Jono got to his feet and would’ve gone to help Patrick, except when he turned, his attention was wholly taken up by the monument rising into the night sky before them. Jono froze, the full moon high in the dark sky bright enough to cast the hill they stood on in silvery light.
“What isthat?” Wade asked, sounding a little uneasy.
“Glastonbury Tor,” Jono said through numb lips.
His mouth went dry with the realization that he was standing on English soil for the first time in years. The sudden, unexpected longing for a home that had never wanted him felt exactly like the silver knife Theodore had stabbed him in the gut with the other week. Jono swallowed thickly against the tightness in his chest, night vision finally settling into something his brain could process.
St. Michael’s Tower loomed above them, the Wild Hunt circling the stone parapets, as if waiting for the command to attack. They glowed with an unearthly light, while the full moon illuminated the terraced slopes of the ancient, snow-covered hill they stood atop. The mist hid the lower land where the city of Glastonbury should have been, but wasn’t.
It was as if they were on an island in the middle of nowhere, with only the dead to keep them company.
“We’re at the gates of Annwn,” Gerard said.
“Looks like bloody Glastonbury Tor to me,” Jono replied.
Gerard’s spear crackled at the notched point with fire that gave off no warmth. “Because it has always existed as a crossroad for my people.”
“One which you trespass upon at this moment, halfling. Annwn is not your territory.”
The voice that echoed from the depths of the tower rang with the deep tone found only in cathedral bells. Patrick came to stand beside Jono, holding his dagger in one hand. The matte-black blade flickered with heavenly white fire along its sharp edges. His other hand brushed against Jono’s in a silent show of support and comfort that steadied Jono.
Gerard’s team scattered in a loose halfcircle around them, rifles at the ready. They stood in such a way that all angles of attack were covered, but Jono doubted the numerous spelled bullets they carried could do anything about the immortal who stepped out of the shadows.
Gerard’s hand tightened on his spear before he dipped his head low in a sign of respect Jono wasn’t sure he meant. “Gwyn ap Nudd.”
“Cú Chulainn,” the god replied, his Welsh accent thick in the syllables.
Jono eyed the new immortal, sizing him up. Gwyn ap Nudd was tall in his own right, but the antlers branching off the metal and leather helmet he wore over white-blond hair made him taller. The shirt and trousers he wore seemed made of dark leather, with symbols painted on them in a design that made no sense to Jono. The silver gauntlets the god wore glittered in the moonlight, and Jono could practically taste the metal on his tongue.
Gwyn ap Nudd carried a spear in his right hand, the metal of the spearhead burning red orange, as if it had been pulled from a forge’s fire. The glow from it cast strange shadows on his face, revealing black eyes shot through with molten gold.
Beside the god strode a massive hound, its silver-white fur making it seem more like a ghost than something real. Which might’ve been the case, considering what circled above them. The Wild Hunt had yet to leave, and Jono, for all that he carried a god in his soul and the werevirus in his veins, still felt like prey.
“If we’re in Annwn, we’re losing time. This is a crossroad, right? Can’t you put us back in the mortal world?” Patrick wanted to know.
The god ignored him. “I would know why a halfling thinks he has the right to request an audience with me.”
Gerard took a step forward, drawing himself up to his full height. “We made a bargain with Medb. We came here looking for answers.”
“I have nothing to give you.”
“The Wild Hunt steals the living off the streets of New York City. You do not lead them through the storms that carry them on the mortal plane. Why?”
“That is not your concern.”
“It’s all our concern when the Morrígan’s staff is in Medb’s hands.”
Gwyn ap Nudd said nothing to that, merely settled his left hand on top of the hound’s head to stroke the white fur between its ears. “If Medb truly had the staff in Tír na nÓg, then no power in any realm could keep the Morrígan from reclaiming what rightfully belongs to war. I cannot help you.”
“I think you’re lying,” Jono said.
That molten gaze turned his way, and Jono found himself pinned by a regard that should have burned him. Gwyn ap Nudd’s eyes narrowed, his head and the antlers he wore like a kind of crown tilting in a thoughtful manner. Fenrir stirred in Jono’s soul, but he’d had enough of the god taking over his life in the last day or so, and firmly told the immortalno.
Fenrir growled in a way that told Jono he was being ignored.
“Cousin,” Gwyn ap Nudd said after a long moment. “I was not aware you had given patronage.”
“Just me, mate,” Jono growled, ignoring the warning snarl that echoed in the back of his mind.
