The sound of hooves thudding against the ground made them look over at a path cutting through the strange trees that hadn’t been there before. Fae in armor he’d seen before in the scrying crystal cantered their way on ethereal-looking horses. Gerard and Keith picked themselves off the ground, and that’s when Jono realized they were missing more than Patrick.
“Where’s Wade?” he asked, hands tightening into fists.
Sage stiffened, her eyes darting from side to side as she craned her head around. “I don’t see him.”
The lead rider pulled up short, the horse planting its feet hard against the dirt in front of their broken group. The rider stared at them with golden eyes, half her face covered by an intricate gold mask that connected to a helmet adorned with filigree in the same design of thorny roses.
“My Lord Cú Chulainn, the Spring Queen bids we escort you home,” the rider said in a melodious voice.
“Cuckoowhat?” Keith demanded, staring at Gerard in shock.
Andoh, that was a revelation Jono knew would gut Patrick if he were still there to witness it.
11
Patrick hitthe tree hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs, pain radiating through his back. He slid down to the cold ground, fighting for breath.
Next time, I need to remember to shield the ground.
He hadn’t expected the attack to come from below, and Patrick would kick himself later for that, as soon as he could breathe again. A blur of movement had him bringing up his arm, magic sparking at his fingertips. His concentration broke when the spider fae grabbed him by the throat and pinned him against the tree. Patrick’s head spun from the hit, and all he could make out was the iridescent green of the fae’s eyes as he struggled to get air into his lungs.
“Patrick!” Wade frantically yelled.
Patrick yanked free his dagger and stabbed the fae in the side of its human torso. Skin gave easily beneath the matte-black blade, the smell of burning flesh reaching Patrick’s nose. The fae screamed, its fingers loosening from around his throat as it jerked away, sliding off the blade. Blood dripped down his hand, making his grip slick. The fae stumbled backward on its spider legs before being wrenched around and tossed aside by Wade. Patrick stared up into Wade’s wide, frightened eyes, trying to get his bearings.
He drew in breath, trying to keep his heartbeat steady. Worse than the newly acquired bruises and aches was the realization that while he could feel the soulbond, he couldn’t sense Jono.
“I don’t see the others,” Wade said, a tremor in his voice.
Patrick coughed, using the tree to drag himself back to his feet. Red scales had crawled up Wade’s neck, curling over his jaw, a sign of his fear and lack of control. Wade could maintain his human shape as if it were instinctual, but he had a difficult time doing so when panicked fear was all his brain could process. It hadn’t happened often since August, and they were still helping him work on his control.
Patrick shifted position to stand in front of Wade, putting himself between the teen and the Sluagh still circling them. Heavenly magic trailed through the air after his dagger as Patrick raised the blade between himself and the Sluagh. His leather jacket was pulled back against his shoulders a little as Wade clenched his hands around the charmed material.
“Don’t shift,” Patrick said. His voice came out a little rough, and he coughed to clear it. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Wade’s grip tightened even more. Patrick held himself still when Wade pressed his forehead to the back of Patrick’s shoulder, trembling hard.
Should’ve left him with Emma’s pack.
Too late for regrets now.
Patrick expanded his shields to encase Wade, wincing at the dull throb in his head as he did so. He conjured up a mageglobe, filling it with a strike spell, the command trigger a half-formed whisper in the back of his mind. Around them, the trees had changed to a barren ghostly forest that wasn’t part of Central Park. Snow covered everything, from the dirt they stood on to the gnarled trees that seemed to move of their own accord.
The thick mist couldn’t hide the Sluagh as the Unseelie fae surrounded them. The Sluagh held their position, and Patrick didn’t like what that meant at all. He sank his fingers into the mageglobe, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“If you think we cannot counter the spell you are about to cast, then you would be wrong. Tír na nÓg is not kind to those who harm its children.”
The voice had an accent that reminded Patrick of the people who lived in the Gaeltacht regions of Ireland, where the old ways were still practiced. He’d done a joint mission there with theSciathán Fiannóglaigh an Airmonce before during his early days with the Hellraisers. It had given Patrick a healthy dose of wariness when it came to dealing with the fae of either Court.
“If you think I won’t try, then you don’t know me,” Patrick ground out.
The Sluagh parted, restless dead and solidly alive fae stepping aside to allow a tall figure to walk forward. The Unseelieduine sídhefae was lean beneath the black leather and gray steel armor he wore that Patrick could only wish was made out of iron. His long white hair was paler than his skin, while his eyes were the color of a storm on the horizon. The fae carried a halberd in one hand etched with symbols Patrick couldn’t read. They glowed softly through the mist, the feel of fae magic grating against his shields.
The mist rolled behind the Sluagh, drifting around large shadows that solidified into creatures standing at least eight feet in height. Huge, broad-shouldered, and carrying the stench of old blood with them, the group of Unseelie fae made a half circle around the one with the halberd, their own battle-axes nearly as tall as Patrick.
Their green-brown skin was as wrinkled as a walnut. Their faces were square in shape, with large hooked noses and lipless mouths. Deep-set eyes were pitch-black, no sclera showing at all. Shoulder-length black hair shimmered a dark blue green, like an oil slick on water.
Every last one of them wore a red cap that fit snug to their heads, the fabric of the headpiece lifting away into a long, curved point weighed down by a skull. Blood smeared over skin where the red cap’s tight brim dug into their heads, dampening their hair with the ever-present blood in the fabric.
