The Stag Lord (7 page)

“Aye, the few beasties that are left.” He hesitated, then continued. “I was born in
Éireann
, however.”

“I thought as much. When did you come over?”

“Early part of the century. That is to say, the early part of the
previous
century.”

“Wow, you don't look a day over thirty.”

An unexpected vanity surprised him. “Thirty, eh? Well, it's been a stiff year.”

Their shared amusement was as warm and welcome as the stew.

Sitting on either ends of the sofa, they ate in silence for a few moments. The wind played a dirge in the chimney, causing the fire to blaze now and again. Rain, on the verge of becoming sleet, drummed on the roof in a hit-ormiss fashion. While Bann ate, he found himself peeking at Shay out of the corner of his eye.

She sat with one leg curled under her, bowl in hand as she dug into her stew with a gusto that matched his own. Her ponytail was draped over a shoulder like a fox stole, shades of russet in the golden strands. She picked up her glass and raised it in the air. “Your health.”

Picking up his own drink, Bann leaned over and clinked it against hers, sloshing his whiskey over the edge and into hers in the old custom. “To yours as well.”

The drink was liquid peat smoke in Bann's mouth. He let it trickle down his throat, embracing the burn. Placing his empty bowl back on the tray, he sank into the softness of the cushion. Full belly. Neat whiskey. Safe refuge. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
For just a moment
.

A half-hour later, he jerked awake at a soft rattling sound.

The fire was a red smear in the darkened room. He pushed off the sofa, wincing as sleeping muscles and joints protested about having to move after they had just gotten comfortable. He told them to shut up.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you,” said a low voice from the kitchen.

Shay stood guard by the back door, armed with her bronze blade. The blinds, bunched to one side, swung back and forth. “Wanted a clear view,” she explained, barely speaking above a whisper. When Bann joined her, she gestured with the knife toward the yard. “It's gone.”

“The magpie?”

“Yeah. Of course, a coyote may have simply snatched it. They'll eat anything. But…” Her voice trailed off.

Bann scanned the shadows. Boulders, most of them higher than his head, squatted around the property, each one looking like a giant hobgoblin taking a crap. Junipers and piñon trees, twisted into multi-limbed monsters, bowed with each gust of wind. “…but probably not,” he said, finishing her sentence.
Not with
my
luck. Of which I have none. Unless you count the shitty kind
.

“So.” Shay examined the point of her blade. “Are you going to tell me who or what is after you and Cor and why you refuse to have anything to do with your people? And why you're so dead set against your son knowing there are other Fey in High Springs?”

“No.”

“To which question?”

“All of them.”

“Why? Because
I'm
Tuatha Dé Danaan, too?”

“Dad?”

Cor appeared, yawning as he made his way toward them, his bare feet silent on the wood floor. Bann stepped away to intercept him. Behind him, he could hear the clatter as Shay closed the blinds.

“And just what are you doing up, boyo?”

“I guess I'm hungry after all. Is there any stew left?”

Bann sighed in exasperation, secretly grateful for the distraction. “Why didn't you sup with us earlier? Now Shay will have to bother with—”

“Shay does not mind in the least,” Shay said. She opened the refrigerator door. Light spilled out into the room. Bann noticed her knife had disappeared. She bent over and peered inside, rummaging about. “How about a sandwich?”

“Yes, please.” Cor walked over and joined her.

“And maybe some ice cream afterwards?”

“Yes, please!”

“He doesn't need ice cream.”

“Yes, he does,” they said at the same time. Grinning, they bumped fists.

“Hah! Two against one,” Cor crowed. “We win.”

Hiding a grin, Bann leaned a hip on the kitchen table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I demand a recount.”

Shay leaned closer to Cor. “Has he always had trouble with numbers?”

Cor hooted with laughter. “Yeah.”

“You know I can hear you,” Bann said. He sank down in a chair. “And just out of curiosity, what flavor of ice cream are we talking about?”

An hour later, Bann pulled the covers higher over his sleeping son. Stripping in the darkness, he left his clothes in a pile on the floor. He hesitated, looking down at his body, then tugged his boxer briefs free of the jeans and pulled them back on. Something about sleeping naked in a stranger's bed—a strange
woman's
bed—with nothing on but his tat just didn't sit right with him.

He crawled into the other bed with a sigh, reveling in the luxury of a full-length mattress after a year of sleeping in a cramped bunk. Hands linked behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. The image of the mutilated bird poked at him.
How did he find us here? After so many months and so far from home? I hadn't even decided which route to take until two days ago. And why hasn't he attacked? Why was he content with wrecking the camper and leaving the bird, clearly a message of some sort?

Bann rolled to his side.
The sooner we leave, the safer for Shay
. He smiled into his pillow.
‘Twas a bit of luck, however, running into her—she's quite a Healer
. A voice whispered in his head.
She's quite a woman, too, eh?

Ignoring the voice, he started ticking off what he needed to accomplish before they left tomorrow.
Repair the windows on the camper, restock supplies, and convince a certain Healer that her patient is well enough to travel
. He dreaded number three on the list. Something told him she would not let them go without a fight.

He fell asleep, smiling.

6

P
ADDING PAST THE GUEST
room on bare feet, Shay headed to the kitchen. Dressed in a ragged pair of sweats she used in lieu of pajama pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with the words
Pikes Peak Marathon
, she ran her fingers through hair still wet from a morning shower. She winced when Max came trotting after her with a clicky-click of dog nails on the wood floor. “Dude,” she whispered. “Can't you tiptoe?”

Better get the coffee going before Bann—
She paused in the middle of the kitchen.
Maybe he doesn't even
drink
coffee. Maybe he's one of those heathens who don't worship at the feet of the almighty bean
. She shrugged and flipped on the coffeemaker she had prepped the night before. “More for me.” Just in case, she left a clean mug next to the machine.

She leaned over the sink and opened the blinds, holding her breath when they clinked against the pane. Another gray day gave her the finger; low clouds obscured the new sun.
Fine. Be that way
, she said to the sky. She moved over to the patio door and peered through the slats.

Nothing except for a dark smear on the concrete slab. “Yeeesh.” Thoughts of bleach and a power washer zipped through her head. After ratcheting the slats to one side, she opened the door and sent Max out for a bladder break, ordering him away from the leftover blood. Luckily, the dog seemed content with marking a favorite boulder before trotting back inside and burying his muzzle in his food dish. Pet-parent duties completed, she poured a cup of coffee and walked back to the living room. Sinking down in a corner of the sofa, she tucked her feet under her and allowed herself to enjoy the delight of the first cup of coffee.

After a few sips, she began thinking about Bann's reaction over the antlers by the camper, then to the prong shoved into the magpie's head. She shuddered and took another sip as if to cleanse the image from her mind with a jolt of java.
Antlers. Why antlers? Our enemy has always been goblins, the scum of Celtic bestiary. The only creature I know with antlers is—

She almost spilled the drink when she leaped to her feet and hurried to the bookshelf. Her fingertips danced along spine after spine before stopping at a large volume. Returning to the sofa with book and mug, she sat down and opened it, flipping through several pages before she found what she was looking for. The back of her neck tightened at the illustration.

In the center of the page, a semihuman creature sat cross-legged, his naked, wiry body seemingly covered in short hair like a deer's pelt. A thick neckpiece hung around his neck, as if in mockery of the gold torc worn by every Knight and apprentice to brag to the world they had made their first goblin kill. A stray thought wafted through her head.
Where is Bann's torc
?

But it was the creature's head that made her skin want to crawl off her skeleton and hide. She had always thought the picture of the ancient demigod was clown-creepy, even though he was supposed to represent a benign fertility. It was the distorted features, eyes too wide, chin too long, ears too pointed, as much as the set of antlers curling out of the bulging forehead. It was as if the artist had caught the shapeshifter in mid-transformation from man to beast.

Tearing her eyes from the illustration, Shay began reading. “Cernunnos. Pronounced KER noo nohs.” She paused when a sudden gust of wind slapped the house. Ashes drifted from the fireplace like a burnt ghost. After a moment, she continued. “Also known as the Stag Lord. A shapeshifter, he is able to take on the form of a large stag, although some legends claim he can transform into a wolf as well. Found throughout Western Europe and the British Isles, the ancient Celts considered him a god of fertility and nature and wealth. One tale, however, portrays the Stag Lord in a more sinister light. It was rumored Cernunnos, for reasons unknown, sided with the Norsemen who had come to invade Ireland. During the Battle of Clontarf, near present-day Dublin, the creature slew many a Celt with both magic and antler, almost winning the battle for the Norsemen. But in the midst of the Stag Lord's triumph, a bold warrior struck him a mighty blow. Sorely wounded, Cernunnos was carried from the battlefield by his minions, after swearing vengeance on the warrior and his descendents. That hero was none other than the High King, Brian Boru, who ruled Ireland from 1002 to 1014 AD. It was rumored that the Boru was not mortal but rather a member of the mystical race of warriors known as the Tuatha Dé Danaan.”

She turned the page and stared at the fantastical illustration of the King. He was clad in a dun-colored belted tunic trimmed at the hem in a running Celtic rope pattern of dark green. A cloak, the same shade of green as the embroidered design, flowed from his broad shoulders, and his dark hair was long and free except for a thin braid at each temple. Eyes blazing battle blue, Brian Boru held his sword aloft in both hands as he charged the foe on the field of Clontarf. Shay could almost hear him shouting the ancient war cry:
Faugh a ballagh!
“Clear the way!”

Down the hall, a door opened and closed with a soft snick. Then Bann appeared. Barefooted and clad in jeans and a T-shirt, the Knight stood running his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Good morning to you.” He cocked his head toward the kitchen. “And would that be coffee I'm smelling?”

Shay nodded, mind still reeling from the revelation. Her head swiveled of its own accord to watch as he walked across the living room and into the kitchen. He greeted Max when the dog passed by on his way to flop down by Shay's feet. She continued to watch while Bann opened the refrigerator in search of cream.

His back to her, he spoke over a shoulder. “Is there a reason you are gawking at me like I've grown a goat's head?”

“Sorry. I was just…” Wrenching her gaze away, she looked down again at the picture of Brian Boru. She closed the book with a snap when Bann sauntered around the end of the sofa a minute later and took a seat in a nearby chair.

“Shay, we'll be leaving today as soon as I repair the camper. But before I go, is there something I can do around here in payment for your hospitality and care of my son?”

“You can't go yet.” The Healer in her took over. “Cor needs a few more days.”

“He'll be fine. And we need to keep on the move.”

“Because of Cernunnos?”

Bann froze, mug halfway to his lips. Wariness veiled his eyes. He started to speak when she opened the book to the correct page and held it up.

“You're the descendant of the King, aren't you?”

He stared down at the illustration for a moment. “I am.”

The words seemed to hang in the air between them. Then, suddenly, Shay grinned and shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

“What is?”

“That the long-son of the High King would be sitting in my living room. All
that
”—she waved a hand at his mussed hair and bare feet—“and having morning coffee with me.”