The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  Mal heaved a sigh of relief, followed by an upsurge of urgency until he was vibrating at the same frequency as Bryce’s hand.

  “We haven’t much time. Heilyn will see us into the Keep. We’ll pursue Luchullain to the throne room while you rescue the babies.”

  Babies. Goddess, he’d never thought of them that way. Well, he’d never seen any to speak of. A bauchan with young was sequestered until the young were able to hop off and fend for themselves, but yes, he supposed they were babies.

  “As you wish.” Alun lowered his sword. “But there are developments you should be aware of. The Queen—”

  A faint wail echoed in the woods, causing Heilyn to whimper and dart away down the path. Since Bryce followed, Mal had no choice but to stumble along at the rear.

  “Mal, come back!”

  “Later, Alun,” he called over his shoulder. “Arrest me, imprison me, behead me, whatever your duty commands. But, for now, move your bloody arse!”

  Heilyn scuttled along the path, which grew increasingly familiar, so Bryce wasn’t the least surprised when they drew to a halt outside a rough wooden door.

  “These are the kitchens, right?” Heilyn nodded. “Are there others of your kind inside?” At the second nod, Bryce turned to face the Kendrick brothers, Alun in particular. “We’re entering through halls that are only travelled by lesser fae. Do you understand the implications?”

  The brothers glanced at each other and shrugged. Bryce glared at Mal. “Do you remember anything about the last time we were here, Mal?”

  “The last time?” His eyes widened and his mouth lifted in a smirk as he cut a glance at his brother. “Right.” He turned to Alun. “Don’t be shocked, brother, but the lesser fae may not worship us as we might wish.”

  “I never—”

  “Alun.” Urgency grew in Bryce’s chest, the certainty that speed was of the essence. “These are Unseelie fae. Servants of the King, yes, but they have little choice and shouldn’t be terrorized.”

  Alun blinked. “Why would I—” Bryce raised an eyebrow and jerked his chin at the sword, longer than Heilyn was tall. “Ah.” He sheathed the sword in the scabbard strapped to his back.

  “Draw it after we get through the kitchens, so you’re ready for Rodric’s thugs, but we need to look as nonthreatening as possible now.”

  Heilyn tugged on Bryce’s pant leg. “Lord Cynwrig is fair. Won’t punish servant for ill-seasoned soup.”

  “Of course not. I— Wait. The King does that?”

  Heilyn bobbed his head. “More of late. Since the beast.”

  Bryce met Mal’s gaze uneasily. “The beast. Could he mean Steve?”

  “The beast who stole my young. That beast.”

  “Rodric bloody Luchullain,” Mal growled. “What are we waiting for?” He pulled at the door handle. The door didn’t budge. He pulled harder.

  “Mal. Remember, this isn’t your realm.”

  “Shite.” He stood aside and allowed Heilyn to open the door—with only two of the six fingers on one hand. Bryce might have imagined it, but he thought it gave him a sly wink. Bryce chuckled. Can’t blame the downtrodden for rubbing it in a bit when they’ve got the advantage—even an advantage as small as opening the door to their own house.

  They ducked through the door and followed Heilyn through the scullery into the kitchen. As opposed to their last visit, the big room was redolent of scents both savory and sweet. It also wasn’t empty.

  Two creatures similar to Heilyn, who had been turning a haunch of some large animal on a spit in the wide hearth, shrieked and abandoned their post. One leaped for a swag of onions and scrambled up into the rafters. The other scuttled into the corner and hid behind a butter churn.

  Three others, who’d been icing tiny cakes, dropped their pastry bags and dove under the table.

  Heilyn said something in a language Bryce couldn’t follow, and the two from the hearth crept back to attend the spit. The others didn’t come out of hiding, but considering how much real estate the Kendrick brothers occupied, Bryce wasn’t sure he blamed them.

  He nodded an apology to each frightened face as they threaded their way through the room and out the other side. Once into the hallway, Bryce touched Heilyn on the shoulder.

  “We know the way to the throne room from here. Take Alun . . . er . . . Lord Cynwrig to where your children are being held.”

  When Heilyn pointed to a narrow stairway that spiraled out of sight, Alun unsheathed his sword again. “I’ll dispatch these fellows as fast as I’m able, and join you in the throne room.”

  A pitiful wail, weak and heartbroken, echoed in the stairwell, and Heilyn trembled in distress. It tugged on Alun’s shirt tail. “Please. Even if the beast’s men do not hurt them, without me, they die.”

  Alun cast one more glance at Mal and ducked through the doorway, disappearing up the stairs at a run with Heilyn at his heels.

  “Come on.” Bryce squeezed Mal’s hand. “That’s our cue.”

  They raced down the hallway to the throne room door, the bloodthirsty murals more lurid in the light of the rising sun. Bryce paused in front of the door and met Mal’s determined gaze.

  “How reliable is Heilyn’s intel likely to be? Could the throne room be full to bursting of Unseelie warriors? Or, you know, the King?”

  “He seemed certain. Besides, it’s barely dawn. If the Unseelie are anything like the Seelie Court after a party, no one’s recovered from their carousing yet.”

  “Would they have done that? Caroused, I mean?”

  “Any chance they get, and the equinox is one of the quarter-day feasts.”

  “Let’s hope Heilyn’s right and all the warriors are still in a food coma, then.” He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Mal’s lips. “For luck.” He grabbed the door handle.

  “Wait.” Mal’s hand landed on his arm. “You do have a plan, right?”

  He flashed a grin. “Don’t worry about me—I’m a druid.”

  “Bryce—”

  Dropping the attitude, Bryce cupped Mal’s jaw. “We’ll do what we have to, right? You’ve got the training and the drive to handle the fisticuffs with Rodric; I’ve got the druid sight and the incentive to keep the stone out of the Wellspring. But we’ve got each other, and we’ve got your brother for backup, right?”

  Mal’s brow wrinkled with uncertainty, but then he nodded. “Right.”

  “Good. Now let’s toast this bastard.”

  He eased the door open and peered inside. Despite Bryce’s misgivings, the room was empty.

  Almost.

  At the far side of the room, opposite the throne, Rodric Luchullain was upending copper bowls and bronze urns, ripping tapestries off the wall, smashing vases on the floor and pawing through the shards. Heilyn didn’t tell him where in the throne room to find the stone. Paint splattered the front of his gold velvet doublet, and angry red welts marred his throat and cheek.

  Excellent.

  Bryce burst out of the door and powered across the room, an undervoiced curse from Mal the only indication that he’d taken the man by surprise.

  Rodric’s head snapped up at the pounding of their feet on the flagstones. He bared his teeth in a feral grimace and pointed his metal hand at them. A weak wave of energy lapped against Bryce’s chest. It was no worse than a static discharge at the moment, but it meant that the potion’s effects weren’t permanent. Damn it. They needed to finish this before he regained full use of his Taser hand.

  Rodric cursed and heaved a jagged, head-sized chunk of porcelain at Bryce. Mal shoved him out of the way, but took the blow on his own temple instead, staggering against Bryce’s shoulder.

  When Bryce felt the bright star of sympathetic pain in his own head, the potential that had been building in his chest since before dawn crested and broke, lighting him up with druid-augmented senses. Lines of force swirled around the flagstones, the wooden tables, the throne with its jewels—everything that was born of nature. The tapestry glowed brighter than anything, a
s if it were made of the earth itself. Or maybe of Faerie itself.

  The energy flowed over his hands like water, twining around his fingers like tender vines. He closed his fists and the power nestled there, awaiting his will.

  I could do it. He could close off Rodric’s windpipe. Stop his heart. Fry every synapse in his brain. All it would take was one . . . little . . . push.

  “Bryce.” Mal’s hand on his arm startled him, and he wrenched his gaze from Rodric’s twisted features. “Don’t. Remember the plan.”

  Luchullain looked up at them, his eyes reddened under a smear of paint, but Bryce could see the fear there. “What, the druid allows his lapdog to give him orders?”

  Bryce tensed, the desire to strike out nearly overwhelming. This was the man who’d tortured Heilyn, who had no compunction about killing helpless children, who’d attack an unarmed stranger for no reason other than spite. He was prepared, moreover, to cripple Faerie and destroy the wetlands and possibly more in a self-centered quest for power.

  And he wants to kill Mal.

  He didn’t deserve to live. Bryce would be doing Faerie and his own world a favor if he ended this right fucking now.

  “Mind how you go, Luchullain,” Mal said, his grip tightening on Bryce’s arm. “You’re playing with fire.”

  “Him? He won’t even take advantage of what he’s got. He won’t step up and own you as is his right. He ought to have you on a leash, like the dog you are. Or locked in a kennel where he can drain your power at will.”

  “Is that what you would do?” Bryce asked.

  “No. I’d kill him first. He’s not worth the trouble.”

  Bryce lunged, but Mal was quicker, blocking him, chest to chest. “Easy, mate. Take this step and you’ll regret it.”

  “Regret killing him? Not likely.”

  “Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow or the next day.” Mal’s gaze locked with his. “This isn’t you, my tree hugger. You’re the clever one, remember? The compassionate one.”

  “Pathetic,” Rodric said. “And to think I equated you with Sreng.”

  Mal didn’t bother to glance at Rodric. He grinned wolfishly, eyes blazing neon-bright in Bryce’s enhanced vision as he squeezed Bryce’s arm again. “It’s not you, love, but it’s bloody well me.”

  He let go of Bryce and launched himself at Rodric. The two of them rolled halfway across the floor, until the tether that still bound him to Mal pulled Bryce to his knees. The kneepads in his tactical pants prevented him from breaking his kneecaps, but his palms landed on a scatter of pottery shards in a burst of pain. When he sat back, his hands left several bright blots of blood on the floor.

  Mal grappled Rodric with his good hand, struggling to press his right elbow against Rodric’s throat. Rodric struck Mal’s chest with his Taser hand, and when Mal jerked, Bryce gasped, an echo of the shock jolting his own chest. The hand may not be fully powered, but if Mal takes too many hits over his heart . . .

  He took a step forward.

  “Keep back, Bryce,” Mal barked. “This is my battle. My responsibility.”

  “Your doom,” Rodric growled and hit him with another shock.

  “Not on your bloody arse,” Mal said, and cracked Rodric’s jaw with a left uppercut.

  Bryce wanted to interfere, wanted to unleash that alien, seductive power and end this now, end Rodric, before Mal got hurt. But he had no idea of the mechanics of lifting Mal’s curse. The curse itself was a knot that bound both Mal and Rodric, and his druid studies had told him enough to know that severing it with brute force might as easily backfire and make the effects permanent. Steve might have other resources—although even Mal didn’t seem to know what those might be. If it came to a choice, however—Mal’s life or Mal’s curse—he’d choose Mal’s life.

  For now, though, he forced himself to look away, wincing at the sound of blows against flesh, at the echoes of those blows on his own body. He had another task here: find the adder stone before Rodric did. Stupid—I should have asked Heilyn where it was. Might as well start where Rodric left off. Unfortunately, that was at a long refectory table across the room from where Mal and Rodric were grappling on the floor.

  He eased toward it, but at the end of the invisible cable, he felt the pull in his gut and Mal faltered, allowing Rodric to score another hit with the Taser hand.

  God damn it. This is a druid spell, and I’m a fricking druid. There must be some way to loosen the metaphysical chain. After all, it had happened before, the first time they’d entered Faerie, and Cassie had done it herself so she could enjoy a private chat with Mal.

  Bryce resolutely ignored the fight and concentrated on the energy connecting him to Mal. Odd—there appeared to be two bonds: one with hooks in their bellies, and another, brighter one that wound around their hearts.

  Tentatively, so as not to distract Mal, he reached out and closed his hands around the belly-to-belly cord. With the power twining around his hands like an affectionate cat, he pulled, stretching the magical rope like taffy. When he released it, it stayed stretched.

  Elation flared in his chest. He grabbed another section. Stretched. Another. And another. He was worried that the other link, the one between their hearts, would stop him too, but it seemed much more elastic. I’ll worry about that when the time comes.

  Although he’d increased its reach by five feet or more, the litter of smashed porcelain was still just out of reach beyond the tips of his fingers. If only Mal and Rodric would grapple a little closer.

  Although the tether was dangerously thin now, it had lost none of its strength, impervious to Bryce’s attempts to break it or stretch it further. He was torn between admiration for Cassie’s abilities and a futile wish for a less competent mentor.

  He laid down on the floor and stretched out his full length. My ridiculously long arms have to be good for something. One more inch. Just one more. If I can—

  A booted foot came down on his wrist. Pain shot up his arm and he cried out at the same time that a sickening crunch sounded from across the room. Someone moaned. Was it Mal? Rodric?

  Bryce looked up into a gaunt face under an ornate crown.

  “You trespass in my realm and defile my throne room. The penalty for that is death.”

  The satisfying crunch of Rodric’s nose under his fist lit up Mal’s chest like a Calan Mai bonfire, although it sent a wave of pain up his arm too. Damn. I’m out of practice. The bastard hunched into a ball, his fleshly hand attempting unsuccessfully to stem blood streaming from his nose.

  Mal grinned, stressing his split lip, but bugger that. I’ve still got it. He could hold his own, even if the other blighter had a magical electrocution hand.

  With one knee pinning the wrist of said magical hand to the ground, Mal gripped Rodric’s hair and yanked his head up, pressing his right arm across the bastard’s throat. “I don’t need two hands to choke the worthless breath out of you.”

  Rodric gagged, his chest shaking, and for a moment Mal thought he’d already gone too far. But then he realized the sound coming out of Rodric’s mouth was laughter. “Your timing, Lord Maldwyn,” he wheezed, “is impeccable as always.”

  Mal frowned but followed the direction of Rodric’s gaze and froze. A tall, emaciated fae in velvet robes the color of smoke, glinting with red and gold jewels like hidden embers, was standing over Bryce, his foot pinning Bryce’s arm, the point of his sword hovering over the back of Bryce’s neck.

  Mal met Bryce’s gaze. His eyes faded from druid black to warm ale-brown, but they held no fear. He lifted an eyebrow as if in apology.

  “I take it,” Mal tightened his hold until Rodric grunted, “based on the pretentious moth-eaten crown, that you’re the Unseelie King.”

  The King’s cadaverous face split in a sneer. “I take it, from your complete incompetence, that you’re Lord Maldwyn Cynwrig.”

  “If you’re the King”—Bryce’s voice was muffled with the side of his face pressed to the floor—“your tapestry portrait is entirely too flat
tering.”

  “Silence, druid.” The King’s weight shifted, and Bryce winced. Mal could feel the bones shift in his own wrist. “If you do not want the druid to die, release Lord Luchullain.” The King’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced between Mal and Bryce. “Or perhaps you’d prefer the druid to die after all. There is no other way to release you from his thrall.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The King tutted, weaving the tip of his sword in a figure eight over Bryce’s back. Mal could see sweat beading on Bryce’s forehead, one drop falling to make a dark circle on the flagstones. “Surely that’s not the opportunistic Lord Maldwyn who speaks. I have heard tales of your escapades. Always with an eye for the main chance.”

  “Your hearing must be as decrepit as your face.”

  The King snagged the tip of the sword in the hem of Bryce’s vest and sliced it open up the back. “This druid, your master. He means so little to you? Perhaps he might do for me. I’ve heard the sacrifice of a druid under the midwinter moon can grant power. Much power.”

  Mal’s belly clenched. Keep him talking. If he thinks Bryce is a future asset, he won’t hurt him. “I don’t know where you get your information—”

  “Kill him,” Rodric wheezed. “Do it now.”

  Bryce winced again when the King leaned forward, putting more pressure on his wrist. The flesh on his back crept, expecting to feel the bite of the blade at any moment.

  “You do not give the orders here, Lord Luchullain. Despite your valuable assistance, I am still King. And I think perhaps the services of one of the famed Cynwrig brothers might serve me better than a disgraced former Consort, a fallen Daoine Sidhe who can claim no distinction save the dubious honor of swiving the Seelie Queen whenever she chose to allow it. Although . . .” He tapped his sword on Bryce’s back, and Bryce held his breath against an accidental slip. “I understand she allowed it remarkably seldom. Perhaps she found other ways to take her pleasure. Other bedmates to satisfy her.”

  “Like you did?” The voice that boomed in the vast hall, taunting and confident, was Steve’s.

  From Bryce’s position on the floor, he had a skewed sideways view of the room and of the huge figure standing inside the doors. The boots were Steve’s and the cloak was Steve’s and the jeweled gauntlets were Steve’s. But his headful of snakes had transformed into wavy hair the color of peat, his skin was smooth and golden brown instead of blue and scaled, and his face was the face of a god.