"I remember. They file them down, right? And wear headbands or hats to cover the stumps."
"Right. Except this guy never leaves his lair, so he's quite a sight to see." Kieran clears his throat uncomfortably. "He likes dangerous women. There's always a crowd of Lianhan Sídhe around him. That's why I thought— with you, he might—"
I burst into laughter. "Me? A dangerous woman?" The last thing I am is dangerous. I'm the girl who didn't see the sun till seventeen. Never went to school, never had friends till this spring. The girl who only knows life from what I've seen on TV and experienced in the last four months. "I'm so not dangerous."
He gives me this look, this all-over kind of gaze. "You're very dangerous," he says, in a low, velvety voice that makes me feel quivery inside.
"Oh," I breathe. "I guess I can try to act like it."
"Don't overdo it, and whatever you do, don't fawn. But don't be rude, either— he's a powerful Fae, and we need him on our side."
"Be dangerous, but not rude. Got it." I don't have it. In fact, now I'm feeling really nervous about this.
We pass the car ride talking about his new condo, the favorite hangouts he's discovering nearby, and the Morrígna and their bargain with us. Finally he breaks out the music, and we sing in the voices of our favorite artists.
It's always a weird feeling, changing my voice— a rippling in my vocal chords as they adjust, a slight buzz over my tongue and lips. But it's such fun, too. Except for the fact that most of the world's greatest songs are about love, and when we're singing them together he takes great care not to look at me.
Once we get into Atlanta, he makes me turn off the music so he can focus on driving. "Atlanta drivers are the worst in the U.S.A.," he says. "You think I'm kidding. I've been around. All right, I'll make one exception— New York City drivers."
We wind our way through a tangled web of crisscrossing streets until we reach a long one near the outskirts of downtown Atlanta. It's quieter there, fewer people.
Kieran points to a lighted doorway in a narrow alcove, a dent in a plain multistory building that stretches along half the block. There's no sign, nothing that says it's a club, except for the big doorman standing nearby. "That's the one," he says.
He pulls into a metered spot a little way down the street and comes around to open my door. I slide out carefully, and when I stand up straight, I'm face to face with him.
Instead of moving to lead me inside, he stands there, leaning on the open car door. "So. You wore that dress."
"What, don't you like it? You picked it out, after all."
"You were more of a plaything for me then," he says. "Not like now."
I move closer to him, till I'm right in his space. "So you're not a fan of the look?"
He glances down, then brings his eyes back up to my face. "Oh, I'm a fan. Any man with eyes would be. I'm just not sure that's the kind of attention you want in this place. Do you have a wrap or something?"
"A wrap? What am I, an eighteenth-century lady? I've got a cardigan."
"That'll do. Put it on and cover up some of that." He looks away, flushing again.
I'm a little offended. "What's so embarrassing for you? It's nothing you haven't seen before."
"Would you stop? I'm trying not to think about that particular incident." He seems genuinely frustrated.
"Fine." I tug the cardigan out of the tote bag and put it on, buttoning a couple of the buttons to keep it together. "Better?"
His eyes fall to the bare length of my legs. "I guess."
Now I'm mad. I liked his first reaction, with the speechlessness and all— but at some point a girl wants to be told she looks good, not told to cover up because she's embarrassing somebody or attracting the wrong eyes. I whip off the cardigan, popping one of the buttons, and throw it back into the car.
Then I reach for the car door, slam it with all my might, and stalk toward the entrance to the club as fast as I can in my ridiculous heels, shoulders back, head high, clutch in my hand.
I'm almost to the doorman when I realize that I have no idea what to say or how to get inside. Then Kieran's hand slides over the small of my back, resting there just firmly enough to reassure me.
"You're impossible," he says in my ear. But the way he says it, it's more of a caress than a rebuke. I try to hide a smile.
The man at the door of the club has a gold band around his neck. He's one of the dullahan, a headless rider. Take the band off the neck of a dullahan, and they revert instantly to their true form as havoc-wreaking omens of death. I shiver a little. And then I square my shoulders and try to look dangerous.
I shouldn't have worried. The dullahan takes one look at Kieran and nods. "Fear Dearg," he says, the old name for the Far Darrig. "You have a pass?"
Kieran hands him a strange-looking card, printed with symbols and Gaelic. I don't have time to read it before the doorman nods and unhooks the rope so we can enter. As we pass him, the dullahan mutters to me, "Soul-Stealer. Good luck in there."
The arched doorway drops us directly onto a flight of stairs leading down, down. It's gloomy, with only a weird claw-shaped lamp or two jutting out of the wall above us to light the way. The passage at the foot of the stairs opens into a series of large rooms.
Kieran takes my hand and leads me right through the first two rooms. Briefly I glimpse some gaming tables, figures clustered around them, cards being shuffled and dealt. I get snatches of the crowd, too, as we hurry past. A pair of horns here, a webbed hand there. Pale skin covered in tattoos. A pair of impossibly large eyes looming out of a thin face. Spikes, black leather, gaudy green iridescent purple, more black. Over everything floats a faint, groaning, eerie music that sounds totally Gothic or emo to me.
"I should have worn black," I whisper to Kieran. "I'm really out of place in here."
"You look perfect," he says. "This place could use some extra color."
In the third room, booths and tables of dark, heavy wood fill every available space. Apparently smoking is allowed in here; there's a choking haze of it, mingling with the thick smell of grease and food. The walls hold strange, beautiful pieces of art, either of Fae or created by Fae.
Kieran swings into a crooked wooden booth at the edge of the room, the only open spot for two. "We're early. Let's have something to eat while we wait."
Above our booth hangs a stunning oil painting, incredibly detailed, of a young woman in armor, with black feathers in her hair. She's thigh-deep in a river, frozen in the act of washing an enormous breastplate. Her head is turned away; she's watching a massively built man who stands bare-chested on the bank of the river, spear in hand. He's staring at her with an expression of shock and horror. I'm not sure why. Maybe the breastplate was supposed to be dry-cleaned, not hand-washed.
I notice two girls with notepads arguing over by the bar, looking at us. It appears neither one of them wants to wait on the Far Darrig and the Soul-Stealer. I smile at one of the girls and nod, and she sidles toward us.
"What'll it be?" she says, her voice high and nervous.
"Water," says Kieran.
"For me as well."
She hurries away.
"You know, you can drink beer or ale or whatever they have in this place, if you want to. It doesn't bother me," I tell him.
"Drinking alone is something I used to do way too often," he says. "I'll pass."
"What if I want some?" I don't, not really, but I'm curious to see what he'll say.
"I think if you try it right now, you'll hate it. And it might affect you more strongly than you expect. We can't risk that, not when we're going to see Ross."
Makes sense.
"And there's no hurry," he says. "You have centuries ahead of you. No need to rush with any firsts. You can take your time." He says it significantly, like there's a deeper meaning to his words.
As I look around the place, I notice several faces turned in our direction. Even though the room is crowded, we've been noticed, and the other Fae at the booths and tables ar
e talking in low voices, casting glances our way.
"What did I tell you?" says Kieran. "We're famous." He leans back, hands behind his head, and gives me that cocky, malevolent Far Darrig smile of his.
When the waitress returns with our water glasses, Kieran orders a couple of appetizers. We munch on them, and laugh, and talk, and it's all so normal and comfortable that I almost forget where we are. Eventually, most of the other Fae seem to decide that we're not a threat; at least I see fewer nervous looks directed our way.
Suddenly Kieran reaches for me again. "It's time. Come on."
He takes my hand with his left one, the one missing the ring finger. Ériu has been so busy with Wynnie's tongue, she hasn't had time for his wound, except to seal it over. When he's holding my hand, I feel an odd gap where the finger used to be— but I don't mind. If anything, it's a reminder of what he did for me.
We move deeper into the building, and now it's less pub-like and more club-like— at least what I imagine a nightclub to be. Dancers on pedestals writhe to weird music, and the outfits of the guests are more fantastical. One room we pass through is almost completely dark, with occasional flashes of neon light revealing strangely shadowed faces. I cling to Kieran's arm,keeping as close to him as I can without looking like I'm scared.
"Almost there," he murmurs. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."
We go down a short flight of steps, through an arch hung with gauzy curtains, into a long hallway with rows of alcoves on either side. Some of them are curtained, and through the curtains I hear sounds, moans and gasps and other noises that make my cheeks flame. Some of the couples apparently don't care about privacy— I see one alcove with a pixie kissing a fenodyree, and another with a couple of cluricauns and something else in there too— I can't tell what it is, but I look quickly down at the floor, trying to shake the image out of my mind.
"Sorry about this part," Kieran whispers.
In a minute, we pass through another set of curtains, into a large room, illuminated by two brass chandeliers glowing warm and yellow. A huge bed, or couch, or throne— maybe all three— stands in the room, and it's loaded with velvet pillows and soft blankets and fleecy throws and animal pelts. It's an altar to bold, gaudy luxury.
In the center of the throne-bed reclines a man. He is enormous, probably twice as broad across the chest as Kieran, and loaded with muscle. I've never seen such muscles on a man. He's shirtless, so every bit of his solid pecs and abs, rounded biceps, and corded forearms are bare to view. Silky black pants woven with gold thread cover his massive legs.
But as bulky and well-muscled as he is, the most prominent part of his anatomy is his head, adorned with a pair of incredibly long, curved horns, black as night, with tips that look razor-sharp. His hair is shaved up the sides, long and slicked back on top. His powerful features are half-hidden by the long black beard covering his cheeks, lips, and jaw.
All around him, stroking his chest and rubbing themselves on his arms and legs, are Lianhan Sídhe— Fae women who usually charm themselves a harem of human men. They're wearing next to nothing. I suppose it's a testament to his physical prowess that they are all fixated on him.
Kieran lets go of my hand, and we approach slowly, respectfully. "Ross, good to see you."
"Far Darrig, my friend! It's been too long," says the gigantic pooka. "And who is this little beauty with you? She looks like a breath of fresh air from the Motherland." He smiles at me, a wide, charming smile that shows many strong white teeth.
"This is Aislinn Byrne, the Soul-Stealer."
"The Soul-Stealer and the Far Darrig. Quite the power couple, aren't you?"
"We're not a couple," I say. Then I wish I hadn't, because Ross's eyes widen with interest.
"Aren't you? Well, that's promising. Sit, both of you, here, with me." He points to the end of his bed-throne thing. I glance at Kieran, and he nods to me, seating himself and reclining against a cushion like he's perfectly at home. Within seconds, two of the Lianhan Sídhe gravitate to him, touching his shoulders and face. One even slips her hand into the open collar of his shirt, caressing his chest. I grit my teeth and try to pretend it doesn't bother me.
"We've come to ask your favor, Ross," says Kieran, acting as if the women aren't there. "Right, Aislinn?"
Ross turns his great horned head toward me. This is my cue. I speak in my smoothest voice, trying not to sound nervous. "We were curious if you know anything of this year's Samhain. There are rumors, and we thought that a lord as powerful and— beautiful— as you must have heard something. Anything you can tell us would make us so grateful."
"Beautiful?" Ross chuckles. "Little flatterer. Come closer, and sit with me. I'll tell you a tale."
"Tell us a tale!" echo the Lianhan Sídhe in faint, wistful voices.
I don't have a choice, so I climb up to the spot he indicates, a large pillow right at his side. His huge arm rests behind me, nearly touching the back of my neck. His voice is a deep rumble as he begins the story.
"Long ago, this world was shaped by Aima, the Mother, goddess of the sky. She crafted the world in beauty, and made wonderful creatures to live there. But she had a brother, Gesacus, who envied the world his sister made. Gesacus created a second world, a secret world, and there he formed strange unearthly creatures, some with powers and intellect, and others with no mind, except an appetite for death.
"But the world Gesacus made was not beautiful; it was barren and full of pits and fire and filth. The wisest of his creatures begged him for a better world, but he was tired and lazy, and refused to make another for them.
"Instead, he broke holes in the fabric of the universe and made two doors, leading from his ruinous world to his sister's beautiful one. And he opened the first door, and told his creatures to go and make a home for themselves in that world. And so the first Fae crossed over, from Gesacus's world to Earth. But they left behind the monsters, the creatures of instinct and darkness. A group of human magic users shut the door that brought the Fae to Ireland, and sealed it forever.
"Since that time, the demons of Gesacus's world have been driven mad with their desire to enter this one. The Otherworld Gate in Ireland is closed, and cannot be used again; but it is said that with the right ritual and certain unique relics, the second gate could be opened."
In spite of myself, I'm enjoying the tale. His voice is so very deep, and it has a rhythmic melody to it. So when he pauses, I ask, "Where could the second gate be?"
"Ah, that is the question. I've heard that it may be somewhere along this coast, possibly in the mountains. It would be very difficult to locate, and since no one knows what it looks like, even someone with pixie instincts could never find it."
"But you— you're amazing," I say. "You must have some idea where it is."
Ross's eyes travel from my eyes to my lips, then my neck, then to my body, and down my legs. "You are a beautiful little thing," he says. "And powerful too, or so I've heard. I'd love to see you in action. I'll make you a bargain. If you can lift three of my women over your head, I'll tell you the name of someone who may know something about the second gate."
"Done," I say. "Do you have a board, or a bench? Something for them to sit on?"
He waves to two men who have been quietly standing guard on either side of the door this whole time. I barely noticed them before. They disappear for a moment and come back with a plain wooden bench.
"You, you, and you." I point at three of the Lianhan Sídhe, including the two who have been fawning over Kieran. "Sit on the bench. Please."
Throwing me dirty looks, they obey. "Láidreacht!" I speak the Gaelic word for might, and then, bracing my legs, I lift the bench, with all three of them on it. It takes a huge effort, and I can feel my muscles burning through my magical energy.
Ross claps and laughs. "Well done, well done! You might be as strong as me, little Soul-Stealer. Come up here, and I'll whisper you the name."
I lower the bench and the women, and I climb back up the pile o
f pillowy bedding to his side. Before I can react, he hooks one giant hand around my waist and pulls me to him, pressing my body along his. His beard brushes my shoulder as he whispers, "Stay with me tonight. I will show you such pleasure as you never dreamed possible."
Wordless, I shake my head.
"No? Surely you can't have had many men yet in your short life." My face must be red as fire by now. He chuckles. "Maybe none at all. I see. When you've had a few disappointing encounters, come back to me, and I'll give you a good time. Now, the name you need is Múireann."
"Thank you," I whisper. For a second he seems about to kiss me, so I turn my face away, and I transport right out of his arms, to a spot near Kieran.
Ross laughs again, pleased instead of offended. "You are truly amazing! Bring her again anytime, Far Darrig. The sooner the better."
"Of course. Thank you for seeing us." Kieran bows. He looks completely calm, unruffled by what just happened. The big pooka guy was all over me and he didn't even care. Maybe Ériu was wrong, and he's really not into me anymore.
Instead of walking back through the gauntlet of love cubicles, I wrap my arms around Kieran and transport us back to the car before he can say a word.
As soon as we appear by the Audi, he pushes me away to look into my face. "What was that? What did he say to you?"
"He gave me the name. Múireann."
Kieran ignores this valuable bit of information. "Not that. What else did he say to you?"
"He, um—" Why do I blush so easily? "He wanted me to stay, for the night."
Now Kieran looks upset. "We shouldn't have gone to him. I knew he would say something stupid to you."
"Stupid?" I say. "You once made me a similar offer, you know."
"Yes, I was stupid, too. Don't remind me of how I acted; it was, to use one of your favorite words, wrong."
True. But I kind of liked it.
It's late, but I don't want to go home just yet. "Stop frowning," I say. "Come on, let's take a walk."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Time for the old man to get to bed?" I say, teasingly. I back away from him, smiling, holding out one hand. "Come on, grandpa."
Samhain Page 3
