An Immortal Descent

by Kari Edgren

  “From what I heard, the woman asked for you, and then went into hysterics when she learned of your departure.”

  “Why would she do that?” I asked, surprised. Nora was her daughter. I was just the friend.

  Justine gave me a dry look. “Let’s see. Perhaps because her daughter ran off with a lunatic, soon to be followed by a young woman who was like another daughter. Rather unfortunate odds if you ask me.”

  A lump formed in my throat. Had Lucy really thought of me so fondly? “Sophie is good to tend her.”

  “She doesn’t mind. It’s part of her gift of hearth and home.” Justine smiled. “There’s no one in England more suited to comfort the weary of heart than my sister.” Her pride and love were evident in every word.

  I understood from the bond I’d once shared with my one blooded sibling. Sean had been nearly five years my senior, and one month shy of his twentieth birthday when he fled to the West Indies after a serious falling-out with our father. I had not seen him again, nor would I in this world, as rumor had reached us of a drunken brawl that resulted in Sean’s death. The lump grew even bigger in my throat. I tried to swallow it away, along with the painful memories.

  “Why didn’t Cate and Tom set out immediately after Deri?” I asked, as much from curiosity as to change the subject. “I expected them to be hard on her heels by now.”

  Our heels, I silently groused. My departure had only added to their need for haste, and made the delay all the more puzzling.

  “Nothing of great concern,” Justine said. “Tom was held up unexpectedly when the Duke of Norland had him arrested. He’d just returned home to prepare for the journey when the guards arrived.”

  My mouth fell open in shock. “Henry’s father? Why would he want to arrest Tom?”

  “Something to do with his asking too many questions about the duke’s Irish ancestry.”

  “You can’t just arrest someone for making inquiries. Not even the duke has that sort of power.”

  Justine laughed, a melodic sound that reminded me of Cate. “I believe the official charge was theft or misrepresentation of some kind, as the duke claimed to have paid for a commission that was never delivered. But the truth of the matter is that Tom dug a little too close to a family secret for the duke’s comfort. Until he discovers whether the inquiries stemmed from curiosity or a keen understanding of Irish lore, the arrest serves to warn Tom to keep from further prying.”

  I twisted in the saddle to get a better look at my aunt. To be sure, she showed less concern for her father’s arrest than most women would show for a pair of soiled slippers. And though I hated the idea of being pursued, and perhaps sent back to London, never in my wildest dreams did I wish such calamity to befall my great-grandfather.

  “This is awful news. How can you be so calm?”

  Her expression turned solemn. “Don’t worry, Selah. Cate is already working for his release. She prefers to use the proper channels, but if those fail, she will have him out by other means. The trick for now is getting the right wheels in motion without alerting the king to her interest in Tom. George Hanover has had designs on Cate ever since she became a widow, when the alleged Lord Dinley passed away. There’s no telling what he would do if he suspected a romantic attachment with a blacksmith.”

  These last words offered little solace. “What if they hurt him? Or tried to make him disappear?” Tom wouldn’t be the first man roughed up or killed by guards while in the king’s custody.

  Justine laughed again. “Believe me, your great-grandfather can hold his own against a dozen men or more. He only consented to be taken at the smithy to avoid a scene that would have ultimately forced him to move away from London. It’s happened before, and Cate was rather perturbed at the disruption to her charitable works.”

  The bulk of my anger turned back to Henry’s father. “Richard Fitzalan is a ruthless blackguard who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. One must wonder what he fears from Tom to warrant such underhanded behavior.”

  Justine didn’t answer at once, but stared straight ahead, her face clouded with thought. “Yes, one must indeed wonder,” she said at last.

  The breeze gained a burst of strength. Glancing at the sky, I glimpsed the same thin clouds and willed them not to change until we reached Bristol. Even better, until we reached Wexford.

  Movement caught my eye ahead as Julian readjusted his seat in the saddle. Exhausted, the man had barely been able to mount the horse of his own volition back at the inn. He now drooped over the beast, and as the sun dropped farther in the sky, I began to doubt he possessed the strength to continue much longer.

  “You mentioned another solution to the altar at All Hallows,” I said, while studying Julian for any more signs of weakness. “Perhaps we should stop sooner if there’s any way for Lord Stroud to replenish his power.”

  Justine withdrew a hand into the folds of her cloak. “I’ve something that will work, but it would be unwise to stop just yet.”

  “But the man is about to fall from his horse.”

  “Is that concern I hear for Lord Stroud?” She gave me a devious smile. “This mist has me chilled to the bone. I can only guess that it has cooled your temper as well.”

  “Not at all,” I huffed. “I’m more concerned that he’s slowing us down.”

  “The horses can’t move any faster with the state of the road. Lord Stroud is a strong man. He’ll make it to Bristol, and then we can cross to the Otherworld together.”

  My hands tightened reflexively around the reins. “How is that possible? Do you know of another altar?” A sheath and necessary herbs were packed in my saddlebag for such an occasion, though at the time I had suspected they would go unused.

  “Let’s just say that I borrowed something from Cate, and that she’s going to be madder than a banshee once the loss is discovered.”

  Curiosity lifted my brows. “What is it?”

  “This something serves as a pathway to Brigid’s nearest garden. At the moment, that’s probably the altar in London, and the last thing I want is to inadvertently stumble upon my mother. Then I would have to explain my decision to accompany you to Wexford instead of delivering you back home as instructed. Once we arrive in Bristol, we should be near enough to draw on another sidhe.”

  She paused to further consider the notion. In ancient times the Tuatha Dé enchanted sidhes, or earthen mounds, to pass unhindered between our worlds. Now Brigid’s descendants used them to renew our power, but only if an altar had been established to grant us passage.

  “I assume there’s one in Wales,” Justine continued. “Otherwise, Ireland has the strongest connection to the Otherworld, and there may be one near the eastern shore that can bring us over despite the greater distance.”

  Should and may...not the most reassuring words by any means. “What if none of those other options work, and we end up back in London anyway?”

  Justine winked at me. “Then you best be ready to run if Cate is anywhere in sight. I’ve not seen her this perturbed since my brother Ronan caused a ruckus in Rome that put us all into hiding for a decade.” She tsked her tongue. “Your stealing Brigid’s knife just added more icing to the cake.”

  “My knife,” I corrected her. “And I didn’t steal it. I took it back from her room while she was tending Lucy Goodwin.”

  “Fair enough, though you’d better be ready to run all the same.”

  She made it sound like a game, and I for one had no wish to play.

  * * *

  By the following evening, every muscle in my body cried in protest when we stopped to rest. Julian fell into a deep sleep seconds after his body found the ground. Curled into his great cloak, he appeared dead to the world. I watched him beneath partly closed eyes, surprised by the pity I felt. And grudgingly, a little respect. The man had proven stronger than I imagined, never once comp
laining or asking to stop. It almost made up for his previous behavior, though not quite, and I would still drop him like a rag doll at the mere suggestion of another attack. On further reflection, I considered doing it anyway as a sort of warning, and perhaps a little payback. Once he was fully recovered, of course.

  Early the next morning, the first cottages came into view several miles before Bristol proper. A reluctant sun made traveling easier, though we now had to share the road with other folks, both on foot and in open carts. Sheep grazed in grassy fields, enclosed on all sides by hedges and rock walls to keep them from destroying the crops during the growing season. Dark clouds returned with the morning, pushed by winds from the south that foretold of another storm.

  While still in the countryside, I’d fought a constant battle against exhaustion, even drifting off for a few minutes at a time before jerking awake. But once we neared the city, all tiredness was soon forgotten. Looking from left to right, and back again, my eyes jumped from one person to the next in search of a familiar face or feature.

  At the main gate, a curious figure snagged my attention. An old man stood to the wayside, a deep amber cape clasped at the neck and open slightly to reveal black knee breeches and coat. Wild white hair of equal parts frizzle and curl practically burst out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A black patch covered one eye. He remained beside a wooden handcart piled with an assortment of glass bottles and tins, and watched the road as though waiting for someone. I stared at him, drawn by the sight, when his good eye shifted to mine. Smiling, he tilted his hat in greeting. Surprised by the familiarity, I nodded once, then quickly looked away.

  The hustle and bustle of Bristol slowed our progress to a snail’s pace. As the second largest port in all of England, the town’s lanes overflowed with dockworkers and merchants engaged in all manner of business. Sailors milled about in front of public houses and taverns, still bleary-eyed and a little drunk from the night ashore. Maids and housewives navigated the crowds for the daily shopping. Near the river’s edge, less fortunate women worked half-bent over to scrape and gut fish for the markets.

  Our party came to a sudden halt, blocked by a line of men and horses hauling wooden crates marked Tobacco from the docks to a large stone storehouse across the roadway. During the wait, I continued the search for anything familiar amongst a crowd that seemed intent on hiding beneath tricorn hats and hooded cloaks. The exercise proved a test of patience, and I had to bite my tongue to stop from calling out to Henry and Nora in case they were within the sound of my voice.

  We resumed to King’s Street, weaving past bales of cotton and barrels of sugar, until James reined in front of a tavern. Glancing up, I took in the narrow three-story structure, built in the half-timber style of the Tudors with overhanging eaves. A large lamp hung above the doorway. Directly below the lamp, a sign creaked in the breeze, painted black with gold lettering that read The Llandoger Trow.

  James dismounted. “We’ll stop here for now,” he said, coming around to help Justine and me to our feet.

  I wanted to keep looking, and opened my mouth to argue, only to close it when Julian dismounted. Losing his balance, he stumbled backward into a knot of sailors who had just emerged from the tavern.

  “Watch yerself!” one yelled, with a rough shove that sent Julian tumbling toward the road.

  James snatched him back just as a man veered off course to avoid a collision with his handcart. The cargo rattled and clinked, and I started at the sight of the amber cloak and white hair. The old man tipped his head in acknowledgement of the near miss. “Mind me cart, lads,” he said in an Irish brogue. “Bones break easy as me glass.” He laughed good-naturedly and continued on.

  With a curt nod, James turned back to the sailors, Julian propped under one arm. “Idiots!” he snapped. “Can’t you see he’s unwell?”

  The knot of sailors unfurled into a loose line of four men. A particularly large fellow stepped forward, glowering from small eyes set beneath a heavy brow. “Who ye be calling idiots?” The three remaining men closed ranks behind their friend.

  One look at James, and I knew the long ride had rattled his wits loose. Angry blood crept into his cheeks, and he appeared ready to commit murder. Or perhaps suicide, if he thought to take them all on at once. “Any man dimwitted enough to shove a sick man.” He waved his hand irritably. “Leave off before someone gets hurt.”

  The sailors pushed closer. James moved in front of Julian, his shoulders squared. One hand rested on his dagger.

  Oh, good heavens. What the man had in courage, he lacked in rudimentary math. Four well-rested sailors against two exhausted men, one of which could hardly stand at the moment. It didn’t take a genius to see where this was headed.

  Julian stepped alongside James, swaying from the effort. When he attempted to put a hand to his own dagger, the near useless appendage fell back to his side.

  Bugger! More points for courage, though a strong wind would suffice to fell the man. I shot an imploring look to Justine, while making a mental list of our options. For my part, I could attempt to immobilize the sailors long enough for James and Julian to escape. Or wait for the beating to finish, and then heal them once we were behind closed doors, though there would be little to do for Julian until he replenished his power from Brigid’s spring. Either way, it seemed a lot of wasted effort for a simple misunderstanding.

  “Which do ye want?” one of the sailors asked his mates. “That dark headed one looks a foot in the grave already. What say ye we put the other there for him?”

  James unsheathed his dagger. “Touch my friend and you’ll regret it.”

  The sailors laughed, and two of them drew their own weapons. “Captain’s short of hands,” another said, gesturing at James with a knife tip. “That gent’s got spark. I say we bring him back for a present. Wager he’s worth a week’s ration of rum.”

  The other men chorused in resounding “ayes.”

  Oh, no you don’t. James was my ally in arms, and under no condition was I about to let him be pressed into service. Shifting my weight to the stirrup, I prepared to dismount.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Justine said, her provocative purr rising above the din.

  All six men turned toward her at once, drawn like bugs to a flame. James and Julian looked at her expectantly. One of the sailors whistled under his breath. The others simply stared, mouths hanging open as they drank in her sultry beauty. I moved my weight back to the saddle and waited.

  Justine twined a coppery curl around a gloved finger. “My brother there is very ill. Would you mind helping me down so I may assist him into the tavern?”

  The sailors tripped over each other in the race to get to her first. Even then, they jostled and shoved for position. The horse pranced nervously from the commotion, and Justine leaned forward to pat its neck. “My companion also needs assistance,” she said, tilting her head in my direction.

  Two sailors came over and grinned at me. One showed dark gaps from missing teeth. The other had an angry boil on the end of his nose. They both smelled of whiskey and dirty wool. I returned the smile without hesitation, preferring to be used for bait rather than run the risk of having James pressed and Julian pummeled. Setting the reins aside, I reached down and found myself on the ground, nestled between the two sailors.

  Justine did the same. “Aren’t you strong,” she said, placing a bold hand on each of their biceps.

  One tensed ever so slightly, I assumed in an effort to flex for greater effect.

  “O fie, milady!” a sailor replied. “Ye ain’t a smidgen more than a tickle dove.”

  “And more lovely by far,” the other added.

  “What sweet words.” Justine laughed, peering at me. “I do believe these men ate sugar for breakfast. Don’t you agree?”

  And kippers, to judge by their breath.

  The sailors grinned a mile as their c
heeks turned a faint pink beneath thin layers of dirt.

  “Sugar indeed,” I said, following her lead the best I could.

  Justine looked to the horses, the amusement gone in the crinkle of her brow. “I dare say, the saddlebags ought to come off. And a lad fetched to bring the horses to stable.”

  “Don’t ye worry yerself, milady. We’ll take care of everything quick as a trice...”

  All but forgotten, James and Julian watched us in disapproving silence. While the sailors were engaged, I caught James’s eye and jerked my head for him to leave. His mouth thinned to an angry line, but he sheathed the dagger and accompanied Julian into the tavern.

  Our bags were soon hustled inside, and a lad dragged out by his ear for the horses. The sailors escorted us the few steps to the front door. My eyes popped wide when a man snaked an arm around my waist. Another did the same to Justine, and for a moment I feared they would try to follow us farther. Ready to throw an elbow, or anything else to break free, I froze at the sound of my aunt’s voice.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, in the same honeyed tones from the woods near Branbury. “You have our eternal gratitude. Now please be on your way and do not think of returning to this place until next time you are in port.”

  The sailors nodded, murmured an assent before turning to leave. I nodded as well, and would have followed if Justine hadn’t pulled me into the room.

  “Not you, Selah,” she said.

  My mind cleared the very second her voice reverted to normal. I looked at her in awe. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

  She met my eyes and smiled. “Sorry. Not part of your gift.”

  I sighed my disappointment.

  Laughing, Justine patted my arm. “If you’re as strong as Cate says, you’ve plenty of neat tricks up your own sleeve.” She sounded oddly sympathetic, almost like a friend.