Burnt Silver

by H A Titus

  Josh straightened with a groan. "Yeah. Something about me being dainséreach."

  Dainsereach? Josh? I almost laughed. "Only if they're worried about a human being part of the Underworld—in which case, they've got others to worry about."

  Josh rolled his eyes, then winced.

  My stomach clenched, and I placed my hand on Josh's shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay to continue with the meeting?"

  Josh's jaw set. "We can't wait. If we do, Henry Blair might hear that Shaughnessy's disappeared, and he's our only lead to a pathstone." Josh looked over at the fence where the redcap had fled.

  Human's eyes couldn't change colors like a fae's. They didn't have the d'anam fuienneog. But over the last few months, I'd learned to read Josh's face, and the clouded expression he wore now told me that he'd remembered something disturbing. I kept quiet, let him bring it up on his own terms.

  Josh rubbed his hand over his face. "Who have we pissed off that would send a redcap after me? I'm beginning to lose track."

  I stifled another laugh. "Fair point. I suppose Blodheyr could've sent it." I ran my hand through my hair. "No offense, but it's weird that it came after you and not me."

  Josh's face pinched in a look of worry. "I was thinking about that. Do you think someone else … one of Keelin's people, or maybe one of Shaughnessy's guys escaped? Could someone have guessed that I'm immune to glamour and sent the fear dearg to take me out?"

  "Did it say it was sent to kill you?"

  Josh shook his head. "I just assumed that because of the stories."

  Something twitched in the recesses of my mind, and my hands involuntarily clenched into fists. Time to go hunting. I shoved the thought away and rubbed my cross necklace through my shirt.

  Josh brushed his thumb along the scar on his right wrist as he stared off into the distance.

  "Look, you already survived once," I said. "That'll give whoever's behind this something to think about."

  "Thanks. I'd appreciate it." Josh checked his phone and his eyes widened. "I gotta get going."

  "You're sure you're good to drive?"

  He nodded, glanced over at the shattered windshield on his car. "I'll have to take my motorcycle, but yeah, I'll be fine. Besides, the trail's still fresh. Gotta hunt while you can." As he squeezed past me, Josh slapped my shoulder and smiled. "Thanks."

  I nodded absently. Gotta hunt while you still can. Had I said "time to go hunting" out loud? At the thought, another shiver spidered its way down my back.

  I watched Josh ride off on his motorcycle, then shrugged off my vague unease. Josh could handle himself, and besides, he was going to meet Simon in the middle of a faoladh pack. It was likely the safest place in Springfield for him at the moment.

  I retrieved my second sword from where I'd strapped it across one of my motorcycle packs, changed from the short-sleeved shirt to a long-sleeved henley I kept in my backpack, and pulled my leather jacket on. It was just a little too warm for the long sleeves and jacket to be comfortable, but based on what the fear dearg had done to Josh's arm through his jacket, I had to have as much protection as possible. If both Josh and I were noticeably injured, that left us vulnerable. We couldn't afford that right now, especially since my cracked ribs still prevented me from doing as much as I liked.

  I vaulted the railing where the fear dearg had squeezed through and crouched, studying the blood smeared along the sidewalk. A few steps further on, the blood dripped again, and then again. At least Josh had nicked it good.

  I jogged along the sidewalk for several blocks, careful to watch for drops of bright red. Clouds still swirled overhead, turning the bright sunset into broken rays and threatening to coalesce into rain at any moment. The threatening darkness wouldn't be a problem for tracking, but rain would wash the trail away. I'd have to move quickly.

  The redcap had veered in and out of alleys and across streets with wild abandon, as if hoping that doing so would throw off any followers. Spatters of blood marked where it had stumbled.

  In my mind's eye, I imagined redcap teeth sinking into Josh's arm, tearing at the flesh. And just like that, the images of Iain and Emily as I'd last seen them—faces beaten bloody, eyes wide in terror—rose like terrible specters. I gritted my teeth and narrowed my focus, staring at the tiny drops of blood.

  Then, in the middle of an alley, the bloody trail ended.

  Heart hammering in my throat, I jerked my head upward, scanning the walls and fire escape of the old retail building.

  No redcap.

  No. This couldn't be happening. I could almost hear Emily's pleas. Iain's cry for help. I leaned into the brick wall and ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. Then I clutched my necklace, hands shaking, and tipped my head back, taking a deep breath.

  With Marc's death—with everything that had happened in the last couple of weeks—with finally trusting Josh with my story and then having him so brutally attacked, it was clear I wasn't out of this yet. I could feel the familiar terror rising in me again. The helplessness. The rage of being useless. The mindless itch to lash out and destroy.

  I thought I'd beaten that curse.

  I balled my fist tighter, and the cross dug into my fingers. The small prick of pain yanked me back to the present.

  I let out a breath, opened my eyes. Above me stretched the rain-stained wall, streaks of rust from the fire escape discoloring the brick. And a bright, glistening smear on the fire escape's ladder.

  I leaped, and caught the ladder, dragging it down with a rattle that, thankfully, was mostly drowned out by the racket of street traffic. I climbed until I reached the roof, and hauled myself up. Spots of discoloration dotted the black tar paper covering the roof, leading me to a partial, bloody handprint on the far wall.

  There, hunkered at the base of the wall in the little side-alley between this building and the next, crouched the redcap. Smears of gore matted its hair and hat, and it was muttering in Gaelic as it attempted to wrap its wounded arm.

  Could I drop on top of it from here? And what was I going to do once I caught the thing? Judging by how quickly and unhesitatingly it had run, it had to be familiar with the area. How long had it been in Springfield? And how had something like a fear dearg escaped my notice? I clenched my jaw. How many people had this thing killed?

  Now I was sounding like Josh. Always a million questions and never any answers.

  I crouched and leaned against the ledge. Clenched my hands. I'd have to kill this thing. Letting it wander away would be condemning countless others to death. Fear deargs did one thing well, and that was kill.

  I judged the distance once more, and jumped.

  The redcap whipped around to see me, but didn't move fast enough. I landed on its shoulders, knocking it off its feet, and tumbled backward into a roll. As soon as I found my feet again, I lunged, grabbed the redcap around its neck, and slammed it against the wall. Drawing my knife, I pressed the flat of the blade hard against its chin, levering its head back up into the brick wall.

  The creature stared at me, huffing sour, rotting-meat breath through its nostrils.

  "Do you know who I am?" I demanded in Gaelic.

  "You are the one told to avoid," the redcap snarled.

  "For good reason. Why did you attack Josh?"

  The creature's eyes narrowed. "Dainséreach. All they told me."

  "Who told you?"

  "Don't know. Just told me there'd be blood." The fear dearg's tongue darted out, running over its lips, and its eyes glittered. It drew back its lips to reveal its large, flat front teeth and the dagger-like back teeth. "Good at drawing blood."

  The familiar burn of rage rose in my chest, and I pressed the blade harder until a thin line of blood appeared on the creature's neck. Then I grinned. "Funny. So am I. Now you'd better tell me who told you to go after Josh MacAllister, because he's under my protection. And so far, you're not giving me much reason to let you live." My hand trembled. I really, really didn't want to give in, to drag my knife across this creature's
throat. Yet how could I let it live? It had killed once, and it would kill again. If I ended it, I could save lives. Including people I cared about.

  The fear dearg's eyes had been shifting back and forth, but now they suddenly locked in place, staring at a spot over my shoulder. My heart thumped. I almost turned to look, but then hesitated. What if the fear dearg was trying to trick me? Any shift in my attention, and the thing could easily …

  Too late. I heard the rush of displaced air and tried to duck out of the way. Something hard smacked into the side of my head. Colored lights burst in front of my eyes, and I staggered, releasing the fear dearg's throat. Claws raked the side of my face, knocking me to the ground. Breath burst from my lungs, and my head bounced on the pavement, making my vision shatter into white.

  Through the haze, I picked out fuzzy sounds. Footsteps. Voices. A gurgling, and then something collapsed on the ground near me.

  A body! I blinked hard. Tried to get my arms underneath me to push myself up. My entire body felt numb. I could barely move. It had probably only been seconds, but it felt agonizingly long.

  Despite the pain blinding my vision, I forced myself up on my hands and knees. Need to get out. Time to run.

  "Don't."

  The cold muzzle of a gun pressed into the base of my skull. I froze. Dammit. I started to twist my head to look up.

  "Eyes on the ground." The gun pushed harder against my spine.

  I obeyed, staying on my hands and knees. Cold shivers crawled up my spine. Was this how I died? Blood dripped down the side of my face and splattered on the ground.

  "Who is it?" someone else asked, the voice sharp and low-pitched. "Let me get a look at him."

  The gunman grabbed my collar and jerked me up to my knees. I raised my hands, but kept my eyes on the ground. Dark boots walked into my view. Beyond them, the body of the fear dearg lay on the ground, blood pooling underneath its cut throat. I tensed. That would be me in about point-five seconds if I didn't figure out—

  After a minute, the man grunted. "Don't recognize him. He's just some fae. Let him go."

  "You sure?"

  No way. Seriously? How did they not recognize me? Please stick to what you said, please, just think I'm some typical, normal fae bounty hunter taking out a monster. It was almost too much to hope for.

  "The last thing we need right now is a trail of bodies. For now, we let him go."

  "Okay." The gunman shoved me forward, and I stayed there, on my hands and knees, waiting. Sweating. Listening. Willing my pulse to calm.

  The gun dug into the back of my skull, making me wince.

  The man leaned close to my ear. "You stay like this until we're gone, you hear? If I so much as see you twitch, or catch you following us, I'll shove this gun into your mouth and pull the trigger, understand?" The dry rasp in his throat grated over my nerves.

  I nodded, mind racing. Who were these people? How did they know Josh, but not know me?

  Footsteps echoed down the alley. I kept my eyes on the pavement, heart in my throat, until the footsteps faded. Then I looked up. The alley was deserted, except for the dead redcap…with iron coins shoved into its eye sockets.

  One thing was for sure—those men hadn't been fae. Fae would've known who I was. Fae wouldn't have put iron coins in the redcap's eyes.

  I got to my feet, and the world whirled around me. I leaned against the wall and winced. My head throbbed. I touched the side of my face and winced. The redcap's iron claws had raked from temple to jaw—not deeply, but blood crusted my hair and came away on my hand.

  Why would humans have hired a fear dearg? And go after Josh, of all people?

  CHAPTER 22

  JOSH

  By the time I pulled into the parking lot of the Black Dog pub, my arm ached so much I could barely concentrate on keeping my balance on the gravel parking lot. I parked my motorcycle near the road and leaned back, cradling my arm as I studied the pub. The neon dog head mounted on the porch roof was glowing, barely visible in the evening light.

  I pulled off my helmet and ran my hand through my hair, feeling nervous. It wasn't the faoladh that gave me the heebie-jeebies—Liam and his pack knew I was a friend, and I knew they'd honor their debt to the Tyrones. But meeting the curators without Eliaster? Not my thing.

  I sighed. This was what I'd wanted, though, right? For Eliaster to trust me without having to hover over my shoulder?

  Gravel crunched as I walked over to the door and pulled it open. Voices echoed out of the room. Booths lined the left-hand and back walls, with one door interrupting the lines of hardwood tables and benches, and a bar ran down most of the length of the right wall. The overwhelming scent of pine and wood polish filled the room. The bar's polished, shiny wood gleamed in the low yellow light, and shelves of bottles and glasses lined the back wall and hung from a rail on the ceiling above it. Posters of rock bands, old and new, hung pasted like wallpaper on the walls above the booths.

  The entire room paused at the jingle of the bell above the door, and everyone's head swiveled toward me. My stomach gave a lurch, and I swallowed hard, unnerved by the dozens of eyes staring at me. Everyone looked human, but there was something weird about them, some kind of feral awareness that manifested in hunched shoulders, slightly-parted lips, and piercing stares. I forced myself inside, letting the door swing shut behind me, careful not to make full eye contact or smile with my teeth showing.

  "Hey, Josh." Liam stood behind the bar, pouring some kind of liquor into a tiny measuring cup. He waved me over, set the bottle down, and upended the cup into a larger glass. "Welcome back."

  It took me a second to realize he'd spoken entirely in Gaelic. My brain took a second to make the switch. "Haigh. Buíochas."

  He grinned. "Sorry." It was in English this time. "Simon and Zeke aren't here yet. You're welcome to wait here, or you can go sit at the reserved booth." He nodded to the back corner, where a large booth was waiting, dimly lit, slightly removed from the rest of the room, and empty.

  "I'll stay here." I leaned against the bar. "Aileen been back around?"

  Liam cocked his head slightly to the side, eyes narrowing. "Ní hea. I'm sorry, I mean, no. She hasn't. Why do you ask?"

  "Just had a few more questions for her."

  "Sorry. As far as I know, you're the only one who has her phone number. When she called me asking to meet you guys here, she called from a pay phone. Can I get you anything to drink?"

  As I leaned against the bar, I bumped against the bandages on my forearm, and a flash of pain made me set my teeth. Painkillers and alcohol wouldn't mix well. I forced a smile and shook my head. "No, thanks."

  Liam's eyes flicked toward my arm. "Hurt yourself?"

  Dang it. "Had a run-in with a redcap earlier."

  One of Liam's eyebrows rose slightly. "A fear dearg? Those things are rare."

  "Aw, c'mon," a new voice behind me said. "You don't actually think he had a run-in with a fear dearg, do you? You're getting taken for a ride, Liam."

  I turned around. The newcomer was shorter than me, with dark hair and a stocky build. He carried a backpack in one hand, which he shifted to his shoulder as he held out his hand for me to shake.

  "Zeke Black. I'm Simon's son and assistant. You must be Josh MacAllister."

  I nodded.

  "Okay, well … look, I'm gonna be straight with you. What's the game?"

  I blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "What?"

  "I know you work with Eliaster. But you're not even a curator. You're some random kid he thought needed to be protected. He's brought nothing but trouble for the curators in the past."

  I stiffened. "You think we're lying?"

  "I think he's lying to everyone, and I think you're too inexperienced to know what's up or down."

  I crossed my arms and glared at him. "I have evidence to back up our claims, but I'd rather not waste my time if your minds are already closed."

  "Okay, enough," Liam cut in, and his voice had a feral snarl under the words. "You'r
e in neutral territory. I let you guys meet here as a favor to Cormac, but this ain't a faodladh issue, so you two had better not make it an issue. Clear?"

  "Crystal," I muttered.

  Zeke nodded.

  "Okay then." Liam jerked his thumb toward the reserved booth. "Why don't you two go cool your heels until Simon gets here?"

  Zeke trudged toward the booth, and I followed. We wove our way around the tables filling the main floor. Most of the faoladh seemed content to ignore us, though I caught one or two curious glances as I walked past. Out of habit, I began scanning the tables for phones, receipts, anything that could distract me, but there was nothing. I did notice that none of the wolves seemed to be armed.

  I slid into the booth on the opposite side of Zeke. The curator dumped his backpack on the seat, sighed, and turned to me.

  "Look," he said. "I don't want to turn this into a fight with you. But honestly, how long have you been a part of this whole mess?"

  "I don't think that matters as much as what I've seen in that time," I said shortly.

  "Do you even know why my dad told Eliaster he wasn't allowed to be here tonight?"

  "I'm assuming because he was involved in a curator's death a few years ago."

  Surprise flickered across Zeke's face. He hadn't been expecting that. Had that been his trump card, something he would've held over my head as proof that I couldn't trust Eliaster? Probably.

  The bell rang out over the low mutters of conversation again, and I looked over my shoulder. A shorter, chubbier version of Zeke let the door swing shut behind him and adjusted his glasses. Liam gestured toward us, and the man hefted a satchel to about shoulder height and wove his way around the faoladh to us.

  "Simon Black," he said as he drew level with me.

  We shook hands. As Simon settled into the seat beside his son, my stomach churned. Hopefully Simon would be more open-minded and less hostile than Zeke.

  Simon took his round glasses off and folded them into the breast pocket of his sweater vest, then dragged his fingers through his salt-and-pepper, curly hair. "So." He opened his satchel and withdrew a small green pouch and a pipe. He looked past me, presumably at Liam, and raised his pipe questioningly. He must've gotten the go-ahead, because he started slowly packing the pipe.