The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale (8 page)

 

CHAPTER NINE

B
rendan walked the streets, passing ­people who were headed home from a night out or just wandering like himself. He was lost in his own thoughts and memories. Changed as the city was, it was still familiar enough that each step only served to stir all the sleeping ghosts of his past.

As Brendan walked past one of the many pubs in Boston that played on the Irish theme, he heard a familiar song: “Thousands Are Sailing.” He smiled bitterly at the irony. If he didn't know better, he'd say God had finally taken notice and was trying to offer comfort. Of course, he did know better. Besides, God's attention was better spent on lost little girls right now.

Brendan was still singing along in his head when he reached the waterfront. Past the New England Aquarium, he stopped to look out over the harbor. Logan Airport was a mass of lights across the water, but he didn't see it. He just saw the bay and the years that had gone by. Even now, he could still smell the coffin ship. Starved bodies, packed like cattle into the hold, praying to every saint they knew that they'd survive the voyage. Even after all this time, he could see the gaunt faces staring up at him and lifeless eyes that somehow managed to still have some hope.

Then another pair of eyes came to his memory.

“I know I can't make it right, but I'll get them for what they did, love.” He rested his head on his hands clutching the railing and took long, deep breaths, trying to keep the tears from breaking through. Years had passed, the city had grown and changed, but her dead face still haunted him like a banshee.

Of course, it was no less than he deserved.

It was there, with the chill wind blowing off the harbor and specters of his past surrounding him, that the other shoe finally dropped.

Brendan nearly jumped out of his socks when the vibration and techno beat erupted in his hand. He almost dropped the bloody thing in the water twice. Dante's face appeared on the screen above his name.

Brendan pressed the Send button and lifted the phone to his ear. “Aye, Dante?”

“Yeah,” Dante's tone was uncharacteristically somber and flat.

“I take it Justin found something out, then?” Brendan glanced up at the stars. About an hour had passed.

“He did.” Dante took a breath. “They have her in an abandoned building in South Bos—­”

“What's the address?”

There was silence on the phone.

“Bloody piece of . . .” Brendan looked at the phone, then put it back to his ear. “Are you there?”

“I'm here.”

“Then what's the bleeding address, already?”

Dante relented and gave him the location of the building. “Look, Brendan, something about this feels wrong. You should wait. I can meet you there with some marshals—­”

“You can if you like,” Brendan said as he began jogging back to his truck. “But I'm not waiting for your bloody committee to decide what needs doing. And I'm not going to promise I'll be leaving anything for you.”

“Shadowed dawn, Brendan, don't be stup—­”

Brendan hit the End button. He couldn't wait for the politics of court to be resolved, and neither could the
girseach
.

His heart began to pound.

This is your chance. You'll be able to tear them apart, to hear their screams and taste their blood. Vengeance, at last.

He pushed the voice down and ran faster.

When he got to the truck, Brendan was breathing heavily, but he wasn't winded. He climbed in, started the engine, and sped off.

The roads were unusually quiet, and he didn't pass a single copper. Nearly a mile from his destination, he turned off the lights and crept into the industrial area. He parked well away from the building, climbed out of the truck, and pulled his sweater off. There was no point in concealing the knives now. There was no telling how many oíche he'd find, but they wouldn't hand the girl over without a fight. He needed to be able to move, and the sweater hindered that.

As he walked down the street, he took in all the scents and sounds. The air was heavy with the smell of fae from every direction, but South Boston was full of them. He didn't hear or see anything as he approached the warehouse, but oíche were especially stealthy buggers. Silently, he moved around the building. They had to know he was coming, but no need to make it easy for them.

He decided to start with the closest steel door. Standing against the wall, Brendan reached over and tried the handle. It was locked. Drawing his knives, he took a breath, said a silent prayer, then turned and kicked the door much harder than he'd intended.

It came off its hinges and flew several feet into the building.

“
Damnú air,
” he whispered, then stepped inside.

It was silent and black as pitch. He was cautious of every step and made as little sound as possible. His stealth wasn't out of fear of being detected. Even if they hadn't heard the door smashing in, which was unlikely, they'd hear his heartbeat. He just didn't want to miss any sound they might make.

Moving through what looked to be old offices, Brendan came to a closed door. There was something on the other side; the smell of fae and magic was heavy. Again standing to one side, he tried the handle. This one was unlocked, so he pushed the door open a little. Looking through the narrow slit revealed a large, empty warehouse. Everything was quiet, so he pushed the door open all the way, his back still to the wall.

Nothing happened.

He swallowed, almost wishing there'd been a bomb, or gunfire, or a flock of oíche pouncing on him. He chanced a quick look and saw a single light across the large expanse of darkness. Nestled in the ring of illumination was a form wrapped in a pink blanket. Curly red hair poked out of one end.

Through gritted teeth, he let out a breath.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the sounds and smells. There was the faintest hint of something he couldn't place. Shampoo, maybe? He also thought he could hear breathing and a heartbeat, too fast to be an adult.

Let me loose on them. You know that isn't the girl. Take your vengeance. You want the blood and you know it.

“No chance in hell!” Brendan said silently. “I'm not going to risk the
girseach
. And even if it isn't her, there are plenty of innocents outside.”

So what? It would serve them right to die if they didn't escape. Hunter and prey, you know that. No one is truly innocent.

Brendan closed his eyes and fought the monster back down. It wasn't going to happen, not again, not here.

It took a lot of concentration to get his hands to stop shaking and his heartbeat back to normal. When he was sure he had the beast under control, he looked at the bundle. If it was Fiona, he couldn't just leave her there. He sheathed the knife in his left hand and took a deep breath.

“Nothing for it, then,” he whispered.

He sprinted through the doorway and across the dark open space. As he passed the blanket-­wrapped form, he snatched it up with his free hand and kept running. When he reached the far wall, he turned and put his back to it.

The door he'd entered through slammed shut.

No surprise there. The surprise would've been if the doll in his left hand had actually been Fiona. They must've wrapped it in her blanket to get her scent. He dropped the lure and drew his second knife.

This part had been inevitable, and in fact, Brendan had been looking forward to it. The only thing that pissed him off was that odds were Fiona wouldn't be here at all. Justin had set him up and he'd walked right into it.

The single light went out and darkness swallowed the room.

While Brendan had keen eyesight, he did need some light. The oíche, however, didn't. The walls had no cracks, and the windows had been painted over to block any light.

Laughter filled the room, bouncing off the brick walls and making it difficult to find the source.

“You killed my sister, Fian!” said a voice from the darkness. “I'm going to enjoy hearing you scream as I rip you apart.”

Brendan closed his eyes to combat the instinct to try to see. He focused on using his nose and ears. “Don't you worry none, Tink,” he said. “You'll be seeing her soon enough.”

More laughter.

Brendan couldn't be sure, but he thought he counted twelve of them. At least they couldn't sneak up behind him. They'd have to face him head-­on, and that was something, anyway.

A flurry of sound came at him.

Brendan ducked and rolled.

Claws raked across his shoulder. He shoved the pain aside and spun, cutting through empty air.

“Missed me!” mocked a new voice. “Here we thought you were supposed to be this big, scary warrior.”

More laughter came from all directions.

“Let's get on with it, then,” Brendan said from a crouch. “You lot are boring the hell out of me.”

Another rush of air and he thrust his knife into the darkness where he'd just been. A scream of pain pierced the black, followed by a wafting trail of white lights that escaped the wound as he drew his knife back.

Brendan pounced on the wounded oíche, catching him from behind, and dragged his knives across the dark faerie's neck.

The shrieks stopped as the head came off and a shower of white sparks erupted like a volcano, momentarily casting away the darkness.

That's when Brendan saw his mistake.

He'd miscounted. There were easily two dozen oíche staring at him from around the huge room. Some sat on the rafters. Others clung to the walls, and still more crouched on the ground in front of him. All of them stared at him with murderous black eyes.

Now, driven by rage they attacked en masse just as the darkness returned.

Brendan spun, twisted, rolled, and slashed, but it wasn't enough. There were just too many of them. Claws raked over his body, shredding his shirt. Warm blood ran over his skin and soaked the tattered fabric. Small trails of lights were visible here and there as he landed the occasional hit with his knives but it wasn't enough to help.

A hard blow across Brendan's face sent him spinning and he landed hard, the fall knocking the wind out of him. His knives slipped from his hands and skittered across the floor.

The oíche were on him before he could get his breath back, or even blink. They pummeled him with fists, kicked him with heavy boots, and tore into him with claws. He could hear maniacal laughter, but it seemed far away. He wasn't going to stay conscious much longer.

Let me loose!

No, never again!

Someone rolled him onto his back.

“Oh, look at you,” the oíche said. “The big—­scary—­Fian,” it said, punctuating its words with blows to Brendan's face.

Brendan's mouth filled with blood. The taste brought his senses back, and the monster inside him fought against the chains of his will and the magic of the tattoos with renewed vigor.

Let go! You want it! Let them reap the whirlwind! You know it's the only way!

“Where's the girl?” Brendan asked, and he spat blood in the face of the oíche kneeling over him.

Raucous laughter came from all around. “Shut up!” the oíche shouted at his companions. Leaning down close to Brendan's face, he said, “I guess you'll die never knowing. Don't worry, though. We have special plans for her. Mmm mm.”

If you don't let me loose, the girl dies!

Brendan clenched his jaw and closed his eyes tight.

There has to be another way, he thought. If I can hold on, Dante will show—­

There's no time! You're dying! Stop fighting it! They've brought this on themselves. If you don't and the girl dies, it'll be on your soul, again.

Brendan set his jaw and whispered, “
Tar amach, a Bháis
.” The tattoo in the center of his chest started to burn.

Rage, pure, unbridled fury, burning with the heat of hell's furnace, made its way through him, and Brendan smiled up at the oíche as his blue eyes smoldered.

Though the change happened in an instant, Brendan felt time slow to a crawl. Strength surged from the tattoo, renewing and boosting his own. The injuries were buried beneath the wrath and thirst for death and blood. The pain didn't go away, it just didn't matter anymore, and neither did the darkness.

“
Díoltas
!” Brendan shouted. His knives slid across the floor and leapt into his hands.

The oíche's eyes went wide as Brendan loosed a roar that would've given the devil himself pause, then he drove the blades into the sides of his prey, using the knives and his knees to toss the faerie over his head like a rag doll. It flew through the air and smacked into a pillar headfirst, its skull cracking, and was consumed in a roiling cloud of swirling lights.

Brendan was on his feet in an instant. He bellowed as he cleared the dozen paces between him and another oíche in a single leap, slamming into the wretched little thing. Landing on top of it, Brendan drove his knives into its shoulders. The blades went through the bone and into the concrete, pinning the creature down.

The oíche screamed, high, shrill, and laced with pain and fear.

Brendan felt his blood sing in response.

Your claws! Use your claws! Letting the darkness take them is too good for them, too fast. Bathe in their blood!

Brendan clenched and unclenched his fists, then extended his fingers. Sharp claws emerged from the tips, and he tore into the screaming prey. Thick black blood poured out. Now, there was only the fire burning in Brendan's heart, the enthralling feeling of their gore on his hands, the panicked shrieks, and smell of death that soaked the air.

Brendan looked around the room, absently drawing one of his knives from the pinned oíche's shoulder. Seeing the mayhem and pain he'd caused sent another wave of exhilaration through him. Without looking down, he drove the knife into the oíche's heart. There was a sudden eruption of darkness and lights beneath him.