Druid (Secrets of the Fae Book 2)

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  Who am I in the dark, when I'm by myself?

  I'm the girl who survived being eaten by a monster every day of her life.

  I am not afraid of risks, of new things. When there's trouble, I endure. I take what I need, and I make it work for me. I find the next thing. I adapt. The more I see and do, the bigger I get on the inside. The more I learn, the more valuable I am, not just to other people, but to myself.

  I am the girl who made herself stronger.

  Will I be all right, even if I never see Zane or Kieran again?

  Yes. Because I will have me, and that is enough.

  But Kieran is also part of me now. He belongs to me, and no creepy-crazy druid sect can have him.

  I turn on my phone's light. The tree I'm leaning on is immense, much further around than two of me could reach— it's probably been here for a century or so.

  Suddenly something catches my eye. I walk around the tree a little further, shining my light, and there they are— runes and knots, burned into its bark in a long line, extending upward.

  Maybe I'm not as far off track as I thought. This area is at least still in the druids' vicinity.

  The druids must be magically concealed. Wherever they're keeping him, it must be hidden from pixies. But maybe, if I combine my leprechaun power with my pixie power, I can break through.

  Time to try the theory and test a pixie-leprechaun power combo, with a little spellwork thrown in.

  "Fháil dó," I whisper. Find him. Then louder, "Fháil dó!" I focus all my energy on picturing him, the place where he is, the place where I need to jump. Kieran is there, and I must get to him.

  And for the briefest second, I see a flash of a building in my brain— a very normal businesslike building.

  I strain to see it again, and for a split second, I do.

  The vision is too quick for a jump, but this time I see the name on the side of the building— "CorpsMac Industries." A plain name. An unimportant, boring, technical-sounding name, the kind of place where no one would ever go unless they worked there, or unless they had to. The perfect cover for a sect of mysterious druids.

  By some miracle, I have a signal up here, so I type the name into my phone. In a moment, a website comes up for CorpsMac Industries. The website looks just as generic and bland as the name itself; everything about it seems designed to say "You're really not interested in knowing who we are or what we do. Have a nice day."

  There are no pictures of the building that I can use to jump. No address by which to navigate. Nothing. The place doesn't even show up on my phone's mapping system.

  I'm tired, and sweaty, and shaky, and thirsty, and I was supposed to meet Laurel hours ago. She's going to think I don't care about her.

  And Kieran is somewhere out here, with a bunch of druids who have apparently been hunting for him for a long time. I remember him saying, "Druids and I don't get along; in fact, they hate me." It can't mean anything good that they've been looking for him— that they finally found him. I wonder what they want him for— some kind of horrible sacrifice? Maybe they're killing him, right now; or maybe he's already dead.

  Suddenly the light of my phone goes out, and it blinks a warning: "Battery critically low."

  Tears are welling up in my eyes.

  No. I have to stop this silliness; I have to focus on finding Kieran.

  Again I try the pixie instinct combined with my transport ability, and I throw in a few Gaelic words of amplification. I'm trying so hard I can feel the blood pulsing through the veins in my temples. There's the flash-image of the building in my brain again; I hold the picture fiercely this time, crying out with the effort, and I transport.

  I smash into the concrete wall when I appear, scraping my left cheek and knocking myself dizzy. After taking a second to gather my senses, I lean back until I can read the faintly lit sign overhead, "CorpsMac Industries," on the side of the building a few stories above me.

  I'm in the bushes already, so I crouch down in the dark, glancing around for security cameras. There's one at the corner of the building, a little way ahead, angled in my direction. Around that same corner there's probably a parking lot, and an entrance; but something tells me it wouldn't be smart to march right in the front door, asking about the Far Darrig.

  If I can find a window with a clear view inside, I can transport in.

  Staying low in spite of the scratchy hedge, I work my way along the wall the other way, toward the back of the building. Not many windows in this place— at least not on the first floor. I keep going, hands and knees in the dirt, head ducked to stay below the level of the hedge, eyes squinted against poky twigs.

  Will this wall never end?

  Finally I reach the corner and peer around it at the back of the building. No regular windows, but there's a door with a long narrow window in it. That might work.

  Unfortunately, there's a camera aimed right at the back entrance. I'll have to do this fast, so hopefully whoever's watching the security footage won't notice me.

  If there's someone on the other side of that door, I'm going to be in trouble.

  Quick as thinking I transport to the door, glance through the window, and transport to the hallway on the other side.

  It's empty. Thank goodness.

  I'm starting to feel giddy, excited. At first I think it's because I'm awesome, and I'm so close to finding Kieran; and then I realize that I've been using a lot of magic in the past several hours. The effect is cumulative, and it's starting to affect my reasoning.

  No more transporting or pixie sense for now. I need to find Kieran the old-fashioned way, by creeping around and looking.

  I sneak down the hallway, turn right, and slip along a second hall.

  Footsteps. Voices.

  Somebody's coming, and they're going to see me and catch me.

  I try the handle of the nearest door and duck inside. It's a stuffy, dark room, with an old copier and some boxes.

  What if I'm crazy, and this is just a normal office building? The headquarters of some boring company? What if Kieran isn't even here?

  When the voices fade, I slip out again, taking a quick, hard look at the inside of the closet in case I need to transport back there.

  On a hunch, I go back the way I came, in the direction the voices were going. I hurry along till I can see their backs and hear them talking, loudly and carelessly, up ahead. If they turn around and see me, I'll just transport back to the copier closet.

  From behind, the two guys look so very normal, dressed in polo shirts and slacks, with businesslike black shoes. They have neat haircuts, wallet bulges in their back pockets, smartphone clips on their belts.

  But why are they here in the middle of the night? That part doesn't seem normal at all.

  "Main elevator's locked down," one is saying. "I couldn't get to the lower levels that way."

  "Yeah, they reset the codes every time a guest uses the elevator. Like that Korrigan chick."

  My heart freezes, and I almost stop following them. Are they talking about me?

  But that wouldn't make sense. No one knows I'm here, and I didn't use any elevator.

  What Korrigan chick are they talking about?

  The first man is whining. "But every time they reset, it takes at least half an hour for everyone to get the email with the new codes. Can't IT speed that up?"

  "You mean Nick? He's the only IT guy we got, man, and he sucks. I've told Stanley so a hundred times. We've got to hire somebody better."

  They're approaching a narrow set of elevator doors with a keypad beside it. Somehow, I need to get close enough to see which numbers they punch in. If only the Far Darrig had given me his invisibility power instead of the fun but pointless voice-mimicry thing.

  I've already used too much magic, but I do the spell for silent feet anyway, slipping as close as I dare to the men's backs, trying not to breathe. Luckily one of them is showing the other a video on his phone. He punches in the code with his other hand, lazily, and I lean forward to see it
. 485472.

  But I'm too close. He must sense me there, my presence, my breath. He starts to turn his head.

  Instantly, I transport back to the copier closet. My head is spinning, echoing. 485472, 485472, 485472, I repeat to myself, over and over. I hold the numbers like a lifeline, trying to crawl back up out of the darkness that's taking over me.

  But my body has given up, and my magical energy is spent. My brain is shutting down, and I'm sinking, sinking into the black.

  ◆◆◆

  I don't know how long I'm out. When I come to myself, I ache so much from being slumped against boxes that I can barely move.

  I can't see a thing. Where am I?

  485472. That number means something.

  The elevator code. Kieran.

  Damn it.

  Inch by inch, I ease open the closet door.

  No one in the hallway. My phone is dead, but the clock on the wall says it's about 5:30 a.m.

  I slept. I actually slept in this place, in that closet, for several hours. I'm such a magical lightweight, a freaking lazy idiot. Kieran could be dead by now.

  I'm done being careful. I run to the narrow elevator where those two men disappeared, and quickly I type 485472.

  The code works; the light over the keypad turns green. But the elevator is taking its sweet old time getting back up here. I bounce lightly on one foot, then the other, panicky with nerves.

  With a faint ping, the elevator stops and the doors open. To my relief, it's empty. I dash inside and hit the "door close" button.

  It looks as if there are three lower levels. Since I don't know which one I want, I press the button for the furthest down.

  The ride to the bottom is both too short and too long. I feel like my heart and my stomach have wound themselves together and climbed up into my throat to sit right on top of my lungs. I'm so, so scared. What am I walking into?

  Kieran. He's why I'm here. I need to find Kieran.

  When the doors finally open again, I'm in a new world. A gray world of long concrete hallways, lit by harsh overhead bulbs. No more drywall and paint and carpet and faintly chemical office smell; this place looks and smells like a prison— or a lair. All along the walls, the ceiling, and the floors, runes and Celtic knots have been deeply etched. I don't recognize any of the runes, but I can identify a few shield-type knots. These markings must be why I couldn't find the place with my pixie sense; it's well-protected from outside magic.

  I creep along the passage, trying doors here and there and finding most of them locked. There's one with a plaque that reads "Secure Storage: Artifacts." Another, "Secure Storage: Relics." The one with the sign "Public Storage: Supplies" is unlocked, and I peek inside.

  Rows and rows of bottles and containers line wall-to-wall shelves along the room. With all the tiny bottles and boxes, and the little plastic bags of leafy things, the place looks like a blend between a pharmacy and a weird health food store. At the far end of the room hums a huge set of refrigerators, like the ones in a grocery store. The things in the fridge look like organic matter of some kind, but I can't tell too much about the objects from a distance. And I probably don't want to know, because now I'm sure that I've found the right place. The druids' stronghold.

  Kieran is the priority, and he's certainly not in the supply closet, so I close the door again and keep walking.

  I take a few more short passages before finding another long hallway. To my left, there's a huge opening in the wall, with steps leading down to a cavernous room, all concrete and shadow, with one or two bright bulbs trying to drive back the dark. Quickly I take in the two huge posts in the center, the coffin-shaped stone altar off to one side— and there, in the middle of it all, the figure that captures my attention and drives everything else into oblivion.

  The Far Darrig is hanging by his arms, his dark head lolling forward. His torso is stretched taut by the chains; I can see every rib in painful definition. He's streaked with blood and sweat and dirt. There's a Celtic knot painted on his bare chest in blood—I don't recognize it. All over his body are bruises, knife cuts, and what look like scratches from claws or maybe sharp fingernails. The barest rags of his pants hang low on his hips, and his bruised feet are barely touching the floor, just enough for him to relieve the pressure on his arms every few minutes.

  They've put some kind of rough leather muzzle on him— it's covered in Celtic wards. Blood from a cut on the right side of his forehead has run down to the muzzle's edge and congealed there. Between that, and his nostrils being crusted with blood, I wonder how he can breathe at all.

  I've never seen anything like this. In a movie or two, yes. But not in real life, done to a real person by other people.

  Even as I think all of this, I'm moving toward him, looking around for any guards or watchers. We seem to be alone.

  When I touch his side lightly, the flesh quivers. Otherwise he doesn't move.

  "What have they done to you?" I whisper, setting my fingers to work on the buckle at the back of the leather muzzle.

  A muffled groan comes from him, but his eyes don't open. The muzzle is taking too long to come off, but I don't dare use my fenodyree strength on it, for fear of breaking his neck by accident. I can use my strength on the chains, though.

  He's much taller than me, and his hands are stretched so high above me I can't reach them. Looking around, I find an old crate to stand on so I can reach the chain on the left, just above the manacles. I whisper, "Láidreacht!" to activate my strength and I snap the first chain, close to his wrist. I lower the chain quietly so it hangs straight, rather than swinging out and banging into one of the metal posts. Any loud noises from this room could bring someone here before I'm ready.

  Just as quietly I snap the second chain— but he's slipping to the ground so I have to let it go, to help him. Mercifully, the chain swings just shy of the post and doesn't give us away.

  "Kieran," I whisper. He's half-lying on the floor, one arm over the edge of the crate. I get behind him and work on the muzzle again. In a few minutes, the buckle strap finally gives way, and I pull it off.

  He gasps for breath. I was right, he could barely get enough air in there. The lower half of his face, his mouth and jaw, are bruised and swollen and covered with crusted blood.

  "Let's get you out of here." I wrap my arms around him, about to transport us both, when he grips my wrist.

  "Wait," he says through his swollen lips. He touches the knot painted on his chest. "It's a ward. Keeps me from leaving this spot. I can't walk, or turn invisible, or transport till it's gone."

  "Okay, can I like, wash it off or something?"

  He shakes his head. "Druid blood magic. You'll need an unbinding agent."

  "What the heck is an unbinding agent?"

  "Blood, sweat, urine."

  "Urine? You're kidding me."

  "It's a disgusting brand of magic."

  "Okay, let's say I get one of those agents from someone—"

  "Has to be your own. The one doing the unbinding."

  "Okay— then what do I do with the agent?"

  "Trace the knot in reverse. I was awake when they drew it— I'll help you trace it the right way."

  "Good. All right, we need an unbinding agent. I'm not peeing on you. That's just not happening. And I'm not rubbing my sweat all over you, either. So blood it is."

  I lift his hand, which still has the manacle attached. There's a jagged edge to the metal; that should work. I hope I don't give myself tetanus, or whatever it is you get from cutting yourself ritually on old pieces of metal.

  In movies and TV shows, when they need blood, people always cut the palms of their hands, or the underside of their forearms. Which is stupid, because then your hand is hurting like crazy just at the time when you need it for fighting or climbing. And the forearm thing is dumb, because what if you accidentally go too deep and bleed out?

  I'm being smart here. I slice shallowly across the topside of my left arm, right below my elbow, where there's more fl
esh to spare and less chance of hitting something important.

  Of course it hurts like fire. But Kieran is enduring a lot more pain than me right now. I can handle this. I dip the first two fingers of my right hand in the blood and reach toward his chest.

  "Which way do I draw?"

  He places his hand over mine and moves my fingers along the lines of the knot. I have to pause and get a fresh dip of blood a couple of times. It hurts me to see how bruised his fingers are, how his wrist is chafed so raw it's just red flesh.

  Fiercely, I curse the druids aloud.

  He raises his eyebrows. "Never heard you say that word before."

  "It's well-deserved in this case."

  His hand pauses, and so does mine. My blood-slicked fingers against his skin, his rough hand over mine.

  "You came to find me."

  "With pixie power comes great responsibility," I say, half-smiling. "I had to."

  "No, you didn't. You could have stayed out of this, stayed safe."

  I look into his silver-gray eyes. "You're right. I'm incredibly stupid for coming. Let's finish this and escape before we talk, okay?"

  Our fingers finish the knot, and I help him stand up.

  "Let's go." Wrapping both arms around him, I picture the closest point I know, the stone circle, and I will myself to go there.

  We're standing there, pressed against each other— and nothing's happening.

  "What are you waiting for?" he asks.

  "Nothing." I try again, and again. Panic starts to rise in my chest. "We can't get out. My power isn't working."

  I try a different destination. Double up the power with a spell. Still nothing.

  "How is this possible?"

  He sinks to the floor again. "Were there markings on any of the doors, or walls? Knots or wards?"

  "Yes, and some old writing, but—"

  He groans. "Runes. There's druid magic in the walls here, and it's interfering with the leprechaun magic. We have to get to a door, a window, or to the roof. A clear channel."

  "Okay." This is a setback. "I don't suppose you could turn us invisible for a while?"

  "I don't have the energy right now," he says. "I think— I think trying to cover both of us would kill me."