Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  That’s when Liam spotted Henry.

  “Behind you!” Liam stood up and was smashed with agonizing pain as the bones in his shoulder ground together when someone pushed past. His efforts to remain upright cost him, and his vision blurred. He felt more than saw Father Murray next to him.

  “Mrs. Kelly! Don’t!”

  Blinking, Liam saw his mother run at Henry and then shove him. Off balance, Henry missed his target and sunk his blade deep into a tree instead. Yanking the sword free, Henry turned on his attacker. Liam looked on in horror as his mother raised her hands and winced.

  “No! Ma!”

  Suddenly, Sceolán was at her side. He struck Henry square in the chest with his blade and twisted. Then Bran’s sword cut deep into Henry’s neck, striking off the Redcap’s head. Sceolán kicked, and the body dropped in a fountain of arterial gore.

  A triumphant whoop echoed through the clearing. Liam saw the remaining Fallen were being driven back.

  Bran tapped Sceolán’s shoulder in thanks, and Sceolán nodded in return before rejoining the battle. Liam slumped against one of the stones. Outside the circle, his mother reached out to Bran. Bran gave the top of her head a quick kiss, and she backed away from him but she was smiling. He gestured in the direction of an abandoned bronze short sword lying on the ground. She disagreed with whatever he’d suggested. He seemed to insist, and she gave in with a reluctant sigh. He went back to his battle, and she returned to the stone circle, carrying the sword. She stood straighter and was more alert.

  Liam didn’t understand why she’d risked herself for a man who’d abandoned her.

  “Lie down,” Father Murray said. “You’re hurt.”

  Allowing Father Murray to ease him into a sitting position, Liam focused on staying conscious while the battle wound down around them. The tension in his stomach didn’t ease until his mother entered the circle. She dropped the sword as if it were a snake and knelt beside him.

  She reached out but stopped herself short of touching him. “Is it bad?”

  “No.” If he were honest, he would’ve said he didn’t know. The pain in his shoulder was almost bearable, provided he didn’t move, but now a crush of complex feelings lodged in his throat—anger, guilt, shame, confusion, even relief. He couldn’t look her in the eye. She kept a wary distance as if he were an injured animal that might bite.

  He had to admit, it was a reasonable fear.

  Father Murray hefted the short sword, gave it a test swing and then took up a protective stance next to the toppled stone. He held a small rock to his eye with his other hand and peered through the hole in the center.

  He’s only a priest. He can’t hold them off alone. Liam decided to take a place next to Father Murray, but his body protested with hundreds of sharp pains. He gritted his teeth and did it anyway. Anything was better than the expectant silence.

  “I said, lie still,” Father Murray said, looking over his shoulder.

  Just then one of the Fallen—a big one with red hair and scorched auburn wings burst through the trees and charged Father Murray, knocking him over. Again, Liam was slammed with a decaying stench. The fallen angel lifted its pistol and aimed right at him. The gun’s barrel loomed huge. His mother threw her body over his, pressing him flat in an attempt to shield him.

  “No, Ma! Don’t!”

  Father Murray grabbed the fallen angel’s jaw from behind and yanked back while whispering into its ear. The creature’s eyes went wide, and the gun went off in the same instant Father Murray’s blade cut across the fallen angel’s throat.

  The bullet passed close. Liam felt it. “Ma, no! Please!”

  She shivered and sat up. “Are you all right?”

  Father Murray asked, “Are either of you hit?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Liam?”

  “Please, Ma. Never do that again.”

  “Here.” Father Murray handed off the fallen angel’s pistol.

  Liam pocketed the lighter and accepted the gun. He’d have checked the chamber, but he didn’t think he could do it one-handed. Since he wasn’t sure he could use it he supposed it didn’t matter.

  Bending over the fallen angel’s body, Father Murray felt for a pulse. Then he wiped the bronze blade clean on the grass. With that done, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a clear vial. He placed a finger over the open vial and tipped it. Using the contents of the bottle, he sketched the sign of the cross on the red Fallen’s forehead and whispered in Latin. The liquid hissed as it coated the corpse’s skin, and the smell of rot grew worse before it dissipated.

  The whole process reminded Liam of the first night he’d met Father Dominic and Father Christopher. Uncomfortable, he tightened his grip on the pistol with his left hand and sat, watching for danger while Father Murray finished his blessing. Fey warriors moved through the darkness, gathering the dead, helping the wounded. Two of the Fey hacked at the body of the blond Fallen, and while Liam looked on they set the butchered remains on fire. When Father Murray noticed what they were doing he left the circle and prevented them from repeating the process. Instead, he made the rounds with his little vial while Sceolán and a few of the others watched with mixed expressions of relief and wariness.

  Liam remained quiet, staring at the woods while uneasy questions circled his brain. How much of Henry’s threats had his parents heard?

  His father approached, and his mother went to him, catching him in a tight hug. It was strange seeing the two of them together. Watching, Liam thought of the photograph she’d given him long ago, and it suddenly occurred to Liam that he’d never seen her genuinely happy in his whole life.

  “Are you all right?” his father asked.

  She nodded. “A little shaken, but fine. Our Liam injured himself.”

  His father knelt down and concern pulled at his face. “How bad is it?”

  “Feels like I broke my shoulder. I’ll live,” Liam said and winced when he forgot himself and shrugged. “But I won’t much like it for a while.”

  It was then he noticed the claw marks on Bran’s chest as well as the mauled and bloodied right arm. Liam swallowed back his shock. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry yourself,” his father said. “If you hadn’t broken through the circle I couldn’t have given the signal to those waiting on the Other Side.” He looked tired and sick and his arms hung limp as if he couldn’t lift them. “Sceolán, get this crossed steel off me. My arms are numb.”

  Sceolán entered the circle holding a set of keys by the leather fob as if they were on fire.

  “Let me,” Father Murray said, putting out a hand.

  Sceolán hesitated but dropped them into Father Murray’s palm after Bran nodded approval. Father Murray sorted through them until he found the right one and unlocked the cuffs.

  “We should go,” Sceolán said. “It’s almost dawn.”

  “I can’t,” Bran said. “Not yet. Give me a bit. Finish what needs doing. Then get the others together and prepare to leave.”

  Sceolán nodded and left the circle, shouting orders at the other Fey as he went.

  Father Murray cleared his throat. “I should see if there is anything else I can do to help.” And with that, he made himself scarce as well.

  Only Liam and his parents remained. A cold wind pushed against the trees.

  The uncomfortable silence swelled until Liam thought it might explode. He couldn’t bring himself to look at either of them. How much do they know? Everything had come so close. You like it. I can feel it.

  He shuddered.

  Bran said, “We’ve a great deal to talk about.”

  “Aye,” Liam said, feeling his bruised jaw tighten. “We do.”

  Bran gazed at the stones on the opposite side of the circle as if they could provide a solution. “Unfortunately, I don’t think this is the time.”

  “For fuck’s sake. You’ll put me off? Again?”

  “Liam,” his mother said. “Please. Have some patience.”

  “Patience? I�
�ve been patient, Ma. My whole life, I waited. I almost died of the fucking waiting!”

  His father said, “Your mother was only trying to protect you.”

  “Did you never think that if I’d known anything at all I might have been able to protect myself?” Liam asked. “Was your enemy murdered my family. If you’d bothered to warn me of it—”

  “Don’t you take that tone, young man,” his mother said.

  “He has a point,” his father said. “The worst of it is that he doesn’t understand the smallest part of what he is. There’s power in him. Not only from me. From you as well. And he has to learn how to control it before it kills him.”

  “Power from me?” she asked.

  His father gave his mother a small smile and a shake of the head. “Yes. You.”

  She harrumphed.

  “I agree. You’ve the right to know, son,” his father said. “Tomorrow. The next day. A month from now. Whenever you’re ready. Call for me. No restrictions. Anywhere you’re alone. I’ll come to you. I’ll answer your questions.”

  Liam nodded.

  “And when that’s done you should consider training for the Fianna,” his father said. “We could use you.”

  “Thanks, but no,” Liam said. “I’m done with the soldiering.”

  His father blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “You’ve become a pacifist?” Father Murray asked.

  “Wouldn’t say that,” Liam said. “But I’m standing down for now.”

  “I don’t understand,” his father said with a frown.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Liam said. “But… I can’t trust myself.”

  “You’re a púca,” his father said. “You are what you are. There will always be the wild in you. A darkness that won’t be controlled. It’s what we are, but it isn’t all of what we are. From what I’ve witnessed, it would be no different were you mortal.”

  Liam shook his head and looked away, thinking of the bottom of Raven’s Hill—of running into the side of the van. “There’s something not right in me. Something broken.” Shameful. “And until it’s made right I can’t go back to the soldiering. I don’t even know if what’s wrong can be made right.”

  His father sighed. “I’ll trust you know what you’re doing. But if there comes a day when you think you’re ready—”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “If you need anything—anything at all—you know how to reach me.” His father reached down and gave his good shoulder a squeeze. “Danu be with you, son.” Then he turned. “My brave Kathleen. There’s never been anyone else. And there’ll never be another. I’ll be back for you.”

  “Ah, sure you will,” she said.

  Liam looked away as they kissed. It was a private moment between his parents and not for him to see. When it was finished he watched his father limp into the trees. Bran turned once, waved goodbye and then vanished.

  “Well,” Father Murray said, facing the east. “Looks like we’ve a long walk. Think you can make it?”

  Epilogue

  Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

  October 1977

  Liam decided that if he’d had any sense at all he would’ve delayed his visit to St. Brendan’s churchyard. Mist hung in the air thick enough to soak his hair in spite of the wool hat. A gusty wind thrashed the trees sheltering the rows of tombstones and sent a deep ache into his healing collarbone. His right arm was strapped in a sling to prevent him from using it, but he was already sick of dealing with the thing. Father Murray insisted he wear it for a few days and rest the shoulder because, as it turned out, he’d messed himself up pretty badly.

  Liam resisted the urge to scan the street for Peelers and focused on Mary Kate’s grave, daisies from a flower shop down the road in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He didn’t know what to do or say. He’d been too long in coming.

  Father Murray cleared his throat. “It was a lovely funeral.”

  “I should’ve been there,” Liam said.

  “Even if you could’ve been without being arrested you weren’t in any shape for it. She would’ve understood.”

  Because it was what was expected, Liam bent and awkwardly placed the flowers on the grave using his wounded arm. Next, he set the bottle on top of the headstone. “I made a mess of things,” he said, reaching into a coat pocket and bringing out two short glasses. He set them next to the bottle one-handed and then poured the whiskey.

  “She made mistakes too, no doubt. Every relationship has two sides.” Father Murray accepted a glass.

  “She wanted to return after she graduated. She loved Derry.”

  Nodding, Father Murray sipped his whiskey. An appreciative look flashed over his features.

  Liam downed the glass and then poured another while the whiskey caught fire in his throat and warmed the back of his nose. It was a good vintage, filled with the taste of oak and sunlight—a fairy vintage, if he knew what he was about. His father had left it with his Gran, knowing that was where he and Father Murray were hiding. No note. No explanation—just the bottle. Liam knew it for an apology. “I miss Mary Kate. I always will. I loved her more than anyone in my life. But I can’t remember the sound of her laugh anymore, and it feels like a betrayal.”

  “It’s been a while. That’s to be expected.”

  “This doesn’t seem right.”

  “Life moves forward, Liam.”

  Liam didn’t respond other than to take another drink. The whiskey finished heating his throat and stomach and began to work on his joints. The tension in his shoulders dissipated, and he took in a deep breath. It had taken a few days, but his broken collarbone was mending. It still felt badly bruised. However, every breath was no longer a trial. Over that time, he’d had several long talks with his mother. She’d apologized—for keeping his real father from him and above all, for not protecting him from Patrick. Liam was still reeling. As Father Murray would say, it was a lot to process.

  “This was a bad idea. The Peelers will have found your wee pistol by now, Father. They’ll be hunting for me soon, if they haven’t started already. Gran is sure to give me up.”

  “You should take it easy on her,” Father Murray said. “In a way, she saved your life. All of our lives, if you think upon it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was her gave you that name. Monroe. Your mother pretended to be a widow. You both carried that surname until she married your stepfather and discarded the lie.”

  “And I was left with it.”

  “Aye, well. You were a child. You needed the lie, flimsy as it was.”

  Liam bit back any further arguments. His gaze drifted out to the street. “This will be one of the places they’re sure to look. We should go.”

  “You need to grieve. But if you’re not ready, you’re not ready. No one is going to force you.”

  “None of it matters. Mary Kate is gone. And that’s that.”

  Father Murray shook his head. “You can’t move forward until you’ve stopped looking behind.”

  “And how is that possible when so much reminds me of her?”

  “There will come a time when it won’t hurt as much to think of her.”

  They both started at the sound of a car driving up the street.

  “Maybe we should go,” Father Murray said.

  Liam waited until Father Murray had walked to the gate, then placed his hand on the marble stone. He whispered to her in Irish, “Goodbye, Mary Kate. You have your forgiveness. I can only hope I can have the same. I am sorry. For everything. I did my best. I wish it’d been enough.” Feeling better, he left the short glasses turned upside down on her tombstone and headed out of the churchyard.

  Father Murray pushed open the gate. It squealed as it always did. Liam wondered if anyone would notice if he oiled it sometime in the night. It would make future visits less noticeable.

  “Have you given my proposition any thought?” Father Murray
asked.

  Taking a drink straight from the bottle, Liam swallowed before answering. “Well, Father, I can’t fight the Fianna’s war—not now. Not yet.” He thought again of the bottom of Raven’s Hill and wondered if it was his vulnerability to the Fallen, his oath or the fear that prevented him from joining. “I’m wanted by both the ’Ra and the Peelers. Working with you is the only alternative. Where else am I to go? America?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I’m willing to give it a try,” Liam said. “It’s not as if you’ll get the Fey to negotiate with the Church on your own. The killing has to stop. Anyway, if it doesn’t work out, I can always look up another ex-holy assassin and ask him if he has an opening for an assistant.”

  Johnny Appleseed

  Father Murray looked away and smiled.

  Lord, there goes Martin Luther King

  Notice how the door closes when the chimes of freedom ring

  I hear what you’re saying, I hear what he’s saying

  Is what was true now no longer so?

  Hey - I hear what you’re saying

  Hey - I hear what he’s saying

  If you’re after getting the honey - hey

  Then you don’t go killing all the bees

  What the people are saying

  And we know every road - go, go

  What the people are saying

  There ain’t no berries on the trees

  Let the summertime sun

  Fall on the apple - fall on the apple

  Lord, there goes a Buick forty-nine

  Black sheep of the angels riding, riding down the line

  We think there is a soul, we don’t know

  That soul is hard to find

  Hey - down along the road

  Hey - down along the road

  If you’re after getting the honey

  Then you don’t go killing all the bees

  —from Johnny Appleseed by Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros

  Acknowledgments

  This book wouldn’t exist were it not for the many amazing people who generously donated their time, energy, knowledge, love and support along the way: Dane Caruthers, the world’s most fabulous husband, friend, lover, life-saver, timely pizza fairy and first reader; Joe Monti, the best agent ever; Jeremy Lassen for taking a chance on a new writer and a controversial topic; Brian Magaoidh for his gentle wisdom and insight as well as vast patience with a well-meaning outsider, for the book recommendations and for mailing all those books and articles I’d never have found on my own; Charles de Lint, Holly Black, Charles Vess, Jim Minz, Sharon Shinn, Elizabeth Moon, Jeff VanderMeer, Bruce Sterling, Chris Brown, Linda and Michael Moorcock, Mark Finn, Howard Waldrop, Jessica Reisman, Carrie Richerson, Melissa Tyler, Mandy Lancaster, Walton “Bud” Simons, Neal Barrett, Jr., William Browning-Spencer and Caroline Spector—all of whom contributed wisdom, inspiration, support and encouragement; Troy Hunt, Sondra Sondregger, Jack McCauley and my Dad for their auto mechanics and rally racing know-how; the generous folks at Harris Hill Road Racetrack—Eric Beverding, Bo Rivers and Cory Rueth—for the racing lessons; Joe Strummer, Rory Gallagher, Stiff Little Fingers and the Undertones for the music; Lucinda Tait for permission to use lyrics from “Hate and War” and “Johnny Appleseed”; Charles de Lint, Dan Nugent and Thad Engling music experts; Steve and Melinda Coleman, Rollin MacRae, the Austin Gaelic League, the Philo-Celtic Society and Kathleen Douglas for sharing their knowledge of Ireland, Irish culture and the Irish language; SlugTribe, Wyred Sisters, Cryptopolis, Turkey City and Tryptophan for being great writer training grounds; Rachel Raun, beta reader and best friend; BookPeople, the best bookstore on the planet—shout out to Brian, Topher, Sarah and the rest of the gang; Mom and Dad and siblings Cathy, Celina and Fred for being there.