The Maelstrom

~ 14 ~ A Shadow From the Sidth

As the ring blistered his finger, Max focused on the strewn cushions. Even now, one of them moved, as though brushed aside by something circling the tent’s perimeter. Reaching slowly for the gae bolga, Max heard a throaty gurgle that made his hair stand on end. The sound reminded him of his clone, the grinning, emaciated assassin he’d last seen buried beneath a mountain of rubble.

Had the clones survived?

There was no time to wonder. With a snarl, the invisible intruder attacked. But even as Max drew his sword, he sensed another presence behind him. He ducked, twisting away just as a sharp blade sheared across his throat. At the same instant, something slammed into his shoulder, knocking him over the desk. He fell heavily to the ground, losing his grip on his sword just as the entire tent went black. A heavy boot kicked him squarely on the chin. Dazed, he fell back, only dimly aware that a wild animal was atop him. It felt like a vye, huge and matted, its claws scratching his limbs as it growled and scrambled for position.

There was a shout as someone else rushed into the tent. The animal rolled off of Max, snarling like a rabid dog as the clash of steel rang in Max’s ears. Blood was gushing from his wound and he sensed a powerful poison already at work. Disoriented, he gazed helplessly about, unable to see anything until an arc of brilliant light suddenly tore through the darkness. Sparks flew as it struck something metallic. There was a gasp, staggering footsteps, and Max heard the growling animal rush past him. A furious din ensued of snapping teeth and tearing fabric until at last Max heard the grisly sound of hard metal striking soft flesh. A sharp yelp gave way to a whimper. A voice spoke in the blackness.

“Ignis!”

The unnatural darkness vanished as the tent burst into flames. A great surge of heat washed over Max, scorching his eyes as the tent’s walls curled and collapsed inward like the petals of a dying flower. Through the billows of smoke, he finally glimpsed his attacker.

William Cooper stood ten feet away. He was breathing hard, standing astride a mound of dark, twitching fur. He held a long knife in each hand, but one had been broken, its blade sheared cleanly in half. Firelight danced upon his grim, pale features as he scanned about for his target. When his eyes settled on Max, the man raised the unbroken blade and spoke in a hoarse, alien voice.

“Atropos a-kultir veytahlyss. Morkün i-tolvatha.”

Max could not even raise a hand to defend himself. The poison had numbed his limbs and he was rapidly losing consciousness.

But even as Cooper went to finish his victim, something stepped between them.

It resembled a lithe and living shadow. When Cooper sprang, it rushed to meet the attack. There was a blinding flash and a sharp crack as of lightning splitting a tree. A howl erupted, so hideous and resonant it could not have been human. From outside there came screams and a stampede of boots as though onlookers were fleeing.

Max felt someone take a firm hold of his arm. He was dragged outside, away from the flames and smoke and into the welcome cold. The stinging in his eyes subsided and Max found himself gazing dazedly up at the stars. They seemed to be descending, growing ever larger until they were radiant jewels, every facet polished to an astounding, unearthly gleam. Max was weakly aware of a pressure at his neck. At first, the sensation was comforting and warm. But then it intensified. He moaned, but the person only held him tighter, sucking and worrying at his throat like a vampire.

The agony became horrific. Every nerve and blood vessel seemed to be fraying, splitting down the middle. He writhed, but the vampire refused to let go. The pain was unbearable. It invaded Max’s being, rousing the Old Magic so that its vast, dreadful power came roaring forth in answer. Instead of pain, Max was soon transfixed and horrified by the forces amplifying within him. He was becoming a bomb, a mass of energy that might suddenly ignite and incinerate everything for miles. His hands shook uncontrollably. Surely his body must burst, shed its mortal coil and explode.…

And then the pressure stopped.

The Old Magic retreated, surging away like a riptide. With a sputtering gasp, Max exhaled and felt his sensibilities return. He heard frightened voices nearby and tried to glimpse those around him, but everything was hazy. A coarse blanket was draped over him, smelling faintly of lanolin and tobacco. Once again the stars were their proper size, sharp and scintillating against the wintry sky.

A larger crowd had gathered by the time Max could sit up. A score of the Trench Rats were in a perimeter about him to keep curious onlookers at bay. Reaching tentatively for his throat, Max felt nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. The cut Cooper made had disappeared. Pushing the blanket off, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“You should be dead,” muttered a voice.

Max turned and saw Ajax. The battle-scarred captain was crouched within the guard’s perimeter, leaning on his sword and eyeing his commander warily.

“I didn’t know she was a witch,” Ajax breathed.

“What are you talking about?” said Max.

“That girl Umbra,” replied Ajax. “We came running when we saw the tent go up in flames. She was already here and dragged you out of the fire. One look at that wound and I wrote you off as dead, but she did something to you … some sort of blood magic.” He gestured at something on the ground. “She left those for you. Said we weren’t to touch ’em.”

Looking down, Max saw the gae bolga and his ivory brooch lying on the bloodstained grass. He gathered them up, pocketing the brooch and sheathing the deadly blade.

“Where did she go?” he asked.

“Dunno,” replied Ajax. “Hunting that assassin, I think. Scariest guy I ever laid eyes on. Would have opened me up like that beast if I hadn’t backed off.”

Max nodded. His wits were returning slowly. Everything had happened so fast, but his mind began to piece events together.

“Wait,” he muttered. “What beast? Where?”

Ajax hooked a thumb at the smoldering remains of the tent where a smaller crowd had gathered. Max slipped between his guards and hurried over.

Grendel was lying on his side, breathing slowly and bleeding from a gash across his belly. The Cheshirewulf’s powerful form faded as he breathed, growing translucent with each inhale. No one had dared come to the animal’s assistance; a glance at his jaws explained why.

“He’ll have your arm!” cautioned a woman.

Ignoring her, Max crouched down to examine the injury. It was a grievous wound, but perhaps only one of Cooper’s blades had been poisoned. Pressing the tear closed, Max scanned the surrounding faces. Most were his own troops, but he spied one delicate face peering from between a pair of archers.

“Kellen!” Max cried. The faun stepped hesitantly forward, gazing with a mortified expression at Grendel’s wound. “Do you know any healing spells?”

“Non,” blurted Kellen, reverting to his native French. “Mais YaYa est de retour—elle se repose au refuge!”

“Go get her,” Max ordered. “Right away!”

Dropping his basket, the faun dashed off. Max gazed down at Grendel’s broad muzzle and bloody snout. It had been the Cheshirewulf he spied slipping into the tent. He thought it had been attacking, but it had been trying to protect him from its maddened steward.

“Hang in there, Grendel,” Max whispered, stroking the animal’s ruff.

But as the minutes passed, Grendel’s low growling subsided and finally ceased altogether. The wound was no longer bleeding, but Max grew anxious as the Cheshirewulf’s brilliant yellow eyes began to dim. Max spoke quietly to him, but the animal’s breaths came ever more slowly.

From the growing crowd there was a shout, followed by a parting of bodies—some in awe and some in alarm—to make way for YaYa.

The ancient ki-rin slowed to a walk as she approached, oblivious to the surrounding press of humans. A dim radiance outlined her, a dusting of moonlight that shone upon her black fur and illuminated each plane of her noble, leonine face. YaYa stood taller than a man at the shoulder, but her massive paws barely made any impression upon the snow and grass.

The Cheshirewulf responded immediately to her presence, whining in his throat and straining to rise. Dipping her head, the ki-rin nuzzled Grendel still and then settled her bulk alongside him. He looked a mere kitten by comparison.

Turning to Max, YaYa gazed at him with a pair of blind, milky eyes. “You may leave us,” she said gently. “I will look after him.”

“It was Cooper,” said Max, shaking his head sadly.

“I’m aware,” replied the ki-rin, turning back to Grendel. “I know when any steward has harmed their charge. William Cooper must answer for this.”

There was an ominous edge to the ki-rin’s words. Max remembered the day when he and his classmates had been matched to their charges. On the occasion, each student had signed a book in YaYa’s presence and pledged to always honor and care for their creatures. Max tried to explain that Cooper was possessed, that he was not responsible for his actions, but the ki-rin was unmoved.

“You may leave us,” she repeated calmly.

This was not a request, but a command. Max stood, gazing down at the Cheshirewulf as YaYa cleaned his wound and brushed her ivory horn against it. A ki-rin’s spiral horn was known to have wondrous healing properties, but YaYa’s had been broken during the Siege of Solas centuries earlier. Max gazed dubiously at its chipped and jagged remains. He prayed it would be enough.

Leaving YaYa to her task, Max turned to Ajax. “Which direction did that assassin run?”

The youth pointed toward a nearby strip of wood that stretched east to the sea and extended almost all the way to Rowan’s wall and Southgate.

“We’ll go with you,” he offered, but Max shook his head.

“That’d only get people hurt,” he said. “I’ll have a better chance of finding him if I’m alone.”

“I’ve done my share of tracking,” insisted Ajax. “I can help you hunt him.”

Max gazed at the wood, a dark labyrinth of tangled trunks and branches.

“I won’t be hunting him. He’ll be hunting me.”

As the night deepened, Max stole through the forest. He made no sound as he wove through the trees and underbrush, scanning every tree and shadow and listening for any telltale sounds. His ring had grown cool, but the wood was eerily quiet, as though the wild creatures sensed a predator.

He searched far and wide, bending toward the sea and then back along the crenellated walls and watchtowers that guarded Rowan’s southern flank. As he padded west along the forest’s edge, Max noticed that an unusual number of guards were posted at Southgate and that they were searching not only those who wished to enter Old College, but also those who wished to leave. A quiet alarm had been raised.

The William Cooper Max knew would never leave a job unfinished much less flee by a main gate. Now that he had infiltrated Rowan’s campus, the Agent would remain close—patient and hidden—until another opportunity emerged. Max recalled the many times he had trained with the man, matching wits and skills in the Sanctuary. While the Agent was no longer Max’s equal in direct combat, he was far more experienced when it came to deceiving and stalking a target. Unless Cooper was apprehended, there would be another attack and Max knew—with dreadful certainty—that it would be planned with chilling, lethal precision.

These unsettling thoughts occupied his mind as he prowled about the woods. Max did not delude himself that he could track Cooper or penetrate his illusions, but his ring would warn him if the possessed man was nearby. To his knowledge, the Atropos did not know about the ring and Max hoped that Cooper—finding his victim alone and seemingly vulnerable—might be tempted to make a sudden, spontaneous attempt.

He hoped in vain.

It was well past midnight when Max finally abandoned the effort. He had searched from the sea cliffs to the Sanctuary wall, traversing every wood and field in the stretch along the southern borders of the Old College. His ring had remained cold throughout, and Max guessed that Cooper had probably doubled back and escaped in a different direction to throw off pursuit. Perhaps Umbra had had better luck. In any case, he needed to speak with her, and it could not wait until morning.

The refugees’ main camp had improved greatly since its earliest days. The sprawling slum of shacks, tents, and refuse had been cleared away, replaced by long barracks and small cottages that lined the broad clearing, small gardens, and grazing pens. Most of the windows were dark, but some dozen figures were huddled by the fires still burning by the training pits.

Max recognized none of their faces. Even with so many departures, there were still tens of thousands of refugees living within Rowan’s walls. Judging by their blank stares as he approached, they did not recognize him either. Max imagined they must be newcomers. Sipping from a flask, one of the women gestured at his bloodstained clothes.

“Where’d ya bury the poor bugger?” she laughed, passing the flask.

“The blood’s mine,” said Max. “I’m looking for someone.”

“I’ll bet you are!” she exclaimed, getting a chuckle from the others.

He asked them several questions, but they merely shrugged until one thought to elbow a dozing man who was using his grizzled mutt as a pillow. The man woke with a start and glared at his neighbor.

“What gives, Jim?” he demanded irritably.

“You been here longest, Sam,” said the other. “Boy’s asking after someone named Umbra.”

“Umbra who came here with Ajax and his bunch?”

“That’s right,” said Max. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“Shoot,” said the man, beckoning for the flask. “I can’t be steering chaps to a young lady’s door at such an hour. For one, I’m a gentleman. For another, that lady’d feed my nose to Pepper here.” The dog wagged its tail. “Besides, how do I know she ain’t the one who bloodied ya?”

“She’s the one who rescued me,” Max explained.

“He wants to thank her properly,” laughed Jim. “C’mon and tell the boy, Sam! You were young once, weren’t ya?”

A sigh. “So they say.”

“Please,” said Max. “It’s important.”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me. I don’t need no trouble and least of all from her. That Umbra doesn’t live in this camp. She sets up in that gypsy caravan by the big oak just north of here.…”

Max had seen the caravan before. It sat alone on a shallow rise at the edge of the woods, shaded by the boughs of an ancient oak and rooted to the spot by many brambles that twisted and twined through its spokes. Its door faced east, its planks worn and weathered by sun and sea. No lights peeked from inside. Climbing the first step, Max reached up and knocked. When there was no answer, he walked around and stood on tiptoe for a peek through its curtained window.

“The last one to try that lost six teeth,” said a voice behind him.

With a start, Max turned and saw Umbra leaning on her spear.

“I just wanted to talk with you,” said Max, holding up his hands.

“Funny. That’s what the last one said.”

Max studied the girl’s hard, unyielding face before speaking. “Ajax says I should be dead,” he said simply. “He says that you saved me.”

“The Cheshirewulf saved you,” she said. “I just pulled my commander from the fire and drew poison from his wound.”

“There is no wound,” Max observed, touching his neck. “That’s quite a trick.”

“That’s your magic, Commander, not mine.”

Max stepped toward her slowly. “It wasn’t Grendel that drove that assassin off,” he said. “It was a shadow.”

“Poisoned people see all kinds of things,” she remarked, raising her spear to keep him at a distance.

“Fair enough,” said Max, stopping at its point. “I just have one more question.”

The girl stared at him, both cautious and curious.

“I understand why you’d retrieve my sword,” Max mused. “But I don’t get why you’d bother with the brooch. All that commotion, an assassin on the run, and yet you run back into a burning tent to find it?”

Closing her eyes, Umbra bowed her head in silent self-reproach.

“Only one person would do such a thing,” Max continued.

“And who’s that?” she muttered, her voice quiet and forlorn.

“The one who gave it to me.”

Smiling bitterly, the girl raised her head and met his gaze.

“Greetings, Scathach.”

Even as Max spoke the name, Umbra’s appearance began to change. She grew taller, her features shifting in the moonlight to reveal a young woman with pale skin, raven hair, and eyes that gleamed like gray pearls.

Brushing past him, she climbed the caravan steps. “Come in out of the wind.”

Lighting a lantern, Scathach hung it from a chain. The caravan must have belonged to a fortune-teller once, for upon the walls were faded images of towers and chariots, hermits and hierophants, matched lovers and a fool hanging upside down at the gallows. The caravan was old, but it was snug and neat with a small bed and tiny table with a single chair. Offering the chair to Max, Scathach reached for a towel and wiped the grime from her face. All the while, she stared at her shadow as though it were grimly fascinating.

“You’re a long way from the Sidh,” said Max.

She nodded, absently handing him the towel and sitting on the edge of the bed as though wrestling with a host of conflicting emotions. At length, she simply shook her head and stared at the worn red rug.

“I came here for you,” she said, smiling sadly. “Lugh first sent me after your father was murdered. When you sailed to Blys, I followed. It took me a year to catch up. When I finally found you in Prusias’s Arena, you were cloaked in a metal skin and a demon’s mask, but it made no difference. Bragha Rùn fought just like my Max; he had the same style and genius. I’d have known it was you just by listening.”

“I remember,” Max breathed, recalling his bloody contest with Myrmidon. “I was nearly finished when I saw you in the stands. You inspired me to get up. And I remember the woman in a black veil at my father’s funeral. She slipped away before I ever saw her face. Why didn’t you just come to me directly?”

“I was forbidden to speak to you,” she replied. “But I could not help myself at the funeral. You were so broken, Max. I had to touch you, embrace you, and remind you who you are. Lugh was angry. He was angrier still that I let you see me in the Arena.”

“Why?”

“You are the son of Lugh the Long-Handed,” she answered, gazing at him. “You are a prince of the Sidh. But I am not a princess. I was born a mortal, and it is only by the High King’s grace that my spirit was ferried to his lands and I was blessed with the life eternal. My lord believes I disobeyed him because my interest in you is personal. He would never approve of such a match. As punishment, he banished me from Rodrubân for one year. But even as I went into exile, I heard disturbing rumors, whispers that the Atropos had risen anew and that your name had been written in the Grey Book. I returned to Rodrubân and petitioned the High King to let me protect and watch over you as best I could. He agreed, but insisted on one condition.”

“What is it?” asked Max.

Scathach stood from the bed and walked toward her shadow, gazing at it as though it were a stranger trapped within the painted planks.

“The condition was simple,” she said, her fingertips touching the shadow’s. “If you ever discovered my identity and addressed me by name, I would forsake eternal life. This has happened and I am mortal once again.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” said Max, standing up. “You didn’t mean to reveal your identity. You didn’t do anything wrong!”

She gave a rueful smile. “It does not matter. The rules are the rules, and this shadow says I have broken them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My name means ‘shadow’ in my native tongue,” Scathach explained. “When I was reborn, the High King declared that I had left the mortal world behind and must therefore relinquish a part of my mortal identity. My name puzzled him; he thought it was strange—even unlucky—for one person to possess two shadows. Thus he offered me this choice: I could keep my name or my shadow, but not both. I chose to keep my name, and from that moment I cast no shadow … until now.”

She turned and examined Max’s stunned and downcast face.

“Do not grieve for me,” she said sternly. “I knew the risks and accepted them.”

“But it’s just a brooch,” said Max, aghast. He pulled it from his pocket, tempted to break the thing in two.

Scathach smiled. “Do you really believe I’d delay pursuing that assassin just to recover some bauble? The High King himself made that brooch for you, and it is very special.” Coming over to him, Scathach took the ivory ornament and held it on her palm as though it were an exquisite, even living thing. With a finger, she traced its Celtic sun.

“It is not an easy task to travel between this world and the Sidh,” she remarked. “There are few paths and their gateways are rarely open. Many years may pass before one appears, and even then its presence is fleeting, a precious hour or two before it fades.”

“My mother used one,” said Max, remembering. “She left us without even saying goodbye. When I found her again, she said she’d had no time for explanations; the gateway was her only chance to help me in the future.”

“She was right,” said Scathach. “For most, the gateways are the only way to cross from one realm to the other. But other means do exist. The Kestrel was one. This brooch is another. It is very precious, Max, for it can open a gateway to Rodrubân. Should you receive your death wound, this will spirit you to the Sidh and the halls of your father.”

Max’s face darkened. “The Sidh is not my home,” he muttered. “And Lugh is not my father. He barely even acknowledged me when I came to Rodrubân. I’m just his offspring, Scathach, not his son. And my mother was nothing more to him than a broodmare. You’re the only one from the Sidh who has ever tried to help me, and how does the ‘High King’ reward you? He takes your immortality away!”

“I understand your anger,” said Scathach gently, setting the brooch down and taking Max’s hands. “But the Sidh is your home. The old gods keep their own counsel, Max. Their minds can be hard to fathom and they do not always show affection as mortals do. But the High King does love you in his way. He has done more for you than you guess.”

“Not as much as you,” said Max bitterly. “You’ve sacrificed everything.”

Scathach’s eyes flashed. “I’ve sacrificed nothing!” she said proudly, releasing his hands and pacing about. “I regret only the foolish way I broke my bargain, not the bargain itself. Am I to mourn my mortality? What is death to me? A warrior craves honor and excellence, not a measure of mild years. Those who cringe at death are half dead themselves; they forever keep to the shallows of life!”

Following this outburst, Scathach fell silent. She was breathing hard and looking more fierce and beautiful than Max had ever seen her. He was deeply moved and went to kiss her, but she backed away like a skittish foal.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“But why not?” asked Max, blinking. “I—I thought you had feelings for me.”

“I do,” said Scathach, closing her eyes as though the confession pained her. “But I saw you. I saw that girl come to your tent tonight and the two of you holding hands. She kissed you. You embraced her. And I will never surrender my dignity, not even for you.”

“But you don’t know what it is you saw,” Max pleaded. “Julie and I, we’re not together. She loved me once and I tried to love her back, but my heart was someplace else. Julie’s getting married, Scathach—she’s leaving Rowan. She only came to say goodbye.”

Anger and indignation faded slowly from the warrior maiden’s face. She looked away. “You say your heart was elsewhere,” she murmured. “Where was it?”

“It was with you!”

A tear ran down Scathach’s cheek. Exhaling, she took Max’s hands once again and contemplated him with a look of such open, sincere affection that no words were needed.

“It’s not easy for me to love or trust,” she said at length. “You must be patient with me. I have trained many great warriors, and to a man, they were fierce and strong. They were also haughty, brutal, and selfish. It was never enough that I taught them the feats that made them legendary. They wanted more, expected more as though I were some awestruck girl from their homelands. Many knocked at my door and I turned each away, but I learned a bitter lesson in the bargain.”

“What was that?”

“The proudest men are the least secure,” she replied. “And many are apt to turn private failures into public boasts. Some of the warriors returned to their comrades and kingdoms and claimed many things. When I first heard the stories, I was furious. I named them liars, but no one cared. Eventually, I stopped caring, too. The stories were told and the damage was done. I thought my heart had closed forever.

“And then you came to Rodrubân,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “And you were a revelation. You had all of Cúchulain’s skill and beauty, but not his arrogance. Loving people raised you, Max, and I am forever grateful for their influence. You might have become something else entirely. You were not the first hero I trained, but you were the first gentleman.”

Reaching for the brooch, she fastened it to his tunic.

“And this gentleman should return to the Manse,” she sighed. “It is late and many worried people must be looking for you. You should report back. Sarah and Ajax can lead the battalion today.”

Max’s mind raced back to training and formations and twelve hundred rough-and-ready troops. “I shouldn’t be leading the battalion,” he reflected. “You should. You have more experience than I do.”

“No,” said Scathach decisively. “The soldiers know me as Umbra. They respect me—even fear me—but you are the Hound of Rowan. They believe in you and that’s far more important than any tactics. Can you imagine their faith now that they’ve seen you rise up from such a wound?”

“Then maybe I should appoint Umbra to be my official bodyguard,” said Max, half teasing. “She’d have to stay by me at all times. It would be her job.”

“Umbra would like that very much,” replied Scathach, smiling. “But it’s best if she remains your unofficial bodyguard. That makes her a far less predictable obstacle for the Atropos, and we need every edge we can get. Tonight’s attack frightened me. That assassin was far better than the last—better than any I’ve ever encountered.”

“That assassin is the commander of the Red Branch.”

“That would explain it,” muttered Scathach. “Max, that man is very dangerous. I have never failed to track or overtake an enemy before tonight. He’s not just skilled, he’s also smart. The timing of his attack was too perfect to be a fluke.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sensed danger tonight,” she replied. “I saw nothing, but the woods were too quiet. After you dismissed the lieutenants, I circled back and kept watch from the forest. When Julie came to see you, I followed.”

“To protect me, I’m sure,” said Max.

“No. It was to spy,” admitted Scathach, unabashed. “In any case, when that girl kissed you, it wounded me. I was angry—I almost threw a pinecone—but I kept still and out of sight. When you returned to your tent, I followed and kept watch from outside. Eventually, my emotions got the best of me. I kept picturing you embracing that girl, kissing her. I grew spiteful and left. Fortunately, I regained my senses and returned, but you were already under attack. I’ll never forgive myself for leaving my watch.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Max reassuringly. “The timing was coincidence.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do,” laughed Scathach bitterly. “The fact is that when I was watching you, the assassin was watching me. And when the opportunity arose, he struck. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”

“Not a miracle,” said Max. “Grendel told me danger was near. And so did this.” He showed her David’s ring and explained its properties.

“That provides a warning, but it is not a shield,” she remarked. “You cannot trust your safety to it alone. I was foolish to leave you, but you were foolish to leave yourself so vulnerable. Until I find and kill that man—”

“No!” Max exclaimed. “He is my friend, Scathach. I owe him my life.”

“He seems eager to take it.”

Shaking his head, Max paced despondently. “You don’t understand,” he sighed. “Cooper’s a good man … he … he’s not in his right mind.”

Scathach would have none of it. “He is possessed,” she asserted firmly. “You see your friend, but he does not see you. He only sees what the Atropos have told him to kill. And I won’t allow that to happen. I will capture him if I can, but I’ll take no foolish risks to do so.”

“You might not have to do anything,” said Max, considering. He told Scathach about stewards and charges and the sacred bond between them. “Cooper violated his oath tonight,” he reflected. “As you said yourself, the rules are the rules. I’ve never seen YaYa so upset. She’s not so young anymore, but I wouldn’t want her coming after me.”

“Nor would I,” said Scathach. “Ki-rin were messengers from the gods themselves. It would never do to provoke one.”

“So try not to worry,” said Max, pulling her toward him. “Cooper may be hunting me, but he’ll have an angry ki-rin hunting him. In the meantime, I have my ring and the fearsome Umbra watching my back. I like those odds.”

Scathach tried to smile, but it faltered. “I won’t rest until he’s taken,” she said gravely. “And you must promise me you’ll always keep Lugh’s brooch with you. You must never take it off.”

“Never?” asked Max, flashing a mischievous grin.

Rolling her eyes, Scathach took up her spear and pointed to the door. “The only thing worse than a haughty hero is one who thinks he’s funny.”