The Stag Lord (2 page)

Without speaking, father and son climbed out. A growing breeze ruffled their hair and sent a dust devil whirligigging through the campsite, inviting them to play. They eyed each other over the bed of the truck.

“Not in your wildest dreams, m'lad.”

“Wanna bet?”

A pause. Then, without warning, the boy sprinted toward the camper. Bann matched him stride for stride. Reaching the back of the truck a second before his son, he pretended to stumble.

“Yes!” Cor slapped his hand on the metal ball. “I win!”

“You cheated.”

“How do you figure?”

“Why, how else could you have beaten me?”

“Yeah, right.”

Bending over the hitch to hide his amusement, Bann began removing the safety chains. Cor unfolded the aluminum steps of their just-a-step-above-atent camper, which was scarcely big enough to hold the man's six-foot-plus frame, with a
clang
, then climbed inside, leaving the door ajar. After unhitching, Bann climbed back in the truck—quite certain that if he had to drive another mile today, he'd cut his own throat—and maneuvered it around, making sure to park the vehicle nose-first toward the road.

Just in case.

With one eye on the cloudy sky, he rolled up both windows and stepped out. Taking a moment to stretch his back, he grunted in satisfaction at the spinal pop. He sighed.
What would I give for a home for the two of us
? A moment later, Cor appeared at the camper door, a roll of toilet paper in one hand. He waved it at his father, the loose end fluttering.

“Hurry, Dad. It's starting to poke out.”

With a proper loo
.

Bann led the way across the road to the outhouse. As they approached, he slid his knife free of its leather sheath. They had stumbled across the blade a year ago during their first month on the road, both of them too stunned from the sucker-punch the universe had nailed them with to do more than drive aimlessly from state to state. The West Virginia junk shop had been filled with locals whose expressions had made the spot between Bann's shoulder blades prickle. He still couldn't believe their luck in finding a knife of its size made of iron instead of steel.

Cor had christened it
Rambo
. It had been the first joke the boy had cracked since The Day. Hell, he would've been happy if Cor had named it
Dumbo
, just so long as his son was talking.

Anything was better than the silence. Or the tears, which had finally faded. Or the nightmares, which had not.

Cor wasn't the only one still having nightmares.

Bann eased the door open with his foot, keeping both hands free. A chemical smell, worse than human waste in his opinion, burned his nose. A toilet and a sink and just enough room for two if they were either related or really close friends. After a check, including the ceiling and the tiny window covered with a wire mesh, he motioned the boy inside, then joined him.

Cor stood there, clenching both his teeth and the toilet paper roll. “I have to go.
Now
.”

“Well, get on with it, then.” Bann gestured toward the boy's middle region. “It's not like I haven't seen you pantless before—”

“Dad!”

“—when changing your nappies. Which, I might remind you, was not that many years ago.”

“I'm going to explode!” Cor's voice rose higher. “All over the place!”

Bann backed out. A smile so rare he was surprised the facial muscles still worked tugged at the corner of his mouth. He waited a few seconds, then opened the door again. “Are you finished?” He ducked when the roll of toilet paper sailed past his head and into the nearby tree. “I take it you're not.” Still smiling, he closed the door, then strolled over and fished the roll from the branches.

The scent of juniper clung to his fingers like incense. He lifted a hand to his nose and breathed deeply. One of nature's most exquisite perfumes mingled with the chemical smell from the outhouse.

The sublime and the profane.

“Um, Dad? Can I have the roll back now?”

He started toward to the outhouse when a gray-brown blur of movement out of the corner of his eye made him freeze. The chamisa bush trembled, then stilled. “Oh, shite.”

“That's for sure,” Cor said from inside the building. “Why do you think I need—oh, wait. There's some in here—”

“Bolt the door. Now.” Silence. Then, a
chunk-chink
as a latch was slid into place.

Knowing his son wouldn't so much as twitch or make a sound until the command was given, Bann squinted at the hedge. With a flick of his wrist, he lobbed the roll of toilet paper at it.

A leggy form exploded from within, as if the bush had come alive. Dried bits of vegetation drifted into the air as a deer bounded away. It paused once to glance back at Bann; its black eyes seemed wide with embarrassment at having been scared away from a favorite grazing spot by a roll of Charmin.

“Dad?” A whisper.

“Just a doe.” He wished he would have said
fawn
.

A breath sucked in. “A-are you sure? Like
really
sure?”

“Quite certain. Cernunnos could not have—” He bit down on the name, praying Cor wouldn't catch it. The gasp from the other side of the door made
that
prayer, along with every other prayer, a complete waste of time. “Damn me to Hell,” he breathed. He closed his eyes, knowing what was coming next.

Knowing his son was going to Lose. It.

Again.

Bann envied him the luxury.

“Don't say his name!” Cor's voice rose to a shriek. “We're not supposed to say his name—
he
finds us if we say it.” Fingers scrabbled at the bolt. The door shuddered when feet began kicking it in frustration. “It won't open.” Another kick. “Dad, I can't get out!”

“Cor.” Bann pressed his hands against the door. “Calm down. Now,” he ordered. “Lift
up
on the latch,
then
slide it—”

“It's stuck.” The latch jingled as the boy clawed at it, moaning in terror.

The sound sliced a wedge from Bann's heart. He stepped back, lowered a shoulder, and threw himself against the door. The latch snapped. The door slammed against the back wall, just missing his son, and rebounded back, whacking Bann on the head as he landed on one knee on the concrete floor. Even as he scrambled to his feet, the boy was clawing at his arm like a tomcat gone berserk, gibbering in terror. His fingernails gouged Bann's skin, leaving stinging lines.

A shadow flitted past just outside the opening.

Cor screamed.

Whirling around, Bann whipped the knife from its sheath as he placed his body between his son and the monster, straining to hear over a heart trying to punch its way free of his ribs. Out of sight, the hiss-whisper-crunch of gravel being displaced, possibly by a foot—
or a hoof
—made his testicles tuck up good and proper between his legs, huddling for protection much like Cor was now huddled in the corner next to the toilet. A corner of Bann's mind noticed that the boy was weaponless.

Tightening his fingers around the hilt of his blade, he shifted his stance, finding his center. Unbidden, the Song of his people began to whisper in Bann's head. It sang an offering of strength and speed for the warrior who followed the Old Way.

He told the Old Way to go screw itself.
I don't need your help. I don't need my people's help. I don't need anything but for the world to leave me and mine alone
.

The shadow ghosted past again. Even as his mind registered the shape, a magpie landed a few feet away with a scrape and a flutter. It cocked its head at the outhouse and the man hovering in the doorway before mincing about, searching for scraps of food.

Bile flooded Bann's throat in relief. Forcing his muscles to relax, he hawked and spat at the bird, which hopped to one side with a
squawk-ka-ka
. “Just a bird. Just a gods-be-damned bird.” He spat again, then turned to the boy.

Taking his father's proffered hand, Cor pulled himself to his feet, face pale and smeared with tears. He glanced over as the bird strutted past again.

“And just where was your knife?” Bann hated himself for stomping on the boy while he was still white-lipped with fear. He did it anyway.

Cor pulled the switchblade from his pocket and held it up. He stiffened in anticipation.

Bann raised a hand, then relented with a light cuff on the head. More caress than chastisement. “Next time, I best see that weapon out and in use.”

“Yes, sir.” Cor sniffed. He dragged the back of his hand across his nose, leaving a snail's track of mucus along his upper lip.

“Here.” With his free hand, Bann stretched out his T-shirt and wiped Cor's face. Wrapping an arm around the boy, he pulled him close, wishing he could somehow suck the child inside of his skin, his father-body a fortress. “All right, now?”

“Yeah.” Still shaky, Cor wobbled outside. He kicked a rock at the magpie, missing the target as Bann knew he would.

He gets his affection for animals from you
, he said silently to his wife.

His dead wife.

His slaughtered wife.

2

J
OINING HIS SON OUTSIDE,
Bann took a cleansing breath, trying to slow his pulse. Adrenaline surged through his body like a shot of good whiskey after bad sex. Or was it bad whiskey after good sex? Not that he had much desired either in over a year. A breeze picked up, flowing down from the western foothills, chivvying the storm clouds along and drying sweat-soaked clothes and bodies.

“Come.” Bann led Cor back across the street and over to the picnic table. They hopped up on top and sat side by side, the top of the boy's head level with Bann's shoulder. He remembered when he would balance his firstborn—
and now my only
—along his forearm, the infant's head supported by the father's cupped hand.

While the man examined the surrounding rock formations, the boy spoke to the toes of his shoes. “Sorry I freaked out.”

“As am I for speaking carelessly.” Bann laid a hand on Cor's neck, the skin still slick with fear-sweat. He tightened his hold and shook the boy gently from side to side, a rocking motion meant to comfort both of them.

After a few minutes, Cor cleared his throat. “Dad, can we…” He paused as if afraid to finish the sentence.

“Can we what?”

“See if there's any of our people around?”

Bann's chest tightened. “I told you before: we are done with them.
Our people
”—he spat out the words—“can go to Hell.”

“Then why'd we come to Colorado if you didn't want to—”

“We're not having this conversation again, Cormac Boru.” He hoped the use of the boy's full name would send a message. It did not.

Cor shrugged off his father's hand. He looked up. “Maybe the ones around here aren't like the ones back home.”

“Whether they are or not makes no difference.” Boru stepped down off the table, mouth sour from denying his son the one thing he wanted most in life.
Well, besides having his mother alive
, he thought as he headed toward the camper.

“But, Dad—”

Bann kept walking.

“Can't we at least
find out
?”

Bann kept walking.

“You're not even listening to me!” Cor's shrill voice pinged around the campsite.

Bann kept walking.

“Asshole!”

Bann froze. A thump and a crunch of gravel pulled him around.

Cor stood in front of the picnic table, fists clenched by his side. Ready for a fight. Spoiling for a fight.
Guess I'm not the only one on an adrenaline high
, he thought. Even from several yards away, he could see the flush creeping along the boy's cheeks, a clear sign he was pissed as hell.

Make that two of us
. “What did ye call me?” His accent, always carefully hidden, rose to the surface.

“Asshole.”

His own anger flared. A voice whispered in his head to let it go this time.
You're both weary from too much terror and too many miles
. He ignored it. “Bold words from a boyo who was gibbering in terror, trying to hide behind a toilet only a few minutes ago. I'm surprised ye dinna wet yer trousers.”

Cor's face paled at the attack. He looked away, lips twisting as he fought to absorb the blow. Before Bann could apologize for being petty—for being, as he often cautioned his son, a little man—the boy bolted.

Careening through bushes, Cor ran, tears like acid in his throat. Ignoring his father's command to “get your arse back here,” he struck a hiking path leading through the maze of sandstone. Picking up speed, he ran westward into the labyrinth. Shadows pooled in the hollows and empty spaces while the tops of the rock spires were red-tipped from the setting sun, like manicured nails.

Or bloodied claws.

After a few minutes, he slowed to a walk. Panting, he looked around. Cliffs rose on either side of him, forming a gully of rock. He stretched out both arms as he walked, fingertips almost touching the sandstone on either side.