Raven Calls

“I would like to learn that magic,” Méabh said. “The power to be unseen. It might change the flow of history.”

I’d gotten the idea from comic books and wanted to suggest she go read some. Instead I said, “Except it hasn’t, so either you didn’t learn it or it didn’t matter. Besides, we have enough screwed-up history to fix, or haul back toward center. Let’s not add another loop to the timeline.” Between losing Gary and my mother’s captivity it was hard to remember that taking the Morrígan out to restore some balance was how my day had gotten started. Lugh’s scarlet blood splashed over the Lia Fáil was visceral, but not as personal as losing Gary. I looked up at the castle towering over us. “If we take the O’Brien banshee down, is that going to get your mother’s attention, Méabh? Because I’m tired of pussyfooting around. I’m feeling ready for a showdown.”

Méabh, guarded, said, “It will, but it’s your mother we’re here to save, not mine we’re here to defeat.”

“It’s all the same.” I kept expecting the banshees to converge again, but instead I got glimpses of white faces and flowing hair as they rushed from one castle window to another. All that was left of their sisters was dust, so I wasn’t sure how many we’d killed, but I thought it was at least half—half of which, in turn, Méabh alone had been responsible for. “The banshees perform ritual murders to strengthen the Master, but there’s obviously a hierarchy here. He probably doesn’t give the orders to them himself, you know? It goes to the Morrígan to Aibhill to the blades.” It wasn’t that the one I’d met was the Blade. It was all of them, voices like blades, nails like blades, faces like blades. Maybe a grouping of banshees was a blade of banshees, like a group of crows was a murder. It didn’t matter. What did matter was, “I’ll work my way up to the top one by one if I have to.”

“You would face him?” Gancanagh sounded impressed, and I found myself stalking toward the nearest castle doors as I answered.

“You know what, a week ago I’d have said no, but a lot’s changed since then. I wasn’t ready then, and maybe I’m still not, but we’re getting one step closer to a throw-down every day, and if that means it’s on right here and right now, then fine. I’ve got too much riding on this one to run away, so I’ll take it. We’ll do our best. I. Will do my best.” Since I couldn’t really drag the others into my fight just on a say-so.

“You have a warrior’s spirit after all,” Méabh said in approval. Caitríona, spear still in hand, ran to catch up with us, and Gancanagh, when I looked back, was sauntering along behind like he wasn’t really part of the group but didn’t want to miss any of the action, either. Morrison wouldn’t have been so coy, which made me feel better about the resemblance I saw. Armed with that knowledge, I shoved the doors open and walked into a great hall.

Stone arched dozens of feet above the floor, supported by oak beams and the grace of God. I had one of those moments where it seemed more likely aliens had built the pyramids than humans had been able to create such soaring masterpieces without the help of modern technology. Stained glass found sunlight somewhere and spilled a riot of color onto the gray stone floors, but they weren’t the religious figures I was used to seeing depicted in stained glass. A whole different history of the world unfolded up above us, and before I had even the slightest chance to begin appreciating it, a woman came gracefully down a stairway I hadn’t noticed.

She was beautiful.

I simply hadn’t expected that, not after the banshees I’d encountered, up to and including my mother, who’d been pretty in life. I’d expected skeletal and clawed and papery, not fair and blue-eyed and curvaceous. Aibhill— because it had to be Aibhill—wore white, lots and lots of flowing white. So flowing I couldn’t really call it a style or name an era it might have come from. It was like she’d been dressed in breezes dipped in white to make them visible, the way the light fabric flowed and folded and wove around her. That seemed almost likely, given that we were inside and there was no actual wind to give the cloth motion. Her hair wove the same way, tangling delicate hands and soft white arms, then releasing them again. Somehow her face was never obscured. Even I, who had had a crop cut since I was fifteen, might wear my hair long if I could make it never fall in my face.

She came down the stairs toward us, her hands extended in greeting. Prudently, and without discussing it, we all took a step back. Even Gancanagh, whose gaze was a mix between starstruck and avaricious, retreated. I wondered if Aibhill was like him, a seducer, and I wondered what happened if two of them started working their wiles on each other. I bet it would either lead to instant all-out warfare or fantasmagorically good sex. “You,” she said to all of us in what could be legitimately called dulcet tones, “you have all been very naughty. Which of you is the child of Sheila MacNamarra?”

Quite certain I would regret it, but also not entirely able to help myself, I reversed the step I’d taken and put myself forward. “That would be me.”

Aibhill pursed her lips. Fine full lips of a perfect pearly pink. Women spent vast amounts of money on lipstick trying to achieve that shade, but as she came closer it became clear it was her natural coloring, as was the milky pale skin and the honestly blond hair. No honey-colored roots saying the blond came from sun bleaching: she was one of those rare adults who made it to adulthood and remained towheaded. Why, I wondered, were the banshees so impossibly ugly, if Aibhill was so lovely, and at the back of my mind the suggestion of a penny dropped. I scrabbled after it, lost the thought and tried to focus on the unearthly beauty in front of me. “I’m Joanne Walker. Sheila’s daughter.”

“And you’ll be wanting her back,” Aibhill said with gentle amusement. Gancanagh took a step toward her, drawn like a cat to cream, and she smiled at him so sweetly that jealousy spiked in me. I didn’t want anybody smiling at Morrison like that except me.

He wasn’t Morrison. And my mother wasn’t Aibhill’s yet, not even halfway, because we’d burned her bones. “She doesn’t belong to you.”

“No.” Aibhill looked Gancanagh up and down, still smiling, then turned her attention back to me in a way that suggested I was a trifle to be dealt with and Morrison— Gancanagh��was far, far more interesting. “No,” she repeated, idly, “I suppose she doesn’t quite, not yet, but I can hardly afford to let her go, can I? Not when you’ve struck down so many of my blades. Did you not think to ask? Ask, rather than come as warriors?”

I wet my lips and glanced at my companions. Gancanagh paid me no mind, his very breathing in tandem with Aibhill’s. I wanted to slap him. So, from Méabh’s expression, did she. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off caring how the banshee queen affected a fairy man, and said, “Well, no.” There was a reason I hadn’t come asking, either. I was sure of it. I was just having a hard time remembering, what with Morrison salivating over the white- gowned woman.

“It’s hard work,” Aibhill explained rather earnestly. Morrison cast me a condemnatory look, like I should be ashamed for not believing her. “Making the blades. Shaping their grief and anger into weapons. I give them revenge, you understand.”

I knotted my hand into a fist and stared at Aibhill’s hem so I couldn’t see Gancanagh-Morrison. “You mean revenge on innocent people they’ve never met, all so a horrible death monster can grow stronger.”

“Revenge on the lovers who scorned them,” Aibhill corrected. “As you would no doubt like revenge on Lucas, mmm? Or you on Ailill,” she said to Méabh while my stomach went heavy. Méabh made a sound like what I felt, and Aibhill’s smile broadened. “Shall we go to him together, Morrígan’s daughter? Shall we give him a taste of your anger?”

“He’s tasted my revenge already, and will again soon enough,” Méabh said thickly. I could hear the temptation in her voice, but really, she’d killed him once. That was probably enough for most people. Except she probably thought my captain, standing there mesmerized by Aibhill, was her Ailill, which meant she was not only deluded but that Morrison was potentially in trouble. I edged half a step forward.

Aibhill, unconcerned by me or by Méabh, turned her smile back to me. “Then think of the sweetness of your revenge, Sheila’s daughter. Served cold, all unexpected, all rich and savory. Would it not be a delicious dish?”

There was nothing even slightly cold about the revenge I was plotting on Méabh just then. My fist worked itself open and closed again. I might be able to take her, if I surprised her enough. Failing all else, I could turn to the wolf.

Heat flared in my left arm like excitement had taken up residence there. It would hurt for a second or two, but then I’d have Méabh’s long throat in my teeth and Gancanagh would be mine. I might have to rip Aibhill’s throat out, too, but I distantly thought that was what I was there for anyway. My voice had an awful lot of growl to it as I asked, “How do you even know what I want, anyway?”