The Stag Lord (15 page)

“Hey, there. Easy now, Cor.”

He blinked. Two figures squatted next to him. Confusion and a desperate hope made his movements clumsy as he struggled with the blanket. “Shay?”

“It's me, kiddo.”

Shay had one arm wrapped around Max's neck, struggling to keep him from licking Cor again. She let go of the dog and began freeing him from the blanket. “C'mon. Let's get out of here.”

Cor noticed for the first time the rest of the shed was empty. “Where's Dad?”

“He's in the car already.”

Struggling to stand with the cover around his ankles and an excited dog circling about, Cor asked, “Is he okay?”

Shay hesitated. “He will be.”

With unspoken agreement, they left the blanket behind. Side by side, and with Max bounding ahead, they hurried across the yard and around to the front of the cabin. Snow covered the ground, as if nature was trying to hide what had happened in the shed. Cor saw drops of blood scattered along their path, intermingling with a multitude of footprints of different sizes. One set seemed to drag through the snow. The Healer's hand around his felt warm and strong and made him want his dad so much his chest ached like someone had hit it with a sledgehammer. Or a club.

Shay's SUV was parked next to their truck. Both vehicles' engines were running. As they drew closer, one of the younger Knights from Shay's party jumped out of Bann's truck.

“I'll follow you with Bann's rig,” said the young man, his red hair a flame in the dusk, “but keep an eye on your rearview mirror in case this storm proves too much for it—the tires are iffy at best.”

“We will. And don't take any chances, Rory.”

With that, Shay opened the back door of her own vehicle. “Be careful of your dad, Cor.”

Cor peered inside. Bann was propped against the far door, legs half off the seat and a blanket tucked around him. One eye was swollen into a slit. Bruises and blood distorted his features. But a faint smile ghosted across his face. He pulled an arm free and stretched out a hand to Cor.

Mindful, Cor climbed in and knelt on the floor. He took his father's hand and held on as they lurched along the driveway back to the road. He didn't mind the pain when Dad squeezed his hand at every bump. From the front seat, he could hear Shay talking softly to Hugh Doyle, who was driving. In the cargo area in the back, Max sat bolt upright, tongue lolling out and tail thumping every time Cor looked at him.

Reaching the highway, Hugh stopped at Shay's command as they waited for Rory to catch up. She glanced back. “Seatbelt, buddy.”

Cor shook his head. “I wanna stay with Dad.”

“You will be. But I want you in the seat, not on the floor.”

“Cor.” Bann's voice was a whisper. “Mind Shay.”

The rest of the drive seemed to take forever as he sat by Bann's feet, one hand splayed on his father's leg. Snow flowed past the windows in horizontal streams. The warmth from the heater made his eyelids droop. He fought the lure of sleep, certain that if he closed his eyes—ceased his vigilance—
they
would be waiting for him. He scrubbed a fist across his face, wincing when he aggravated the cut by his eye; he could still feel the burn of the knife tip.

My fault
. Self-loathing washed over him like a mounting fever. For not listening to his father and for leaving the store. For getting captured. For being the bait. For letting those creatures touch him and hurt him. The stench of the Fir Bolgs still lingered on Cor's hands and clothing. He shuddered.
If it wasn't for me, none of this would've happened
. He looked over at his father. Bann's eyes were closed. One hand was fisted in the blanket, the knuckles white where they weren't split.

A warm breath and a wet nose on the back of his neck made him jump. Twisting around, he wrapped an arm around Max. The dog leaned over the seat and draped his head over Cor's shoulder, muzzle resting on the boy's chest.

Cor buried his face in the dog's ruff. “S'my fault,” he whispered, grateful for a chance to confess.

Max let out a long sigh in disagreement.

13

B
ANN GRITTED HIS TEETH.
The agony grew with every minute and with every jolt of the vehicle as it rolled along the highway. He wondered at the pain.
I've been in a fair number of brawls, and have even been stabbed before, but it never felt like this
. Fire seemed to eat at his insides—he wouldn't have been surprised to see smoke rising out from under the blanket from the wound. He tried to stifle a groan when they hit a frost heave, hoping the howl of the storm and the rumble of the engine hid the sound.

Apparently, they did not.

“Here.” Shay reached back and handed him a metal SIGG bottle, its cap removed. “
Sláinte
nettle tea. Drink it all if you can.”

He fumbled for it, almost dropping it before he could raise it to his lips with a shaky hand. Most of it splashed down his chin.
What the hell is wrong with me
? He gave up and rested the brew on his chest. His gaze drifted to the boy dozing by his feet.
Oh, Cor
. Guilt made him want to slam the bottle into his face.

“Hold on.” Shay clambered between the seats.

Scrunching down on the floor beside him, she took the bottle from him and held it to his lips. Each bump and sway of the vehicle dribbled more of the brew
on
him than
in
him. With Shay's help, he managed to gulp down a few decent mouthfuls before shaking his head in refusal.

“How…how did…” His voice didn't want to seem to work.

“How did we find you?” Shay nodded toward Cor. “He managed to get a call to me. Said you were in a cabin near Badger Basin, so we drove the roads with the windows open, hoping Max would catch a scent of Cor. And he did.” The dog raised his head at the mention of his name.

“Clever dog,” Bann murmured.

“Bann?” Shay glanced over at Cor, then leaned closer and whispered. “What happened?”

As he spoke, rage at himself for not protecting his son shredded him. He relished the pain when another lurch sent a fresh round of white-hot agony thrumming through his body.
No more than I deserve
.

After he finished speaking, Shay laid a hand on his blanketed arm. “I know what you're thinking, Bann. And it's bullshit. You're sitting there beating yourself up over this, but it won't help Cor and it won't help you heal. Guilt's a crappy, useless emotion. Not when there's a better one.”

“Which is?”

“Revenge. Cold, calculating, Celtic revenge.” For a moment, Bann saw the Knight in the Healer's expression. “No gods-be-damned monsters mess with
us
, especially not with our children. So, as your Healer, I order you to focus on getting well, or we Doyles aren't going to leave you any Fir Bolgs to rip apart.”

In spite of the horror of the past six hours, Bann smiled briefly. He could almost hear the voice of his old master in his head.

Vengeance, not remorse, Bannerman Boru. ‘Tis the Tuatha Dé Danaan way. Ye cannot remake the past, but ye can rule this day
.

How, master?

Why, by the strength of yer arm, the sharpness of yer blade, and yer clan at yer back
.

Bann nodded, both to Shay and to the Knight who had trained him. “Who am I to argue with my Healer?”

“Smart man.” Shay patted him. “Speaking of which…” She reached for the blanket. “Let me take another look at that wound.”

He watched as she folded the blanket to one side. He recalled earlier when she had unzipped his jeans to examine him without so much as a by-yourleave. Easing off the blood-soaked cloth taped to the wound just above his hipbone, she frowned as she studied the injury. “Do you remember what kind of weapon they stabbed you with?”

“I think…I think one of them had an antler prong.” Another bounce made him gasp as the agony flared. This time, it didn't fade. Each thump of his heart was a sharp nail in his side.

“It does look more like a puncture than a slash.” She wetted the rag with the remainder of the brew and held it against Bann's wound for a few minutes, then removed it. “It's not working like it should.”

Her voice seemed to come from farther away. Darkness gathered at the edge of his vision. Through the pain, he heard Shay speaking, a frantic note in her voice. He wanted to respond, but his tongue couldn't remember how to work.

The last thing he heard was Shay yelling at Hugh to drive faster.

Fire ate at his insides. Or was it that someone had heated an iron poker and stuck it inside the wound—twisting and twirling the white-hot metal, as if trying to roast his innards while they were still inside of him.

Hands jostled him, forcing him to stand upright and put one foot in front of the other.
How can I walk while on fire
? Bann's thoughts drifted around like smoke.
Can't they smell the stink of burning flesh? And where is Cor
? Something about his son ate at his heart worse than the internal flames.

More jostling. A dog barking. Cor's voice, teary and pleading. He fell back on something soft. His clothes were tugged off. Cold air on his naked body made his teeth ache. Or maybe that was because they were chattering so hard. Something wet splashed along his side and hip, and trickled down the crease between thigh and groin.
Any lower and I would have thought I pissed myself
. A voice kept saying his name, ordering him to
wake up, Boru—you're not pulling that shit with me
. He tried to, but it seemed like too much bleedin' work. In fact, sleep beckoned, whispering its siren call.

He went in search of it.

Perched on the edge of the mattress, Shay sighed in relief as she finished taping a fresh bandage over Bann's wound. Feeling the tension of the last hour in her neck and back, she stood up, careful not to jostle her sleeping patient, and stretched. “Well, the bleeding's finally stopped.”

“A near thing.” Hugh hovered nearby. “Boru was fortunate to have you as his Healer.”

“Whist.” She waved away the compliment, secretly pleased. “Thank the gods the knife, or the prong, or whatever they used, didn't hit anything vital.” After wringing out a cloth that was soaking in a bowl of
sláinte
nettle brew, Shay began dabbing the dried blood off his face.
He's lucky he's still got all his teeth
, she thought, examining the bruises. She ran a finger along his nose.
Not broken, but it was at some point in his life
, noting the slight telltale bump. Remembering the party, she snorted.
Not surprising
.

Tossing the cloth into the garbage bag Hugh had fetched earlier, she straightened. She held her bloodstained hands away from her while she studied Bann. His face was pale except for the flush of color on his cheekbones. “Wish I knew what's causing his fever.”

“Perhaps the Fir Bolg's weapon?” Hugh passed her a damp washrag. “For your hands.”

“Maybe.” She wiped her fingers and palms somewhat clean and deposited the cloth with the others. Pulling the covers higher, she tucked them around his shoulders and under his chin, resisting the unexpected urge to brush his hair off his forehead. Not with Hugh there. “Where's Cor, by the way?” Her heart tugged when she recalled the boy standing forgotten in the corner, white-faced and trembling, while Shay and Hugh labored over Bann. It was Rory who had finally coaxed the boy out of the room, Max on their heels.

“In the living room with Rory.”

Gods
. Shay clenched her jaw, recalling Bann's description of what the Fir Bolgs had done to the boy. Fantasizing about pouring gasoline on those monsters and setting them afire, she started to pack up the medical supplies she had placed on the wooden chair her uncle had dragged over for her.

“Here, lass.” Hugh stopped her. “Let me do that. Go see to the boyo.”

With a nod of thanks, Shay left. She made a detour to her bedroom, taking time to change her shirt and do a more thorough scrubbing. The simple pleasure of warm water and the scent of the honeysuckle soap eased her stress.