"Thank you," I say. "And thanks for letting us speak to them. I know it took the mood down a bit, talking about what's coming— but it was necessary."
"We understand, honey," says Lydia. She tucks her wispy blond hair behind her ear as she turns to Kieran. "You can both count on us to help out. We may not be young anymore, but we can throw a few spells and punches."
After saying our goodbyes, Kieran and I go outside, into the cool night. A few pixies stand in knots of three or four outside, talking soberly together. Some of them wave or nod to us as we walk by.
"That went better than I imagined," Kieran says. "Thanks to you. You know, you're good at speaking to people. It's a gift."
"Me? No, I just— said random things."
"The right random things." He takes my hand, his fingers curling between mine. His thumb traces circles over my skin, sending tingles through my whole body. It's amazing how little touches like that affect me.
We pause at one end of the circular driveway, standing at the curb, face to face. I transported here, and he drove. I can see the Audi gleaming under a street lamp, not far away. It's time to say good night and transport home, but I don't want to. I don't want to be away from him.
He's touching my face, moving back my hair, running his fingers down my neck and across my collarbone like he did the first night we met.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"So are you," I whisper. "I don't want to go home."
"Come home with me."
"I want to, I just—"
"Aislinn." He takes my shoulders in his hands. "Not to do anything you're not ready for. Just to be there, together."
But if I go, I won't be able to resist, I just know it. Why do I even want to resist? I've known him for months now. But we've only been together as a couple for a short time, and I feel like this thing needs to get deeper and stronger before I let myself go all the way.
Just tell him.
"I won't be able to say no if I go with you," I say. "And it's too soon. I want to wait just a little longer, get to know you better. Besides, you haven't officially asked me to be your girlfriend yet."
"Do we need these human labels? Boyfriend, girlfriend, fiancé, husband, wife? I prefer words like partner, lover. Treasure. Dhlúthchara, my best friend. M’fhíorghrá, my true love."
Oh my gosh.
"You need to stop being so romantic, right now," I say, lacing my fingers behind his neck and drawing his face to mine. I speak right against his lips. "I give up all the human labels. They're meaningless anyway, for what we are."
The kiss I give him is tender, deep, and sweet. "Good night, love," I say.
When I transport back to my room, I spend the next hour wondering if I made the right choice. He definitely acts like he's all in, like he intends to be mine forever. And that's all I really need to know.
Maybe I'm just nervous. Scared. Insecure. Maybe that's the real reason I'm waiting.
Right then, I make a deal with myself. I may die during the battle for the gate; so sometime before then, I will say yes. All of me will be his. And he'll be mine.
17
BATTLE CRY
Zane
Another damn dream. Being a Seer sucks.
I'm on the mountain again, Bluerock Mountain, standing at the very top, and it's dark. The cold is intense, creeping right through my clothes and flesh into my bones.
So damn cold.
I look down at my fingers, and they're frosting over, turning to ice. I try to bend them, to fold them together for warmth, and a couple of them break right off. I yell, terrified, and then I cover my ears because my yell is echoed by a dozen voices, not far away.
Up the slope toward me come twelve women. They're different shapes and sizes, but all of them wear tattered clothes. All of them have their mouths stretched unnaturally wide, jaws basically unhinged, skin pulled tight. They're wailing, their voices rising to a shriek and then dipping lower, to an unnatural whine, and then higher, higher, higher to a shrill keening again. They never stop, they never take a breath. On and on they mourn, all together, sighing and singing and screaming until I feel blood running out of my ears, between my remaining fingers.
Get out of the dream, I tell myself. It's a dream, man, break out!
Suddenly my eyes pop open, and I see the dark rectangles of the posters above my bed. Cursing under my breath, I count my fingers, all ten of them.
My roommate Ben is sitting on his bed, staring at me. "Dude, you were yelling. It was scary."
I get up and walk to the sink. My knees barely hold me up. "Nightmare," I say.
"Hey, you got something here." Ben touches his ear.
I reach up to my own ear, and when I pull my hand away, there's blood on my fingers.
For a beat, I just stare at it.
Then I grab my phone. I'm about to call Aislinn— but then I realize she won't have the information I need. Much as I hate it, I gotta call the Far Darrig.
I dial Kieran. I hope he's awake.
He answers after a couple rings. "Hey."
"Dude, I'm freaking out." I go out into the hall and tell him about the dream in a low voice. "There's blood comin' out of my ear, man. Actual blood. How's that possible?"
"Visions can be powerful," says Kieran. "I remember hearing about Cathbad's visions; he had one about an upcoming battle that left him with open cuts from swords that never actually touched him. A few weeks later, the king Conchobar was wounded in those exact places during a skirmish."
"So I'm seeing what's going to happen? A bunch of banshees converging on Bluerock Mountain?"
"They're harbingers of death," Kieran says. "They're foretelling the deaths that are going to happen there during Samhain. Whether we keep the Gate from opening or not, Fae are going to die. Did you see anything else? Anything helpful?"
"No."
Kieran sighs. "Cathbad wasn't a friend to my people. If his spirit is controlling the amulet in any way, it might be with the purpose of discouraging us, not helping. I'd wear it during the day, for protection, and take it off at night. We may need you for the battle, and you can't help us if the amulet decides to give you harmful visions and take you out of the equation."
"Don't tell Aislinn about this," I say. "She'll just worry."
"I know. I'll keep it to myself. Get some sleep, all right?"
"Yeah, man. Thanks."
When I go back into the room, I lay down on the bed. Ben is asleep again.
As I hold the medallion in the dark, I swear it glows, faintly.
"What are you doing?" I whisper to it. "Why are you showing me that banshee crap? Give me something useful, something to help my friends, or else— or else I'm gonna drop you down a storm drain somewhere."
I'm straight up psycho, talking to this thing like it can hear me, like it cares if I throw it in the sewer.
But I don't take it off. If there's even a chance Cathbad's spirit is tied to this, if there's a possibility it holds some of his power, I need to see this through. I've got to help my friends nail down this Samhain thing, before the Gate opens and the monsters kill us all.
It takes me an hour to calm down and fall asleep again. But when I do, another dream begins.
Bluerock Mountain again, and my dream self is walking up the slope toward a crack in the cliffside. I see a row of big men on black horses, all along the base of the cliff. Above them, on the clifftop, a couple dozen super-hairy guys are balancing boulders, ready to roll them off the edge and down the slope. Those rocks are big and heavy enough to crush anything they strike.
In the middle of the row of riders, there's a man in a simple pullover shirt and jeans. He's carrying a knife, and a bag of some kind. Around his neck there's a large Celtic knot medallion, stained with blood. His face is bland— smooth and pink, and his bald forehead glistens greasily.
Malcolm.
I glanced to my right and to my left— there's a line of Fae stretching out on either side of me, more Fae behind me. Aislinn is there; I c
an see her clearly, but the faces of the others are smoky. I can't tell who they are.
The vision vanishes as my phone alarm goes off. Time for class.
But before I get ready for the day— before I call Kieran to tell him what I've seen— I take out the medallion and look at it. "Good work," I tell it.
"What's that?" says Ben from the sink area.
"Nothing," I say. "Just— talkin' to myself."
"You're weird, you know that?"
"You don't know the half of it," I say, and I head for the shower.
18
BULLET
Aislinn
Capoeira. The dance of war.
We gather for our first training session in the early morning, when the air is chilly and pink with the new sun. Our training ground is a huge parking lot near an old, broken-down strip mall. Grass pokes up through cracks in the pavement, and in one spot a young tree has managed to push the asphalt aside and reach for the air. It's about two feet high, shoving its way out of the blacktop. The sight of it gives me confidence.
Several dozen pixies have shown up for this, along with maybe twenty selkies and a few merrows and cluricauns. I can tell from the energy in Kieran's steps that he's excited and encouraged. Somehow our message is spreading. I'm sure they've heard rumors, as we have, that Malcolm is recruiting too, mobilizing dullahan and banshees and as many pooka and cluricauns as he can get. The effort swells his ranks, but it also gives our message weight and urgency. These Fae know that something big is coming, and they're desperate to protect their families.
I'm glad to see almost as many females as males here for the training. Why should they sit helplessly at home? Every woman, human or Fae, should have the ability to defend herself and the people she cares about.
Tom and Eric have brought along a big old-school boom box, and they set it up near a huge circle, drawn with chalk on the pavement. The rest of us gather around, eager for the lesson to begin. Tom turns on the music, a repetitive piece that's mostly drums.
"So you think you can dance?" Eric says, grinning, and there are scattered laughs in the crowd at the TV show reference."We're here to show you that pixies don't have to be limited by size. We can be just as powerful as anyone else, if we know how to use our abilities the right way. Tom and I have hosted classes like this before, and some of you came to those; but we've never had this big of a crowd, right, Tom?"
Tom nods and steps forward, his face sober. "I guess we all know that there's a real threat coming. And we've got just a few weeks to teach you guys the basics, to help you last through the battle. So we're going to be doing this almost every day until Samhain— three times a week in the early morning, and three times a week at night, so everyone can get some training, no matter what your work schedule may be, okay?"
"You get Sundays off." Eric smiles.
"You're gonna be tempted to just start dancing," Tom continues. "Don't lose yourselves, okay? Focus on what we're doing, on the combat aspect of things. We'll start with a demonstration."
"It's all about using the natural momentum of your body when you're dancing," says Eric. "So think lots of kicks, sweeping the leg, using your opponents' energy against them— that kind of thing, yeah?"
He and Eric move out into the center of the circle, twisting and cartwheeling and twirling, fluid motion and power.
I could never do that. I've never had a gymnastics class in my life.
But then as they come toward each other, I start to see how it could work. Tom is spinning, dancing, and his legs fly through the air so fast they're really like weapons. When he twirls, arms out, he comes close to hitting Eric in the face. They're being careful with each other, but if Eric were any nearer, he'd be buffeted by those whirling arms, and it would definitely do some damage.
For a few minutes they just show us the moves, doing flips and leaps and jumps in time with the beat. Then Eric turns up the music, and I feel my pixie instinct kicking in, demanding that I move with the rhythm. Giving in feels easy, natural, beautiful. As Eric demonstrates each move, we all copy him while Tom wanders through the crowd, adjusting form here and there.
"More strength, more power," he tells me as I practice a low sweep of the leg. "You want to knock your opponent off balance with this one."
He steps over and watches Kieran, who executes the move perfectly. "You've had training," he says.
"Not with this particular style, but yes," Kieran answers.
Of course he has. For a second, I'm irritated with his perfection.
"Is there anything you can't do?" I ask.
"I can't cook."
I roll my eyes. "Of course you can. You're a scientist, right? Cooking is just following a formula." Although now that I think about it, when I cook, there is an element of instinct involved. Sometimes you just know what to add, and how much, without any recipe.
He does the leg sweep again. "No, really, I can't," he says. "I get distracted, I miss an ingredient— something always goes wrong. It's like I'm cursed."
"Okay, what else?"
"I'm not an artist. I can do music, but not the visual arts." We both stand and practice a twirl and kick combo. "Give me a paintbrush and a canvas, and I'll just stare at it or slop some paint around. I even took a class once, and the teacher told me I had zero artistic talent. No imagination at all, she said."
"What? You totally have imagination."
"In my own way, maybe. I'm good at using things that others have created. Adapting them, building on them. I've only ever been truly innovative in the realm of magic and spellcraft, and even then I had help."
"I don't know. You're pretty imaginative when it comes to tricking people and scaring them out of their wits."
He laughs. "True. Such a useful talent."
"Less talking," barks Tom, passing by us again.
The other pixies and I are becoming more fluid in our motions now as we get into the music. Eric and Tom are trying to synchronize all of us— there's a pushing and pulling and thrumming of magic in the air, power rushing into to me and out of me. At the first pixie dance I attended, they did a synchronized number, all of us dancing in perfect unison, each knowing what the others were going to do the split second before it happened. This is starting to feel the same way.
Kieran seems to sense that we're all going into that zone, into a world of instinctual movement and magic where he can't follow. He moves to the edge of our ranks, where the pooka, merrows, and selkies hang back, practicing at their own pace.
"More strength, more power!" Tom yells to everyone, and we follow him, stamping and whirling, kicking and diving, spinning and punching. It's a fierce dance, a heart-pounding, foot-stomping, shaking-the-ground kind of dance. None of the dances I've done before ever felt like this. I'm a weapon, a warrior, a goddess.
Faster and faster we move, twist and spring, bend and strike. When I spin, my arms amass the force of a speeding bullet. If someone got too close to me now, I could bowl them over in half a second.
And then the music stops, and we're dazed, panting, glancing at each other with excitement.
"That felt good, yeah?" Eric grins at all of us. "You felt powerful, right? Just wait till you're actually facing an opponent. Takes things to a whole new level. It's been about an hour, so we're going to end it for now, but come back tomorrow night for more, or in the morning two days from now. We'll do this again for a few more classes, and then we'll pair up and start sparring."
I search the crowd for Kieran, and when I find him I run to him. "That was incredible! I loved it. We may actually have a shot at this! I could do this for hours, which is good because we'll have to defend the gate for hours."
He's laughing at my enthusiasm, and he picks me up and kisses me, doing a slow twirl with me in his arms. A few of the merrows and selkies nearby whistle and clap.
"I'd like you to meet some of our allies," Kieran says after putting me down. "This is the Gallagher clan of selkies— Esther, Finn, Alby, Darina, and Darcy. These two are friends
of Maureen's, Kaitlin and Pierce."
Most of the selkies, or seal-folk, have sleek, oddly shiny hair, almost like a pelt. The merrows look normal, except that they have extra skin between their fingers. The pooka all wear headbands or caps to cover the filed-down stumps of their horns.
I won't remember all their names, but I smile at each of them, thanking them for coming. I hope they can tell how much I mean it.
As the crowd disperses, Kieran takes my hand and leads me toward the strip mall, a long row of hollow stores. Faded signs still hang over the shops. Through the blank windows we can see wrecked counters, bare floors, and old clothing racks. Here and there, a window is cracked or broken, and in some places graffiti artists have performed their colorful magic.
"Why are we over here?" I ask. "It's all very sad and empty."
Instead of answering, he leads me through a breezeway between two of the shops. There's a small square plaza back there, a hidden space with a floor of cracked concrete squares, a crop of weeds, and a few old picnic tables. Kieran pulls me off to the right, so we're out of sight of the training area and the remnants of the crowd.
"Kieran, what are we doing? We don't have to hide from them to transport. What—" My words cut off as he pushes me against the wall, just roughly enough to make me gasp. Then his mouth captures mine, and every coherent thought leaves my head. After a second he picks me up, and I hitch my legs over his hips.
He kisses me softly at first, grazing my lips with his teeth. When he kisses me again, I dart my tongue into his mouth for just a second, and he moans a little. His lips move urgently against mine, and our tongues compete for space.
Then he draws back, just looking at me, like he's drinking in the sight of me. I lean forward and kiss each of his cheeks, where he has those freckles, and then his mouth again.
Samhain Page 17
