“Ale, if you have any, would be splendid.”
“Coming right up.” I shot forward into the kitchen, beckoning her to follow, and grabbed a couple of Newcastles out of the fridge, tucked back behind the Stellas. She thanked me as I handed her one, then said, “There has been much unrest in Tir na nOg since you slew Aenghus Og. His confederates finally revealed themselves, and I was forced to spend some small time putting them to rout. They waged a propaganda war too, if you can believe it.”
I nodded. “I can believe it. What sort of nonsense did they spew?”
“Chief among their complaints was my lack of consort,” Brighid snorted, “as if Bres ever did anything useful or practical in his long life. All he did was sit there and look pretty. He was a pretty man,” she sighed, and then her face drew down into a tiny frown. “And a petty man.”
Where Bres was concerned, I had nothing to say. I’d killed him, yet here was his widow in my kitchen, spreading a wee bit of shit on his memory and dressed for epic bed sport. I couldn’t even manage a noncommittal grunt. There are no etiquette books that cover this particular situation, so I just took a long pull on my beer.
“But you are not petty, are you?”
“It would be rude of me to say yes when you put it like that.”
She laughed richly at my lame joke, and I finally understood what Chris Matthews meant when he said on national television that he felt a thrill go up his leg. I could think of nothing to do except take another long drink to disguise my reaction.
“No, you are not petty. And you have a sense of humor as well. Bres had none. That is why I think you should be my new consort.”
I sprayed a mouthful of beer onto the linoleum.
‹Ha! If you think I’m licking that up, you’re crazy,› Oberon said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have surprised you,” Brighid said.
I put my thumb and index finger together with a couple centimeters of space between them. “A bit,” I admitted.
“I suppose it sounds a bit unusual, but, like the Tuatha De Danann, you have found the secret to eternal youth. You are more powerful than Bres ever was, and you have proven yourself the equal-nay, the better-of two of our number. With my imprimatur and aegis, none will dispute your right to rule by my side, and certainly none will dispute whom I choose to take to bed.”
Ignoring the dangerous end of her sentence, I focused on the first part: “Forgive me, Brighid, but it has never been my ambition to rule over anyone.”
“You need not do it, then,” she said, shrugging off my objection. “Bres didn’t do anything either. It’s a figurehead position, but the Fae feel that it needs to be filled.”
“I see. And where would I need to be to satisfactorily fill this figurehead position?”
“In Tir na nOg, of course.” She finally took a sip of the ale she had asked for.
“Can I not remain here, if there is no ruling for me to do?”
“You will have other duties,” she purred in that triple voice that turned my insides to Jell-O.
“But I rather enjoy this plane. There’s so much change and advancement to appreciate and an abundance of knowledge to absorb.”
“You can still sample these things as you wish, making brief trips as often as you like to the mortal plane. But there are more stimulating things to experience as my consort than the latest technological toy. There will be embassies to the world’s gods and wonders to behold, and you will visit all the planes on my behalf.”
“And my initiate? My hound? They cannot go to Tir na nOg.”
‹What? Hey, whoa, this sounds like a bad idea.›
“We can accommodate Oberon.” Brighid smiled. “Your initiate would be more problematic, as a mortal who would be constantly at risk of falling prey to the more mischievous of the Fae. Tir na nOg would not be kind to her, and I doubt she would survive long. But she has not sacrificed much. She cannot have learned any of our mysteries yet in these few weeks. Pay her for her time and have done.”
“It is not so simple. I have given my word she would be trained fully.”
“Bring her if you must, then. I cannot guarantee her safety.”
“But you can guarantee mine and Oberon’s?”
Brighid shrugged. “There is no need. You are able to take care of yourself.”
‹Um.›
Yeah, buddy, I know, we’ll talk later. To Brighid I said, “This is a most generous offer and yet wholly unexpected. To become the consort of one’s own goddess is beyond the scope of any man’s ambition. I confess myself unprepared to give you an answer at this moment, for much may depend on my response, and I feel it would be irresponsible of me to provide one without giving all ramifications their due examination.”
“So formal.” Brighid shook her head. “I must have made it seem like a business transaction. You mistake my meaning.”
She set her ale down on my kitchen table and stepped close to me. Her hand groped below my belt but pulled away, disappointed.
Brighid’s face clouded. “What’s the matter, Atticus? Do you not find me attractive? Am I not desirable to you?”
‹Oh, great big bears! Beam him up, Scotty! Now!›
“It’s not that, not that at all,” I said, clearing my throat uncomfortably as I reminded Oberon that Brighid could hear him. “It’s just that I’m extremely tired at the moment-exhausted, in fact-and while I can do you any other service, I simply can’t do… that. Right now, I mean. Later would be good.” I nodded, smiling. “Great, in fact.”
Brighid’s nose wrinkled. I heard her sniff a couple of times, and then she abruptly stepped back and tore my shirt down the front, revealing the scratches and bruises from my morning’s exertions. Brighid’s face flushed and her eyes bulged as she drank in the evidence of my dalliance with her rival.
“I knew it!” she shouted. “You’ve lain with her! You’re the Morrigan’s creature!” And that’s all the warning I got before she unleashed the flames of her wrath against me in very literal terms. Fire whooshed out from her fingers and palms to char me toasty in my own kitchen. It didn’t burn me directly, thanks to my amulet, but it did behave differently than the fallen angel’s hellfire: Whereas the hellfire gave me a flash of heat before fizzling impotently, this ball o’ fire got channeled directly to the cold iron on my chest, where it began to burn painfully, just like the German hex had a couple of days ago. That was a mystery I’d have to ponder later. Right then I had a friend to protect, skin to heal, and several fires to put out.
‹Hey, you can’t stick it to my Man!› Oberon barked.
That’s why I wanted you behind her. Don’t attack yet; I’m okay.
I drew Fragarach from its sheath, wincing at the heat in my palms, and pointed it at Brighid’s throat. “Freagroidh tu!” I yelled.
“No! Release me now!” she shouted back. She struggled to move but could do nothing but twitch, held fast in the blue glow of a spell crafted by her own brethren ages ago.
“You’re giving me commands? You just tried to fry me and you want me to obey you now? I’m sorry, that’s not how it works. And you’re the one who said I was fit to wield this sword.”
“You said you’d never wield it against me!” she blazed.
“True,” I admitted, “but that was before you tried to kill me.”
Her eyes shifted to find Oberon. “Release me now or-”
She stopped as I pressed Fragarach to the hollow of her throat. “Understand me, Brighid: If you ever hurt Oberon, your very long life will end directly afterward. You know I can move between the planes as I wish; there is no place you can run that I cannot follow.”
“You dare threaten me, a guest in your home?”
“You tossed out all the rules when you lost your temper. So we’re going to have a nice, long talk, you and I, and Fragarach will make sure you are not deceitful.”
‹Atticus, the cabinets are on fire behind you.›
Thanks, buddy. “Please take a moment first to put out the fires you started.”
“Why shouldn’t I let the whole house burn?”
“Because that would be rude when it’s a simple matter for you to put them out. Please put them out so we
