Salty Dog Page 21

  “Listen, Rhys, I’m—” I began, prepared to apologize if it saved Blair’s life.

  “Enough,” Rhys hissed, removing his hand from Blair’s mouth to savagely yank on her braid, exposing the long, slender line of her neck. “I’m tired of talking. To both of you.” And—so slowly it didn’t even seem real—he ran the dagger across Blair’s throat.

  “No,” I whispered, dropping my arm, the shotgun falling from my numb, useless fingers. Rhys laughed at my expression and released my former lover’s limp body with a flourish, stepping back with a wide, manic smile painted on his face.

  It was, I found myself thinking, the most heartbreaking smile I’d ever seen.

  Not that it lasted long; as Blair fell to the ground, tumbling forward in what seemed like slow motion, Cathal appeared, leaping to take Rhys’ head in his powerful jaws. The hound landed and whipped his head back and forth, dragging Rhys around like a ragdoll, working at the bastard like a fucking chew toy. In seconds, Rhys’ headless corpse lay only a few feet from Blair’s.

  Except his body wasn’t glowing.

  And Blair’s was.

  I took a few steps forward, reaching out with my good arm, staring at the body. Blair’s body. I fell to my knees beside her, hoping to cradle her in my arms, to see it had all been some elaborate, cosmic joke. Except those eyes—those captivating eyes—were open, glassy. Staring at nothing. I felt a sob rise up as I reached out to touch her, to run my fingers through her hair. But the instant my fingertips closed the distance between us, that glow exploded, forcing me to shield my eyes.

  When I looked back, Blair was gone, though her blood—so much blood—still littered the ground. Dazed, I took a handful of that coarse, wet sand and squeezed, letting it crumble through my fingertips. Something prodded me from behind, and I looked up to find the hound looming over one shoulder, nudging me with his blood-drenched muzzle, mouth open in a silent scream.

  No, not silent, I realized.

  “Get up!” he was shouting. “Now!”

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. “Just go,” I whispered, staring at the blood spattered on the ground, unable to process what had just happened. But Cathal didn’t; instead, the bastard clamped his teeth down on my shirt and began pulling, drawing me away. I struggled, kicking and screaming at the indignity of being dragged. At last, he let me go, shoving his face menacingly into mine.

  “Get on then,” Cathal growled, dropping his belly to the sand.

  Too numb to think straight, I did as he suggested, rising to clamber onto his back. In moments, I was forced to grab hold of his powerful neck as the hound rose and headed directly for the steep slope of the pit. I blinked, realizing he was going to try and run straight up the wall. At last, my self-preservation instincts kicked in.

  “What the fuck are ye doin’?!” I shouted.

  “Getting us out of here,” Cathal replied. He jumped before I could question his methods, paws pounding as he charged the slope, four legs pumping like those of a sprinting greyhound. It was all I could do to hang on, my heart in my throat, as we cleared the pit. Cathal charged forward, ignoring the screaming masses as they fought to escape the nightmare that had emerged from their would-be entertainment, their guards no longer around to save them.

  Or, I realized, to keep them in line.

  “Cathal!” I screamed as the hound hunted for any path that would take us out of the Vale, haphazardly knocking down anyone who got in his way. “Cathal, ye have to go back! The slaves, we could—”

  “There’s nothing for us here!” Cathal bellowed, his irritation clear. “This is the Blighted Lands. These people might as well be dead.”

  His words hit me like a slap in the face. Indeed, the instant we cleared the decrepit settlement, I realized he was right. There was nothing for us here. Nothing but exiles and slaves and bandits and death. Hell, the only worthwhile creature in this whole, godsforsaken place—a beautiful woman with eyes you could lose yourself in—was gone. Lost in a flash of light, her lifeblood staining the sand. Overwhelmed by the thought that I would never see Blair again, I ducked my head into the hound’s shoulder and sobbed as he ran, and ran, and ran.

  But I knew we’d never get far enough to forget.

  Because some memories you simply can’t run away from.

  40

  The tunnel beneath Mount Never Rest was gloomy and bone-chilling, though for all I knew that was merely the shock of everything I’d been through leveling up, hitting me physically from yet another angle; I’d already bawled my eyes out, drained to the point I could barely raise my head. Watching Blair die before my very eyes—only to watch her disappear without even being able to say goodbye—had been far harder on me than I thought it would. Honestly, part of me wished Cathal had simply left me behind. That way—instead of finally ending this insane journey and meeting my mother’s ghost within the Hall of Lives, assuming she was still alive—I’d have ended up in a festering cage, left alone long enough to wallow and mourn on my own time.

  It all felt like it was happening too fast.

  But he hadn’t, and—no matter how wiped I felt right now—I still wanted answers. I wanted to know how my mother could let the Blessed People fumble around in the dark without at least a little guidance from their gods, for one thing. I also wanted to know why the Blighted Lands—that awful, hideous place—existed, why they were allowed to exist. I owed Blair, owed everyone I’d met, that much.

  “How much farther?” I asked, hugging the hound’s back, nestling up against the markings that whorled through his fur; they shone with a dim white light, emitting the faintest heat, which made me really rethink Cathal’s value as a companion. After all, part nightlight, part heated blanket? If it weren’t for that mouth of his, he’d be perfect.

  “It speaks,” Cathal rumbled.

  “Don’t make me hurt ye,” I replied testily, though we both knew the threat was unfounded; I was insanely weakened after nearly a day’s ride from the Vale to the mountain. My various wounds, especially the festering sore, were so bad that—the one time I’d tried to walk on my own several hours before—I’d nearly collapsed. Cathal had taken one piteous look at me before offering his back once more, which had told me all I needed to know about my sorry state.

  “It’s not much farther,” Cathal said. “Save your strength. I’ll get you there, as promised.”

  I found myself nodding, absentmindedly. “You’re a good boy, Cathy,” I mumbled, feeling oddly sleepy as that frigid cold gave way to warmth. My body became weightless in increments, the pain from my wounds diminishing with each step until I finally let out a ragged sigh of relief.

  And that’s when Cathal tossed me off his back.

  “Motherfucker!” I yelled, startled. “What was that for?” I began rubbing my poor backside, glaring up at the demented dog.

  “You were falling asleep. Don’t do that. Get up and lean on me. It’s not far, now.”

  Too tired to argue, I rose, fumbling a bit, my knees wobbly, legs practically asleep after such a long ride on the back of an animal. At last, I found Cathal’s shoulder and leaned into him, taking one precarious step after another as he padded beside me. “Say, Cathy, what happened to ye in the pits?” I asked, recalling the instant he’d pierced my skin and what had looked like a damn allergic reaction. “When ye bit me?” I added.

  Cathal froze, muscles twitching, the movement so sudden I nearly toppled. “I did what?”

  I reminded him what had happened—how the Handler had insisted I let him snack on my arm, how I’d sacrificed my limb so nobly for his sake because I was freaking awesome like that. Of course, the moment I said that I realized my “injured” arm felt completely fine, especially compared to how it had felt in the pits. But then, maybe my body was too broken down to care, too shocked to notice, at this point? What was one more injury amongst dozens, after all?

  Cathal hesitated, before shuffling forward once more, the rippling muscles of his back moving like rocks coated in silk benea
th my hand. “I must have been under a spell,” he said, at last. “Your blood must have broken it.”

  I nodded like that made all the sense in the world, my mind too foggy to wonder why my blood had done the trick, as opposed to someone else’s; at this point, it was the most I could do to keep moving. Each lurching step quickly became its own tiny accomplishment, especially once the cold returned in force, the temperature dropping the farther into the tunnel we got.

  “I was cold when this all started,” I recalled, giggling a little to myself as I thought back to that early morning walk with Scathach, what felt like years ago. “Ye know, I don’t even know how long I’ve been gone for…” I felt my skin prickle as I realized how very true that actually was. How much time had passed since Scotland? Months? Or had it been longer? What about everyone on the outside? Names began popping up in my head—a long list of people I’d liked to have at least warned before I disappeared without a word. Christoff, Othello, Robin, Scathach, Max, Eve.

  Oh God, Eve.

  “She’s goin’ to kill me,” I murmured, realizing I’d left my morose houseplant behind without so much as a goodbye. Still, there was some comfort in knowing she wouldn’t be entirely alone; I’d given both Scathach and Othello keys to my apartment—not that either would have had any qualms about breaking down my door if the need arose. I was fairly certain they’d check in on her, at least water her know-it-all ass, if nothing else.

  “Time moves differently between realms,” Cathal replied, seemingly unconcerned by my mutterings. “So, I couldn’t tell you.”

  I nodded dumbly, still dreading what I’d find on my return. Would any of them even want to talk to me after disappearing on them for so long? God, I hoped so. For some reason, maybe because I’d accepted this alien part of me that actually liked people, that mattered to me more than it ever had before.

  Cathal stilled, cocking his head to look at me. “You’ll have to take the next few steps on your own.”

  I frowned. “Ye aren’t comin’?”

  “I can’t. The Hall of Lives is a realm only the Tuatha de Danann can visit. And even they are sometimes turned away, if they are deemed unworthy or threatening.”

  “But…but what about ye?” I asked, dreading the idea of Cathal trying to make his way back to the sea from here. Granted, without me he stood a much better chance of surviving, but that didn’t mean he was safe; the humans we’d left behind would likely be hunting for us, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t run into some other nightmarish creature, even if he eluded the slavers.

  Cathal snorted. “Once you’re gone, my debt to Manannan will be repaid,” he said, putting odd emphasis on the sea god’s name. “This tunnel branches off and leads to a river on the other side of the mountain. There’ll be a boat there for me, I’m sure.” The hound bumped into me, gently. “No need to worry,” he added, voice oddly soft.

  I nodded, hoping the mangy bastard was right; I’d feel awfully conflicted leaving him behind, otherwise. Not that I’d ever know—this was goodbye, after all. I turned and—before Cathal could step away—wrapped his neck in a fierce hug, pressing my face into his fur. He smelled like peat smoke tinged with something spicier, like aged whiskey.

  “I’m sorry we humans suck,” I murmured.

  “You really do,” Cathal replied, though his tone was oddly warm, even friendly. “Now, go.” He wrenched himself free, took a few steps back, and thrust me forward with his paw before I could say anything else. I stumbled, tripped, and suddenly I was falling, falling without end.

  41

  I fell, but the sensation quickly became more like drifting, as if I were a leaf coasting inexorably downward, only slightly heavier than the air beneath me. I panicked at first, then relaxed as the blackness around me lightened in small, measurable increments to a murky shade of twilight. I took a few deep, calming breaths and studied the brightening tunnel, realizing that—far below—lay a semi-familiar cosmic landscape, an invisible hallway laden with impossible windows. In moments, I began to see planets and stars hovering all around me as if I were drifting across the universe. I coasted, leisurely closing the distance, descending like a deflated balloon, making out details I’d never noticed before in my dreams, or even when I’d accidentally stepped between realms. Like how the windows that hung in midair each had a frame of some sort, all distinct, if not inconceivable; the one nearest me seemed to bleed—the crimson liquid spilling down the frame over and over again like one of those never-ending waterfalls—while its neighbor flashed silver beneath an uneven coat of black tar.

  I landed gently on my feet, my exhaustion fading almost immediately, the pain of my wound a distant thing. It wasn’t gone, just…held at bay. By something, or someone.

  “Took you long enough,” my mother’s ghost rasped.

  I spun, finding the woman leaning against the transparent wall, her face significantly gaunter than when I’d last seen her, her flesh sickly pale. Her eyes, once flaming, had dulled to mere embers. She looked worn down, as if she hadn’t slept well in weeks. I cringed as I met her smoldering gaze, realizing she hadn’t been exaggerating; she was dying.

  Still, the bitch had some nerve.

  “It wasn’t exactly easy gettin’ here,” I growled, my irritation flaring. I glared at the lingering memory of the goddess my mother had been, wondering what I should accuse her of first. I had so many things to say, so many points to make, so many questions to ask. And, of course, beneath all that lay the gut-wrenching knowledge that Blair was gone, that she and I would never get to have that talk—the guilt of which made me want to reach out and shake the demented woman who’d started it all until she begged me to stop.

  But I didn’t get a chance to do any of that.

  Instead, my mother’s ghost threw herself away from the wall with visible effort and stumbled towards me, snatching my wrist in the process. “Come with me, we’re running low on time.”

  “Wait a damned second, I—”

  But she ignored me, tugging harder, her grip surprisingly strong despite how frail she appeared. “Be a brat later,” she hissed. “I’ll answer all your questions, in time. But first I need to show you things. Things I couldn’t before. It’s important.”

  I snapped my mouth shut. Important, huh? Fine. Let her show me whatever she had to show me, then I’d grill her about Blair, about the Otherworlders and the Blighted Land, about just what in the hell she and her fellow gods had been thinking when they created this mess of a world.

  My mother’s ghost drew me close, switching her hand to my shoulder, and spun me to face a window framed in obsidian—so polished I could almost see my reflection in it. The woman reached for a lever and yanked, slamming it down, the window itself blew open as if buffeted by an errant wind. “Look,” she insisted, her grip on my shoulder tightening.

  I did, though I was defiant about it, glaring back at her before facing the gaping window. I frowned, recognizing the all-too-familiar layout of a dive bar. I didn’t recognize the interior, but the vibe was eerily reminiscent of the worst holes I’d wandered into before finally carving out a place for myself at Christoff’s. The sort of place most people avoided without even thinking about it, a testament to Darwinism in action, if you asked me.

  Grungy music that might have been country, garage band metal, or some combination of the two, could barely be heard over the general ruckus, and a fight near the bar was seconds from breaking out. The bartender was hurriedly waving over the bouncer by the door, face panicked. But there was no point—this was going to be an ugly one. Because at the center of the bar stood a lone woman whose sole purpose—if I had to guess—was to ruin everyone’s good time.

  Or make it better, depending on your persuasion.

  Badb, my mother’s sister and therefore my aunt, one third of the triumvirate who the world knew as the Morrigan—Queen of Air and Darkness—thrust two fingers into the chest of the biggest, beefiest son of a bitch in the bar. “What are you going to do about it, fatty?” she s
aid, her accent faintly Southern. Probably an affectation of some kind—something to make the locals more comfortable. But the locals weren’t comfortable. In fact, the whole bar suddenly looked downright agitated, like a pack of dogs scenting something worse coming their way.

  Of course, that something worse was the goddess they’d inadvertently let into their bar. I frowned, studying the leather-clad maven, noting the not-so-subtle go fuck yourself style she’d opted for; half her head was shaved, the other half a spill of raven black locks, her lips painted purple, pale skin flashing bright beneath a whole cattle farm’s worth of leather, with enough silver studs and piercings on display to tempt a jewelry thief.

  Oh, and she was grinning.

  The beefy man shared a concerned look with his friends, probably shocked to hear anyone—let alone a woman nearly a foot shorter and a couple hundred pounds lighter—talk to him like that. I didn’t blame him; the only people who were that in your face were typically either convicts, or soon-to-be convicts. No one else had that kind of edge, the sheer brazenness to spit on cops and cuss out court judges.

  My mother’s ghost leaned in over my shoulder, resting her chin on it, though one look told me it was from exhaustion, not affection—which is all that kept me from shrugging her off. “Badb,” she said, then snorted. “Always picking fights. Of the three of us, she is the closest to what you might call a war goddess. Her bloodthirst is legendary, her battle prowess unmatched. She is the tempest.”

  I frowned, thinking of my wild side, of that part of me which arose whenever a fight broke out—especially if I was the cause of said fight. I felt the woman behind me nod, as if I’d spoken aloud. Then again, maybe I had. “Yes,” she noted, “that is her power. Residual, but yes.”

  “But why would I have her power?” I turned in confusion. “Aren’t ye…”