by Ann Gimpel
Nidhogg circled to land, touching down in a flurry of dusty, reddened dirt. Dewi blew steam to clear her nostrils and lumbered near where he stood.
“We could bring the younglings here—” she began, but he silenced her with a harsh look. Fire plumed from his open mouth.
“The same thought crossed my mind, but we will not do that. How could we live with ourselves if we turned our backs on honor? More importantly, what kind of lesson would that teach our children?”
Shame burned hot and viscous in her chest, and Dewi looked away. “Once our younglings are a month old, the Celts will want to use them in battle.”
“They would be within their rights.” Nidhogg’s tone was devoid of inflection. “Our children will be capable of fighting once their scales harden.” He shook his head, and steam flew in all directions. “No one gets an exemption, Dewi. Not me. Not you, and not our children.”
“I’ll be chained to the eggs in my body once I’ve laid them. I don’t know how I’ll manage being stuck in our cave in Ireland knowing how thin a margin we hold.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Nidhogg raised his snout. “You will hold the eggs within you. Until the outcome of the coming battles is more certain, we will need you in battle.”
“But how can I do that?” Dewi stared at her mate as if he’d lost his mind. “Last time we produced a clutch, the eggs came when they did. I couldn’t have stopped them anymore than I could have turned back time.”
“It’s numbers. So long as you have fewer than fifteen fertilized eggs within you, you control when they emerge.”
Dewi rolled her eyes. “Why do you know that and I don’t?”
He shrugged, his black scales jangling against one another. “Maybe because I paid attention when the females got together. What this does mean, though”—he eyed her meaningfully—“is no more mating. We can’t risk creating more eggs.”
“Not sure I like that,” she muttered and clanked her jaws together. “Let’s get going with the caves. We’ve already burned up the better part of a day getting here, and we told Fionn and Aislinn we’d be back in two.”
“I don’t like the not mating part, either.” Nidhogg winked broadly. “But it will create an incentive to plow through to the other side of things and secure Earth once and for all.”
“I heard the tail end of that.” Arawn, Celtic god of the dead, terror, and revenge, strode out of the mouth of the cave system. Black robes cloaked his tall, slender frame. Black hair hung loose to his waist, and his dark eyes glittered dangerously.
Dewi puffed smoke in surprise. “How did you get here? This world is closed to all but dragons.”
“I’m surprised ye have to ask. The Halls of the Dead link to every borderworld, even this one.” Arawn narrowed his eyes. “It got me around the problem with your ward system.”
“So I suppose a better question,” Nidhogg cut in, “would be why you felt the need to intercept us.”
“Neither of you have been to these caves for a verra long time,” Arawn spoke deliberately, enunciating each word until Dewi felt like strangling him.
“Your point?” she snapped.
“A handful of dragons yet live—”
“That’s scarcely possible,” Dewi huffed.
“Hush, dear.” Nidhogg straightened his spine until he hit his full eight-and-a-half-feet height and shifted his gaze to Arawn. “I suppose you’re going to tell us why you kept their existence a secret.”
The dark-haired god shook his head. “Nay, I will let them tell you that themselves. I merely wished to prepare you. They are here at my behest and have remained so out of deference to me. I saw no reason to alert our enemies to their existence after Perrikus imprisoned you.” A rare smile split Arawn’s gaunt face, displaying very white, very even teeth. “I must return to Inishowen. I presume I will see you there soon.”
“Thank you.” Nidhogg inclined his head.
Dewi gnashed her teeth, not believing her mate was actually thanking Arawn for his deceit. “You could have told me,” she gritted at Arawn. “I can keep secrets.”
“Unless ye’d been taken,” Arawn pointed out. “And tortured.”
“Damn you, you arrogant Celtic ass,” she sputtered. “I suffered terribly.”
“Aye, but ye dinna die.” The god of death’s dark gaze flashed menace. “Enough. We all made sacrifices, and I fear we are far from the end of them.” He raised his arms skyward, shimmered, and was gone.
“Get hold of yourself.” Nidhogg nudged Dewi with his shoulder. “Let’s get moving. I want to see which of our kin remain.”
“Traitors, the lot of them,” she hissed.
Nidhogg pivoted on his powerful hindquarters until he faced her and grabbed one of her forelegs with a taloned foot. “You will hear them out,” he pronounced. “Only a fool makes judgments without facts.”
Ouch.
Shame nudged anger, not totally displacing it, but at least making room for something beyond indignation. She yanked her foreleg free. “I promise to listen, but if I don’t like their answers—”
“Neither of us will take action without consulting the other.” He skewered her with his gaze. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She aimed for neutrality, but a sullen undernote crept beneath the word just the same.
Chapter Two
Fionn, Celtic god of wisdom, creation, and protection, wanted to slam a fist down on the huge oblong table in his kitchen, but he restrained himself. The carved oak table could have accommodated twenty-five, but today just him, two other Celts, and four humans sat ringed around its scarred surface.
“Let’s play this one again from the top,” Fionn said, making an effort to remain in his seat. What he wanted to do was bolt from the room. Let the others come up with a plan if they were going to pick his to bits.
“Temper, temper,” Bella cawed from her perch atop the door.
Fionn eyed his bond raven. “I’ll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Thank away.” The bird fluffed her coal black feathers and nailed him with her beady avian gaze. “In the end, I’ll do as I please.”
“Aye, ye always do.” Fionn turned his attention back to the group. Gwydion, master enchanter and warrior magician, sat at one end of the table. His sky blue robe was sashed with a leather belt that held pouches with a variety of herbs and powders in them, and his intricately carved wooden staff was propped against the wall behind him. Blond hair was braided in a Celtic warrior pattern, and his blue eyes held a somber note.
Bran, god of prophecy, war, and the arts, wore his usual battle leathers. They clung to his heavily muscled body like a second skin. Blond hair fell halfway down his back, and his copper eyes danced with suppressed mirth. He tilted his chin in response to Fionn’s gaze.
Fionn narrowed his eyes. “I doona see the humor here. Mayhap ye might enlighten me.”
Bran shrugged. “Ye are used to getting your way. ’Tis interesting watching you grapple with compromise.”
“Glad to provide entertainment,” Fionn gritted through clenched teeth. Bran’s words skirted dangerously close to the truth. Fionn was used to working alone, or with other Celts who tended to share his worldview. He hadn’t counted on this bunch of humans to have differing opinions.
And did I think they’d bow and slaver and thank me for my wisdom? Fionn winced at his folly in expecting passivity.
“This isn’t helpful,” a woman from the far side of the table said. “We have our difficulties too, but if we don’t work through them, we may as well hang out a white flag and tell the dark gods and those Lemurian bastards to come get us.” Red hair hung to her shoulders, and the skin around her clear, green eyes was pinched with concern. She wore faded green pants and a nondescript sweater with many patches.
“You’re Corin, right?” Fionn asked. “Sorry to ask, but…”
“Yes, I head those with the Mage gift.” She took a measured breath. “One of the problems here is you’re immortal. We�
�re not. It makes us cautious, since we don’t get do overs.”
“Neither do we,” Bran drawled in his conciliatory voice. “We can be sorely injured, so much so we end up waiting out our immortality in the Dreaming. ’Tisn’t such an enviable position.”
Corin frowned. “I’m sorry, I thought—”
“So long as I’ve put my foot in it,” Fionn broke in, not wanting to go into the intricacies of Celtic immortality, “we never did go around the table for introductions. I’d asked for the leaders from each of the human magics. I recognize Daniel from Castle Balloch, but not the rest of you.”
A stocky, blond man with deep green eyes nodded from across the table. He was dressed in tattered trousers and a plaid wool jacket. “As if any of us could forget the night we strung up that Hunter traitor, Travis. Damned shame about his civet, but we couldn’t salvage him, either.” Daniel thinned his lips into a disgusted line. “As I’m sure you guessed, I represent Seekers.”
“Ye must be a Hunter,” Gwydion cut in, angling a glance at a tall, slender woman with long black hair and a tawny mountain lion curled up behind her chair. Black skirts pooled around her, and a teal tunic covered her upper body.
“What tipped you off?” Her blue eyes shone with merriment.
For one sour moment, Fionn considered mentioning that she and Bran would make quite a pair since they saw humor in a bleak situation, but he kept his thoughts to himself. As if the cat could read minds, it leveled its amber gaze his way and growled.
“Surely ye have a name,” Fionn prodded.
“The cat is Tabitha,” Bella quorked from her perch. “She said her human is named Eve.”
The dark-haired woman shifted in her chair and laid a hand on her bond animal’s head. “Spilling secrets again, eh?” The cat growled a second time.
“We waste time sparring.” The other occupant of the table spoke up. “I am Timothy, and I represent the Healers who are here.” Curly brown hair shot out from his head at odd angles, and his hazel eyes held warmth. He wore robes much like Gwydion’s, except his were black.
“Where’s Aislinn?” Gwydion asked. “She was supposed to represent Seers.”
“Not quite sure who that might be,” Corin muttered, “since she’s the only human I’ve ever known with that gift.”
“Aislinn’s babysitting the dragons,” Fionn said. “They respond better to her than to anyone else, so she volunteered.” Rune, Aislinn’s bond wolf, had been far less anxious to take on the task, but she’d vetoed his request to hunt. Aislinn was Fionn’s mate. She’d be his wife if things ever slowed down enough for Gwydion to marry them. His heart swelled with affection and longing when he thought of her lush body and prickly disposition. Win, lose, or draw, she was his, sharp edges and all, and he wouldn’t have things any other way.
Fionn pushed to his feet and went to the pantry where he retrieved two bottles of mead. Returning to the table, he plonked them down and went in search of glasses. As he worked, he said, “The best I can tell, we are of three minds about our next steps. Some of us want to go after the other dark gods. Others want to target the Old Ones, or Lemurians as I’ve always named them. The third contingent wishes to solidify our power base and let the enemy come to us.”
“Aye,” Bran nodded, “’tis a fair encapsulation.”
“Mayhap we might come up with pros and cons to each approach.” Gwydion stood about the same time Fionn found his seat. The master enchanter tipped one of the mead bottles, pouring the fragrant liquid into a glass. He drank, set the glass down, and got paper and a pencil from a drawer at the far end of the kitchen.
“Not sure I see the point,” Eve said. “We favor biding our time and the three of you”—she pointed an index finger at Fionn, Gwydion, and Bran—“would take a more offensive approach.”
“All right.” Fionn started to bring the mead bottle to his mouth, remembered his manners, and poured himself a jot. “What is the benefit to waiting until we are set upon?”
“Before ye answer,” Bran jumped into the conversation, “consider they may never attack us directly.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Daniel asked.
“If they can gain control of Earth, all except for this corner of Inishowen, they may well call it even,” Bran noted. “We’ve proven difficult to fight, and the dark ones are lazy.”
“I still say we have no choice,” Fionn snapped. “If we can immobilize more of the dark gods, our task will be done. The Lemurians are a dying race. ’Tis why they allied themselves with the dark ones. They lived in those infernal tunnels beneath Mount Shasta for centuries with nary a problem that rose above ground level.”
“So you’re thinking they’ll sink back into oblivion?” Daniel asked.
“’Tis exactly what I’m thinking,” Fionn concurred. Since no one contradicted him, he kept talking. “Aislinn did away with Slototh, god of filth and all that’s discarded. Dewi discombobulated Tokhots with dragon’s fire. She injured Perrikus on his home world, but he recovered.”
“You can’t kill them,” Eve protested. “It’s one of the reasons we feel it’s a waste of time to take them on in battle.”
“Aye, lass, ye canna kill them,” Fionn said, “but ye can cause them enough damage they think twice about bothering you again.”
“Assuming Slototh and Tokhots, his trickster buddy, are down for the count,” Gwydion said, “that leaves Perrikus, D’Chel, Majestron Zalia, and Adva.”
“Refresh my memory,” Corin said. “Perrikus controls power and energy, but what about the others?”
“D’Chel is the god of illusion. Adva controls portals, and Majestron Zalia is Perrikus’s mother. She’s their de facto queen, and her blood is just as poisonous as Tokhots’s was,” Bran said.
“We likely wouldna have to take all of them on,” Fionn noted. “Once we were down to one or two, I believe they’d withdraw to their borderworlds and leave us be for a few centuries.”
“So,” Eve narrowed her eyes, “if we took out two of them that might be sufficient?”
Daniel shook his head. “I don’t like it. There are too many unknowns. The Celts are certain the Lemurians will fade into obscurity. I’m not so certain.”
“Why?” Gwydion arched a brow.
“If they’re dying, do you expect they’ll allow themselves to dwindle into nothingness without a fight? They were the Third Race.”
“Yon human may have a point,” Gwydion said. “They hatched up that plan to bond with the dark gods to save themselves. Just because it dinna work the way they planned, they may have other tricks up their sleeves.”
“We need consensus,” Fionn ground out. “There isna any more data that will open some magic door to something we have yet to come up with.”
Corin stood and closed her teeth over her lower lip. “I will discuss this with the other Mages. My suggestion is we reconvene tonight. I don’t know about the rest of you”—she tossed her head, and her gaze moved from Daniel to Eve to Timothy—“but I’m not willing to volunteer my people for slaughter unless they go willingly.”
She strode across the kitchen and went out through the door leading to the great room of Fionn’s sixteenth century manor house. After a slight pause, the other three followed her, with the cat bringing up the rear. Bella cawed something, and the cat made a sound between a purr and a snarl in return.
“What was that about?” Fionn asked his raven.
She fluffed her feathers. “You don’t want to know.”
That did it. Fionn jumped from his chair so fast it made a squealing noise as its legs scraped the wooden floor. He ended up directly below Bella. “Aye, I most certainly do want to know.”
Bella made a great show of preening her feathers with her razor-sharp beak. “Tabitha thinks the Hunters may leave.”
“Fucking great,” Bran muttered.
“Aye.” Gwydion blew out an exasperated sounding breath. “Here I thought we were a gnarly lot when it came to ‘getting to yes.’ We’re pikers compared with
humans.”
“Get down here.” Fionn patted his shoulder and the bird fluttered into place, her talons digging deep into his shoulder muscles. He walked back to the table, grabbed a mead bottle, and took a long swallow.
“What’s our next move?” Bran inquired caustically. “Since what we’re doing seems to be working so well.”
“Mayhap we should ask Aislinn,” Fionn said. “She’s human, so she might have better luck second guessing them.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” Gwydion seized the bottle from Fionn.
“What is?”
“We dinna treat the humans in this part of the world verra well,” Bran clarified. “They have no reason to trust us.”
Fionn grimaced. Though he’d spent most of the last few hundred years in North America, he was equally guilty. Three-and-a-half years before, when the Lemurians had weakened the gates between the worlds and allowed the dark gods access to Earth, he’d laid low right along with all the other Celts. They’d stood by—and done nothing—while the Lemurians had marched millions of humans into a radioactive vortex. Aislinn had called him to task soundly for that particular lapse. Once she’d gotten done with him, Fionn felt ashamed.
The Lemurians’ excuse had been all humans without magic were worthless, an unnecessary drain on planetary resources, but the truth was much closer to something quite different. Even with an infusion from the dark gods, the Lemurians’ power was limited. It took all their capacity to marshal humans with magic to do their bidding. There wasn’t anything left over to control masses of other humans who would likely have staged a rebellion.
“Ye’re a mite on the quiet side,” Gwydion observed.
