Unholy Blue Read online

  “Awake, are you?” Gideon paused and let him down.

  Nodding while he yawned, and feeling better for the nap, Cor looked around. Flakes swirled about like white confetti at a wedding. Nearby, a stone wall, higher than Cor’s head, loomed out of the fog now mixed with snow. It was capped in sheets of bronze molded over the top layer and beaded with moisture. “Where are we?”

  “Home.” Gideon led the way along the wall. Reaching a wooden gate near one end, he pushed it open and ushered Cor into the yard. Even as Cor walked through the gate, he could feel the burr of magic. “’Tis well warded,” the Knight said.

  A few tall trees were tucked in the corners, while an odd contraption, a pair of tall posts with a wire strung between them, stood guard in the center of the yard. A lumpy burlap bag dangled from the wire.

  “What’s that?”

  “’Tis a practice dummy.”

  “Oh.” Cor eyed it as they continued toward a two-story house in a cottage-y style that reminded him of every fantasy story he’d read. He followed the Knight to the back door.

  Entering the small kitchen, Cor paused in the doorway, not sure what to do about his muddy shoes. He looked down at the dirty linoleum floor, already marred with dollops of reddish clay from Gideon’s boots, then at the breakfast dishes, with breakfast still on them, on the round table tucked in the corner. With a shrug, he walked inside.

  After filling a drinking glass with water, Gideon handed it to him. Cor chugged half of it down in one long gulp, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thank you,” he said, remembering his manners. He sank down on one of the kitchen chairs near the table when the Knight waved him over, grateful to give his weary legs a rest. He took another drink.

  “Hungry?” Taking a drink of water himself, Gideon leaned against the counter.

  “No, sir. Not really.”

  A corner of the Black Hand’s mouth twitched. “An old-fashioned father, your da is.”

  Not sure what that meant, Cor nodded and shifted in his seat. He looked out the kitchen window over the sink at the falling snow. “When are we going back?”

  “Going back?”

  “To help Dad and Shay.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “You’ll aid them more by staying safe here.”

  Cor looked down at his mud-speckled jeans. He picked at a drying patch, peeling it off like a scab. “Please?” He already knew what the Black Hand was going to say, but he had to try. A silence filled the kitchen. After a long moment, he looked up.

  Gideon was studying him. “Brave lad for one so young, Cormac Boru. And this be yours.” He dug into a pocket and pulled out Cor’s switchblade.

  “Oh!” Cor’s heart lifted in relief and delight. He clicked it open, examined it, then closed it again, and thrust it into his front pocket, the weight on his thigh comforting.

  “You know how to use a weapon, then?”

  “Dad showed me how to kill those…F-Fir Bolgs.” Saying their names left bile in his throat.

  “You’ve fought them before.” Something, like a mix of anger and pity, flickered across the Knight’s face, then vanished.

  “Yes, sir.” The memory of what they had done to him made him want to pull his arms and legs inside of Shay’s jacket and hide. “Me and Dad. They…” he stopped and swallowed. “They hurt Dad, and then they…they…” The rest of the words formed a dam in his throat. He looked away, eyelids burning.

  Gideon pulled a chair closer and took a seat next to him. “Cormac Boru.” The Knight’s voice was soft. “Look at me, lad.”

  Blinking hard, Cor obeyed. He’s going to think I’m a crybaby.

  “Your da is a fine warrior. As is the Healer. They know when to stand, and better yet, when to flee to stand another day.”

  Wanting to believe those words more than anything in the world, Cor nodded. He sucked in a shaky breath, then wiped his runny nose on a wet sleeve. He shivered again, the sodden fleece cold and clammy against his skin.

  Gideon’s black brows pinched together. “We best find some warmer clothing.” He rose. “Come.”

  Wearily, Cor followed him out of the kitchen and into the living room. A fireplace, crafted from river rocks, took up most of one entire side. Rows upon rows of bronze weapons, as well as a few iron ones, rested on pegs above the mantel. Across the room, a small desk was tucked under the stairs, while shabby furniture, consisting of a sofa covered in cracked leather and several worn armchairs, was clustered in the center of the room. Two large windows looked over a wooden porch. Through them, Cor saw that Gideon’s home was tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac. Like our home, he thought as they climbed the stairs.

  The thought of their home made him think of his best friend. “Sam ran away.”

  “A wise pup,” Gideon said over his shoulder. “Wise enough to return when the threat is no more.”

  “That’s what Shay said.”

  “Ah. Then it is gospel.”

  Walking along the upper corridor, Gideon entered the first room on the left. As the Knight walked over to a dresser, Cor glanced about. A double bed took up most of the room. Through the window, he could see the upper floor of a tall brick house across the street.

  The Knight rummaged through one drawer, then another, before pulling out a couple of thick sweaters. He gestured for Cor to step closer and held a cream-colored sweater against him, measuring the fit. “Too large by about five years.” Tossing it on the bed, he tried the other sweater. Smaller and hand-knitted, its dark green was faded with time and wear to a soft sage. “Better.”

  Unzipping Shay’s fleece, Cor shrugged it off and dropped it to the floor, then pulled the sweater on over his head and tugged it in place. “It fits me. Is this your sweater?”

  “No.”

  Cor waited for more. “Your son’s?” he guessed.

  “Aye.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “So, where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “Never.” Gathering up the other sweater, Gideon folded it up with a care that seemed out of place before tucking it back in the drawer. Cor got the message loud and clear. “Right,” said the Knight. “Now to plan what to do—”

  A telephone rang from downstairs. Gideon trotted down the stairs, boots punishing the wooden treads. Cor scurried behind him. They hurried back to the kitchen.

  Grabbing the phone from the cradle sitting on one end of the kitchen counter, Gideon snatched it up. “Lir.”

  While Cor knew the other voice was male and somehow familiar, he also knew it wasn’t his father’s. Fidgeting, he kept his eyes locked on Gideon’s face. Please let them be okay. Please let them be okay, he babbled to himself. Panic welled up in his chest when the Knight abruptly turned away and hissed something in Gaelic. A pause, then he slammed it down.

  “Um…Gideon?” Cor spoke to the rigid back.

  The Black Hand turned. His expression made Cor edge back a step. He tensed when Gideon shoved past him to the living room. From the doorway, he watched as the Knight dropped his weapon on the desk, then selected two fresh knives, one bronze, the other iron, examined their edges with a grunt of satisfaction, and then grabbed a third one. Bending over, he thrust that one into his ankle sheath. As he tightened the straps, he spoke to Cor over his shoulder. “Your blade. Is it sharpened?”

  “Yes, sir. Dad sharpens it every day for me.” Cor held his breath when Gideon fixed him with a keen glance.

  “Good.” The Knight straightened. His expression sent a thrill through Cor; Gideon’s next words almost made him shout aloud. “For we are going into battle.”

  Several hours later, Cor was holding tightly to the door handle as the station wagon, driven by one of the Knights he had seen at Hugh’s house—the same night he’d first seen Max—skidded around another corner. The wiper blades squealed along the windshield, slapping at the snow. In the front seat, Gideon Lir was talking in a low tone to the driver.

  Cor turned
around and looked out the rear window. More vehicles, of all makes and models, followed. Each was filled with Knights of the Doyle clan. All going to war to protect their clan leaders.

  As they had waited for the others to assemble at his home, Gideon had fed Cor a hasty lunch of cold roast beef, slathered with spicy mustard and served on slices of brown bread so thick, Cor was sure he had popped his jaws getting a mouthful. Hot tea and cookies—what the Knight had called biscuits—rounded out the meal. Not a fruit or vegetable in sight.

  Cor couldn’t wait to be a Knight.

  “You go not only to fight for your chieftains,” Gideon had said to the large group crammed into his house, “but also for your Healer, who has dedicated her life to all of you. For the long-son of our High King.” He had placed a hand on Cor’s shoulder, beside him. “And for a child’s father.”

  “Do you have a plan, then, Lir?” one of the Doyle’s Knights had asked.

  Gideon had smiled. Something in his expression had reminded Cor of a wolf.

  “Oh, aye.”

  22

  “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 closes
t 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.