Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (40 page)

Backing away toward the kitchen, Haddock’s face had become a pasty mask of terror. “Stay away from me.”

Liam stood up and then ripped the cuff from his wrist. “I’m here to keep my promise. But first, I’ve questions. About my wife’s murder. Four men were responsible. At least two came from your division. I want the names. All of them.”

Haddock drew his pistol. The gun was steady in his hand.

“You honestly think that’s going to save you?” Liam asked, feeling the beginnings of the change prickle his skin. “You saw the report. It didn’t save Éamon. It didn’t save any of them.”

Haddock turned and bolted into the kitchen. Before the door swung shut Liam saw him grab what looked like a radio from the counter. Keys jangled again.

The car.

The monster sprinted after Haddock, passing a sink filled with fertilizer and plumbing supplies.
Fuck the questions. Ask another Peeler.
Haddock couldn’t get away—not after everything the monster had been through. He didn’t care what he’d have to do to see the man dead. The back door banged. The monster followed after, leaping upon Haddock before he’d reached the car port. Haddock flipped, then punched him in the face. The monster’s nose broke with a crunch. His howl echoed off the buildings. Haddock was up again and through the gate, but he’d dropped the radio. Without thinking, the monster picked it up. Pain made his eyes water.

Isn’t a radio,
Liam thought.
It’s a transmitter.
Suddenly an image of the kitchen sink came to mind.
Fertilizer. Wiring. Car. A car bomb.

Liam didn’t stop to think of why Haddock had been building a car bomb. There wasn’t time. Haddock was backing out into the street. The car flattened a stray football. Children trotted out of the car’s path, cursing. A woman ran from an open door. She screamed at the children to get out of the street. Haddock was getting away. The monster roared. He had to do something.
Now.
He would do it. He would kill him.
NOW.
The monster gripped the transmitter in its claws. A child saw him and shrieked.

No, no, no, NO! The children!

Ignoring Liam’s protests, the monster pointed the transmitter at the car and pressed the button. He turned his back to the car before it went off. Numb, he was slammed down onto the pavement face-first. He hit the ground and rolled but didn’t feel it. For a moment there was no air, only bright orange light and peace. No sound. Then nothing. Liam woke just as something hard smashed into him. His back felt like it was on fire, and the monster was gone. Coughing, he rolled onto his side. It wasn’t easy. The pain was terrific, the worst he’d ever felt in his life, but he needed to see—had to see that Haddock was done for. He couldn’t lie flat. Something prevented it. So, he levered himself up off the ground with an elbow and almost passed out with the effort. An eerie silence had descended upon the world. Smoke was everywhere. Movement. Flames rising out of the twisted wreckage that was once Haddock’s car. Broken glass. A house on fire. He relaxed to the pavement. The agony in his back and chest made it next to impossible to breathe. Something lay next to his head. He turned his face

and saw it was a woman’s shoe.

It was filled with blood.

Jesus Christ. The woman. I killed her.
The pain flooded in, and he closed his eyes to shut out the worst of it. When he let himself look again someone was standing over him. Someone dressed in a long black coat over the top of glittering chainmail. The figure bent closer, and Liam realized he’d seen the face before. But for the hair, he looked quite a bit like Bran as he’d appeared in his mother’s long-ago photograph. His golden hair fell long past his shoulders to the middle of his back. The man’s eyes glowed red as he stooped and touched Liam’s shoulder.

It’s the devil,
Liam thought,
come for his own at last.

Chapter 24

Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

September 1977

“Tell me what happened, Sceolán.” The first voice was angry and hard. It echoed on air that felt cool and damp. “He looks like a roast boar with the skewer still in.”

“Was an explosion.” The second voice, presumably Sceolán, was upset but more controlled. “What are you going to do? He’ll die with the iron in him.”

It took a few seconds for Liam to register that the entire conversation was in Irish. The next thing that came to him was that nothing smelled of home. He knew without thinking that it lacked modern scents—diesel exhaust, the day-to-day grit from modern violence and rubbish left to rot. People. The air smelled sharp and clean like an ancient forest after a good rain. It smelled of stone. Its moist coolness caressed Liam’s burning skin. He came to understand he was in a cave. Again, he knew all this without knowing why. Pain was everything. It sucked away every coherent thought. He lay on his side with half his face touching soft fur, the only comfort in a world of torture. His left shoulder was immobilized with a fierce bone-deep cold. The pain was a great smothering wall of agony that wouldn’t allow him breath. He was freezing, and the shivering only intensified the hurt. He wanted another blanket. He needed to tell his captors he was awake but couldn’t get enough air to make sound. A weak moan escaped his lips, and he forced his eyes open. Firelight flickered off rough stone walls.

Liam thought,
I’ve died, and this must be Hell.

“We’ll send for the mortal healer. Let her deal with the iron.”

“He won’t last that long,” said Sceolán. “It’s too close to his heart.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“You’ll be poisoned the moment you touch it.”

“I’ll last until you get back. He won’t.”

“There’s the iron on his wrist too. You won’t be able to—”

“He’s my son, Sceolán. I have to try.” A shadow passed over Liam and then he saw the owner of the voice, and although there was grey in the black hair and the face was older, he knew it at once from the photo—one of the few things he’d kept with him and now was gone with the rest.

“Would that I could do something for the pain,” Bran said. “But I don’t have that power.”

Liam forced out one word. “C-c-cold.”

“He’s awake,” Bran said. “Bring me a blanket. Fresh water. Then go.”

Someone moved on the edges of Liam’s awareness.

Bran reappeared. “Everything would be easier if you went back to sleep,” he said. “I’m sorry to put you through this.”

“Good luck,” Sceolán said, and Liam felt the weight of a blanket on his legs. Slowly, warmth penetrated the cold, and his shivering eased somewhat.

“Same to you,” Bran said to Sceolán. “Get back as soon as you can. Leave no trace. We don’t want the Redcap here.”

“And what of Finnabair’s claim? What will you do?”

“Nothing. She is Connacht. Consider the source.”

“This is serious,”Sceolán said. “If a connection should be made between you and—”

“I’ve never been to England in my life. You know this to be true. And do you honestly think I’d force myself upon a maid?”

“No. But Finnabair—”

“Is spreading lies. The Redcap is mad, and she with it. The riddle of the coin is false. That he exhibits no weakness to iron’s poison should be proof enough. He’s no relation,” Bran said. “There is no time for this nonsense. Go. Before it is my real son’s undoing.”

Sceolán stooped, and Liam caught a glimpse of long blond hair. “May Danu smile upon you, little brother.” And then he was gone.

A surge of pain shoved Liam’s eyes closed and for a moment he wasn’t aware of anything around him. When it passed he saw that Bran was still there, but now he was holding a warm cloth to the shoulder wound.

“I’m sorry that it has taken so long for us to meet. It is good your mother relented at last. A geas given by a woman of power is a terrible thing,” Bran said. “And I could not go against it. No matter I wished otherwise. But I’ve been watching over you as best I can.”

New questions ran rampant through Liam’s mind.
Geas? What the fuck is he on about?
But agony prevented his voicing any of them.

Bran set the cloth into a bowl. “I need to remove your shirt. What I can of it. I’ll try not to hurt you more than I must.”

Liam shut his eyes. The only reason he wasn’t screaming was because he couldn’t get enough breath. He endured Bran’s gentle motions as he unbuttoned the shirt. When the time came for the cloth to be peeled from Liam’s skin he blacked out. He resurfaced as Bran was washing dried blood and soot from his arm and chest. The water felt cool, and it produced another bout of painful shivering. Liam wanted to tell Bran to stop but couldn’t.

“There’s a piece of steel lodged in your shoulder. I can’t pull it out. I’ve tried. I’ll have to cut it out, or you’ll die,” Bran said. “If it helps, I have done this before. For my men. When we’ve no healer. I’ve the whiskey for the pain and to clean the wound but that’s all. Ready yourself.”

A cup was pushed against Liam’s lips, and he had to tilt his head to drink. He gulped as much as he could stand without choking, spilling some of it on himself and the fur under him because of the awkward angle. Fresh pain was added to the agony as alcohol dripped down his neck and onto his chest.

“I’d lay you flat to get a better look at what I’m doing, but your back is badly burned, and I don’t think I should.” Bran sighed and put a hand on his arm. “I can’t put this off any longer. Scream if you’ve the need. There’s none here will shame you for it. Are you ready?”

Feeling muzzy and distant, Liam nodded. Bran went away for a few minutes and when he came back Liam caught the scent of heated metal. Bran set a lamp near enough for Liam to feel warmth from the flame. The bronze blade in Bran’s hand was blackened from the fire. He dipped it in a clay bowl and it hissed, sending a cloud of burned whiskey into the air. Liam felt a gentle touch as Bran held his shoulder again and then the cutting began. Liam had thought the previous pain had been the worst he’d endured.

He was wrong.

“Am I dead yet?” The words fell out of Liam’s mouth in a hoarse whisper. The oppressive pain remained but now seemed to have localized in his left shoulder as well as his back from the top of his skull down the backs of his thighs. The piercing cold in his chest was gone, but his right wrist was numb, and when he attempted to move his hand it wouldn’t respond. Blinking in the near darkness at red-tinged cave walls, it was difficult to focus. The fire had been allowed to burn down to the coals, and the scent of burnt wood and smoke was thick. He was still on his side on top the furs with blankets on his legs. He was naked and cold but was afraid to move lest he spur the pain into fresh life. There was movement in the darkness, and a clay cup touched his lips.

“Drink this.” It was Sceolán. Liam blinked and saw that streaks of blue stained Sceolán’s face. “You’ll feel better.”

Liam drank the water without thinking. It tasted sweet and clean although it hurt to swallow. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat had become. He choked and for a moment he thought he might be sick. The mere idea of retching was enough to make him flinch.

“I’ll return with the surgeon,”Sceolán said, switching to English. He stood up. “She’s with Bran now.”

“Why?” Liam asked.

“He burned his hands pretty badly, digging that shite out of you.”

Liam thought,
I didn’t ask him to do it.

The surgeon came, or someone Liam assumed was the surgeon. The last time he’d seen a doctor he’d been in Malone, and after seeing what had passed for medical care in that place he decided he’d rather die than see another. She certainly had the self-possessed authority he remembered as well as the air of disdain.
Fucking doctors.
She poked and prodded him while muttering about the state of his back and the hack job done on his shoulder. She cleaned the burns which took some time even though she was none too gentle about it. When she was done she brought out a pair of what looked all the world like bolt cutters from a cloth bag.

“Now for the hand.”

“You’ll not take it,” Liam said. The freezing numbness in his right hand had gone deep through the bones and all the way up to his elbow. Something told him it wouldn’t be long before it reached his shoulder, but he didn’t care.

“This isn’t for your hand, you idiot,” she said in her broad country accent. “It’s for the cuff, it is.”

Sceolán arrived with a lamp. “You should do as she says. Otherwise, this time tomorrow she’ll have to take the hand. But if you’d rather it be so, it’s up to you.”

Liam gritted his teeth and with a great deal of concentration was able to move his arm. Sceolán held it straight and at the proper angle so that the surgeon could get a good purchase with the bolt cutters.

“There’s a lad,” he said.

“I’m not your fucking—” Sharp pain accompanied a thump-snap as the cutters were brought to bear, and the cuff fell off his wrist.

“He’s a foul-mouthed piece of work,” she said, and sighed. “Well, he’s one of youse. The rest is up to him. I’ve done all that I can in this filthy place. If you want anything more from me you’ll have to get him to hospital. Watch him. Close. He still might take a turn for the worse.”

Is she fucking joking? No painkillers? No fucking antibiotics? Typical god-damned doctors,
Liam thought.

“Good enough,” Sceolán said. “And my brother?”

“He’ll be right by tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Is it the usual, I’ll have?”

Sceolán nodded. “The usual. Aye. You will.”

“Why is it always a call in the middle of the night from you lot? There are times when I wish my Grandmother had never made that bargain no matter the lives it saves,” she said, getting up off her knees.

“You wish to be rid of your Grandmother’s gift?” Sceolán asked.

She shook her head with a rueful smile and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad week.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve my hospital shift at five. I’m getting too old for this shite.” She walked away without another word.

“Get some sleep,” Sceolán said and followed the surgeon, taking the lamp with him.