Unholy Blue (25 page)

Cor moved up and jogged along beside her, his teeth chattering so loudly she could hear it over the footsteps and heavy breathing of their captors.
Still, he'll stay warmer running
, she thought, reviewing each stage of hypothermia in her head.

“Keep moving, kiddo,” she murmured. She glanced down at his face.

Cor's cheeks and nose were red and splotchy with cold, and his face was pinched in misery. As he stumbled along, he held himself stiffly, trying to prevent wet fabric from touching his skin. Shay's heart twisted when he moved closer and tried to tuck his tied hands under the tail of her fleece. One of the Fir Blogs slapped him away.

“You bastard,” Shay snarled at the creature. “It's not going to hurt for him to warm his fingers.”

To Shay's surprise, Lebor barked an order over his shoulder. “Let the whelp alone.”

She slowed, allowing Cor to slide his hands under her jacket. She could feel his chilled digits through her T-shirt. Her own hands had already gone from cold to numb.

When the pack slowed, Cor ran into Shay, lost in his own private misery, then staggering back a step. Still in the lead, Lebor veered off the road. The others followed.

Tucked in the trees was a small, windowless storage shed, built from corrugated metal and fiberglass walls. Dried grass grew right up to its door, which was secured by a shiny new chain and padlock. On the door, a sign read
Property of High Springs Regional Parks System. No Unauthorized Admittance
. The letters were faded and pockmarked. As they drew nearer, Shay noticed that, while the chain was new, the rusted-out latch had seen better days.

Lebor unchained the door, the metal links clinking. With a grunt, he yanked the door open, scraping it through the grass, then motioned Shay and Cor inside. When she hesitated, two other Fir Bolgs shoved her through the doorway; only a quick movement and years of combat training kept her from falling. Without being told, Cor scooted in behind her.

She turned and faced their captor. “What are you—”

The door slammed shut. A rattle as the chain was wrapped around the handle, then the
click
of the padlock. She could hear the Fir Bolgs speaking in angry tones, arguing. Their voices faded as they moved away.

The gloomy shed stank of enclosed space, mice feces, and the sour reek of chemicals stored too long. Only a thin sliver of light made its way around the door
and through the skylight set in the ceiling; the small square was covered in frosted Plexiglas.

At Cor's faint sob of misery, Shay began to work at her bonds. She turned around. “Can you untie me?”

“Still got m-m-my knife,” he stammered, teeth chattering now that he was standing still. “They d-d-didn't know I had it.” A soft
snick
, then icy fingers fumbled at her wrists; she winced when Cor nicked her.

After a long minute, the cords gave way. Flexing her shoulders and elbows while wiggling her fingers, she winced when her circulation kicked into gear. “Good thing you were packing.” Taking the blade, she sliced through his cords with one move, then folded the blade away and tucked it back in his front pocket. “Give me your hands.” She rubbed each small wrist, one after the other, massaging warmth and blood into the boy's fingers. “Move them. Good. Now, to get the rest of you warm.”

She looked around the room. Storage boxes were piled up haphazardly in one corner. A folded sheet of heavy plastic sat on top. She reached for it and unfolded it. “Clean enough.” She shook it out and spread it on the middle of the floor. “Stand on this—gods know what kind of poop is all over this floor. Strip down to whatever layer is dry.”

She helped Cor peel off his soaked jacket, then T-shirt, dumping both at his feet on the plastic. White and pinkish blotches marked his torso. She checked his jeans.
Damp in patches, but not too bad. And his shoes seem okay
.

“Shay,” Cor whimpered. “Still c-c-cold.”

“We're going to fix that right now.” With that, she peeled off her fleece and T-shirt. Clad only in a camisole and jeans, she slipped her shirt, still warm with her own body heat, over Cor's head and tugged it down. “Guess we're family now,” she joked. She sighed when he just stared blearily at her, still shivering. “Next layer,” she said, guiding his arms into the sleeves of her fleece, then zipped it up to his chin. “There. Better?”

Cor nodded. Lifting his arm, he used the dangling end of the sleeve to rub warmth back into his face. “Better.”

“Good.” Ignoring her own sudden goose bumps, she went to investigate the boxes in the corner.
There might be something useful in one of these. Like a sweater and parka for me and a fully loaded AK-47. Just to save me the bother of having to kill them one by one with Cor's switchblade. Not to mention what
Bann
is going to do to them once he catches up
. She opened the nearest box.
Gods, I hope he doesn't do anything stupid. Like come alone
.

“Shay?”

She glanced over. Cor was sitting on the plastic, knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them for extra warmth. Grateful to see that the shivering was fading to an occasional shudder, she tugged the collar up tighter around his ears, then fluffed his hair, trying to dry it out as best she could. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Are those F-F-Fir Bolgs going to kill us?”

Shay knew Cor's stammer was as much from the memory of what another pack of Fir Bolgs had done to him, and to his dad, a month ago, as from the cold. Both father and son were still recovering from the brutal
attack that had left Bann half-dead and Cor traumatized.

“
Those
dumb nuts?” She jabbed a thumb at the door and blew a raspberry. “Nah. No way.”

Cor blinked. “How do you know?”

“Because I won't let them.”

“But you don't have a weapon.”

“I'll use
your
knife.”

“There's five of them.”

“So? Didn't your dad tell you that one female Knight equals three male Knights? And one male Knight equals five Fir Bolgs or ten
Amandán
? So, if we do the math right, those a-holes out there are actually outnumbered fifteen to one.”
I think. Maybe. And would this be the one time in my life I use algebra?
Shaking free of
that
random thought, she forced a grin. “Plus, Bann will be along any minute. If he's polite and says please, I'll let him have one of the bad guys.” The lack of a smile on the young face made her heart ache.

“Shay?”

“Cor.”

“What about Sam?”

Crap. I was hoping he wouldn't ask
. “He took off pretty fast when that creature released him. Which was the smart thing to do. And I bet he's returned already and is waiting for us when we get back home.” Anxious to change the subject, she began jogging in place to stay warm. As she bounced from foot to foot—and wishing she had put on a bra instead of the thin cami—she studied the door, noting the way it sat off-kilter in the frame.
I bet those hinges are half-rusted away
.

She jogged over and gave it a kick. Dust filtered down. She kicked it again, this time focusing on a spot closest to the lowest hinge. With a dull crack, it popped loose. Hanging on one hinge and its chained handle, the door sagged, letting in a modicum of gray light through the narrow gap.

“Knock that shit off,” called a voice from outside. “Or we'll tie your legs up again.”

Damn. They're still out there
. She bent over and eyed the intact hinge.
Even so…
Going back to the pile of boxes, she started going through them again. After a moment, Cor joined her.

“Feeling warmer?”

“Yeah. What are you doing?”

“Looking for anything useful.” She continued to search through each box. Finding nothing but paint cans and a mostly empty jug of hydraulic fluid in the first box, she moved on to the second one. “Like tools.”

“Tools?” Even as he asked, Cor started opening another box.

“Tools. We're busting out of this joint.”

“What about
them
?”

She paused in her search and gazed down at Cor. Love and a fierce protectiveness sent a wave of righteous warmth through her body. “I got a plan.”

W
HAT IS TAKING HIM
so bleedin' long?
Bann glanced at the man kneeling on the ground a few feet away. He paced in front of the gate, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the haft of his iron blade with every step. Under his skin, the warp spasm simmered like a pot about to boil over.
Hold tight
, he told himself.
Time enough for that when we've caught up with them
.

“These tracks,” Gideon Lir said, examining overlapping boot prints heading north toward a jumble of boulders, “are the freshest and deepest. Whoever made them is either very heavy or—”

“Or carrying something.”

“Aye. So, I agree with your assessment—your family is alive. Which means they have value. Which also means we have time. How much, I do not know.” He rose. Frowning, he eyed the fence. “How did the enemy get past your wards?”

“I'm not certain.” Bann zipped up his jacket, then made sure his extra weapon, a bronze knife worn on his left hip, was firmly sheathed. “Yet.”

“Did you inform Doyle what has happened?”

“I tried. Neither answered, not even their landline, which is unusual for them.”

“Then they are likely under siege themselves. If your wards are breached, then Hugh's and Ann's may be as well.”

Having come to that very realization himself, Bann nodded. Suddenly, another thought assailed him.
Sam!
Scanning the area for any sign of the young thing, he called softly. “Sam. Here, boyo!” He waited a moment, then gave a whistle.

“The pup?” Gideon asked.

He nodded and called again, willing the small yellow body to appear around the nearest rock. For Cor's sake. “Sam?” Nothing.

Adding to the list of why he had a hate/hate relationship with the gods, Bann gave up. Leaving the gate open, just in case the puppy was somehow alive and might return home, he signaled for Gideon to take the lead. He blinked in surprise when the older Knight held up a hand and nailed him in place with a stern eye that reminded him sharply of his master.

“Bannerman Boru,” Gideon said, a warning in his voice. “We need to keep our wits about us. Their lives depend on our ability to strike when the time be right.” He wrapped his fingers around Bann's biceps and squeezed in emphasis. “And when
not to
. Use yer head or I'll kick yer arse.”

In spite of everything, a corner of Bann's mouth twitched. “You sound like my old master.”

“A most excellent man, then.”

“Aye, to be sure.” The barbed wire that had been wound around his chest loosened a bit while the barest of hopes relaxed his muscles and sharpened his focus.

As if sensing that, Gideon gave a curt nod. “Right.” The humor in his face faded as he held up his weapon and examined the edge of the bronze blade, a wicked-looking affair with an antler handle that would give Cor the heebie-jeebies if he ever saw it.

The look of ice-blue resolution reminded Bann that this was no ordinary Knight, but a descendent of the Black Hand himself. A thrill ran through Bann's veins when Gideon smiled grimly. “Now. For the hunt.”

Bann smiled back, just as grim.
And then, the slaughter
.

With more than huntsmen's care, the Knights headed into the Garden, following the tracks in a north by northwest direction. As they hiked through the dried underbrush scattered between the towering hoodoo rocks, Bann was impressed by how silently Gideon could move.
Shay was right—he
is
a formidable hunter
.

As if eager to help conceal them, the fog settled lower. Moving with an assurance that helped ease the knot in Bann's gut, the Black Hand led the way at a pace they both could keep up for a day and a night if needs be. Meanwhile, Bann guarded their backs.
‘Twould be my shitty luck for a pack of
Amandán
to catch us unaware
.

After half an hour, Gideon slowed, then halted and squatted down. He pointed at a patch of bare ground that was more sand than dirt and embossed with multiple footprints. “Boru. Look, you.”

Bann took a knee and studied the jigsaw puzzle of prints. Suddenly, one print—small-boy-sized—jumped out at him. Next to it, he caught another, a little longer and slender, and with a distinct waffle pattern. He reached out and touched it with a finger.

“Arrogant bastards,” Gideon said, keeping his voice low, “to have left off trying to hide their passage. These tracks are less than thirty minutes old. I'll wager they thought they were far enough away to set down Shay and your son.”

“
They
being the Tullys.”

“Unless the
Amandán
have taken to wearing boots.” Gideon hesitated, then added. “Or we may be tracking Fir Bolgs.”

“We eliminated that pack. Last month.”

“The mob that was serving the Stag Lord—yes, Annwen had mentioned that to me. But there are other Fir Bolgs that have recently moved into this area left vacant by the dead pack. They be creatures that are always seeking to increase their territory. Knowing how our ancient foes feel about us, Cernunnos could have easily recruited more.”

Gods, not Fir Bolgs
. Bann's bowels churned at the thought of what being captured by those creatures had done to his son. He stood and ran a none-too-steady hand down his face. Gideon rose as well, studying Bann.

“There is more to this tale.” A statement, not a question. Before Bann could speak, Gideon laid a hand on his shoulder. “You need not elaborate. Those foul creatures' predilections are well-known.”

The old guilt almost clotheslined him. Shrugging off the comforting hand, he turned away, bile burning his throat. He swallowed the remorse back down. Again. Tried to focus on the task at hand. Again. The memory of Shay laying down the law to him, after father and son had gotten free of the Fir Bolgs, filled in his head: