“Your word, Medb. Or I will call for war.”
The only sound in the valley was the wind for a long few moments. No one spoke, and the one to finally break the silence was Medb.
The goddess turned her face away from the Dagda to look at Gerard. “My price was not met, but you paid what you promised. Our bargain was a life for the Morrígan’s staff. You brought me Órlaith, but did not give her over. Fair enough, but you are not the only one who spins words into knots like tangled thread, Son of Lugh.”
“Give us the Morrígan’s staff,” Gerard demanded.
Medb’s smile was cold and vicious to behold. “You may have its location, for that is still something of worth within the bounds of the bargain we made. The staff resides here in the mortal world, and I will give it up only when I am satisfied of the price it fetches.”
Patrick swore quietly, knowing that was all they would get out of her. Gerard had twisted his side of the bargain, and Medb had twisted hers. In the end, neither fully won, and neither fully lost, but the mission to retrieve the Morrígan’s staff was not over yet.
Medb pulled on her horse’s reins, turning the steed around. Her Unseelie Court moved as one to follow her, and the Sluagh rose into the sky, departing through mist. The Unseelie fae disappeared, taking their dead with them, leaving behind a scarred valley as the only hint they had walked the earth.
The Dagda tossed theGáe Bulgto Gerard, who caught it in one hand. “Your bargain with Medb, such as it was, is complete, Cú Chulainn.”
“Mine is still open,” the Cailleach Bheur replied with a toothy grin. “Walk far, Son of Lugh. When your road ends on that other shore, carry your worshippers home for the good of us all.”
The Cailleach Bheur hunched over, her blue form turning to stone. The earth opened up beneath her and swallowed the goddess whole, leaving behind a thick patch of ice as the only evidence of her memory.
Brigid dismounted from her horse and strode over to Órlaith, pulling her granddaughter into a hug that looked like it hurt. Gerard watched them with tired eyes, the relief on his face clear for all to see.
“What now?” Jono asked in a low voice.
Patrick blindly reached behind him for Jono’s hand, grasping at air for a moment before their fingers met. “We go home.”
The Dagda pulled the Daur da Bláo off his back, plucked at the strings, and coaxed music from the harp that put the seasons to right in the valley below the Gap of Dunloe.
The summer heat faded around them, spring went to sleep, and winter ruled the shortest day of the year once more, as it always had, and always would.
23
“Considering what Medb hinted at,the best route we can take is to look into the black market antiquities and artifact trade. We have contacts who have inroads in that area and will ask them to keep an ear out for word on the Morrígan’s staff,” Tiarnán said, looking at his laptop screen.
Patrick clenched his teeth against a yawn. “You mean you have thieves and fences on your payroll.”
“I do not believe those words left my mouth.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. I call it like I see it.”
Beside him, Jono snorted very quietly. Sage sat at the head of the conference table, taking notes on a legal pad. The silence ward in the conference room was soft static in Patrick’s ears.
Two days past winter solstice found them back in New York, trying to reorient themselves. Patrick’s body had hit a wall of exhaustion around noon yesterday, but he still hadn’t found time to rest. Going past the veil was like crossing the International Date Line a dozen times in a couple of days.
It sucked.
Meeting Medb’s terms and completing the bargain hadn’t gotten rid of their problems. Sure, Patrick might be in the clear with the Queen of Air and Darkness under Gerard’s bargain, and they might have a promised alliance with the fae to acknowledge their god pack, but that didn’t fix the PR problem the fae had now.
The Morrígan’s staff was still missing, the Wisteria child was never coming home, and the SOA was caught in the crossfire between the Wisteria Coven’s lawyers and the State Department’s inability to bring the fae to the discussion table. The fae’s arrogance wasn’t sitting well with the public, especially during the holidays. Margeaux Wisteria’s crying face was as prominent in the media now as it had been at the beginning of the month. Public opinion was solidly in her favor, but that meant nothing to the fae.
Luckily, Casale and the PCB had managed to dodge most of the bad press since the SOA was in charge of the Wisteria case. Now that the Sluagh and Wild Hunt were no longer riding the storms over New York and the curfew had been lifted, the PCB wasn’t stretched so thin on manpower. Patrick hoped that meant Casale wouldn’t have to work overtime this week and could spend Christmas with his family.
Patrick wasn’t so lucky. The case was still open, and he still had one last task to do before he could think about time off. Órlaith might have been returned to the Seelie Court, but Gerard still had a promise to keep to the Cailleach Bheur. Sometime in the future, Gerard would have to give up his commission to the United States military, hand over command of the Hellraisers to someone else, and go home.
Patrick knew change happened and that it always came with a cost, he just didn’t like it.
Tiarnán looked across the table at them, his violet eyes revealing no emotion. Patrick met his gaze head-on, never one to flinch away from someone else’s judgmental regard.
“Medb most likely spoke the truth to the Dagda about the location of the Morrígan’s staff. I highly doubt she would remove it from the mortal realm,” Tiarnán said.
