Summer (15 page)

“I’m not leaving Richard behind,” she proclaimed. “We two, we stay together.”

Water-Bearer threw back its head and laughed. The monster’s merriment was beautiful; Richard heard silver pipes and ringing bells and the promise of spring in the
sluagh’s
gasping peals. Aine stiffened, obviously frightened, but Richard thought he’d never heard a more perfect sound in his life.

“Enough,” William interrupted. He sounded gruff. “We’re walking on. Aine lass, you’ll carry this lamp and I’ll walk ahead.” He snatched a wicked hand axe from the tools hung around the forge and smiled grimly. “For caution’s sake.”

Aine stuck her knife in her belt and tried to help Richard upright. It was an exercise in agony and embarrassment. Every time Richard managed to roll onto his knees the ground seemed to tilt and only Aine’s grip on his good shoulder kept him from falling sideways into the dirt. After Aine’s second attempt, William swore out loud in the Gaelic and made an aborted move to help, but Water-Bearer knocked him away.

The
sluagh
struck quick as a snake, graceful for all its mottled, clumsy flesh. Aine yelped and slashed out with her knife. Water-Bearer ignored her. The monster cradled Richard close against its chest, wrapping him in black feathers, holding him immobile. Richard’s head lolled helplessly, ear pressed against Water-Bearer’s bony chest. He could hear the steady bump of an alien heart through linen and flesh and muscle and the fog in his own head.

Water-Bearer snorted. It shook Aine’s knife from its thigh as a man might shake away a particularly aggressive house fly. The little buck knife spun in the dirt, scattering drops of smoking
sidhe
ichor. Aine reached to retrieve it and Richard meant to tell her to be careful but somehow his lips were going numb and his tongue struggled uselessly against the back of his teeth. The world was leaching away, color dripping in gray smears, until even the unwelcome tent of feathers went white and bright and fell away to nothing.

“You can’t die,” Winter says. He’s sitting on the edge of the pit, bare feet dangling over the edge. It’s dawn and Richard can smell Sayid’s sausages through the grate above and hear the bustle of D.C. waking. “I still need you.”

Richard’s standing between Winter’s straight spine and a maze of collected junk, and he’s holding wire cutters in his good hand. There’s something he’s meant to be repairing back in the tunnel, but he can’t leave until Winter says he’s free to go, and he hates Winter for being the tidal pull behind his ribs even as he loves Winter for keeping him anchored.

“I don’t know what to do,” Richard admits. “I don’t know what to do next.”

“Don’t die.” Winter wiggles his long white toes over the abyss. He sighs and it sounds like feathers rustling. “That’s all I’m saying. And maybe don’t blow anything else up. Oh,” he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder and smiling, “maybe stop dripping on my floor. That stuff’s poisonous.”

Richard follows Winter’s pointed gray stare to the puddle of
sluagh
goo pooling at their feet, spreading at an alarming rate, overflowing the edge of the pit and creeping quickly in Winter’s direction. The ichor hisses where it touches ground, sending puffs of noxious smoke skyward.

It’s running in enthusiastic rivulets from Richard’s left arm, caressing the ragged stump where he used to have a hand. It doesn’t hurt, but shock has him bending double, dropping the wire cutters. Scattered droplets hiss against his shoes and his pants, eating through leather and fabric. The inside of his nose and mouth are burning, it hurts to breathe, he’s suffocating.

Richard screams.

“Hold him down. You need hold him still. I can’t—
Dias inn!
—secure the knot if he’s rolling like a snared trout.”

“God has no place here, Will. Best leave Him out of it.  And if I use all of my strength I’ll only snap him in two. Work faster.”

Richard couldn’t make his eyes or mouth or hands work but he could still hear the hiss of ichor on earth. The taste of smoke lingered on his tongue, a cleaner, hotter scent: metallic. Pain rolled across his limbs, a constant thing, and his heart fluttered, pulsing worriedly in the base of his throat.

“Richard. Richard, you need to lay still. Lay still and let us help you. Richard, be still.”

“Good, lass. Talk to him. Can you put this in his mouth, between his teeth?”

A wad of fabric choked Richard, muffled his cries even as it protected his tongue from his teeth. They were gagging him, bottling his screams even as they whispered words of encouragement.

They were going to take his hand.

“
Íosa logh dom
. Yellow tears, Miach. You never do anything by halves.”

“He’s
weeping
, my lord. You said he was beyond fear or pain.”

“He soon will be, if we don’t hurry. The blade is hot enough?”

“As hot as I can get it halfway up the Long Stair. It will do. Now. Hold him quiet.”

“Be still, Richard,” Aine whispered in his ear, past the noise of his pulse. “I’ve got you. Be still.”

“You can’t die,” Winter says. He’s sitting on the edge of the pit, bare feet dangling over the edge. It’s dawn and Richard can smell Sayid’s sausages through the grate above and hear the bustle of DC waking.

“Rick,” Bobby shouts. He’s crouched in his wheelchair, head bobbing as he taps his fingers restlessly against his thighs. There are bits and pieces of wire and metal and C4 scattered on the carpet around his chair. Bits and pieces of a bomb.  “Come out and take your punishment like a soldier! Come out and take your whupping like a man.”

William’s axe made a sound like a sigh when it split the air.

Katherine Grey came to see Nightingale for herself. She interrupted Siobahn at breakfast, making Morris quiver and spit until—at Siobahn’s gesture—he remembered his place and went in search of another place setting and more toast. To Siobahn’s carefully camouflaged surprise Katherine came alone but for the little German dog she’d taken to carrying with her in the city. The dog walked at the end of a pretty leather leash. Jewels gleamed in its collar.

“Lost your latest lover so soon?” Siobahn stabbed at a piece of bacon with the tines of her fork then made a show of enjoying the morsel of meat as the sausage dog watched, ears pricked.

“I wouldn’t let him come.” Katherine took the seat across from Siobahn. Her skirts rustled as she sat. She wore silk and ruffles and the heels of her boots were sharp as daggers and the jewels on her fingers matched those on the little dog’s collar. “Not when you’ve got Angus’ favorite toy sleeping on your sofa. Honestly, what were you thinking? Far better for all of us if you’d left it dormant.”

Siobahn set down her fork. She leaned back in her chair. Behind Katherine Manhattan woke to cold rain, sounding horns, and sirens.

“Have you forgotten already?” she demanded. “Must I remark upon your manners a second time?”

Katherine stilled. Her little dog growled, lifting a lip to show tiny fangs in a long snout. Katherine hushed the small hound with a word in the Gaelic, then slid from her chair to her knees on the carpet. Morris reentered the room just as Katherine bowed her head. His jaw flexed but he stepped around the kneeling woman without comment, deftly arranging china on the table.

“That animal tasted Gabriel’s flesh,” Siobahn remarked once Morris departed. “Why is it still alive?”

Katherine kept her head bowed. “Longfellow knew no better, my lady. He hunts the squirrels in the Park. He’s only a dumb animal, innocent in the way of all mortals. The fault was mine own, and I did what I could to remedy the mistake.”

Siobahn regarded the dog. The dog paid her no more notice. It sniffed around beneath the table for scraps and then tried to climb beneath its mistress’s skirts, tail wagging.

“Do you remember
Lámhfhada’s great hounds?”

“Aye, my lady.” Katherine’s Upper East Side twang softened in remembrance. “Big as horses they were, and short of hair. Tails like a serpent’s. Wily hunters, if I recall, and brave.”

“Lámhfhada had a weakness for fierce, delicate things. You’re much like him.” Siobahn gestured. “Rise, and sit. Have you come to make peace?”

Katherine Grey scooped her dog into her arms and sat herself again at the table. Her pet sniffed at the plates but resisted temptation. Katherine licked her lips then lifted her chin and met Siobahn’s gentle inquiry without flinching.

“I said you were mad before. I never thought it would come to this. That creature was never meant to wake. Angus should never have brought it through in the first place and Malachi was wise to let it lie.”

“Malachi didn’t have an uprising to put down.”

Katherine looked away. Her hand crept up, fondling the little dog’s ears. Siobahn took a sip of her tea, considering. Katherine was stubborn, but Katherine had never been
stupid
. It was Katherine who had counseled surrender once Gloriana discovered the exiles’ mutiny. Surely Katherine would see the wisdom of humility again, once it was made clear.

“Come, Liadan.” Siobahn pushed back her chair and rose. “I imagine Healy didn’t do it justice.”

Katherine actually blanched. Color seeped dramatically from her already pale cheeks. Siobahn wondered if the other woman would actually dare refuse. But the Grey Lady, for all her foibles, had never been called coward. She pushed back her own chair, tucked the sausage dog under one arm, and stood.

“As you wish.”

Nightingale had made itself comfortable in Barker’s empty quarters. Siobahn hadn’t questioned its choice, although now as she walked the corridor, Katherine at her heels, she wondered if she should have. Barker’s rooms were spacious; bedroom, small study and en suite. Barker’s rooms were also located on the northwest corner of the penthouse floor and looked out almost directly across Central Park. The walls were mostly window and Barker had refused blackout curtains, preferring airy glass and sunlight.

Nightingale, Siobahn thought as she threw open the door to the suite, had chosen an excellent vantage point if it wanted to watch the mortal world go round. She strode into the room, wondering if she would catch it doing just that, and had to blink fiercely against an assault of bright light.

Siobahn knew Barker had a phobia, of course she did. She occasionally remembered to feel empathy when she caught the red-headed
sidhe
flinching at shadows. None of the exiles had survived the transition between worlds unscathed. She hadn’t thought to ask Malachi from where Barker’s particular damage stemmed. She hadn’t particularly cared so long as Barker was loyal. He did his job and he did his job well, no matter what traumas lurked in his past.

Traumas could be overcome. Siobahn knew that better than anyone.

Still, as she stood in the threshold between corridor and penthouse suite and surveyed a forest of individual and varied table lamps, Siobahn wondered if she should have at least asked Malachi about his friend’s eccentricities.

“Well,” Katherine Grey said, dry as dust. “Barker, is it? As exile madness goes, I suppose this is mostly benign. Hotel can’t be pleased, though. Electricity isn’t cheap, not on this island.”

Siobahn curled fingernails into her palm. At first count there were twenty lamps in the sitting room alone, set on table and chairs and floor, strung on extension cords like fruit to a vine. She could smell the heat of the manmade light even as the windows beyond were blurred by cold rain.

“Morris!” She tossed the summons into the corridor then stalked into the room, tip-toeing over cords. “Nightingale!”

She found it in the bedroom, spread on its belly atop Barker’s wide bed, surrounded by another twelve lamps. Its round chin was propped in two thin hands, its bony knees bent, feet waving in the air. The pose recalled to Siobahn’s mind a young Summer lying in the grass in springtime, watching the robins in Hyde Park. But Nightingale’s narrow toes were bound all in living black wire, the joints of its knees metal beneath too-thin flesh. She could see black ichor pulsing in its veins like oil.

It was watching Barker’s television with obvious fascination and its mouth twisted in irritation when Siobahn clicked off the closest three lamps, one after another. It covered its distaste quickly and rolled onto its haunches, pulling black vapor about its shoulders and thighs.

“Majesty,” it said, shaking curls from its brow. “Are my services required? Poetry, verse, murder?” It glanced past Siobahn and its breath caught. “You’ve brought me a visitor.”

Katherine’s little dog growled. Katherine hushed it with a murmured word.

“Liadan, now called Katherine.” Siobahn traced the nearest extension cord to its outlet and yanked the plug free. Sparks snapped at her fingertips but four of the lamps went dark. “Perhaps you remember her?”

Tiny wrinkles spread from the corners of the creature’s human eyes when it smiled. “I remember. You liked to dance, once. Do you still?”

“No.” Katherine’s shoulders rose and fell on an exhale as she gathered her courage and approached the bed. The sausage dog still growled quietly, muffled by her fingers around its muzzle. “I’ve no time for dancing. I remember your voice in the halls, when you were first come to
Tir na Nog
. Before.”

“Before Angus and his wrights worked their magic?” Nightingale tucked its deadly skirts beneath its legs, politely keeping Katherine and her pet from disintegration.  It tapped a finger against its cheek and Siobahn couldn’t quite keep from staring as black wires flexed and released.

Katherine Grey was one of those women who managed to look elegant even in a temper. “I didn’t know Angus had brought you across, singer.”

“He kept it quiet, I suppose. Gloriana insisted, you see. Tuned as I was to Angus, I imagine she thought I was more dangerous in
Tir na Nog
than out.” Nightingale’s attention drifted back toward the television. Pictures of the D.C. crater rolled across the screen as a flushed and angry political pundit rattled on in the background. The scrolling banner read INTERCEPTED EMAIL IMPLICATES SYRIA and IRAQ DENIES ALL KNOWLEDGE and PRESIDENT TO SPEAK NOON EST.

“He should have used you when he had the chance,” Siobahn said. She ignored Katherine’s barely hidden disgust. “Well, Liadan. You can see your detective spoke true, while
I
can see you’ve grown bored and careless. Desperate. I understand. But after all this time the throne is still mine by right of blood, and I haven’t kept it through war and exile only to relinquish it now.”

“This…thing…obeys your command, now Angus is gone?”

“It does indeed.”

Katherine blew a breath through pursed lips. “You frighten me,” she said. “You do realize you’ve sent our only possible defense against this
ghastly
creation away with your children? What if it turns on us?”

Nightingale didn’t look away from the television but Siobahn sensed its sudden attention. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled warning. The dog in Katherine’s arms made a sound of distress.

“It won’t turn,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “The royal blood runs within me. It will do as I say.” Deliberately she turned her back on danger and faced Katherine Grey instead. “It has to. Do you wish me to provide demonstration?”

“Nay.” Katherine remained unbent but her eyes glistened. “I’ve seen a queen’s wrath before, I’ve no desire to see what remains of our people suffer so again. They are my friends.”

“I need your word,” Siobahn told the other woman as Nightingale began to hum quietly in time with a television commercial. “I need to know I can trust you when Winter opens the Gate and we storm Gloriana’s Court. I am meant to rule, and I shall.”

Katherine shifted minutely on the balls of her feet. She stared, not at Siobahn, but at Nightingale. Then she nodded.

“You have my word.”

Barker apparently thought he could sneak home like a dog in the middle of the night, tail tucked, but Siobahn was too canny to miss his arrival and too proud to ignore his lapse in manners. She met him in the purposefully darkened foyer, sprung upon him as he tried to slip unnoticed into the apartment, and knocked him up against the wall, both thumbs buried in the hollow of his throat, strangling and scratching at the same time.

He fought briefly back, bringing his knee up in automatic defense, arching his spine to throw her off. But Siobahn was stronger and the shadows were on her side and Barker’s knees buckled. He slid down the wall, overturning the little side table Summer so loved, sending antique knick-knacks crashing to the floor.

His blood was warm between Siobahn’s fingers.

“My lady.” All at once he recognized her and went limp. “Majesty.
Trócaire.
Mercy!” He wheezed, trying to draw air past her clenching fingers.

She followed him down, crouched over his lap, put her lips on his brow in benediction even as she squeezed the air in hoarse puffs from his throat. She didn’t mean for him to die, he was far too valuable still for that. But she did mean for him to suffer. He twitched, suppressing his body’s natural urge to fight back even as his eyes rolled in his head and it was that impressive mastery of base instincts that had Siobahn releasing him at last.

“Mercy, then, you fool.” She climbed off his lap and sat on the floor against his long legs. He was slumped almost prone, his hands resting open-palmed on the carpet. The glint of amber around his wrist was barely visible in the dim light. “If only because Malachi so loved you.” She watched as he cracked his eyes and sucked in great gasps of air. Her fingers had left marks, she knew, and there would be blood on his fancy leather coat. “But if you ever defy me so again, I’ll have your head with my tea and biscuits.”

He shook, rattling the overturned side table, then croaked. “Yes, my lady. May I?”

She nodded once, sharply, and he pulled starlight into a globe above their heads, lighting the foyer and chasing back fingers of darkness. In the shine his eyes were very wide and very wild.  Siobahn looked him up and down with displeasure, noting the grime in his hair and the road dust on his boots.

“Chased them all the way, did you?” she asked. “You didn’t used to be so difficult. When did you know you were free to run?”

“I didn’t.” Barker cleared his throat. “Not at first. Not until…I guessed, my lady. Something felt…different. The city felt lighter.”

She spat in his face, watched with satisfaction as her spittle dripped along the side of his jaw. He didn’t react.

“Was it the sword that changed you?” she demanded. “Or the interfering priest and his baptism ritual?”

Barker appeared to give the question some consideration. Then he shook his head, baffled. He looked crestfallen.

“I don’t know. I…I cannot tell, my lady. Does it matter?”

Siobahn hopped to her feet. Snorting, she held out a hand. “I haven’t decided,” she said. She hauled Barker upright. His hand was cold and dry against her palm. “But it could be very important indeed. Freedom from this island, access to the Cornwallis Gate? You should have told me at once, Barker. Immediately.”