Texting the Underworld (17 page)

The Lady threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, what a novel idea! Little one, this system was set up long before I existed. It's not for me to change it. I don't even understand how it works.”

“And anyway,” Ashling told Glennie, “you don't know what boredom is until you've been the same person for a few centuries.”

“Very true. It makes one quite mad sometimes.” Again that high-pitched titter. “So, Ashling dear, isn't it a shame you didn't do what I asked?” The voice was as hard as the face now.

Ashling mirrored Glennie's playground scowl.

The Lady didn't seem to care. “I kept you by me, hoping for a little entertainment in my dreary, endless existence. But, century after century, always the same moan from you: ‘I want a new life, I need a new life.' So at last I can't stand it anymore and I
try
to accommodate you, and look what happens. You do realize, pet—if they defeat the Birds, you most likely will not get the Death you were sent for.”

“But there will be a Death,” Ashling pleaded. “Won't that count?”

“Pet, you were told to come back with the correct soul, not three live ones on a quest.”

Ashling opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut, looking as if she'd seen the end of the world.

The Lady tittered. “Oh, pet, if you could see your expression.” She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout that anyone could see was fake. “Ashling, dear, choosing my companions is one of the few things I can control. Is it really so bad, living here by my side? And now, serving your people as a banshee—you'll see the World that way—isn't that enough?”

Ashling didn't soften. She shook her head.

“Ah, well,” the Lady said airily, “it is what it is. La la la.” She turned her attention to Conor, Grump, and Glennie, eyeing them almost fondly. “Now, what shall we do with all of you? I only have to let one of you test the Three, you know, since you're all here about the same Death. You're so adorable—I don't know how I'll choose just one.”

“That's fine,” Grump said. “I'm the one who wants to do it.”

The Lady's gaze met Conor's. “And you, dear? Are you going to let this old man die for you?”

“That ain't the way to put it,” Grump said.

“Scrumptious!” The Lady clapped her hands with delight. “You
are
interesting. How would you put it, Davey dear?”

“I'm standing up for what's right. We had one kid die young in our family already and that's enough.”

“Do you agree, little man?” The Lady was practically dancing.

“No,” Conor said. “I don't think it's time for Grump to die.”

“Is it time for your sister to die? Theoretically, of course.”

“No.”

“Was it time for all of
them
?” The Lady fluttered a hand at the Dear Departed, filing past the platform and into the archway.

Probably not. “But we were brave enough to come here. That must count for something.”

It sounded lame even to him.

“Come here, dear boy.” The Lady beckoned, and Conor obeyed without thinking. She grasped his chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted it so she could stare into his eyes. She smiled into them.

“Well, hello there,” she said softly. Her wicked gaze cut away to Ashling. “Pet, you do know who he is, don't you?”

“I thought he might be someone. He's not my father, I know that.”

The Lady gazed into Conor's eyes again, and he smelled woodsmoke. The flute tune was playing in his head, pretty loud this time. She blew gently on his eyes. He shut them.

The fire roars . . .

They are in the smithy, the fire built up and ready to serve. “Don't talk to me about the accepted way,” he hears himself say. “I do
this
to the accepted way.” He holds up a twig of bronze, snaps it, hurls it away from him.

“She's betrothed to her neighbor,” his father says. “She's not for you.”

“I can rescue her from him anytime I want.”

“You have said too much to too many. You fought Aengus last night because he danced with her, and Aengus is your friend. You were too loud, standing by the fires, talking to her of love and rescue. Her father has heard of your boasts. He is angry, but he wishes to avoid trouble.”

“Hah! And how will he do that? I know what I want. More than that, I know what
she
wants, and it's not that old man.”

“You are a skilled craftsman, becoming better by the day. I will find you a worthy wife. Be patient.”

“I have found my wife.”

Conor opened his eyes. “I don't understand.”

The Lady blew on his eyes again.

“They've left for home.” With his thumb, his father tests the edge of a sword, then sets it down on the workbench. “I watched them leave three hours ago, with all their cattle. They will travel by moonlight, be home tomorrow.”

“NOOOO!” he roars, louder than the cattle in the pens, on his feet before he knows what he plans to do. He snatches up the sword his father just set down, shoves it into the scabbard he himself made, the one with the bird heads she admired—symbol of a life about to change for the better.

“Sit down, boy. There are rules for these things.”

“Don't talk to me of rules.” He runs out of the smithy, past the cattle pens and the ruins of the Beltine fires, toward the side gate.

A troop of scouts is at the gate, dirty and weary from travel. One of them grabs his arm. “Where are you going, boy?”

“Out.”

“Well, don't go far. There are raiders out there. Dál Fiatach. They'll have you for a slave before you can draw your sword.”

Even more reason to go. He must warn her.

Conor wanted to open his eyes, find out what was happening to him. But then . . .

The spirits have delayed him, confusing him in the woods. He's too late to deliver a warning—the raiders are there with ax and sword and horse, rounding up the cattle. Ashling's brother is dead on the ground, clearly visible in moonlight bright as midday.

Her back to the wagon, Ashling swings a sword with her two hands. It's a disgraceful, dull sword, and he curses as he pelts toward her. He would have made her a better one than that. But Ashling herself is sharp enough for two swords, dodging left, slashing at the legs of the raider who's trying to catch her, dodging right. Behind her, from the dark under the wagon, three small faces peer out, white with terror.

“Ashling!” he shouts. “I'm here!” He's running hard, covering ground. “Craven pig,” he howls at the raider, who turns to sneer at him. “Half your size, yet she holds you off!”

The raider's wild eyes meet his, and in a rush of horror he knows his mistake. The raider never wanted to kill her—they're here for cattle and slaves. But the man is stupid with battle lust, and the insult was a challenge.

“Noooo!” But the raider turns on Ashling—oh, she's so sturdy and brave, with her bright red hair, her uncanny eyes. Her way with beasts.

Her hand on his heart.

The raider lifts his ax . . .

Conor stumbled backward. Someone tall and strong caught him from behind, lowered him until he was sitting on the floor. He opened his eyes—Ashling was staring into them. Blue eyes. Wedges of gray.

His heart filled with joy—Declan's joy. But also heaviness, a feeling of guilt. “I was Declan. He—I made them kill you.”

“
Ach
. I almost remember.”

“I—he got lost in the woods, in the dark. He got there too late and then he insulted this guy and the guy killed you.”

She closed her eyes, brows drawn together, trying to remember. “I fought. They killed my brother.”

“He wanted to warn you, to save you. He—I got lost.”

“And I died.”

Conor reached out to her, then let his hand drop. It was so confusing—he was Conor O'Neill, age twelve, who had never even danced with a girl. And yet he also was Declan, old enough to steal a sword and chase the love of his life into the wild.

Ashling settled back on her heels, eyes narrowed, peering into the past. “I do remember now. I was glad to see you—him—and then . . .” She shook her head. “There was pain, and then nothing.”

“I'm sorry you died. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

She smiled into his eyes. “I forgive you. Anyway, it wasn't really your fault.”

The heaviness lifted. He felt better than he'd ever felt in his life.

A high-pitched titter. The Lady was standing over them. “How
sweet
. But whatever will you do, Ashling? Is he your Death? If so, you'll bring him back here and then you can return to life together. Assuming that is what you want, of course. You were rather annoyed with him when you first came to me, all those centuries ago.”

Ashling stood up, close to the Lady's ear. “He's not the Death,” she whispered, loud enough for Conor to hear her. “You know he's not.”

“What are you whispering?” Glennie was several yards away, propping up Grump.

The Lady said, loud enough for everyone, “And if he's not, you have two choices. Let the Death take place as fated, complete your bargain with me, and hope you return to the World near him as an infant. You may even remember something of who you are, having spent so much time here.” The Lady simpered. Then her face went hard and icy. “But if they win the Birds' favor and the Death does not occur as fated, I am afraid you must stay with me until I choose to let you go.”

The tall person behind Conor cleared his throat. “My lady.” It was the low rumble of a voice that had beaten down the Cailleach. “If I might say a word.”

“Oh, go ahead.” The Lady sounded petulant.

Conor just about twisted his neck into a pretzel to see the voice's owner.

From his vantage point sitting on the floor, the man was tall as a Boston Celtics center, seven feet at least. He had a broad ivory-colored face, wild golden hair and beard. His mouth looked a little like a cat's, with a strong cleft in the upper lip.

But the most important thing about him—especially when you were sitting right next to him on the floor—had to be his legs, which were those of a lion. His long, tawny tail had a lion's tuft at the end. He leaned on a stick carved with a lion's head on the top.

He gave off a strong, musty odor.

“Nergal,” the Lady said. “Don't you have filing to do?”

“Welcome home, Ashling,” Nergal said.

“Dude. This is not my home.”

Nergal's catlike mouth went up at the corners. “I agree. I was rooting for you to win a new life. As you know.”

The Lady shot him a peevish look. “Oh, yes, yes, she's a young soul and should be back in the Great Cycle. Blah, blah, blah.”

“The Lady visited the World fairly recently,” Nergal said to Grump and Glennie. “
Blah, blah, blah
was the latest slang then. Early twentieth century, I believe.”

“Awesome,” Glennie said weakly, blown away by the lion-man with the deep voice.

“Awesome,”
Nergal said. “I like that one. Not so sure about
dude
.”

“Time's a-wasting,” Grump said to the Lady. “Do I get a shot at these Birds or not?”

“Not, I think. Nergal, would you get this gentleman a chair? He and the little girl will stay here while the boy—should I call you Conor or Declan?—faces the Three.” She beamed down at Conor.

“No dice,” Grump said. “I'm doing it.”

“My dear Davey,” the Lady said, “you can hardly stand up. And no one may help the one who faces the Birds.”

“I'm not a little girl,” Glennie said. “I'm ten. Who's Declan?”

“I can stand up perfectly well,” Grump said, swaying.

“No, you can't, Grump,” Conor said. “I'll be fine.”

Ashling fumbled at her leather bag but couldn't seem to get it open. “What if he dies?” she asked the Lady, giving up on the bag.

Is she talking about me?
“What do you mean,
dies
?” Conor asked.

“Conor-boy. People often die facing the Birds.”

“You never said that before!”

“I thought you knew. Davey O'Neill knew.”

“You bet I knew,” Grump said, “and that's why I'm going to be the one to go in there. Conor, you will do what you're told.”

Yessir,
Conor thought.
Anything you say.
But his body let him down again—he shook his head, not even looking at Grump to see how he took it.

“Who. Is. Declan?” Glennie's playground scowl reached a new level of fury.

“Me,” Conor said. “In another life.”

Glennie opened her mouth but no words came out.

The Lady beamed. “This is
so
much more entertaining than I expected. Although it is a bit upsetting, isn't it, Ashling, dear? If the boy tests the Three and wins, you don't get your Death and you have to stay with me.” She lowered her voice so Glennie and Grump couldn't hear. “If he loses, dear, he'll most likely be dead on the spot. Later on his sister will die, and you will have your new life. Perhaps you'll be sent back near him, perhaps not. He might return as a parrot. In any case, can you let him die? Oh, it's just delicious!”

“You did this on purpose,” Ashling said. “All that rushing around at the last minute, turning me into a banshee—you'd found out who he was and that he would be caught up in a death.”

“I could hardly predict that they'd want to test the Birds, now could I?” The Lady touched Ashling lightly on the cheek. “But I have to admit, I did expect that
something
would go wrong for you, considering who he was. Especially if he started to remember, and your own recollections grew stronger. It's not unusual for bits of memory to return when a person's near someone he or she loved.”

She smiled at Conor. “You loved her, and you made her die. That's a very strong combination of circumstances. No wonder you remember so much.”

“I was trying to save her.”

Ashling grabbed his hand in both of hers, squeezing it so hard he almost yelped.

“I ain't sending my grandson in there all by himself.” Grump hobbled toward the Lady in as threatening a manner as possible, considering that he was leaning on a ten-year-old in a raccoon hat.

“Nergal,” the Lady said. “A chair.”

Nergal thumped his staff on the floor. An ornate, thronelike wooden chair appeared next to the Lady, with a smaller one for Glennie. The Lady gestured to them graciously, but neither Grump nor Glennie paid any attention.

“I'm doing the Bird thing,” Grump said. “Not Conor.”

“Or I'll do it,” Glennie said. “Conor'll mess up. I don't care who he was a bazillion years ago.”

“He will not mess up,” Ashling said.

“You've known him for four days,” Glennie said. “Trust me.”

“I have known him for sixteen hundred years.”

Conor gave his head a shake, because his brain kept going back in time. He couldn't stop thinking about those moon-dappled woods, his panic when he realized he was lost, his despair when the raider lifted his ax.

The universe was huge and cold and unfeeling. People sometimes died too young. Anything could happen.

I am Conor O'Neill, 36A Crumlin Street, South Boston, Massachusetts, son of Brian and Moira. My house is nineteen blocks from school and I know every street in South Boston. My best friend is Javier Ramirez. My sister has raccoon ears.

I think I am somewhere under the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Current location temporarily unavailable.

Ashling clung to his hand. He saw her through two sets of eyes: those of Declan, who rushed to save her, and those of Conor, who would sacrifice her for his sister.

“I always let you down,” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“I have to try to beat the Birds. I can't let Glennie die. And I . . . I don't want to be dead right now, either.”

She nodded.

“I wish I could make it all right for you.”

She dropped his hand and looked him in the eye. “Do what you must. I will do the same.”

What does that mean?
He scrutinized her—the girl who calmed his heart, the monster who almost killed the seventh grade. It was possible she wanted him dead today.

“Dude,” she whispered, uncanny eyes filling with tears. “I loved you. I don't want to watch you die.”