The Iron Locket (The Risen King) (10 page)

"Here."

Aiofe opened one eye halfway. He held her knife out to her. She took it and wiped the blade on her jeans. The sticky sap was starting to harden already and wouldn't come off easily. Sighing inwardly, she shoved it into its sheath, knowing she would have to clean both later on. Her grandfather picked up his ax and propped it on his shoulder. It was an image she had seen often. When she was little, she always thought he looked like the woodsman in the Little Red Riding Hood stories who had saved Red from the Big Bad Wolf.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the thought, threatening to dissolve her anger and irritation at the old man who had just saved her life. She forced her face back into a bitter scowl and took a step forward. As soon as she put weight on her foot, her entire leg protested and she swayed dangerously to the side. Her grandfather, always the steady force in her life, slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

"Come on, time to go home."

She rested her head on his shoulder and let him lead her through the woods to safety.

*~*~*

ELEVEN

*~*~*

By the time they got back to the house, Aiofe was able to move without her grandfather's support. Her anger at both him and herself grew as they walked, sending her blood racing. She picked up her pace, pulling away from him. He said nothing and slowed, falling back until she could no longer see him through the trees when she glanced behind her.

She reached the edge of the woods and paused to look at the house. It was small, only two bedrooms, but it had been her home all her life. She looked at the window on the right. The curtain was shut. She always kept it down. Despite her love for the outdoors, she kept her room dark and gloomy. For a brief moment, she imagined her mother standing there, young and beautiful, long copper hair streaming down her back. It had been more than twenty years since the woman's death. All Aiofe had left were brief memories and hazy photographs of a past that barely seemed real.

Pressing her lips together, she squared her shoulders and stalked up to the house, removing her sidearm from its holster as she walked. The snap was stuck and she had to jerk it free. Grumbling, she pulled the gun out of its protective case and began to brush off the already drying mud.

She twisted the handle with her free hand and shoved the door open roughly with her shoulder, wincing briefly as it crashed against the wall. She stepped into the small outer room and removed the holster from her waist, tossing it onto a short bench arrayed along one wall next to the stacked washer and dryer as she shoved the gun into the waistline of her jeans.

Without stopping to take off her grubby attire, she stomped through the swinging door separating the laundry room from the kitchen. Her grandmother was at the sink, a soapy plate in her hand. She frowned as she glanced at the muddy tracks Aiofe left on the spotless tile floor but the corners of her eyes were wrinkled in worry and her face was streaked with tears. The young woman felt a pang of guilt followed by a surge of hunger, but shoved them both aside, letting her anger flow back into the open space. She raised her chin and shot her grandmother a defiant look. The older woman tended to avoid conflict whenever possible and lowered her eyes back to the sink.

"Chicken is in the fridge." Her short comment sent a fresh wave of guilt washing over Aiofe. She knew her grandmother would go insane if anything happened to her, and she hated making her worry more than she already did.

Letting her shoulders drop slightly, Aiofe walked to the refrigerator, grabbing the empty plate that had been sitting at her spot on the table as she walked by. She pulled the roasted chicken out and set it on the counter. Her grandmother was a master at cooking almost anything. After pulling some cheese, mustard, and sliced tomatoes from the fridge, Aiofe made herself a sandwich using the loaf of bread that her grandmother had baked just that morning.

The silence in the kitchen was heavy while she worked and she found herself rushing to finish making her lunch. She could feel her grandmother's questioning gaze upon her back and gritted her teeth to avoid making a rude comment that would only make the situation worse. She put the ingredients away quickly and snatched her sandwich just as the door in the laundry room banged open.

Fresh anger overtook her and she growled. Pulling a bottle of orange soda from the door, she slammed the fridge shut hard enough to jiggle the glass containers inside and stomped out of the room. She raced up the stairs, nearly tripping in her irritated state, grateful when she finally reached the safety and sanctity of her own bedroom. She slammed the door shut, making sure the occupants of the kitchen knew she was long gone and they were free to talk about her to their hearts' content.

She set the plate down on her desk, along with the bottle of soda. She reached behind her and pulled out the gun. She stared at it a long moment, feeling the cold weight in her hand, examining the mud caked into its hammer. She would have to clean it thoroughly before the day was out or risk further ire from her grandfather.

She sighed and walked to the door beside her dresser. Her fingers wrapped around the cool handle, a faint memory playing idly through her mind. When Aiofe had been much younger, the room beyond had been a nursery. She could see her mother standing in the doorway, a sad smile on her face as she watched the little red-headed child play with a doll her grandfather had carved from the wood of an elm tree in the yard. It was where the girl had slept until she was six.

Aiofe saw the tear land on her hand before she realized she had been crying. With a shuddering gasp, she wrenched open the door, stepped through, and pulled it tightly shut behind her. She stumbled over to the claw-footed bath tub and turned on the hot water full blast while biting her tongue. The muscle was puckered along the edges with recent attempts to still her ever present and often inexplicable anger. She forced air in and out through her nose in short spurts. Her chest was clenching too tightly to breathe properly and she gripped at the side of the tub for support. Her eyes blurred until she could no longer see her own hands in front of her and she sank to the floor.

Curled up in a ball of mud and blood, fear and hate, pain and sadness, she wept, her sobs mingling with the sound of rushing water behind her. As her emotions streamed down her face, Aiofe silently begged her grandparents to burst in and gather her up as they used to, to comfort her and hold her and tell her that everything would be alright. And yet she feared just that.

She was an adult, twenty-four years old, older than her mother ever was, and she was a better hunter than Caena ever had been. She could not show weakness, she could not show fear. She had to be strong, resilient, able to overcome anything. She could not fail, not ever again.

Clinging to that thought, that determination, Aiofe pulled herself from the spiraling pit of despair that threatened to drag her down into nothingness. She clawed her way back to reality, dragging herself to a seated position in front of the tub. She slapped at the tears on her face, berating herself for being so weak-minded. She reached for her anger, begging it to return, and wrapped herself up in its familiar warmth. She set her mouth into the scowl that her face was comfortable with and stood up to look into the mirror.

Her hair was sticking out at all angles, the careful braid a ragged mess. It was full of mud and leaves. Blood streaked down her face from her nose and an open wound on her forehead, mingling with the tear tracks that traced through the filth. She gingerly ran the tips of her fingers over the bruises around her neck. They were already an ugly blackish purple, thick and crude.

Snarling, Aiofe pulled off her soiled clothing. Her leather jacket had held up surprisingly well. It was a gift from her grandfather on her sixteenth birthday and she had worn it on every hunt since. The same could not be said for the shirt underneath. It was stained an ugly brownish red and sticky with sap. No amount of washing would get it clean. Her jeans were in a similar state, dirty beyond hope and torn in several places. She tossed both pieces of clothing in the trash can by the sink and peeled off her undergarments. Stepping into the bath tub, she pulled the shower curtain around her and let the hot water purge her skin of the horrors of the day, blood and dirt sliding from her skin easily, wishing it would do the same for her soul.

*~*~*

Aloysius Callaghan slumped down onto the bench in the laundry room next to Aiofe's holster. His ax clunked noisily as he propped it against the washing machine. His bright red cheeks puffed more than usual as he blew out a gust of frustration. Groaning, he leaned over and propped his elbows on his knees, cupping his head in his hands. A light step echoed on the tiles a moment before gentle fingers brushed through his white hair. He slipped his arm around his wife's waist and pulled her to his side, burying his head in her damp apron.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Mo. She feels the pull, but I can't go out with her like I used to. And I'm not letting her go out alone. I lost my daughter. I'm not losing my granddaughter, too."

Maureen Callaghan leaned over to kiss the crown of her husband's head. "I know, my darling Alo. I'm not sure there's anything we can do. She's going to go out, whether you go with her or not. All we can do is make sure she is prepared for the worst and be there to support her in any way we can. We should talk to the other hunters and see if anyone would be willing to partner with her. Maybe David, since Martin is getting married soon."

The old man leaned back to prop his head against the wall, keeping his hands on his wife's thighs. His face was worn with nearly seven decades of hard work, of carrying the weight of life and death on his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe. They get along, but he's not the one. Not really, and you know how it is. I hope she finds him soon, though. She almost died today, Mo. She would have had I not followed her when I saw her leave. She was hunting that Ulmus that was spotted in the area. He was stronger than I expected, his bark much older than most. Must have been one of the ancients. They're getting braver."

He pulled away his hands and picked up the holster as Maureen took a seat beside him, her quiet strength settling his nerves. He played with the clasp on the gun holder, snapping it shut and pulling it apart again. It required more force than it should have. Frowning, he looked closer. One of the pieces had been deformed, flattened just enough to make it catch on the inside of the other. "Must have happened when the Ulmus tackled her," he mumbled.

"Did you see him attack?" Maureen stiffened beside Alo, her voice soft, holding just a hint of the fear he knew she felt.

He shook his head. "No. She had a head start and once she picked up the trail, they moved too quickly. I lost her several times and had to retrace my steps. By the time I found them, he had her on the ground." He glanced over at his wife. Her eyes were glistening brightly, tears threatening to fall. He gave her a half-hearted smile. "I'm sure she would have been fine without my help, anyway. I'll just get this fixed and work on self defense with her a bit more, and it will be just fine." He reached over and squeezed her knee, forcing a full smile. It broke his heart to lie to the woman who had been his anchor all of his adult life, but there was no sense in having her worked into a state of worry over something that couldn't be changed.

"I talked to Johnny O'Brien yesterday," he said as he slipped off his jacket and hung it on a peg near the door. He kept his voice light, trying to brighten his wife's mood before Aiofe could destroy it at dinner. "Grainne is recovering from her stroke nicely. He said she should be back home by the end of the month."

He glanced at his wife as he pulled off his boots and noticed her staring at his ax. He fought to hold back a grin. She hated it when he left his dirty weapons lying around. He wandered into the kitchen, leaving the ax where it sat, sap pooling on the white tiles beneath it. If she was fretting about trivial matters such as those, she would have less time to worry about the really bad things that were happening.

For months now, faeries had been growing braver, crossing the border between Faery and the human world despite a centuries-long decree from the Four Queens to remain in their own land. There had always been those who ignored the rule, hence the reason for the hunters, but the number had been increasing exponentially in the recent decade. Reports were coming in from hunters all over the globe. Generations of families trained to hunt the law-breakers were being wiped out. The demand was too great and those left couldn't keep up.

"Oh, good. I think I'll bake up some muffins and take them over later this week. The poor man must be famished. His daughter is an awful cook, worse than you. I bet he's been living on boiled peas and canned soup since his wife's attack."

Alo smiled and kissed his wife's forehead, even as he swatted her behind. "That would be lovely. Just make sure you let me test them first. Just to be safe." He tossed her a wink and she grinned and shook her head before going back to finish the remaining dishes. Maureen hummed an Irish lullaby as she worked, a sure sign that she was calming down from the stress of the afternoon. "So what's for supper?" he asked, leaning back into his chair at the head of the small table.

"Oh! I forgot!"

He mentally kicked himself when the humming stopped and she hurried away from the sink, wiping her hands frantically. Her new happy mood had been crushed and the worry lines settled around her eyes once more. She pulled open the fridge and removed a plate. "I put the rest of your dinner in here when you left. Do you want it cold? I can heat it up."