She lives at the very top of a small knoll, a wet dirt road leading to the door of a cottage trimmed in white and timber. It’s smaller than I remember as we approach, with tiny melting windows and squat walls covered in a carpet of ivy. The roof is crisp and golden; freshly thatched.
I want to get out of the car. I even manage to unbuckle my seatbelt with shaking hands. But I just can’t bring myself to reach for the door handle. Inside the car is simple, safe. The cottage, my grandmother? Complete unknowns.
What if she’s changed? What if she doesn’t want to see me? Hell, what if she doesn’t even remember me? Castor watches my internal struggle, raising a brow when he catches my eye.
“Scared?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk crossing his face. I let out a snort and shoot him what I hope is a scathing look.
“Fuck you,” I snap. “I’m not scared of anything.”
I know he’s just trying to rile me up. Manipulate me. Problem is, it’s working.
I just hope my lie sounds at least a little bit convincing.
Chapter Seven
Down the Rabbit Hole
When I knock on the door, at first, there’s no answer.
“Whelp, guess this was a bust.” I shrug, grabbing Castor’s arm. “Suppose we better get going.”
Just as I’m trying to drag him back toward the car, though, the door creaks open a crack. A suspicious eye peers out at us, dark brown with just the slightest hint of milky white.
“Dearies,” she says, her voice rasping. “As I told the fine young gentlemen you sent yesterday, I’m not interested in your church. I haven’t the money for a donation. Best of luck, though.”
She starts to close the door in our faces, but Castor stops her with a foot.
“Mabel O’Hallahan,” he says, his voice smooth. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Your granddaughter has told me so much about you.”
So the fucker can be charming. I guess he just chooses not to be.
At his words my grandma pauses, opening the door just a little bit wider. She grabs the glasses from her pocket, slipping them on as she studies me over Castor’s shoulder.
“Berkeley?” she asks, brow furrowed. “Is that really you? You’ve dyed your hair.”
“Meemaw.” A smile tugs at my lips and I fiddle with my hands, not entirely sure what to do with them. “It’s, uh...it’s good to see you.”
“Oh, come here, you silly lass.” Meemaw shuffles out the door, throwing her wrinkled arms around me, hugging me with surprising strength for someone so frail. “What took you so long to visit? And who—” she adds, gaze shifting to Castor “—is this handsome young gentleman you’ve brought with you?”
Gentleman. I have to hold back a snort at the thought. She wouldn’t be calling him a gentleman if she knew what he’d done in that diner bathroom. And twice in the airplane facilities.
A blush rises to my cheeks and I have to shove down the heady thoughts that suddenly start swirling around my mind. I’m visiting my sweet old grandmother, for Christ’s sake. There’s couldn’t possibly be a less appropriate situation to be horndogging it.
“His name is Castor,” I tell her simply. “Castor Blake.”
“Ah, Blake. Yes, of course, I thought I recognized you. Please, come in, come in, the both of you.” Meemaw ushers the two of us inside the cabin, puttering over to the kitchen to put on a kettle. “Can I get you anything? Water? Scones? Tea will be ready in just a moment.”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” I say, but I quickly rethink it. “Actually, a biscuit would be great. Haven’t had much to eat since the flight.”
“Oh, of course, dear.” Meemaw grabs an entire platter of scones from the top of the fridge, setting it down in front of me. Immediately, I start digging into the closest one— cranberry. Homemade. It might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten. “It’s a long flight over isn’t it?” Meemaw continues, picking out a treat for herself as well. “Did you two enjoy your ride together?”
Castor nearly chokes on the biscuit he just bit into, while I feel the blush return to my cheeks. I’m sure she didn’t mean it like that. She couldn’t possibly know...could she?
“So, I hate to be rude, but I must ask.” Meemaw takes the kettle off the stove and pours three steaming cups of tea. “It’s been four years since you last visited, Berkeley, dear. I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?”
I feel a pang of guilt in my gut as I shake my head. “It’s not,” I tell her. “We’re here because...well…”
I don’t know exactly how to form the words. What to say. Images of bodies pop into my head, pale and twisted and covered in blood. Headless men slitting throats, as if in a fit of jealousy. All the Slayborn, all dead. All at my house. The house that she and my parents were once so proud of. And all because I couldn’t manage to kill a couple of the Underking’s lackeys.
Thank God Castor steps in for me.
“We came because the Unseelie are growing active once more.” He gladly accepts his tea, piling in four heaping spoonfuls of sugar before taking a sip. And he has the nerve to criticize my eating habits. “There was an incident in San Francisco. All of the remaining Slayborn in the area, dead. Berkeley and I were lucky to have made it out alive.”
My grandmother doesn’t seem all that surprised by the news. I guess word travels fast in the Làidir. “It’s a travesty,” she mutters, shaking her head. “And one that, rest assured, will be addressed.”
“That’s not the only thing we came for.” Castor leans forward, elbows on the table. “The New Order. Berkeley is here to join.”
“Really?” Meemaw glances my way, and I don’t miss the concern in her eyes. “And Seamus has agreed to this?”
“He’s aware,” Castor says with a shrug. It’s not much of an answer, but he doesn’t offer up anything else. “If she’s ever going to be a part of the Làidir, she needs proper training.”
“Which you and the others began four years ago.” Meemaw frowns. “How is Berkeley expected to catch up? To face the Unseelie?”
“I know how to fight, Meemaw,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “I want to do this. I need to do this. The Unseelie killed mom. Your daughter”
“I know. I just don’t want them to get you too,” my grandmother rasps out. “It’s a dangerous game, Berkeley. More so than I think you might realize.”
“Meemaw, please.” I grab her hand from across the table, clasping it in my own. “Trust me, I’m no team player. I’m not so sure about all this myself. But I’m Slayborn. This is what I was born to do. If I don’t take down the people who killed my parents, my friends—the people who are trying to kill me—then I honestly don’t know if I could live with myself.”
My grandma studies me for a few silent beats. Her gaze is sharp. Hard. But finally she pulls back, giving me a single tight nod as she glances between Castor and I.
“You really are your mother’s daughter,” she sighs, blinking a single tear from her eye. “I just hope it doesn’t get you killed, too.”
For all intents and purposes, it looks like an ordinary well. Small, stony, covered in years of algae and lichens. It’s been boarded up ever since I was a kid. For safety, according to my parents. I never once questioned it.
But now Castor shoves aside the thick stone slab covering the well opening to reveal a spiral staircase that disappears down into the thick darkness below. A cold breeze blows up at us, smelling like must and dank water. Though it’s hard to tell, I could swear I hear voices floating on the air, far off and indistinct, a constant murmur.
Meemaw produces a flashlight from her apron, handing it to me before gesturing down the well.
“My old bones have trouble getting up and down those stairs,” she says with a smile. “Of course, you two look a little bit more spry.” Her gaze flickers to Castor, and a mischievous twinkle lights her eye. She definitely knows. I can’t believe I waited so long to visit this woman. I think she might just be my hero.
Castor takes the
lead down the stairs with slow, deliberate steps so that neither of us slip and go plunging into the darkness below. Down the rabbit hole, I suppose. The flashlight is barely enough to cut through the stifling black around us, just a thin sliver highlighting each next step until we reach the bottom.
The two of us wander down the corridor leading away from the stairwell, the chill starting to creep through the thin cotton of my tee-shirt. I feel a cold droplet splat on my head, and pray to God it’s just water. Not like I can check and see. The farther we travel, though, the more I begin to notice that the air around us grows brighter.
At first, I think it’s just my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Soon, though, the hint of light turns to a warm glow, bright enough that Castor can turn off the flashlight. We reach a curve at the end of the hall and come face-to-face with a huge wooden door, wrought iron knockers at eye-level, two torches lighting it from both sides.
I come stumbling to a stop, but Castor pushes his way through without hesitation. And the second those heavy doors come apart, we’re greeted with light so bright it sears into my eyeballs. I shield my gaze, struggling to adjust, nearly toppling over when Castor drags me after him with an impatient yank.
We step into a hall that, to my eyes, looks like organized chaos. The roar of voices echoes through the air, gasps and shouts and hysterical laughter, a million people all chattering in a million different directions. The two of us walk straight through the center of the hall, past groups of lean men and women sparring each other, clashing swords together, hurtling themselves through complex obstacle courses. I haven’t even started training and already I’m feeling self-conscious. This is what I’m up against?
No wonder Meemaw was concerned.
At the center of the room, pacing around on a raised pedestal, stands quite possibly the largest man I’ve ever seen. I swear, he must have some Fomorian in his blood. He patrols, eyes sweeping over the room, occasionally shouting some harsh order or begrudging compliment across the hall. When his eyes land on Castor and I, a sudden grin spreads across his granite face, making him look ten years younger.
“Castor, m’boy!” He hops off the pedestal, striding over to Castor and clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” His gaze roams past Castor, coming to settle on me. “And you found the Gallagher girl, too. Excellent job.”
“Um.” I rub the back of my neck, glancing sideways at Castor. “I’m Berkeley. Nice to meet you?”
“Ah, of course.” The behemoth in front of me grins, green eyes twinkling at he appraises me. And suddenly, I realize—his eyes are the exact same green as Castor’s. A deep, wild emerald that would make any girl weak at the knees. I know who the man must be even before he tells me.
“I’m Seamus Blake,” he tells me. “Castor’s uncle. And this—this is the New Order of the Làidir.”
Chapter Eight
The Succubus
“We’re glad you decided to join us, Berkeley. We need all of the help that we can get.”
Seamus leads us through the winding labyrinth of corridors that make up the new Làidir headquarters. It’s much quieter here than in the training halls, and yet, the lonely echoes seem so much louder.
“Well, let’s not be hasty,” I cut in, shooting a glare Castor’s way. I have no idea what he’s been telling people, but it’s definitely not what I’ve been saying. “I haven’t decided to join anything...yet. I want to see what sort of operation you’ve got going on here.”
“Your mother was a skeptical one as well.” Seamus cranes his neck to smile down at me. “It’s not a bad trait to have.”
“You knew my parents?” I ask, but then immediately feel like an idiot. Of course he knew my parents. A high-ranking member of the Làidir? Hell, I’d be surprised if I haven’t met him before, back when I was too young to remember.
“Your parents were some of the best Slayborn I’ve ever known,” Seamus answers, face impassive. “It’s a shame, what happened to them. A great loss to our cause. They would be proud of you for making this choice, you know.”
I don’t bother to remind him that, again, I haven’t made the choice yet. Instead, I give him a halfhearted chuckle. “They’ll be even prouder when I slice off the Underking’s head.”
“In time,” Seamus says. “I commend the enthusiasm, but we can’t attack yet.”
A sudden pang of rage bubbles up in my gut.
“What are you guys waiting for, then?” I snap. “The longer you hold off, the more chances you give him to slaughter our people. He’s already killed off most of the Slayborn in San Francisco. Maybe the entire United States.”
“We launch our attack in three weeks,” Seamus says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “During the Winter Solstice. It’s when the Unseelie will be at their weakest. I know that the waiting is difficult, but we must have patience if we want to win against the Underking.”
“And where is the Underking?” I ask. “Killing his minions does nothing. We need to cut off the head of the snake.”
“Trust me, our scouts are well aware of where the Underking’s stronghold is located. Newgrange. There’s a veil there, clearly placed by the Unseelie. We keep eyes on the area at all times for any signs of activity.”
“So the plan is to pussyfoot around for three weeks while he continues to amass an army?”
I know it’s a bad idea to keep pushing. Though Seamus has been patient so far, I can tell that he’s starting to lose some of his cool. His gaze sharpens, the corners of his lips curl downwards. I’m sure if he wanted he could split me in half like a phone book, and judging by the look on his face right now, the idea isn’t exactly unappealing to him. But I have to know what this is. What I might be getting myself into.
Just how big of an idiot I’m being.
“The plan is to train,” Seamus responds, looking down and holding my gaze. “And then, to win.”
The training room is positively electric with activity. Two people wrestling here. Nearly knocking into an archer there. All three of them yelling at the guy across the room for blaring his music too loud. At one point, I almost get impaled by a rogue spear that flies just inches in front of my face.
“Head’s up!” someone yells, much too late to have done any good.
“Yeah, thanks!” I yell back, and then add under my breath, “Asshole.”
“I wouldn’t go saying that to his face if I were you.” A soft voice lilts my way, smooth as honey, and I turn to see two bright blue eyes staring back at me. They’re so deep, so clear, I could swear she was some sort of fae. But the rest of her...she looks nothing like most of the ugly little fae beasts I’ve ever seen.
This girl is about my age, maybe a little bit older. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft amber waves, the light overhead bringing out flecks of gold in her highlights. It’s the sort of strawberry blonde that you just can’t get from a bottle, no matter how much you’re willing to pay. She wears the same uniform as Castor, all black swaths and shining plates, but hers fits to her curves like a glove. The girl’s lips are drawn into a pout, her liner pristine despite the beads of sweat dripping down her face. She shakes her hair from her eyes, looking me up and down with a critical gaze. It doesn’t seem that she’s too impressed by what she sees.
“Who are you?” she asks, frowning, then turns to Castor. “Castor, baby? Who is she?”
I whip around to face him, glaring. I swear to God, if this guy has a girlfriend, I’m gonna lay him out on the floor here for all his little buddies to see. I’ll curb stomp his dick. But it wouldn’t appear that this is the case. He looks back at the girl with clear distaste written across his face, his hand almost involuntarily going to the knife at his side.
“Sabrina,” he says, his voice ice-cold. “Don’t you have someone else to torment?”
“Yes, but none that I like as much as you,” she coos back, running a finger down his tunic. While I feel a slight pang of jealousy at the move—completely uncalled for—at the same time,
I’m impressed. I haven’t been able to get Castor to shut up since I met him. And here, she’s able to do it in under a minute.
“I’m Berkeley,” I say, stepping toward her with my hand outstretched. She cocks a brow before taking it in the tips of her fingers and giving it a delicate shake, as if she’s afraid she might contract something from me. Honestly, looking the way I do right now, I can’t say that I blame her.
“Ah, yes,” she says, giving me an insincere smile. “The infamous Berkeley Gallagher. Charmed, I’m sure.”
No doubt about that. I’m sure she’s used to people being charmed by her mere presence. Even now, I can see the eyes of half the boys in the room flitting her way, some nervous, some hungry,some resentful. I guess Castor isn’t her only conquest.
“Yeah. Charmed,” I say. “So you’re Sabrina.”
“Oh?” she asks, pleased. “You’ve heard of me, then?”
“No.”
She glances up at Castor, smirking. “It’s probably for the best. This one has nothing nice to say. I wouldn’t be surprised if he told you I’m a succubus.”
“You’re saying that you’re not?” Castor asks, still frowning. “Because I’m not convinced.”
“Oh, darling. You wound me.” She feigns hurt, closing her eyes and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a mock faint. When she allows herself to start collapsing back on the floor, Castor catches her with a muttered curse. She blinks an eye open, her entire face breaking out into a grin.
“Aw. You do like me.”
For a second, it looks as if Castor is thinking about letting her go again. Dropping her to the floor. I half hope that he will. But instead he rights her again, stepping back away from her the instant she’s back on her feet.
“Sabrina!”
I hear a yelp across the hall and glance over just in time to see a boy running towards us. He’s tall—taller than Castor, even, which is quite a feat—but he’s also gangly as all hell. At some point his torso stopped growing, but his limbs didn’t. Wispy tendrils of chestnut hair are slicked across his forehead, some of them dangling down in front of his eyes. It can’t be easy to see out from beneath that curtain. Sure enough, he stumbles a couple times, nearly running into another girl as he scrambled toward us.
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