Warstalker's Track (17 page)

“Well,” Devlin concluded with a yawn, “let’s get him loaded and you folks on your way. There’s others could stand some lookin’ after.” He eyed Lugh speculatively.

Five minutes later, David had helped Devlin, Aikin, and LaWanda carry his father from the cabin, lower him over the side (Brock and Aife assisted there), then hoist him into the back of the black pickup. Devlin supplied a foam pad and a pile of blankets, then ambled up to the cab to give LaWanda directions. The Faeries were tending their own, and Aikin had slipped behind the house to pee, so that David found himself alone with his dad.

Christ, he looks old!—
as
David stroked his father’s brow in a gesture that would’ve embarrassed both of them had Big Billy been awake. He was sweating, too, as though his body fought an invisible battle against that wooden invader, but his breathing was slow and regular, which David assumed was good. He hadn’t regained consciousness, though, which could mean anything.

Suppose he didn’t!
Suppose David had had his last conversation with the man who’d begot him, raised him, and sent him off to college. Suppose his mom (who must be worried sick by now) had had
her
last conversation, and her last dinner, and her last night making love to the man who’d given her two sons. Suppose Little Billy lost his father. Himself, he could handle it—he thought—being mostly on his own now. But the kid—a boy needed a dad, even one like Big Billy who only half understood him. It would, David concluded glumly, be a long night.

“I’ll call your mom soon as we get there,” Aikin vowed, behind him. David nearly jumped out of his skin, not having heard his friend approach. “No sense in
you
doin’ it until we know something,” Aikin went on. “You got other fish to fry, and you can bet I’ll be back with the tartar sauce soon as I can. But right now—”

“I’m on it!” LaWanda called from the cab, and cranked the rattly engine. Aikin scrambled over the tailgate to join Big Billy in the back, pausing only to slide the rear window open so he and LaWanda could communicate.

“Take care!” David shouted. And didn’t watch as the truck lurched down John Devlin’s half-graveled drive toward civilization.

Devlin accompanied him as they headed back toward the shattered ship, and only then did David comprehend how badly damaged it was. The front third had taken the brunt of the impact, mainly below decks, leaving the superstructure intact and everything below the gunwale a mess of splintered wood. Most of the shields along the sides had fallen off, and the mast had cracked halfway up and now leaned at a crazy angle, the sail unfurled in places like a flag of warning.

Devlin chuckled dryly. “Never figured I’d have the King of the Faeries as a houseguest.”

“A king of the Faeries,” David corrected. “There’s a bunch of ’em.” A pause. “Guess you knew that, though.” Devlin didn’t reply.

“How much
do
you know?”

“More than we’ve got time to discuss right now,” Devlin gave back tersely but not unkindly. “That’s gotta wait until we get the rest of those folks settled, and I can—” He didn’t finish, for Fionchadd had leapt from the deck in front of them and was studying the ship critically. “If this was a horse, I would have to kill it,” the Faery youth announced. “As it is—I do not know. It is not wise to leave it here. Still—” He pondered his serpent ring, then looked up at Aife. “Are the others—?”

“Nuada is tired beyond belief, but if we can get the King inside…”

David reached for the ladder.

Ten minutes later, Lugh Samildinach, High King of the Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og, was lying on a thrift-store sofa in front of John Devlin’s fireplace with an heirloom quilt tucked under his chin. Though his face was pocked with open sores and he hadn’t awakened even once, he still looked relatively peaceful, considering his ordeal. David sat on the hearth watching him. A mug of coffee steamed in his hands, barely tasted. Nuada and Aife slumped to either side, seemingly as wasted as David. It was damned disconcerting, too, to see such imposing figures brought low. Was it pure fatigue, David wondered, or being away from Tir-Nan-Og, or the fact that their ruler—their friend, in Nuada’s case—was himself so altered as to seem a stranger?
Immortals, all of them, yet no one was truly immortal.
Even Faeries could die the Death of Iron, which did major damage to their souls. And souls could die or be devoured, as Ailill’s had been, all those years gone by.

But that way lay guilt, of which bitter draught he’d drunk deep that night already. Idly, he scanned the environs: a living room-cum-library, with a minimum of simple furniture, plain paneled walls, sanded pine floors, and shelves everywhere bearing an even mix of books and what could only be described as “stuff.” A door straight ahead opened onto
a
narrow hall that connected the front door to an extension out back that contained the kitchen, the tiny bath, and another room that was discreetly but purposefully locked.

As for Devlin himself—he’d shifted from take-charge Ranger to gracious host, all in a minute’s time, and had made coffee, offered drinks (spring water, juice, beer, and wine—but no soda, to Brock’s dismay), and pointed out the ’fridge. “Anything that looks edible, eat,” he’d announced, then vanished into the locked back room. At some point, he’d also acquired a left hand: a gloved prosthesis that covered the stump where flesh and blood had been shot away.

Brock had found a comfortable-looking armchair and was fast asleep, apparently his approach to stressful situations. Fionchadd had seen Lugh settled, then ducked outside, to return a short while later clutching what looked like a bird’s nest. It took David a moment to determine that it was actually the remains of his boat. “It work?” he asked stupidly.

Fionchadd regarded the object sadly. “Whether it will
expand
again—that depends on whether that which empowers it still lives, and that I can neither predict nor alter.”

“I don’t want to know,” David yawned. “Sorry.”

Fionchadd merely shrugged and wandered off in search of food, though he studiously avoided the refrigerator, it being made of steel.

The telephone rang twice before David figured out what it was, hesitated briefly, then rose to answer it. “John Devlin’s residence…”

“Dave,” Aikin shot back breathlessly. “We’re here. He’s mostly okay—stabilized, anyway. Stick fell out in the parkin’ lot, so we didn’t have to worry about that. I went ahead and called your mom.”

“She take it okay?”

“Dunno. I got Dale. He said not to worry, he’d been doctorin’ her coffee all day and she didn’t care about much of anything. They’re on their way over, though, all three of ’em. Elyyoth’s holdin’ down the fort, I think with Scott.”

“Best place for ’em—if we can keep ’em away from here.”

“Dale’s the only one who knows anything, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

“Good point.”

A long pause. Then: “So, you need me here or there?”

“Juju Woman makin’ it okay?”

“Cool as a cucumber. She eats RNs for breakfast.”

“Cooked or raw?”

“On toast, but you’re not answerin’ my question.”

David shifted his weight restlessly, noting that Devlin had emerged from the mysterious back room, now clad in black and with an equally mysterious black box tucked under his arm. “Protection,” he offered in transit—and vanished into the night.

“Dave?” Aikin prompted.

“Oh, hell,” David sighed. “Let’s see: if Wannie’s got her head on straight, you’re not really needed there. Dale can keep Mom from goin’ ballistic, and Little B’ll just think it’s an adventure. Which I guess means get your butt back down here and help me stress out for a while.”

“Catch you, then. I—Oops! They’re wantin’ me to sign something. I told ’em I was you, if that’s okay. Gotta go.” Aikin hung up the phone. It was just past midnight, and now Sunday: a day and change since their departure.

David blinked into the sudden silence, the first he’d experienced in what seemed like centuries. Still, he’d made a decision, and while it was a crime to disturb that peace with more talk, one did what one had to. A deep breath, and he punched in his and Alec’s number back in Athens. No answer—not that he’d expected one. But when he checked for messages, there was one from Alec, sounding harried, wired, and furtive. “Dave, just in case: the deed is done. Parents disposed of. Got the stuff. Folks wanted to feed everybody in Athens, and wondered why you weren’t here. Bottom line: we’re runnin’
very
late. At least we’ve slept. Catch you…whenever. Leave word where.”

David did, then tried Liz, got the same result, and left the same reply.

Calvin and Sandy’s place, then—where there was no response at all, which could mean anything. Cal was pretty canny, though, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have contacts.

“So basically,” he sighed to the empty room. “I cool my heels and wait.”

Not on an empty stomach, however. He’d just contrived a roast beef sandwich, and was debating chasing down Devlin or else phoning his folks’ place, in case they hadn’t left, when footsteps sounded on the porch. He tensed—
Lord,
he was jumpy!—but
at least he still had the Beretta. Just in case.

It was only Devlin: tight-faced and tired-eyed, as he slung off his black leather jacket and strode straight to the room in the back. David started to follow, but the man was gone. David heard the lock snap.

Seeing no other option, he finished his sandwich, claimed the one vacant chair that looked halfway comfortable. And dozed.

When he awoke half an hour later, Devlin was shaking his shoulder—with his real hand, to David’s relief; he’d never got used to the other, though the glove was better than the stump. “Guess we better talk,” the man said, dragging another chair over to join him. He was drinking coffee. Good stuff, too. It smelled heavenly.

“Might oughta,” David agreed with a tired smile, followed at once by a yawn.

Devlin puffed his cheeks. “Okay then, how ’bout giving me the short form, minus the council at the palace, the attack on us mortals, the coup, and most of the politics. Contacts,” he added cryptically. “Don’t ask. Start with when you got on the Faery lad’s ship.”

“Fionchadd,” David supplied a little angrily.

“Whatever.”

David sighed, and for the next fifteen minutes gave an account of Lugh’s rescue and their subsequent pursuit.

“
Somebody’s
lookin’ out for you,” Devlin observed when he’d finished. “No way a plan like that should’ve succeeded.”

David studied his mug. “Hey, it was the best we could do under the circumstances! And don’t forget we had three of the Sidhe, and they all agreed that the only way we had a ghost of a chance was to play to the rebels’ blind sides. They’re used to underratin’ us mortals, and most of ’em don’t seem to know much about us, ’cept those guys they’ve got workin’ for ’em, who aren’t the best examples, from what I hear.”

Devlin didn’t reply.

David shifted in his chair. “So what about you and Silverhand?”

Silence. Then, eventually: “Didn’t know who he was when we met. ’Course you don’t generally expect to meet a demigod on the street in Beirut—or your daddy’s back forty, I
guess. He’d heard about me through that business with your uncle. Thought I was…intriguing. Then he discovered I knew a bit about some other traditions—there’re strange folk in the world a whole lot closer than Faerie, in case you didn’t know. Anyway, he told me a little and I told him a little. Mostly, we talked about history.”

David lifted a brow.

“Yeah, well, see, there’s only four or five kingdoms over there, and they’re all basically one people, not countin’ the little guys. Our politics are incredibly complex to them: all those countries, kingdoms risin’ and fallin’. Death that’s real, so that good folks stay gone forever. Poverty, starvation, weather: all those are problems they don’t really have. It makes ’em naïve, frankly. They’re brilliant, but they haven’t had to live hard and fast, so we’re often better planners than they are. It’s not really a fair trade, if you think about it.”

David frowned. “So, how’d you know we were in transit?”

“Logic, mostly. I—I…knew you’d left, and figured if you succeeded you’d be pursued, and since you had at least two Faeries with you, they’d be thinkin’ in terms of bolt-holes, and I’d already told Silverhand he could use this as one, if he had to.”

David regarded Devlin askance. “You got this place…warded?”

A cryptic smile. “Let’s just say that if anything unpleasant comes around, I’ll know. Might not be able to keep it out, but I’ll know.”

“It could go either way,” Nuada inserted quietly, joining them. Devlin studied him for a moment, then rose, retrieved a bottle of Guinness from the refrigerator, opened it, and passed to the Faery, who nodded thanks before drinking. Fionchadd joined them a moment later, and Aife. Brock slept on, untroubled.

“Time we talked,” Nuada announced. “I am rested—a little. There is nothing I can do for Lugh now. He hides within himself, but I can feel him stirring. Still, his suffering has been unimaginable.”

“Evidently,” David acknowledged. “No offense, but I had no idea you guys were so fragile.”

Nuada glared at him. “Best we talk,” he insisted. “The more we decide now, the better it will be. Time may be in short supply.”

Devlin nodded sagely, if a little warily. “Fine. You’re senior fighting man. What’s your read?”

Nuada took a long draught and cleared his throat. “Very well. The first thing we must consider is our danger of attack. This is difficult to assess, for we know not the full strength of the rebels, save that there are more than we supposed. What say you, Fionchadd?”

“
Many
more, evidently, though how loyal they might be is hard to say. Most are younger even than I, and many have allied with the Sons more from boredom than conviction. They may not be reliable.”

“Still, there are enough to crew at least three vessels.” David scowled. “Three?”

“The one we first encountered would not have destroyed itself had there not been a backup. Nor is it likely that one would have risked subsequent pursuit in anything as perilous as a Pillar had there not been more backup in turn. Clearly they regarded the cause as greater than themselves.”