The Stag Lord (18 page)

A rustle of clothing. A quiet hiss of pain.

It was that hiss that made Shay the Healer approach again, this time announcing her presence with a subtle throat clearing. She paused in the doorway. “Hey. You're up.”

Dressed in jeans and a denim shirt only half on, Bann held a finger to his lips, then pointed at a sleeping Cor and a vigilant Max. She nodded. He joined her in the hallway, leaving the door ajar. “In case the hound wants out,” he whispered, buttoning his shirt.

Wishing he would leave it unbuttoned, Shay led the way to the kitchen. “Feeling up to some pizza and an informal meeting with Hugh and the boys?”

“Add a brew to the list and I'm your man.”

Okay
, so
not going there
, Shay thought. “A Guinness, or something wimpy? And you're only getting one with that much medicine in your system, so choose wisely.”

“Actually, I was hoping for more of the beer you served the other night. Chubby Wheel, was it?”

“You mean Fat Tire?” Shay turned her head in time to catch a glint of amusement in the Knight's eye.

“The very same.”

They joined the others already eating. A pizza steamed in the middle of the kitchen table, along with an assortment of beers. In the living room, a fire added to the warmth and coziness of the gathering. The scent of burning pine perfumed the air.

Spotting Bann, Hugh raised his glass. “Why, would you look at that? On death's doorstep last night, and now he's gracing the supper table.”

“That's because I rock as a Healer.” Shay snagged a couple of beers from the refrigerator, opened them, and handed one to Bann. She pointed her bottle at a young man, a darker redhead than most of the Doyles, handsome with strong, even features and cropped hair, sitting between Hugh and Rory. “That's Jameson.”

“Are you a cousin of Shay's, too, Jameson?” Bann reached across the table to shake hands with the younger man before easing down on the chair with a grimace and a hitch of breath.

“I go by James.” He looked at Hugh. “And second cousin, isn't it, Uncle?”

Hugh shook his head. “No, Rory's your second cousin. Shay would be…” The older Knight closed one eye in concentration. “I have no idea. But it doesn't matter.” He beamed around the table. “We're all Doyles.”

“So, you're the descendent of Brian Boru.” Shaking his head, James snagged a slice of pizza out from under Rory's hand with a grin. “Unreal. I've heard the tales all my life, but I never thought I'd get to meet the long-son. I thought I'd have to go to Ireland to do that.”

“Have you been to
Éireann
?” Bann selected a slice and dug in.

Mouth full, James shook his head and swallowed before speaking. “Not yet. Maybe someday. A bunch of us want to do a family roots trip and all that.”

“Were you all born
here
, then?” Bann looked in surprise at Hugh. “I thought from your accent that…”

Hugh nodded in understanding. “While this mob,” he waved around the table, “are all children of twentieth-century America, Ann and I, along with the older Doyles, journeyed here roughly the same time you did.” He sighed, examining the label of his bottle. “Difficult years those were, for Irish immigrants, be we Fey or mortal. These young ones”—he gestured around the table—“do not know how soft they have it.”

Rory snorted. “Look who's talking.”

Hugh's beard bristled. “I'll have you know Ann and I struggled—”

“Hey, you don't have to justify your wealth to
us
.” James tossed a crust of pizza to Max, who had joined them. The dog's teeth snapped together as he caught it in midair. Ignoring Hugh's glare, he explained. “See, Bann, decades ago, our uncle made a smart investment with some guy named Buffett and made a buttload of money—”

“Your tongue flaps too much, boyo,” Hugh growled. “There's no need to—”

“Not Buffett the parrot head guy from Florida,” Rory interrupted. “The Buffett from Omaha.”

“That's right,” James said. “So, now Hugh and Ann are richer than—ow!” He winced when his uncle smacked him on the back of the head.

“Enough! Bragging about the wealth of one's family is vulgar, Jameson Doyle.” Hugh shook his finger in his nephew's face. He turned back to Bann. “Now, as I was saying. Over the years, other clans joined us. Some to hunt the
Amandán
dwelling in the abandoned gold mines west of the city. Or, in case of the Black Hand, for revenge.”

Bann choked on his beer. “The Black Hand is
here
? In High Springs?

“Aye, he is,” Hugh said. “Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation. Gideon Lir's lineage is even more ancient than my own. He is supposedly one of the finest Knights and greatest goblin hunters alive.” He looked at Shay. “I take it he is the
arrogant son of a bitch
you spoke of earlier?”

Shay nodded absently. The image of Bann naked seemed flash-burned on her retina. It was different from last night when she had labored over his bloody form. Very. Different. In fact, she found herself studying the shape of his mouth as he spoke, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.

Her eyes drifted up to catch Bann studying her right back.

Something flashed between them.

And was promptly interrupted by Max rearing up and planting his front paws on the table, snapping at the pepperoni Rory waved in front of his snout. The table shook from the force of the eighty-plus-pound dog. Hugh, James, and Bann rescued their drinks just in time, Bann grabbing Shay's as well.

She jumped to her feet, half-grateful and half-furious at the interruption. “Max, no! Bad dog!” She pushed him away. “Rory, knock it off! Jeez, it's like Friday night in a frat house.”

“How would you know what a Friday night is like in a frat house?” James asked.

She ignored him. “Who wants another beer?” She turned to Bann, who had risen gingerly with a wince. “What?” She blinked in surprise when he took her elbow.

“I'll fetch and carry.” He pulled out the chair and guided her back to her seat. “You've done enough.”

She ignored James and Rory nudging each other as Bann moved about the kitchen, opening bottles and tossing a doggy treat to Max. Warmth—
okay, let's be honest, heat
—filled her belly. When she reminded her body that Bann was both a guest and a patient, she was met with a
so what
? Movement out of the corner of her eye pulled her head around.

Cor appeared, rumpled from sleep and yawning so widely, Shay was sure his ears would end up in his mouth. Without a word, he sank down in the chair next to her and reached for a slice. “Who's that?” he asked around a mouthful of pizza, pointing his chin at James.

“My cousin, James.”

Cor's eyes widened. “How many cousins do you have?”

“Too many. Want one?”

Cor chewed as he pondered, eyeing the young men who looked on in amusement. After a minute, he shook his head. “Nah. But I'll take Max.”

“Good choice, young Cor,” Hugh boomed over the laughter. “You've picked the best of the litter.”

Bann joined them, handing around drinks before nudging his son off the chair to reclaim his seat. He started to pull Cor onto his lap, then froze, face pale. “Son of a…” He bit off the rest of the sentence.

“Yup. That'll teach you.” Shay pointed at his stomach. “Dude, you've got a
hole
in your
side
.” Before he could protest, she pushed an empty chair closer to Bann with her foot. “Sit here, buddy.”

“Yeah, really,” Cor grumbled. “Only babies sit on laps.” He began hammering down on another slice, slapping away his father's hand when Bann tried to steal a mushroom.

Fifteen minutes later, after the pie was demolished, the crusts tossed to an ever-accommodating Max, and a sleepy Cor ordered back to bed, the Knights gathered around the fire, empty tumblers in hands, eager for a bit of a treat Hugh had promised. While Bann took a careful seat on one end of the sofa, Shay chose the chair nearby.

Hugh returned from his truck, a bottle in one hand and a folder in the other. “While I know it is Scottish whisky, I take it no one here would pass up a taste from our Celtic brothers?” He held a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet. At the hearty response of
hell, no
, he unscrewed the cap and began pouring. He paused when he came to Bann. “Should you be drinking something this strong? Healer? What say you?”

“He may have a sip, no more.”

Bann cocked a brow. “Really.”

Shay cocked one right back. “Yes, really. My patient. My house. My rules.”

Hugh finished pouring and joined them. “Now to business. I've done a bit of research.” He pulled out several sheets of papers covered in old-fashioned penmanship no longer taught in public schools and placed them on the coffee table. “I've good news and bad.”

“Bad news. Always with the bad news.” Rory complained. “And why can't it just be
here's the good news
? Like, here's how we kill our enemy. We go kill him. Bam—we're done. Then we go get Chinese or something?”

“Because this is reality, not fantasy,” Shay pointed out. “Fantasy would go like this—the hero overcomes the monster after beating incredible odds, he woos the girl, they fall in love, and they live happily ever after.” She swirled the drink in her hand, studying the amber liquid. “Real life is
never
that way. Real life is confusing. And messy. And painful. And too many good people get serious crap dumped on them.” The thought of Cor, huddled on the filthy floor of that shack, his face aged by what had happened to him and his father, made her want to whip out her weapon and start a-swinging.

“I disagree, Shay Doyle.” Bann's voice took on a strange tone. “More than not, reality is finer than we could ever dream.”

“Dude, you did
not
just say that.” Rory shook his head. “Man, if I said that to a girl, she would laugh in my face.”

Bann shrugged and took a sip. “Aye, she would. But not for the line,” he said with a deadpan expression. The others exploded with laughter, Hugh almost choking on his drink.

After it died down, Hugh raised his glass. “Well struck, Boru.”

Shay silently agreed.

Setting down his drink, her uncle picked up the top sheet of paper from the pile. “First of all, the Horned One is an elder god. Which means he cannot abide iron. That be the good news, albeit old news.”

“And the bad news?” Rory asked.

“In all the accounts I've read, it has been repeated, in various ways, that”—he looked down at the page in his hand and quoted—“‘only with iron blade wielded by noble blood will the Stag Lord be vanquished.' The translations vary, but not by much.”

Rory held up his hand and ticked off on his fingers. “Iron blade plus noble blood equals dead crazy god. Got it.”

“‘Noble blood,'” Shay mused. “Well, that's got to mean Bann.”

“Or Cor,” James pointed out. “And why does he want the boy, anyway?” He scribbled in a small notebook as he spoke.

“Seriously?” Rory peered over James's shoulder. “You're taking notes?”

“I do not know why he desires the lad,” Hugh said. “
Yet
. But while Bann recovers, the rest of us need to find Cernunnos's lair. It must be close by, mostly likely in the park itself, since the Fir Bolgs came to Shay's on foot. Unlike the god, the Fir Bolgs are no astral plane travelers. By the way, I've brought you something, Bann.” He leaned back and dug his keys out of his pocket.

Shay frowned. “You're giving him your truck?”

Hugh chuckled. “No. I brought him a practice dummy.” He tossed the keys to James. “You and Rory go fetch it and set it up in the backyard. Some of the parts are in the cab.” The Knight studied Bann. “I thought you might want to hone your skills a bit, eh? And perhaps begin training your son, as well?”

“Thank you, Hugh Doyle. Cor would like that.”

“You're not doing
anything
until you heal, Bannerman Boru,” Shay said.

“I think I know when I'm fit enough to—”

Shay shook her head. “Nope, not open for discussion. Need I remind you
I
am the Healer, not you? And, as Cor pointed out, this is my house, so I'm also the boss.”

A muscle jumped in Bann's jaw. “To be sure,” he said in a clipped tone. “Your home. Your rules.”

Damn straight
. Shay didn't bother to hide her grin of triumph.

16

T
HREE DAYS LATER,
S
HAY
awoke to the sound of hammering. Stunned that she had slept past dawn, she staggered out of bed to the window and peeked out. The morning greeted her. The backyard was clean of snow, testifying to the sun's power even at High Springs' six-thousand-foot elevation. Beyond the yard, the boulder field was a jumble of abstract sculptures of pinks and yellows and duns, set against a sky as blue as Fey eyes.

Dressed in athletic shoes, a pair of worn sweatpants, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, Bann was nailing a flattened leather dummy, vaguely man-shaped and man-sized, to the post James and Rory had set up in the grassy area just beyond the concrete patio slab. Cor waited nearby, yawning. He held Bann's iron knife in one hand and a smaller bronze one in the other. The sun danced along both blades—heliographs of silver and red.

What the hell does he think he's doing
? Fuming, she yanked on jeans and a hoodie, then darted into her bathroom, peeing and tying on her running shoes at the same time. A few moments later, she was hurrying through the house.

Heaving the door open with a bang, she stomped outside, startling the piss—literally—out of Max who had been trotting around the perimeter marking his territory with a rhythmic lift and squirt.

“Oh, no, you don't, Bannerman Boru!” She marched across the patio.