The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  Mal rolled to his knees, his nose almost at the point where a faint gleam marked the barrier. “Goddess strike me down, Bryce, you shouldn’t have spent the night here. Sometimes in the old days, humans got trapped in Faerie with the dawn.”

  “I’m not human, remember?” And that made all the difference, but how? The knowledge, the answer, the key—it hovered at the edge of his consciousness as if it were behind a barrier of its own, shimmering just outside the reach of his fingers. If I could only touch it, harness it, I’ll understand. Everything.

  Which was nuts. It wasn’t as if he’d be able to jack several millennia’s worth of data into his brain in an instant, but instincts were awakening in him, their velocity increasing since he’d made love to Mal that third time.

  From down the hillside to his left, Bryce heard the rustle of leaves and the subtle tramp of at least one pair of feet.

  “Someone’s coming.” Bryce scrambled to his feet, aware without looking that Mal did the same. “But I don’t think it’s the Queen’s party. They’re coming from the wrong direction and there aren’t enough of them.”

  “We’re bloody sitting ducks if the Unseelie show up to stage one of their little shows.” As Mal searched the far side of the circle, he shuffled a little closer to where Bryce was standing, his right hand trembling against his thigh, and Bryce had the sudden impulse—no, the absolute need—to comfort him. To touch him. To hold him.

  Slowly—it’s all about the will, and fuck anyone or anything who keeps me away from him—he reached out, past the barrier that registered as barely a tickle on his skin, and took Mal’s trembling right hand in his own left.

  Mal’s head snapped around, his eyes wide and startled, the worry knotting his brow replaced by wonder. “How did you—”

  “Shhh.” Instead of stepping through the barrier, Bryce drew Mal toward him. Mal swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he kept his gaze fixed on Bryce and took a step.

  The tightness in his chest erupted, expanding like a supernova. Trust. Mal was willing to take the chance, risk the pain of the barrier crossing, because Bryce had asked him to. This. I want this. But he’d think about it later. Right now, the true danger was approaching from the other side of the circle, and they needed to get under cover. The Queen had constructed this magical cage to keep Mal in, but there was no guarantee it would keep everyone else out. Bryce had just proved he could bypass it; the new arrivals might very well be able to do the same.

  As Mal inched toward him, Bryce focused every ounce of his will into getting this right. Mal fed into it too, his jaw tight in concentration, and something—energy, etheric force, whatever—flowed through their joined hands.

  Mal’s hand hit the barrier and he gasped. Bryce stopped, afraid he’d gone too far, but instead, Mal practically leaped forward into his arms. “Your hand,” he whispered into Bryce’s ear, his breath raising the hair along Bryce’s hairline. “I felt it. I—”

  “Save it for later,” Bryce murmured. “Right now we’ve got to hide.”

  Although he was still distracted by the sensation in his right hand, Mal agreed wholeheartedly with Bryce’s plan. If the fae approaching like a herd of bloody swine were Unseelie, the situation would be dire enough. If they were Seelie, it could be worse.

  He tugged Bryce toward the trees next to the path the Queen and her entourage had taken. Bryce didn’t release his hand—thank the Goddess—creeping behind him, silent despite his ridiculous heavy-soled boots.

  They made it inside the tree cover, still hand in hand, just as a tall blond fae burst into the circle, driving a cowering Unseelie bauchan before him.

  “Is that—” Bryce whispered.

  “Aye. Rodric fecking Luchullain, in the fallen Sidhe flesh.”

  “I know that. But the other—isn’t that the same one we saw near the Unseelie Keep? The one who’d been injured?”

  “Hard to tell. They all look alike to me.”

  Bryce shot him a disgusted look. “Seriously?”

  Mal shrugged and jerked his head at the two figures in the circle.

  As they neared the altar stone, Rodric planted one foot on the bauchan’s back and shoved. The creature stumbled and sprawled on the ground, whimpering. In the reddish light of near-dawn, it was hard to tell if its back was welling with fresh blood or not.

  “You failed me.”

  The bauchan scrambled to its knees. “Sorry, master. So sorry.”

  Rodric kicked it in its side, and it squealed. Bryce tensed, and anger not Mal’s own roiled in his chest like a gathering storm. Bryce’s reaction; Bryce’s anger. Shite. Is this what the familiar bond meant? That they’d never be able to hide their feelings from one another again? Mal tucked that away for later study, not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

  “Your miserable life has but one purpose.” Rodric strutted around the bauchan like a dunghill cock. “One.” He kicked it again, and Bryce growled. “Single.” Kick. “Purpose.” Kick.

  Bryce actually lurched forward, rustling the leaves of their hiding place, before Mal hauled him back with their still-joined hands—my right hand, Goddess be praised. Mal wasn’t entirely sure why he’d regained some functionality—he hadn’t felt the energy wave, Faerie’s reaction to a curse being broken—for either himself or for Steve.

  Rodric cast a single irritated glance at where they were hiding before returning his attention to the bauchan. “I ordered you to meet me at the Well at midnight, not dawn. Are you too stupid to tell night from day?”

  Bryce leaned close and murmured into Mal’s ear. “What well is he talking about?”

  Mal didn’t need Bryce to feed him anger anymore; his vision began to narrow, the precursor of battle trance. “There’s only one that matters—the wellspring of all water in Faerie.”

  “The King, master. He—”

  “I don’t give a shite about the King. He doesn’t appreciate the true grandeur of my vision. He’s as useless as you. Although he does show a certain creativity in torture. He might be quite inventive when he learns you were willing to aid me in betraying him.”

  The bauchan threw itself on its face at Rodric’s feet. “Please, master. I will do better, I swear.”

  Rodric looked down his nose and planted his foot on the bauchan’s back as he stripped the leather gauntlet off his silver hand. “Why should I give you another chance, you who are incapable of the simplest task? Perhaps I’ll award the assignment to a troll and reward him with your puling spawn. I understand its kind consider them a delicacy.”

  The bauchan wailed, scrabbling at the ground in an effort to escape from Rodric’s boot. “No, master. Not the little ones. Please.”

  “Hand over the Gloine nan Druidh and I might be persuaded to spare one or two.”

  Mal sucked in a sharp breath. “Shite. The bastard has a Druid’s Glass?”

  “A what?” Bryce whispered.

  “Adder stone, serpent’s egg—whatever you call it, it’s a bloody powerful charm. If he’s about to drop it in the Well—”

  “The blight. He is trying to change the world back.” Bryce’s eyes darkened. He’s sharp, my druid. “He’s trying to poison all of it. All the water.”

  “I gave you an order.” Rodric’s voice echoed in the circle. “Hand it over.”

  “I— I—” The bauchan wheezed as Rodric shifted more weight onto the foot pinning it down. “I left . . . behind. King . . . summoned—”

  “Where is it? Answer me or the spawn die tonight.”

  “Throne room. Please, master—”

  “This has gone far enough.” Bryce shifted, legs bunching under him as if to stand, but Mal tightened his grip on his hand.

  “Hold up, mate. What are you about?”

  “I’m about to beat the ever-loving shit out of that asshole before he hurts anybody else.”

  “I’m with you there, but shouldn’t we—”

  “The paintballs. Can you hit him?”

  “I’ll bloody well try.” He pull
ed his paintballs out of his pocket. The three of them fit easily in his left hand.

  Bryce nodded, releasing his hold on Mal to dig in his vest pocket. Immediately, the feeling in Mal’s right hand began to fade. What the— Startled, he fumbled his paintballs, and they disappeared into the underbrush.

  “Fuck. I dropped them.”

  “Here.” Bryce slapped two paintballs into Mal’s hand and displayed the two he’d kept. “I wish I could have made more, but I ran out of St. John’s wort. These are all we’ve got left, so make them count. Skin if you can manage it. Otherwise the chest.”

  “Got it.”

  Bryce burst out of their cover and took off, forcing Mal to run after him before he reached the end of the tether. Rodric noticed them as they breached the ring of megaliths—no surprise, since they weren’t exactly stealthy in their approach. The bastard didn’t remove his foot from the bauchan’s back, a smug grin splitting his face. He raised his silver hand with a flourish, like some charlatan Outer World magician.

  “Now!” Bryce shouted.

  They skidded to a halt, took aim, and each threw a ball. Shite, Bryce had an arm on him, but his aim was faulty. His first ball hit Rodric’s shoulder, spattering paint across his velvet doublet and spraying across his cheek. His second one missed entirely.

  Mal’s first shot landed square on the throat, the second on his chin. Damn. He’d wanted to land a hit flush in the bastard’s eyes, but apparently this was close enough, because Rodric staggered back, his hands—both flesh and metal—clawing at his face and throat.

  The bauchan scrambled away, and as Bryce made a beeline for it, Rodric pointed a metal finger their way. Mal’s insides turned to ice—Too far, I’m too far away, damn it to all the hells. He launched himself into the line of fire anyway, clenching his eyes shut and bracing himself for the blast.

  But nothing happened other than a frizzle accompanied by a faint smell of burnt flesh—and judging by Rodric’s pained cry, the flesh was his.

  Anti-evil potion indeed. Well done, druid. Mal lunged for Rodric, but got pulled up short by the wrench in his gut when he reached the end of the tether.

  “Augh!” Damn it. This shite was beyond old. Bryce was still hunkered down next to the bauchan, speaking earnestly. Meanwhile Rodric had recovered enough to stagger out of the circle. “Bryce! He’s getting away.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Mal quivered at the end of the invisible leash like a dog ready to course, but Rodric reached the tree line and disappeared down the hill before Bryce so much as budged.

  Mal kicked the altar stone and got a stubbed toe for his pains. “Gods damn it to all the bloody fecking hells!”

  At Bryce’s hand on his shoulder, Mal was startled into taking a swing at the man. Bryce blocked his flailing fist. “What’s wrong?”

  “He got away.”

  Bryce’s hand tightened. “No worries there. We know where he went.”

  “We do?”

  “The throne room in the Unseelie Keep.”

  “Shite.” Mal gripped his hair with his good hand. “If he’s crossed into the Unseelie sphere, we can’t follow.”

  “Why not? We did before.”

  “That was because of Steve’s token. It granted us access. Masked our presence.”

  “So it was like an escort.”

  “Yeah, fat lot of good it does us now. He took it back.”

  “We don’t need it. We have our own escort.” Bryce nodded at the bauchan, who was huddled next to the altar stone. It nodded to Mal, tugging its forelock.

  “It’ll not be able to mask our presence, though. Every fae, Seelie and Unseelie, will know we’ve breached the barrier. They’ll catch us before we’ve gone twenty yards.”

  “If you please, masters, I—I know a way.”

  Bryce turned to the creature, an altogether too sympathetic smile on his face. He’s mine. He doesn’t need another familiar. “Thank you, Heilyn. We’d appreciate it. But we’re not your masters.”

  Heilyn? It has a name? “Speak for yourself,” Mal muttered.

  Bryce shot him a pointed look. “I do. Let’s go.”

  Heilyn, no higher than Bryce’s waist, still had the divots of its prior open wounds on its back. It seemed far too fragile to have withstood Rodric’s beating, but it scurried to the edge of the stone circle faster than Bryce expected. He grabbed a surly Mal by the hand and pulled him along in its wake. Mal might be annoyed at Rodric’s escape, but in Bryce’s mind, Heilyn was the higher priority, and not just from a humanitarian perspective.

  Bryce hadn’t forgotten those murals in the corridor behind the Unseelie throne room. The servant classes were anything but complacent, and if history taught anything, it was that oppressors frequently lived to regret their cruelty, once their victims found their own agency.

  They’d made it nearly to the trailhead where Rodric had disappeared when a shout rang out across the hilltop.

  “Mal!”

  “Shite. It’s Alun. We’re out of time.”

  Bryce glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Alun was advancing across the circle at a run, his sword in his hand. Neither Steve nor the Queen were with him, but that could mean a number of things. Bryce chose not to think about any of those at the moment.

  “Then let’s run.”

  They took off, crashing down the path in Heilyn’s wake. Bryce couldn’t believe the squat little body with its paddle-like feet could move so quickly through the underbrush, like a fish through a coral reef. But, then, perhaps the underbrush was its natural habitat.

  “This way. This way,” it chattered. “No time to lose.”

  Bryce felt it when they crossed into the Unseelie sphere, like passing too close to a fire. Beside him, Mal cursed louder.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ll live. Go faster.”

  Since Alun was still thundering down the hillside behind them, Mal had a point. “Can he cross over?”

  “Don’t know,” Mal panted. “Ordinarily, no, but his role as the Queen’s Enforcer grants certain privileges.”

  As they ducked under a withering oak branch, a nearby flutter of yellow caught Bryce’s attention—the flag he’d used to mark their path on their last trip. “I think I know where we are.”

  “Glad to hear it, but it’s where everyone else is that concerns me. Like— Ah, shite.”

  Alun stepped out of the trees on the path directly in front of them. “Hold.”

  Perfect timing, brother, as usual. Mal shouldered his way in front of Bryce, noting absently that the bauchan—Heilyn—had vanished into the trees. So much for their escort. “Look, I know I was supposed to stay in the circle.”

  “I’m less interested in the fact of your escape—since you never do what you’re told—than in how you managed to do it. And why you sought Unseelie lands.”

  “It looks bad, but—”

  “Now isn’t the time . . . Alun, is it?” Bryce took hold of Mal’s elbow and drew him closer to his side. Just that contact was enough to calm his jangling nerves. “I’ve met your husband.”

  “Leave my David out of this. You—”

  “No. I don’t believe I can. David said you were stubborn—” Alun scowled, and Mal nudged Bryce.

  “Not the way to turn him up sweet, mate.”

  Bryce shot him a fleeting smile. “But he also said you were one of the only fae who was able to change, who accepted the necessity for change.”

  Goddess, did Alun just blush? “Sometimes it’s obvious. And unavoidable.”

  “Well, this is one of those times. Rodric Luchullain is about to—”

  “Luchullain?” Alun crouched in a battle stance and scanned the surroundings. “Where?”

  “We’re on our way there now.”

  “Where?” Alun’s demand was perilously close to a battle roar. Mal took a moment to be thankful it wasn’t aimed at him.

  “That’s not your concern,” Bryce said, cool as you please, though his hand on Mal’s elbow vibrated like
a leaf in the breeze. “We have a more urgent task for you.”

  “My business is with the traitor Luchullain.”

  “No, Alun. I have to do it.” Mal knew this as well as he knew his own name. “My curse. My responsibility.”

  Alun opened his mouth, no doubt to argue, but Bryce cut him off with a raised palm.

  “There’s someone else who needs your help.”

  “You need my help. How can you best Luchullain? Neither of you can wield a sword.”

  “But neither can Rodric.” Heat rushed through Mal’s chest. And I never will again, unless Steve finally comes through—or I find a way to make fecking Luchullain whole tonight before I end him for good. Of course, Steve had never told Mal exactly how he intended to break the curse. Maybe delivering Rodric to him was his arse-backwards way of meeting the conditions. “One way or another, Alun, you have to let me try. If I fail, you can back me up.” He smiled crookedly. “Just like I backed you up the night I took Rodric’s hand and got myself into this mess.”

  Alun’s hard gaze softened at the reminder, and he gripped Mal’s shoulder. “You saved me that night, Mal—but more importantly, you saved David. As far as I’m able within my duty, I’ll grant you your request.”

  “Thank you,” Mal whispered, throat tight.

  Bryce beckoned to a spot beyond Alun’s shoulder, and Heilyn crept onto the path, cutting a wide berth around Alun until it could shelter behind Bryce’s legs, one paw clutching the pocket of his tactical pants. “This is Heilyn, whose children are being held hostage by several of Luchullain’s thugs. You are their only hope of rescue.”

  Alun gazed down at Heilyn, who huddled closer to Bryce. “Do you know where your little ones are being held?”

  It nodded. “At the Keep. King’s men all gone after feast-day. Only guards are with the little ones.”

  Mal nudged Alun. “That’s where Luchullain’s headed. Come on. An empty Keep is a bit of luck we can’t expect to last forever.”

  Alun nodded, lips compressed into a firm line. “Very well.”