The Order of Brigid's Cross - The Wild Hunt (Book 1): The Wild Hunt (11 page)

Sean followed the police cruiser out of the parking lot of
the housing project.
 
He could see
Lee-Ron’s head in the backseat and wondered how long it would take for the
young hoodlum to get out of jail.

“You should have let me kill him,” Em said, following the
direction of Sean’s gaze.

“Although it would have been satisfying,” he said softly, “it’s
not the way we do things here. If the good guys don’t follow the law, how can
we expect anyone else to do it?”

She sighed and then looked down at the sword that lay angled
alongside the door from the top of her shoulder to the floor mat under her
feet. “I’m going to have to clean this, you know,” she said, motioning to the
edge of her sword. “What does Gillian call it? Disinfect it. That’s what I’m
going to have to do.”

“Yeah, that’s a real good idea,” Mrs. Gage said, with the
first chuckle Sean had heard since he helped her into the back seat. “I
wouldn’t touch it until you get it good and disinfected. That boy was nasty.”

Em turned in her seat to look at the elderly woman. “How are
you faring, Mrs. Gage?” she asked. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said. “More than fine now that you
got me out of that place. Now if you can just drive us over to get Jamal, then
I’ll be as right as rain.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Em said suddenly, turning to Sean.
“That’s why I came to see you.
To tell you about Jamal.”

“What about Jamal?”
Sean asked.

“We received a call at the church from one of the members of
the Order,” Em explained. “He said that Jamal was being set up because he saw
too much.”

Turning to look at her for a moment, Sean studied her
questioningly and then returned his attention to the traffic.
 
“A call from one of the members?” he asked
her quietly.

She leaned towards him. “Father Jack told you there were
people in positions of power all around the world,” she whispered. “The Chicago
government is an important place for us to have eyes and ears.”

“Can you trust the caller?” he asked.

“Only if it’s in their best interest,” she replied bluntly.

“So, how do you know who to trust?” he asked, glancing over
to meet her eyes.

“Well for my part, I trust no one,” she replied softly. “And
I’ve never been disappointed.”

“What are you two whispering about up there,” Mrs. Gage
asked. “Is something wrong with my boy?”

Sean shook his head and looked at her through his rearview
mirror. “No, actually, Jamal is fine,” he said. “I called a friend of mine,
best lawyer in Chicago, and all around good guy. He’s already at the station
with Jamal.
 
He didn’t give anyone a
chance to play games.”

“Is your friend a warrior?” Em asked.

Sean smiled to himself and nodded. “Yeah, he is,” he said.
“And I think he’d be a good guy to have on our side.”

Em smiled at him. “Our side is it?” she asked. “So, you’ve
decided we aren’t a bunch of lunatics after all.”

Shrugging, Sean took a right turn, away from the police
station, and headed towards the church. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see
about that,” he said. “In the meantime, do you think Father Jack will have any
problems keeping Jamal and his grandmother secure at the church?”

“We’ve sheltered others before,” she said. “And it seems they
have more reason than most to be granted asylum.”

“I agree,” Sean said. “And after I drop both of you off at
the church, I’ll head over to the Twelfth District to see if I can help
expedite things with Jamal.”

Em reached over and placed her hand on Sean’s arm, which
immediately drew his attention. “Do you trust this friend of yours? This
lawyer?” she
asked,
her voice low.

“With my life,” he responded immediately.

“Then unless he needs your help, do not go.”

“Why not?”

“There are those in your police organization that try to
obstruct the work of the Order,” she replied. “If you show your loyalties, you
too will be obstructed.”

“But don’t they already know I’m in?” he asked. “Those
uniforms
who
picked up Lee-Ron, they’ll…”

“That’s been taken care of,” she explained. “When we found
out you were going to Jamal’s home, we had some of our own patrol the area so
they could take the call. Your name will be left off the report.”

“You found out?” he asked, incredulous. “How the hell did
you find out?”

Turning back towards the front of the vehicle, she simply
shrugged. “Trust no one.”

“Is there some trouble up there?” Mrs. Gage asked.

Taking a deep breath, Sean shook his head. “No, Em just surprised
me,
that’s
all,” he said. “She just told me she has a
crush on me.”

Inhaling sharply, Em glared at Sean.

“Pretty girl like that, you’d be stupid to turn her away,”
Mrs. Gage said.

“I do not find this amusing at all,” Em snapped quietly.

 
“You’re right,” Sean
said to Mrs. Gage and then looked meaningfully into Em’s eyes. “And my mother
didn’t raise a stupid son.”

Father Jack exited the CTA’s elevated train on Wells Avenue and
walked down the iron steps to the street level.
 
The train tracks ran above Wells, creating a
cave-like atmosphere with tall buildings on both sides and latticed steel and
wooden construction overhead.
 
He
quickened his steps, hurried down Wells and turned onto Jackson Boulevard.
Leaving the train tracks behind, the sky opened up, but the tall, stone
buildings gave the impression of mountains on either side of a canyon.
 
This was the area of the financial district
in downtown Chicago that was actually known as the LaSalle Street Canyon
because of the majestic edifices of stone, steel and glass.
 
And none was as magnificent as The Chicago
Board of Trade Building.

He stood just across the street from the structure and, once
again, wondered about its beginnings. It was dedicated in 1930 and, at the
time, was the tallest building in Chicago, exceeding over 600 feet. Covered in
gray limestone, it was designed in an art-deco style, with carvings depicting
the harvest etched around the circumference of the building, a copper pyramid
roof and a 31 foot tall aluminum statue of the Roman goddess, Ceres.
 

He gazed up at Ceres. Was it truly the Roman goddess of the
harvest depicted at the pinnacle of the building, or another goddess, one
closer to the beliefs of the Tuatha Da Danann?

He’d often wondered if it were not, instead, Danu, the
mother goddess of the Sidhe. According to his research, the branch of the
Tuatha da Danann that had been in Chicago had come far before the 1930s and
would have enjoyed the clever disguise of their favored goddess.

Crossing the street, he entered the revolving doors that led
to the three-story, black and white marbled entrance of the building and made
his way to the elevators on the far end of the lobby.
 
Pressing the button for his desired floor, he
waited, tapping his foot nervously.
 
This
was not a confrontation he was looking forward to, but he had no other choice.

The ride up was smooth and quick, the doors opening to a
lobby that looked more like an atrium than a corporate headquarters. But, he
thought, considering the occupants it was quite understandable. He inhaled
deeply. The air always held the freshness of a recent lightning storm in the
spring, and it was intoxicating. Perhaps that was part of their magic.

Moving past several large, potted trees, he walked up to the
reception desk.
 
The young woman behind
it smiled at him, and for a moment, he forgot everything.
 
She was luminescent, her skin glowing like
mother-of-pearl, her hair shining like wheat under a Midwestern sun, and her
eyes shimmering like deep blue pools of crystalline water.
 
Then his gazed traveled to her ears. Although
cosmetic surgery had removed most of the sharp point of the exterior, the
interior rim still had a decided point inside, and Father Jack was brought back
to reality.
 
He searched inside his
pocket to locate the iron cross he carried, and as soon as his fingers touched
the cool metal, he could think clearly once again.

“I’m here to see Aengus and Caer,” he said briskly.

“Would you care for something to drink?” the young woman
asked.

But now, with his vision clear, he would see the deviltry in
her eye and knew, upon partaking of anything offered, he would succumb to their
wishes.

“No, thank you, kindly,” he replied
politely, not wishing to offend them.

The smile left her face and a pout replaced it. “I don’t
know if they are available,” she snapped. “Do you have an appointment?”

Clutching the cross in his hand, he lifted his hand from his
pocket and placed it on the surface of the reception desk. “Please tell them
Father Jack is here,” he said firmly.

Quickly pushing back her chair so it rolled to the opposite
side of the reception area, she nearly hissed at him. “You stay back there,”
she said. “I’ll announce you.”

He watched her disappear down a hall that looked more like a
path in a forest. One moment she was visible and the next hidden behind immense
undergrowth.
 
The foliage reached to the
vaulted ceilings, and vines stretched from one wall to the other, covering any
manmade materials.
 
Sunlight, whether
natural or artificial Father Jack couldn’t tell, peeked through the leaves and
glistened against the many water features scattered throughout the space.

A few minutes later he heard the rustling sound of someone
coming back up the path to the lobby.
 
He
expected the receptionist, but instead it was Caer herself.

She had always reminded him of a dangerous jungle cat, a
red-haired, green-eyed panther, he mused. She was tall, sleek, and moved with
an angular grace that seemed fitted for a dark jungle or a high-fashioned
runway. Her high cheekbones and arched features reminded him that she was
indeed one of the fae. But the way she observed him, boldly and insolently,
warned him she was part of the aristocracy that traded her own people’s freedom
for her own comfort. She was dressed in green skinny pants, a brown lace corset
top with a silver-threaded embroidery,
 
an
autumn-colored open jacket and brown leather high heels.
 
Her necklace and earrings were copper-colored
oak leaves with amber stones.

He bowed his head respectfully. “Caer, you are looking lovely,
as usual,” he said.

She smiled, please at the compliment. “Father Jack, you
honor us with your presence,” she replied with the appropriate response.
“Aengus is eager to see you.
 
Will you
please follow me?”

She turned, not waiting for his response and walked back
down the path.
 
Father Jack returned his
hand into his jacket pocket, but kept the cross gripped tightly in his palm and
followed her.

“And how is your health, Father Jack?” she asked over her
shoulder.

“I’m well, thank you,” he replied. “And how are you?”

Laughing melodically, she paused for a moment and turned,
her long auburn hair flowing over one shoulder. “Perfect, as you can see,” she
replied with a smile.

He nodded. “Yes, it does appear so,” he agreed.

She stepped close to him and lifted a slender hand to his
chest. Immediately he was sheathed in her scent, a combination of wildflowers
and musk.

“You have only to ask, Father Jack,” she whispered. “And I
would be pleased to show you how perfect I am.”

He slowly stepped back and met her eyes. “As tempting as
that is,” he replied, wishing his voice was stronger. “I have made vows that
forbid such an activity.”

She slowly ran her tongue over her upper lip, moistening the
already rosy skin. “My gods are much more fun than yours,” she replied. “And
they can offer you so much more.”

Shaking his head, he met her eyes. “No thank you,” he said
resolutely.

Warm, inviting eyes quickly turned cold, and Caer turned
away from him, striding up the path. “Then be quick about it,” she called.
“Aengus does not like to be kept waiting.”

Aengus’s private office had always reminded Father Jack of a
throne room. The large leather chair and oversized mahogany desk sat on a
raised dais at the end of the long, rectangular space. Behind the desk, the
tall, art-deco windows looked out over Jackson Boulevard, as a king would look
down over his domain. The décor in the room was also stately, with deeper shades
of the forest present here: hunter green, mustard yellow, cobalt blue and Tyrian
purple. On one wall hung an ancient tapestry depicting Midsummer’s Night, the
detailed artistry creating an image that looked more like a photograph than
embroidered cloth.

Aengus
sat,
one leg lolled over the
arm of his chair and the rest of his body in repose, and stared insolently at
Father Jack as he neared the desk. He was tall and lean, with a shock of
strawberry blond hair that lifted high off his forehead and fell softly to one
side, feathering to just above his neckline.
 
He wore an expensive three-piece suit in a soft fawn brown and, although
Father Jack knew Aengus was centuries old, he looked like a young
thirty-something in the prime of life.

Lifting a long, narrow hand, Aengus studied his fingernails
and, without acknowledging the priest, asked, “I don’t recall having any appointments
today, Caer. Do you recall anyone calling and asking if I might be available to
meet?”

Caer smiled wickedly. “No, Aengus. No one called and asked
permission to meet with you,” she replied.

“And am I not the leader of the Tuatha da Danann in this
region?” he asked. “Would that not invoke a certain protocol out of respect for
my station?”

“One would think so,” she answered.
“Although,
not all of our acquaintances are so well-mannered.”

He nodded, still looking at his nails. “So it would seem,”
he said with a dramatic sigh. “And have we not spent decades, nay, centuries,
trying to educate these humans on the importance of decorum?”

“We’ve had an eye witness report of the Wild Hunt killing
over a hundred people last night,” Father Jack interrupted abruptly.

A set of expensive Italian leather shoes hit the ground behind
the desk. Aengus leaned forward, his hands clasped to the edge of the desk
before him. “Repeat yourself,” he demanded.

“We have an eye witness who saw the Wild Hunt descend from
the skies last night and mutilate over one hundred people in a park less than
ten miles from here,” he replied decisively.
“A clear
violation of the truce.”

“Impossible,” Aengus stated, sitting back in his chair.

“Nonetheless, it happened,” Father Jack replied.

Aengus jumped up from his chair and cleared his desk with
the swipe of one hand. “Are you calling me a liar?” he shouted.

His heart beating rapidly, the priest held his ground. “I am
just informing you, as per the dictates of the truce, that someone has violated
the agreement,” he said slowly. “This is the second violation in the past few
months. If you did not sanction either of these occurrences, then someone on
your side seems to be usurping your authority.”

Shoving his chair out of his way so it clattered down the
dais, Aengus stepped down and walked over to the priest. “Who is the
eyewitness?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with anger.

“A young boy, frightened out of his wits,” the priest
replied. “He had no idea what the creatures were, but he described them
perfectly. The Elk King led the slaughter.”

Aengus paced away from him, shaking his head. “The Hunt does
not act on their own,” he said, shaking his head. “They must be specifically
directed.”

“Whoever directed them knew exactly when a gang fight was
going to take place in the park,” the priest stated. “The Hunt arrived only
minutes after the two groups had gathered on their field of battle.”

“And the boy?” the faerie asked. “Why was he not killed?”

“I understand he was late to the battle,” he explained. “He
witnessed the arrival and the decimation from across the street.”

Aengus walked to one of the windows and stared, unseeing,
out across the city.
 
“My subjects are
loyal to me,” he said, his voice softer than before. “They know the punishment
for violating the truce.”

He turned and faced Father Jack. “I want to see the boy.”

The priest shook his head. “Someone on your side has already
tried to get rid of the boy,” he stated. “We’ve been warned to keep him safe.”

“He would be safe with me. I would not harm the boy,” he
spat. “That is beyond insolence.”

Gripping the cross tighter, Father Jack stepped up to
Aengus. “It seems that you have lost control over at least a portion of your
kingdom,” he said tightly. “You cannot guarantee his safety or the welfare of
the truce while there is a traitor in your midst. Do not make promises we both
know you cannot keep.”

“Men have died for saying less,” Aengus snarled, his eyes
blazing with anger.

“I believe that, old friend,” the priest replied calmly.
“But we both know that you and I are not adversaries in this cause. And killing
me will not rid you of the conspirator in your ranks.”

Aengus reached out and placed his hand on Father Jack’s
shoulder. “I did not order the Hunt, Jack,” he said earnestly.

Father Jack nodded. “I will contact you if I discover any
useful information.”

“I will not let this go unanswered,” Aengus vowed.

“See that you don’t,” Father Jack replied, turning and
walking out of the room.