They were marched down the snowy path for an indeterminate amount of time. Patrick could barely make out the gray sky above through the twisted branches of trees growing close together. He could hear the Sluagh even if he couldn’t see them. The restless dead soared somewhere above in the clouds that blocked out the sunlight.
Wade walked close beside him, his arm constantly brushing Patrick’s in a self-soothing sort of way. Patrick didn’t mind, preferring to have Wade within arm’s reach. He might not have his magic, and his dagger might not be immediately available, but he’d be damned if he let something happen to Wade on his watch.
The only other sound in the cold, heavy quiet that filled the strange forest was everyone’s breathing and the thud of feet sinking into snow. Patrick didn’t bother to try to track where they were going—this was Tír na nÓg, after all.
Underhill.
Annwn.
All the old names for this land beyond the veil crossed Patrick’s mind, but no matter the name it carried, the Otherworld was home to the fae of both Courts. It would always be dangerous.
The trees thinned out after a while. In the distance, large branches of a single tree rose into the sky, empty of leaves. The path widened, eventually merging into a meadow where nothing grew, and in the center was a massive dead tree that could’ve rivaled a skyscraper in height.
Patrick thought the white of the ground in the meadow was snow until he stepped on it and his boots crunched over bone. He looked down, seeing white bone dust drift across his black combat boots. Walking over the dead sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine.
“Gross,” Wade said. “Not a hoard I’d ever choose.”
“Do I need to inspect your apartment when we get home?” Patrick asked.
Wade slanted Patrick a look, chewing on his bottom lip. “No?”
Patrick made a mental note to do just that—because they were leaving Tír na nÓg before too much time passed them by on the mortal plane. He had to believe that.
Up ahead, the tree bark looked as if it moved, until Patrick realized creatures clung to the dead tree. The closer they got, the clearer they became. Long limbs, thin torsos, with hooked claws for fingers, the goblins clung to the dead tree like monkeys, watching them as they approached.
The Red Caps moved into marching lines on either side of them, with the fae lord taking point. No one spoke, and Patrick kept his eyes on the crack in the tree up ahead. The darkness was made of shadows that seemed to move, and not from a trick of the light. The tree might be dead, but something lived inside it.
Wade leaned in close, nearly tripping over a femur bone as he did so. “Are you sure you don’t want me to eat them?”
“No eating the enemy.”
Besides, Patrick wanted to know why Medb hadn’t simply ordered them killed on sight. In his experience, it was never a good thing when the gods wanted you kept alive.
Patrick reached for Wade, taking the teen’s hand in his own gloved one. He didn’t want to risk being separated where they were going. Wade seemed to settle slightly at the touch, his fingers grasping at Patrick’s and not letting go.
“I need you to do what I tell you to, okay?” Patrick asked, forcing the words out around a numb tongue.
Wade nodded, nothing sulky or reluctant in the gesture at all. Patrick breathed a quiet sigh of relief. They wanted Wade to have his independence, but he still needed to be looked after, whether he liked it or not. At eighteen, he was still emotionally younger than that, the trauma he’d been through coloring a lot of his choices and actions. Therapy helped, but so did having control of his own life, and Patrick didn’t want to take that away from him completely. In a situation like this though, he needed to.
The crack in the dead, ancient tree was the height of a three-story building, and as wide as a large house. The goblins on its trunk and branches scuttled about; Patrick’s skin crawled from their unceasing attention.
The sound of a bird cawing in the distance made Patrick look up at the sky. He could see the clouds easier now, the Sluagh circling overhead like the start of a tornado. Flying lazily between the treetops at the edge of the meadow and the low-hanging clouds were two small specks that winged ever closer.
The birds cawed again, the sound echoing strangely in the air. It reminded Patrick of the ravens perched atop Grand Central Terminal back in August. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look, but everything was a little blurry in the distance due to the binding.
The Sluagh screamed a warning, the restless dead that made up their ranks flying toward the ravens.
“This is not their home,” the fae lord said to the goblins as he stepped into the depths of the dead tree. “Keep them away.”
Patrick didn’t think the fae was talking about them. He managed one last look at the ravens flying through the air before a Red Cap shoved the flat of his war axe against his back, shoving Patrick forward.
“Move,” the Red Cap growled.
They moved, stepping into a darkness that seemed all-encompassing. Patrick couldn’t see what was right in front of him, though that didn’t last long. The blade on the fae lord’s halberd started to glow with a dull yellow light. He banged the butt of the pole weapon against the ground three times, the sound echoing in the dark around them.
Slowly, pinpricks of light started to form, the glow a soft bioluminescence rather than fire. The interior walls of the dead tree became streaked with light in various blues and white that moved. It took a moment for Patrick’s eyes to adjust before he realized that the lights were soft bulges on the backs of giant beetles the size of his head, their hard-shelled wings spread to reveal their own light source.
They crawled around the sides of the tree and the dirt floor overrun with roots. In the center, carved stone blocks had been adhered together to form pillars that extended into walls which connected to the tree. Hanging between them was a set of double doors made entirely out of bones and eyes that blinked against the light. The lock was set inside what looked like a mouth full of teeth.
