Fenrir came racing back their way, a spider leg held between Jono’s teeth, half a fae’s body dangling off the end. The god spat it out before vaulting through the shield to stand beside Patrick again. Jono’s fur was covered in blood, some of it his own, most of it too black or green to be anything but fae.
“I told you not to hurt him,” Patrick snapped.
Fenrir blinked once before deliberately turning his back on Patrick, his aura burning bright against Patrick’s shields.
Fucking gods.
Mist exploded around them, drifting through Nadine’s shields. The scent of spring was carried on the stormy wind—floral and full of green things that always made Patrick sneeze. Warmth settled around them, and Patrick watched as grass sprouted defiantly through the cold earth covered in snow.
The fae who came out of the mist this time burned bright, but none came close to the fiery light that surrounded Brigid like a halo. The Spring Queen of the Seelie Court rode a white horse that wore more armor than she did. Considering the power pouring out of her aura, Patrick figured armor wasn’t really necessary for a goddess of her rank.
Snaking through the warmth of spring was a hint of winter as the Cailleach Bheur appeared out of the mist, her staff freezing the ground where she stood outside Nadine’s shields.
Patrick looked around at the ranks of Seelie fae facing off with Medb’s side, and the tightness in his chest loosened. He caught Keith’s eye and jerked a thumb at the group of spear wielders to their left.
“When you run out of bullets, maybe you can ask one of them to borrow a blade,” he said.
Keith rolled his eyes. “Maybe next time we spend another million dollars for double the ammunition. Marek can afford it. He’s a billionaire.”
Gerard raised an arm and hand-signaled Nadine to take down her shield. This time she didn’t argue and drew down her magic. The cold wind that smacked Patrick in the face made his teeth chatter. The heat charms on his clothes were turning out not to be enough in this supernatural weather.
Brigid stood at the front of her forces, her fiery hair falling around her, the crown on her head not jostling one bit. “You tried to steal my granddaughter from me, Medb.”
“There is no stealing involved when a bargain is made, Brigid,” Medb shot back.
“You sent mercenaries into my lands to kidnap Órlaith.”
“I gave no such orders.”
“You gave them aid in the form of Ferdiad, aduine sídhewho knows the hawthorn paths and crossroads. No mortals would have found her without his help.”
“I offered that which they most desired for a price they were willing to pay.”
“My granddaughter’s life was not yours to bargain with.”
The tension in the air between both sides was thick enough to cut. Overhead, the Sluagh and the Wild Hunt screamed as they fought, the sound hurting Patrick’s ears. The earth shook a little as Balor got to one knee, theGáe Bulgsticking out of his shoulder. The god tried to remove it with one huge hand, but the weapon wouldn’t be dislodged. If anything, it carved itself deeper into bone, and fresh blood flowed from the wound.
Patrick wondered if the spear of death was powerful enough to kill a god.
He wouldn’t find out that morning.
A murder of crows flew through the Gap of Dunloe, cawing all the while as the sun broke the horizon behind their beating wings. Weak winter sunlight spread across the sky and earth, casting a long shadow in front of the giant riding a huge white stag across the snowy field bristling with flowers. The seasons were out of place in the valley, with winter and spring fighting over summer. The stag gave no ground to snow or grass, walking steadily forward.
The huge, bearded, redheaded god wore tanned leather pants and a shirt that seemed woven from the leaves of trees. He carried thelorg mórin one hand, the great staff carved from ancient wood. The elaborate curved frame of a harp peeked over his shoulder, and Patrick thought he could hear music on the wind.
The Sluagh and Wild Hunt separated in the sky and settled on the ground, picking their sides. Wade roared one more time before gliding back to earth, his large wings sending up eddies of dirt and snow as he landed behind them. Wade brought the scent of fire with him, but it couldn’t overtake the power of gods that made the air crackle with electricity all around them.
Keith lowered his rifle. “Who the fuck is that?”
Patrick watched as the stag and its rider drew closer, licking his lips. “The Dagda.”
The king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, father of Brigid, and husband to the Morrígan. Patrick knew his history, and he knew his myths and legends. If anyone had a chance at stopping this fight, it was the Dagda.
“You give the mortals nightmares with these antics,” the Dagda said, his deep, booming voice echoing in the valley. “I hear their prayers like bells in my ears. Cease this madness, my children.”
No one moved, not even Balor, and Patrick wondered about that—wondered how little worshippers that god had left these days to not make a play at killing the king of his enemy. The Fomorians and Tuatha Dé Danann had never cared about anything but shedding each other’s blood over the centuries. That he would not try now was telling.
Time changed all things, even the lives of immortals. It seemed whatever prayers Gerard had accumulated on the shores of America had made him stronger than his father’s fabled enemy.
