Silver Skin (A Cold Iron Novel) (20 page)

She was saying something else, but the throbbing in his head made it impossible to hear her and he lapsed into unconsciousness once more, only waking when the van stopped.

The doors opened, and the cool and sweet evening air soothed his burning lungs. He felt Conn and Beth lift him, and although he tried to stand when his feet touched the ground, he was kitten weak.

An elderly man and woman came out of the inn and began shouting. They were joined by two strong young men who helped get Elada inside. The old woman seemed worried and kept urging them to hurry. He heard her shoot the bolt behind them and wondered why she seemed so frightened.

Inside it sounded reassuringly like a pub until he was carried into the taproom. Then a hush fell over the drinkers, because they remembered the Fair Folk here with a combination of reverence and fear. And it had probably been a long time since they had seen one bleed.

They laid him on the bed, and he felt Beth Carter begin to loosen his clothes. He was unsurprised when Conn pushed her aside. The Betrayer didn’t like other Fae to touch his woman and he certainly didn’t want his woman touching other Fae. It brought a weak smile to Elada’s lips.

“Shut up,” said Conn.

“Make me,” said Elada.

“It would be all too easy in your condition,” replied Conn.

He felt the bed dip slightly, and then Beth was lifting his head and pressing warm, sweet tea, musky with honey and rich with cream, to his lips.

He gulped it down.

The old woman from outside came in carrying a tray. There was whiskey on it. Elada hoped it was for him. She hovered at the foot of the bed.

“Will he live?” she asked. She sounded hopeful, which only made sense. No one wanted to bring the wrath of the Fae down on themselves.

“Yes,” said Beth definitively. “He’s got iron poisoning, but he’ll heal.”

“We’ve given him our hospitality,” said the old woman, “even though he is not our own.”

“You know us, Mrs. O’Donovan.”

“That I do,” she said. “And this one,” she nodded to Conn, “did ever take care of his own when he stirred, but he’s been gone now, and there’s strangers wandering the fields at night.”

“Mad Druids,” said Conn. “We saw the cells they were kept in.”

“They come at night,” said the old woman. “They were there behind your car, looked like they had run miles to keep up with you. They’re outside now.”

Elada levered himself up out of bed.

“You need to rest,” said Beth.

He pushed past her to the window, where the old woman held open the curtain.

There were four pale faces in the moonlight. “Druids,” he croaked. If they had gone mad in the final stages of initiation, that meant they had some power, and could cast.

He was too weak to
pass,
and in any case he couldn’t leave Conn of the Hundred Battles to defend Beth Carter alone.

“We have to kill them,” he rasped. “And then I need to return to Boston. Miach has released me.”

“What does that mean?” asked Beth.

“It means that if I don’t get back there to help him, Miach is going to die.”

• • •

H
elene developed a ritual to
keep herself calm. She cataloged in her head the paintings in Miach’s house, the ones he had said he’d meant to donate to the museum to woo her. She grouped them by period, and considered how she might exhibit them in chronological order and what kind of explanatory text she might write for them. Who she would invite to the opening, what kinds of events she would plan around the show.

She didn’t think about the bricks at her back, touching her shoulder blades, her elbows, her knees. About the stale air, the weight of the house above her.

Instead, she started over again, grouping the paintings by style, and laying out a floor plan in her head that divided the different painterly traditions into rooms separated by temporary walls, with exhibit text on them explaining the different techniques and goals. Finally she planned a show that broke them down by theme—mythological, historical, and social paintings—and imagined the catalog she might write to accompany it.

Whenever panic threatened to overwhelm her, she felt for the cell phone in her pocket, her tie to Miach and the outside world, and stroked the plastic and glass case.

The door opened without warning. A hand clapped over her mouth to prevent any sound escaping. Strong arms pulled her against a warm, hard body and pressed her head to a broad chest.

Miach.

He held her that way for a moment and she trembled with relief.

Then he removed his hand from her mouth, grasped her shoulders, and stood back to look at her. “Are you all right?” he asked, his bright eyes scanning her body in the dim light.

She nodded. She couldn’t find her voice yet. It was stuck somewhere deep inside her chest where all of her feelings about this man were swirling.

He exhaled in relief. “Helene, we are on our own here. Elada is iron poisoned. Nial has been shot. Angus and Kermit and the boys are in the hospital. I cannot carry you and
pass
. I don’t have the strength for it. And without Elada to watch my back, I’m unlikely to get the chance to cast spells to defend us if we encounter any of these Druids.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said. “Now that you’re here.”

The way his expression changed, the way his tip-tilted eyes opened wide in the wan light told her he remembered, and understood. In the basement at the museum he’d offered to take her fear from her. She’d refused, because it wouldn’t have been real. Now it was.

He reached down and unstrapped one of the knives from his calf. “Take this,” he said. “And don’t be afraid to use it. These creatures aren’t people anymore.”

The knife was a solid piece of silver, the handle molded and chased to look like wood. She pulled it from its sheath and found the blade impossibly thin and razor sharp.

“Thrust up under the ribs,” said Miach. “Don’t hesitate if anyone threatens you.”

She nodded, sheathed the weapon, and slipped it back in her pocket.

“What about Nieve?”

“Safe,” he said. “With Garrett. Take my hand.”

She did. It felt big and strong and she knew that everything was going to be okay. Miach was the greatest sorcerer the Fae had ever known, and no Druid was a match for him. The narrow confines of the basement held no terrors now. It wasn’t his voice compelling her to be brave, either. He hadn’t reassured her that they were safe. It was him. His presence. The fact that he had come for her. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t tie himself to her permanently. What mattered was that he was here now.

They didn’t head the way Helene had come in. The basement was as big as the house and it wound and twisted, a maze of rooms that confused her. Miach seemed to know his way out, so she followed him blindly until they came out in a large vault stocked with crates. There were steps and a hatch open to the outside at the far end, with wan evening light falling on them.

Miach led her up the steps, then something cold and heavy sang through the air and fell over them. She felt Miach’s grip on her hand loosen and heard him grunt in pain as the weight knocked her off her feet.

Cold iron. They were caught under a blanket of chain links, a metal net. She tried to push it off her, but it was voluminous, and her arms became snarled in the holes.

“Get the girl out,” said Brian’s voice.

Hands grasped her ankles and yanked her over the concrete floor. The weight was lifted, then she was being hauled to her feet and pinioned by sour-smelling Druids, their bright eyes wild with glee.

Miach lay curled in a fetal position beneath the iron blanket, his breathing torturous. Brian strode to his father and kicked him in the stomach.

“That is for killing seven of my Druids, old man.”

Helene saw Miach convulse beneath the iron net and she cried out, but it was laughter, not pain, that came from his lips. “Those aren’t Druids, Brian. You can’t make Druids in a day, or a month, or a year. Those are rabid dogs, and they needed putting down.”

“Just because they’re not your precious Garrett doesn’t mean they can’t cast,” spat Brian.

Miach snorted. “Their
gaesa
are childish scrawl with no power. The magic they used on Helene was crude and unstable. They don’t have the strength or the focus to open a solstice gate, and Beth Carter will never do it for you, Brian.”

“No,” said Brian. He gripped Helene’s jaw and turned her face to profile. “But
you
will, or I’ll have my Druids gut her in front you.”

“Don’t do it,” said Helene. “Don’t open the gate for him. I’d rather die than live in a world with more of his kind.”

“If you hurt her, Brian,” said Miach from the floor, “I will show you at last what the true Fae are made of.”

Brian didn’t seem troubled. “Lock her back up,” he ordered.

Helene fought them but two Druids dragged her back to the brick coffin and thrust her inside. The door closed. Their footsteps died away.

She still had her phone. The battery was nearly gone; there was only a single bar of signal. She listened to make sure no Druids were outside the door, then dialed Beth.

It rang. A long time. It was an international call, and Helene was used to that, but it seemed to go on forever. Then finally Beth answered.

Helene didn’t know how long the signal would last so she started speaking right away. “We’re trapped. In a house. In Winthrop. On the beach. It’s full of Druids. They have Miach. Brian does. You have to come. Elada has to come.”

“Helene,” said Beth. “Elada is iron poisoned. He can’t
pass.
And Conn and I are trapped inside our hotel. There are Druids outside. They’re casting stuff at us that I’ve never heard of. Miach never taught me defensive magic.”

She could hear other voices in the background. Then Beth said, “Call Miach’s grandsons.”

“Nial has been shot,” said Helene. “Angus and Kermit are in the hospital.”

A long pause.

“You could try the police,” said Beth, without much conviction.

Helene thought of Brian’s voice. Even if the Boston PD came, Brian could send them away with his voice.

It was her only option. She dialed.

The door opened without warning. Ransom Chandler yanked her out of the closet and wrenched her phone from her hand. She tried to run, but he said, “Look at me, Helene,” and laughed when she turned to him, unable to control her own body.

“I wish you remembered our time together,” he said. “We had such fun after the gala.” He flicked her hair off her shoulders, examined the shoulder where Miach’s wards had burned his mouth-sealing symbol off.

She felt sick when he touched her and hoped she vomited on him. “I expect that even without the spell, it was more memorable for you than it would have been for me,” she said, not bothering to disguise her disgust.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to make new memories together now.”

Chapter 16

H
elene shrank back into the confines of her brick coffin, but she knew it was no good. Ransom Chandler could summon her out. He stood looking at her now with disturbing avidity.

“I’ve been practicing my penmanship,” he said. “There are all sorts of
gaesa
I want to try out on your skin. Follow me.”

She was powerless to resist.

He led her through the house. Along the way, she tested the limits of his compulsion. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn away. Her body followed in his wake as if drawn by an invisible tether.

But she had control of her hands. She knew better than to reach in her pocket, to telegraph her intention, but she pushed her hair out of her face and felt confident that while she couldn’t run away from him, she would have free action—until he cast something else on her—and she wasn’t going to wait for that to happen.

The rooms on the ground floor were mostly empty. There was an old plaid couch in the grand parlor they passed that looked like it had been upholstered in the seventies. And folding chairs in a circle. Empty food containers littered the floors. The Druids had been living like squatters, and the sour smell of unwashed bodies and laundry pervaded the house.

Chandler led her up a wide staircase, all gloomy Victorian paneling and rotting animal heads on the wall. At the top of the stairs he turned and she followed.

The room he chose was bare save for a table with a small tattoo machine on top.

He beckoned her into the room, then closed the door.

Good.

He checked the machine, turned it on, and said, “Come here.”

She wasn’t going to get a second chance. It had to be now. She remembered what Miach had said, but she didn’t reach for her pocket. Not yet. She paced, maneuvering until she stood in front of Chandler. And then she took another step of her own will. She had freedom as long as she was advancing toward him. And that was exactly what she wanted.

She took one more step, until they were toe to toe, then she thrust her hand into her pocket, brought out the knife, and stabbed up under Chandler’s rib cage and straight into his heart.

The tattoo pen fell from his hand and swung over the side of the table, still buzzing. The blood drained from his face and he turned ashen. She twisted the Fae blade, which had sliced into his body like a hot knife through butter. Warm blood rushed over her hand and trickled down her arm.

He hadn’t made a sound.

She pulled the knife out and stepped back.

His body collapsed like a marionette.

There was blood on her tank top and her skirt and even her legs. Her arm was red with it. She forced herself to touch him, to feel in his pockets for her cell phone and then draw it out. Then she set the knife on the table, wiped her hand on the dead Druid’s shirt, cleaned the knife with it as well, and surveyed her surroundings.

She peeled a square of newspaper off one of the windows and looked out. From up here she could see out over the wall and into Winthrop. Dear, normal, suburban Winthrop, where there were swing sets in backyards and big cars in driveways and children playing in the street.

The roof of a small screened-in porch was just below the window. She could go out the window and climb down to the ground from the porch. From there it would be only a short run to the wall and then into the center of town. Ransom Chandler was dead. They couldn’t summon her back. And Brian had what he wanted: his father at his mercy and whatever was in that box.

She wasn’t Beth. She didn’t have any magic. She wasn’t Fae. She had no special skills, no weapon but the razor-sharp gleaming dagger in her hand. No one would blame her if she ran for it, if she saved herself. If she ran into the center of town, covered in blood, and begged the police to protect her. They might even be convinced to raid the house, but never in time save Miach from his son.

And she wasn’t leaving without the Fae sorcerer.

She cautiously opened the door to the hall and listened. There were voices coming from the other end of the second floor as well as music. Then laughter. Television. Druids watching television.

Helene stepped cautiously into the hall, knife at the ready, and padded to the head of the stairs. There was no one in sight, but the staircase was wide. If she was caught on it, there would be no way to hide.

Behind her a door opened. The television grew louder. There was no time to retreat into the room where she had left Chandler’s corpse. She plunged down the stairs and then darted under them, where an old-fashioned telephone table and chair sat collecting dust.

The floorboards and then stairs above her creaked, feet pounding down. She crouched and folded herself up tight in the narrowest corner under the stairs, shrinking back as far as she could manage into the shadows.

She heard the swish of denim against denim and the thud of feet over carpet, and then a pair of legs and white-socked feet ran by, skidded to a halt outside the kitchen where Helene had seen the Druids take Nieve, and disappeared inside.

Helene heard the distinctive sound of a refrigerator being opened, then the pop and hiss of an aluminum can. More swishing. The jeans reappeared, and the feet hurried along the hall and pounded back up the stairs.

It was so damned ordinary. So normal. Watching television, running for a soda, hurrying back before you missed anything. But these people laughed about cutting open a helpless girl, would have sentenced Helene to death by the memory-eating geis on her thigh, wanted to bring down the wall between worlds.

Miach had told her that they were mad, cracked, broken Druids. She unfolded herself from her hiding place, peered cautiously out, and headed for the kitchen, where she discovered just how wrong and broken they really were.

One of them had just come in here and gotten a soda. Opened it, maybe even taken a sip, with no regard for the bodies heaped in the center of the room around the bloodstained table. The stench was almost overwhelming, and she recoiled when it hit her. But she had come in here for a purpose, and she was going to follow through.

She closed and locked the door so she could work. Fortunately the stove was gas, otherwise she didn’t know how she would have been able to light a fire. The kitchen was bare, but there were curtains, and the cabinets were wood, so she hunted through them until she found enough cereal and snack boxes and ripped them open and heaped them on the counter.

She made a torch out of a box of spaghetti and some newspaper and lit the curtains, then set fire to the boxes. There was a door in one wall that she suspected led to a dining room, and she listened before pushing it cautiously open.

The room was empty. There were drapes here, too, and she lit them on fire as well.

She knew from her training at the museum, where everyone had to learn how to use a fire extinguisher and that the halogen suppression systems could be deadly if you didn’t evacuate quickly, that fires doubled in size every ten seconds. Once she had these rooms alight, she would have to move quickly. There was a carpet on the floor, but it wouldn’t catch so she abandoned it and returned to the kitchen.

The fire was hot. The smoke wasn’t thick enough yet to be noticed. She opened the door to the hall, giving the flames fresh oxygen, feeling a sense of satisfaction as she watched them leap higher.

She knew they would be keeping Miach in the basement, out of sight, where memories of his torture and imprisonment in the mounds would plague him. She hated basements, and after today she was never going to go into another one.

She held her knife out in front of her and plunged down the stairs.

It was dark, but she dared not turn the lights on and reveal her presence.

Distantly she heard shouting up above. Someone must have noticed the fire at last. Good.

Ahead in the gloom she heard something rustle. She darted into one of the small empty rooms she had passed and waited until they went by, until she heard feet on the risers. Then she forged ahead into the gloom.

She checked all the rooms off the corridor, then found herself in the maze Miach had negotiated for them earlier. It branched and branched again, and she ended up going around in a circle. She could smell smoke now and began to worry that she hadn’t left herself enough time, that she’d allowed the fire to grow too large before beginning her search.

And then she found him. The path she was traveling ended in the open space where they had been caught, with the hatch doors to the outside. They were closed now, but they offered easy escape. She saw Miach’s legs sprawled inside the open door just ahead of her and she rushed inside.

It was pitch-black but she felt for him in the darkness.

“Miach,” she said.

“Helene?”

“I’ve come to get you out.”

“You can’t,” he said.

Something metallic rattled in the dark.

He was chained to the wall.

“No,” she said.

“Helene,” he said gently, “you must get out now. Run. Get out of Boston and call Conn and Elada and don’t come back until they tell you it is safe.”

“No,” she said. “Conn and Elada are trapped in Clonmel by crazy Druids. I’m not leaving you here to die.”

“Brian has no intention of killing me until he gets what he wants, and as long as he doesn’t have you to bargain with, he won’t get it.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I set the house on fire.”

“That took great presence of mind, particularly considering how much time you spent in that closet. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you to stay calm through that.”

“I tried Beth’s methods,” Helene explained, searching for a weak link in the chains, a softness in the stone where they were driven into the wall. “I tried counting backward and reciting poetry, but none of them worked, so I appropriated your paintings,” she said. The chains were solid, the masonry firm. She wanted to scream, but that wouldn’t help Miach, so she said, “I exhibited your paintings at the museum a dozen different ways, all in my head. It helped keep me sane.”

“And was this imaginary show successful?” he asked.

“A blockbuster.” There was no way to get him free.

“I’m glad to hear it. I take it that’s Chandler’s blood I smell on you?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Now run and get out of here. Brian won’t let me burn to death. At least not until I’ve opened the gate for him.”

“He’ll torture you.”

“My son is an amateur. But if he has you in his power, Helene, I’m afraid of what I will do to appease him. If you’ve come to care for me, and I think you have, then you’ll go.”

She kissed him on the lips. She knew better than to say, “I love you,” under such circumstances, because it would ring of despair, so she said, “I’ll be back for you.”

And she ran.

Helene knew better than to return to Miach’s house. Brian had raided it once, when the whole of Miach’s family had been available to protect it.

She had always been a strong swimmer, so she exited the house through the basement hatch and ran for the water. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw smoke pouring from the house and heard vehicles starting.

The Druids were evacuating.

She had to trust that Miach was right. That Brian would not leave him to die. That his son needed him to open the solstice gate.

She reached the beach and ran for the chain link fence. She waded out until it was low enough to jump and vaulted over, then began running for the center of town.

Helene heard engines roar out of the compound, saw, from afar, five vehicles go tearing up the street leading toward the center of town and Boston. She hid behind a picket fence and watched them pass. Brian was at the wheel of a cargo van. Which meant that Miach was out as well.

She ran up a parallel street toward the center of town.

By the time she reached the main drag, the Druids’ vehicles were gone, and fire engines were barreling into town toward the burning compound.

She looked like hell, but she approached the first cab she saw, and promised to double the fare if he would take her to Beacon Hill. He would have refused if she’d said Dorchester or even Quincy, but in Boston, Beacon Hill meant money, and its denizens were known for their eccentricity.

Helene choked down the knot in her throat when she reached Deirdre’s. She hadn’t believed she would get away, had thought, the entire ride, that Brian’s cargo van would appear out of nowhere and run them off the road.

She rang the buzzer while the cab waited. Kevin came out of the house, took one look at Helene, and shouted for Deirdre.

“Please,” she said, “give the cabbie real money. Don’t glamour him. He saved my life.” And she owed the universe something.

“Don’t worry,” said Kevin. She watched leaning against the driveway gates as he paid the cabbie. When the cab pulled away, Kevin turned to her. She said, “Thank you,” and tried to walk up the drive, but her knees buckled.

“Christ,” said Kevin.

He caught her and carried her into the house.

Deirdre met them in the hall. “In here,” she said, directing Kevin to put Helene down on the white silk sofa.