The Ghoul Vendetta

by Lisa Shearin

  I blinked. “It has more than one?”

  “It has several. Luin Celtchair and Crimmall are two of the names which it acquired after its owner’s death. But it is most often known simply as Lugh’s Spear. It’s the spear of Lugh Lámhfhada—or Lugh of the Long Arm as he was also known—and it’s one of the most famous mythological weapons in the world.” Siggurson was grinning like Christmas had come early this year. “As with many mythological weapons, it was presumed lost—or believed never to have existed to begin with.”

  I sat perfectly still. The spearhead knew Ian, and had glowed all happy-like when Ian had picked it up—and Ian had recognized the spearhead.

  “Amelia and I Skyped with Conor Delaney at the University of Dublin about Noel’s sketches,” Siggurson said. “It didn’t take him long to positively identify the combatants as Tuatha Dé Danann and Fomorians. Conor was also able to identify one of the bodies, confirming these sketches that Noel made from Agent Byrne’s dream are from the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh.”

  I shot a concerned glance at Alain Moreau.

  “Yes, I told them about Agent Byrne’s dreams, and his reaction to the spearhead. They had to know in order to get the answers we needed.”

  While Siggurson and Moreau were talking, Noel Tierney was bringing up a series of images on his laptop screen. He nodded to Moreau, who pressed a button on a console at his desk, and a screen lowered from the ceiling. Noel connected his laptop to the projector on Moreau’s credenza. Within seconds, we were looking at the scene Noel had recorded from inside Ian’s dreaming mind. Much larger, and no longer restricted in size to a sheet of sketch paper, it was much more impressive—and terrifying.

  “Along the bottom edge is the body of a giant of a man, with a single eye in the middle of his forehead,” Amelia Chandler said. “As you can see, that eye has a spear driven through it, with a familiar spearhead. A hand is seen grasping the shaft of the spear as if to extract it.” She half turned to where Noel sat with his laptop. “You do amazing work, Noel.”

  Dr. Tierney looked more than a little queasy, probably at the all-too-vivid memory of when he’d witnessed this particular scene in all its Technicolor gory.

  “It was apparent to Conor that the point of view is from the wielder of that spear,” Chandler continued. “We agreed that this is Lugh Lámhfhada of the Tuatha Dé, killing his grandfather Balor, king of the Fomorians. Balor’s death broke the Fomorians and turned the tide of battle. The Tuatha Dé drove the Fomorians into the sea. They never returned.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  I got out of my chair and moved so I could see the screen better. “Noel, you said you believed that Ian’s dreams were caused by a past-life regression that had been dormant until his first encounter with Janus.”

  “Either that or more likely, he’s a direct descendant and what he experienced was the emergence of a genetic memory,” Tierney said.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Memories which are passed down through generations, from ancestor to descendent. There is much about DNA—human and supernatural—which we don’t know. The concept of genetic memory is considered too far-fetched for most scientists; however, I have seen it in a few of our agents. I believe you know Rolf Haagen, one of the commandos in our Oslo office.”

  “Let’s see . . . descendant of legendary Norse hero Sigurd, who wrapped his fist around a live grenade and shoved his arm down a grendel’s throat. How could I forget?”

  Amelia looked horrified. “His arm?”

  I gave a negligent wave. “It was bionic or something. His original arm up to the elbow was bitten off by a Finnish ice dragon. Rolf said he was due for an upgrade and didn’t mind losing it. He’s a bat-shit crazy Viking, but we like him.”

  “Rolf is one of our proven cases of genetic memory,” Noel said. “His documented dreams expanded gradually into waking memories.” He glanced at Alain Moreau and sighed. “Unfortunately, unless I can find some examples among the general population, I’ll never be able to publish in a professional journal.”

  “It was triggered when Gram—a fine sword—came into his possession,” Siggurson said.

  “From what Rake and I heard tonight, my vote’s in favor of a direct descendant with genetic memory.” I then gave them a quick rundown of our meeting with the merfolk queen, and removed the pendant from beneath my shirt so everyone could see it. “Sirene said that this was the symbol of Ian’s ancestors’ authority, and by ancestors, she said she was referring to the Tuatha Dé Danann and her name for the Fomorians, the Old Ones.” I paused. “So how can Ian be the descendant of a legendary Irish hero and a race of sea monsters?”

  Noel smiled. “Actually, Lugh was an Irish demigod.”

  “Not all Fomorians were sea monsters,” Amelia told me. “There were those who were, and the others were seen in their day as deformed, but some Fomorians were very beautiful. Lugh’s mother, the Fomorian princess Eithne, was one of them. She was the daughter of Balor. There was a druid prophesy that said Balor would be killed by his own grandson. So Balor locked Eithne away in a tower with twelve women to care for and guard her—and also to keep her from learning that men even existed.”

  I snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  Amelia grinned. “Cian of the Tuatha Dé Dannan found a way into that tower. He had a cow that gave so much milk that everyone wanted to own her. Balor tricked Cian into giving him the cow. Cian wanted revenge, so he had himself transported by magic to the top of Eithne’s tower and seduced her. She gave birth to three boys, two of whom Balor succeeded in having drowned. The third, Lugh, was saved and fostered until he was grown. In time, Lugh joined his father’s people, the Tuatha Dé Danann, who, in time, met the Fomorians in battle.”

  “And Lugh kills his grandad with a spear through the eye.”

  Amelia nodded. “An eye that could incinerate anything in its sight. Until Lugh killed Balor, the battle had been going badly for the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  “Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight. The Fomorians are trying to come back. The Tuatha Dé Danann were responsible for exiling them to begin with. Four thousand years of keeping them that way isn’t too shabby. Why don’t we get them to help now?”

  “Because they no longer exist,” Amelia said, “at least not on our world. When it grew apparent to the Tuatha Dé that mankind was arising as the dominant force in this world, they were said to have either gone under the ground or returned to the world from which they came.”

  “So the bad guys are still here, but the good guys went home and left us with the mess. Lovely.” I glanced back at the projection of one of Noel’s sketches. Then I froze and went closer to the screen to see better.

  Rake sat up straighter. “What is it?”

  All getting closer to the screen got me was a blurred image. “Noel, where’s the original for this?”

  “I don’t have them with me.”

  Crap.

  “But it’s a very high-quality scan,” he added. “Would looking at it on-screen help?”

  I crossed the room and knelt next to Noel’s chair.

  “What are you trying to see?” he asked. “I can increase the—”

  “That.” I pointed to the left edge of the screen. All that was visible was half a face; the edge of the paper had cut off the rest.

  Noel hit the magnification a couple of times, but it didn’t get any clearer. At least, the drawing wasn’t clearer, but with a mixture of excitement and dread, I knew what I was seeing. How I’d missed it until now I didn’t know.

  “I couldn’t see that one very well,” Noel was saying. “The face was blurry. All I could get were the eyes.”

  “Eyes I’ve seen in person twice, and that was twice too many,” I murmured. “And don’t feel bad about not seeing the face; he didn’t want you to. He didn’t want anyone to see what he looked like. I’m not even s
ure he knows anymore.”

  Rake had stood and was next to the screen, staring intently at the projection. “Janus?”

  “The very one.”

  “The uniform is Fomorian,” Amelia said.

  “And he’s close to his king’s dead body,” I noted. “Relative? Guard? Would your friend Conor know who he is?”

  Amelia got out her phone and began typing. “He has the files. We can definitely ask.”

  “It might help him ID the guy if you tell him that he’s been stalking Lugh’s descendant for years, and for some reason decided now was the time to snatch him for payback.”

  “I’m hopeful that Lord Danescu can help us discover the nature of that payback.” Moreau stood. “The staff in our Archives is waiting for us now.”

  24

  I didn’t want to say anything in Moreau’s office. My question was personal, for Rake’s pointy ears only.

  Amelia was waiting for a call or e-mail back from Conor Delaney. Noel and Harald Siggurson had already left. Moreau needed to make a quick call, so Rake and I waited outside of his office.

  “What was all that with Moreau about SPI wanting your help, but probably needing more than your help?” I asked.

  “I know people,” was all Rake said.

  “Uh-huh. What kind of people?”

  “People from my world who have fought things like these Fomorians before.” He gave a crooked smile that was rather chilling. “They’re very good at it.”

  “Then they’re more than welcome to join the party.”

  “I didn’t think you’d disapprove.”

  We stood in silence for a moment as I tried to find a way to say what I needed to say before Moreau came out.

  Just spit it out, Mac.

  “This is going to be dangerous.”

  “Most assuredly,” Rake agreed.

  “I don’t want you to feel obligated to help rescue Ian because of me.”

  “I don’t.”

  I frowned in confusion. “I don’t know how to take that. You don’t like Ian.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You never had to.”

  “Ian has never even bothered to hide how he feels about me—because of you.” Rake thought for a moment. “And even not because of you. On this world or my own, humans have a deep-seated distrust of goblins.”

  One corner of my lips quirked upward. “And goblins would never give anyone reason to distrust them.”

  “We pride ourselves on being at least one step ahead of everyone around us—whether human or goblin. Intellectual and strategic competitiveness is probably in our DNA, no genetic memory needed. We’re encouraged to be that way before we can walk. It’s astonishing how much plotting—and damage—goblin toddlers can do in a playroom. They can barely even speak. Some of my nieces and nephews are truly impressive—and, quite frankly, frightening.”

  “You’re attempting to distract me with interesting goblin facts.”

  Rake’s dark eyes sparkled. “Is it working?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t forgotten the subject that you’re avoiding.”

  His smile was slow and wicked. “Have I ever told you what a splendid goblin you would have made?”

  “No, you haven’t. Another nice try. The topic is Ian, and why you’re willing to risk your life to help him.”

  “He is a good man, a brave man, and a fine warrior, and your world would be much less safe without him.”

  “Whoa. When goblins decide to stop beatin’ around the bush, they don’t fool around.”

  Now it was Rake’s turn for a confused frown. “I don’t understand either of those quaint yet charming sayings, but I take it that you believe my reason.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know bullshit when I hear it.” I paused and lowered my voice to a whisper. “And I know you.” I stood on tiptoes and wrapped my arms around his neck. Then I placed a light kiss on his earlobe. Rake’s breath caught and a shiver coursed the length of his body.

  “Thank you,” I said simply. “Again.”

  And he knew I meant it.

  • • •

  I had been here before. Dark wood shelves, dim lighting, cool temperature, and closely monitored humidity to ensure maximum book comfort. People who had to be in here for any length of time usually brought a sweater or jacket with them. I was a mountain girl. I thought it was perfect.

  SPI’s library and the books it contained had always reminded me of something out of a monastery—or a Harry Potter book.

  Rake walked next to me, his sharp eyes taking in everything and missing nothing. Even though he was wearing a guest badge and was being escorted by Alain Moreau, the goblin dark mage was getting more than his fair share of looks of every kind, ranging from tongue-hanging lust to suspicion to barely restrained animosity. What could I say? Rake was a well-rounded guy.

  “Very impressive,” he murmured.

  Most of the books in the main stacks had already been converted to digital, but there were some that would only reveal their secrets off the printed page. Scanning them into a digital format would render that content meaningless. They were bespelled books. Like most things that were considered of the supernatural, SPI had a department for that. It was a small department, with very specialized members. We didn’t need a code broken on a thousand-year-old manuscript every day, but the last time we had, we’d been in a bit of a hurry, to say the least.

  The mages of the SPI Archives had been superheroes that day.

  I nodded in agreement with Rake’s opinion, but said nothing. Moreau hadn’t said why he’d brought Rake this far. He hadn’t gotten Rake just any guest badge. The one clipped to his jacket pocket would give him access to any department as long as he was accompanied by either Moreau or Vivienne Sagadraco herself. I didn’t know what was going on and neither did Rake, but we were about to find out.

  Moreau strode straight through the library to a door against the far wall.

  Oh boy.

  The door looked like any other in the library, but only select SPI agents had seen what lay beyond.

  The Archives.

  There were several places in the SPI headquarters complex that you couldn’t get into without additional security clearance. The Archives was one of them. Even if you needed to see a book that was there for a case you were working on, you weren’t necessarily going to get inside. I’d never been involved in a case that warranted me coming down here. And if you were working on such a case, you’d better have a good reason with the authorization of at least two director-level department heads, and a sealed letter in hand from either Vivienne Sagadraco or Alain Moreau detailing your reasons for needing access. Even then chances were slim that you’d be given direct access.

  Either the research would be done for you, or there was a room with a viewing stand on one side of a protective glass wall, where the manuscript would be placed. The agent in a room on the other side would communicate with the archivist that accompanied the manuscript for things such as page turning. Mere mortal mitts and breath wouldn’t be allowed to sully what might very well be the only remaining copy of a manuscript, or one that was thousands of years old.

  Any book or reference material on the supernatural that had been published in the last century was in SPI’s library, and most of it was available on the agency intranet. Everything older than a hundred years was in the Archives, which was protected with the ferocity of a mama grizzly defending her cubs. The books, scrolls, and even stone slabs of the Archives dated back thousands of years. The majority of its staff spent all their time cataloging, copying, and digitally converting SPI’s vast collection, so that when information was needed, it could be accessed with a few keystrokes or mouse clicks. The rest of the Archive staffers were among the world’s most skilled in manuscript restoration and preservatio
n.

  Regardless of the dire circumstances, I couldn’t help but experience a thrill at getting to go inside the Archives. I’d have to remember everything so I could tell Ian about it when we got him back. I smiled slightly. Though as SPI’s resident superagent, I was sure Ian had been inside before, probably more than once.

  Moreau scanned his badge, his thumbprint, and his retina.

  Dang.

  There were several clicks as not one, but three locks disengaged.

  Dang again.

  Moreau opened the door, went inside, and we followed him into a small office. The ogre wearing a SPI security uniform certainly wasn’t small; in fact, it wasn’t the room that was tiny, it was the ogre who made it look that way.

  “Director Moreau.” The ogre’s voice sounded like rocks grinding in a concrete mixer.

  “How are you today, William?”

  William?

  “Just fine, sir.” William’s small, yellow eyes scanned me and Rake. “You will need to sign for your guests, sir.”

  Moreau looked up from the tablet and smiled. “Already taken care of.”

  “Thank you, sir. Director Wellesley is expecting you.” William pushed a button behind his desk, the door on the wall in front of us opened, and we were inside.

  My first thought was that SPI was manufacturing biological weapons.

  We were on an enclosed catwalk overlooking a place that was whiter and more pristine than our labs. Some of the staff were in lab coats. Others, who were working on a manuscript or scroll inside what looked like Plexiglas rooms with actual air locks, were wearing honest-to-God clean room suits complete with respirators.

  I finally couldn’t contain myself any longer. “This is unspeakably cool.”

  “Yes, Agent Fraser, it is,” Moreau agreed.

  “I must agree,” Rake murmured.

  “All areas except the one we will be using,” Moreau said, “are strictly temperature and humidity controlled, and utterly dust-free.”