Unholy Blue Page 17

  The sound of Shay’s voice pulled him toward his son’s room. Lingering in the doorway, he watched her as she sat on the edge of the bed and read aloud to Cor from a book. In his crate, Sam sat braced against the metal door, ready to go in case someone decided that they needed a puppy to hold.

  “‘The beagle usually reaches maturity between the age of eighteen months to two years,’” she read. “‘A mature beagle will—’”

  “What does ‘maturity’ mean?” Cor asked.

  “It means grown up.”

  “Are you and Dad mature?”

  “I am. Your dad is not.”

  “I’m standing right here, you know,” Bann said.

  Cor shared a grin with Shay. It faded after a moment. “Does Isobel like you now, Dad?”

  Bann was blindsided by both the abrupt change in subject and the question itself. “What are you talking about?” he asked, knowing exactly what the boy was asking. My son is nothing if he is not perceptive.

  Cor’s gaze flickered from man to woman and back to man again. “She didn’t like you at first. When we went to Hugh and Ann’s house. Remember? But now she does, right?”

  “She does, indeed,” Shay said before Bann could speak. She closed the book and placed it on the bedside table. “My mom likes Bann because he’s a pretty special guy. But she also likes him, and you, because I love him, and you, very much.” She tucked the covers higher under Cor’s chin. “Does that make sense?”

  Bann could see that new notion churning away in his son’s head. His brows puckered for a moment. “But what if she didn’t ever like us? Would you still marry Dad?”

  “Yup.”

  “Really and truly?”

  “Yup.”

  “No matter what?”

  “No matter what. You guys are stuck with me for the rest of your lives.”

  And aren’t we the blessed ones? Bann thought.

  18

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Bann stood in front of the toilet, half-asleep and eyelids parted just enough to aim, relieving himself as quietly as he could. His painful bladder and pounding head reminded him how much he had had to drink last night. After flushing, he eased the bathroom door open.

  The bed was empty.

  My morning bird, he thought. He pulled on a pair of sweats, sans underwear, and a T-shirt, then headed down the hall, his bare feet shushing on the wooden floor. Pausing at Cor’s room, he poked his head around the half-open door. A whiffling sound came from the mound of covers on the bed. Only a mop of dark hair poked out. Late night for all of us. Bann started to pull the door shut when a soft whimper from the crate caught his attention. He peered over. In the muted light of dawn, he could just make out Sam. The puppy was sprawled on his bedding, paws twitching as he harried dream rabbits into their burrows. With his breeding, Bann thought, we should have named him Cú—the Hound. He eased the door closed. The smell of fresh brewed coffee tugged him along by the nose toward the great room.

  “You’re up early.” Shay was curled up on one end of the sofa. Already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she had a throw tucked around her feet and a steaming mug cupped in her hands. The epitome of contentment. Her hair, still free of its customary ponytail, was draped over her shoulders and her face was slumber-soft. “I thought you’d sleep in.”

  “My bladder had other plans. You wouldn’t have some slàinte tea brewed this morning, by the way? That special kind?”

  “Already left a cup of it cooling for you on the counter. Drink it all at once. Headache?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Check the level in the whiskey bottle.”

  “There was some left?” He was quite certain he’d accounted for most of it during dinner.

  After chugging the brew, Bann waited a few moments, then sighed in relief as the bodhran that had been pounding out a rhythm in his head faded. He poured a cup of coffee. Taking that all-important first sip, he lingered by the sink in his morning ritual and gazed out the window.

  Fog surrounded the house, the underbelly of a low-lying cloudbank shoved up against the foothills. The rock formations on the other side of the back fence were dirty ghosts in the mist. Snow later, I’ll warrant. He topped off his cup, wandered back to the living room, and took a stand by the fireplace. “Looks like autumn has finally surrendered.” He sipped again, then placed the mug on the mantel. Stretching, he arched his back until his spine gave off a satisfying pop.

  Shay eyed him. “You should do yoga.”

  “Yoga.”

  “We could do it together.”

  “Yoga.”

  “Sure. I used to go to a co-ed class at the downtown Y. It’ll help keep you limber.”

  “Yoga.”

  “Yes, yoga. And repeating it over and over with that look on your face is not going to make me stop.”

  “What look is that?”

  “The look that screams ‘hell will have frozen over enough for the Frost Giants to vacation there before you will find me twisted into a position that resembles a Celtic knot.’”

  “You’re mixing your mythologies, you know.”

  Shay rolled her eyes. “Oh, never mind.”

  Victory, he thought, careful to keep his expression bland.

  The sound of a door opening. From Bann’s position, he saw Cor shuffle across the hall, Sam on his heels. They disappeared into the bathroom. A few moments later, Sam reappeared. He trotted toward them, tail wagging and claws clicking on the bare floor. After a stop for a pat and a scratch from Bann, he headed over to Shay and tried to crawl up on the sofa, front paws scrabbling for purchase.

  “You think being cute means you should be allowed on the furniture, don’t you?” She ruffled his ears. Sam whined, as if agreeing with her about both the cuteness and about being allowed on the sofa.

  Yawning, Cor joined them. Dressed in T-shirt, jeans, and shoes, he had one arm already stuck inside his new winter jacket that Bann always thought made his son look like a puffy blueberry. “C’mon, Sammy. Pee time.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Shay flipped the throw to one side. “I want to see what the weather gods have in store for us today. Man, I miss the days when I could go for a run in the Garden without worrying about all the crazies.” She bent over and fished her running shoes out from under the coffee table.

  Enjoying the view, Bann pictured a different form of exercise he would rather do. “Not prudent at this time.”

  “I know.” She straightened and pulled on her shoes. “Maybe later we could work out in the back yard. Do a little hand-to-hand sparring if the snow holds off?” she said, tying the laces. “Or even if it doesn’t.”

  “Sparring? You and I?” He spread his arms wide, making sure to flex his chest muscles. “A bit of a mismatch, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Nah, I’ll go easy on you.” With a grin, she shooed Cor and Sam ahead of her. She snagged her fleece from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and pulled it on as she followed the boys outside. Morning air drifted in—even from the living room, Bann felt its cold kiss. The glass door rolled closed with a thump.

  “It will be the first time.” Shaking his head, he started toward the kitchen for more coffee. A small, dark object on the floor at the end of the hallway caught his eye. “Oh, shite.” Literally. Snagging some paper towels, he walked back and picked up the errant poop Sam had left in his rush to follow Cor. Bann spied a second one just outside Cor’s door. After picking that one up as well, he checked the kennel. Another pile of stools sat in one corner of the crate. Lovely way to begin my day, he grumbled to himself, cleaning the mess and Sam’s bedding.

  Holding the wad of paper towels away from himself, he headed back to the kitchen and wrapped the mess tightly in a plastic bag before tossing it away. I should’ve made Cor clean up after his dog, he thought, five minutes too late. And why are they still outside on such a chilly morning? Leaning over the sink, he looked out the window.

  The back gate stood open, silently screaming at the empty yard.


  An invisible fist socked Bann in the gut so hard he actually rocked back on his heels. Taking two long strides, he wrenched the door open with a bang and bolted out, whacking a shoulder against the frame in his desperate sprint and almost knocking the glass panel off its track. He ran across the yard, heedless of the bite of gravel under his bare feet, and cursing with every stride. He skidded to a halt at the gate. Choose the right direction, ye bastard. A tiny part of his mind—the hunter part—told him to get his head out of his arse and look down.

  As if to confuse him, a jumble of fresh footprints shot off in all directions. There was no sign of small boy print among any of them. He started after what looked like the newest ones. What kind of fokke-up are you? The voice screamed inside his skull. To let your family get taken. And how the hell did anything get past the wards?

  He winced when rocks cut his feet. Stop. Think. If they wanted Shay and Cor dead, you’d be looking at bodies, not prints. He clung to that hope to keep from going insane.

  Not going after them almost made his knees buckle. He ran back to the house anyway. I’ll need help. Without breaking stride, he scooped Shay’s cell off the island counter as he dashed past it and hurried down the hall. Dressing one-handed, he fumbled with the phone, cursing his labor-thickened fingers when they scrolled past Hugh’s number twice before landing on it. He tapped the number and waited, stomping his feet into his boots as he stared at the screen.

  No answer. Bann left a message, tried Ann’s, and got the same result. He tried their land line next. He recalled asking Shay why they still had one.

  “Because there’s still enough older Knights around who don’t have cell phones or cannot afford them,” she had explained. After the twentieth ring, he slammed it down.

  Sweat breaking out on his face and back, he started to search for James’s number when another name jumped out at him. He punched the entry, arming himself with a bronze blade as he waited; his iron weapon was already in its sheath on his hip. Just as he was ready to give up—because he could not bear another second of standing around while Shay and Cor were in the hands of someone or something that was going to use them to hurt him in the worst way possible—a voice answered.

  Bann closed his eyes in relief before speaking. “It’s Boru,” he said in Gaelic. “I need your aid.”

  19

  BLINKING A STRAND OF hair out of her eyes, Shay glared at the creature working the gag free from her mouth. She tried to bite its—his—finger when he pulled the cloth out, but he was too fast. All she managed to do was rake her teeth along the digit, leaving a shallow groove. She hawked as best she could through a dry mouth and spat the morsel of flesh to one side. Forced to sit with her hands tied behind her, she shifted about, stomach and ribs aching from being hauled in a fireman’s carry over the shoulder of her captor—a creature she had once fantasized about dousing with gasoline and setting on fire. The guard moved over to Cor and untied the boy’s gag.

  Fir Bolgs. She looked at the five creatures milling around her. By the Goddess, I hate these freaky bastards.

  Looking like rejects from a redneck reality show in their sleeveless shirts and camo pants, the Fir Bolgs’ leathery skin—skin that Bann had once said reminded him of beef jerky—seemed impervious to the cold. Just human-shaped enough to pass a casual glance, their muscles bulged with Marvel comic-hero exaggeration. Their dark eyes were accented by swirling facial tattoos that extended up and over their shaved heads—pseudo-Maori warriors’ tats. The creatures had inhabited ancient Éireann until the first of Shay’s people set foot on the island’s green shores. Backed by the war goddess Danu, the Tuatha Dé Danaan were able to wrest control of the land from them. And we Fey have been on their shit list ever since, she thought.

  As far as Shay could deduce, the five Fir Bolgs must have been waiting in the dawn, crouched on the far side of the fence. One of them had simply reached over and eased the gate open enough to catch Sam’s attention. The faint creak had also caught Shay and Cor’s attention. When Sam had shot out to investigate in true puppy fashion, both woman and child had scrambled after him. The nearest Fir Bolg had grabbed the puppy with one hand while the other held a modern-looking steel hunting knife poised above the innocent body, the message loud and clear.

  How did they get through our wards? her mind had screamed at her. And why didn’t I bring a weapon? And, oh gods, if Bann sees what’s going on, he’s going to do something stupid and charge out here. She knew in her heart that would end with Sam being slaughtered in front of Cor. And maybe even something worse.

  “Make one sound, Fey bitch. Or give any sort of warning to your mate,” the Fir Bolg had whispered, making a stabbing motion, “and I’ll pin the hound to the earth. Through its skull.”

  Cursing under her breath, she had managed to both control herself from attacking them with her bare hands and to keep Cor from making any move that might endanger him or Sam. At the Fir Bolg’s silent order, she had stepped through the gate, one hand fisted on the back of Cor’s jacket. Within seconds, their hands and feet had been bound and gags stuffed in their mouths to prevent them, especially Shay, from using the Song.

  After the Fir Bolg stepped away to join the others, Shay sighed, her breath a cloud. The cold from the ground seeped through her jeans and mixed with chilled air, causing her to shiver in spite of her fleece. Glad Cor has a jacket on. She watched as a Fir Bolg, the only one without an overabundance of facial piercing and most likely the leader by the way he ordered the other creatures about, walked back the way they had traveled, retracing their path. He disappeared into the lowering cloudbank that continued to smother the foothills.

  Probably to make sure we aren’t being followed. A corner of her mouth curled. You guys better hope Bann doesn’t catch up with you. Most likely with Hugh and the others right beside him. Knights going medieval on your asses.

  Moving as much as the restraints would allow, she studied the surrounding terrain; they had stopped on the side of a wooded hill. We’re somewhere between my house and Hugh’s, but I can’t tell exactly with this fog and being hauled upside down. The memory of the creature fondling her ass as he carried her made her want to throw up. Or stab something. Damn, I wish I had farted.

  Reminding herself that she, and the boy beside her, were both descendents of Danu, the war goddess Herself, she risked whispering a line from the Song. Just to be ready if an opportunity arises for us to make a break for it. “‘I am a spear on the attack, pouring forth combat…’”

  “‘I am the god who fires your mind,’” Cor finished, his voice barely audible.

  Oh, Cor. Shay’s heart swelled at the show of grit. That’s my boy. Too bad he’s too young for the power of the Song to work for him.

  Cor sat next to her, their shoulders touching. Apparently they didn’t consider the boy much of a threat, because his hands were tied in front of him. He glanced up at Shay and gestured with his bound hands toward his right hip and started to speak.

  “I’ve got my—” He stopped when the guard who had carried Shay returned.

  The Fir Bolg squatted down in front of Cor, an old-fashioned canteen in his hand. He unscrewed the top and held it out to the boy. “Here.” Cor glared at his captive, eyes narrowed and jaw jutting out in true Boru fashion, refusing to take the container. “Drink,” the Fir Bolg ordered. He shook it. The canteen made a sloshing sound. “Just water.”

  A tendril of hope curled around Shay’s heart. They wouldn’t be giving us water if they were planning on killing us right away. But still. “Me first,” she said. The Fir Bolg held the canteen to her lips. She took a cautious sip, spilling water down her chin. Holding it in her mouth, she waited a moment for any telltale tingling or numbness, then swallowed.

  “Go ahead, Cor. I think it’s safe.”

  Taking the canteen in his tied hands, he gulped noisily, paused for air, then drank again until his cheeks bulged. Lips pursed tightly in the imitation of a nut-gathering squirrel, he offered the container back. When th
e guard leaned forward to take it, Cor spat the entire mouthful in the monster’s face.

  Face dripping, the Fir Bolg ripped the canteen out of Cor’s hand. “You little shit.” Baring his teeth—the tips serrated like a shark’s—he upended the rest of the canteen over Cor’s head. Hooting in derision, the remaining three Fir Bolgs gathered around.

  “Hey!” Shay lurched to her knees, her movements awkward. She struggled as the others pushed her back down, laughing.

  Flinging the empty canteen to one side, the Fir Bolg snatched another one from a fellow creature and emptied it again, taking his time to soak the boy’s jacket and shirt underneath. “Want some more?”

  “Leave him alone!” Shay struggled against her guards, one of whom held her by the hair. “You want to pick on someone, try me.” She jerked her head free. A few strands ripped free with a faint tearing sound.

  “Oh, we will, bitch. Give you a taste of real male-meat, instead of that pretty-boy Fey of yours. But first, I’m going to teach your squat-drop a lesson.” The Fir Bolg grabbed a third canteen. By the time he finished, Cor was shivering from the cold.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The leader reappeared, stomping toward them. He shoved the others aside, except the one who had soaked Cor. That one, he slapped across the back of the head. Reaching down, he hauled Shay to her feet, then Cor. “He ordered us to keep them alive and unharmed!”

  “A little water’s not going to hurt them, Lebor—”

  “You head-fokke,” Lebor snarled. “In this weather, the whelp will sicken and die. Now we’ll have to hurry.”

  “Who’s he?” Shay asked the leader still gripping her arm.

  He paused and looked at her. Amusement twisted his mouth and exposed fangs pointed like the others. For a moment, Shay wondered if they sharpened their teeth with a whetstone. “Who do you think?”