Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (47 page)

“How she liked it.”

You like it. I can feel it.

No!

Another Sanders. How?

“Each took their turn at your wife. Can you imagine what that was like? You can, can’t you? Who better than you?”

“Don’t.” Ice-cold terror pinned Liam and he had to force the word over a numb tongue. The handcuff popped off his left wrist. The tingling under his skin instantly became unbearable. He doubled over. Wrath would warp his bones and burn his skin. There was no stopping it.

“He could’ve gotten you out, you know,” Henry said. “Our father. He visited the prison, didn’t he?”

The wolfhound.
An image from the Kesh drifted to the surface amongst the chaos roiling of his mind. A wolfhound in no man’s land—the area between the fences—had not been possible. Some part of him had known it then even though he hadn’t given it much thought.

“Ahhhh, yes,” Henry said. “He could have prevented it.” “What is he saying?” Bran asked. Liam dropped to his knees.
Not this. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please. Not this.

“Yes.” Henry leaned close and whispered, “I know. Because I sent him to you. Philip Sanders was a descendant. And he told me everything before he died. Everything. Should I tell them?”

“No!”
Shut him up. NOW! Kill him before it’s too late.
Liam tasted dirt before he realized he was down. Scents and sensation flooded in as the monster took charge. Bones rippled beneath his skin—even the broken ones. The world was agony, shame and rage, and nothing else.

“Take your revenge, William Ronan Kelly,” Henry said. “I compel you.”

Yes. Kill them all,
the monster howled.
Everyone. Kill.

In the chaos he heard singing. The tune was distant but powerful—beautiful and profane. The air grew thick. Sounds became muffled as if trapped inside a bubble. The humiliating lack of self-control made Liam feel sick and disgusted.
Mortified.
By the time the monster got to its feet—
paws
—Henry and the Fallen had retreated outside the stone circle, leaving Bran, Father Murray and his mother inside. The monster charged at Henry, slamming into what felt like a solid wall.

Henry clicked his tongue in contempt. “Púcas. Not very bright, I’m afraid.”

The monster leapt up to lunge at Henry a second time and once more met with that invisible wall. Dazed, Liam was able to wrest some control from the monster.

“You’re trapped inside, you cretin. And there you will remain until I’m done with you,” Henry said. “Kill them. You can’t refuse. You can’t even resist. I possess your full name as spoken by your mother. William Ronan Kelly. I hereby invoke it.”

The monster whirled, panting. Its whole body trembled with Liam’s efforts to resist.

You don’t have all of me,
Liam shouted at Henry from the back of the monster’s brain.
Ma didn’t tell you everything.
The thought was like a beam of sunlight in the darkness.
I am William Ronan
Monroe
Kelly. It is a small difference, but I’m still my own.
Nonetheless, Liam wasn’t sure how long he could defy the order.

The others had grouped together for safety. Father Murray held out the crucifix of his rosary, terrified. In his other hand he had an open bottle of what Liam thought might be holy water. The cork was in one corner of his mouth. The monster thought he looked ridiculous. Bran—
father
—had positioned himself in front of Liam’s mother as if to shield her. His hands

were trapped together in steel cuffs but raised in defense.

“Won’t.”
He doesn’t have my soul. Think. There has to be a way out,
Liam thought.
Something he hasn’t planned for.

“I said kill them! I invoke your name!”

The monster roared and for a moment Liam was blind, but he could taste salty warm blood.

Liam thought,
I will not do this.

I can. And I will,
the monster thought back.
You don’t deserve to live. You’re weak. Nothing. Threaten me, will you? I’ll bury you so far, so deep in the dark you’ll fade into memory. Then I’ll see to them. I’ll do for them all. And I’ll be forever free of you.

Liam was shoved under the surface of a midnight bog and rapidly sank in its cold depths. Frantic, he battled against it but couldn’t find purchase. Worse, the more he struggled the more he sank.
I’m the stronger one.
Down and down. Deeper.
Die.
The monster’s voice followed him, pushing him farther.
I stopped Sanders. Not you.
Liam choked.
You’re weak. Didn’t even fight. You would’ve let him—
Liam was smothered with shame
—do it again. You don’t deserve to live.
The increasing weight of blackness squeezed the will from him.
You’re nothing.
An incongruent sense of peace crept in. If he let go, the humiliation would fade with him.
Die.
He drifted, welcoming the numbness now. He didn’t want to remember anymore. And with nothing to anchor him, he began to lose all sense of time.

A whisper penetrated the dark. “Liam.”

He floated, listening.

“Liam, please. It’s me.” It was a woman’s voice. A beam of light appeared. It was dim and weak. He flung out a hand toward it and felt an almost imperceptible warmth. Her words pulled him upward until he could see through the monster’s eyes once more. She was speaking, but he didn’t know her. She looked frightened, and her face was streaked with tears.

“This isn’t you,” she said.

The monster paused.

“Kathleen, get behind me!” It was the tall one. The one he’d bitten.

The sire,
the monster thought.

She didn’t move. “Please, Liam.”

Staring at the woman, Liam’s gaze traveled the length of her body in an attempt to understand who or what she was. She was wearing a brown coat and a blue dress underneath. Torn stockings. Shoes.

The image of a woman’s empty shoe resting on pavement emerged from deep memory.

Never again.
The words echoed with power within his skull.
I am William Ronan Monroe Kelly. And I will not do this. I will not cross that line. I can stop you. I’ve done it before.

The monster’s skin crawled and shifted. It raged against the change, the sensation making him nauseous. Liam blinked, swaying on his feet. When he was sure of himself he whirled and sprinted to the edge of the circle and again was met with that invisible wall. He picked himself up and shook his head to clear it.
There’s a way out. Think.

The woman was screaming. All was chaos. It was difficult to form coherent ideas beyond the compulsion to rip and tear.

Out. Must get out. Break the circle.
He ran again, throwing his shoulder against it, and smacked into one of the stones. The impact registered but not the pain—the impact and a subtle wobble.

The stone.

Liam wrapped his arms around the limestone block and put all his fury into forcing it from the ground. When it didn’t budge he backed up and charged it again. The stone moved several inches. Ignoring what seemed a million hurts and the monster’s protests, he flung himself at it a third time with everything he had. Something in his shoulder snapped, and he screamed in frustration and agony.

The stone block toppled, dredging up dark chunks of damp earth with it.

A shadow leapt over him and was gone. A war-cry shouted in Irish echoed through the trees and was answered by the clatter of drawn swords. There were other shouts, fighting. He lay half-in and half-out of the circle, unable to move. Agony equal to what he’d felt in the cave tore through him, leaving him empty as it passed—vacant but for the dull and heavy throbbing in his shoulder. Still the beast in his brain frenzied. Liam grew more and more tired of fighting it. He yearned for that sense of peace. He was going to black out, he knew. Nothing mattered anymore.

A cool hand smoothed the hair from his face and that woman’s voice called him again. “What have you done to yourself? Stay with me. Please.”

Hands shoved a rectangle of steel into his palm. Cold burned his skin and then the pain and confusion became bearable. The monster’s roars receded. Liam looked into his hand.
The lighter.
For a moment he wondered who would’ve thought to do such a thing, but the clash of battle took his attention to the outside of the circle.

It seemed Bran hadn’t shown up alone after all—or at least not without a plan. A large group of men armed with bronze-tipped spears and swords had charged from the woods, ambushing the Fallen. As Liam watched, Zeriphel leapt an impossible fifteen feet into the air. Ragged black wings sprang from the hump on his back and spread wide. Then a bronze spear arched up, striking him with such force that it not only went right through him, it drove him into a tree and impaled him there. He screeched and squirmed like a pinned insect. The sight of Zeriphel clawing his way up the shaft was horrific, and Liam turned away. He spied Bran in the midst of the fray, wielding a sword two-handed in spite of the cuffs that bound his wrists together. Sceolán was at his side and both had backed the blond BA against another tree.

That’s when Liam spotted Henry.

“Behind you!” Liam stood up and was smashed with agonizing pain as the bones in his shoulder ground together when someone pushed past. His efforts to remain upright cost him, and his vision blurred. He felt more than saw Father Murray next to him.

“Mrs. Kelly! Don’t!”

Blinking, Liam saw his mother run at Henry and then shove him. Off balance, Henry missed his target and sunk his blade deep into a tree instead. Yanking the sword free, Henry turned on his attacker. Liam looked on in horror as his mother raised her hands and winced.

“No! Ma!”

Suddenly, Sceolán was at her side. He struck Henry square in the chest with his blade and twisted. Then Bran’s sword cut deep into Henry’s neck, striking off the Redcap’s head. Sceolán kicked, and the body dropped in a fountain of arterial gore.

A triumphant whoop echoed through the clearing. Liam saw the remaining Fallen were being driven back.

Bran tapped Sceolán’s shoulder in thanks, and Sceolán nodded in return before rejoining the battle. Liam slumped against one of the stones. Outside the circle, his mother reached out to Bran. Bran gave the top of her head a quick kiss, and she backed away from him but she was smiling. He gestured in the direction of an abandoned bronze short sword lying on the ground. She disagreed with whatever he’d suggested. He seemed to insist, and she gave in with a reluctant sigh. He went back to his battle, and she returned to the stone circle, carrying the sword. She stood straighter and was more alert.

Liam didn’t understand why she’d risked herself for a man who’d abandoned her.

“Lie down,” Father Murray said. “You’re hurt.”

Allowing Father Murray to ease him into a sitting position, Liam focused on staying conscious while the battle wound down around them. The tension in his stomach didn’t ease until his mother entered the circle. She dropped the sword as if it were a snake and knelt beside him.

She reached out but stopped herself short of touching him. “Is it bad?”

“No.” If he were honest, he would’ve said he didn’t know. The pain in his shoulder was almost bearable, provided he didn’t move, but now a crush of complex feelings lodged in his throat—anger, guilt, shame, confusion, even relief. He couldn’t look her in the eye. She kept a wary distance as if he were an injured animal that might bite.

He had to admit, it was a reasonable fear.

Father Murray hefted the short sword, gave it a test swing and then took up a protective stance next to the toppled stone. He held a small rock to his eye with his other hand and peered through the hole in the center.

He’s only a priest. He can’t hold them off alone.
Liam decided to take a place next to Father Murray, but his body protested with hundreds of sharp pains. He gritted his teeth and did it anyway. Anything was better than the expectant silence.

“I said, lie still,” Father Murray said, looking over his shoulder.

Just then one of the Fallen—a big one with red hair and scorched auburn wings burst through the trees and charged Father Murray, knocking him over. Again, Liam was slammed with a decaying stench. The fallen angel lifted its pistol and aimed right at him. The gun’s barrel loomed huge. His mother threw her body over his, pressing him flat in an attempt to shield him.

“No, Ma! Don’t!”

Father Murray grabbed the fallen angel’s jaw from behind and yanked back while whispering into its ear. The creature’s eyes went wide, and the gun went off in the same instant Father Murray’s blade cut across the fallen angel’s throat.

The bullet passed close. Liam felt it. “Ma, no! Please!”

She shivered and sat up. “Are you all right?”

Father Murray asked, “Are either of you hit?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Liam?”

“Please, Ma. Never do that again.”

“Here.” Father Murray handed off the fallen angel’s pistol.

Liam pocketed the lighter and accepted the gun. He’d have checked the chamber, but he didn’t think he could do it one-handed. Since he wasn’t sure he could use it he supposed it didn’t matter.

Bending over the fallen angel’s body, Father Murray felt for a pulse. Then he wiped the bronze blade clean on the grass. With that done, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a clear vial. He placed a finger over the open vial and tipped it. Using the contents of the bottle, he sketched the sign of the cross on the red Fallen’s forehead and whispered in Latin. The liquid hissed as it coated the corpse’s skin, and the smell of rot grew worse before it dissipated.

The whole process reminded Liam of the first night he’d met Father Dominic and Father Christopher. Uncomfortable, he tightened his grip on the pistol with his left hand and sat, watching for danger while Father Murray finished his blessing. Fey warriors moved through the darkness, gathering the dead, helping the wounded. Two of the Fey hacked at the body of the blond Fallen, and while Liam looked on they set the butchered remains on fire. When Father Murray noticed what they were doing he left the circle and prevented them from repeating the process. Instead, he made the rounds with his little vial while Sceolán and a few of the others watched with mixed expressions of relief and wariness.