Rituals (Cainsville 5)

"Unless that so-called injury was planned. This whole thing still smacks of a setup, Gabriel. Helia tried to attack you."

No, she'd tried to shield him, but Gabriel wasn't arguing with Patrick. Those footsteps were getting closer, and they sounded nothing like a dryad's scamper.

Gabriel strode to the door and threw his shoulder against it, ignoring the crack of pain.

"Come help me," he said, and Patrick did, without a word, both of them pushing--

"Are you trying to flee, Gwynn?" A voice floated down through the hole. "Hardly befitting the most famous king of the Fae. But you're not Gwynn, are you? Just a boy who thinks he's a man. Barely thirty years old. Yes, we know your birthdate, given our role in helping you enter this world. How is your mother, Gabriel?"

The voice gave him pause. It bore a note that plucked at his memory. But it was like hearing an actor who voiced a children's cartoon--those notes of similarity weren't enough to trace the thread back to the associated memory.

As she talked, Gabriel walked along the wall, shining his light and looking for a weak spot.

"Would you like to know how your mother fares?" she continued. "Or don't you care? I suppose you don't. Not much of a mother, was she? One cannot be a mother without a soul, without some trace of humanity. When you were a child, such a mother was a terror. Now, though, she's merely an inconvenience. Would you like us to rid you of that inconvenience, Gabriel? As a favor? We will. She has played her role, and it's time for her to come home."

Gabriel found a gap between wallboards and tried to pry one off, but it was nailed tight.

"Do you think you can escape?" she said. "Where would you go? There isn't a door that can stop us, Gabriel."

"What do you want with him?" Patrick said.

"Is that the bocan? Like Seanna, you have played your role. You may be silent now. Your voice is but a reminder that we failed to ensure Gwynn had a more fitting sire. A half-bocan Gwynn ap Nudd is terribly disappointing. There are so many more worthy types."

"Sticks and stones..." Patrick said. "If you'd like me to shut up, you'll need to tell me what you want with him. Otherwise, if there's one thing bocans are very good at? It's not shutting up. What do you want--?"

"Nothing. Everything. It depends on him. But for now, like you and his mother, he is simply a means to an end."

And that end was Olivia.

Gabriel peered at the dark hole in the ceiling. Then, pushing against everything that shouted at him to stay clear, he cautiously approached it. When Patrick reached out, Gabriel ducked his reach and kept going.

Once under that hole, he looked up and saw nothing but darkness. Even when he lifted the light, the wall of black swallowed it.

The sluagh. The darkness.

"What do you want with Olivia?" he said.

"What we're owed."

"What are you owed?"

"Our fair share."

"Of what?"

"Of what indeed? Tell me, boy, what is Matilda's role?"

He hated giving the answer, feeling like a twelve-year-old being asked the sum of one plus one. When he didn't respond, Patrick moved past him.

"Matilda prolongs and improves the life of the local Tylwyth Teg or Cwn Annwn," Patrick said. "She chooses between the two branches of fae."

"Does she?"

Patrick's voice sharpened. "If you want me to explain exactly how her presence cleanses the elements for her chosen side, I fear that answer is above my pay grade. Elemental forces of nature, blah, blah, blah."

"No, my dear bocan. I want a correct answer, which I would have hoped I'd get from such an illustrious scholar. You said she chooses between the two branches of fae."

"Fine. You're arguing that the Huntsmen aren't fae. They are, but if you insist on mincing words--"