Black Fallen (13 page)

Gawan knows it, too, because he gives Eli a respectful glance before continuing. “You’ll
be on another plane, like the one you were on earlier with the boy,” Gawan explains.
“Usually the geography is the same, but,” he goes on, “there are things even I don’t
get the full gist of in there. They hide, and in there they reign, preferably in darkness.
And, yes, I am speaking of demons, Ms. Poe. And they’re not nearly as easy to tackle
as a thirteenth-century knight,” he says with a glance at Tristan. “Or even a vampire.”
He looks at Eli. “They’re cunning, there are a lot of them, they toy with your mind,
and they want only one thing: your soul.”

Again I nod. “And I kill it with . . . ?”

He presses something into my hand. “Prayer,” Gawan says, “and this.”

In my palm, a cross. It’s old. Old as dirt.

“It’s Pictish,” he says, and pulls up the sleeve of his coat The muscles in his forearm
flex as he turns it over, inside facing out. “Just like this one. It will protect
you for a time.”

I stare at him.

“And you have to repeat this prayer,” he says. “In Pictish.”

I think about it and nod. “The prayer and cross protect me . . . for a certain amount
of time. Anything else?”

“Jason!” Tristan bellows.

“Aye!” a young voice replies. I turn and glance over my shoulder in time to see a
young guy—tall, lean, dark hair pulled back—leap from the Rover that just pulled into
the gates. He’s jogging toward us, carrying something.

“Take that to Grimm,” Tristan says, referring to Gawan.

Jason hurries over to us. He has a wide smile and seems excited to see, well, everyone.
“Sir Gawan!” he says, stopping just before he plows into the big ex-warlord. “Here
you are, just as requested.” He hands the thing to Gawan, then looks at me. A sparkle
lights his eyes. “Lady,” he says, and gives a slight bow. “Jason, presently of Dreadmoor.”

I nod. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

Gawan hands me the thing Jason has brought him.

I grasp it and look at it in the lamplight. The team moves in around me. Eli is all
but pressed against my back. I turn it over in my hand. It’s . . . a gun. Sort of.
Looks like a handgun, but the place for a magazine is different. I hold it up and
inspect the loading mechanism.

“’Tis a scathe, lady. Known in our day as a skatha. Made of bronze and modified somewhat,
by Sir Gawan there.” Jason nods toward Conwyk. “You’ll need this, but take care of
the points,” Jason says, and pulls a handful of clear, heavy glass cartridges the
size of a ChapStick tube and places them in my other hand. At one end, extremely sharp
and pointy. I look at him, and he seems overjoyed to be giving them to me. He’s cute,
don’t get me wrong. Dead cute. I’m just . . . befuddled.

“They’re prefilled,” Jason offers as I stare at them. “I’ve a score more of them in
the Rover.”

“Of what?” I ask.

“Why, the only thing that will eradicate a demon,” Jason answers. “A very strong,
very powerful, very magical source,” he continues. “Pictish holy water from St. Beuno’s
Well.” He cocks his head. “Have you heard of it?”

“’Fraid not,” I answer. I stare at the liquid in the clear vials, then meet Gawan’s
gaze. “I trust you. One cartridge per demon, loaded into the scathe?”

“Aye,” Gawan answers. “’Tis mighty holy, Riley. Be verra, verra careful with them.”

“I will,” I answer.

“Here. I’ll show you how to load them,” Jason says, then looks down at me. “If you
please?”

I don’t think in a thousand years I’ll ever, ever get used to medieval beings living
in the twenty-first century. Never.

“Sure,” I answer, and Jason gently takes the scathe and a cartridge and loads it.
“Pull back this lever here,” he says, showing me, “and just slip it in. Give it a
push”—he does so, and it clicks—“and lock the lever back in place. You can load six
at once. When you’re finished, pull the lever back down.” He does, and hands me the
gun. “And you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Jason,” I say. “Any suggestions on where to stash it?”

“Oh,” Jason says sternly. “You’ll not want to sheathe this, lady. ’Twill be best to
keep it in your hand at all times.”

I glance at Gawan, and he nods. After a quick look around, I see the entire WUP team
is watching with intense curiosity. Ginger blinks, a look of astonishment on her face.
Lucian simply stares. Noah, of course, is grinning.

Victorian, much like Eli, is frowning. And I can feel Eli’s scowl.

“Any questions?” Gawan asks.

“Um, yes,” I say. “The prayer.”

“I’ve got that,” Jason says, and pulls something from his pocket. He unfolds the paper
and hands it to me. “Sir Gawan will translate for you.”

“You’ve got to practice it in Pict,” he says. “I’ve written the words to sound exactly
like the Pict words here. On the other side, the English version and the correct Pict
version.” He smiles. “’Tis the only way.”

I nod. “Will do.”

Gawan puts a large hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You’re a brave lady, Riley Poe.
And I’m afraid you’re the only one who can enter that plane and emerge intact. You
be careful.”

“I will. And thanks,” I answer, and meet his gaze. “Now say the prayer one more time.
Pretty cool lingo, Pict.”

Gawan smiles. “So says my wife.”

I return the smile. “I’m sure she does.” And then Gawan repeats the verse once more.

“Here are your bags, sirs,” Peter says from the front door. A duffel bag weighs down
each hand. He makes his way to Tristan and sets them on the gravel.

“Thank you, good man,” Tristan says, then looks at me. “Once all of this has been
dealt with accordingly, you and your betrothed will have to drive down for a visit,”
he invites. “We’ve an annual medieval tournament you won’t want to miss.” He walks
over and takes my hand in his large ones. “’Tis been a pleasure, Ms. Poe. You take
great care in your battles.”

“I will, and thanks for the lessons,” I respond. “We’ll kick some Fallen ass and head
your way.”

“Posthaste,” Jason adds. “Lady Andi would truly love to meet you.”

“Jason!” Tristan says, already halfway to the Rover.

Jason grins, wiggles his brows, and again lowers his body to a bow and kisses my hand.
“Until then,” he says, then hastens away. “Coming, Sir Tristan!”

Gawan grabs his duffle. “Godspeed,” he says, grasping my shoulder.

Damn, I can’t help it. Just once more.

“Gawan, close your eyes for just a minute,” Andi said. “I’ll wake you up when the
doctor comes in.”

“Aye,” said Tristan, “you can’t just sit there, leaning on your knees with your head
hanging down. You’ll get a bloody crick in your neck.”

With a hefty sigh, Gawan leaned back in the chair and scrubbed his stubbled jaw. “I’ll
be fine.” He glanced around.

The waiting lobby was full. Nearly every soul at both Grimm and Dreadmoor filled the
place, not to mention the four Morgans. Some stood against the wall; some sat on the
carpeted floor, backs to the wall.

Rick Morgan sat, much like he did, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. Once,
he’d lifted his head and glanced at Gawan, and the worry etched into the man’s face
grew deeper by the second. He’d given Gawan a slight nod and then had gone back to
staring at the space between his feet.

Even Nicklesby, Gawan noticed, sat very still in a corner chair, simply staring. Jason
sat with Ellie’s sister; both were quiet. Everyone looked exhausted.

It had been a night from Hell.

After the medics had all but pried Ellie from Gawan’s arms, they’d rushed her to the
medical infirmary. After quick X-rays and CT scans of her head and body, they’d rushed
her into emergency surgery. While her arms and legs had gained no injury and her head,
surprisingly, hadn’t suffered any, she had acquired multiple internal injuries that,
had she not been found when she had, would have surely taken her life.

The constable had arrived and taken the woman at the farm and her drunken husband
into custody. While the man had still been unconscious with drink, the woman confessed
everything.

Her husband had struck Ellie with his truck that night Gawan had found her. Fearful
of being sent to jail for drunk driving or, worse, vehicular homicide, he brought
Ellie to his wife and forced her to take care of her. They’d moved her back and forth
from the farm to the kirk, afraid of their secret being found out. Ellie could not
have lasted on her own without food, water, warmth. So for that, he was eternally
grateful to the woman.

Still, they had no idea why Ellie had been on Grimm’s lane. That the man had nearly
run Gawan off the road while carrying an unconscious Ellie in the back of his truck
made his stomach ache.

And now, she fought for her very life.

They’d been directed to the intensive-care waiting lobby until her surgery was completed.
Which,
thought Gawan,
is bloody taking forever.
They’d taken her at close to five the evening before, and now it was nearly four
in the morning.

For the hundredth time, he rose and began to pace. Shoving a hand through his knotted
hair, he rubbed his eyes and walked to the window. In twenty hours, he would have
become a mortal again. And while he knew he wouldn’t remember later, he wanted to
know now that she’d be well and healthy. It was making him daft, the waiting, and
the
click-click-click
of the minute hand on the old, clunky wall clock echoed so loudly in the lobby, he
forced himself not to yank it from the wall and bust it.

“Mr. Morgan?”

Everyone stood up.

Rick Morgan crossed the floor, and as he passed Gawan, he inclined his head. “Come
on.”

Appreciation swept over him, for the man certainly didn’t have to allow Gawan to listen
in on a personal family matter. Out in the hallway, the doctor waited. He looked weary,
Gawan noted. And before Gawan could hop into his head, he spoke.

“Your daughter is in critical condition, Mr. Morgan,” he said, meeting Rick Morgan’s
eyes with a steady, forthright gaze through a pair of spectacles. “I don’t know how
she bloody made it as long as she did. Her lung was punctured by a fractured rib,
and her spleen had ruptured. And with the drastic shock she was in, well”— he glanced
at Gawan—“it’s a miracle she made it.”

Rick Morgan held his younger daughter close. “Is she going to continue to make it?”

The doctor placed a hand on Rick Morgan’s shoulder. “This is a critical time for her,
I’m afraid. She’s young and, prior to this, healthy, so her chances are good. She’s
stable right now. But given what she’s been through . . .” He squeezed his shoulder.
“We’ll see.”

Once the physician left, a nurse dressed in blue trousers and tunic walked up and
smiled. “Are you the Morgan family?”

Rick Morgan nodded.

“Two can come back,” she said.

“Just two?” Ellie’s brother, Kyle, said.

“I’m afraid so. ICU regulations.” She glanced around. “Which two? You can follow me.”

Gawan locked eyes with her.
Five can come in and stay at all times, even outside of visiting hours, if they wish.
Let your coworkers know the physician says it’s all right.

“Okay,” she said, eyes wide. “You can all follow me.”

Rick Morgan looked at Gawan and then silently followed the wide-eyed nurse. As they
passed the small nurse’s station in the center of the ward, Gawan willed them each
to let them all stay on in Ellie’s room, just for good measure.

Gawan was in no way prepared to see his intended the way he now saw her: tubes, beeping
machines, her face pale, and a ventilator doing Ellie’s breathing for her. Aye, he
knew the names of such machines, and he hated seeing them strapped to her.

Ellie’s sister cried and held her hand.

Her brothers, flanking Ellie’s sides, just stood there, silent, their hands resting
on the covers beside her.

Rick Morgan’s face had blanched, and as big as the man was, Gawan noticed the trembling
in his hands as he swiped back a bit of Ellie’s hair. “Christ, girl,” he said, his
voice cracking. “Christ.”

Gawan stood back near the foot of the bed and watched Ellie’s chest rise and fall
with each horrible click of that machine. He watched for as long as he could stand
it before he simply closed his eyes.

And so it went on like that, all day long. The Morgan siblings went in and out, graciously
allowing others to replace them. Only Rick Morgan and Gawan remained constantly. The
Dreadmoor knights, they took their turns coming to see Ellie, but none of them stayed
long. Only Jason, who, by the bloody saints, looked as pale as Ellie, lingered a while,
whispered something in her ear, and then left.

Hours passed by, and Gawan never sat. He could do nothing save stand beside Ellie,
hold her hand, and pray she’d make it. Once, when Rick Morgan stepped into the garderobe
and no one else was about, Gawan whispered into Ellie’s ear,
“I mewn hon buchedd a I mewn I ’r ’n gyfnesaf, Adduneda ’m cara atat forever ’n ddarpar.”
It was a heartfelt verse in his native tongue, and he prayed that even though she
was deep in slumber, she may hear it. He supposed he’d never know.

It was hours later when Nicklesby touched his arm. “Sir, are you aware of the time?”

Gawan glanced at the clock. Nearly six p.m. “Nay, not until just now.”

“You’ve only a few more hours remaining,” he said, his voice quiet. “I know this is
passing sorrowful, Sir Gawan.”

“I know what needs to be done, my friend,” Gawan said, grasping Nicklesby’s bony shoulder
and giving a thankful squeeze. “Not yet, though.”

“Poor lamb,” he said, casting a glance at Ellie. “I’ll be just outside, if you need
me.” Then he left.