“Where she always is this time of year. At the Cliffs of Moher, in her home ofCeann na Caillí,” Gwyn ap Nudd said.
“Where is that? Ireland?”
Gerard nodded. “Yes. She has abodes in the old lands of the Celts. Modern borders mean nothing to her.”
“How are we supposed to get there? None of us have passports to get through any sort of Customs.”
Gwyn ap Nudd arched an eyebrow and tilted his spear in Nerys’ direction. “My Wild Hunt will take you.”
“Not through the veil. We can’t risk losing any more time. Winter solstice is tomorrow,” Patrick said.
“Then we’ll ride with the Wild Hunt through the storms west of here and stay on the mortal plane,” Gerard said.
Jono looked at the Wild Hunt surrounding them before catching Patrick’s eye. “It’s been years since I was last in Ireland.”
“Next time, we’re taking a fucking plane,” Patrick retorted. “Where they serve alcohol and have seat belts, and don’t treat the goddamn sky like a roller coaster.”
“Fair enough.”
“Good hunting,” Gwyn ap Nudd said before disappearing through the veil in the way only immortals could.
Jono squinted against the dawn and ran his tongue over too-sharp teeth in his mouth. As far as blessings from the gods went, that was one he could accept just fine.
18
It was snowingwhen they finally reached the Cliffs of Moher a couple of hours later, and not even Jono’s higher core body temperature or Patrick’s heat charms could warm him all the way through. Winter’s chill had settled in his bones during the flight west, and he’d give anything to be home in bed and warm right about then.
Not how I thought we’d celebrate our first Christmas together.
The gray clouds—occasionally edged in lightning—that had surrounded them on the long flight west started to thin. Jono turned his head and looked down past the stag’s moving hooves at the glimpse of blue he could barely make out through a break in the clouds. Then the stag opted to dive instead of fly, and Jono tried to remember to breathe.
The Wild Hunt broke free of the low-hanging clouds that had led the way west. Jono was glad to leave the escort storm behind in the sky, but the dizzying descent to the earth below was enough to make his stomach crawl up his throat. He held on tight to the strangely solid rider seated in front of him on the stag. The ghostly warrior ignored Jono as the Wild Hunt dove toward the sea where waves crashed against the cliffs rising out of the ocean.
Sea fog made it seem as if they were flying through the veil mists, but Jono knew that wasn’t the case. The Wild Hunt flew above the sea waves, ghostly hooves and paws skimming the top of whitecaps as they passed the shores, heading south.
The Cliffs of Moher stood like ancient sentinels against the wrath of the Atlantic Ocean, their craggy faces dark from the damp sea air, the land above covered in snow. Jono squeezed his legs tighter against the stag as the Wild Hunt suddenly started to climb back into the air, breaking past the top of a cliff to finally touch down on solid ground.
Jono slid to the ground, feeling a bit wobbly on his legs from being a passenger on a dead flying stag as it rode the storm. It was an experience he hoped never to repeat, but he knew the possibility was still there. This fight wasn’t over yet.
Patrick slid off of Nerys’ ghostly steed close by, staggered a few steps, then flopped to the ground on his back, starfishing out. “I can’t feel my face.”
“I can’t feel my dick,” Keith whined from where he knelt on the ground beside the massive hound that had carried him west.
“I feel fine,” Wade said, sounding smug as he patted down his coat, looking for a snack.
“You don’t count,” Patrick retorted.
Wade ignored him, making a pleased sound when he found a candy bar. He ripped it open and started to eat it.
Patrick flopped a hand at Wade. “Don’t litter. It’s rude, and the fae hate it.”
Jono walked over to where Patrick lay on the ground, the snow settling on the shield that covered him rather than his body. Magic crackled in a line down the shield as it parted, his hand reaching for Jono’s. He grabbed it, easily hauling Patrick to his feet. Jono wrapped his arms around the other man, feeling him shiver a little.
“Heat charms, Pat,” Jono murmured, before pressing a kiss to the side of Patrick’s head. “They need a refreshing.”
“In a second,” Patrick said, wrapping his arms around Jono’s waist. He sounded tired.
Something warm uncoiled in Jono’s chest at the way Patrick leaned into him without hesitation. Half a year of wearing down Patrick’s sharp edges meant Jono appreciated these moments more than he could give voice to.
