Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (46 page)

the coat, undoing his work with the sleeve in the process.

“Fucking hell!”

The big BA hit him in the jaw, and Liam landed on the gravel at the edge of the road. With his hands cuffed he couldn’t catch himself, and his right shoulder, face and knee took the brunt of the fall. He lay on the ground, tasting dirt mixed with blood and feeling like he’d been hit with a wrecking ball.

Fuck! Bastard really knows how to punch. Even if he does smell like a week-old corpse.

Stepping closer, the big BA swung his leg back. Liam winced, curling into himself in anticipation of yet another beating. With his hands cuffed there wasn’t anything he could do to protect his head. The pain in his jaw temporarily drowned out anything his shoulder and knee had to contribute. It was bad enough that two kicks had landed in his stomach before his nerve endings registered more input.

“Get up, you worthless piece of shit. Get up, so I can knock you flat again. Let’s see what you’ve really got.” The big BA’s accent sounded English with an edge of something Liam didn’t recognize. “No? Do you like pain? Are you queer for it?”

Liam spat blood. “Fuck you!” The roaring in his skull vaporized all rational thought, all concern for where he was and why, but the steel cuffs prevented the beast from reaching the surface. It clawed for freedom at the inside of his skull regardless.

“There’s a response oozing with wit. Aren’t you the clever one? Bet you were top of the class, queer boy.” The big BA laughed.

Liam leapt to his feet. He snarled, and it wasn’t the monster that made the sound. Shocked at the strength of his response, he sensed something wasn’t right but couldn’t stop himself from reacting. He charged headfirst at the big BA, the rage and shame so huge that it burned his skin and poured out of his eyes. The big BA stepped to the left, and Liam ran headfirst into the side of the van. Again, he fell, all but his sense of hearing consumed with blinding agony and the raving of the monster.

“Stop playing with him, Zeriphel,” the blond BA said.

“He shot me. It fucking hurt.”

“Later. There’s no time.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, half-breed.”

“Then you can explain to Aziziel why we’re late.”

The second BA let out an impatient sigh, and Liam’s head cleared as suddenly as if someone had flipped a switch.

Jesus! What was that? Did that bastard hypnotize me?
The realization was

much worse than fighting with the monster. At least then he knew his actions for his own. He could direct the monster to some degree—even shut it down. An overwhelming sense of powerlessness mixed with shame and fear turned his stomach. Shoving aside the burst of confusing feelings for the moment, he probed his teeth with his tongue and took a quick inventory of his injuries. One of his molars was loose.

Zeriphel? What kind of a fucking name was that?
Connections began to form that he didn’t like at all.

“Bring him.”

As Liam was yanked up from the ground the freezing cuffs bit deeper into his skin, and he swallowed another curse. When his eyes stopped watering he saw they were at the side of the road next to a farmer’s field. In the moonlight, he could make out a rough path tracing a curving line up a hill crowned with trees.

Father Murray was pulled from the van. “It’s the Raven’s Hill,” he said with surprise.

“That’s right, priest,” the big BA said. His face changed in the dim light of a half-moon. As Liam watched, the BA’s skin grew darker until it became a charred black. His eyes flashed red. “We’ve a nice party planned. A family reunion. Everyone’s waiting. Up the hill. Now.”

Staggering up the incline, Liam looked to Father Murray who mouthed the word “Fallen.” It confirmed his suspicion.

You and your new-found morals,
the monster said.
Should’ve listened. They’re not human. Could you not smell it? Should’ve let me kill them.

Liam shivered. He wanted to believe it was only the cold. Scanning the darkness for some sign of his father, he struggled against despair and waited for a chance—
any chance
—and vowed to be ready for it when it came. The hill was steep and the path, rocky. What with the two beatings and the exhaustion, he had to concentrate to keep his feet under him. After the second fall, Zeriphel grabbed him by the back of his coat, dragged him a few feet and dropped him. Liam landed on his hands and knees.

Zeriphel seized him by the hair and pulled. “Get up!”

Liam didn’t know how he managed it, but he got to his feet once again and staggered the remaining distance to the top of the hill. Impatient, Zeriphel shoved him forward. Liam made a drunken path through the trees. He was brought up short once they’d reached a clearing edged with short white monoliths. Taking in his new surroundings, he instantly recognized the white-bearded man in the British paratrooper uniform and blood-red beret standing in the center of the stone circle. Looking beyond the Redcap, Liam spotted his mother. She was sitting on the ground, bound and gagged at the far edge of the circle. She’d been crying but seemed otherwise unharmed.

Taking a step toward her, he was stopped by Zeriphel’s vise-like grip.

“No!” It was Bran.

On the other side of the circle Liam counted four more Fallen dressed as BAs. Two of them were restraining Bran. At least, Liam assumed that was what they were. Like Zeriphel, their faces were burned black and all stank of an abandoned slaughterhouse. The monster frenzied in his skull at the sight of them. Liam’s stomach dropped somewhere near his ankles.

Why the fuck did Bran come here alone? What was he thinking?
Liam kept his expression blank. He didn’t want to give the Redcap anything else to be happy about.

Pacing a circle, the Red cap said, “How nice of you to accept my invitation, dog.” He spit on the ground. “Ready for more?”

“What the fuck is it you want from me?” Liam asked.

The Redcap punched him in the already battered stomach three times in rapid succession. Liam collapsed to his knees, the breath driven out of him.

“You speak when I say you can,” the Redcap said.

“Fuck you,” Liam said, gasping.

The Redcap kicked him, the toe of his steel-capped boot landing in Liam’s bruised stomach. Zeriphel released Liam’s arm, and he fell face-first on the grass.
Jesus, that fucking hurts.

“You really should be more respectful,” the Redcap said.

Liam shuddered and coughed, fighting to get enough air. He could hear his mother screaming from behind her gag. Landing another kick, the Redcap’s boot connected with Liam’s ribs, and he felt something snap just before another explosion of pain. He bit back a scream.
Fucking hell!

“For Christ’s sake, leave him alone,” Father Murray said.

“Wait your turn, priest,” the Redcap said. “An alliance between the Roman Catholic Church and the Fey? That idea alone deserves special punishment. As for you, little brother…”He moved closer, and Liam flinched. “It’s time to answer a few questions you no doubt have, William. I think we’ll start with an introduction.” He laid a hand on his chest. “I, am Henry Sanders.”

Liam coughed and the answering pain reminded him to be very careful.

Sanders?

“I see you recognize the surname. You don’t know me, but I very much know you. My friends have been watching you.” He leaned down. “Let’s start our chat with names. You’ve heard the legend surrounding names and the ah… Fair Folk?” The Redcap—
No, Henry
—asked, spitting out the last two words with disgust. “It would seem there’s some truth in it.”

Liam wrapped a protective arm around his ribs and straightened. He remained on his knees, anticipating another kick if he moved any farther.

What the fuck is he on about?

“I understand you speak Irish,” Henry said. “Foul language, if you can call it that. It’s entirely made up, you see. Still, that’s not pertinent to the current discussion.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Liam said, “just kill me and get it over with.”

When Henry finally stopped kicking he smoothed his hair. “Do not interrupt. You’ll ruin the pace of the narrative.”

Liam couldn’t find oxygen for ten heartbeats, and each time he coughed his ribs ground together, sending a flash of white hot pain through his body.

“Now, where was I?” Henry paused. “Ah, yes. Irish. Do you know the Irish word for ‘name,’ William?”

Spitting to clear his mouth, Liam wanted to tell him to sod off but didn’t think he could stand another beating.

“Answer me,” Henry said.

One of the Fallen BAs bent down and pushed at Liam’s ribs. Blinding agony blasted him. “Jesus! Oh, fuck!”

“Not the answer I’m looking for,” Henry said. “Do try a little harder.” He swung back his leg.

“It fucking depends on what kind of name you want!”

“The word for ‘name.’ Only that.”

“
Ainm!
It’s fucking
ainm!
”

“Very good,” Henry said, lowering his foot. “Now you’re playing the game. Next, give me the word for ‘soul.’”

Liam swallowed. “
Anam.
”

“‘
Ainm
’ and ‘
anam.
’ They sound very much alike. Don’t they?” Henry asked. “Yes, they do. In Irish, of course. English is far more complex. We aren’t as… simple. Do you see where this is going, William? The relation between ‘soul’ and ‘name’?”

Liam was getting really fucking tired of the lecture.

“Interesting thing. They say it only works if you’re given the name by the person who owns it. But that isn’t entirely true.” Henry stooped closer. “It seems that it also works if you’re given the name by the person who created it. In this case a parent. A… mother.”

“What?” The word fell out of Liam’s mouth before he could catch it.

“At this point a spot of history is in order, I’m afraid,” Henry said. “Let’s go back to—”

“History?” Bran asked. “A falsehood, you mean. Invented to control you, madman.”

Henry paused while the Fallen punched the urge for further commentary out of Bran. When they stopped Henry flashed his sharp teeth in a hate filled grimace offered in the place of a patient smile. “Let’s go back to 1555. The heretic Mary the First was on the throne. May she rot in Hell. Three hundred Protestants were burned at the stake during her three-year reign. My father was among the first. At least, I thought he was my father. Only I wasn’t right was I?”

Liam could hear his mother crying.

“That’s a lie!” Bran gasped and fought his captors.

“No one cares, dog,” Zeriphel said. His eyes flashed red, and Liam felt a shimmer of power in the air. “Belief, fear and hatred are what move this world. Nothing else.”

“My mother was executed because of her association with that man.” Pointing at Bran, Henry’s eyes burned with the conviction of a crazed fanatic. “They said she was in league with the devil. Because of him. He raped her and left her to deal with the consequences—the rumors. Just as he did your dear mother, William. Have you figured it out yet? We’re brothers, you and I? How does that make you feel?”

Liam heard his mother sob.

“I have never crossed to England,” Bran said, turning to her. “Even if I had I’d never do such a thing. You must believe me.”

“So sincere. So earnest,” Henry said. “But you’ve heard it all before, haven’t you, William?” He turned to Zeriphel. “Unlock one wrist. Leave the other.”

Liam’s right arm was wrenched upward, taking the left with it. He cried out as the shoulder joint nearly popped out of its socket. His right wrist was freed and then released. Panting, he rubbed the prickling chill out of his arm.

“Stand, William Ronan Kelly,” Henry said.

Power shivered in the air, and before Liam knew it he’d scrambled to his feet.

“Good. So very good,” Henry said. The calm tone didn’t match his eyes, sanity clearly having left the area some time ago.

Liam looked to Zeriphel and understood who was actually in charge.
Henry is wrong. The Fallen don’t need names to manipulate. Only a weakness. And no matter what Henry thinks, he isn’t immune to that. None of us fucking are.

“We’ve both suffered at the hands of our father, you know. A father who will admit no wrong. He left you exposed to dangers just as he abandoned me.”

Sanders,
Liam thought with a shudder.
The Kesh. The guard’s name was Philip Sanders. Was there a connection?

Henry reached for Liam’s left wrist and produced a handcuff key. “He isn’t the only one who betrayed you. There is also the priest. He kept so much from you. He was sent to kill you, you know.” He placed the key inside the lock. “William Ronan Kelly, you’ve a great deal to be angry about when you think about it. Let’s start with Mary Kate, shall we?”

Another wave of oppressive energy tingled in the air, making Liam gasp. Underneath it all burned the rage. He breathed in the electric current with care and allowed it to settle into his aching chest. It prickled down both of his arms and legs.
Another fucking Sanders.

“The priest wanted your wife to die,” Henry said. “He practically led those men to her. Do you know why?”

At the mention of Mary Kate the monster became unhinged, and roars for release filled Liam’s skull to bursting. He fought the tide of rage but it was as useless as fighting a storm.

“Because his Church didn’t want her to bear you any children—children classified as demons.”

“What?” Now it was Bran who was incensed.

“It isn’t how it was at all,” Father Murray said. “I married them. I told the bishop that Liam was different.” He continued with his explanation, but the words faded into the background.

The Redcap is the fourth man,
the monster thought.
Smell.

Sniffing, Liam caught the stench of old blood and nodded.

“They enjoyed their work, William. They bragged. Talked about how sweet she was. How she screamed for more. Three men.”

Four,
Liam thought, revulsion and rage rising in the back of his throat.
There were four. Not three. It was you. And you’ll pay with the rest.