Stone Song (23 page)

“That sounds . . . painful,” confessed Sorcha.

“On the plus side,” chirped Nieve, “the terrible twos fly right by.”

Sorcha wasn’t sure that sounded like a good enough tradeoff.

In the end Elada wouldn’t allow her to make the call to Donal. He insisted on doing it himself.

“You are not experienced at bargaining with the Fae. We speak with forked tongues. I want to be certain the conditions are explicit and that any assurances he gives will be binding on him.”

“You mean like a
geis.
”

“Yes, like a
geis.
”

She listened to the phone call, because with her hearing, she couldn’t avoid it.

“We will make the exchange at the Navy Yard,” Donal said.

“That’s Finn’s territory,” said Elada. “Not acceptable.”

“It is Fae territory,” countered Donal. “And I will not tolerate human interference.”

“The exchange must be in South Boston,” Elada said.

“South Boston is Miach’s, for now,” replied the Manhattan Fae, “and he has proven himself untrustworthy.”

“Swear that you will give up the fiddler, alive and whole, if we come to the Navy Yard.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I will give up the fiddler, as long as the girl abides by my conditions.”

They were as expected. Elada didn’t like them. Sorcha could see that on his face. And they were unavoidable. They both knew that.

When the hour came, Nieve played her part to perfection. She complained of a headache and asked her grandfather to postpone moving them. When Miach insisted, she grudgingly agreed. No one had yet noticed Tommy Carrell’s absence, but the presence of a wailing preschooler tended to do that to people—and Fae.

Miach was gone longer than anyone expected. Little Garrett ran to Elada the minute his mother disappeared with her grandfather, but Elada gently disengaged the boy and handed him off to Conn, who looked as though someone had just given a daffodil to play with—mildly puzzled and very, very worried it might break.

It was Conn who asked where the fiddler had gone, and Elada who lied smoothly and said he was upstairs resting in the study until it was time to leave. Kevin shot Elada and Beth a troubled glance, but said nothing.

When Miach returned, he was impatient. “Come, Garrett,” he said, beckoning the boy. “Your mother isn’t feeling well.”

But Garrett had become enamored of Conn’s shining blond hair and even brighter sword and had to be chased three times around the dining room before anyone could catch him. Sorcha could feel the air vibrate when the little boy ran, and she knew she was sensing magic, nascent but growing.

By this time Miach was clearly irritated and finally put an end to matters by yelling at Garrett, which triggered a fit of hysteria. The sorcerer and the boy finally disappeared amidst the sound of the child wailing.

Then it was time for Sorcha and Elada to make their escape. During the chaos they slipped out the door. Sorcha was sure that Beth Carter’s eye had been on her, but when Sorcha turned to look back, Beth was looking studiously away.

It was Deirdre and Kevin who stopped them, blocking the drive.

“Why are you leaving?” Deirdre asked.

“And where is the fiddler?” Kevin added.

Sorcha saw no point in lying now. She’d only promised not to tell Miach. “Donal has Tommy at the Navy Yard. He wants me in exchange for my friend.”

“And you’re handing yourself over, the lamb to the slaughter?” Deirdre asked. She seemed more bemused than surprised by Sorcha’s predicament, and Sorcha found herself wondering if the painter kept an intentional distance between herself and present events.

“No. We have a plan to save Tommy. I’ll give myself up and Elada will take Tommy to the house in Essex, where he’ll be safe. Then I’ll escape.”

“How?” asked Kevin.

“I’ll use my voice,” she said quietly. She was going to hurt people, the way she had hurt Elada, but not, hopefully, the way she had killed Keiran. She’d promised Elada that she wouldn’t hold back if it came to it, if it was down to her life or one of Donal’s people, but she wasn’t sure she could do it if called upon.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Kevin. “If Donal means to kill you, he could position a half-breed sniper on one of the buildings and take you out before you even got near him.”

“We don’t think Donal wants to kill her outright, here in Boston. We think he wants to take her home to Manhattan. She killed a follower of his named Keiran on the sidewalk outside Donal’s home. His people will expect him to deal out justice in front of them.”

“And if you are wrong?” asked Kevin. “If simple assassination is their aim?”

“Can you draw us a map of the Navy Yard and mark the positions where a sniper might be located?” asked Elada. “Kevin used to work there,” he explained to Sorcha.

“At the museum?” asked Sorcha, who knew there was nothing in the Navy Yard but the frigate
Constitution
and a museum. She’d thought Kevin was an athlete.

“No,” said Kevin. “On the docks. Building ships.”

“But they haven’t built ships in Charlestown in decades,” said Sorcha.

“No, they haven’t,” Kevin agreed.

“The fiddler isn’t worth it,” Deirdre said. “And you aren’t ready to face Donal.”

“Ready or not, Tommy is my responsibility,” said Sorcha. For all the times he had walked her home from the train station, for all the times he had discouraged the unruly drunks at the Black Rose. He had protected her, and he’d nearly lost the use of his hand defending her from the Prince. “I can’t let him die.”

“I’m going with you,” said Kevin. “The two of you together can be used against each other.”

“You’re human,” said Sorcha. “What can you do?”

“I can handle cold iron.”

He turned to look at his wife.

“If you insist on going, then I’m going, too,” said Deirdre.

Kevin looked as surprised as Sorcha felt, but also pleased.

“If we’re going, we must go now,” said Elada. “Nieve will only be able to delay Miach so long.”

“I’ll get the car,” Kevin said.

“Sorcha and I will take the Range Rover. Follow close behind.”

“Why aren’t we taking the armored minivan?” Sorcha asked.

“Because if I die, it’s not going to be driving a minivan,” said Elada.

“Fair enough.”

The sun was setting when they crossed the Charlestown Bridge—the new bridge, which was not made of iron and which the Fae could cross without untoward effect.

There were two half-breeds waiting for them at the old gatehouse where they left their cars. Elada looked at Kevin before approaching, and Kevin shook his head, indicating that the surrounding roofs were free of snipers.

“Those aren’t Donal’s followers,” said Deirdre. “Those are Finn’s get.”

“If Finn is involved,” said Elada, “then there is a double-cross. It’s not too late to turn back, Sorcha. I can get you to Miach’s in Essex and go back for the fiddler.”

“I love you,” she said. “But I’m not turning back.”

They approached the gate.

Sorcha had never met Finn, but she’d seen his golden-haired grandchild, and she recognized the thick curling locks these Fae wore as from the same bloodline. They were more Fae than Elada or Miach in their dress, though not as alien as Keiran or even Deirdre.

For one thing, they had more tattoos. A lot more tattoos. Their muscular arms were sleeved in them, their necks ringed with them.

“Why so many tattoos?” she asked Elada as they drew near the gate.

“Because they have no sorcerer with Miach’s skill and power among them. Written magic is a crutch used by those who cannot cast without it.”

“So they’re weaker than Miach.”

“I didn’t say that. For one thing, they outnumber us. For another, Finn has true Fae among his followers. And
gaesa
can be powerful. Applied in layers, they can be very tricky to fight. The half-breeds are wearing bracers of speed and strength. Enhancements to make them more Fae. If they were well written, they will be potent.”

“And if they are poorly written?”

“They won’t be. Garrett is talented, and he has long since mastered these simple arts. It is the more complex magics that Miach has refused him, and if he is bold enough to practice advanced craft on his own and willing to sustain a few cuts and bruises, he may acquire those skills yet.”

Not reassuring.

Neither were the openly hostile expressions of the two half-breeds guarding the gate. They wore silk shirts over frayed jeans, like Keiran, but no jewelry, like Elada. One was clearly older, a little broader and taller, but in purely human terms he looked no more than twenty-five. The other had the slender build of a teenager. Both wore guns at their hips, a clear indicator of their human heritage, as the true Fae could not handle firearms containing iron. But they also had silver Fae knives peeking out of their boots and strapped to their arms.

“So the rumors are true, Brightsword,” sneered the younger one. “You’re a Druid fucker now.”

“Sorcha is my partner,” corrected Elada. “And she will be accorded the respect of the consort of a true Fae.”

“She is a Druid,” said the older one, “and the Druids killed our grandmother.”

“Your grandmother, Patrick Kenny, was Nancy Muldoon from A Street in South Boston.”

Patrick Kenny shrugged. “A human woman might have bore me, but grandfather’s true wife was Fae, and the Druids tortured and murdered her. Grandfather doesn’t encourage our weaknesses, the way Miach encourages his sons. We are Fae by blood and Fae by upbringing.”

“Then draw your blade, Patrick, and we’ll determine who’s the more Fae here.”

“I would, but my orders are clear. I’m to deliver the Druid slut to Donal.”

“And to Finn, no doubt,” said Elada.

“Our grandfather is with Donal,” confirmed the younger Fae, to the older Fae’s irritation.

“That was not the deal. Our bargain was with Donal,” said Elada.

“And you were supposed to come alone,” said Patrick, indicating Kevin and Deirdre. “Not bring another human slut and a wannabe Fae.”

It was the first that Sorcha realized Deirdre was wearing a human glamour. She’d been seeing through the Fae so long without the benefit of cold iron that she always looked beyond their surface appearance now, but when she squinted she could see what Patrick and his sidekick saw.

Deirdre looked less like a catwalk model and more like someone’s favorite high school art teacher. It was more than a muting of her beauty. True, her gilded hair appeared to contain fewer shades and looked less glossy and richly textured, and her skin was less than radiant, but somehow she had changed her clothes as well. It was an illusion. Sorcha knew that because when she listened, she could hear the silk velvet and the woven cashmere rustling softly about the Fae’s lush body. For that matter, she could hear the silkworm spinning and the mountain goat grazing if she focused on those objects. A new and strange skill, hearing back in time, and one to explore later. For now she concentrated on what Deirdre wanted her to see, which was tawdry rayon and polyester badly draped and an abundance of poorly worked ethnic jewelry, of clumsy wooden beads and cheap, knotted string. But she couldn’t hear the wooden beads, and she knew they weren’t there.

“Brigid would never claim you for her own, half-breed,” said Deirdre. “She would slit your throats as soon as look at you. I’m not sure what’s more pathetic. That you have made a saint of that dead bitch or that Finn has. No wonder he doesn’t throw whelps worth a damn, if all he looks for in his human lovers is a substitute for that shrew.”

The younger Fae drew his weapon and took a step toward Deirdre. Sorcha expected Elada or Kevin to do something, to move to protect her, but they were completely still.

The half-blood boy stopped suddenly and shuddered. His eyes opened wide with fright. He began to scream. The blade dropped from his fingers and his knees followed it to the pavement. He clutched his head and began to beat it against the ground.

“Stop him,” whispered Sorcha in horror.

“No,” said Deirdre.

“My love,” said Kevin.

“Stop it,” snarled Patrick.

“Would you like to join him?” asked Deirdre, smiling cruelly.

Kevin took matters into his own hands and used his gun to deliver a blow to the boy’s head that knocked him unconscious and left him sprawled on the ground.

“What did you do to him?” Sorcha asked.

“I looked inside his mind and saw what he imagined was going to happen to you after he turned you over to Donal. And then I put him in your place.”

“Deirdre,” said Kevin—and Patrick blanched when he recognized the name—“you didn’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” she said evenly. “You should never dish out what you can’t take in turn. The Druids taught me that, and it is a lesson I have taken to heart.” She turned to the half-blood who was still standing. “Send the fiddler out to us.”

Patrick looked terrified but resolute. He shook his head. “Not until the Druid goes up to the house. That’s the only way this is happening.”

“It’s all right,” Sorcha said, still shaken by Deirdre’s defense of her. “I’ll go.”

“Not without me,” said Elada.

“No,” said Patrick.

“Yes,” said Deirdre. “Otherwise we will have no surety that you will send out the fiddler. Elada protects Sorcha until the handoff. And he brings the fiddler back out to us.”

Patrick looked murderously at them all and held up a set of silver handcuffs and a thick leather gag. “She goes hobbled or not at all.”

Sorcha put a hand on Elada’s arm to steady him. They’d known these might be the conditions. They had to stick with the plan. But seeing was different from planning.

She put her hands out in front her. “I’m willing to go. See?”

“Turn around,” said Patrick.

She hadn’t expected that. If her hands had been chained in front of her, she could have hummed the shackles open—in theory. Fastened behind her, they presented greater difficulty. They would require her to send her voice to a place she couldn’t see, which no matter how close it might be, was always more of a challenge than directing it straight in front of her.