“This is ready,” I whispered, closing my hands around the cup. Maeve took it from me and went over to Flynn.
“Where’s Rowan?” Flynn’s eyes widened as he saw Maeve coming. He knew he was in trouble.
“Rowan’s right here. We’re all right here. And we want to know what happened. What did the villagers see that made them do this to you?” Maeve demanded, holding the glass at an angle so Flynn could drink.
He coughed as the hot tea poured down his throat. “You should be thanking me, Einstein. I was only defending your honor.”
“Some guy at the pub made a comment about you, so our mate Flynn here punched him out. Then the whole rest of the pub jumped in.” Blake wiped blood off his face. “We only got out of there because Nell called the police and everyone scrambled.”
“Jesus, Flynn,” Maeve growled, splashing hot tea all over Flynn’s face.
“I’m fine, Einstein,” Flynn coughed. “You should see the other guys. But they know about Aline.”
Panic surged through me. If the villagers saw Aline back from the dead, that would frighten them more than the statue. But how could they know about her? She hasn’t been outside the castle except to talk to Daigh, and we were well hidden in the trees…
The fox.
Maeve must’ve had the same idea, because she turned to Arthur. “That rustling you heard in the trees the other night, did you see for sure it was a fox?”
“No, but it was low to the ground, too small to be a person hunched over.”
“So it couldn’t have been a kid?”
Arthur’s face turned stony. “Shite.”
“Don’t slash yourself up over it, Arnold,” Blake said. “We’ve got enough blood from Flynn.”
I gasped. Corbin looked mortified. But Arthur just laughed. “I never thought you’d be the one calling me on that shit, fae.” He rubbed his arm. “I’m not doing that anymore.”
Just like that. I wondered if it was Aline’s ritual affecting him. It sure was affecting me. And Corbin too, judging by the way he’d kissed me last night and what he was willing to do and the fact that he was trying to get me to a doctor again.
And Flynn… had the ritual got under his skin, too? Could it somehow explain his strange desire to pick a fight in the pub?
“In the pub, people were talking about Aline,” Blake said. “A kid saw us talking to Daigh through the mirror, and they all put it together after they recognized Aline from old photographs from her coven days.”
Maeve paled. “So the village knows about Aline.”
“Aye, and now they think we’re necromancers as well as witches.”
“You’re a damn fool,” Maeve scolded Flynn, who winced. “You’ve made everything worse.”
“Leave him be for now,” I said, taking the mug from Maeve. “You can yell at him later.”
I managed to get the rest of the tea down his throat, and Aline and I packed his wounds with yarrow leaves and bandaged him up. Corbin helped me to lift him so I could tie a sling around his arm. Hopefully, the magic tea would knit the break back together in a few days and he wouldn’t need to go to a doctor. I slid to the floor, exhausted, as Arthur scooped Flynn off the counter. “Up to bed with you.”
“Not bed, the couch. I have a mind to watch some action films and take my mind off my imminent castration at the hands of Einstein.” Flynn grinned at Maeve, who folded her arms and glared at him. He probably wasn’t wrong about the castration.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Fine. As long as it’s not Commando again.”
“Hey, I’m the one who got beat up. If I want Commando, you get Commando.”
Arthur and Blake settled Flynn on the couch, placing a blanket over his knees and the TV remote in his hands. I brought him some snacks and set them on the table in front of him. Aline went to the kitchen to make tea. I got up to follow her, but Maeve grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the hall. She beckoned Corbin to join us.
“So…” she gave each of us at stern look. “Blake mentioned that when he came in you two were locked in a rather passionate embrace.”
Corbin looked guilty. “It was all me. I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t think that. You’re not in trouble. I know you’ve got this thing going on that’s much older than me. I like it. I love it, in fact. Seeing you guys last night made me so happy, you have no idea. I have all of you, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have each other, too. But I’m going to need all the magic I can get if we’re going to defeat the fae, so this is a warning – don’t fuck it up for the next eight days, got it? Because I need both of you at my side and in fighting and fucking form, and if I can’t have all five of you because the two of you are fighting, then it’s not going to work.”
Corbin slipped his fingers through mine. The smile he flashed me melted my heart. “We’re here for you, no matter what.”
I nodded, unable to find words.
Maeve grinned, and wrapped her arms around us both. Her sweet, spicy scent hit my nostrils, mingling with Corbin’s dusky, heady aroma and bringing me back to the night under the bridge, the night I’d poured out all my secrets and found the love I’d never believed could exist.
“I love you both so much,” Maeve whispered. “Now get out of here. Go do something useful. Trust me, you don’t want to be around for the bollocking I’m about to give Flynn.”
20
FLYNN
“Okay, tiger. You’ve had time to gird your loins. We need to talk.”
Maeve plonked down on the beanbag in front of me, her head blocking the screen so I couldn’t see who Arnie was shooting at. I had a smart comment ready to rip, but the expression on Maeve’s face said I’d better not chance it. I paused the movie with my good hand and raised myself up, the movement sending a splitting pain through my injured arm.
“Hit me with it, Einstein.”
“Do I need to tell you what a monumental idiot you were, dragging Blake into the pub and then picking a fight?” Maeve said.
When she put it like that…
I shook my head. “You don’t need to tell me. I was a fecking eejit. I was just so angry. They threatened you, and I just bloody snapped.”
“You get this was your idea to stir up the villagers with your statue? Now they’re all stirred up you can’t go getting mad at them for the hysteria we created. And the fact they know about Aline is all the more reason why you shouldn’t have been in there. This is dangerous, Flynn. They broke your arm. You could have gotten killed.”
“I don’t care what they do to me. I’ll scrap ‘em all if I have to. But if they hurt you, I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Flynn? You’ll turn into Arthur? Don’t do that. I can only handle one postal warrior with a Lancelot complex. What’s going on with you?”
I shrugged. “Dunno.”
“You do know. Spill it. Do you remember what we agreed to only yesterday? No more secrets. No more keeping things hidden away.”
“You’re going to think it’s so dumb.”
“Try me.”
“Did I ever tell you when I first decided I wanted to be an artist?” Maeve shook her head. “I was living in Dublin with my uncle. He trafficked drugs around Ireland – the hard shite like horse, crack, yokes for the clubbers. This one day, he had a bigwig from the Irish mob coming over to negotiate a deal, and he kicked me out of the house because ‘your ugly mug’ll turn him right off’ or some shite. I didn’t have anywhere to go, and it was pissing down so I couldn’t just sit at the dog park and pretend all the dogs were mine. So I went to the Irish National Gallery.”
“I thought you hated art galleries.”
“Easy on, let me finish my story!” I took another sip of Rowan’s tea. It was weird, but the heat from the drink seemed to warm right through my body, especially my throbbing broken arm. Rowan was a right healing genius. “As I was walking around, gawping at Caravaggio’s Taking of Christ and Morisot’s Le Corsage Noir and feeling absolutely nothing, I noticed this large class of
art students sitting down in the main gallery for a lesson. I had a sketchbook in my bag, so I pulled it out and hovered at the back and tried to look like I’d paid a gazillion quid to be there like the rest of them.”
“The tutor lectured on about Caravaggio – how the artist pioneered the strong light contrasts and moved his figures close to the picture plane to really pull the viewer in and create dramatic tension. And even though I think Caravaggio is fecking shite, my hand moved across the page. I couldn’t help it. In minutes I had this sketch of the figures, only I’d given them all dog heads.”
“Of course,” Maeve said.
“This girl was standing beside me, watching me sketch. ‘You’re really good,’ she whispered. I kept my head down. I didn’t want to say anything. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, are you?’ I shook my head, hoping she wouldn’t rat me out. Instead, she grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the gallery.
“She took me to an abandoned shoe factory where a bunch of artists had set up a workshop and gallery. It was wicked – just this big warehouse where people hung out and made art and swigged bottle-shop whiskey. I started going there every day, helping the girl – her name was Moira – finish a big mural on one of the warehouse walls. Most of the artists were like me – from the wrong side of the tracks, mixed up in gangs and street fighting. There were tensions, because some artists are territorial wankers, and no one trusted outsiders. Some of them were mad as a box of frogs at Moira for bringing me along. But they tolerated me because Moira liked me and I wasn’t some preppy, Trinners kid slumming it. In that warehouse, we were friends. We had hope.”
“So the day Corbin showed up asking about me, there was trouble. He looked like a Trinners kid. He got the shit kicked out of him and I wasn’t even there that day. They told me about it when I showed up. But he came back a week later, and the week after that, and finally he cornered me and told me who he was and what I was and that he wanted me to come back to England with him.”
“What’d you do?” Maeve leaned forward.
“What do you think I did? I laughed in his fecking face. I didn’t need no fairy godmother in a Blood Lust t-shirt dragging me back to some drafty castle. I’d found my people. I was going to be a street artist. I had Moira. I sent him packing.”
“A few days later, I showed up at the warehouse to work on another mural project with Moira, and she wasn’t there. I waited around for ages, but she never showed, didn’t answer her phone or nothing. She didn’t show the next day, or the next. The other artists told me they didn’t want me coming around no more. I asked about Moira, and they told me there’d been a fight downtown between two rival gangs, and she’d been down an alley working on a mural and got shot in the crossfire. The man who shot her? My uncle.”
“Shit, Flynn,” Maeve breathed.
I tried to wave my hand, to show her it wasn’t a big deal, but I forgot my arm was broken, so when I moved it I dissolved into pain-filled whimpers. “Ow, serves me right for acting the maggot. So yah, I packed my things and left with Corbin the next day. I threw myself into Briarwood and protecting you. I went to Arizona for that year and met you in person and made a right fecking mess of things. I haven’t thought about Moira in a long time, but last night during that ritual, these memories kept flashing in my head. I feel like she left me a legacy, and I’ve been failing her. And you.”
“You’re right,” Maeve leaned down and kissed my forehead. “That is dumb. Tell me about the memories. What did you see?”
I gave a one-armed shrug. “My uncle and his friends telling me to stop acting the maggot while they smoked crack in the kitchen. Having a paint fight with Moira while we were painting a mural out the back of the warehouse. Moira smiling, always smiling. Moira’s gravestone – cold and grey, just the opposite of her. The way I turned my art into a joke, like I turn everything into a joke, so that I didn’t have to face my feelings about her or about leaving Dublin. But it never felt like a joke, especially not after I met Moira.”
“Your art’s not a joke. That statue of yours might save us all.”
“There’s a piece of me inside that statue. But it doesn’t say anything, you know? It just makes people afraid and angry. I always thought that’s kind of what I wanted, the way Banksy’s stencils piss off the authorities. But…” I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“You think maybe you want your art to say something else?”
“Maybe.”
“It can, Flynn.” Maeve grinned. “Just think, if the belief that statue collects actually ends up helping us defeat the Slaugh, you’ll be famous for something else entirely.”
“Yeah,” I one-arm shrugged again. “I guess.”
That wasn’t what I wanted, though. I wanted to do right by Moira, give her art that was worthy of the gift she gave me. I wanted to do right by Maeve, too – the second woman who ever loved me and changed my life for the better.
Robert Smithers managed to use art to stop Daigh from taking Aline away from him. In a way, it was an act of love, although the act was selfish. Even Daigh, the evil fairy king, made art that moved people.
I didn’t know the first thing about how to make art like that. Maybe I never would. And I couldn’t explain it to Maeve the scientist.
She came over and settled on the couch beside me, perching gingerly on the edge so she wouldn’t jolt my arm. “What did you see at Jane’s house?”
My heart thudded. “We didn’t get there. We were going to go after the pub, but then…” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m guess I’m nothing but a disappointment today.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t send you guys to do my dirty work, anyway.” Maeve curled in beside me. She ran her fingers over my arm. Spirit magic pierced my skin like needles, seeping into the bones and spreading warmth down my arm. With her other hand, Maeve reached for the chocolate Guinness cake Rowan had made me. I reached for the remote to turn the TV back on when Corbin’s voice boomed through the castle.
“Maeve, everyone. Clara’s here!”
“We’re in the Great Hall!” I called back.
Clara bustled in behind Corbin, hugging a heavy old book against her chest. A tall bloke with tousled reddish hair and paint-speckled black clothes trailed in behind her. Aline trailed down the staircase to join us, her face flushed and a small makeup compact in her hands.
Clara didn’t even say hello. She just dumped the book on the table – sending up a cloud of dust – and announced. “I’ve found it. Oh, hello, Aline. I knew we’d be seeing you again.”
“Clara!” Aline raced over and embraced the tiny crone. “Look at you! You haven’t aged a day.”
“Look who’s talking.” Clara held Aline at arm’s length, gazing over her waifish figure. “And they say the paintbrush adds ten pounds. I bet you’re pleased to be three dimensional again.”
“How did you know she was in a painting?” Maeve demanded.
“I saw it,” Clara said.
Maeve sighed. “If you knew, it would’ve been nice of you to tell us. We could have rescued Aline sooner.”
“Would you have believed me?” Clara patted Maeve’s arm.
“What did you find?” Arthur asked from the doorway, probably trying to head off Maeve’s simmering precognition rant. Rowan and Blake appeared behind him.
“The answer we’ve been looking for.” Clara stood back, her tiny chin held high, like the Queen ready to greet her subjects.
“Is the answer Bela Lugosi over there?” I asked, jabbing my good arm toward the bloke hovering behind Clara.
“Oh, yes! Forgive me. I was so excited, I’ve forgotten my manners.” Clara grabbed the man’s arm and shoved him forward. “This is my son, Ryan Raynard.”
Ryan Raynard.
Mary Mother of Jesus.
Ryan Raynard the infamous reclusive modern impressionist artist who lived in the ancient hall just over the hill from Briarwood. Ryan Raynard whose paintings fetched millions of pounds at auction even though no one had seen him in public for ten years.<
br />
Ryan fecking Raynard is standing in my living room. And I’m lying around in my boxer shorts covered in bandages, wearing a t-shirt that said “Irish Whiskey Makes Me Frisky.”
The famous artist gave a weird little half-bow, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, and stepped back behind Clara. He seemed to be more comfortable hiding in the shadows. I could kind of relate to that.
Except I couldn’t, because he created brutal paintings that stole hearts, and I did Sweet Fanny Adams.
“Flynn, you okay?” Maeve waved her hand in front of my face. “Your eyes have gone all glassy. Does Rowan need to—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I croaked. “Fiddle-de-dee. Clara said she found the answer to our prayers. I’m just giddy with anticipation. What’s happening with your shop, Clara?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I want to show you what I found. It’s all thanks to you,” Clara beamed at me.
“Me?” Unlikely.
“When I saw Flynn’s statue this morning, it reminded me of something I’d read in one of my own family spellbooks. I wasn’t always a lone witch. I used to be part of a coven in London – the Soho coven, as it happened.”
Maeve’s eyebrow shot up. I remembered what she’d told me about what she and Corbin had seen at the coven’s headquarters. It was hard to imagine lovely old Clara mixed up with that lot.
Clara laughed. “It wasn’t always so… pompous. Back in my day, it was a real party house. They were good to me. I had to flee from Raynard Hall after Ryan’s father… well, that’s a story for another day. When I came to London I was a single mother with nothing, but they helped me find my feet again. I came into my own as a witch thanks to their guidance. I left shortly after Isadora took over as High Priestess – she and I didn’t see eye to eye, as I’m sure she’d delight in telling you. When I left, I took this book with me. I shouldn’t have it, but I had this idea that if Isadora got her hands on it, bad things would happen. Anyway, your statue made me remember this. Look.”
The Castle of Wind and Whispers (Briarwood Reverse Harem Book 4) Page 15
