Druid (Secrets of the Fae Book 2)

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  "Do you have kids, Chuck?"

  "A daughter," he grunts. "About your age."

  "Does she know about all this? The druid stuff?"

  "None of our families know. They reap the benefits, and they're none the wiser."

  "How do you keep all this a secret?"

  "Slap a boring company sign on a building and no one asks questions."

  "To your families, I mean. You all seem to be here a lot."

  "Just now, because of all that's going down, there's more of us. Usually we're in shifts." He grips my arm tighter. "We call it business trips, golf outings, working dinners. They have no idea."

  "After— after tonight, what will you guys do with me?"

  "Same as the other chick. Except you'll be under tighter watch, with the powers and all."

  "And what do they do with her?"

  "Study, observe. Stanley cuts on her some when he's in a mood. Lets a few of the guys have conjugal visits."

  "So she's a slave."

  He wrenches my arm so hard I cry out. "Shut up!"

  Chuck slams through a pair of doors, hauling me after him.

  "Finally," says Stanley. "Gave you trouble, eh?"

  "Nothing I couldn't handle," mutters Chuck.

  "You should be wearing something a little nicer for this ceremony," says Stanley, frowning at my bedsheet bandages. "Oh well, no time for that now. Step forward, my dear. This is where the more genteel members of our order witness the sacrifices."

  We're in a kind of gloomy observation deck, looking through glass at larger, brightly lit room beyond— a room whose walls are blackened with smoke and whose floors are stained rust-brown.

  In the observation section, where we stand, Maeve and a couple dozen druids are already seated in plush chairs, like the ones in a movie theater. The druids are all wearing grotesque-looking masks— whether to hide their identity or as part of the ritual, I don't know. Stanley seats me in the front row, between Maeve and himself. My grandmother moves a little further over in her chair, putting more space between us. She says nothing. Doesn't look at me.

  There's a half-circle of druids beyond the glass, and the thrumming sound of their chants wafts through a speaker system overhead. Stanley points to it. "We have this rigged up so we can hear when we want to and can mute it when we don't." He illustrates with a remote control tucked into a hollow in the arm of his chair.

  Does he expect me to be interested? Impressed? I stare straight ahead, ignoring him.

  "Ah, here comes our hero," Stanley says. It's Kieran, his face half-obscured by the muzzle again. They've painted around his eyes and over his nose with some kind of black and red glop; it's disgusting, and makes him terrifying and grotesque. Dressed in a long white robe that covers him from neck to heels and from shoulder to wrist, he looks so different from the beautiful Tuatha dé Danann that I know. They've taken his voice, his strength, and his dignity.

  It's about time for him to show his hand. Trick them all. Turn this sacrificial chamber into a death trap for them.

  "Let me enlighten you regarding what's about to happen," says Stanley. "This is called the three-fold death, a traditional ritual sacrifice for the druids of the old days. We still use it today. It's a powerful offering, especially since we have one of the Tuatha dé Danann."

  He points at the room beyond the window, to three of the druids who are dressed in black robes. "The robes, you see, as you suggested. We do use them occasionally, and I thought, what better occasion? Malcolm there and his two brothers, as members of the Vates order, will administer the triple death. Then the others in the circle will approach and take parts of the body as relics. Some will be consumed to give us strength and stamina, other pieces will be preserved, and others might become talismans, like this one." He reaches to his neck and shows me a tiny piece of etched bone on a leather string.

  His words flow over me, so horrible I prefer to pretend I didn't hear. I barely glance at the grisly relic in his fingers before looking back at Kieran. He stands tall, stoic, unmoving, with no flicker of recognition for me in his eyes. There's a bloodstained bandage on his left hand— the price he paid for me.

  "Can he— see us?" I ask.

  "No," says Stanley. "The glass is reflective on his side. But if you want to say goodbye, just speak here." He holds up the remote and presses down a mic button.

  For a second I don't know what to say. "Kieran, you can get out of this. Now. Please." I turn to Stanley. "Please let him go. You don't have to do this for her."

  He shrugs. "A bargain is a bargain. And we're getting plenty of powerful relics out of the deal. I see no reason not to do it."

  I turn to Maeve. "Please. Please have mercy, ask them to stop." I'm out of the chair, kneeling beside her. "I'll come back with you. Please."

  "He was meant to die centuries ago," she says. "He escaped with help from those foul leprechauns. But they won't save him now. The trickster has played his last trick."

  Stanley chuckles. "Yes, indeed."

  "Get up." Maeve kicks me. "Sit down and watch."

  "Chuck, hold her," says Stanley. "They're preparing for first blood."

  No. This isn't happening.

  Chuck throws me into the seat so hard I see stars. Then he walks around to the row behind me, leans over me, and pins me there, his hands forcing my hips down, my head wedged between his heavy arms.

  Kieran. No.

  "Feel free to scream," says Stanley. "We don't mind that here. In fact, we encourage it." He puts a mask over his own face, a horrible red and black thing, like the paint over the Far Darrig's eyes.

  I won't be screaming.

  One of the black-robed druids approaches Kieran from behind. He carries a mallet. With a single quick blow, he smashes it into the back of Kieran's head.

  "Behold the first death!" cries Stanley. "See how precisely Malcolm hit, the way he crushed the back of the skull without completely smashing it? The Far Darrig would die slowly from this over a matter of hours, even without the next two steps."

  The second black-robed druid ties a cord around Kieran's neck and tightens it. I shut my eyes. I can't breathe.

  "So as he's choking, the second death," Stanley says, "then comes the cutting of the throat, the third death. And so it is done! What a fountain of red! A fitting end for the Red One, wouldn't you say, Maeve?"

  I open my eyes, but mercifully I can't see through the glass; it's awash with red blood. I don't want to look. They're going to be dismantling him, taking him apart for relics—

  There's a burning in my soul, a fierce fire. I don't care how weak I am, how tired I am, how the magic may drive me insane. Right now, right here, I'm going to make them pay.

  There is no idea, only instinct.

  Chuck releases me and steps back, probably expecting me to collapse with grief. Instead, I shove my fingers under the bandage at my stomach, driving them into my worst wound, piercing and bringing out a fresh fountain of blood.

  I leap up. I face them all, holding out my bloody hands, invoking my strength and then screaming the words of the Life-Stealing incantation. I feel a horrible tugging sensation inside me— a fierce buzzing like a thousand million insects as magic flows out of me and reaches for them. This isn't magic that their wards were designed for— this is Korrigan magic, magic of the Otherworld, strengthened with the blood of a powerful druid line.

  And from the chest of every man and woman in the room bursts a stream of golden light, whirling and dancing, all of it flowing toward me. I stand at the center, gathering it all in my hands, and they are paralyzed, powerless, puppets at the end of golden strings.

  It's too much— I can't draw it all in. My magic is wavering already. With one open hand I hold the Life-Stream, and with the other I rip off my bandages, scraping my nails across my rib wounds, the cuts bubbling fresh blood, new fuel for my magic. I scream with the effort as I draw all of the Life-Stream into myself, every single decade and year and month and day, sucking it in, leaching it out of them. It's a
ll mine— it was forfeit to me when they killed him.

  There must be twenty people in the room, and within seconds their lives belong to me.

  As the last bit of each Life-Stream leaves its owner, that figure topples. One by one they fall, slump in their seats, crumple to the ground.

  I glance down, and I see that my hands, my arms, my very skin is glowing. All of me is shining with golden light.

  Maeve is still in her seat, shock on her face. She is Korrigan— her Life-Stream is safe from me.

  Her life is not.

  Stanley is slumped over, mask askew, eyes empty. I seize his body and push it back, searching his belt for the little knife he always carries.

  "How did you— You shouldn't be able to do that." Maeve has finally found words.

  "I have druid blood and Korrigan magic," I say. "I am something you never prepared for." My fingers find the knife, and I pull it out of its sheath, shoving Stanley's body to the floor. The knife clicks open in my fingers.

  Maeve moves with surprising speed, out of her chair, dashing for the exit. I'm faster— pure adrenaline spiked with fenodyree strength and fueled with two dozen Life-Streams. As she fumbles for the door, I'm on her, pushing her to the floor, the glow from my hands and arms turning her features yellow. I wonder what I must look like to her— a figure bursting with magic and fire. I hope I look like the End of All Things.

  I lean onto her, holding her pinned with my body. She claws at my face, tries to poke out my eyes. She's strong, but the Warrior Queen hasn't fought anyone in several centuries, and I'm stronger. I slash across one of her arms and pin the other.

  In her eyes I see fear— the grasping, falling, desperate fear of a soul slipping on the edge of death.

  "You had his wife killed. His family. You rejected my mother when she chose love. You rejected me. And now, he's—" I can't say it. Her list of sins are many— I probably don't know a fraction of them. She deserves to die.

  "You don't know my story," she says. "You can't presume to judge."

  "If you had ever taken the time to tell me your story, maybe I wouldn't," I say. I can feel my strength ebbing a little. I need to finish this— end it so she can't chase me or hurt me anymore. But killing her is different than draining the druids, and I hesitate.

  With her slashed arm, she seizes my wrist, the one that holds the knife, and tries to plunge the blade into my neck. I twist aside just in time and my hand moves down.

  By luck or fate, I find the right spot. The place on her throat where, once the blood starts flowing, it never stops until the soul has left, too.

  I sit beside my grandmother until she is gone. It only takes a few minutes.

  25

  UNSTOPPABLE

  Zane

  "We're close," says Arden.

  The car crunches slowly along the narrow gravel road, then swings off to the right under the heavy shadow of the black forest. Arden turns the engine off, and the lights. "We walk from here. But first, the plan."

  "Okay, the plan." Laurel sounds breathless in the darkness.

  "There's probably going to be a lobby of some kind; they have to keep up appearances if anyone stops by. Since it's night, I'm hoping there won't be many druids or guards around, but we need to be ready just in case. Zane, you're the muscle. Laurel, you can help him out— you have the only weapon. I'll try a binding spell or two, but I'm not much good beyond that and a little jiu jitsu I learned in the '60s."

  "Wait a second, the '60s? How old are you?" asks Laurel.

  Arden turns to me, and I'm sure she's frowning even though I can't see it in the dark. "I thought you explained things to her."

  "I gave her the Cliffnotes version. There wasn't much time."

  "I want the whole story, later," Laurel says. "But look, the knife here is more for show. I didn't think I would really have to cut somebody."

  "Listen to me." Arden's voice is tight and high, like a violin string about to snap. "These are druids. Once they know why we're here, they will try to capture or kill you. Hesitate, and you die; or you end up in a cell, waiting to be sacrificed."

  She explains the rest of the plan, including the part where I need to rub a little of my blood on the medallion I'm wearing to make it more powerful. Pricking my finger with Laurel's knife, I rub it on the metal disc in the dark. I could swear I feel a faint buzz in the skin of my fingers while I'm doing it.

  Arden uses some of her own blood to draw knots on her chest and Laurel's. Laurel's trust in me seems to be wearing off; I can tell by her tone that she's beginning to think we're both completely psycho. But she accepts the blood knot, and the hoodoo paquet for her pocket. Then Arden makes us all put on thin black gloves.

  "No fingerprints," she says.

  Finally we're ready. We slip out of the car, closing the doors as quietly as we can. In the forest, night insects chirp and whine a thousand different songs, and my heart is thumping, a bass rhythm to my shallow breathing. Yeah, I'm scared. I'm scared of getting to the building only to embarrass ourselves in front of a perfectly normal, non-magical night security team. And I'm also scared that all the druid stuff will turn out to be true, because then I might actually die.

  "It should be up here," whispers Arden.

  My feet sound so loud on the gravel.

  "Hush, Z!" Laurel hisses.

  "I'm trying." What can I do? They're big feet, and I'm a big guy.

  Sighing, she steers me onto the grass near the treeline, where my feet make much less noise.

  After a few minutes of walking, a concrete building looms up ahead of us. And that's when I know that Arden is right about this location and its occupants. This place is big, boring, non-descript— just the kind of downtown office building where people might regularly come to work. Except that it's practically in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but a dirt track leading up to it. No landscaping, no lampposts along the street or in the paved parking area, which right now houses a couple dozen cars.

  We crouch in some bushes, right at the edge of the treeline.

  "Do you see Maeve's car?" I whisper.

  "I'm not sure from this distance," Arden whispers back.

  The front of the building has a set of four huge windows flanking double glass doors. People are inside the lighted lobby, moving around, even though it's past midnight— another sign that something weird is going on here. A place like this should be shut down at night.

  "So your plan is for us to just walk right in?" I ask.

  Arden nods.

  "Sounds risky."

  "I was never the military strategist," she says. "It's all I've got."

  "What if the doors are locked?" I ask.

  "We'll knock."

  "You two are ridiculous." Laurel stands up. "Give me a two-minute head start, then follow."

  Handing me the big knife, she tugs her shirt askew, smears some dirt on her face, and slips one earring into her pocket so it looks like she lost one. Then she stumbles toward the front doors of the building, wobbling and wavering like she's either drunk or exhausted. She collapses against the doors, sinking down like she's out of strength.

  Two men come to the other side of the doors. One wears a polo and khakis, and the other has on black cargo pants, some kind of bulky belt, and a tight T-shirt that shows his muscles. Probably a guard. They stare at Laurel as she beats open-handed against the glass and mouths, "Let me in, please!"

  She's good. I could swear she's been lost in the forest all day and she's just looking for a phone and some water.

  After a minute, the big guard waves and nods to somebody across the room.

  "They're letting her in," says Arden. "Go! Go, go!"

  Running low, bent over, we keep to the bushes and shadows as much as we can. I hear a loud clank and a beep as the front doors unlock. Laurel is basically crawling over the threshold, slow as syrup, while the polo shirt guy tries to hurry her inside.

  Almost there. The guard is looking down at Laurel, still holding the door open for her as she
chokes and sputters her thanks. I run faster.

  Then the guard looks up and sees me racing toward him. Alarm flashes into his face, and he pulls on the heavy door to close it, but it's one of those slow self-closing kind, and it won't go any faster; plus Laurel's body is in the way. I'm running, running, faster than I've ever run. He hauls back his boot and kicks Laurel right in the side so hard she is flung into the lobby, crying out in pain. Again he drags on the door, but with a leap I'm there, blocking it, holding the knife to his throat. One hand is inching toward his hip— he has a gun. I press the blade harder, and a line of blood drips from his pale skin.

  "Not another move," I say. I'm shaking inside, but outside I'm calm. I'm doing what I gotta do.

  Polo Shirt is yelling to someone across the room, a skinny, scared guy behind a big lobby desk. He's probably the one who unlocked the doors. He's tapping fiercely on his computer, probably working on a lockdown, but Laurel is on her feet again and she throws herself at him— a beautiful tackle that sends him and her and his office chair crashing to the floor.

  Arden squeezes through the door, past me, and races to the computer. She types quickly.

  "Lockdown aborted," she says after a second. "But he got an alert through to the others in the building. Zane, knock that one out. He'll be trouble, and more are probably coming."

  "Move," I tell the guard, and we scoot inside the lobby, allowing the door to close. I've got him mashed against the window with one arm, and I'm holding the knife to his neck with the other. If I try to knock him out now, he's going to take that split second to grab his gun.

  "Hands up!" I tell him. Shoulda said that earlier, but I've never done this before.

  The guy does it, but he's smirking like he knows I'm out of my depth. "Kid, you back down now, and no one gets hurt."

  Polo Shirt has been standing still, stunned, but now he starts throwing Gaelic phrases and spitting on his hands and shaking some kind of bone trinket at me. There's a weird buzz over my body for a second, then nothing. He stares. "You're powerfully warded. Who are you?"