The Stag Lord (3 page)

Thrilled to be free of his father's obsessive supervision, but also jackrabbit nervous about being by himself, he let his feet wander. A corner of his mind wondered why his dad hadn't caught up with him yet. A bigger part was relieved he hadn't, knowing that the level of disrespect he just shown would earn his bottom an up-close-and-personal session with Dad's hand. Or worse, Dad's belt. Not that his father had actually ever used it on him, but the threat was always there. One never knew with grown-ups.

He emerged from the canyon and found himself on a narrow shelf overlooking a drop of about ten feet into a ravine filled with scrub oak and the occasional piñon and juniper. A well-used trail appeared and disappeared as it wound through the vegetation along the bottom.

The clouds sank lower, as if trying to smother him. The darkening sky reminded him of home and lingering on the back porch with his mother, watching as his father prepared to disappear, once again, into the woods crowding the back wall of their home in rural Pennsylvania.
Time for us Knights to be about our business, hunting the goblins that would hunt us
, his father had said. A single ray from the setting sun had turned the bronze dagger in his father's hand into a flame as he had paused to wave the weapon in a farewell.

His mother had never waved back.

Is Dad going to be gone all night?
Cor had asked, every fiber in his small body on fire to be allowed to go hunting with his father and the other Knights of their people.

All night
. His mother's voice had been oddly flat. But her hand on his shoulder had been warm and gentle as she steered him back inside with a promise to read two chapters of
Shiloh
to him before bed.

I get to be a Knight like Dad, don't I?
He thrust an imaginary blade into the air, ducking under the swipe of a goblin's paw, its black-tipped fingers crawling at his face. He stabbed again, teeth clenched as the beast exploded in a cloud of ash.
Eat bronze!

We'll see, son
.

Cor hated that expression. It usually meant no. Or worse. It meant his parents would talk late into the night, with low, angry voices that hissed and spat, filling the house with a coldness that made him creep down the stairs on tiptoes to breakfast the next morning. He was sure he could see his breath when he entered the kitchen.

But his mother's face, the face that Cor knew was the most beautiful in the entire round world, had always made the coldness go away when she turned from the stove to smile at him.

“Mama,” he whispered before he could stop himself. Eyelids burning, Cor scrubbed a forearm across his face, then sucked in a breath and let it out in little hitches which sounded suspiciously like sobs. “Stupid crybaby. Just shut the hell up,” he whispered, using the raw language to shock his emotions into submission.
Bold words from a boyo who was gibbering in terror, trying to hide behind a toilet a few minutes ago. I'm surprised ye dinna wet yer trousers
. His father's words raked him bloody. “You shut the hell up too,” he muttered.

The air grew colder. He squatted down and tucked his arms between stomach and thighs, resting his forehead on his knees. A strange lassitude made his joints ache, like he had aged a century in the last year. He closed his eyes.

A nightmare image exploded in his head. An image of his mother's body, pinned to the large oak in their backyard, like a sacrifice. She hung from a set of antlers, driven through her chest and into the trunk; her head flopped over onto her shoulder from a snapped neck.

A figure stood by the foot of the tree, the oak his father had always called the gods' tree. In the boy's mind's eye, the creature turned and looked at him.

Cor's eyes flew open. With a gasp, he lurched to his feet, swiveling on his heel as he tried to watch every direction at the same time. He held his breath, desperate to hear his father's voice or footsteps. Silence filled his ears in a warning. No breeze. No birds. Not even a distant car. It was like the whole world had decided to call it quits for the day.

He thought he heard feet crunching on gravel echoed in the tunnel behind him. He spun around to face the opening and took a step back.

Into thin air.

Windmilling his arms, he fought the losing battle against gravity and almost won. For just a second, he swayed on the edge of the ledge. Then, gravity shook its head no and pulled him. He landed with a sickening crunch. It was like being hit with the side of the entire planet. Which it was.

A white-hot pain tore him apart.

Then nothing.

For a moment, Shay Doyle thought someone was committing suicide. Frozen with disbelief, she watched a body plummet from the ledge overhead, limbs flailing. The figure landed with a crunch and a thud in a thicket of scrub oak just a few yards from where she had paused to retie her running shoes. She sprinted over, ignoring the scratches from the underbrush, and knelt down. Her heart sank. “Oh, damn.”
It's just a kid
.

The child—the
boy
—lay in a twisted heap on his back, one arm caught behind him in a way that made her hiss in sympathy. Pressing her fingers against his throat, she caught a heartbeat.
Not as bad as some I've healed
. Praying that, for once, she might get service this deep in the park, she pulled out her cell phone and checked the screen. “Of course not.” Shoving the device back into the leg pocket of her running tights, she pulled off her hoodie and tucked it around the boy as best she could. Only clad in a tank top, she ignored the bite of the cooling air. Trying to decide whether to risk moving him or go for help, she checked her watch and peered along the path.
Running full out, I could make it to the park entrance in twenty minutes, but they'll be closed by then
. A soft moan pulled her head down.

The boy stirred, eyes squinted with pain and confusion. His lips moved.

Shay leaned closer. “You're all right,” she said in a slow, clear voice. “But you need to stay still and don't move. I'm going to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

“…or.”

“Tor?”

“Cor!” A shout echoed from overhead—a man's voice, raw with panic.

Shay rose and took a few steps back from the cliff. “He's down here,” she yelled. “He fell. He's alive, but injured.” She pushed back through the bushes a few more steps until she could spot the figure above her. “If you follow the edge of the shelf toward the south, it drops down enough—” Before she could finish, he sprinted away. Less than a minute later, she could hear the snapping of branches as he charged back up the ravine toward her.
How did he climb down so fast?

The next instant, he appeared, moving quickly for someone more rugby than soccer. “Where is he?” The skin around his blue eyes was tight with fear.

The same shade of blue as hers. For a split second, she started to say something, then gave herself a mental slap.
Others have blue eyes. It's not just us
, she reminded herself.

“Is he your son?” She led him over to the thicket.

Not answering, the man hunkered down next to the small form. As she watched, he cupped the boy's cheek with a workman's hand and leaned closer. “Cor, lad.”

One eyelid fluttered, then opened. The other eyelid followed. Shay could see the same hue—
an uncanny blue—
as the man's. A faint warning bell of
no effing way
began ringing in her head.

“D-Da?”

“Here, son.”

“Mmm…arm hurts.”

“I know.” The man gazed up and down the boy's body. “What else?”

“I-I don't…know. All over.”

Shay knelt next to them. “Sir, I'm a heal… I mean, I have medical training. Let me examine him more thoroughly, then we'll figure out how to get him to a hospital.”

“No. No hospital.”

“What?”

“It's…against our religion.” The man handed Shay's shirt to her. “Thank you for helping him. I'll take it from here.”

“Look, he may have internal injuries, maybe a broken collarbone. Most likely a concussion as well. He needs to be—”

“No.”

“At least let me help you—”

“I dinna ask ye for yer aid.”

It was the Irish brogue as much as the abrupt dismissal that made Shay's eyes widen, then narrow. The warning bell began pealing louder. Out of habit, she glanced at the man's neck.
No torc. But that doesn't mean anything
. “So, do you have a plan?”

“I'll immobilize his arm, then carry him home,” he said. She noticed he was careful to veil his accent again.

Shay tried once more. “You'll cause more injury by moving him then by letting a trained professional—”

“I know injuries and how to treat them, miss.” He nailed her with a glance. “And I would not put my son in danger without making certain I would not harm him further.”

She acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

“I do.” He slid his hands under the boy. “Son, I'm going to move your arm. It will hurt.”

“‘Kay,” he whispered.

The man paused, then spoke without looking at Shay. “Would you hold his other hand?”

Shay shifted to the boy's far side. She took his hand, noting how cold and clammy it felt. “You squeeze all you want, Cor. Okay?” The boy nodded.

As the father eased the trapped limb free, the wail of pain made both man and woman wince. After laying the arm across the boy's chest, the man peeled off his own T-shirt. “Help me sit him up. I'll use this”—he indicated the shirt—“for a makeshift sling.”

Focused on her patient, she nodded. “You could've used mine, but go ahead.” She looked up. “Let me hold—”

Shay's jaw sagged. For a split second, she couldn't move, her eyes riveted on the tattoo decorating the man's bare right shoulder. The Celtic knot formed an emerald spider web over the swell of muscle. “Son of a bitch,” she breathed. Her gaze traveled up. “I should've guessed.”

“Guessed what?” Apprehension clouded the man's face.

Without speaking, Shay reached up and pulled her tank top lower to reveal the identical mark tattooed over her heart. “That you're Fey, too.”

3

A
N INVISIBLE FIST SOCKED
Bann in the gut. “I don't know who or what you think I am, but—”

“Really? You're really going to try to convince me that you got
that
tat
on a whim
?” The woman pointed her chin at his arm. “That's the mark of our people.”

Wanting to scoop Cor up in his arms and bolt, Bann shook his head. “You're wrong. This is just a—”

“And judging from its look”—she learned forward to peer more closely—“you had it done with a thorn.”

“No, I—”

“By a Druid. In the Old Way. Yeah, I've seen this before.” She nailed him with her gaze. “Nah, you're Fey, like me. A Knight of the Tuatha Dé Danaan,” she declared, using the more modern pronunciation of
tua day dhanna
.

“No longer.”

She started to speak, then, to his surprise, she simply nodded and pointed to her own tattoo. “You know I'm a Healer, right?”

“I do now.”

“Then will you let me help your son?”

It was the whimper of pain and sudden spasm of Cor's legs that made him nod. Without further words, he and the woman lifted the child and wrapped Bann's shirt around him, tucking it tight and immobilizing the injured arm.

“Lay him back down. I want to make sure there aren't any internal injuries.” The woman pulled a smooth white stone from her pocket and laid it on her open palm. Bann could see a hint of pink skin through the pebble's translucent edges. It began to glow with a pale light as she cupped her fingers around it. “I'm Shay Doyle, by the way.”

Bann tightened his lips at the sight of the moonstone every Tuatha Dé Danaan carried. “Bannerman Boru,” he said after a moment, wondering why he gave his full name. He eased Cor back down. “Almost done, lad.”

“Wanna go home.”

“And we will. Soon.” Guilt gnawed at him over the words he had thrown in the boy's face earlier.

He watched the Healer as she held the moonstone between thumb and fingers, letting the beam spill over Cor. Her features were girl-next-door cute rather than the delicate ebony-haired beauty that had been his wife. Shay's hair, more blonde than red, but not by much, was pulled back in a ponytail. Her whole look and demeanor screamed what his wife used to scornfully call
tomboy
.

Elizabeth used to be scornful of many things.

Staring with slightly unfocused eyes, she ran the light along Cor's length, as if she could see through clothes and skin and right into his body.

Which she probably can
. Even after all this time, awe filled Bann at the magical abilities of Healers. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until she sat back on her heels with a nod of relief.