Unholy Blue (33 page)

“He was in the back yard, sniffing at the door. By the way, I think your wards are still down. Which is good, in a way, because I was able to get into the back yard.” She kissed the silky head. “I think he remembered me,” the young Knight said. “He was thirsty and hungry and cold, but seems unharmed otherwise. I fed him a bit before bringing him over. And I brought the bag of kibble in case he needs to eat more.”

“My thanks, miss. Here, boyo.” Bann started to reach for the pup, then hesitated when Sam lowered his head and tucked his tail between his legs. Ears flat against his head, he whined and slunk down in the Knight's arms, trying to disappear.

“Sam?” Bann reached out again. Baring his puppy teeth, Sam tried a different tactic; he snarled, his lips writhing as he snapped at the man's fingers. Bann drew back. For some reason, the rejection of the young thing hurt as badly as his wounds.

“I think I know what the problem is.” Ann plucked the puppy from the Knight's arms. Almost instantly, Sam began to wiggle with relief, pink tongue working to lick any part of the woman's skin it could reach. “He's probably catching the scent of Cernunnos on you, that's all. And thanks again, Fiona. Rory's out back, by the way.” The younger Knight hurried off.

Bann nodded at Ann's assessment. “To be sure.” A stray thought whisked through his head, then disappeared.

“I'll take him up to Cor for you if you want?”

“Please.” He watched as she walked up the stairs, talking softly to the puppy.

At that moment, Shay wandered out of the living room, wiping her hands with a damp cloth. “What's going on?”

“Ann sent one of the Knights over to your house—”

“
Our
house.”

“—
our
house to see if Sam had returned. Ann's taking the pup up to Cor even now.”

Shay closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, that is such a relief. All the kid needed was another…you know.” She sighed and rolled her head on her neck.

He studied her. “Are you finished with the wounded, darlin'?”

“For now, yes. James is taking this first watch for me.”

“Then, come.” With a hand on her back, he guided her into the kitchen and over to a chair. “Sit. I'll fetch you food and tea.”

Leaning back in the chair, Shay snagged another one with her toe, dragged it closer, and propped her feet on it. “Tea only, please.”

“You need to eat something.” Discovering that someone had just recently boiled water in the kettle, he turned on the burner to reheat it, then rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out a wrapped plate of leftover meatloaf. He snagged a loaf of brown bread and a jar of mustard, and carried the booty over to the counter. “Meatloaf sandwich?”

“Always a great choice.” She cleared her throat. “By the way, how's that bite?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hurting any?”

“No more than my other wounds.” He kept his eyes on the task as he worked. “I keep finding new bruises every time I so much as blink.”

Shay rose with a slight groan. “Been there. Still doing that.” Taking the kettle from the stove, she carried it over, then reached around him and pulled out a couple of sachets of nettle tea from the cupboard. “We could both use another dose.”

As he made sandwiches, Shay prepared two mugs for them. They worked in silence for a few minutes until she paused and turned toward him, leaning her hip against the counter. “Bann.”

“Yes?”

“That bite.” She pointed at his arm. “I have to admit it—I'm kind of worried.”

“'Tis a bite, nothing more. And, if you recall, I was hurt worse last month. By the same monster, no less, and recovered right fine, thanks to you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Shay chewing on her lips as she thought about his words.

“Well,” she said slowly, “you do have a point there.” She shook her head and straightened, then fished the sachets out of the mugs. “Guess I'm just being paranoid.”

Bann wiped his fingers on his jeans. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears. “You're being who you are—a Healer.” He smiled down at her. “Of both body and heart.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“To be sure.” At her chuff of annoyance, he smiled and pulled her close, mindful of their injuries. He sighed and laid his cheek on the crown of her head. “I still cannot believe Cernunnos is truly dead. But I am sorry you had to see Max die again.”

“Max was dead the moment he sacrificed himself for you and Cor. That thing you killed was only his corpse, not his spirit.” She leaned back and gazed up at Bann. “And just think—you'll never have to look over your shoulder again, wondering when that nutcase is going to show up. It's so…so…
freeing
.”

“Oh, there will be other enemies, no doubt,” said a voice behind them. They turned. Hugh stood in the doorway.

“Meaning?” Shay asked.

“Meaning the Tully clan. They may not see Weston's death as simply self-defense on your part, Bann.”

“How much trouble will they cause?” he asked.

Hugh drew nearer, eyeing the meatloaf sandwiches. He brightened when Shay handed her untouched plate to him. Taking a bite, he spoke around a mouthful. “For now, none. They have asked for permission to retrieve Weston's body, and for a truce. I'd wager that their clan has been thrown into a wee bit of disorder until they elect a new leader. In spite of their boasts, I do not see that happening quickly. There's no Tully who has a commanding enough claim to take over. 'Twill be awhile before they settle on a new leader.” He swallowed and pointed his half-eaten sandwich at Bann. “Unless you wish to follow the old tradition.”

“Not bleedin' likely!”

Shay looked from uncle to fiancé and back. “What old tradition?”

“In the old days,” Hugh said, “when a warrior killed the clan leader, he automatically became the new leader. So Boru has both the right and the lineage.” He took another bite. “Speaking of lineage, you should know that a few of the older Doyles have been wondering why you have not pressed your title here in the New World.”

The words rocked Bann back on his heels. “What are you saying?” he asked, knowing exactly what the redheaded man was saying.
I never wanted that
, he thought. A small voice whispered in his ear.
Are you
certain? Now would be the time to claim kingship. The threat that has hung over your family for generations is now gone. Your future is bright. The way is clear
.

“You are the long-son of our High King. You could claim kingship over
all
the clans here in the New World, er, America. Why, you already have an heir. And soon, a queen.”

For a moment, a thrill ran down Bann's spine.
To pass a crown to Cor. Now, that would be a grand gift for a father to hand to his son
. He glanced at Shay, who was studying him with a crease between her brows.

“Tell me you're not seriously thinking about this crap,” she said.

Before Bann could answer, Hugh spoke. “Would you not like to be a queen?”

“Hell, no. I'd have to watch my potty mouth.
And
put on makeup every day.”

Bann and Hugh laughed. “Why, then, the matter is settled,” Bann said, secretly relieved. “I'll remain a common man, and live a simple life. Speaking of which, what needs to be done here?”

Hugh finished the sandwich with a grunt of pleasure. “Actually, Ann and I are sending everyone home to rest. We're safe enough, even with the wards down. The bronze sheeting on the walls has not been touched, so we're secure from the
Amandán
. And the Black Hand informed me, before heading home earlier, that he saw no signs of any remaining Fir Bolgs.”

Too bad Lir has left already
, Bann thought.
I would have liked to share a pint with the man
.

“Well,
I'm
here for the night.” Shay picked up Bann's sandwich and took an enormous bite. “James is going to
stay and assist me,” she said, one cheek bulging in a distinctly un-queenly manner.

“I thought as much,” Hugh nodded. “Bann, if you feel up to it, Rory and Ann and I could use help standing vigil with the fallen.”

“Of course.”

After an early supper consisting of reheated meat-loaf, piping hot cornbread muffins, a fresh pot of coffee for the adults, and ice cream for a half-asleep Cor, the household settled in for the night. As Bann returned from putting his son back to bed, he caught flashes of light from the living room.

It was Shay's moonstone. She was moving about the darkened room, examining her dozing patients. In the corner, James was sprawled in one of the overstuffed chairs, head back and eyes closed. Spotting Bann in the doorway, she held a finger to her lips, then joined him in the entryway.

“James is catching some shut-eye before he spells me later,” she whispered. “And thanks for taking the first watch with the fallen—Ann's shoulder is hurting her more than she will admit, and they both could use a few hours of sleep.”

“As can you.”

“Supper helped. As did the coffee. But don't worry. I promise I'll wake up James if and when I need to.” With that, she squeezed his uninjured hand, then slipped back into the living room.

Bann stepped out the back door to begin his appointed vigil. Protected from the freezing temperature in a heavy jacket and gloves he had borrowed from Hugh, he stood or paced near the four blanket-shrouded
figures as the night passed. He knew the families would bring more permanent burial shrouds tomorrow. As he made a circuit around the yard to keep warm, he caught the scent of freshly turned soil from the far side of the wall. Graves. Waiting to cradle the warriors near where they had fallen.
I could not think of a better place to enjoy my long sleep than under clean earth and stone, surrounded by trees, and protected by the mountains
. He stood gazing westward at the stars until Rory relieved him a few hours later.

At dawn, the Doyle clan began arriving. In the upstairs bedroom, where he was chivvying a groggy Cor into the clothes that Ann had thoughtfully laundered sometime in the middle of the night, Bann could hear the growing murmur of voices as the house filled. Holding his son's hand, he hurried down the stairs. He and Cor paused on the bottom tread to let Shay's patients limp past, all leaning on the arms of family and friends, then fell behind.

As they made their way through the kitchen, Bann noticed half a dozen trays on the table, all holding small shot glasses of amber liquid. The aroma of whiskey fumes burned his nostrils. They walked on to the back yard and joined the others. Clouds still hung low, as if paying their respects to the dead.

Family members were busy wrapping the fallen in the traditional burial shrouds, crafted from yards of emerald-green velvet and embroidered by hand with gold thread in the Celtic knot of Knighthood. Sniffing and soft weeping and the murmur of comforting voices filled the air, along with puffs of breath. As Bann stood
holding his son's and future wife's hands, Cor whispered to him. “We buried Max in one of those.”

Bann nodded. At the dog's name, he glanced around the back yard. The mound of ash was gone. Only a patch of wet ground, scored by rake and shovel marks, remained.

With their shrouds in place, the dead Knights were hoisted onto the shoulders of loved ones and friends. In double file, the clan carried the bodies through the open gate and into the trees. There, four graves waited, black rectangles in the white snow. One by one, they lowered the bodies into the holes, then spoke the traditional words of farewell as they placed items in the graves that the Knights might need, or want, in the Otherworld. Weapons, food, warm clothing, and, in one case, a stack of favorite books. The graves were filled, then stone cairns were stacked over the mounds of dirt.

Bann wondered if the state authorities knew that, all over the foothills and mountains of Colorado, there were grave sites liked these, tucked away in deep woods or in seldom-traveled valleys. Stone cairns covering the bodies of warriors like granite quilts.

After the final rock was set in place on the final grave, the clan walked back, in twos and threes, speaking in low tones. As they entered the kitchen, they each took a glass. Bann handed one to Shay, passed a small one to Cor, then squeezed in with the rest of the Doyles.

Filling every foot of space in the kitchen and even spilling out into the dining room, the clan waited for their leaders. The murmur died away as Hugh and Ann edged to the center of the packed room. They each held a glass.

“We will celebrate the lives of our fallen more fully, but not today,” Ann said. “We're all still too exhausted from battle and loss. But, for now.” She raised her glass. The others did, as well.

“Thomas Sanchez Doyle,” Hugh began, his voice strained, as he named the dead. “Ruark Brian O'Don-nell. Elaine Doyle O'Donnell.” Bann's throat tightened at the mention of the older, but still hale, couple who had died side-by-side, hands reaching for each other. “Kelly Hager Doyle,” the clan leader finished.

The room drank a silent toast. The whiskey burned a wildfire down Bann's throat and hit his empty stomach like a gulp of lava. Next to him, Shay knocked hers back with a neat flick of her wrist. Cor managed a sip, then wiped his nose and handed his glass to Shay, his eyes watering. She promptly finished it off as well.

With uninjured clan members staying to help, the rest of the day was spent attempting to restore the house to its former condition. Or at least a condition they could live with for now. Making use of Hugh's toolbox, Bann did what he could to repair the gate before starting on the furniture. Rory and James, with Cor's help, scrubbed at the ogham letters on the outside of the house, while Shay, Ann, and Hugh, and other willing hands, cleaned the interior.

By early evening, Ann declared it good enough. The clan members left, waving off Ann's offer of a meal. Only the family remained. “What about the rest of you? Pizza okay?”