I steel myself next to Castor as they approach, seeming to float toward us, the sharp black edges of their blades moving closer and closer to us. The middle Rider—the tallest of the three, his withered face slightly older than each of theirs, almost familiar—raises his blade high overhead, and the other two follow suit. But just as they’re about to strike, a voice rises on the air around us.
“Stad!”
The entire world stills. Castor and I, Seamus, the Dullahan—all of us turn as one to see my grandmother standing there, fury etched into every wrinkle on her brow.
“Cad é seo, Seamus?” she booms, her voice impossibly loud for such a frail old thing.
“Mabel,” Seamus says, nonchalant. Like he’s welcoming an old friend to a dinner party. Like he’s been fucking expecting her. We’re not the only ones the bastard wants to take out before he rebuilds or whatever. Like hell I’m going to let him lay a finger on my Meemaw. From the way Castor tenses to spring beside me, he feels the same way.
“Meemaw, go!” I shout over my shoulder. “We can hold them off. Get to the car as fast as you can. Find the Underking, find Gentry—”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
From behind the doorway, my grandmother produces a sword. It’s clearly ancient, though the blade shines like new. The hilt is carved in knotted iron inlaid with emeralds and sapphire, parts of it buffed smooth from generations of hands. The sword must have been in our family for decades. Millenia, possibly.
I’m sure it’s too heavy for her to lift—the thing is massive, after all—but she heaves it into the air like she’s brandishing a rolling pin, her face showing no signs of strain.
“Seamus,” she roars. “I’ve been waiting for this day. My daughter so wished she could have been here, too.”
“Your daughter was a traitor,” Seamus shouts back. He’s finally losing some of his cool. “As is your granddaughter. As are you, Mabel. The Làidir can never rebuild itself with the likes of you infecting us to the very root.”
“And yet, I see you align yourself with the Unseelie, too.” Meemaw takes a bold step forward. “Do you not deserve an execution as well, Seamus?”
“Everything I do, I do for the Order,” Seamus hisses through his teeth. My grandmother lets out a snort.
“Oh, dearie,” she says, her tone light. “We both know that’s not true.”
Seamus heaves one heavy breath. Then another. And suddenly he’s hurtling past the Dullahan, flail swinging round and round in the air, heading straight for my grandma. I cry out, rushing to help her, Castor at my side—but both our steps falter when we see her fight.
She ducks into a squat, the spiked ball of the flail missing her by a mile. She twists and thrusts her sword forward, delivering a powerful hit that cleaves into Seamus’s leg. He cries out, cursing her, but she’s already onto the next body. One of the Dullahan glides toward her—the one with the ancient, withered face—and suddenly, I realize where I know him from. The arcade. The ambush.
The leader.
I could almost swear he catches my eye as he passes, raising a hand toward my grandmother as she lifts her sword. She aims for the face cradled in his arms. Directly between the eyes. With a grunt she thrusts the blade forward, but in an instant the Dullahan is replaced by a cloud of smoke, her blade passing through in a swirl of wispy tendrils. When the creature reappears a split second late at her side, she thrusts out once again. This time she makes contact with its chest, directly between the ribs, right where the heart should be. The Dullahan leader pauses and I feel a small swell off hope—that is, right until it silently begins to pull the blade from itself, not a droplet of blood in sight.
My grandmother breathes hard, staring down at her own blade in the creature’s hand. And then, her gaze flits to Castor. They exchange a look, one that I don’t quite understand.
Right before the flail comes crashing down on top of her skull.
Meemaw drops at once. Even standing there, staring at her body, at first I don’t understand what happened. I want to run to her. Help her up. Tend to her wounds. But other than the twitching of her middle finger, she’s still. Head caved in.
Seamus.
An animal sound rips itself from my throat, primal, guttural, and I start to sprint at Seamus. But a pair of strong arms wraps around my waist to stop me. I shriek and kick and scream, barely managing to form words as I try to claw my way to Seamus.
He killed her. He slaughtered her like it was nothing. Like she was no one. She was my grandmother; kind, comforting, bright, ballsy. She was Mabel Fucking O’Hallahan.
But to him, she was just another name to check off on his list.
“Let me go!” I howl.
Castor still has me gripped tight, and he’s dragging me away from the scene as quickly as he can. Eventually he just gives up and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, my head bouncing against his back with each step that he takes.
I continue to writhe against him, but he just clamps both arms down over my thighs so that I can’t move. I lift my head, deliberating about how effective biting might be in this situation, but when I do my stomach drops.
Seamus is nowhere to be seen. No doubt licking his wounds back with the brainwashed minions at his headquarters. But his Dullahan Riders—they’re mounted, galloping after us, and catching up fast. I can just barely make out their horses in the distance—gaunt things, all skin and bones, but still impossibly fast. Their breath rises through the cold air in smoky tendrils, the heat off their backs visible as steam.
“Castor—” I start, but he interrupts me with a rough growl.
“I know, damnit!”
He veers to the left, heading for a thicket of trees on the far side of the paddock. The Riders are closing in fast. Castor manages to make it through the branches and the Riders slow somewhat, their horses clumsy on the root-strewn ground. Castor continues running at full speed, though the effort of sprinting under my weight is obviously starting to wear on him. I can feel the sweat from his arms soaking into my legs.
He finally comes skidding to a stop, practically dumping me down on the ground and throwing himself on top of me. He places a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet as he raises his head just a fraction.
His body is hot and heavy against mine; too heavy to breathe. The trees are completely silent, not even the breeze rustling their leaves. The birds have stopped whistling in the branches, their whoops and calls dying almost all at once.
And then we hear it.
Three riders tromping through the forest, their horses’ hooves snapping against the twigs and leaves underneath. They trot slowly, and when the come into view through the underbrush around me, I can see that they have their heads set on their laps, eyes wide and swiveling to and fro. They don’t see us as they ride past, deeper into the trees until the black flurry of their cloaks eventually disappears out of sight.
Castor waits a moment more before springing to his feet again, holding out a hand to help me up after him. I make sure to hold his eye as I grab onto a nearby tree instead. He might have just saved my ass, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be annoyed at him.
“Jesus, Berkeley, we don’t have time for your hot and cold bullshit right now. We need to get out of here before the Dullahan return this way.”
“I know where to go,” I tell him. “We need to make it to Newgrange. There’s a Veil there the Slayborn can’t pass. If we can make it there, the Underking will protect us. I know he will.”
Castor narrows his eyes. Purses his lips. But time is running out, and he clearly can’t think of a better option.
“Alright,” he nods, almost grimacing. “Newgrange it is, then. But Berkeley—you best pray you’re right about this.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Proposal
When we reach the sprawling green field, it’s silent. The sun has already started falling in the mid-winter afternoon, sending a bright orange glow cutting across the sky. Castor raises a ha
nd to shield his eyes as he surveys the emptiness around us.
“Well?” he asks. “Where’s your Underking at, then?”
“I’m not sure,” I mutter.
I don’t really want to admit that I have no recollection of getting inside the giant stone tomb. Just cobbled walkways and quartz walls and a stony-faced king underneath. Honestly, I had just hoped that the elf knights would materialize out of thin air like last time. Hopefully with a bit of a warmer welcome.
But we’re completely alone, save for the giant stone monoliths in the near distance. I cough, as if that might somehow catch Gentry’s attention from inside. Nothing.
But then, a sound. Hooves behind us. I can feel my chest compress, my stomach tighten. When I turn, I hope to dear God it’s the Unseelie guard.
Of course it’s fucking not, though. When have I ever been so lucky?
I don’t need Castor’s shout prompting me to start running. I twist on the ball of my foot and break into a full sprint, heading straight for the pale stone facade sitting too far off in the distance.
The sound of hooves smattering through the mud closes in on us, but I don’t dare turn and look back, don’t dare slow even in the slightest. I have no idea how Castor and I are going to break through the Veil.
And then, almost as if in answer to my thoughts, there’s a flash of bright white and a horde of elven soldiers come bounding forth, riding atop towering black horses with powerful legs and glinting coats. They rush for us, and for a split second, my heart stops. Maybe Gentry didn’t take my snubbing him so well, after all.
But then they flow around us, parting like water before coming back together and heading for the Dullahan. Two horses come to an impatient stop, their riders nearly invisible against the sun’s rays bursting out from behind them. But I know who it is, even before I see the silver-blond of his hair flashing in the overcase light.
“Gentry.” I breathe in, rushing for him. I can feel Castor reach to stop me, hiss a warning that he thinks the Underking can’t hear, but I ignore him. I scramble over, grabbing his calf with one hand. It’s the highest thing I can reach.
“Gentry, you were right,” I gasp out. “Seamus, he—”
“I know,” is all that Gentry says in return. He holds a gloved hand out, nodding down at his horse.
Without question I grab it, the leather cool against my skin, and he hoists me up to settle across the horse’s back behind him. At first I hesitate, but Gentry shoots me a firm look over his shoulder. And so I wrap my arms around his waist, once again surprised at how warm he is. How solid the lean muscles of his back are against my chest.
Across from us, I can see a much less willing Unseelie elf helping an even less thrilled Castor onto the back of his horse. Castor makes a face, just barely ghosting his hands around the elf’s waist like a middle schooler at a dance. He sits so far back on the horse’s ass that the slightest bump could send him flying off, but he resolutely refuses to budge. I start to laugh, but it just turns to a sob in my chest.
“Come.” Gentry motions to the elf, and the two of them ride back toward the stone and earth entrance of Newgrange.
In the distance, the rest of the guard continues to fight the Dullahan, already dispatching one with a sharp sword through its detached brain. It disappears in a swirl of black smoke. So that’s how you kill them.
Meemaw had known. That’s what she’d been going for back in the paddock. But her against that monster? She never stood a chance.
And I hadn’t done a damn thing to help. I just ran, like a coward. Just like I did four years ago, after I thought that my parents died. All that time I wasted getting drunk, partying, pissing my days away with a sea of random strangers—I could have spent it getting to know her. Training to keep her safe.
But now she’s gone in the most inhumane, undignified way possible. I’ll never see her face again. Gone forever.
And what will my parents say when I see them?
If I see them. I can’t stop the thought from invading my brain. Everyone else has died—why wouldn’t they as well? What if the Dullahan made it into the mountains, slaughtered them just like they slaughtered everyone else?
I lean into Gentry’s back, letting the tears on my face streak his armor, dirtying the pure navy with swatches of dirt and grime and blood. Gentry doesn’t seem to mind, though. I feel a hand on my knee, only there for a brief moment before it’s gone. Warm, gentle. An act of comfort.
The horse comes skidding to a stop and Gentry hops down in one smooth motion, quickly reaching up to pluck me off behind him. Castor slides from his mount as well, as fast as he possibly can, and wastes no time in hurrying behind Gentry and I through the gaping mouth of the tomb.
I feel a small prickle as I enter, barely more than a hint of static. Judging by the grimace on Castor’s face, he feels it just a little bit more as we step through the threshold, past the Unseelie Veil.
We’re finally safe, but I can’t rest. I won’t rest. Not until Seamus, and the Dullahan, and all of the other murderers that he sullies the Làidir name with are dead at my feet.
My skin is boiled red after a steaming hot bath, my wounds dressed and tended to. I’m fitted out in a fresh uniform, soft and supple and skin-tight, cut just a little bit too low for comfort. While it doesn’t do much to flatter me up top—I don’t have the tits, after all—it sure does make my ass pop.
Castor wears the same uniform next to me, fabric stretched tight over his bulging muscles—not to mention other areas. He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable with the entire situation.
I don’t know if it’s the uniform that’s got his junk in a chokehold, or the fact that sitting two feet away from him is the Underking, fully clad in ceremonial armor. Sweeping black cape, sapphire doublet, hair slicked back with black diamond and obsidian. Castor is clearly intimidated, and clearly trying to overcompensate. He cracks his neck, flexes his shoulders, all but stands up and pisses on the feast in front of us.
“So tell me, Underking,” he says, giving his roast a vicious stab. “What’s you grand plan? Even with the Slayborn we killed, Seamus still has quite a fuckin’ army at his disposal. Not to mention the Dullahan.”
“We’ve been preparing for Seamus’s attack for some time now.” Gentry stares hard at Castor. “It’s fairly obvious he’s planning to attack on the Winter Solstice. It’s the only time that he and his Slayborn can pass the Veil into Newgrange.”
“If it’s obvious, then why’ve ya done nothing to stop him?”
“Why stop him?” Gentry asks, taking a bite of pheasant. “He’s giving us the chance to strike his forces all at once. Wipe them out in a single battle.”
Castor snorts. “That’s you tactical plan? ‘Do nothing’?”
Gentry’s pale gray eyes narrow, a tendon in his neck tensing. I follow the hard line down to his collarbone, and then down to the outline of lean muscle under the tight blue of his doublet. For an Unseelie, I have to admit, he’s pretty damn good looking. Those cheekbones could slice through diamond.
I can’t help but wonder what he looks like further down, underneath the doublet—the solid line of his chest, the powerful cut of his core, and beyond that. Once again, I find myself wondering about the mysteries of the Unseelie dick.
God. I need to get a fucking life. There are better things to worry about right now than what the Underking is packing between those marble-sculpted thighs of his.
Six inches? Eight?...more?
I shake the thought away when I catch Castor glaring at me, and quickly look at my plate. Please don’t let Gentry have noticed me ogling him. The last thing I need is to give him any more ammo against me. Sure, he was telling the truth about Seamus and the Làidir, but that doesn’t exactly erase his track record of being a dick.
“And what do you suggest?” Gentry asks, his voice dangerously low. “That I send my men into unfamiliar territory? March them to their death unprepared? Hand your uncle his victory on a silver platter?”
&
nbsp; “I suggest we do more than wait here like cowards,” Castor snarls. “I say we march now. He’s not ready. He won’t be expecting it.”
Gentry grits his teeth. Takes a long, slow sip of his wine. “And what do you think, Miss Gallagher?” He turns his back on Castor, leaning in toward me instead. His hand splays out across the table, fingertips nearly brushing against mine. “What do you think is the best plan of action here?”
I freeze. Since I’ve come to this god forsaken place, not once has someone asked me what I think. What I want. And now that someone has—not just someone, but Gentry, the Underking—all I can do is sit here staring like an idiot. I don’t have a snappy response. I don’t have a smart answer. I never thought I would need to have one.
“Look, Berkeley is new to all of this,” Castor cuts in. “I don’t know if she’s the best person to—”
“I want to hear what she has to say.” Gentry gives Castor a sharp glare before settling back in his chair, wine glass in hand, sipping it like we have all the time in the world. I shovel a forkful of steak into my mouth, thinking hard.
“Well,” I mutter, voice muffled through the food, “I don’t think we can just march on Seamus. That’s a big, open field, and from what I can tell he’s got the advantage in terms of numbers.”
“Are you kidding?” Castor asks. “I’ve seen thousands of creatures down here. Castor only has a couple hundred Slayborn at his disposal, tops.”
“Miss Gallagher is right.” Gentry sets his glass down, sending an appreciative glance my way. “Most of those you see here aren’t fighters. They’re Unseelie seeking refuge from the Làidir and the Slayborn. Trying to protect their families.”
Slayborn Page 12
