by M. D. Massey
But the leech wasn’t having it. As the giant struggled to grab him, Le Boucher wrapped his legs around Tethra’s left arm, catching them in a figure-four lockdown. Then he reached under the giant’s right arm with one hand and over his shoulder with the other, grabbing his forearm and hugging it to his opponent’s chest with both hands. This put him in the perfect position to open his jaws to an unnaturally wide angle and chomp down on the Fomorian’s neck.
Le Boucher must’ve hit an artery, because as soon as he sank his teeth in, blood spurted everywhere. I was pretty sure most of it went down the vamp’s throat, but a lot of it ran down Tethra’s chest, falling in thick rivulets to soak the slick sandstone surface below. Gallons of blood were pumping out of the Fomorian, and at this rate it wouldn’t be long before he bled out completely.
Knowing he was in a bad way, the giant struggled to free himself, straining as he flexed his massive arms and chest to break the hold. The challenge for the Fomorian wasn’t just leverage, but strength. He was fighting an ancient vampire, a likewise super-fucking strong creature using his entire body to lock Tethra’s arms in place. By the look in his eyes, I could tell the giant wasn’t panicked, but he was close. Desperate to free himself, he leapt into the air, flipping over and landing on his back in an attempt to shake Le Boucher loose.
Ooh, wrong move dude.
Doing that was a huge mistake on Tethra’s part. The position Le Boucher had him in was, ironically enough, called the “crucifix” in MMA and jiu-jitsu. It was hard to get to, but once the aggressor rolled over to their back it was damned near impossible to escape. Rather than shake Le Boucher loose, he’d allowed him to sink his hold in deeper, taking away any chance the Fomorian might have had to escape.
By this point I could finally see where this was heading, and I’d recovered enough to do something about it. Not that I wanted Tethra to live—I wanted them both to die. I’d promised Saint Germain that I’d cure him or kill him, and that’s what I intended to do. As quietly as possible, I struggled to my feet and pulled Gae Dearg from my Craneskin Bag.
As I crept over to the Fomorian and the ancient master vampire, Tethra’s breathing was ragged and his skin ashen. Meanwhile Le Boucher’s eyes were closed as he fed, so intent was he on the ecstatic experience of drinking a god dry. I had no idea what gorging on god blood might do to one of his kind, and I didn’t want to find out.
Leaping as high in the air as I could, I stabbed Diarmuid’s Read Spear through the Fomorian’s heart with all my might as I landed on his chest. As the spear exited Tethra’s back it entered Le Boucher’s torso and out again. I continued pushing until I could push no more, only stopping because I lacked the strength to drive it more than a few inches into the rock below.
Tethra merely shuddered once and went still, so close was he to death. As for Le Boucher, his eyes went wide as he released a blood-curdling scream, then he went limp. Afraid to pull the Spear free, I stepped back and doubled over with my hands on my knees. There I remained, bent but not broken, drawing great gasps of air into my lungs and trying not to pass out.
After I’d recovered, I was about to walk over and grab the Spear when I saw Le Boucher move. Quick as a wink he disentangled himself, getting his arms under the giant to force Tethra’s corpse off him. Pressing the massive Fomorian over his body like a weightlifter, his eyes locked on mine as the Spear slowly slid free from his chest.
Without so much as a grunt of effort, he tossed the vanquished god-killer to the side. Springing to his feet, he gently probed the hole in his chest as he visually inspected the wound.
“Well, that’s inconvenient. Damned good thing I don’t bleed.”
“You should be dead,” I croaked. “How?”
“Come now, Colin. Considering I expired over two millennia ago, did you really think that spear would cause me a mortal wound?”
“You’re only alive because I missed your heart,” I growled.
“That’s true. But never fear—I’m not one to hold a grudge. I told you that if you released me, I’d help you kill the giant and save your master. And, that’s what I’ve done. Since you’re much too interesting to kill—” He glanced around, sniffing the air like a sommelier. “Mmm, yes. I believe my dessert is that way. It’s been a while since I had fae—what a treat! Be well, druid.”
And quick as a wink, he was gone.
“Um, shit.”
“Colin, are you there?” It was Plúr, speaking through the snail shell. “We’re at the tomb, but we need your help. I’m opening a portal to you now.”
A dark gray circle opened to my left, like a window into another world. I stared at Saint Germain’s retreating, monstrous form for the span of two seconds, which was about how long it took for him to reach the edge of Tethra’s killing fields. Then I turned on heel and ran through Plúr’s portal, straight into Fionn’s tomb. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but soon I was able to make out Fionn lying in state on a raised stone dais.
The late demigod had been decked out in a serious-looking set of armor, with a large oblong shield resting against one side of the platform, and his magical spear laying alongside the other. He’d been buried with all sorts of treasure, including a chariot and, based on the bones scattered about, a full team of horses as well.
Although he was pale as milk in moonlight, his corpse was in absolutely perfect condition. And when I say “perfect” I don’t mean that he had that waxy, made-up appearance you’d get for ten grand at the local mortuary. Nope, the dude was fresh as a new pot of coffee. Heck, if I didn’t know he was dead, I’d have expected him to sit up and say hello—he looked that good.
But what really freaked me out was that he resembled the hell out of my dad. Like Dad, Fionn was tall, with strawberry blonde hair, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and the sort of rugged good looks that could charm the panties off a lesbian nun. I hadn’t seen my pops since I was a kid, but take away the horseshoe mustache and a few scars, and that was my father laying there on that platform.
So stunned was I by the similarity, I didn’t notice much else in the room. Plúr stood by the dais so I spotted her right away, but ninety percent of my attention was focused on the doppelgänger imitating my dad. Finally, a noise behind me snapped me out of my daze, causing me to look around. The portal had closed, and while Oisín and Oscar stood behind me, Finnegas was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Finnegas, Plúr?”
“Hold him,” she said. Immediately, two sets of hands grabbed me by the wrists and upper arms.
“What’s going on? Tell me why you haven’t healed Finnegas.”
Still a bit disoriented from being nearly choked to death, I was too slow on the uptake to understand what was happening. Yet I struggled, although it was a waste of energy to try. Both father and son had the blood of gods running through their veins, and they hadn’t had the life squeezed out of them by a twelve-foot-tall Fomorian.
Plúr had tears, actual tears in her eyes as she curled Fionn’s hand into a shallow bowl. “I’m sorry, Colin, but in his current state it could be centuries before Fionn’s body has the power to heal wounds such as yours again. We all love Finn Eces, but his time has passed. You are the future of the druids, the future of the fianna. The Seer foretold this day, and his instructions were clear. ‘Choose the boy.’”
I reflected on how quickly she’d sent Saint Germain’s sarcophagus through the portal. Supposedly it had been locked away, deep inside their dungeons, yet she’d sent it immediately at my request. The traitorous witch had known all along, and she’d deceived me while wearing a smile. Her mother would be proud.
“You gave your word.” I hissed. “You both gave your word!”
Oisín’s eyes pleaded with me. “Ya’ must understand, lad—’tis what the Seer wanted.”
“No—no!” I roared, struggling in vain as I watched Plúr pour water into Fionn’s hand, where it quickly took on a brilliant, silvery glow. Then she tilted his hand so the magical, healing wate
rs flowed into a shallow bronze bowl, sparing not a single drop.
I tried headbutting Oisín and kicking Oscar in the nuts, but they easily evaded my attacks. In response Oscar clocked me hard, dislocating my jaw. My mind swam and my knees went weak, and for a second I was out on my feet.
“Hold him down,” Plúr said.
One of the men swept my feet out from under me, slamming me hard to the ground. Oscar began to pry my mouth open with his thumb, so I bit him as hard as I could, despite my injured jaw. Grimacing, he pulled a dagger from his waist, shoving it between my teeth hard enough to crack one loose.
The demigod twisted the knife, forcing my jaws apart. I had blood in my mouth and I was choking on a broken tooth to boot, but I didn’t stop fighting them, not for a second. When I started gagging on my own blood Plúr panicked, and she began to pour the liquid into my mouth.
Before she could, her father motioned her off. “Wait.”
They didn’t have to wait long. The change came over me slowly because I was weak and disoriented. But come it did, and as I shifted I bled all over Fionn’s tomb. Roughly halfway through the change, Oisín nodded.
“Now, Plúr, when he’s betwixt forms—ta’ ensure it heals them both.”
She did as she was told, pouring the magical, healing waters that were supposed to save Finnegas down my throat. I tried to spit it up, mostly out of spite, but apparently it didn’t matter. As soon as the liquid hit my lips I felt it go to work, fixing what Gae Dearg and Diarmuid had broken without and within.
Flesh that had previously refused to heal suddenly, painfully reformed. Bones were knit, arteries sealed, and internal organs mended good as new. By the time the magic had fully worked its way through my system, it had closed all my wounds. Even my broken tooth grew back, and not the palest scar remained to remind me of my near defeat at Diarmuid’s hands.
When all was said and done, I lay there in my half-Fomorian form, spent and weakened, but very much alive. Plúr motioned to her father and sibling and they released me, backing away as if they were returning a tiger to the wild. I looked at them each in turn with a bitterness that only a deep betrayal can instill.
“The healing magic draws on his own reserves,” Plúr said. “He’ll be unable to retaliate until long after we’re gone.”
Oisín looked down at me, regret and indecision written across his face. “Colin—”
“Don’t,” I hissed.
The bard pursed his lips and looked away.
“He deserved the truth,” Oscar said as he gave them each a disgusted look. “It should’ve been his decision to make.”
Plúr gave her brother a warning look, and he said no more. Then, she opened a portal, waiting until her father and brother both stepped through before she spoke.
“We’ll see that the Seer is kept comfortable until his death.”
I shook my head. “No. You’ll send him back through the portal, and the girl with him. Or so help me I’ll finish the job Tethra started the last time you came this way.”
“But Colin, it won’t—”
“Just do it.”
She exited through the portal, and a few minutes later someone shoved Clara through. Moments after that, Oscar emerged carrying Finnegas. He laid him on the floor next to me with gentle, almost loving care. Then, he stepped back through to the other side, where his father and sister waited.
“For what it’s worth, druid, I didn’t want this,” Oscar said, as the portal winked out of existence.
“Neither did I, Oscar,” I replied, long after he’d gone.
Once I’d recovered, I tried reviving Finnegas the same way I’d seen Plúr revive me. Naturally, it didn’t work. Oh, some color returned to his cheeks, and his breathing got a little easier, but he didn’t wake.
With no other options, I cast a stasis spell on him, then I carried both him and Clara out of the tomb. Now fully healed and in complete control of my ríastrad, it was nothing for me to shift and leap from the top of the fortress walls as Tethra had done. But out of concern for Finn’s safety, instead I found some rope and made a harness that I used to gently lower him down, followed by the young, still catatonic vampire.
Then, I leapt from the wall and swept the old man up in my arms, heading for the site of my recent battle with Tethra. Once there, I laid the old man inside the coffin. Saint Germain had lined it with thickly-padded velvet to provide himself with some small amount of comfort while he was interred. After I had Finnegas situated, I grabbed Dyrnwyn and shoved it in my Bag, along with Tethra’s greatsword, Orna.
While I worked, I felt something brush my mind, just the slightest mental touch. It was no more than a whisper, but I recognized the source. Nodding to myself, I pulled the rope from the wall and wove half of it into a harness I could use to drag the coffin behind me. As for the other length of rope, I tied one end around Clara’s waist and the other to the casket.
Once that was done, I followed the smooth stone path out of the crater, back the way I’d come. Strangely, blessedly, the trail was all downhill from there. Perhaps the land was trying to thank me for freeing it from Tethra’s wicked grasp by speeding me along. Or maybe it just wanted the other Fomorian gone. Regardless, I kept my head down as I trudged ahead, and before I knew it I stood facing a vibrant oasis of green in the middle of that vast desert of rock and dust.
I looked up, and in the center of that field stood the most blessed thing I’d seen since I’d landed in Mag Mell—my Druid Oak. Apparently it had sensed the horehound seed I’d planted, following it to the misnomered Joyful Plain. Our telepathic connection was still fuzzy and weak, which was likely why it had waited for me there rather than coming to Tethra’s stronghold. However, I had a sneaking suspicion the connection would improve once we left the lands of the Tuatha Dé Danann—and Badb’s influence.
My first order of business was to hide Finnegas within the Grove, left in stasis until I could find a way to heal him completely. Then I came back for Clara, knowing that I’d have to use the Oak to transport us both to Luther’s, where I’d leave her in the coven leader’s expert care. How I was going to explain letting Saint Germain loose in Underhill was another matter entirely, but I figured what Luther didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I was just about to ask the Oak to transport us to Austin, when a quick look around the landscape gave me pause.
I can’t leave this be.
First, I laid a hand on the Oak to draw from its power. Then I strode to the edge of the field where I knelt to touch the rocky ground, fingers outstretched. Closing my eyes, I probed deep beneath the surface, searching long and hard until I found what I was looking for. Then I pulled, using my intent and the Grove’s magic to draw my find toward the surface.
Once done, I stepped back to observe the fruits of my labor. A deep rumbling came from beneath the rock and soil, building to a crescendo as a geyser of water shot out of the ground. For several minutes it spewed thousands of gallons of water high into the sky, before gradually calming into a gently flowing spring that bubbled up from the rocky ground.
It’d take time, but eventually the water would produce vegetation, and that vegetation would draw wildlife back to this place. With any luck the land would heal itself, and the area formerly ruled by Tethra would bloom once more.
I knelt and touched the land one last time, and for a moment I felt something like gratitude coming from deep within. Maybe it was just an echo of my own desires, but it made me feel as though I’d done at least one thing right. I couldn’t heal Finnegas, but I’d managed to help heal this land. For now, it would have to be enough.
“Oh, this is good—very good!” Click said as he walked in slow circles around Finnegas.
A week later, I still had the old man in stasis inside the Grove. Since I couldn’t very well let Maeve know I could do time magic, I’d asked the quasi-god for his help instead. Click—the trickster formerly known as Gwydion—seemed almost lucid today, which was a pleasant change from his moods of late. Finnegas had once t
old me that near-immortality had driven the mage insane. Personally, I suspected he’d been mad as a hatter all along, but the old man knew better than I.
“What do you mean, ‘this is good’?” I asked. “Is his health improving?”
“Nay,” Click said, resting his chin in his hand. “But yer control o’er chronomancy is definitely improving. Hmm, yes—much improved.”
“Click, stay on task. Can you help him or not?”
He squinted, tilting his head quizzically. “Me? Again, nay. I was never any good at healing magic—not me thing, ya’ see. Have ya’ tried giving him a drink o’ water from Fionn MacCumhaill’s hands?”
I took a deep breath, counting to ten before I spoke. “Let’s just say that’s not an immediate option. Any other suggestions?”
“Too bad. It usually works wonders, if he doesn’t pull that stupid, ‘Oh, look—it slipped right through me fingers’ trick. Hmm, let me think,” the magician said, tapping a finger on his upper lip. “I doubt any o’ Maeve’s healers could help. Fer somethin’ like this, yer going ta’ need Dian Cecht. Really, any healing god will do, but he’d be me first choice.”
“Okay,” I said, nearly losing my patience. “From what I’ve heard, no one knows where Dian Cecht is.”
“Is that so? Hmm. I seem ta’ remember hearin’ somethin’ regardin’ his whereabouts, but ’tis been a while. Give me a moment ta’ try an’ bring it ta’ the fore.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the sleeve of his neatly cuffed black t-shirt. Going from white t-shirts to black had been a major sartorial transformation for the quasi-god, but he still dressed like an extra from Grease. I did my best to remain composed as he slowly pulled one from the pack, patting his pockets for a light. After thirty seconds or so of that act, I summoned a massive fireball above my hand.
