He barked a few more times for good measure, but finally obeyed Fingin’s command and retreated to his side.
When Bran moved, the Queen’s eyes flicked to the hound, and she lost control over the waterspout. The water crashed to the ground, no longer imbued with her spell.
Fatigue etched lines around the Queen’s eyes, but she raised her hands again. This time, though, Bodach acted faster. He threw his invisible missile not at her but at her feet. The ground exploded beneath her, and she fell on her back, eliciting a surprisingly human “oof.” Bran woofed in response.
The ground continued to churn, boiling like a thick stew, engulfing the Queen bit by bit. She scrambled to break free, but the roiling dirt shot out strands and twists of gnarled roots, grabbing her clothing, her legs, her waist. She let out an angry cry and raised her arms, once again calling a waterspout from the well. This time, she directed it at her feet, pounding back the aggressive ground, beating it back again and again until it retreated. She remained covered in mud, but she stood free from Bodach’s latest trap.
She turned to her foe, grim determination clear on her face. Her lips compressed so hard, they’d faded from berry-red to white.
Tomnat took Fingin’s hand and squeezed, the first human gesture she’d ever made toward him. For a moment, his heart opened toward her. Fingin flashed her a quick, nervous smile and squeezed her hand back. He searched the area for Adhna, but he must have left before Bodach arrived.
He glanced at the well, hoping they might make their escape. The stairs descended on the opposite side, right next to where the Queen and Bodach battled.
A boom drew his attention back to the two Fae. Smoke wreathed them, obscuring who had launched the latest attack, or how either fared. Sounds of cracking, hissing, and buzzing drowned out any clues he might have gotten. Bran stood restless next to him, his hackles raised, still barking at the combatants.
The barking made his head pound. He couldn’t figure out who had the upper hand. Sparks flew from inside the cloud of smoke and a cry rang out. Had that been a female cry? He held his breath, hoping to hear his grandmother’s voice again.
He crept toward the edge of the well, but another boom from the cloud made him flatten against the ground. When it subsided, he tried again, gesturing to Tomnat to follow. He whispered in a tight command. “Bran! Stop barking! We can’t help them. All we can do is escape.”
Bran ceased his barking, but only for a moment. He whined and growled as they crawled toward the steps.
Blue fire burst before them, making them all cringe back from the heat and the light. It seemed the air burned with the cerulean blaze, and Fingin prayed to Brigit that his grandmother might survive the flame. Voices cried out from inside the battle zone.
Fingin burned to hurt Bodach, but his grandmother had been crystal clear with her command. He must not pursue revenge for his brothers’ deaths. Fingin must make his way to the mortal realm with Tomnat. Would her command still hold true if she perished?
Fingin peered into the smoke. The fire dimmed, but he saw no trace of his grandmother.
He wished for wind to clear the air, but no such thing existed in Faerie, except by the Faerie Queen’s power. His eyes smarted with the smoke, and ash filled the glade, floating like snow on a winter’s day. He grabbed Tomnat’s hand and helped her to her feet.
The mist began to clear, revealing both his grandmother and Bodach lying on the ground. He rose without thought and ran to her, Brigit’s charm in his hand.
Adhna’s voice speared through the mist. “Fingin! Stop! She can take care of herself!”
“I can’t, Adhna! I have to help her!”
If anything might heal a Faerie Queen, the magic of a goddess might. He skirted far around the bark-skinned Fae and slid to his knees at Cliodhna’s side. He struggled to move her head to his lap, draping the pendant around her neck. The cloth turned icy, burning his hands with hard frost. The mist returned, enveloping them both with a sickly sweet odor, a mixture of lavender and burning peat.
Bran barked again, and bounded toward him, into the thick of the smoldering smoke.
“Bran! No! Stay back!”
The hound didn’t listen but entered the thickest part of the cloud. A loud yip followed by a pitiful whine induced Fingin to call to his friend, into the sullen gray maelstrom. He had to leave his grandmother and find Bran. He glanced at the charm, but after a moment’s consideration, left it with her.
Fingin felt around for either his hound or his grandmother. His hands found nothing in the darkness, but the heat blistered his skin, and the air choked his breath.
The flames licked out in another blast, forcing Fingin back again. Something fell into his legs, and he fell under the onslaught. Painful, raking fingers gouged at his skin. He cried out, and frantic barking began. Bodach’s face appeared a mere handspan from his own, a ghoulish grin on his face. The Fae gripped his head in bark-covered hands and squeezed.
The pressure grew so painful, he screamed despite himself. His throat, already raw from breathing the smoke, grew hoarse and broken. Bodach’s weight upon him doubled, and Bran’s teeth sunk into the Fae’s wooden shoulder, ripping with great strength.
Bodach tumbled back, surprise on his face. His hands dug divots into the soft earth. He glanced behind him into the flames and let out an evil laugh. The scent of burning, rotted carcasses permeated the atmosphere. Parts of his skin glowed like embers as he batted at them with frantic desperation. He cast one last glare filled with bitter hatred toward
