Miach had worried that Finn and Garrett might try to take Nieve, but the viciousness of the attack and the fact that Garrett had not been with them and they hadn’t wanted Nieve, had shocked him. It was a mystery to be solved later. For now, he had to get Nieve and Helene out.
There was no time to wait for Elada, no possibility that Conn could leave Beth unprotected now, with half-mad Druids on the loose here and abroad. It would have to be Miach, on his own, by stealth.
And he would have to rescue Nieve first. Helene was trapped in her worst nightmare—a space so narrow she couldn’t move—and she had still told him to rescue his granddaughter first. Helene didn’t exaggerate; he had seen her in the most extreme circumstances and she’d never panicked. If she thought Nieve was in imminent danger, then she was probably right.
Miach passed to a street outside the walls of the Druid compound. He skirted the perimeter and spied two surveillance cameras near the main gate and one along the wall focused on the busiest of the streets. None to the east, where the property narrowed and the wall met the scrubby beach, then ended, and a chain-link fence divided public from private beach.
Wary of the blind stone wall, he made his way to the fence and jumped it. A wise choice. Where the wall ended, he could see the iron spikes, freshly driven into the masonry on top.
The property was rocky and barren with no shrubs, just the occasional tree, and should someone chance to look out of the windows, he would be seen. Fortunately most of the windows appeared to have makeshift coverings: newspaper, sheets, and in one case, a beach towel. This wasn’t surprising. These mis-made Druids would probably live like animals, their minds cracked open wide, their ability to reason compromised. The bloodthirstiness, the violence would be the parts of their Druid heritage they gravitated toward if they had been forced to their power by the Prince Consort. Their cruelty was something the Druids had learned from their masters, and the Prince Consort was the consummate Fae.
Miach ran from tree to spindly tree, getting as close to the house as possible without being detected. There was a low projecting wing at this side of the house that was cut off from the water and lacked sea views. Miach thought it likely to house the kitchen Helene had described, where the Druids had taken Nieve.
He ran the last fifty feet to the porch at the back, where a screen door stood open, and slipped inside. There was a long hall leading to the front of the house. The bare floors and plain walls suggested he had indeed found the servants’ wing. A door just inside the entry appeared to lead down into a basement. That was where Helene would be. And further along the corridor must be the kitchen.
He approached the kitchen, steeling himself for what he expected to find inside. He heard voices raised in excitement and, beneath them, the sound of someone softly moaning. He entered to find a scene of horror. There were seven Druids gathered around the table. All he could see of Nieve was her slender ankle, hanging over the side.
Miach cast a stillness over the room that froze every one of the Druids in place. He drew his dirk and approached the table. He touched Nieve’s throat. Her pulse was too fast. Shallow cuts scored her arms and legs, but none were deep and, thank Dana, none would be fatal. He could do nothing for her yet, because he needed to pass with her, and carrying a living being would take a great deal of power. He waved his hand over her eyes and sent her into a deep sleep.
The Druids were conscious, their eyes darting madly. Two had protective gaesa, incorrectly written, on their arms. A transcription error no real Druid would ever have made, because it rendered the marks harmless, mere poseur tattoos. He slit their throats first. He stabbed the rest cleanly through the heart. Then he gathered his granddaughter’s body up in his arms and passed.
Humans usually went mad when they passed with the Fae. Beth Carter had barely survived the experience, and she had been a talented and powerful Druid. Nieve was out cold, or he would not have been able to risk it.
He could not take Nieve to his own home. If he failed to defeat the rest of the Druids and his renegade sons, his house would be vulnerable to another attack. Liam and Nial were in no shape to defend Nieve, and neither were Angus or Kermit.
Miach had no other choice. He passed through wood, water, earth, and stone and breathed air again at the top of Bunker Hill, in the shadow of the monument and Finn’s towering mansion. Miach had no doubt that Garrett would have warded the place, which would make him unable to pass inside. Instead, Miach stood across the street, the grassy slopes of the monument at his back.
Carrying Nieve had drained him. He felt his knees buckle, heard tourists exclaim in surprise. Saw children point and heard a woman shriek, because Nieve was bloody and disheveled. He gathered his strength and crossed the street, because he could not let her fall into the hands of human doctors. He had no way of knowing what the Druids had done, if they had only used their knives and instruments on her, or if they had worked spells or gaesa as well.
At the foot of the granite steps to Finn’s brownstone mansion, he faltered. The doors opened and the Fianna streamed out. He heard a window flung up overheard, followed by a voice issuing commands. Then Garrett was through the doors and lifting Nieve out of Miach’s arms.
“What happened?” he asked, his eyes wild with grief and concern.
A small piping voice from the top of the stairs cried, “Mama.”
“For the love of Dana,” said Miach, “don’t let him see her like that.”
Garrett shouted for his cousins to take the boy inside.
“She released me,” said Garrett. “I thought you made her do it, that you were double-crossing us. Nieve,” he said, “Oh, Nieve.”
It did not make Miach more confident of his choice to bring her here. He had kept tabs on Garrett since forbidding the boy to see Nieve, and been disappointed in him. Garrett had taken dozens of women in the last two years, some while Nieve lay fighting for her life. Miach had not liked lifting his geis on the Fianna. Miach had hoped Nieve might get over Garrett and find someone who loved her, who would keep faith with her, but they had bound themselves together, children that they were, and there was no undoing the union without their consent. He had hoped that the women meant nothing to Garrett, that his behavior was only his Fae nature asserting itself, but it was disheartening to find that this boy Nieve had placed her trust in had been so quick to believe in her betrayal. And that he had no choice but to leave her with him.
“There are Druids,” Miach said, “in a house in Winthrop. They have Helene Whitney. I am going back for her. Can you take care of Nieve?”
Garrett nodded.
“Good,” said Miach. “If I don’t come back, it will be up to you to destroy them. They mean to bring down the wall between worlds. If the Court is released, your son will suffer, so much so that you will want to end his life yourself. Do you understand me?”
Garrett nodded again.
“Conn and Elada are in Clonmel. Seek their help when they return,” said Miach.
“You’re in the wrong neighborhood, Miach MacCecht.” Finn stood at the top of the stairs, sword in hand. “And without your right hand.”
“I’m leaving,” said Miach.
“Let me speed you on your way,” replied Finn, drawing his silver sword.
“No,” said Garrett. “Let him go. He brought Nieve back to me. And I will cast on any of the Fianna who try to stop him.”
Miach nodded and stepped back. He was weak, far too weak from passing with Nieve. He would never be able to pass from the house in Winthrop carrying Helene Whitney, even if he thought her sanity would survive the experience. He was going back for her, and he would make certain that she got out of there, but he knew his own fate was far from secure.
So he did what friendship—longstanding and so many times tested—required, and he released Elada. Then he went back for Helene Whitney.
• • •
Elada felt his tie to the sorcerer snap. It had woken him as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness for the bette
r part of an hour. From long experience of being patched up by Miach, he knew that if his injuries were serious enough to require the sorcerer’s skills, unconsciousness was preferable while he was healing.
He had been barely two hundred years old when he’d bound himself to Miach, and he could not remember what it felt like to be free. It had never occurred to him that their tie might be broken. Death was the only way such partnerships usually ended, and he knew that Miach was not dead.
Unless Miach’s death was related to the pain in his chest, the sawing way in which he drew breath, the burning feeling in his lungs. And that didn’t sound right at all. He had heard it described as a weakness and an emptiness and ennui. The feeling that a part of you had already passed to Dana and that you were only waiting to follow.
This was nothing like that. This was more like the time he had been caught in another mage’s fireball and his lungs had been seared.
That’s when Elada remembered the explosion: not a fireball, exactly, but an immense force that had torn at his flesh and hurled him into rock and concrete.
He opened his eyes.
Gray upholstery. The headliner of a car. Not his Range Rover or the Porsche or the Mercedes. It was a cheap headliner, synthetic, and there was far too much of it to be a stylish or sporty vehicle. He turned his head. His neck ached, his temples throbbed, and he saw broad doors and felt low-pile carpet beneath his cheek.
It was a minivan. He hated minivans. On the other hand, epic warriors rarely met their deaths in minivans.
“He’s awake.”
The voice was feminine and sweet, balm for his uncertain soul. Beth Carter. The little Druid who made good coffee.
“Miach,” he said. His voice was a ragged whisper.
“He’s gone back to Boston,” said Beth.
He couldn’t turn his head far enough to see her, but he thought she might be sitting in the passenger seat.
“Released me,” he croaked.
“Don’t try to talk,” said Beth. “You’ve got iron poisoning. There was iron dust in the explosion.”
That explained the pain. But not Miach’s absence, or why the sorcerer had released him.
“Water,” Elada croaked. He needed to be able to speak, to tell Conn of the Hundred Battles what he must do.
“We’ll be at the inn soon,” said Beth. “There’ll be water. And milk and honey.”
She was saying something else, but the throbbing in his head made it impossible to hear her and he lapsed into unconsciousness once more, only waking when the van stopped.
The doors opened, and the cool and sweet evening air soothed his burning lungs. He felt Conn and Beth lift him, and although he tried to stand when his feet touched the ground, he was kitten weak.
An elderly man and woman came out of the inn and began shouting. They were joined by two strong young men who helped get Elada inside. The old woman seemed worried and kept urging them to hurry. He heard her shoot the bolt behind them and wondered why she seemed so frightened.
Inside it sounded reassuringly like a pub until he was carried into the taproom. Then a hush fell over the drinkers, because they remembered the Fair Folk here with a combination of reverence and fear. And it had probably been a long time since they had seen one bleed.
They laid him on the bed, and he felt Beth Carter begin to loosen his clothes. He was unsurprised when Conn pushed her aside. The Betrayer didn’t like other Fae to touch his woman and he certainly didn’t want his woman touching other Fae. It brought a weak smile to Elada’s lips.
“Shut up,” said Conn.
“Make me,” said Elada.
“It would be all too easy in your condition,” replied Conn.
He felt the bed dip slightly, and then Beth was lifting his head and pressing warm, sweet tea, musky with honey and rich with cream, to his lips.
He gulped it down.
The old woman from outside came in carrying a tray. There was whiskey on it. Elada hoped it was for him. She hovered at the foot of the bed.
“Will he live?” she asked. She sounded hopeful, which only made sense. No one wanted to bring the wrath of the Fae down on themselves.
“Yes,” said Beth definitively. “He’s got iron poisoning, but he’ll heal.”
“We’ve given him our hospitality,” said the old woman, “even though he is not our own.”
“You know us, Mrs. O’Donovan.”
“That I do,” she said. “And this one,” she nodded to Conn, “did ever take care of his own when he stirred, but he’s been gone now, and there’s strangers wandering the fields at night.”
“Mad Druids,” said Conn. “We saw the cells they were kept in.”
“They come at night,” said the old woman. “They were there behind your car, looked like they had run miles to keep up with you. They’re outside now.”
Elada levered himself up out of bed.
“You need to rest,” said Beth.
He pushed past her to the window, where the old woman held open the curtain.
There were four pale faces in the moonlight. “Druids,” he croaked. If they had gone mad in the final stages of initiation, that meant they had some power, and could cast.
He was too weak to pass, and in any case he couldn’t leave Conn of the Hundred Battles to defend Beth Carter alone.
“We have to kill them,” he rasped. “And then I need to return to Boston. Miach has released me.”
“What does that mean?” asked Beth.
“It means that if I don’t get back there to help him, Miach is going to die.”
• • •
Helene developed a ritual to keep herself calm. She cataloged in her head the paintings in Miach’s house, the ones he had said he’d meant to donate to the museum to woo her. She grouped them by period, and considered how she might exhibit them in chronological order and what kind of explanatory text she might write for them. Who she would invite to the opening, what kinds of events she would plan around the show.
She didn’t think about the bricks at her back, touching her shoulder blades, her elbows, her knees. About the stale air, the weight of the house above her.
Instead, she started over again, grouping the paintings by style, and laying out a floor plan in her head that divided the different painterly traditions into rooms separated by temporary walls, with exhibit text on them explaining the different techniques and goals. Finally she planned a show that broke them down by theme—mythological, historical, and social paintings—and imagined the catalog she might write to accompany it.
Whenever panic threatened to overwhelm her, she felt for the cell phone in her pocket, her tie to Miach and the outside world, and stroked the plastic and glass case.
The door opened without warning. A hand clapped over her mouth to prevent any sound escaping. Strong arms pulled her against a warm, hard body and pressed her head to a broad chest.
Miach.
He held her that way for a moment and she trembled with relief.
Then he removed his hand from her mouth, grasped her shoulders, and stood back to look at her. “Are you all right?” he asked, his bright eyes scanning her body in the dim light.
She nodded. She couldn’t find her voice yet. It was stuck somewhere deep inside her chest where all of her feelings about this man were swirling.
He exhaled in relief. “Helene, we are on our own here. Elada is iron poisoned. Nial has been shot. Angus and Kermit and the boys are in the hospital. I cannot carry you and pass. I don’t have the strength for it. And without Elada to watch my back, I’m unlikely to get the chance to cast spells to defend us if we encounter any of these Druids.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said. “Now that you’re here.”
The way his expression changed, the way his tip-tilted eyes opened wide in the wan light told her he remembered, and understood. In the basement at the museum he’d offered to take her fear from her. She’d refused, because it wouldn’t have been real. Now it was.
He reache
d down and unstrapped one of the knives from his calf. “Take this,” he said. “And don’t be afraid to use it. These creatures aren’t people anymore.”
The knife was a solid piece of silver, the handle molded and chased to look like wood. She pulled it from its sheath and found the blade impossibly thin and razor sharp.
“Thrust up under the ribs,” said Miach. “Don’t hesitate if anyone threatens you.”
She nodded, sheathed the weapon, and slipped it back in her pocket.
“What about Nieve?”
“Safe,” he said. “With Garrett. Take my hand.”
She did. It felt big and strong and she knew that everything was going to be okay. Miach was the greatest sorcerer the Fae had ever known, and no Druid was a match for him. The narrow confines of the basement held no terrors now. It wasn’t his voice compelling her to be brave, either. He hadn’t reassured her that they were safe. It was him. His presence. The fact that he had come for her. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t tie himself to her permanently. What mattered was that he was here now.
They didn’t head the way Helene had come in. The basement was as big as the house and it wound and twisted, a maze of rooms that confused her. Miach seemed to know his way out, so she followed him blindly until they came out in a large vault stocked with crates. There were steps and a hatch open to the outside at the far end, with wan evening light falling on them.
Miach led her up the steps, then something cold and heavy sang through the air and fell over them. She felt Miach’s grip on her hand loosen and heard him grunt in pain as the weight knocked her off her feet.
Cold iron. They were caught under a blanket of chain links, a metal net. She tried to push it off her, but it was voluminous, and her arms became snarled in the holes.
“Get the girl out,” said Brian’s voice.
Hands grasped her ankles and yanked her over the concrete floor. The weight was lifted, then she was being hauled to her feet and pinioned by sour-smelling Druids, their bright eyes wild with glee.
Silver Skin (A Cold Iron Novel) Page 20
