When the Stars Threw Down Their Spears: The Goblin Wars, Book Three (10 page)

She had just finished bandaging the wound when Finn came back with a stack of sandwiches in his hands and a roll of duct tape under his arm. And, thankfully, without Seamus—though Teagan could feel him watching from the window.

Gil sniffed the sandwich cautiously. “What is it?”

“Gooey goodness. Bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Grape jelly, in this case. It’s the only thing I know how to cook.”

Gil started stuffing them in his mouth.

“Finn,” Teagan asked quietly as the phooka ate, “do you think Molly could just be hiding? Or at the library? She goes there sometimes to catch up on work.”

Finn put an arm around her and pulled her under his chin, where she was completely wrapped in his electric embrace. She felt incredibly safe, but she knew Molly wasn’t. Finn’s silence was answer enough.

“I’m going to keep hoping,” Teagan said.

“I’ve dealt with goblins too long for that.”

“There is always hope.”

“What’s that?” Gil had finished the sandwiches and was sniffing the roll of tape.

“Duct tape,” Finn said.

“Good to eat?”

“Na. It’s good for fixing phookas to cinder-block walls, though.”

“You’re not,” Teagan said, stepping away from him.

Finn took the tape from Gil, pulled off a length, and ripped it free with his teeth. “You have a better idea?”

Gil backed away from him. “I don’t want to be ducked to a wall.”

“I don’t want to duck you to the wall.” Finn shook his head. “But Joe is sleeping, and Teagan and I have to go get cleaned up. We can’t have you jumping out of the yard and running off.”

Teagan looked at the Green Man in surprise—he was sleeping, still holding the bowl.

Gil backed away from Finn, his eyes huge.

“I promise, Teagan,” he whispered. The word sent a shiver trickling ice-like down Teagan’s spine. She felt the promise settle between them. The phooka shivered, too, but he stood taller. “I
promise
I won’t leave the yard unless Teagan says I can.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to bend you,” Teagan said.

Gil stood up as tall as he could. “That was my bending. My own promise. You couldn’t make me.”

Finn nodded. “It’ll do.” He wadded up the strip of tape he had pulled from the roll.

“I’ll bring you a blanket and some clothes, Gil,” Teagan offered.

“That lawyer’s watching us,” Gil said. “Do you think he has any fish eggs?”

“Are you still hungry?”

“Phookas are always hungry.”

Seamus stepped out of the back door just before they reached it, and pulled it shut behind him.

“I don’t understand, Mac Cumhaill. I can understand those.” He waved at the house, clearly indicating Thomas, Roisin, Grendal, and Lucy. “They’ve left the goblin king, or never followed him in the first place. But this creature—he said, ‘god didn’t heal me.’ He
belongs to
the Dark Man
. It’s your destiny to kill goblins. You’re
the Mac Cumhaill
.”

“My destiny to kill Gil, you mean?” Finn said. “He has a name, McGillahee, just like you do. Did you ever consider that all the killing I’ve done—that all the Mac Cumhaills have done—came about because of a curse? Gil pulled me through the waters when I couldn’t swim. He fed me raw fish when I couldn’t have gone a step farther without food. I’m not going to repay that by killing him, no matter who he thinks his god is.”

“He betrayed you.”

“Maybe so,” Finn said. “But what would you do if you’d been born with a human heart and a pig’s hand? If you’d thought your god would heal you if paid him enough?”

“Mamieo’s right,” Seamus said. “You’re playing at being a saint when what’s needed is the Mac Cumhaill. This is bound to end badly.”

“The Mac Cumhaill always ends badly,” Finn said. “I’ve gotten used to the idea.”

“You need help.”

“From you?”

“From me. You are in over your head. You need the McGillahee touch.”

“I’m head over heels, and that’s a fact. There’s no cure for it, and I wouldn’t take it if there was. I’ve got something now that I never thought I could have. I’ve got a family.” Finn started to open the door, then stopped. “You know why I’m giving you time to understand? Because the girl asked me to. That’s the only reason you’re still standing. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, McGillahee.”

Eight

M
AMIEO
was drinking hot tea and watching Aiden construct an elaborate contraption of Popsicle sticks and rubber bands at the table. The kettle was still steaming enough to give a ghost of a whistle. Teagan wasn’t sure whether the old woman just couldn’t hear it, or if she was too focused on Aiden to worry about it.

John Wylltson was on the far side of the kitchen, his head bent close to Raynor’s.
Probably filling him in about the Dump Dogs while Mamieo keeps Aiden busy
.

Finn moved the kettle to a cool burner, and his grandmother looked up.

“Well?” she asked Seamus. “I’ve shown you what I promised and more. Do you still think I’m mixing my medications?”

“Not at all.” Seamus leaned against the counter. “In fact, I apologize.”

Lucy came out of a blue china cup on the cabinet behind him, her eyes flashing red at the sound of his voice.

“I’d move away from the counter if I were you,” Teagan suggested.

“Why?” Seamus asked.

Finn pointed up at the sprite. “She keeps valuables in that cup. M&M’s, spider webs, foil, and the like.”

Seamus crossed the room, getting as far away from the sprite as he could. Lucy settled in again, peeking over the brim to make sure he kept his distance.

Teagan studied her brother. He must have been more frightened by the talk of Dump Dogs than she’d thought. The emotionless expression he’d worn for months after their mom had died was creeping back. She glanced across the kitchen at her dad, wondering if he’d noticed.

“So you’ve come to your senses, have you?” Mamieo said. “I thought meeting a holy
aingeal
might do the trick.”

“He’s not that convincing as an angel.” Raynor looked up, and Seamus spread his hands. “You must admit you’re not what most people imagine when they think of heavenly beings.”

“You were expecting something—”

“Younger,” Seamus said. “Shinier. More . . .
kempt
. Less mechanically minded.”

Teagan held her tongue. She’d once seen Raynor with different eyes—he’d been a silhouette, dark as the moon when it slips in front of the sun during a total eclipse. A corona too brilliant to look at had undulated around him.
The fire of creation
.

“But I’m staying,” Seamus went on. “It’s my destiny.”

“There’s no such thing,” Raynor said.

Teagan caught her dad’s eye, and he nodded toward her brother. He’d noticed, then. Maybe that’s what he’d been talking to Raynor about.

“Oh ho!” Mamieo chuckled. “Destiny, is it? And what persuaded you of that?”

“The motorbike,” Seamus said.

“My motorbike,” Raynor repeated.

The lawyer reached out and touched the handlebar reverently. “I told you, I’ve dreamed about it all my life. Not
an
Indian Four.
This
Indian four—with the little dent and the missing letter on the gas tank.”

Raynor looked toward the ceiling. “Very funny.”

“More peculiar than funny, I’d think,” Seamus said.

“He was addressing the Almighty, not you,” Mamieo said. “He’s a holy
aingeal
whether you believe it or no.”

“That must have been some dream,” Mr. Wylltson said.

“Oh, it was. I might die without achieving it, but I can’t live without trying. With great risk comes great glory. And”—he shook himself free of the Indian Four’s spell—“the Mac Cumhaill needs my help.”

Teagan resisted the urge to smack him. “I thought the saying was ‘with great power comes great responsibility.’”

“Peter Parker has his aphorisms, I have mine. So, what do
you
think I’m here to do, Mamieo?”

“Stay one step ahead of the goblins,” Mamieo said.

Seamus smiled in Teagan’s direction. “I can do that.”

“We’re all going to have to do that.” Mamieo turned to Raynor. “I’m told the gate in the park is closed for good. Joe says the fire burned to the very roots of the willow.”

“It did,” the angel said. “No gate will open there again.”

“But it will open somewhere,” Mamieo said. “And somewhere nearby, I’m thinking.”

“Why?” Mr. Wylltson asked.

“Because Mag Mell wants me to sing to her,” Aiden said without looking up. “So she can get well.”

“She’ll open the gate, all right. And try to find the pratie before—”

“Mamieo!” Mr. Wylltson warned.

“Aiden.” Mamieo pressed her hand to her heart. “Would you run up to my room and get me my medicine?”

“Okay.” Aiden set his construction project down. He trudged over and pulled the door to the maid’s stair open, then waited for Lucy, who had come up out of her cup to settle in his hair. “I’m not a baby. I know the bad guys want to kill me.”

“They’re after the little boy?” Seamus asked.

“I told you on the way home.” Mamieo pushed the door closed behind Aiden and lowered her voice. “He’s got the blood of Amergin the bard running in him. The Dark Man hates him for it, more than he hates the rest of us put together.”

And for the fact that his songs were magic in Mag Mell
. Teagan started to pace.
A great mending to be done
. She did not like where this conversation was headed . . .

“Mamieo,” Finn said, “you’re not thinking of taking the boyo back?”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Wylltson said. “Why would you even consider it?”

Mamieo spun toward him. “To save my grandson’s life, John Paul. I didn’t get to this age without staying one step ahead of the goblins myself.
Thinking
one step ahead of them. Your daughter’s right. We can’t run. But we can beat the bastards. This time, we can beat them.”

“So Mag Mell is going to open a gate,” Seamus said. “And when she does . . .”

“It will be a race. Both sides—Mag Mell and goblinkind— will be after the boyo. The shadows won’t want to wait. Samhain is coming, when the walls between the worlds grow thin. They’ll claw their way into this world if they can. That’s why I need you, Seamus.”

“
All
sides,” Teagan corrected. “Mab is rebelling. She’ll want Aiden, to spite Fear Doirich, if nothing else. And the Highborn won’t wait for a gate to open. Kyle and Isabeau just stepped into Ireland and caught a plane over. They’ll be coming that way, too.”

“‘I tell you naught for your comfort,’”
Mr. Wylltson said softly.

“‘Yea, naught for your desire
,

Save that the sky grows darker yet

And the sea rises higher.’”

Aiden’s head popped out from behind the door to the maid’s stairs. “What song is that?”

“Pratie!” Mamieo said. “You couldn’t possibly have gone up to my room and back already!”

Aiden held up the bottle of nitro pills. “Lucy went. I just sat on the steps and listened.”

“You know better than to eavesdrop, son.”

“It’s not a song,” Mr. Wylltson said. “It’s a poem that your mother illustrated for me once. Chesterton’s
Ballad of the White Horse
. Winston Churchill quoted it on the radio to give the English courage when it looked as if Hitler was going to win the war.”

“Did he win?” Aiden’s face was very pale. “Did the bad guy win?”

“He did not,” Mr. Wylltson assured him.

“I want to hear it.”

“It’s a very long poem,” Mr. Wylltson said. “But I’ll recite your mom’s favorite parts. You have to understand that it is about a good king named Alfred who had lost a terrible war. His army had been destroyed. He prayed for help, and Mother Mary appeared and spoke to him. She said:

“‘I tell you naught for your comfort

Yea, naught for your desire
,

Save that the sky grows darker yet

And the sea rises higher
.

‘Night shall be thrice night over you
,

And heaven an iron cope
.

Do you have joy without a cause
,

Yea, faith without a hope?’”

“What’s a cope?” Aiden asked.

“A robe,” Mr. Wylltson explained. “Like a priest wears.”

“An iron robe would squish a priest.”

“That’s the point, son,” Mr. Wylltson said. “Mary was saying he would feel like the sky was squishing him.”

“What did he do?”

“Well,” Mr. Wylltson said, “he went to find help. And he found Colan. This was your mother’s very favorite part:

“Last of a race in ruin—

He spoke the speech of the Gaels;

His kin were in holy Ireland
,

Or up in the crags of Wales.”

“Like us.” Aiden was looking even more intent. “Colan was like us.” Mr. Wylltson nodded and went on:

“But his soul stood with his mother’s folk
,

That were of the rain-wrapped isle
,

Where Patrick and Brandan westerly

Looked out at last on a landless sea

And the sun’s last smile
.

His harp was carved and cunning
,

As the Celtic craftsman makes
,

Graven all over with twisting shapes

Like many headless snakes
.

His harp was carved and cunning
,