Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (19 page)

Exiting the parochial house, he was slapped in the face with a rain-laden wind gust. He pulled his coat tighter and ran to the church. Kathleen Kelly was sitting in one of the pews waiting for him when he arrived. She was wearing a dark blue coat and a brown scarf over her hair. Her face was

etched with worry.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, Kathleen,” he said. “Is everything all right at home?”

She nodded. “Everything is fine. It’s only that I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I only wish to talk.”

She looked away and bit her lip. “I know, Father. I told him as much, but he doesn’t like this at all.”

“But he agreed to see me anyway?”

“Aye,” she said. “I told him it was for our Liam.” She wasn’t telling him everything—that was obvious in her expression.

“Is there something I should be aware of, Kathleen? You seem nervous.”

Shaking her head, she turned away. “We should get going.”

“Is there some sort of danger?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to cover his fear. “It’s only that I’m a wee bit disconcerted. I’ve never actually met a mythological creature before.”
At least,
he thought,
not one I wasn’t under orders to kill on sight.
The trouble was, while he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of such a position, hundreds of years of evidence declared it to be the right one. However, everything Kathleen Kelly had told him, everything he’d seen in her son, indicated otherwise, and he had to be sure.

She smiled and got up from the pew. “We should go, Father.” She crossed herself and genuflected before turning her back on the altar, and they walked out together. The weather seemed to be letting up somewhat as she followed him to his car.

“Did you bring the photos?” he asked.

“Yes, Father. I have them with me.” After getting into the old Ford, she dug around in her handbag and produced three snapshots.

The first seemed to have been taken on a hill. There was a blanket spread on the ground, and a young Kathleen sat on it next to a lanky man with wild black hair. The second was taken outside a pub. The young Kathleen was laughing as was the man in the picture. The third was of the same man alone staring out of a window, the light on his face casting shadows. It was a lovely shot, and Father Murray could see years of worry in the brooding expression. Studying each, he saw where the son was slight, the father was muscled. “He’ll be easy to recognize, I see.”

“Liam does resemble his father.”

“He doesn’t look terribly mythological,” Father Murray said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

She rewarded him with a smile. “He doesn’t, does he?”

“Let’s get going, then.” Father Murray handed the photos back. He turned the ignition key and then steered onto the road, heading west as she directed. He listened to the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers until they’d cleared the final army checkpoint on the edge of town and then asked, “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“We’ll meet on a hill. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He nodded, feeling more relaxed. It wasn’t long before she told him to pull over, and they got out. He missed his umbrella at once, but she’d told him specifically not to bring one. Heart in mouth, he followed her up the hill. The top was crowned with old growth oak trees, and the clearing inside sheltered a ring of ancient standing stones. The stones weren’t tall, only three or four feet high, and their weathered surfaces were covered in lichen. He wasn’t sure he liked the feel of the place. While it had a peaceful quality it vibrated with power. He might even have called it holy were it not in the middle of a farmer’s field. It smelled of freshly turned earth and growing things.

A wind rustled through the oaks, and rainwater splashed down upon them as if the trees were slow-moving dogs shaking the moisture from their fur. He heard something in the rush of the leaves. It sounded like a whispered name.

“Kathleen.”

It gave him a shiver.

“Kathleen, my love.”

“I’m here,” she said. “I’ve Father Murray with me.”

“I can see that,” the voice said, gaining solidity. It grew hard as if it carried years of controlled fury. “Step away from him. Come to me.”

Father Murray searched the clearing and didn’t see anyone. Kathleen moved forward and hesitated. It seemed she didn’t see him either. Father Murray tensed up. He was beginning to think that perhaps he’d made a terrible mistake.

“Here, Kathleen.”

She started and then walked toward one of the oaks to the left. As soon as she was within arm’s reach of the tree, a shadow moved from behind the trunk, and the man from the photos appeared. He looked older, and there was a grey streak running through his hair on the right side. He was dressed in the same belted long white linen shirt, pegged jeans and short black boots, however. He briefly looped an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. Then he positioned himself in front of her and drew a short sword made of bronze.

“Move into the circle, priest,” he said. He was tall, and Father Murray could see where Liam got his height.

Father Murray put up his hands. His heart was shuddering inside his chest, and he was sweating in spite of the cold and damp. “I’ve only come to talk.”

“And that is why you bring iron into this place? I can smell it upon you.” His voice lowered to a growl, and his eyes flashed red. “I said, move into the circle.”

All isn’t lost,
Father Murray thought.
He hasn’t attacked—not yet.
Stepping into the center of the clearing, Father Murray glanced around him but didn’t spy any other demons. “You would be unwise to kill me. I’ve been protecting your son.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s different,” Father Murray said, stopping. “You know he is. He is why I’m here to talk.”

“That’s what I understand. But first I’ll have you shed your weapons.”

“He doesn’t have any,” Kathleen said. “He’s a priest. Priests don’t carry—”

“I love you, Kathleen. But keep your promise. Stay out of this. I know what I’m about,” the creature said. “Priest, do as I said.”

“I’ll lay down my arms if you agree to do the same.”

The Fallen smiled and his eyes glittered like the darkest rubies. “All right.” Slowly, and without looking away, the creature bent down and laid the bronze sword on the grass. “I do this for Kathleen and the love I bear for her and my son. She had me swear that I would listen to what you have to say. Therefore, I’m oath bound to do so. But understand, I’d have sooner killed you for what you and your kind have done.”

Father Murray nodded. He hesitated and then fished the bottle of holy water out of his pocket as well as the rosary.

Bran snorted. “I said your weapons, not your talismans. You may keep those.”

Glancing up to see the expression on the demon’s face, Father Murray was puzzled when he saw the creature didn’t seem disturbed. He reached underneath coat and jacket and drew the knife. He heard Kathleen gasp. “There,” he said, laying it upon the wet grass. “That is everything.”

“You may call me Bran.”

“Please call me Joe.”

Bran nodded and then sat in the grass. “We shall talk, then, Joe Murray, priest.”

Following Bran’s example, Father Murray sat with his legs folded like an Indian holy man.
This is going well,
he thought. Kathleen rested with her back against the oak. She still looked worried, but at least now he understood her fears.

“What is it you want from me?” Bran asked.

“In part, I’d like to understand a few things. Ask some questions.”

“You may ask.”

“Who are you?”

Bran tilted his head, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you asking for my name?”

“I’m trying to understand as much as I can of your situation. Kathleen says you’re a púca.”

“It is what I am.”

“You’re a shape changer? A demon? A spook that haunts the lonely roads and topples drunks from horses? A vengeful animal spirit? Dark. Half man, half goat. You take the form of a great black horse and drown those who would dare ride—”

Bran laughed.

“Is something wrong?” Father Murray asked.

“Kathleen told me of an American film. According to it, I’m an eight foot tall white rabbit that wears a hat. Do I look like any of those things to you?”

Father Murray shrugged and felt a little foolish. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Aye, well. You don’t much look like a murderous religious fanatic. We all have our problems, I suppose.”

“You don’t take different forms?”

“Are you a priest?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. That just proves some things are what they seem.”

“You’re nothing like I expected.”

Bran tilted his head again. “And what is it you expected?”

“You have concerns for the humans around you. Kathleen. Liam. The Fallen aren’t known for such behavior.”

A sneer pulled at Bran’s mouth. “Fallen, am I? And yet, you consider my son to be ‘human’?”

“His mother is human. He acts like a human.”

“And tell me, what is it to be human?”

“We live, die, love, hate, fear. We destroy, but we also create. We hope—”

“And that is what makes us so different, you and me? I could say the same.”

Father Murray paused. He remembered the portrait Kathleen had shown him in the car and thought about everything he’d seen so far in the man in front of him.
He’s genuinely concerned for his family.
Father Murray sighed. “You’re at war with us. With humans. What is it you fear? Why do you fight us?”

Bran blinked. “We do not fight mortals. We fight the evil you brought here to our land. The Fallen.”

“What?”

“You heard me, priest. They came here with you. And to make matters worse, you’ve gone about telling all who would listen that we’re demons. Us. Those that were here before you. Those whose land you walk upon,” Bran said. “We, who’ve awoken from a long sleep to aid our people when most needed. And you and your ones killing us at every opportunity. Turning our own against us. And us fighting the same crossed war.”

Father Murray felt his mouth drop open. “You’re not Fallen?”

“The Good Folk. The Fair Folk. Fairies. Legends. Myths. Ghosts. Call us what you will, but call us demons or fallen angels at your peril,” Bran said and then sighed. “I suppose it’s the way of invasions. Did we not demonize the Firbolg when we first came to Ireland?”

“I don’t understand. You say you’re fighting for humanity?”

“It’s what I said, you holy idiot. We don’t want those things here anymore than you do. They corrupt everything they touch.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Father Murray said, feeling sick. “You’re saying that I—we—the Church has been killing allies?”

Bran said, “The only reason I’m here talking to you is the service you provided me and mine when you researched that coin. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And you did it in spite of knowing who it was for. But most of all, I’m here because all this time you’ve watched over my son and never once harmed him.”

“Proof. I have to have proof of this and get it to the bishop. At once.”

“What could possibly change their minds about us after all this time?”

The moisture on the grass was seeping through Father Murray’s coat and trousers. He shivered. “You could come with me. Talk to them.”

“And be shot full of iron or carved to pieces on a dissection table? I think not,” Bran said, gathering his things and getting up. “Enough.”

“Wait,” Father Murray said. “I’ve more questions.”

“You’re not here to talk. You’re only here to collect information to use against us.” Bran wiped his sword dry, sheathed it and then walked to Kathleen who stood up. “I’m no fool.”

“Do you know Fionn mac Cumhaill?”

Bran paused and turned around. “Why do you ask?”

“Because your Liam told me that a creature with filed teeth attacked him the day he was first arrested. He said it mentioned the mac Cumhaill before it did so.”

Stepping closer, Bran asked, “Did he wear a blood-soaked cap and hobnailed boots?”

Father Murray tried to remember how the creature had been described, but he hadn’t paid much attention, assuming it to be only a demon at the time. “He said it was dressed as a British paratrooper. That’s all.”

“Oh, no,” Kathleen said, “a Para? You’re sure?”

“What is it, Kathleen?” Bran asked.

“The Paras,” Kathleen said. “They wear a beret. It’s red. It’s part of the uniform.”

Bran clenched his fist. “The Redcap.”

“What does this mean?” Father Murray asked. “Is it one of your ones? Are there factions? I need to know.”

Bran turned to Kathleen and grasped her arms. “I’m so sorry. All this time. He hadn’t moved against you. I didn’t think he knew of either of you. I thought he was only after my men.”

“That was years ago, and nothing has happened since,” Kathleen said. “Maybe it’s dead now.”

“He’s not dead,” Bran said. “He’s in prison. Biding his time. I should know. I put him there myself. And there he’ll stay. I’ll see to it.”

Father Murray got to his feet. The back of his trousers were soaked through, and his teeth were chattering. “
There is more in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,”
he thought.
Maybe Shakespeare knew more than how to turn a pretty phrase.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Bran faced him, giving him a long judging stare. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” Father Murray said. “I don’t know you all that well but having met you… well, strange as you are, I think I believe you.”

“Not killing any more of us would go a long way,” Bran said.

“I’ll talk to the bishop. Present the idea. Perhaps I can get a delegation together. Discuss a truce or a partnership. I can’t promise they’ll be open-minded, not at the start. But I can try.”

Bran put out his hand. “I thank you at least for that.”

Father Murray nodded. “Can I—I mean, would it be possible to contact you again?” He looked down at the offered hand and with only the slightest hesitation, took it. Bran’s skin was cool but quickly warmed.