Jono knew that would put them at a disadvantage. Only one of the Hellraisers was a magic user, and he wasn’t certain a sorcerer could do much against fae magic. Everyone else would have to make sure Gerard’s team survived the fight Jono knew they were walking into. It felt like a trap in the worst way, but Jono wasn’t leaving Tír na nÓg without Patrick. If it meant fully giving over his body to Fenrir, then that was something Jono had no qualms doing. He didn’t care if it came across as the Norse pantheon declaring war on the Celtic pantheon. What was one more battle line drawn in this fight anyway?
Cairbre led the way, and winter’s chill followed them inside the palace. Patches of ice covered the hallway floors as they walked, courtesy of the Cailleach Bheur’s staff.
Fae watched them as they passed—goblins, dwarves, spriggans, Red Caps, some too coldly beautiful to be real, and still others that seemed pulled straight out of a nightmare. None of them smelled right to Jono’s nose, or maybe it was the palace itself. Jono was used to a world that smelled far more human than this.
Eventually, they were escorted into the throne room with its glass dome ceiling and onyx floor that felt oddly sharp beneath his feet. Jono ignored the discomfort, knowing his skin would heal mere seconds after every cut that was made.
A crowd ofdaoine sídhefilled the throne room. A sea of faces with strangely colored hair and eyes turned their way. Armored guards that carried weapons which smelled of magic stood in front of the throne itself. The barren tree with its grasping roots loomed over everyone, its branches reaching for the glass domed ceiling. The sky above had grown marginally lighter, and Jono wondered how much time they’d lost on the other side.
If we miss Christmas, I’m going to be bloody pissed.
Sitting on the vine-covered throne, watching them come forward, was Medb.
Her patchwork gown was made out of skin in various shades of blues this time, the color washing her out. Jono thought the color was a pointed jab at the Cailleach Bheur. Paired with Medb’s ash-colored hair and dark eyes, the Queen of Air and Darkness looked like a corpse sitting upon her throne. Her crown made out of fingerbones sat firmly in place upon her head, and the necklace of eyes she wore around her throat watched them as they approached.
Medb’s expression seemed carved from ice, and all her attention was reserved for the goddess who greeted her with a low, mocking laugh.
“My throne has never suited you,” the Cailleach Bheur said, her staff making ice blossom over the onyx floor, cracking the stone.
“You have no throne here, hag,” Medb replied in a chilly, unwelcoming voice. “The stories have forgotten you.”
“So you say.”
“So Iknow.”
The Cailleach Bheur gripped her staff with both hands and planted it before her. The cloak she wore swirled around her hunched, naked body, ice crystals sticking to the cloth. “Your wisdom is misplaced. It always has been.”
Medb pushed herself to her feet in a smooth motion, standing tall before them on the throne dais. “Do not insult me.”
“You gambled, and you lost. A bargain was made, and it will be kept. You know what must be done.”
The Cailleach Bheur rapped the end of her staff against the floor, sending ice cascading over the floor of the throne room in a blink of an eye. It slid beneath everyone’s feet, the sudden cold making Jono flex his bare toes. The ice crashed against the edge of the dais and the roots that hung there but went no further, blocked by something Jono couldn’t see. Magic glimmered at the tips of Medb’s fingers, the scent of ozone getting stronger.
“The Cailleach Bheur is right,” Gerard said as he stepped forward with Órlaith by his side. “It’s winter solstice, and I’ve brought the Summer Lady to you, Medb.”
Medb was too old, too powerful, to let whatever she was feeling show on her face. Jono couldn’t get a hint of emotion off her through scent either, nothing but the taste of electricity in the back of his throat. Patrick stepped forward as well, and Jono went with him. At Patrick’s warning look, Jono rolled his eyes.
“No way am I letting you talk your way out of this mess without help,” Jono told him.
“Your faith in me needs a little work,” Patrick muttered.
Jono’s gaze slid to where Medb stood, her ancient eyes staring right back at him. Deep inside Jono’s soul, Fenrir growled a warning. “I have faith, and it doesn’t belong to her.”
Medb extended her hand as she stepped down from the dais, and Cairbre was there to aid her down the steps. Jono watched as he escorted Medb to where they stood in the throne room, surrounded by fae and ice and a cold that made his breath fog in the air.
“You seem to think the terms of the bargain have been met,” Medb said, her eerie gaze flicking over all of them.
“I kept my word. Now it’s your turn. Give us the Morrígan’s staff and grant Patrick his freedom. That was the bargain, after all,” Gerard said.
“Was it? I offered the Morrígan’s staff for a price. It has not been met yet.” She pointed her finger at Órlaith. “That one belongs to me.”
“I belong to no one,” Órlaith said through gritted teeth. Jono rather thought thebitchwas obvious in her tone. What Medb lacked in emotion, Órlaith carried enough to share. Her fury burned with a sharpness that almost made Jono’s eyes water.
“Your life for the Morrígan’s staff was the bargain we made. You will stay here in the Unseelie Court, Órlaith, Daughter of Ruadán.”
At that demand, Órlaith lifted her chin high and took Gerard’s hand in hers. “My life does not belong to you.”
“I said I would bring Órlaith to you, Medb. I never said I would give her to you,” Gerard said.
