The Shadows (22 page)

He went silent. Then he put his spoon on the table, deliberately, as if the world depended on him doing it just right. He rose. “If you’ll excuse me. Happy birthday, Gracie.”

He went out of the room. But not before I’d seen the misery in his eyes and felt his terrible despair. I stared after him, my anger with him replaced by sudden fear. I’d known something was wrong with my brother, but this was the first time
I’d thought that perhaps he was as afraid as I was. I heard his footsteps down the hallway, and then the opening and closing of the front door.

My mother put her face in her hands.

I had no idea what to say to her that hadn’t been said a hundred times. I rose, gathering the dishes, putting them into the washing tub. “I’ll take Grandma her supper.”

I took the bowl of soup and some applesauce upstairs. I forgot my brother when I saw Grandma out of bed, wavering as she stood in her bare feet at the window, her nightgown fraying about her bony shins.

“Grandma.” I set down the food and rushed over to her. “Whatever are you doing out of bed?”

I tried to help her back, but she shook me off. “I’m fine,
mo chroi
.” She was as clear-eyed as I’d seen her in days.

“I’ve brought your supper. Won’t you sit to eat it?”

She sighed and shook her head. Her cap lay abandoned on the bed, and her gray hair straggled from its braid.

“Then sit so I can brush your hair?”

“Bring the chair here,” she commanded.

I pulled the chair to the window, and she sat, staring outside. The air was still and heavy, the leaves on the trees not stirring. The sky was gray, and I heard thunder in the distance.

I took up her brush and felt her relax beneath my touch as I undid her braid.

She said, “’Tis your birthday today.”

“Seventeen,” I said.

“I heard a knock.”

“Patrick Devlin sent flowers. And a book of poems.”

She grunted. I brushed her hair in silence for a few moments before I said, “There’s a storm coming in.”

“Not yet. But the
sidhe
are everywhere already. And the ships are on their way.”

I had to bite back a sigh. I expected her next comment to be something about
They are coming
, or
That boy,
another slip into dementia, but instead she said, “Do you remember the old stories,
mo chroi
?”

“The old stories?”

“Cuchulain. The Battle of Magh Tuiredh. Lir’s children.”

“You know I do.” She used to hold me upon her lap, her words seeming to unfold before my eyes like vibrant, glowing visions. “The Children of Lir made me so sad. Turned into swans for nine hundred years.”

Grandma’s shoulders bowed in relief so palpable I could feel it. “Thank God for that,” she whispered.

“Thank God for what? That the Children of Lir were swans for nine hundred years?”

“No,” she said, so quietly I had to strain to hear. “That you remember the stories. What about Lochlann’s son?”

It was the story of a famous battle between the Fianna and those gods of darkness and chaos known as the Fomori.

“Of course I remember,” I told her.

“You see it in your dreams,” she said, and I started—how did she know of my nightmares?

She went on in the storytelling voice I remembered, quiet
and intent. “It began when the King of Lochlann decided to invade Ireland and take back what was once under Fomori rule. The attempt cost him his life and left his young son orphaned. It was Finn MacCool himself who took the young Miogach to foster, and the son of Lochlann was raised to manhood in the Fianna’s fortress and given every comfort.

“But Finn did not realize how much Miogach hated them all, nor did he know that Miogach had secretly gathered together the Fianna’s enemies: the Fomori and their allies.

“One day Finn and some of his men were out hunting, and they came upon Miogach, who invited them into a room with soft silk hangings, comfortable pillows, and polished wood floors. The Fianna left their armor and weapons at the door, as was the custom, and Miogach left to get food and wine.”

“But he didn’t return,” I said, plaiting her hair.

“No. The walls became rough planks, the silk tapestries decaying rags, and the floors cold, wet earth. The Fianna were imprisoned in the House of Death. Finn and the others called for help in the hopes that some of their fellows might hear their cries.

“Finn’s son, Fia, was out searching for his father when he saw Miogach’s mighty army gathering to cross the river. Miogach called, ‘You slew my father. I will have my vengeance.’ Fia said, ‘’Twas your father who decided to invade Ireland. Don’t seek vengeance for what is just, or vengeance will rebound on you.’ But Miogach advanced.

“Diarmid and Keenan arrived at the river just in time to see Fia on his knees, soldiers dead all around him, his
weapons and his shield crushed, while Miogach raised his mighty sword to take Fia’s head. Diarmid threw his spear, but it only struck Miogach in the side, and Miogach killed Fia. In a rage, Diarmid slew Miogach. Then Diarmid heard the cries of those in the House of Death and followed them. But he could not release Finn and the others, who were dying of hunger and thirst.

“When Diarmid returned to the ford for help, he found that Keenan had fallen into an enchanted sleep. It was left to Diarmid to fight the three kings and their six hundred men who were the advance riders for Daire Donn, the King of the World, who had come with the Fomori to aid Miogach. Keenan finally woke to help, but by then Diarmid had killed them all. He took the heads of the three kings to Finn, who rubbed the blood on himself and the others, freeing them from the spell. But there was not enough blood to rub on Conan, and they had to pry him up from the floor, leaving some of his skin and hair behind so he was forever bald.

“They were joined by the rest of the Fianna and met Daire Donn and his two thousand men in a battle to end all battles, with thunder and lightning from Druid stormcasters and the screams of the Morrigan’s ravens. At last, the Fomori and their allies were defeated, though the Fianna lost many of their own as well, thus ensuring that the hatred between the Fianna and the Fomori will never die.”

“But it was Miogach’s fault,” I protested. “His vengeance rebounded on him just as Fia said it would.”

“Aye. But do not be so quick to think truth holds to only
one side,
mo chroi
. Vengeance is a bitter cup to drink from, but perhaps it would have been avoided had Finn not assumed his kindness to Miogach would make up for killing the boy’s father. ’Twas Finn’s arrogance at fault nearly as much.”

“Well, thankfully those battles are long over,” I said.

“Battles are never over, and nothing stays gone. Everything circles ’round and ’round about, over and over again. The end is only another beginning.”

I assumed she spoke of my father’s death and our losses, of Aidan. “I haven’t lost hope, Grandma.”

“You will need more than hope.” She gripped my hand where it rested on her shoulder, squeezing my fingers tight. “It will take all your courage, Grainne.”

“I know, Grandma.”

“You don’t know! You don’t know, but you will. Your mother must help—”

“She can’t help, Grandma. She’s getting weaker. She’s so worn out by all this. I’d call the doctor, but . . . it’s up to me, I’m afraid.”

Grandma ignored me. “Aidan will know what to do.”

I snorted. “Aidan only knows how to get his next drink.” Then I thought of what I’d seen in his eyes today, and I wished I hadn’t said it. It all seemed so hopeless. Mama and Grandma, and Aidan too—how was I to save them all?

“There is so much for you to learn. So little time,
mo chroi.
Ah, that thunder—do you hear it?”

She was slipping away again. Wearily, I said, “Yes. I hear it.”

“That boy . . . and . . . the children of the
sidhe
—there are
more every day. They will not rest until they have you. You must be careful . . . find the truth—”

“Come, Grandma. You should eat. You should rest.”

She twisted to look at me. “Promise me.” Her eyes were dark stones, but
she
, my grandmother, wasn’t there. She was back in the world of her imaginings, where the Fianna and the Fomori fought battles in lightning, fire, and blood. I knew what those visions looked like. But the difference between my grandmother and me was that I knew they were only dreams.

“I promise,” I said, though I had no idea what I promised, and I was certain she didn’t either.

I helped her to the bed. Her gaze was distant, and she said little more as I tucked her in and fed her spoonfuls of soup and applesauce. But she shuddered at every crack of thunder, and I knew she heard in it the battle cries of the Morrigan, and that instead of the thin yellow coverlet on her bed, she saw fields of blood.

SIXTEEN

Diarmid

D
iarmid couldn’t take the ogham stick to Finn and Cannel right away. When he’d returned to the stables after visiting Grace Knox, the whole place had been in a flurry—Devlin had needed the carriage, and Jerry was snarling
“Where the hell were you?”
and Diarmid had been unable to sneak out the rest of the night. Instead, he lay in the darkness and thought of her, the curves of her body beneath that flimsy shift—it had been all he could do to make the noise that kept her from drawing it off. He needed her silence too much to make her angry. But now he was haunted by how familiar it had felt to lie beside her, as if he belonged there, as if he already knew her every breath and sigh. He had not wanted to leave, and the urge to touch her, to keep touching her, to kiss her, had shaken him. He’d fought himself with every breath. If she was the
veleda
. . . he did not want to finish the thought.
Best to keep his distance, he knew, and her despair had only settled his intentions. He made himself stop thinking of her and focus on getting the ogham stick to Finn.

But the next day was no better; no chance to escape at all. Leonard came back from driving Lucy to some social call, saying, “Devlin’s in a panic. Police all over this mornin’. I guess somethin’ went missin’ from his study.”

The police. Already. Diarmid had hoped it might be longer before the theft was discovered. He’d hidden the ogham stick in the pile of manure and dirty straw from mucking the stables, and he tried to keep from constantly checking it. He hadn’t even had the time to look at it or to decipher the ogham runes, and he didn’t have the chance the next day either, nor the one after that. Diarmid chafed with anxiety and impatience, but he couldn’t risk losing the job by just leaving—and he didn’t want to raise suspicion either.

But that night, finally, things calmed enough that he had the opportunity he needed. When darkness fell—bringing with it distant thunder and air that felt thick and swollen—Diarmid was up at the sound of Jerry’s first snore, pawing through the filthy straw until the stone was in his hands. He washed it and his hands, shoved it into a saddlebag that he threw over his shoulder, and stepped into the sweltering night.

He nearly ran to the tenement. Keenan and Goll were practicing parries and feints in the yard, and he waved for them to follow as he raced up the pitch-black stairs. His boots slipped on something wet—by the gods,
wet
. Garbage or drink or blood?—and he rapped out the code they’d devised
on the door and was through it in a single motion, breathless and sweating.

Finn was laughing as he tore a hunk of bread from the loaf on the table. His pale eyes darkened when he saw Diarmid, with Keenan and Goll coming in a rush behind.

“What is it?”

Diarmid slung the saddlebag off his shoulder, removing the ogham stick. “It’s Devlin’s,” he said. “I stole it.”

“You stole it? Does he know it’s gone?” Finn asked.

“Aye. The police know it too.”

Finn put aside the bread and made a quick, commanding gesture to Cannel, who’d been standing against the wall, laughing with Ossian as he drank a mug of ale. The whole room smelled of it, and now Diarmid saw a keg dripping into a small puddle on the floor and more than bread on the table: apples and meat. He caught the scent of roasted pork, and his mouth watered.

“What’s all this?” Diarmid asked.

Oscar came up to him, smiling. “Keenan’s working at a saloon up the street. Goll got a job at a butcher’s. Ossian’s won two boxing matches. All in all, a good week.”

“You should come around more often, and you’d know,” Finn said, faintly chiding as he took the ogham stick and turned it in his hands.

“He’s too busy with his girls,” Oscar said, tousling Diarmid’s hair.

Diarmid dodged. “Too busy stealing relics from Patrick Devlin and evading police, you mean.”

Cannel reached out to touch the stone in Finn’s hands and then recoiled as if it had burned him. He turned to Finn. “How can you even hold it? It’s hot as an oven.”

“It burned my hand,”
Grace Knox had said. Diarmid’s gut tightened.

Finn tossed it from one hand to the other. “I don’t feel anything.” He looked at Diarmid. “You?”

“It’s just stone,” Diarmid replied, not saying that he knew someone else the stick had burned.

“Can you read it?” Finn asked Cannel.