The Hound at the Gate (31 page)

Just as the first star popped into view over the mountains west of High Springs, the leaf gave up. With an almost audible sigh of resignation, it let go and drifted downward, landing on the ground next to Finn's shoe.

Finn tensed. Shoulders hunched, he examined the sky, wishing his master and Knight of the Tuatha De Danaan, Gideon Lir, would get back. Like
right now
. He strained to hear the growl of his master's pickup truck. Stepping back from the tree, he scanned the darkening sky, fighting the sudden desire to run for the back door.

Maybe it was just a metaphor
, he thought.
Maybe she won't really appear. I mean, how would she know the
exact
moment our tree lost its last leaf
?

“Because she's a
goddess
, that's how,” he muttered under his breath, thinking back to last month when he first met the
Scáthach
at the annual gathering of their people…

A low rumble, more of a vibration than a sound, booted Finn's heart into a gallop. Head swiveling like the agitator in a washing machine, he edged toward the back door. The rumbling grew louder, mimicking the roar of blood in his ears. Pausing by the picnic table near the house, he pulled out his hunting knife from its belt sheath. The bronze blade seemed puny. Feeble. Not up to the challenge.
Wow. I just described myself
.

The wind increased. It rolled down the mountains, skateboarded across the tops of the western foothills, and slammed into the woods crowding the far side of the yard's back wall. Thick-waisted pines bowed in homage to what, or rather
who
, was approaching, while the scrub oaks and the few scattered aspens simply flailed their bare limbs with excitement.

Or terror.

It could go either way.

Actually, in Finn's case, it went the terror route. The muscles in his whole body vibrating like strings on a harp, he tightened his grip around his knife, not sure why he'd drawn it—because using such a weapon against an goddess whose claim to fame was training
all
the hero warriors of the Celts since the dawn of time was kind of stupid—but still.

On the heels of the wind, a single black cloud raced toward him from the west, growing larger with every second. Leaves swirled around the backyard in a mini-tornado, stinging Finn's face. He staggered a step, eyes squinted. Heart pummeling the inside of his chest, he watched as the cloud slowed over the far end of the yard. Hovering in mid-air, it coalesced into a woman.

The
Scáthach
.

Stepping down out of the air, the goddess was armed just as Finn had seen her last, complete with a spear and a bow and quiver slung across her back. Shaking back her hair, she glanced around, curiosity on her tanned face.

Remembering just in time, Finn dropped to one knee and bowed his head, eyes fixed on the dried grass. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched her boots walk closer. His scalp tightened when she stopped in front of him. Not sure if he was supposed to greet her or wait until he was spoken to, he opted for silence.

“MacCullen.” The
Scáthach
's voice echoed in that cavern-y way that made his hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. “Stand before me.”

Finn clambered to his feet. For a long minute, the goddess eyed him, starting with his shoes, then moving upward to pause at the gold torc around his throat. Apparently less than impressed by the ancient symbol that signified an apprentice's first kill, she peered behind him at the house.

“Where be the Black Hand?”

Just in time, Finn remembered Gideon's instructions on how to address the goddess. “Greetings, Lady. He had to run an errand. But he'll be back any second,” he added hurriedly.

“I will wait.”

A long pause. Finn shifted from foot to foot. Leaning on her spear, the
Scáthach
raised an eyebrow.

“Are ye not going to offer me the hospitality of yer home, then?”

Son of a goat
! “Um. Yeah. I mean. Yes, Lady.” Feeling like a biggest dork-skull in the world, he led the way to the back door. Trying to visualize what Gideon would do in this situation, he opened the door, then stepped to one side. She swept past him, ducking slightly to keep the tip of the bow slung across her back from hitting the top of the doorframe.

Somehow, she seemed to make the small kitchen feel smaller in a way that even Mac Roth, the giant Knight and Gideon's boon companion, never did. Finn swallowed. “Um. Do you want some… some tea?”
Do gods even eat or drink? And where the heck is Gideon?

“Tea.” The
Scáthach
looked at him as if he had grown a second set of ears.

Finn nodded.

“Nay. Mead, if ye please.” Unslinging her bow and quiver, she took a seat at the table and laid the weapons on the floor after leaning the spear against the wall. Within reach.

What's mead
? Finn stood rooted in place.

“Or ale.”

Ale. That's like beer. I think
. Finn walked to the refrigerator and opened it.
Am I supposed to just hand it to her?
He thought, staring at the brown longnecks tucked away toward the back.
Gideon always uses a glass, but Mac Roth usually drinks it straight from the bottle. How do adults know all this stuff? Blast it, Gideon! Come. Home. Now
.

The sound of a vehicle pulling into their driveway, gravel crunching underneath, made Finn's heart rise. “Excuse me, please.” With a silent sigh of relief, he hurried out of the kitchen and around the shabby furniture of their living room to the front door. Wrenching it open, he stepped out onto the porch just as his master rounded the stone wall separating the yard from the driveway. A head taller than an average mortal and dressed simply in jeans and a canvas hunting
jacket over a faded but clean denim shirt, the black-haired Knight moved with the easy grace of a wolf. Or a warrior. Or both. A torc, similar to Finn's, peeked out of the open collar of his shirt.

Closing the wrought-iron gate behind him with a
clang
, Gideon paused at Finn's sudden appearance. “What has happened?” His eyes, the same intense blue as Finn's and the distinguishing feature of their people, narrowed. He glanced around as he approached, hand reaching around for the hunting knife he carried in a leather sheath beneath his shirt tail.

“She's here.”

“The
Scáthach
?” Gideon pronounced it
ska-ha
with a faint whiff of an Irish brogue.

“Yes, sir. She's in the kitchen.”

Silent even in workman's boots, the Knight hurried along the flagstone walkway and took the steps two at a time. Pausing to lay a hand on Finn's shoulder, he lowered his voice. “Stay quiet unless it becomes necessary to speak. And do not speak of Iona of the Hills.”

Skin crawling in the way it always did when he thought of the sorceress who once had tried to kill him and his master and now wanted to aid them for reasons she had only half-explained, Finn nodded. “Since we haven't decided to accept her help or not.”

“Aye. Nor should you mention the Steel family. The less the Lady knows of our friendship with mortals, the better.”

“Why?”

“I will explain later. For now, keep silent.” He led the way inside, pausing to toss his jacket on one of the coat pegs by the front door.

Relieved to have his master between him and the goddess waiting in the kitchen, Finn trailed behind, glancing to his left at the stone fireplace taking up most of one wall. Rows of weapons rested horizontally on pegs above the mantel. On the opposite wall, tucked under the stairs leading up to the second floor of their small house, was Gideon's battered but tidy desk.

The thought of leaving this house,
this home
, and spending the next twelve years training with the
Scáthach
instead of Gideon made
Finn's heart clench like a boxer's fist inside of his chest. In the five months since becoming an apprentice, he had learned not only how to hunt goblins around their suburban neighborhood, but he had discovered a surrogate for his long-dead father in the Knight. Not that he would ever say anything like
that
to Gideon.

But sometimes, he wished he could.

He stepped into the kitchen and lingered by the doorway. Mouth dry, he watched as his master rose from a kneeling position in the middle of the room at a gesture from the goddess.

“I greet you, Lady
Scáthach
, and welcome you and offer you the hospitality of our home. Will you take refreshment?”

Her eyes, emerald chips over high cheekbones, flashed once at Finn. He swallowed when a look of amusement flitted across her face. For just a moment, she looked, well, not exactly pretty or even kindly, but at least less scary.

“Thank ye, no. I changed me mind.” Retrieving her weapons, she rose and slung her bow and quiver across her back. As tall as Gideon—
and maybe as strong
, Finn thought—she fished what looked like dull round disks out of the small pouch hanging from her belt. She rattled them briefly in her fist, like a gambler rattling a pair of dice, then opened her hand and presented them. Four iron medallions, each slightly larger than a silver dollar, lay on her palm. Her emerald eyes gleamed with challenge. “I reached back to your people's earliest beginnings as inspiration for the first trial. Choose,” she said to Finn.

He shuffled forward and selected the one closest to him, flinching when his fingertip touched the palm of the goddess. He passed it to his master and surreptitiously wiped his fingers on his jeans.

A muscle jumped in his master's jaw as he studied the disk. “Bleedin' ‘ell,” he breathed. His keen eyes flicked up at the
Scáthach
. “Do ye sport with us, Lady? We are Fey—we do not have this kind of power. Not anymore.”

“Yet ye claim to be able to train
this one
,” she gestured at Finn, “as well as I. Here be yer chance to prove if yer words are true, Gideon Lir, long-son of the Black Hand, or simply the wind in the hollows
of the hills. For what better way for the boy to display his abilities—and yers as well—than by demonstrating the ancient skills?”

“That kind of power belongs only to the very first Tuatha De Danaan to step foot upon the Green Isle. Them with the four treasures.”

“Do ye concede the field?”

“I do not. I will find a way to train the lad,” Gideon said through gritted teeth. “I assume I can use any means at my disposal.”

The goddess narrowed her eyes in suspicion, searching the Knight's face. “Ye have permission to seek aid from any source,” she said slowly. “But have a care, Black Hand. There be a fine line between cunning and trickery.”

“Right.”

“I will return in nine days for the first trial. And remember—if MacCullen fails even one challenge, then he is mine.”

Worry worms squirmed in Finn's stomach. He wasn't sure which would be worse—leaving Gideon or spending years with the goddess.
And I don't want to find out
.

“He will not fail.” Gideon opened the door for the goddess.

She paused, glancing around. Her eyes flitted from object to object, taking in the well-used appliances, the scuff marks on the linoleum, the pile of drying
sláinte
nettle leaves taking up most of the counter next to the sink. Mud-caked shoes were heaped in the corner by the door. The
poink-poink
of the dripping faucet seemed magnified by the situation. “Ye seem to have fallen in this world. This be no grand hall befitting the descendent of the Black Hand.”

“No.” Gideon locked gazes with the goddess. “But it is home.
Our
home.” A slight gesture took in Finn standing at his elbow.

Finn raised his chin. A corner of his mind noticed that the top of his head was almost level with Gideon's shoulder. He straightened even further.

The
Scáthach
raised an eyebrow. She looked from master to apprentice. Speaking in Gaelic too fast for Finn to catch, she asked a question. Gideon hesitated, then shook his head.

“I would not be too certain,” she said, switching to English. When Gideon started to speak, she waved aside his remark. “But now is not the time to dwell upon it.” She shifted the bow across her back. “I bid ye farewell.” Walking out the door, the goddess disappeared into the evening. The door closed behind her. A moment later, the sonic boom of her departure shook the house, the window and door rattling with a matching
tink
.

Tempted to lock the door behind the goddess, Finn rubbed the goose bumps from his arms. He waited, desperate to ask and petrified to do so at the same time. So many questions crowded his head, he wished he could simply unscrew the top of his skull and let his master scoop them out by the handful. “Gideon?”

Gideon stared down at the disk. Finn felt a chill run through him when his master beckoned him to follow and led the way out of the kitchen and over to the desk in the corner. After clicking on the lamp, he took a seat and gestured for Finn to take a seat on the nearby stool, then handed him the medallion.

Finn was certain it would burn his skin or turn him into a pig or some other horrible thing. One side was blank; its hammered surface gleamed dully. The other side featured an embossed symbol of what looked like flames, crudely drawn. “I don't get it. How does
this
,” he held the disk up between finger and thumb, “tell us what the first trial is going to be?”
And why is Gideon so freaked out
?

“What is the symbol?”

Finn peered more closely at the disk. “Is it…a flame?”

“The
Scáthach
has decided to test your training, and my teaching, by invoking an ancient set of trials. Trials that, unfortunately, have little to do with weapons or hunting.”

“Like…like what?”

Gideon leaned back in his chair. It squealed softly, as if in sympathy. “You must demonstrate control of the four elements.”