The Forgotten Trilogy

by Cecilia Randell

The pooka’s shoulders hunched. “It is offered freely.” His voice lowered to a growling whine, like a hound afraid of the hand of its master.

  Sorrow moved through her. What were the gods of this area like that this not-man was afraid to give?

  She took the leather case from him. “It is beautiful, a worthy offering.” She hesitated. It did not feel right to not give something in return. Balance. That was what this city needed. Its balance was off, just as the brothers’ was off. Stepping forward, she laid a hand on the pooka’s shoulder and opened her mind’s eye.

  Flash. A woman, thin as he, under a full moon. Flat marshes surrounded her, and a low mountain rose behind her.

  Not much. She sighed. “You will find her on a full moon, in a marsh under a low mountain.”

  The pooka’s eyes shot to hers, wide. He scrambled back from her touch and into the alley. Then he stood straight, bowed to her, and bolted to the main street. His movements were smooth, his long limbs allowing him to stretch and reach like a horse across the red lands.

  She’d have to confirm what a pooka was.

  The door opened behind her. “I forgot to ask his name,” she said to whichever brother this was.

  “Liam.” Mell stepped to her side. “You didn’t—” He shifted on his feet. “You didn’t give him anything, did you?”

  A curl of resentment formed in her belly. “Nothing that he asked for.” She would not lie, but what gave these men the right to question her? She was a goddess that... was renting their spare room. She sighed. “I did have a vision. I told him what I saw, how to find his love. He did not ask for it, and the gift was freely given.”

  He grunted. “Probably get away with it.” He nudged her with his elbow, and she looked up to see a mischievous grin. “Not that I honestly care. And, here is something to keep in mind. Dub knew who you were, or he suspected, but he still rented you the room. Something in him wants you here, or you wouldn’t be here, goddess or no. He would have simply denied your application.” Mell wagged his brows. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Bat laughed. Mell hid behind his power, but there was still a side of him that genuinely enjoyed playing. She leaned into him. “I will tell you something as well. I am glad I am here too, despite these events.”

  He wrapped an arm around her and turned them both to the door. “Well, let’s get to it, shall we, and find us a killer.” He opened the door and said in a voice lowered to a loud whisper that carried to the other two brothers where they stood, heads together. “Ignore the grumpy one. He’s crazy anyway. Has been for centuries.”

  The two brothers pulled apart, Dub glaring at Mell while Shar laughed.

  Dub turned to her and the frown eased. “We have... conferred, and we would be grateful for your assistance in finding the person who killed Dano. Any help you can offer. No strings, no supplications, no formal offerings or rituals or any of that crap. Just... what you care to give. If the guardi has a problem with it, we’ll deal with them.”

  This was exactly what she wanted, but the way he put it… Just what you care to give. The words zipped around in her mind, bouncing and careening like a drunken sand fox. When had she ever considered what she cared to give? Not once had such a sentiment been directed at her. Pleas, orders, and demands, yes. Duty and purpose and fate, yes. Offerings and sacrifice and endless obligation she was compelled to fulfill, and for the most part was glad to do so. But this was something different, and it fed her like nothing else. It was choice. She had made her own decision about her new role earlier when she went to fetch the Idiot’s Guide. Now it was being offered.

  She wondered if Dub had any idea how precious that gift was.

  “Of course, I will help,” she said, forcing the words through a throat tight with emotion. She couldn’t resist a little dig at the grumpy brother. “Is that not what I have been trying to do?”

  Dub raised a brow and crossed his arms, not giving an inch. “Tell me again what you saw.”

  Chapter 11

  FINN CUMHAILL

  “You and Brian get the evidence and impressions cataloged,” Finn ordered Criedne, his lieutenant. “Have Auden examine the body, and see what Sean can get on that print.”

  Criedne inclined her head and spun on her heal, heading off after the rest of his team as they carried the leprechaun’s body across a small yard shielded from human eyes. Their headquarters for the Connaught region were housed in a renovated warehouse situated in northern Sligo, and while the myths of iron being poisonous to the fae were just that—myths—the metal did interfere with many of the rune magics. They could not transport themselves, or the body, directly to the lab for analysis, thus the small yard disguised as a delivery area.

  There were many such things in his life now. Small adjustments that were made over the centuries to accommodate new technologies and ideas and customs, until the world he lived in barely resembled the one he’d lived in the time of mac Cormac. He missed that era, when there was no need to hide who or what he was, and a man could run screaming into battle on any given day.

  Things were both simpler and much, much more complicated then. At least now the various Celtic deities had formed a sort of truce and worked together now rather than pitting their peoples against each other in battles none could truly win.

  But, oh, some of those battles…

  He, unlike the O’Loinsigh brothers and many of the other immortals, had never been anything other than a warrior, never wanted to be anything else. The Tribunal had declared after the Great War, that they would not sanction immortals fighting on behalf of or against human factions, unless those same factions sought to overthrow the gods’ own rule and territories. As most conflicts since were more political or centered around the correct forms of worship for the Christian god, he hadn’t seen a real battle since.

  Not that the last war had been fought as a real battle. He could understand Mell’s reluctance to face such a thing again. But being a member of the Ceilte Guardi was not the same as fighting in such a war. It was more the opposite, really. His job was to prevent the battles from occurring in the first place. And wasn’t that a butt-kick for a warrior?

  He pulled his thoughts from the past and took a breath. They’d treat this as any other investigation. He would treat it as such. But, a lann de anam. Finn cursed even as his blood surged. He only knew of one soul blade not accounted for in the vaults kept by the Tribunal. It had been lost in a time he preferred never to remember…

  And he would not. To dwell on such memories would serve no good purpose now. Setting off for the headquarters’ entrance, he made a small detour, following a thin stone path to a stand of bushes. He offered a slight bow to the pixies housed there, ones who preferred to keep their smaller shapes and who were hired to guard the same entrance he headed for. They knew him, of course, but a smart captain maintained proper respect so as not to end dangling in the air from vines and roots and thorned branches that moved faster than he.

  Branches waved toward him and leaves rustled. He bowed again, and finally headed inside. The warding ogham—runes, he corrected—glowed in a brief and faint pulse of welcome.

  He headed straight for the captains’ shared office. He trusted Criedne and the rest of his team to work through the details in the forensics labs.

  The Ceilte Guardi had borrowed terms and techniques from the more modern police and human guardi, but they also possessed many that only those who could wield the forces of nature or manipulate the rune magics could do. Each member of his guardi could do both, to some extent.

  There was no real need for a proper autopsy of the body, but Auden was a master at scanning for trace biologicals and imprints. While Finn could track those imprints, and gather a general sense of the person or being who had left them, Auden—given enough time and solitude—could tell you the last time that person brushed their teeth, or ate fish, or even farted. They would also be following the more human protocols of securing any non-biologic evidence left behind.

  As their l
eader, he now had a much more difficult task to complete. He had to call a goddess. It was not something he relished. A situation always spiraled when one of the deities became involved. At least the Morrigan was easier to deal with than most, even if she became prickly over the strangest things.

  Leaving behind the plain halls, he pushed through a pair of wood doors decorated in the spirals and knots of the Celts and entered his office. Well, his and four others. Fluorescent lights buzzed above and the harsh light they emitted blended with the cool daylight that filtered in through a bank of clerestory windows. The Captains’ office was open to the warehouse ceiling, with the Chief’s overlooking from the upper levels.

  It was empty, the other units still out on their patrols. Connaught was a large province to keep under control with just four teams. He knew things were getting by them, especially since this particular province was where all the troublemakers seemed to want to settle.

  He wasn’t about to complain, though. No, he’d done that a few months before, and headquarters had transferred in a new unit. But whoever thought it would be a good idea to send farking Cuchulainn from Ulster to Connaught was an idiot. Immortals were, well, immortal, and they had very long memories.

  Finn was not looking forward to the O’Loinsighs finding out the other man was here. May have been dreading it even. Luckily, the chief had decided to set the newcomers to patrolling Galway, where there was a secondary headquarters for the southern edges of their territory.

  Finn sighed as he sank into his chair. It was one of those modern contraptions that was supposed to perfectly support the body. It was very comfortable, but at the same time he couldn’t help but wish it were plain wood or a plank bench. And that he sat with his men, drinking and singing along with a bard.

  And these ridiculous longings and melancholy thoughts needed to cease. He knew why they were crowding in on him.

  He straightened a few of the file folders sitting on a corner of his desk, then rearranged the order of the pens where they lay just above his blotter. He wiggled the mouse and woke his computer, then flicked a speck of dust from the edge of the heavy wood desk. Finally, he picked up the landline phone sitting at the corner and dialed a number all the guardi were supposed to memorize, though usually only the Chief dialed.

  Finn hesitated and shot a look at the Chief’s office. The lights were off. He really should report this and let Nuada handle it, but…

  He groaned even as he punched in the number that would get him the Morrigan, the guardi’s representative among the deities, and his patron goddess.

  “This is Morri.” The voice was light, with a slight sing-song.

  Finn barely held back his snort. The voice she’d adopted did not match the woman. Or goddess, as the case may be. “A leprechaun was killed last night on the steps of the Dubros.” That should snap her out of whatever aspect she’d adopted for the day.

  “Speak to me.” Gone was the bouncy tone.

  “That’s what I know. There were some tracks, most likely—”

  The line disconnected and moments later the Morrigan stood before his desk, brow raised. She wore black, of course, and had her lips and nails painted in red today.

  Finn rose, hesitating just long enough to let her know he chose to do so, just as he chose to follow her.

  “There is more.” She crossed her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts together and up. Finn let his gaze drop in acknowledgment of her beauty, then gestured to the chair opposite him, inviting her to sit.

  She shrugged. “I should not be here long.”

  Finn remained standing as well. “I suspect the tracks were made by a baobhan sith, but one of my team is verifying. The incident occurred sometime last night, late enough that the pubs were closed, even with the celebrations.” He suppressed a smile at the goddess’s quick frown. None of the Celtic deities appreciated their followers being stolen away. They had it easy, though, compared to some cultures. They were still remembered, and many of the customs had carried over to the new faith. The original gods of the area were plenty fed.

  Not like the one he’d sensed at the pub.

  “There is also a… complication.” He did smile then, as he borrowed Mell’s word. “A goddess is vacationing, and she is staying at the Dubros.”

  “Isn’t that where Dagda decided to unload the harp?”

  Sometimes the gods’ and goddesses’ disregard for each other astounded him. “Yes,” was all he said.

  She frowned. “She did not alert us to her arrival. I also did not feel anything, and I would have if a strange deity had come into my territory. Are you sure?”

  “She is diminished to the point of near humanity.”

  “Then she should be no issue.”

  “She is from Egypt.”

  The Morrigan made no reaction to this, but that was almost as telling as if she had called for her ravens to pluck his eyes.

  “As I said, she is diminished,” he hurried to add.

  A nod was all he received. The goddess’s dark gaze drifted past him, and the lines of her face eased. After a minute, she focused on him once more. “Is that all?”

  His reaction was harder to suppress this time. What did she mean, was this all? “Other than the fact that a lost soul blade has resurfaced, and is being used?” He narrowed his gaze. “Or has one been stolen recently? Is there something the guardi need to be made aware of?”

  Her eyes narrowed in return, and she allowed a tendril of power to whip out at him.

  The sting against his chest was nothing compared to the way fear suddenly stole the strength in his thighs, and he trembled against sinking into his seat. The Morrigan had once ridden into battlefields, bolstering her allies and taking the courage of her enemies. And she did it with entire armies. When even a portion of that was directed against one man, the effect was staggering. Literally.

  “No,” she said. “No, there have been no thefts. There is only one blade missing from the collection. Of course, we may not know of all in existence. The Druids are tricky. But the knowledge of their creation has long been lost.” She waved a hand in dismissal but didn’t ease the pressure of her power. “You handle this one Finn. It’s time you cleaned up this mess.”

  “We don’t know it’s them.”

  The Morrigan’s power tightened further around him, and he struggled to pull in each breath. “You mean her.” Then with a flick of her red-tipped fingers, she let him go. “I don’t care either way. Just find the blade and finish it. I’ll make my own decisions about our new visitor.” Then she added, so low that Finn was unsure if he was supposed to hear her, “We don’t need anything stirring up the fae in Connaught.”

  He couldn’t disagree with her there. Connaught was where the Fir Bolg had retreated, and the Fomoiri after them, both troublesome races. It was where the solitary fae and the sluagh tended to gravitate. Hell, there was a pocket of goblins near Lough Beltra and a selkie pod off of Enniscrone that had a reputation for tipping boats and drowning fishermen.

  The doors slammed open behind her and footsteps rushed toward them. He didn’t take his gaze off the Morrigan.

  “Finn, is it true that—” Oisin cut himself off. “My lady.”

  Finn could almost hear the bow the head of their research and analysis team gave to the goddess, though he didn’t dare look away from her.

  “Bard.” The Morrigan turned to face the newcomer, and Finn allowed his attention to waver from the goddess.

  Oisin stood there, red hair wild, clad in loose trousers and knobby sweater. The researchers weren’t made to wear the uniforms, and in truth, Finn envied them at times. This particular researcher had a mobile clutched in his hand and averted gaze. “My lady,” he said.

  “Oh, come, poet. No need to be so formal.” The Morrigan’s voice took on a slightly coaxing tone. “Where are those words for which you are so famous?”

  Oisin’s shoulders hunched up and then, as though he had just reminded himself he was still the beloved of Niamh, the god
dess of beauty, he relaxed and shot the Morrigan a charming smile. “Ah, forgive me, my lady. For I was overcome in your presence, as I always am.”

  She snorted. “Trite,” she said, but with a quirk of her lips. “You had news?”

  Oisin raised a brow and shot a look at Finn.

  Finn nearly rolled his eyes, an action so loved by the youth of today. Did Oisin really expect him to instruct the researcher to not tell her whatever it was he had rushed in here for, when she stood right there? He made a give-me motion and Oisin nodded.

  “She’s played the Uaithne. I heard it from a pixie who heard it from the pooka. And the leprechaun was, apparently, up most the night making new boots for a guest of the O’Loinsighs who only had a pair of flats to her name and was shivering cold when she arrived.” The last bit Oisin recited as though they were not his own words.

  The Morrigan pulled in a breath then smiled. But it was not a smile that even attempted anything so benign as to convey joy or comfort. No, this was the smile of a battle goddess, and it sent both a thrill of anticipation and dread through Finn. A smile like that mean there would be blood in the future; his, the enemies, his family’s. He could almost hear the cawing of the ravens and the clash of steel.

  His blood surged and the strength that had left him only minutes ago returned in a rush. “Morrigan?”

  “Oh, child. Oh.” She shook her head, but the smile remained firmly in place.

  Then she was gone, as quickly as she had come.

  He focused on Oisin. “Get me everything you can on the Uaithne and this goddess. Everything.”

  “What about the blade?”

  Finn strode from behind his desk. He’d told Morrigan what she needed to know. Regardless of where the soul blade had come from, there was a killer out there with it now. But that last smile… that was the kind of smile that heralded death for more than a leprechaun. He would need to know more of what was coming. They all would. “Put Midir on it,” he told Oisin. “I have a feeling whatever is going on with the gods is going to be a little harder to suss out.”