with upturned tables and boarded-up windows. The air was dank and musty and discarded peanut shells lined the untrodden floor. Standing in the middle of the room with Shamus and Garrett, Finn was at the ready, scanning the abandoned pub for Unseelies.
“Where are they?” Garrett whined like a child pining for a toy.
The atmosphere sizzled and shifted before four men appeared out of thin air, looking disheveled and confused.
“Ah. Christmas came early,” Garrett gloated.
Finn recognized one of them from battle. He was older and bigger than the others and was clad in the usual punk-rock motif Unseelies seemed to favor: A pair of plaid pants topped with a sleeveless mesh shirt. The younger guys, though similarly dressed, didn’t look nearly as menacing as the one who now stepped forward, clearly the leader of the bunch. “Where are we? What have you done?”
“Does it really matter?” Garrett said as he took a step toward them. “You followed my friend into the bar with the intent to kill him.” He motioned to Finn with his hands as if he was showcasing the prize at a gameshow. “Get to it, then.”
The Unseelie twitched, then hesitated. “Who are you?” he asked Garrett.
“That you don’t know who I am is the only reason you haven’t run screaming out the door.”
Clearly having no idea who or what Garrett was, the Unseelie lunged at Finn with a knife.
Scobert’s days had become a surreal montage of unlikely scenarios and occurrences. His mornings were spent with Helena, where he’d report on any progress made in the war effort and strategize future moves. He and Kean had carried out a couple of hits on Alistair’s soldiers and were now perennially alert and on the offensive. The Unseelies would no doubt strike back. The queen was pleased with their handiwork, intent on letting the enemy know how efficiently and lethally her army could strike.
Their daily briefings were an exercise in forced civility. After rekindling his relationship with Helena, he’d never imagined ever sharing an awkward moment with her, but lately he doubted if they’d ever enjoy familiarity again. He didn’t blame her. He had neither the gall nor the right to reproach Helena for her behavior. Was he not the man who only a month ago professed his love to her and shared her bed? And was he not the same man who now shared a room with his wife under Helena’s roof? As much as his current situation pained him, he was more than willing to endure whatever animosity Helena was doling out. He certainly deserved it.
The remainder of his days were usually spent with the troops, with Kean, or if he was free, with Mirabella. Those were the days he’d looked forward to the most. Getting to know his daughter was proving to be the greatest delight of his life. Fiercely independent and just about as stubborn as he was, Mirabella was a diamond in the rough. While marveling at her tenacity and biting sense of humor, Scobert was amazed at how well she turned out, considering her unusual upbringing. Most of all, he was heartbroken that he had missed so much of it.
Knife-throwing had become a favorite shared activity, and on the day that Mirabella hit the bullseye three times in a row, Scobert doubted that a greater pride could exist in one person’s heart. They’d sometimes share a drink in the late afternoons, and Scobert would tell her of the bygone days of his service to Queen Helena’s throne. Mirabella was an apt study, always eager to hear more stories and take instruction. Despite this, Scobert sensed a certain faraway and closed-off quality about her—as if she carried the weight of a concealed burden. Nonetheless, he was determined to break through every barrier to get closer to his daughter.
On one particularly special afternoon, he’d decided to introduce Mirabella to Mary, and the sight of his daughter and mother together in the same room nearly undid him. On that same day, they also happened upon Clover and her lackey friend, Button, and Scobert was delighted for Mirabella to meet girls her own age. The girls started to join them whenever they threw knives and it’d become an ongoing competition. Mirabella held the top spot, but Clover wasn’t trailing far behind.
Being with Clover—another half-Fae—seemed to be doing Mirabella a world of good. Though not as powerful as Clover, his daughter displayed some aptitude in enchantment. One day, out of necessity or sheer boredom, Mirabella had inadvertently magicked a small rock to play a jovial melody. On impulse, she’d immediately kicked the stone away and cast Scobert a guilty look, as if expecting a reprimand. He had joked that the only thing wrong with her magic was that she should have chosen a bigger rock. Mirabella had laughed the incident off, but afterwards stood a little taller and prouder because of it. Like his daughter, Scobert had always displayed a proclivity to enchanting inanimate objects. One of his very first creations was the magical shillelagh that now belonged to the queen. Over the years, he had magicked countless more objects.
Not having grown up with other faeries, there was no way of fully knowing what other gifts Mirabella might possess, or how her magic would choose to manifest itself. Only time would tell. As most powers were passed on, it was no surprise that both he and Mirabella were enchanters. It also came as no surprise that both clurichauns enjoyed the same taste in drink. He couldn’t think of a better use of a sunset than to experience it with his daughter, whiskeys in hand, at close of day.
His evenings were spent with Therese exclusively, and his wife seemed to relish their time together as much as he did. They’d reminisce about the early years of their marriage and share the ins and outs of their daily lives. His wife preferred to spend her days indoors, resting and writing in her journal, but was always eager to hear about his afternoons spent with Mirabella. On one occasion, she even made a special effort to meet her daughter’s new friends and spent the day with them. Her interactions with Mary, on the other hand, were quite strained. Neither had quite warmed up to the other, something Scobert chalked up to the whole mother-in-law dynamic. They would thaw soon enough. Other than that, Scobert couldn’t complain. Having his family back meant everything to him, and he was more than grateful for the happy mix of mundane and extraordinary in his day-to-day life.
This morning was no different from the one before it. After kissing his wife goodbye, he made his way to the plaza to see his queen. The two gigantic gnomes who guarded the door to Helena’s lair greeted him in their usual cheerful way. While Archie and Alfred were two of the deadliest creatures in Helena’s arsenal, they both had the air and bearing of two gentlehearted giants. Archie tugged at the knocker of the wooden trapdoor, and Scobert waved his goodbyes as he descended into the inner reaches of the Seelie Queen’s sanctuary. He crossed the empty atrium toward the side of the raised dais where Helena’s rooms were. Entering the receiving area, he craned his neck in search of Liz. At this hour, the queen’s premier lady-in-waiting was usually found prepping Helena’s breakfast tray and picking out the freshest flowers for the crystal vase that adorned her serving cart. Seeing that Liz was not in the receiving area, he cooled his heels—he wasn’t exactly looking forward to the daily dose of awkwardness ahead of him. As he stood waiting, he heard voices coming from Helena’s private quarters. Concluding that Liz was in there with her, he sat at a nearby bench and waited.
After a few idle minutes, Helena emerged from her quarters with Anna trailing behind her. Judging from the looks on both their faces, Scobert knew right away something was wrong. With her jaw set and her hazel eyes almost aglow, Helena had never looked angrier nor more exquisite at that moment. Instinctively, he reached out to her, caught himself, and took a step back. “What’s happened?”
“There was an attempt at Finn’s life last night in Manhattan,” Helena declared without preamble.
Anna stepped forward. “We spoke using the compass. He is fine. Four Unseelies followed him into a bar late last night. Shamus and Garrett were with him.”
“Garrett?” Scobert asked, surprised. Then he nodded with understanding. “I assume the four Unseelies are now dead?”
Anna nodded.
Already, the wheels were turning in Scobert’s head. “Bold move. We took out two of his minions; Our best soldier’s life in exchange is hardly reciprocal.”
Helena paced the room with fists clenched, her fury seemingly emanating in waves. “There’s more,” she said before taking in a sharp breath. “They have Liz.”
Anna held out a piece of parchment. “When I came this morning to deliver news of the attack, I found this pinned to one of Liz’s flowerpots.”
Scobert unfurled the piece of paper.
If you want Liz to live, call off your assassins.
Alistair