The Hound at the Gate (2 page)

“Oh, dreaming about those Bog-born is worse, to be sure.”

“Do you ever have nightmares?”

“Aye—fearsome ones.” Gideon raised an eyebrow at the snort of disbelief his apprentice let out. “Finnegan MacCullen, all Tuatha De Danaan have experienced a bellyful of terror at one time or another, be they Knight or apprentice. Ask Mac Roth next time you see him—he'll swear my words are true,” Gideon said, speaking of the super-sized redheaded Knight who was his oldest friend and brother-in-arms. “For we are surrounded by enemies—vicious goblins who seek the annihilation of our people.” His face hardened. “As well as a certain sorceress who's keen for your blood. Literally.” He patted Finn's blanket-covered knee. “But always remember, it is not the
lack
of fear, but how we
face
our fears, that makes us warriors.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gideon stood up. “
Codladh sumh
, lad.” He picked up his knife and left, careful to leave the door ajar.

Rolling over on his side, Finn pulled the comforter up to his ears with a sigh. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to go back to sleep. His mind had other ideas.

Events from the last four months—
the best four months of my entire life—
kept pinging around the inside of his skull. Meeting Gideon for the first time and beginning his training under the Knight in how to hunt and destroy their ancient enemy, the Amandán. Learning more about the history of their people and how they came to be in modern-day Colorado. And, astonishingly, finding out his half-Fey, half-human blood was a lethal poison to the goblins, thus revealing Finn to be the legendary Spear of the Tuatha De Danaan. Also known as Gideon's Spear.

With a sigh, Finn opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. Giving up, he kicked off the covers, then pulled on a pair of sweats over his boxers.
Maybe a snack will help me sleep
.

Easing down the stairs of their small house (he refused to use the word
wee
) on bare feet, he avoided the squeaky tread with a well-practiced hop and headed through the living room to the kitchen. Light from a neighborhood streetlamp poured through the front windows, illuminating the shabby, mismatched furniture. Rows of
bronze weapons rested horizontally on pegs above the mantel of the stone fireplace. Knives, daggers, and a few hatchets gleamed dimly.

Thinking deep and profound thoughts about leftover pie, Finn slammed to a stop when wisps of pale light flickered from the kitchen. Holding his breath, he crept forward to one side and peered around the doorway.

Gideon lounged at the kitchen table, a bottle and small juice glass in front of him. In his hand, he cupped a moonstone, the magical instrument that not only provided illumination, but also helped the Tuatha De Danaan identify Amandán who had disguised themselves as humans. As Finn watched from his hiding place, the Knight idly opened and closed his fingers around the pebble. The stone's light flashed on and off like a trapped firefly.

“Sleep eluding you, I take it.” The Knight laid the moonstone on the table. Its glow died as soon as it left his hand.

“How did you know I was there?” Finn stepped into the dimly lit kitchen.

Gideon simply looked at him, eyebrows raised. He motioned him over to the table. Finn sank down across from his master and threw a silent question at the bottle.

“Aye, a drop now and again,” Gideon said. He scooped up the whiskey bottle and glass, deposited the glass in the sink, then tucked the bottle away on the top shelf in the highest cupboard. “And, mind you,” he said over a shoulder, “I've noted the level in the bottle.”

Finn made a face. “Like I would drink
that
stuff. It tastes horrible.”

Gideon paused, then turned around. “And just how would you know what it tastes like?”

Son of a goat!
“Um…Lochlan and I…” He snapped his mouth closed, not wanting to get his friend and apprentice to Knight Mac Roth, Lochlan O'Neill, in trouble. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “I mean,
I
…sort of…tried some.”

“How much was
some
?”

Finn looked up at his master, certain he wouldn't believe him. “A sip. Honest.”

Gideon stared back, eyes narrowed. “No falsehood in your face, then,” he said after a long minute. “But touch that bottle again before ye come of age and there will be consequences.” He stepped closer to tower over Finn. “Ye ken?”

Finn gulped. “Yes, sir. I understand.” He noticed his master's deepened accent, a sure sign of either irritation or frustration. And usually directed toward a certain apprentice.

“Unlike modern-day fathers, who would use this opportunity to speak of the perils of demon alcohol and urge their children to stay clear, I am a Knight of the Tuatha De Danaan and your master—I believe in the straight path. You know what that means?”

“Death by Gideon if I do anything stupid like drink liquor? Or take drugs?”

Before Gideon could stop himself, he chuckled. Sitting back down, he shook his head. “Cheeky. I see you're losing your fear of me. It must be due to your elevated status as the legendary Spear,” he joked.

Finn shifted in his seat.
I don't want to be
legendary.
I just want to be
…

As if reading his thoughts, Gideon leaned back and cocked his head. “Still not sure about it, eh?”

Picking up his master's moonstone, he toyed with it, tossing it from hand to hand. It remained dark. Just a white pebble. Nothing more.
I wish these things would light up for me like they do for full-blooded Tuatha De Danaan
. He put it back down. “Like I said before, I just want to be a Knight. Like you and Mac Roth.”
And my parents
. “I don't like the others thinking I'm this ninja Fey with special powers and all that.”

“Nor do I. My instincts tell me to continue to keep your bloodline a secret. Only Mac Roth and Lochlan know—we best keep it that way.”

“What about Iona? She knows.”

Even in the darkened room, Finn could see his master's face tighten at the mention of the sorceress who had trapped them in an
underground cavern, determined to kill Finn for the power of his blood.

“Aye, she does. And no good will come of it, I promise you that.” He shook off the foul mood. “Well, we cannot do anything about it tonight. Off to bed with you. We still have a great deal to do over the next few days in preparation for the Festival.”

Butterflies began doing a jig—an Irish jig, no doubt—in Finn's stomach at the mention of the upcoming gathering. “Are we really going to camp out all four days?”

“Aye. And no mewling about being cold or wet or sleeping on the ground.”

“No, sir.” Too excited to even think about going back to bed, Finn stalled for time. “Is it always on the same four days?”

“No. The Festival of the Hunt follows the autumn equinox. It is a right good time to come together as a people and to celebrate both sides of our nature.”

“What do you mean ‘both sides of our nature?'”

“We Tuatha De Danaan have two sides—we talked about this before.”

“Warrior bards?”

“Aye, lad. We are both warriors and bards. Hunters of monsters and singers of songs. Aggressive and reflective. Light and dark.”

Like Celtic Jedi
, Finn started to say, then stopped himself.
He wouldn't get it
. “I like the warrior part better.”

“Most apprentices do. But you will discover as you grow older that the bardic side has its power too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, boyo, do you not know?” Even in the darkened room, Finn could see the hint of humor that lurked beneath his master's usual stern nature. “The ladies love a man who sings.”

“I
don't see why we don't just take weapons with us.” Standing in front of the massive stone fireplace the next morning, Finn scratched the top of one bare foot with the other as he studied their collection of weapons. Each bronze blade, the same shade of dark red as his wild mop of hair, reflected the light of the September morning peeking through the living room windows. The weapons gleamed from care and from use. Lots of use.

“It is tradition to arrive at the Festival empty-handed.”

“Why?”

“As a symbolic gesture of one's willingness to abide by the will and laws of the
Rath
.” At Finn's quizzical expression, Gideon elaborated. “The ruling Council.” He leaned a hip on the nearby desk as he waited, swinging a foot. His workman's boot thumped rhythmically against the leg of the furniture. A large cardboard box stood open on the desk, half-filled with bubble wrap and wads of newspaper. As Finn continued to examine each weapon, the master grumbled. “Make up your bleedin' mind. You're shipping it, not marrying it.”

“Yes, sir.” Finn hesitated, then stretched up and selected his favorite hunting knife. He slid it into a leather ankle sheath, secured
the straps neatly around both sheath and knife, then handed it to the Knight. “Do you think they'll get there before we do? Since we're leaving Thursday?”

Gideon enfolded the weapon within a length of bubble wrap so used it was more wrap than bubble and packed it in the box next to several other knives and daggers, including what Finn knew was his master's favorite one—the ancient dagger crafted with an antler handle. “I believe so—but, just in case, I'm sending the box express mail.” He taped the lid securely. Grabbing a marker from the drawer, he pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his flannel shirt and began addressing the top.

Wrinkling his nose from the acidic smell of the marking pen, Finn reached around the Knight for a leftover piece of bubble wrap. “How many of us do you think will be there?” he asked, working gleefully down the scrap of plastic in a series of
pop, pop, pop
. “Hey!” He made a face when his master, without looking up, snatched it from him and tossed it away.

Brows drawn together in concentration as he studied the address on the paper, Gideon answered. “Oh, several dozen or so Knights and apprentices. Maybe a few families, as well. It varies from year to year.”

“How come we need weapons if there are so many of us at the campsite?”

“Because even though we might not need our blades, we should…”

“…never leave home without one.” Finn grinned. “It's like that credit card.”

“Credit card?”

“Yeah, you know. That commercial on TV. ‘Something-something credit card. Never leave home without it.'” At Gideon's look of confusion, Finn shook his head. “Forget it.”

“And pack your school books in your duffel as well. There'll be ample time to continue your studies.”

Finn wrinkled his nose. “I thought that, once I became an apprentice, I was done with the whole school thing.”

“As usual, you thought wrong. Mathematics and reading and writing are part and parcel of everyday life, be you mortal or Tuatha De Danaan. Why, days spent in the study of geometry were some of the happiest of my youth,” Gideon said with a straight face.

Who was your teacher?
Finn thought.
Euclid?

Glancing at the angle of the sun spilling across the living room, Gideon dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He jingled them in his hand. “The postal office will open in about ten minutes. Would you…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Finish getting dressed, eat breakfast, straighten my room, take out the garbage…”

“Finn.”

“…sharpen all the weapons, even if they don't need it…”

“Finn.”

“…and be ready to train with you until lunch or…”

“Finnegan.”

“…or until I drop dead from exhaustion and overwork.” He huffed out a breath.

Gideon raised an eyebrow. “Borderline impertinent.”

Tempted to see how close he could inch up to that particular line, Finn started to argue, then stopped himself in time. “Sorry. Sir.” He tossed the
sir
out just to keep from getting into more trouble.

“You should be. I was about to ask if you wished to ride along with me to the post office, then have breakfast out on this fine morning.” Gideon scooped up the box. “But since you seem to have the day planned already, I'll be enjoying a solitary meal of homemade cinnamon rolls and a Denver omelet. With bacon.” Tucking the box under one arm, he paused by the front door to snag his jacket off the coat hook. Slinging it over a shoulder, he opened the door. The spicy-earthy scent of the
sl
á
inte
nettle hedge in their front yard wafted through the autumn air. “Loads of bacon.”

As Finn stood in the middle of the room, trying to decide whether to slap himself upside of the head or kick himself in the butt, the
Knight paused in the doorway. “Unless you can be washed up and in the truck in five minutes.”