heart of the heat. Through the smoke and flickers of light and into what was. I am with you, and you with me.”
She knew fear, and the fear screamed and raged inside her. Just a little girl, beating fists on a wall she couldn’t see. Beyond it, the world swirled a pale green, like the waters of a lake. Deep, deep. The sun barely reached down to offer a murky light.
“Let me out. Da!”
“I am your father now, and mother, and all.” The voice, nowhere, everywhere, filled her cage. “Be still, be quiet, and I will give you sweets. You will be as a princess with golden toys and sugared plums.”
Tears spilled. Her hands hurt from pounding. “I want my da! I want my mama! I want Nan! I don’t like you!”
“Stop your blubbering, or you will know pain.”
Something pinched her, hard, on the arm. She squealed in shock, fell down to curl up and weep and weep.
“Good girls get treats. Bad girls get pinches and slaps. Be good, and grow. As you grow, what’s in you grows. What’s in you is mine! When it’s ripe, I’ll take it. When I take it, you’ll live in a palace in the sky.”
Even through her fear she heard the lie. She called for her father, her mother, her grandmother. And as she called, something built inside her.
What she’d known of power until then had given her little things, shown her the pretty and the fun. Butterflies that fluttered to her hand, birds landing on her shoulder to sing.
But this, this growing thing, was hard and sharp, like the knives she wasn’t allowed to touch.
And she, who had never known the ugly, screamed out her truth. “I hate you! My da will come and fight you! He’ll hurt you for hurting me.”
Not a pinch now but a slap, hard and sharp like the knives. No one had ever struck her, and the shock of it, the insult of it, carved through the fear and found the rage.
Cheek stinging, the raw red mark on it like a burn, Breen got to her feet. Her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes went dark, dark as night, as what had built inside her erupted.
“You’re not supposed to hit!” Screaming it, she threw out her hands—and what was in her.
Something howled, as if in pain, as the glass shattered.
Water rushed over her, sent her tumbling. She kicked, slapped out with her hands, but she couldn’t find the way out. She knew to hold her breath in the water—Da had taught her to swim—but she couldn’t, she couldn’t.
Hands gripped her, and panicked, she pushed, struggled, started to scream. She swallowed water, choked, then her head broke the surface.
“I’ve got you, mo stór. Nan’s got you. Hold on to me, hold on to Nan.”
She coughed up water, clung as Marg dragged them toward the bank of what was a curving river.
“Fi! Help me.”
Finola, pale pink wings spread, reached down, took Marg’s hand. She pulled them to the bank, swirled off a cloak to wrap a shivering Breen.
“There now, poor little mite. You’re safe now.”
“She’s not.” With sweeps of her hands, Marg dried and warmed her granddaughter. “Take her back, Finola, to where she will be. Take her to her mother. They need me here. Eian and the others need me with them.”
“I’ll come back.”
“No, please. Stay with Breen and Jennifer. Stay with them.”
Still drenched from the river, Marg crouched, held Breen to her. “Go with Finola now, my baby. Your mother’s waiting for you.”
“You come! And Da.”
“Soon. Take her, Fi. I’m needed.”
“I’ll keep her safe.” Gathering the child, Finola lifted into the air.
Wrapped in the cloak, held close in the faerie’s arms, Breen looked back. She saw her first glimpse of war, the terrible light and dark of it. And the screams rose up until she pressed her hands to her ears, and Finola swept her away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Looking into the fire, Breen saw what her grandmother had seen. The carnage, the brutality. Blood soaked the ground; it spilled into the river to run red.
She saw Finola fly toward a towering waterfall, carrying the child she’d been. And when the faerie flew through it, when Marg knew the child was away, she gathered herself.
The dragon came at her call, an emerald and sapphire flash through the haze. She mounted, took up her sword, her wand. Merging her mind with the dragon’s, she flew into battle.
A dozen gargoyles, black teeth snapping, charged through the thick woods and fog toward a