"Yes."
"The druids did it?"
I nod again.
"Take us there," Arden orders.
"It's pretty bad, Arden, the smell—"
"Now," she says.
I transport her first, then Wynnie. "They're in the entry, the kitchen, and Maeve's room," I say. And then I go out back to help Kieran, because I don't want to see the dead Korrigan again. Not right now.
Kieran has the backyard lights on, and the grass looks eerie, all sharp yellowish blades and black shadows, with deeper shadows clustering at the edges of the yard, near the trees. There's a faint chill in the air, and the sound of night insects in between the thump and crunch of the shovel in the sod.
I pick up the second shovel and start on another hole, a few feet from him.
With my fenodyree strength, I dig my first grave perfectly, six feet deep, in record time, and I dig most of another. Then I feel light-headed from all the magic use and the transporting, so I rest in the grass while Kieran finishes the grave he's working on.
Maybe I shouldn't be enjoying the sight of his lean body bending and his arms flexing as he digs; but I think I deserve a little visual pleasure after what I've seen tonight. His white T-shirt fits his torso so well, and the short sleeves cut right across his biceps. He works in silence, but there's a fierceness to his movements that tells me all this has affected him more than he wants me to know.
Giddy as I am from the magic, I really want him touching me right now. It's all I can do to remember why I shouldn't wolf-whistle at him or transport behind him and put my arms around his waist. What if I did stand behind him while he's working? Pressed up against him as he's moving, bending—
I shake my head to clear it. This is the magic silliness, not me. I couldn't possibly be so shallow, sitting here lusting for him while three of the Korrigan lie dead in the house.
Just then he turns. "Are you all right? Your face is flushed. Do you feel sick?"
No, I'm just a sick person.
"I'm fine." And then, because I really am a terrible person, I say, "Just keep digging, and I'll keep watching."
He catches on then, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile. I almost lick my lips, but I stop myself just in time. Stupid magic high. I feel like laughing and crying at the same time; and suddenly I wonder if maybe it isn't just the magic, or hormones. Maybe this feeling, this intense need to be near Kieran, is part of my grief. If it is, I'm more messed up than I thought.
The back door opens, and Arden steps out. She's supporting Wynnie, who's crying uncontrollably, probably about Magnolia.
How can one person endure as much pain as Wynnie has been through and still be alive? I need to remember to watch her carefully, make sure she doesn't do anything to harm herself. And she's going to need more therapy after this. Heck, maybe we all are.
Arden brings Wynnie over to me; she crumples beside me and I hold her as she cries into my shoulder.
She murmurs something that sounds like "Magnolia."
"I know," I say, stroking her hair. "I know."
After a while, Kieran takes a break from digging and comes to sit near us. Wynnie's sobs are quieter now. Tentatively, he reaches out and lays his hand on her shoulder. The pity in his eyes is unusual for him, and I like seeing it there.
When his fingers touch her, Wynnie flinches and looks up, straight at him. But she doesn't push him away.
"I'm going to check the security feeds," says Arden, rising.
My eyes widen; I hadn't even thought of that. "The cameras! We can see who it was, how it happened."
"Yes."
I get up. "I'm coming with you."
Wynnie and Kieran follow us inside. The security system was disarmed, and part of the equipment is smashed, but apparently whoever did it didn't know how to ruin the whole thing, because Arden is able to get the video feeds up and running after a quick transport to the apartment to get her laptop. I'm even dizzier now, so I lean again Kieran, resisting the urge to nuzzle into his T-shirt and drink in deep breaths of him.
"When do you think it happened?" Arden asks, looking at Kieran.
"Maybe a week ago."
Arden goes back about nine days and lets the feed run at fast speed while we all stand there, waiting, watching.
"Wait!" Wynnie cries. "Go back." She points to one of the video feeds, from the rear of the house.
Arden backs up and runs the video again, slower this time. And then we all see what Wynnie noticed.
The camera at the back of the house points toward the forest. It's evening— the shadows stretch long across the backyard— and out of those shadows walks a woman, thin, dressed in ragged, oversized clothes. It's hard to distinguish her features at this distance— her eyes look like huge black holes and her thin hands are clawlike, stretched out before her. There's no sound in the video, but her mouth is open, wide and mournful, as if she's wailing.
"Oh my gosh," I whisper. "A banshee."
The woman in the video wanders across the yard and back again a few times, open-mouthed, before disappearing into the trees.
"How did they not hear her warning?" Kieran asks. "Banshees are known for being loud. Their keening is impossible to ignore."
"Maybe they were out that evening," says Arden. "Or maybe they heard, but didn't take it seriously."
"Check the next day," I say.
There's nothing on the next day, but the day after that, the camera at the front of the house captures two cars pulling in. I recognize Malcolm's balding head and scraped-over hair. He's the first to mount the porch steps, gun in hand. June follows him, a vial in one hand and a knife in the other. More druids are behind them, carrying empty boxes and magical talismans. I count nine in total.
"See if you can get a license plate number," says Kieran. But Arden's camera didn't get a clear image of either car's license plate. He swears harshly and stalks away. The back door slams behind him.
I follow him outside. "Even if she had the license plate number, what could we do with it?" I ask him.
"Find them. Kill them."
"You want to kill them?"
"Don't you? It's us or them, Aislinn. We let them live, they open the gate, we die. Or we kill them, and they don't open it, and we live. It's that simple."
"What if we could just capture them, keep them prisoners till after Samhain is over?"
He keeps shoveling, his face tense. "That would work too."
"But you'd rather just kill them and not worry about it anymore."
"It's touching how well you know me."
He's right, in a sense. Killing the druids would solve our problem. And it would be well-deserved payback for Gemma, lying in the entry with the roaches squirming out of the hole in her forehead; and Magnolia, whose body is home to the maggots now; and Gillian, vicious to the end, lying beside the man she killed.
I've changed my mind. The druids deserve to die. "I get to kill them."
"What? No. I can't let you take that on yourself."
"You can't let me?"
Pausing in his work, he leans on the shovel handle and narrows his eyes. "No."
I step right up to him, so close that the dirt-covered shovel brushes against my jeans. "You don't let me do anything. And you can't tell me what to do."
"Why not? You tell me what I should do."
"That's— different."
"How?" He's smiling.
"Okay, how about this. Neither of us gets to tell the other one what to do. But we get to make recommendations and strongly worded suggestions."
"I agree. And my first strongly worded suggestion is that you let me kill them."
"If we ever find them, we'll see who can get it done first."
He holds out his dirt-streaked hand. "Deal."
I take it, and he pulls me in close and covers my mouth with his. His lips are rough, insistent, and the kiss is much too short. But this isn't the time or the place for more.
When the four graves are ready, we wrap the bodies in sheets and bl
ankets and carry them outside. One after another, each of the three Korrigan are lowered into their graves; and then we dump the druid into his. With a kitchen knife, Wynnie has carved Magnolia's name into a long piece of broken wood, which she places in the ground at the head of the grave as a marker. I prop it upright with two stones.
We mark Gillian's and Gemma's graves with stones as well. And it's done. Four brown mounds of dirt in the dewy grass, under the early morning sky. Four lives ended.
I suppose no matter how long we live or how much we accomplish, it all comes down to this. Death. He comes for each of us, a remorseless collector, picking up the fallen ends that Fate snips off.
And just as I think the words, three figures appear in the yard, facing the house, on the opposite side of the graves from our little group.
Macha, Bane of Men and Sovereign of Sickness, as she calls herself. The blue tattoos on her face make her look wild and sad, and her red knot of hair is draped in black lace. Like the others, she wears a long black robe. Strong, heavy Badb, Queen of Banshees and Harbinger of War, with her rippling black hair like a curtain around her face. And old Nemain, Venom of Armies and Crier of Death, her wrinkled skin looking even whiter under her black hood.
They stand still, looking down at the graves, and suddenly I realize that they are here for a funeral. To pay their respects.
Badb looks up at us. "Will no one speak for the dead?"
Lips tight, eyes bright with tears, Arden shakes her head.
Kieran touches my back, and I step forward.
I don't know what to say at first; but then the words begin to flow, almost as if they're coming from something outside me, beyond me.
"Gillian, the Punisher, the Executioner. She was strong, and she was cruel. She loved few people, but she loved them fiercely."
I step to the next grave. "Gemma, lover of beautiful things and beautiful people. She had more inside her than she would let us see."
I'm in front of Magnolia's grave now, and all I can see is her cooking in the kitchen, preparing a plate for me, paying me more attention than all the others did. My voice breaks. "Magnolia, home-maker and storyteller. You fed my heart as well as my body. You didn't love me enough, but for a long time, you were the only one who loved me." I cover my face with my hands and I can't speak anymore; hot tears seep through my fingers.
Warm hands take my shoulders and pull me into arms that smell like grass and fresh earth and summer rain. I lay my cheek against his shirt and cry quietly. He ducks his head and whispers, "I love you."
When I look up, wiping my eyes, I notice that all three of the Fates are watching me and Kieran. Interest shines in their eyes, and maybe the tiniest hint of sympathy.
One of my gifts is that people like me. I'm not sure why— before I had powers, I wasn't the most interesting person ever— sheltered and naive, with no particular hobbies except reading and cooking. Now my repertoire of interesting activities has expanded, of course. And it strikes me that whatever influence I have might be something we can use to gain sympathy from the Morrígna.
So I take Kieran's hand and lead him toward the three Fates, and I smile through my tears and I say, "Thank you so much for coming. It would have meant a lot to them." I reach out and touch Macha's hand and look her in the eyes. "Thank you."
She's surprised, and there's a new warmth in her face when she says, "The Korrigan were unique among the Fae races. It is our duty to honor them in death."
I turn to Badb. "Your presence honors us."
She nods, smiling a little. "We could not acknowledge Queen Maeve as we ought, because she died in shame and was buried by humans. But these three, we visit."
I step over to Nemain and reach out my hand. She stares at me suspiciously with those saggy, half-concealed eyes of hers, and her mouth curves down sourly. "You took a long time to find them," she says. "They died a week ago."
"We didn't know," I say. "I feel horrible about it, and I regret that we didn't protect them better."
"Hm. The young should not have regret. Regret is for the old, eh, Far Darrig?"
To my surprise, he bows deeply and kisses her wrinkled hand. "Your wisdom is infinite, my lady Nemain," he says. "A true pleasure, to hear your voice again."
He's such a charmer. Even Nemain, Venom of Armies and Crier of Death, appears to be not quite immune to him. There's the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips as he straightens, meeting her gaze with those silver eyes.
"Your flattery will not get you out of your bargain, boy," she says. "What have you learned of Samhain?"
Quickly Kieran explains about the stone, and the spell, and the location of the Second Gate. "It is as we thought; the druids are responsible," he says. "Their leader, Malcolm, intends to open the gate and unleash the Otherworld's demons."
"He is a fool!" Badb exclaims. "What can he hope to gain by this?"
"Power, recognition— a new world order," says Kieran.
"And how will you stop it?"
"We don't know," I admit. "But we're working on it."
"See that you work quickly," says Badb. "Or I will have to send one of my banshees to cry your deaths, and that would cause me sorrow."
Kieran raises his eyebrows, and I realize her admission is probably unheard of— a Fate, being sorry about two particular deaths, when she witnesses thousands of them each day.
"You forget your role, sister," says Nemain. "Ours is not to mourn. That is the work of your banshees."
Badb nods, without breaking eye contact with me. "You will see us again soon," she says. "Till then, be well."
"May your line be long," says Macha.
And then they all disappear.
When they're gone, I say, "We need to start recruiting among the Fae, telling them what's about to happen and letting them choose a side. It's only fair that they know— and we're going to need all the help we can get to guard the gate."
"I agree," Kieran says. "I think if we visit some Fae gatherings, work together, we can get a number of them to help us. Many of them like you, and they fear both of us. That combination, love and fear— it's priceless."
"They could like you, too, if you'd let them," I say.
He laughs, a hollow, mocking sound. His Far Darrig laugh. "Who says I want them to like me?"
"Fine. I'll be the likeable one. But how do we find recruits?"
"By going where there are large numbers of them," he says. "Parties, gatherings, clubs. I know of several here in the South. Of course, when I had the leprechauns, it was easy to gather news of the Fae and their doings."
It's my fault he doesn't have that intel anymore.
"I'm sure you have some contacts you could reach out to," I say.
"A few. I'll see what I can find out."
"First, we need to get home," says Arden. "And we could all use some extra sleep."
No kidding. My eyelids feel swollen, prickly, and heavy. I'm trying to figure out if I should transport each of them, one at a time, or try to do two at once.
"Arden, I'll take you and Wynnie first," I say. "Kieran, just wait here."
In a flash I have both Korrigan back at our apartment. Wynnie lies down on the couch in the living room, and Arden immediately goes into her room and closes the door. She's been holding in her tears; I'm guessing she's about to let them flow.
I'm dizzy and faint, and when I transport back to the big house, I have to sit down in the dewy grass. "Just a minute," I say. "I'll be fine."
"Are you sure? We could call a driver to take us back."
"No, we shouldn't have humans around here right now," I say. "Help me up." Even in my dizzy state, I notice how tired he looks, how deep the shadows are under his eyes. He's exhausted too.
Instead of transporting us to the apartment parking lot, where the Audi is, I take us both straight to my room in the apartment. We appear beside my double bed, and I sink onto it, almost crying with relief. Never has a pillow felt so cool and so soft.
Kieran moves towa
rd the door.
"Wait," I whisper. "You could stay."
He turns back, uncertainty in his eyes.
"It's a half hour drive to your condo, and you're so tired. Just come here. Sleep." I touch the bed beside me.
He glances at the bedroom door, then comes over to sit on the bed. "Arden wouldn't like this."
"Let me worry about that," I say. I feel like I'm already half asleep. "Just stop talking and rest."
After taking off his shoes, he lies down beside me with a deep sigh of relief. I lace my fingers in his, and then I sink into sleep.
15
COMPLICATED
Zane
Aislinn texts me about the dead Korrigan on Sunday afternoon. I'm sitting in the living room with my parents and a few of their friends, listening to them talk, pretending to be into it. Then I get the text, and it hits me like a knife. I mean, they were people, kind of, and somebody killed them in cold blood. Malcolm and his gang. I feel that rage building up in my chest, that frustration I get when I see things that just aren't right— things that somebody should fix.
But I can't fix it. And I can't leave the room without everyone wondering what's up, thinking I'm rude or something. I look up, and I catch Mom's eye. She knows something's going down.
I wish I had the power to talk to her with my mind. I look at her, kinda desperate, hoping she'll get that I need to leave.
Woman's intuition, man. I don't know if that's sexist or not, but it sure seems real to me, cause the next second she says, "Zane, honey, didn't you have something you needed to do before you head back to school this afternoon?"
"Uh, yes ma'am, I did."
"You go on, honey, don't let us keep you."
I make some kind of apology, say goodbye, and head for the basement. First, I call Aislinn. She sounds rough, and I tell her how sorry I am. There's not much I can say. They were horrible to her, but they were part of her life.
After I hang up, I go to town on the heavy bag. I beat that thing till I think the stuffing might burst out of it.
"Wow." It's Kali's voice, behind me. "Why you workin' up a sweat right before you gotta drive back?" She perches on a chair, licking a fudge pop. "You want one of these?"
Samhain Page 15
