The Druid Next Door Page 6

  Mal peered past him. A small figure with pebbled brown skin and hair like a tuft of moss was watching them with wide yellow eyes. “That is an Unseelie bauchan. A sort of hobgoblin, as you might say.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Bryce turned his head, and the lift of his eyebrows, the quiver of his lips reassured Mal that he was facing this latest shock with his usual mixture of aplomb and curiosity rather than abject terror. “Lesson three?”

  “You could say that, since if you hadn’t been initiated into the Sight, you’d probably see the little bugger as some kind of animal you’d expect to find hereabouts.”

  “Wait. You mean when you threw that bottle yesterday, it was—”

  “Yes. An Unseelie redcap, stalking a heron and about to piss in your precious swamp.”

  “And this morning?”

  “Ambushed by the bastard and his mates.”

  Bryce frowned, his gaze darting between Mal and the bauchan. “Why are they after you?”

  “My position in the Seelie Court—”

  “‘Seelie Court’?”

  “Don’t interrupt. This is lesson four, and it’s all about me.”

  “Well then,” Bryce said, his tone dry, “do carry on.”

  “Some call the Seelie Court light, and Unseelie dark. But it’s not that . . . that . . .”

  “Binary?”

  “I was going to say simple, but that will do. Faerie itself is a magical construct, created by the elder gods in the time before.”

  “The time before what?”

  Mal gave Bryce a look of disgust. “The time before Faerie, of course. It’s essentially the result of an extremely powerful spell, and it’s based on immutable rules. Each court has four basic tenets, and if you violate them, you can’t be part of that court. If you violate enough rules, you can’t be part of Faerie at all.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  “More or less. Although I’m appealing the decision.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “Not well so far, however—”

  “Hey! You! Stop that!” Bryce grabbed Mal’s arm. “Did you see that? That thing just was about to toss something in the slough. I’ll bet it’s what poisoned the water in the first place.”

  “Could be. Although I’m not sure why—”

  The bauchan turned and disappeared into the woods. Bryce bolted after it, splashing through a shallow inlet and showering Mal with malodorous water as the tug in his belly warned him to join the chase before the distance between them reached the disemboweling point.

  “Goddess bless, man, hold up.”

  Bryce slowed but didn’t stop. “I want to catch that thing. Ask it what it did and how to fix it.”

  “You really think if you catch it that you’ll be able to talk to it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It’s a bauchan, boyo. A lesser Scottish fae. It probably only speaks Gaelic.”

  Bryce came to an abrupt halt, wildly scanning the trees and underbrush. “Where did it go? No way it could have gotten through that blackberry thicket without leaving a trace.”

  “You’ve been leaving plenty of traces your own self, crashing along like a battalion of trolls. I thought you wanted to preserve this place, not trample it into the ground.”

  “Shut up and be useful. Where could it have gone?”

  Fair question. Too bad Mal didn’t have an answer that made any sense.

  With the energy of the woods sparkling in his peripheral vision, Bryce could barely contain his urge to bounce on his toes, or failing that, to shake Mal until he gave up some information. “Well?”

  Mal rubbed his left hand along his jawline. “The only way it could escape was if there were a threshold into Faerie along here.”

  “Is there?”

  “No. At least there shouldn’t be. The thresholds are all known, and nobody mentioned one here. The nearest one is in Forest Park.”

  Bryce blinked, his anger at the desecration of the wetlands warring with the sheer delight of discovering a whole alternate reality. “There’s a gateway into Faerie in Forest Park?”

  “Yes. It leads to the bottom of the tor where the Seelie Court holds its revels.”

  “If Seelie and Unseelie are so inimical, why would one small lone Unseelie risk venturing so close to a large population of Seelie, especially if they’re your size? Maybe it’s using an Unseelie entrance.”

  An expression of almost comical perplexity skated over Mal’s features. “Shite. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You mean that never crossed your mind? In however many years you’ve been alive?”

  “We don’t measure time the way you do in the Outer World, but no. It never did. As a Seelie fae, maybe I was only ever able to perceive the Seelie gates. Damn it all to Arawn’s hells. How bloody stupid could I be? I assumed those were the only ways in or out, that the Unseelie would be using them too. No wonder I could never catch one going through a gate. They use a different bloody network.”

  Mal paced under the trees, far enough to strain the invisible whatever that linked them, but he turned before forcing Bryce to move or be disemboweled. Would that happen? If something, some external agent were to separate them forcibly, would that sleeping weight in his abdomen rip him open? It certainly felt that way, but he didn’t think Cassie intended him to die, or Mal either.

  He hoped.

  Clearly he needed to do some research on druids. A prerequisite for my own destiny. How typical of my life.

  He let Mal mutter for a few more passes before stepping into his path. “Now that you admit the possibility of an unknown entrance, how can we find it?”

  “We can’t.” The force of Mal’s voice startled a curious chipmunk into a scolding retreat. “That’s my bloody point. I know where the Seelie gates are because I’ve always known, but I can’t detect them anymore. My link to the One Tree was severed when I was exiled.”

  “There’s only one tree in Faerie?” That seemed so wrong.

  “Of course not, you twit. The One Tree, the one at the heart of Faerie, the one the elder gods hung their whole bloody construct on. It’s the core of our magic.”

  Bryce frowned and sat down on a flat-topped boulder. “Is there a Seelie tree and an Unseelie tree?”

  “If there were, it wouldn’t be called the One Tree, now, would it?”

  “Don’t take your ill temper out on me.” Bryce kept his tone mild. “I’m not the one who’s spent however many hundreds of years—”

  “Thousands of years.”

  “Thousands of years without bothering to test his assumptions.”

  Mal whirled, his face contorted in fury. “It’s not like that. The fae aren’t— We don’t question things, not like humans. We can’t. Our whole bloody society is based on an immutable spell. It can’t change, unless you happen to have an elder god in your pocket and could convince her to pay attention to anything as insignificant as yourself.”

  Bryce’s chest tightened as his habitual barriers snapped into place. He’d developed a standard defense strategy after Gran’s death, coping mechanisms to deal with hostility and contempt. Ordinarily, he’d retreat into the safe isolation of his house, but he didn’t have that option, did he? Isolation just isn’t the same when you have to share it with someone who despises you.

  “We can’t all be lords, I suppose.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. “But that doesn’t mean those of us who aren’t noble aren’t worth common courtesy.”

  Mal clutched his hair with his good hand. “I didn’t— You’re not— Shite. You don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you won’t tell me anything. Christ, Mal. Could you give me a fucking break? After all, I just clued you in on something that escaped your notice for your entire life. Maybe, just maybe, you could return the favor and bring me up to speed on whatever it is Cassie thinks you have to teach me. After all, the sooner we meet her requirements, the sooner she’ll cut us loose, right?”


  Mal stopped pacing, and his shoulders fell. “Who knows what she’ll do, but you have a point. You have any beer at your place? Food?”

  “No to the first. I was planning on throwing together a vegetable stir-fry tonight, but—”

  “Don’t tell me. You don’t eat meat, right? Not only a tree hugger, but a bloody vegetarian.”

  “I’m pretty sure that one of the points of vegetarianism is the lack of blood, but yes. I’m an ovo-lacto pescaterian.”

  “A which?”

  “I eat fish and dairy as well as eggs, but no land-based animal flesh.”

  “Charming. In that case, it’s my place. If I have to put up with this shite, I need alcohol. I’ve got leftover Thai food from last night, and I’m pretty sure there’s something free of offending flesh.”

  Bryce trailed behind Mal in the gathering dusk, the lap of water at the edge of the slough harmonizing with the cheep of tree peepers in the gathering dusk. The wetlands—it’s a symphony, but all I heard before was a lone kazoo.

  Following Mal into his shadowed living room, Bryce aimed for the couch to keep out of the way, but the tug in his belly reminded him why that wasn’t an option. Although he’d been understandably distracted by the juxtaposition of pain with the wonder of new druid senses, he was still a scientist, trained to observe: at ten feet, he and Mal would feel the pull; at twelve, the cramps would hit; at fifteen, they’d be certain their entrails were being yanked out with a meat hook before they hit the you-shall-not-pass limit. He really didn’t feel like testing it again, so he sighed and joined Mal in the kitchen.

  Mal stood framed within the open refrigerator doors, bent over, rummaging through paper containers stacked on the shelves. Bryce’s gaze snapped to the man’s ass, hugged perfectly by his worn jeans.

  Holy crap. I’m going to be trapped within ten feet of that ass for the foreseeable future.

  How the hell did this work? Obviously, they had to share quarters. Given the layout of both houses, either of them could piss or shower without an audience, provided the other one stayed in the next room. But would the invisible cable pass through walls? Could they close doors between them? On one hand, the scenery wouldn’t be a hardship. On the other hand, hard might be an all too apt adjective for parts of his anatomy that would be impossible to hide from someone in close proximity.

  Mal swore as he fumbled one of the cartons that he’d tried to balance on his right forearm.

  “Here. Let me.”

  Mal glared at him over his shoulder. “I’m not helpless.”

  “Didn’t say you were. But from the label on the side of that carton, it’s shrimp curry, and if that’s the only thing in your fridge that I can eat, I’d rather not have it splattered all over the floor.”

  Mal’s jaw tightened, and Bryce wondered if he’d gone too far, but then the man snorted and grinned. Christ, those dimples.

  “Good point. As a matter of fact, I’ve always wanted a lackey. And if you’re a novice druid, you’d better get used to the feeling.”

  Bryce rescued the containers and set them on the counter. “So, this druid thing. I take it not just anyone can sign on. There are . . . aptitude requirements?”

  “A bit more than that.” Mal opened the cabinet and retrieved a couple of plates. “It’s an actual bloodline. An offshoot of homo sapiens back in the days before the elder gods created Faerie.” He pulled a handful of spoons out of a drawer and tossed them onto the counter with a clatter. “Get used to it, boyo. You’re not entirely human.”

  “But you’re not human at all, right?”

  “Maybe a little. The planet had a limited pool of DNA to build with, so the elder gods made use of the materials available. But you’re closer to human than any of the fae, barring cross-breeds. Achubyddion are somewhere between druid and Fae.”

  “What’s an achubyddion?”

  “One achubydd, two achubyddion. Although as far as anybody knows for sure, there’s only one achubydd left on earth—my brother-in-law, David.” He pulled a bottle of Double Mountain IRA from the refrigerator. “Want one? Or are you a teetotaler as well as a tree hugger and a veggie-lacto whatever?”

  “I’ll take one. Thanks. I drink, I just don’t drink alone, and since I wasn’t expecting any company, I didn’t stock up.” He accepted the beer from Mal and set it on the table. “So achubyddion are essentially extinct? What happened?”

  Mal plopped a spoonful of rice on his plate and dumped the contents of another carton on top of it while Bryce filled his own plate. “Ignorance, greed, and power lust. The usual. Achubyddion are healers—they use their magic, which is really their personal etheric force, to effect change in another. Rumor had it that they could journey to the Hidden Realms too—not just Faerie and the Outer World, but to any of the underworlds they chose.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone know?” Bryce transferred their plates to the table. Mal quirked an eyebrow at him, but didn’t otherwise comment on Bryce’s presumption as they both sat.

  “Because, like the druids, their traditions were all oral, and since they were nomadic, you never knew where to find them. Then two hundred years ago, the last known band of achubyddion was massacred by a power-hungry bastard who was trying to use their energy to elevate his status from noble to royal.”

  Cold snaked up Bryce’s spine. He pushed his plate away, suddenly not hungry. “Genocide?”

  “That’s the way of it. My brother Alun got caught in the middle of it, the poor bugger. Blamed himself for two centuries until David popped up to help him pull his head out of his arse.”

  “Sounds like a story there.”

  “Aye.” Mal took a swig of his beer, then smiled wryly. “You could say so.”

  Bryce laid his hand on Mal’s right forearm and squeezed. “Tell me. Please.”

  Bryce’s voice was low and gentle, and for some reason, Mal actually wanted to tell him, if only so he wouldn’t judge Mal too harshly. He’d been a worthwhile person once, even if he was bloody useless now.

  “The fae who engineered the massacre back then, Rodric Luchullain, was the Consort of the Seelie Queen. He wanted to depose her. Become King himself. But although he was of the highest rank, a Daoine Sidhe, he wasn’t royal. He thought he could use the bloodbath to elevate himself, but it didn’t work. Then, this past summer, he found out he hadn’t eradicated the entire race, so he launched a more targeted attempt. He believed if he sacrificed an achubydd in—” Mal swallowed against bile when he remembered the way in which Rodric intended to murder David. “—in a particular way, he’d be able to use the death energy to make himself royal.”

  “Christ. Would that have worked?”

  Mal shrugged. “Who knows? I doubt it, from what we’ve learned from David since then, but the point is that Rodric believed it, and that’s what drove his actions. Then my brother intervened and bested Rodric in a duel, but didn’t kill him.”

  “Having met David—and if your brother is anything like you—I’m shocked he restrained himself.”

  “He’s nothing like me, the self-righteous arsehole, but stopping wasn’t his idea. David begged him not to, and since Alun is completely dick-whipped, he threw down his sword. But then the bloody idiot actually turned his back on Rodric.” He still couldn’t believe Alun’s stupidity. If he’d paid closer attention, at least kept eyes on the traitorous git, Mal wouldn’t be in this predicament. “Rodric picked up the sword and was about to run Alun through. I objected.”

  “‘Objected.’” Bryce’s dry tone wasn’t a question.

  “Strongly. Cut the bastard’s sword hand off at the wrist.” He drained the rest of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the table.

  “Christ,” Bryce whispered. “Did he wound you too somehow?”

  “Nah. Never saw me coming.” He held up his crabbed right hand. “This is thanks to one of those damn rules of the Faerie construct. The rules protecting Consorts, even when they’re murdering traitors.” Mal got up and fetched another two beers. “Unti
l I make whole what I took, I’m barred from Faerie, and my hand might as well be missing too.”

  “So you’re supposed to, what, magically reconnect this guy’s hand? Can fae magic do that?” Bryce accepted the second beer, although he hadn’t finished his first yet, his eyes lighting with excitement. “Can druid magic do that?”

  “Sorry. No. An achubydd probably could do it, but David’s the only one around, and he wouldn’t heal Rodric if the man were his last hope of a handjob. The boyo could forgive the whole kidnap-rape-sacrifice plot against himself, but Rodric tried to kill Alun. That, he’ll never forgive.”

  “But . . . isn’t David still at risk? Couldn’t he be attacked? Kidnapped again?” Bryce leaned forward, the light from the fecking LED wall sconce sliding over his skin and catching on the dusting of brown hair on his forearms.

  Mal’s cock stirred in his pants. Shite. The man might be a gods-forsaken druid, but he was still bloody fine. “Nah. David is Alun’s Consort now, so he’s protected by the same rule. And he’s got other protections in the Outer World. If Rodric could get by Alun—which is highly unlikely—he’d still have to run the gauntlet of the shifter and vampire communities. They’ve kind of claimed David as a mascot.”

  Bryce froze with his beer bottle halfway to his mouth. “‘Vampire’?” He set the bottle down. “‘Shifter’? As in werewolves?”

  “Well, the dragons are the ones who’re most invested, but where the dragons go, the rest of the shifters follow.”

  “Exactly . . .” Bryce swallowed. “Exactly how many kinds of shifters are there?”

  Mal grinned. “Get out your notepad, tree hugger. You’re about to get a crash course in Supe 101.”

  Several hours—and rather more beers—later, Mal peered blearily at Bryce across the table littered with empties. “Those are the basics.”

  “Incredible.” Bryce slid down in his chair and leaned his head against the backrest. “So your Queen unified all six branches of the Celtic Fae?”

  “Yup.” Mal suppressed a belch. “Scots, Irish, Manx, Bretons, Cornish, and of course,” he bowed his head, “the Welsh.”