by M. D. Massey
Let’s just hope she’s not still holding that against me.
The fact that I could actually portal onto her grounds—bypassing her wards in the process—was a good sign, but I wasn’t about to push my luck. Instead of approaching the entrance to the house, I waited in the backyard to be acknowledged. It didn’t take more than a few seconds before her watch-gargoyle showed up, galloping across the lawn at me like a runaway freight train.
“Lothair,” I warned as the stone menace approached at speed.
Rather than slowing down, if anything, he increased his pace on hearing my voice. We’d had our differences in the past, and I was certain he held me at least partially responsible for the loss of his partner in crime, Adelard. Besides that, the damned thing simply chose to hate me on principle.
I honestly didn’t want to hurt Lothair because, in my opinion, he was just doing his job. Also, I wasn’t into hurting semi-sentient supernatural creatures for fun. Sure, I’d done my fair share of hunting in the past, but I only took jobs that involved hunting creatures that preyed on humankind. I’d no sooner kill this gargoyle for responding to my trespass than I’d shoot a dog protecting its owner’s yard.
Still, I couldn’t let him kill me either, so I had to do something to slow him down. The thing was the size of a smallish horse and built like a Mack truck, easily weighing three or four tons. So, I couldn’t manhandle it, at least not in my current form, and I certainly wasn’t going to waste my time striking it with my fist.
Dyrnwyn wouldn’t light up if I drew it on Lothair, as the creature wasn’t evil. I’d be as likely to shatter the blade as to chip the gargoyle’s skin should I attempt to use it against him. That left magic, magic, and magic as my choices for dealing with said angry, charging granite peril.
First order of business—don’t get trampled into hamburger.
Rolling out of the way wasn’t a good option, since the gargoyle was a lot more agile than it looked. How it could move that much weight so quickly was a mystery to me, but I was certain it involved magic and breaking the laws of physics. Instead of trying to dodge it, I ran at Lothair head on in an attempt to trick him into thinking I was going to clash with him in battle.
Instead of assuming the role of the smashed insect in a bug-windshield duel, I dropped and slid under Lothair at the very last second. Essentially, the gargoyle was a large feline in nature, his body being modeled somewhat after that of a lion. Thus, I assumed he’d pounce instead of trying to bowl me over, and I assumed right, narrowly avoiding being slashed by his claws as he leapt over me.
Not wasting any time, I used the momentum of my skid to leap upright, then I spun and cast a druidic spell at the gargoyle’s feet. I’d gotten much quicker at using druid magic during my time training with Finnegas and Click inside the Grove. Simple spells that affected earth, water, and wood were the easiest to form and direct, and I used one that caused the earth beneath the Gargoyle’s feet to soften into gooey, quicksand-like mud.
Almost instantly, three tons of gargoyle sank into the ground. Within seconds, Lothair disappeared beneath a bog of muck that instantly solidified into solid soil once the creature was underground. It wouldn’t hold him forever, but it’d do until one of Maeve’s fae subjects let me inside her house.
Rubbing the dirt and grass off my hands and pants, I turned on heel to head for Maeve’s back door—and ran straight into a rather large, hairy, and very smelly fist.
Dufgal was a fairly recent addition to Maeve’s security staff, one I assumed had been hired to replace Adelard after I fucked Maeve over by sealing off Underhill. Like most bugganes, he was large, ugly, and mean, and not very kindly disposed to descendants of Fionn MacCumhaill. For good reason, too, as my ancestor had once lost a fair fight to a buggane and cursed the creature for it after.
Yet again, my forebear’s actions had put me in a precarious position. This time, it was trading blows with what was essentially a small, hairy giant. As I tumbled ass over teakettle from the blow, I mentally cursed Fionn for what seemed like the millionth time.
Dufgal, being a buggane, was likely a thoroughly evil character. His kind were responsible for many of the disappearances that occurred regularly in national parks and heavily forested areas across the nation. And while many cryptid hunters had chalked those missing persons cases up to Bigfoot or aliens, the culprit—or one of them, anyway—was about to stomp my head into mush.
Dufgal’s ginormous hairy foot crashed into the turf, where it left a sizable, two-inch deep indent in the grass as I rolled to my left. I caught just the barest glimpse of the damage to Maeve’s lawn as I scrambled back to avoid suffering a similar fate. All the while, the buggane monologued as he calmly walked me down with great, ground-eating strides.
“Ah, MacCumhaill, ya’ skivin’ longtail,” the buggane said as he hawked and spat phlegm at my feet. “S’been a moon of gobbags since we saw ya’ last, but I knew ye’d be back fer a proper thrashin’ in good time.”
As Dufgal spoke, I’d managed to back myself up to a low stone wall, where I rested momentarily as I shook off the effects of his punch. Bugganes were incredibly strong for their size, and at eight feet, this one easily packed the same power in that strike as a full-grown jötunn. Since I’d very recently fought several jötnar, I could attest that my assessment was an honest and fair comparison.
As I rubbed and worked out my jaw, I noticed it felt funny, so I pushed it sideways until it clicked. “I’m just here to see Maeve, doofus, so back off and let me pass.”
“Oy, not after ya’ buried her yard guardian under twenty tons o’ dirt and stone,” he replied as he adjusted his balls with a loud fart. “I’ll be the one ta’ hafta dig poor Lothair out, an’ I don’t take kindly ta’ bein’ given needless tasks. So, pucker up an’ say goodnight, cuz’ I’m about ta’ lay into ya’ somethin’ awful.”
By this point, I knew I wouldn’t leave Maeve’s garden without a fight, so it was pretty much game on as far as the buggane was concerned. However, she’d be pissed if I killed him, so that eliminated most of the magical spells I knew that could quickly deal with one of his kind. I could try to bury him like I did Lothair, but that wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as kicking his ass—especially after he sucker-punched me.
I played like I was hurt until he stepped into range, then I rolled to my left with a right roundhouse kick that took him on the outside of his left knee, buckling it. Since I couldn’t move away, that meant I had to move into or past him. I chose escape. There was no way I was grappling with a buggane in this form. He’d have all the advantages of size and strength, not to mention his kind smelled like dead hyenas, even with odor suppression magic.
Spinning on my right knee as I followed through on the kick, I turned and drove the hardest back kick I’d ever thrown right into Dufgal’s junk. Based on the crunching noise I heard when my foot connected, I’d either fractured his pelvis or given him an impromptu orchiectomy. The tortured, high-pitched squeal that escaped his lips made me suspect the latter. When he fell to his side with his hands cupped over his nether regions, it verified my suspicions.
Using the wall for support, I pushed myself to my feet and staggered sideways, dukes up and ready to go another round if the buggane was game. As it turned out, he wasn’t. Apparently male buggane anatomy was just as sensitive as that of humans, and Dufgal remained curled up in a fetal position, moaning softly with his eyes shut tight.
Hell, I almost felt bad for him, then I thought about all the innocent hunters, hikers, and campers he’d probably eaten. I also reminded myself that bugganes were tough, and they healed faster than humans. Finally, I realized he might recover and come after me before I finished my business with Maeve, and that simply wouldn’t do.
Aw, fuck ’im.
With a quick skip-step to cover the distance between us, I soccer-kicked Dufgal in the back of the head, hard enough to put him down for the count. Then I used a little magic to soften the dirt where I’d buried Lothair, and I headed up
the walk to Maeve’s house.
I was just about to knock on the back door when it opened, revealing a familiar face—a sight that stunned me into silence. Standing there, mouth agape, I found myself at a complete loss for words as I gave my former friend a visual once over. Shockingly, from my perspective at least, she was just as I remembered yet different in every way imaginable.
Sabine’s look had changed considerably, the most drastic and notable difference being the absence of her long blonde locks. Her hair had been cut into a punky, pixie-ish ’do and dyed purple. The hairstyle was an attractive look on her, shaved as it was into a fade on the sides and back, with the longer hair on top coiffed into loose spikes that gave her a wild, carefree look.
She’d also revised her choice of clothing. When I’d last seen her, she’d opted for subtle styles and colors, the sort of classic clothes that always seem to stand the test of time. Now, she wore a dramatic, form-fitting full-length jacket with blazer lapels and an exposed corset waist that accentuated her slim waistline. A white knit tank top with a plunging neckline and tight, shiny black slacks tucked into matching knee-high leather boots with spiked heels finished the ensemble.
No surprise, she was still foregoing the glamour she’d once used to hide her beauty under a false, mousy, unattractive exterior. Being a half-glaistig, she possessed all the allure and charm of her fae mother combined with a curvaceous figure that could only have come from her human father’s gene pool. I’d once described her as a blonde Christina Hendricks, but now she was something more.
Confidence—that’s what it is. It’s practically pouring off her.
She cocked her hip and frowned at me. “Are you just going to stare, or do you want to come in before Lothair frees himself and tears you a new one?”
“Oh, right,” I said, recovering from the impact of seeing her for the first time in what felt like years.
And it had been years for my part, although from her perspective it’d been little more than a year since we last spoke. Sabine had been Maeve’s agent during one of my early justiciar assignments, during which I recovered some missing kids from a nachtkrapp. I’d attempted to reconcile with her then and had been rebuffed in a manner that left no room for speculation regarding the bitterness she felt towards me.
It wasn’t that I had romantic feelings for Sabine—quite the opposite, in fact, and that was the issue. When we were still friends, I’d somewhat inadvertently led her on, only to jump into the sack with Belladonna before I let Sabine know where we stood. My half-glaistig friend had not taken my romantic bumbling kindly, and she’d avoided me like the plague after that. I still felt guilty about it, and if I had a single regret that didn’t involve dead people, it was fucking up that friendship.
Sabine pulled the door wide and stood aside, so I stepped across the threshold into Maeve’s manse. She shut the door behind me and turned wordlessly, taking long, graceful strides through the parlor and into the bowels of the house. I took that as my cue to follow. Maeve’s home was not friendly to non-fae visitors, even the invited kind, and it was not wise to remain within its walls unattended.
The house itself seemed to be a living thing, with its constantly shifting walls, halls, and rooms, and the ever-changing appearance of its interior and exterior. Fae homes were like that—a reflection of their owner’s personality as well as the power and influence they wielded. The really powerful aes sídhe lived in castles and mansions that were always much larger on the inside than they appeared. I suspected they made their residences that way both as a statement of superiority and as a means of defense against unwanted intruders. Nothing like getting lost in a never-ending succession of halls and rooms to deter assassins and burglars, after all.
Being a goddess in her own right, Maeve’s home was massive on the inside, even though her power had declined considerably after I closed off the pathways to Underhill. However, if the condition of her home was any indication, she appeared to be bouncing back. The shabbiness I’d witnessed on my last visit was gone, and the place now looked like the well-appointed but time-worn Victorian mansion it was. Except for the fact that we’d easily walked the length of a football field since we entered, that is.
“You, um, look great, Sabine. I really like the hair.”
She spared me the briefest backward glance. “Thanks. It took me a while to find my style.”
“That look suits you.” I smiled, hoping she could hear it in my voice. “And I’m glad to see you doing so well.”
“So well without you, you mean?” I cringed. While she didn’t look, I was certain she caught the hitch in my step. “Oh, relax, I’m only teasing. Contrary to your own high opinion of yourself, you weren’t that hard to get over.”
“Ouch,” I replied. “Harsh, but fair. And if it makes any difference, I still feel horrible about how I handled things.”
“I know, and that’s why I’m no longer mad at you. Sure, you’re clueless about women and relationships, and you are most definitely a bungling fool when it comes to conveying your emotions. Yet, you’re anything but callous and insensitive. Besides, at least part of the blame lies with me.”
I took a few longer strides to catch up with her, as she was leaving me behind despite having shorter legs. “How so?”
Sabine flashed a knowing smile. “If I had been more experienced, I might’ve read the signs. You spent time plenty of time alone with me but never made a move. You were always protective of me, yet you showed your affection in very non-physical ways. We talked about everything under the sun, but whenever we spoke of Jesse, your voice softened and your eyes conveyed an undeniable longing. I should’ve known I was being sis-listed from the start.”
“Sis-listed?”
She chuckled softly as we turned a corner down another hall. “Put on the sister list. It’s like being friend-listed, but a cut above.”
“Er, yeah—that’s pretty much how I feel about you.”
Sabine slugged me on the shoulder. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Ouch,” I said, rubbing the area of impact. “I would say I’m sorry, but you’re just giving me shit, right?”
“Well, well. It seems we’ve both gotten a bit better at reading the room,” Sabine replied as she pulled up short in front of a rather mundane-looking white door. “Ah, here we are. Go on in. I’ll be waiting here to escort you out again after you’re done.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“Oh no, she wants to have a word with you in private.”
“If she wants to speak with me, then why’d she let her watch-gargoyle and bodyguard attack me?”
Sabine shrugged as she pulled out her phone and plopped down on a nearby settee that hadn’t been there moments earlier. “I dunno. Boredom? She’s a goddess, Colin. I’m pretty sure she just likes to see mortals struggle.”
14
The room I walked into was dimly lit, and it smelled like my dad’s study. Actually, my dad never had a study, but if he had, this is what it would have smelled like. The chamber—because what else did you call such a space?—was reminiscent of a private library in an old-money mansion, or a literal old boys club, the kind of place that rich old dudes go to smoke and drink sans the opposite sex.
The first thing that struck me was the cigar smoke—a thick, rich, pungent odor like leather and spice and earth. It was so heady, it seemed like vapors from some heavenly censer brought to Earth by an angelic thurifer as a pure blessing to mortal nostrils. Then I caught layers of alcohol beneath, but not spilled beer funk or that rubbing alcohol smell that a lot of cheap liquor emits. No, this was first-grade, top-shelf whiskey, the stuff they keep behind glass at the big box liquor store. The sort of thing I couldn’t afford, even now that I was somewhat a man of means.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw that the walls and floors were neatly and extravagantly appointed, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves left and right, dark mahogany moulding and millwork, and Persian rugs over polished hardwood floors. The walls
were adorned in wallpaper that should’ve been gaudy but wasn’t, something in red velvet and gold leaf that involved curlicues and flowers in a repeating diamond-shaped pattern. An old-school chandelier hung in the center, unlit and at least partially obscured by the pall of smoke that hung a few feet from the ceiling so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Straight ahead on the far wall, a fireplace was situated, the hand-carved mantel and side columns bedecked in the same dark wood as the walls and floors. A fire had been lit within, although it burned behind a glass and metal screen that let in the warmth while keeping out the smoke. To the right, a pool table set up for snooker instead of American billiards. I suppose the alternative was poker, a pastime that seemed a bit beneath Maeve, although I couldn’t picture her playing poker, either.
Two high-back reading chairs sat in front of the fireplace facing away from me, where they flanked a very expensive-looking antique Queen Anne side table. A lamp on the table served as the only source of light in the room besides the fireplace, illuminating a crystal decanter of whiskey, one half-full and one empty glass, an ashtray, and the accoutrements of cigar smoking—lighter, punch, and humidor.
A delicate woman’s arm showed on the left armrest of the rightmost chair. Her hand held a smoking cigar, replete with a short bit of ash and the barest trace of dampness on the smoking end. The occupant of the chair took a healthy puff, blowing it out before tapping the ash into the tray.
“Come, sit with me child,” Maeve said. Her tone was anything but commanding—almost melancholy, really.
