Raven Calls wp-7

by C. E. Murphy

  I didn’t lower my fist. I did look beyond my erstwhile boss at Caitríona and Méabh, to see what they thought. They both looked like I should go back to my original plan of stringing him up by his toes, but Méabh, rolling her jaw, said, “He may still be useful.”

  “As cannon fodder,” Caitríona suggested darkly.

  I turned back to Gancanagh with the fist still cocked. “One false move, buster. One false move.”

  Green glinted in his gaze as he lowered his eyes, then led us once more into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Caitríona sidled up to me as we left the dragon’s dusted remains. “You turned into a snake.”

  She’d said that once before. On the other hand, by all reasonable expectation she should be gibbering like a madman about now, so probably a little repetition wasn’t that big a deal. “I have a peculiar repertoire of talents.”

  “Will I turn into a snake?”

  “I seriously doubt it. Even if mages can accomplish shapeshifting, Ireland doesn’t have snakes. It probably wouldn’t be high on your list of things to turn into.” I thought of beached flounders and Coyote’s warning about how a shifter should always have a clear idea of their target animal, and amended, “But if it’s something you want to change into, then yeah, probably you could. Assuming it’s in the skill set.”

  “What about an elk? One of the big ones, the Irish elk?” Hopeful, she extended her hands to approximate the rack on an Irish elk, which was about twice as long as her armspan.

  “You’d make a really tiny elk. You saw how big a snake I was? That’s because as far as I can tell, mass doesn’t change. I bet one of those baby Irish elk weighs as much as you do, so that’s about as big as you’d be. A hundred and sixty-five pounds of rattlesnake is awe-inspiring. A hundred and sixty-five pounds of baby elk wouldn’t be so much so.”

  I saw her do the conversion in her head before offense flew across her face. “I do not weigh twelve stone!”

  “No, not you, me. You probably weigh, what, one…fifteen?” I figured it was more like one-thirty, but no one in their right mind ever guessed a woman’s weight at what they thought it really was.

  She eyed me, doing the conversion again, then resentfully allowed, “A bit more, maybe.”

  “Okay, so you’d be a…” I was pretty sure a stone equaled fourteen pounds. I did the conversion myself and came up with, “An eight-and-a-half-stone elk. Not exactly the six-foot-tall behemoth you’re imagining, right? But I could be wrong, maybe there’s a spell that lets you change mass. You’re handling this pretty well.”

  “I half think I’m dreaming,” she admitted. “That it’s some wild story Auntie Sheila’s telling me, and I’ll wake up snug and sound in me own bed. But it’s not, is it. Why did ye tell us none of this at the funeral?”

  “My life wasn’t like this then. It only started after I got home. Besides, I’d have never dreamed anyone would believe me. I didn’t know my mother very well. I had no idea she might have softened you up for accepting this kind of weirdness. Do you watch Star Trek?”

  Caitríona blinked, rightfully bewildered by the segue. “Sure, who hasn’t seen an episode or two?”

  “Good. You know the ship’s shields? You’re going to need something like that to protect yourself with.”

  “Like you’ve been using on us, all blue and shimmery?”

  “Except yours won’t be blue. That’s a reflection of my power. Of my aura, really. Mine’s blue and silver. Yours is more red and green.”

  “Ah sure,” she said in disgust, “sure and I’m a tartan so.”

  I laughed, which made Gancanagh look back at me with a full-court-press smile. I bared my teeth at him and he deflated, which somehow made the light dim even further. I checked the impulse to catch up to him and say it was all okay, and instead focused hard on Caitríona. “Do the Irish even have tartans? I thought it was all about the sweaters, here.”

  “The Aran clan sweaters? That was a marketing ploy.” She took no notice of my dismayed gawk as she went on. “We’ve a few tartans, but not like the Scots. I wouldn’t know the O’Reilly tartan if it bit me,” she admitted. “How do I build shields?”

  “It’s a really internal thing, and probably hiking through the heart of the Master’s realm isn’t the best place to learn. I’d hate for him to get a thread inside your shields, because it’s a bitch to root those out.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

  “In the case of letting unfortunate people inside my shields, yeah, I do. This would be a good time to learn from my mistakes.” We’d covered a lot of distance while chatting, but I was starting to get worried. The clock was running out, and I had no way to tell, down beneath the earth, just how close we were pushing it. “Gancanagh?”

  “What do you want, Walker?”

  I tripped over my own feet, bit my tongue and righted myself with a curse. “Stop that. Don’t use my name. Not like that. You are not Morrison. How much farther do we have to go?”

  He turned with a finger against his lips: shh. “Do you not hear it?”

  I hadn’t, of course, because Cat and I had been talking. As soon as we went silent, though, I did hear it: wailing, not unlike the Lia Fáil. Only that had been one voice, the voice of the land, whereas this was many. Twenty-five, at a guess, assuming Aibhill was not only mistress of the banshees but a banshee herself. Hairs stood up on my neck and arms and I dragged to a halt.

  Truth was, I didn’t want to go into banshee stomping grounds. I’d been stomped the one time I’d really gone up against one of Aibhill’s blades, and having a touchy aos sí and a newborn mage along with me this time didn’t seem like it evened the odds enough. “A battle plan might be a good idea here.”

  “Have ye the lay of the land?” Méabh asked Gancanagh with a note of doubt.

  “She’ll be in her tower on the hill.” Whether it was due to my objection to him sounding like Morrison or because he was talking to Méabh, he sounded more Irish again, for which I was grateful. Morrison didn’t put his sentences together the way the Irish did, which made it easier to remember the handsome fellow in front of me wasn’t my captain.

  Méabh, however, wasn’t concerned with his linguistic choices. She grimaced and loosened her sword in its sheath. “And will there be an easy route up that hill, or will it be a battle every step of the way?”

  “It can’t be.” This time the grim note was in my voice. “We can’t take on four and twenty banshees, not unless they’re already baked in a pie. Even if they were pushovers, which they’re not, the odds are too bad. We’re going to have to sneak.” I prodded at the edges of my power, wondering if I dared call up the invisibility cloak. Of course, we’d already pulled off shapeshifting and weather witchery, so probably I was being too cautious. And if I thought about it, the time for caution was long past. Caution would have been good just before I’d triggered the Sight at Tara and sent us tumbling through history. Caution would have been good when I dragged Gary home with me instead of letting him go off and get himself killed fighting the Master at Knocknaree. Caution would have been good time and again, but right now we were eyeball deep in the bad guy’s territory, so caution had clearly been thrown to the wind a while ago and I should now seize the day.

  “Joanne,” Caitríona said nervously, “you’re glowing again.”

  I didn’t even look. I just extended the power that had built up with my silent rant and wrapped everybody, even Gancanagh, in it. My arm itched, but my cohorts all faded from my vision instantly.

  That was great, except totally useless in terms of sneaking around as a unit. Muttering, I started reeling power back in to try again—I did not want to have us wandering around visually separated from one another—but a thrill shot through Gancanagh and I felt it. I mean, really felt it, like he, a creature of magic himself, had a visceral, connected reaction to being swathed in more magic. It was baby oil and massages and a promise of getting down to the good stuf
f, for him, and it hit me with a heart-knocking thump of desire at a level usually reserved for hormone-addled teenagers. Then, despite us all being invisible, he found his way to me and pressed up against me smelling all Morrison-y and delicious and absolutely full of wicked intentions.

  My mouth went dry. His, soft against my throat, did not. I swallowed and he purred, warm comforting sound that vibrated my skin, which was just about already vibrating on its own. I couldn’t get so much as a squeak or a whimper out, mostly because my brain was busy betraying me by thinking there was something kinda dangerous and sexy about an invisible tryst, and making any sort of sound would notify Caitríona and Méabh as to what we were up to.

  Méabh said, “Granddaughter,” in a tone that suggested she already knew exactly what we were up to. Then, even more coldly, she said, “Ailill,” and I remembered she’d already killed her lover once for screwing around on her. Cat hadn’t said what she’d done to Ailill’s girlfriend. I shoved Gancanagh away, gasped for breath and croaked, “We’re going now.”

  His disappointment roiled through me and I staggered away, hoping distance would alleviate some of the one-two punch of psychic desire. It didn’t help at all. Swearing under my breath, I forged onward, following the sounds of the banshee cries until Cat, in a small voice, said, “Should we be moving?” from somewhere behind me. “I can’t see ye’s.”

  I stopped. Dropped my chin to my chest. Turned back, and went back to concentrating on the idea of an invisibility bubble surrounding all of us, not each of us. My shields, which that particular trick rode on, slowly slithered away from each individual and met up with themselves so we were all encompassed within them. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

  Méabh gave Gancanagh a black look and me an even blacker one, but Caitríona just ran to catch up. I marched along beside her, feeling increasingly crabby. I wanted my magic to be nice and comprehensible like it had been a week ago. I wanted the damned bite, which now that it had started itching again, was beginning to drive me to distraction, to be healed. I wanted lots of things, most of which I wasn’t going to get, though I would probably get this one: “We should probably be quiet. I have no idea how well banshees hear.”

  “Not so well, over all that shrieking. The poison’s growing worse, isn’t it, Granddaughter?” Méabh inserted herself between me and Gancanagh, who was already several body spaces away from me.

  I clutched my arm, trying not to wince at the wave of pain that induced. “How can you tell?”

  “You’re flushed.” We shared a moment of not looking at Gancanagh, but really, I was afraid he wasn’t the reason for the heat building up in me anyway.

  Rattler had gotten me through the fight with the dragon, but I’d lost ground during the transformations. My arm was inflamed, not just the forearm but all the way to the shoulder. The joint hurt, and my collarbone was starting to feel fragile. I didn’t want to think about what would happen when the poison got to my heart. I entertained the idea that freeing Sheila and getting Gary back would be my heroic last stand, but then I caught another whiff of Morrison’s scent off Gancanagh and snapped, “I’ll be fine,” because there was no way I was giving up my reunion with the Almighty Morrison.

  Méabh took a breath to argue, but just then we stepped out of the darkness into blinding afternoon sunlight. All four of us lurched to a stop, me and Caitríona turning to look at the gloom we’d left. There’d been no warning at all of the transition between light and dark, which was impossible, except we were traveling through fairy realms and the rules apparently didn’t apply. We glanced at each other, then shrugged and looked back at the monstrous hill in front of us.

  “The Rock,” Caitríona said after a moment, grimly.

  I had to agree with the grim. The hill rose at a steep but climbable angle, green grass patched with massive stones and stretches of bare earth. If it was anything like the real-world Rock of Cashel—and it wasn’t the real one, I was sure of that, because we’d been walking a few hours at the most, and Tipperary really was a long way—if it was like the real one, there was a much less steep approach on the other side. Of course, getting to it meant hiking around the hill’s foot, during which time it was always possible something would breach the shields and we’d be discovered. Going up the back side would probably be faster. A short gray wall cordoned off the hill’s peak, and behind the wall a tower shot toward the sky. A big blocky tower, square and impregnable-looking. “Well,” I said half under my breath, “it’s our job to pregnate it. Let’s go.”

  About forty feet up the hill I revised my opinion of its climbability and whether it was faster to go this way than hike around. It wasn’t, thank God, as tall as Croagh Patrick, but it was steeper and rougher underfoot, reminding me of the Midwestern badlands for the second time in a day. No one in their right mind would take this route to attack the castle above. A single individual could hold off dozens of men with nothing more than a bow and arrow or some hot pitch. My left arm burned every time I used it, so it became more of an aching dead weight than help climbing, and by the time we reached the wall, I was wheezing.

  The wall, of course, wasn’t as short as it had seemed from below. It was taller than I was. Taller than Méabh, even. We stared at it, then at each other, and she made stirrups with her hands to offer me a lift. I shook my head and made my own stirrups. “You first. I’m not going to be so good for hauling people up.”

  She pursed her lips, but nodded and stepped into my hands. I moved as fast as I could, not letting myself think about the roar of agony from my left side as I boosted her upward. Gratifyingly, she all but flew to the wall’s top, partly because she was lighter than she looked and partly because I was damned strong, thanks to all the years I’d spent working on cars. She had no idea how much of an admission it was to have sent her up first, because normally I’d have been able to swing any of the three up to the top of the wall without a problem.

  “I could go last,” Cat volunteered, but I shook my head again.

  “I’m tallest with the most reach. It’ll be easier for Méabh to grab me than you.” I started to make stirrups again, but Gancanagh, to my surprise, intervened and tossed Cat up instead. Then he made a stirrup for me, and when I began the same protest again, shook his head. “Trust me.”

  “On a cold day in hell.” But I stepped into the stirrup anyway, and he flung me toward Méabh with far more grace and strength than I expected. I didn’t know why: Morrison, whose build he appeared to share, was certainly strong enough to lift me. But I had this idea that under the Morrison image Gancanagh was a slight little thing, and therefore shouldn’t be able to fling me around.

  Nor should he be able to fling himself around, by that logic, but he leapt up the wall with the insouciance of a cat, which made him seem really truly not human for the first time. He caught me gawking and winked, and I bit back another schoolgirl giggle. Not even Cernunnos made me want to lick him quite so much. Fairy magic, I decided, was dangerous.

  Well, on a good day, so was mine. We all thumped down on the other side of the wall—a longer drop than I expected, as the hill ran down against it—and peered up at Aibhill’s castle.

  There was a front door on the side facing us. That made perverse sense, particularly since the other side of the hill was a less treacherous climb than the side we’d come up. No reason to invite enemies in through the easiest access point. “I don’t suppose we just go knock.”

  “Sure and she’d invite us right in,” Caitríona breathed. “What’s the worst a banshee can do?”

  “Flay your soul from your skin with its voice.”

  Her eyes bugged. I shrugged stiffly. My left arm didn’t want to move at all. I didn’t look at it for fear I’d see a wolf’s paw dangling from the shredded remains of my coat sleeve. Realistically I didn’t think I had a lot of choice coming up: I was afraid I’d have to go all lupine again to have even the slightest chance of us coming out ahead when we fought Aibhill.

  The very thought just about ta
lked myself into turning tail and running. Instead I made a dash for the castle’s front door.

  There were two doors, actually, once I got close enough to see clearly. One was massive, large enough to let half an army out at once. The other was set inside the big one and was normal-size. It had one of those little barred windows for checking out incomers before they came in, but no one was standing guard. Instead a big hoary-looking lock made a promise that we wouldn’t be getting in anytime soon. I sagged as the other three caught up to me, but Caitríona glanced at the lock, sniffed and pulled a jackknife out of her jeans pocket.

  Less than sixty seconds later the lock popped open and Cat folded the knife up, eminently satisfied with herself. “What?” she said to our wide-eyed admiration. “Me brothers used to try to keep me out of the shed they stored girly mags in. I thought they were hiding chocolates.”

  Breathless with astonished laughter, I shoved through the door and the others spilled after me. Gancanagh whisked it shut behind him. We all pushed ourselves up against the big doors as if we were hidden by pressing against them, though in fact we stood inside a grassy courtyard with not a hint of cover in sight. Still, every one of us was bright with triumph at getting in. All we had to do now was find Aibhill, kill her and rescue my mother.

  Right about then, the banshees came for us.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  We all gasped right from our very toes, not one of us remembering that I was maintaining a magic that rendered us unseeable. That collective gasp should have been our undoing.

  But nothing short of a freight train whistle could have been audible over the banshees’ keening, and even that would probably just blend in. They knew the door had opened and closed again: that was clear from how they dove at it time and again while the four of us scattered. Bleak-faced women zoomed by close enough to touch, scraggly hair streaming behind them and their skeletal faces contorted in rage. They scraped long nails through the grass, tufts flying everywhere as we all rolled frantically in different directions, trying to avoid their touch. It would take only one to let them know it hadn’t been the wind banging the locked door around.