Cold Days

Mac and Molly were up at the wheel. She had nearly been thrown from the craft, but Mac had grabbed my apprentice around the waist and kept her from getting a flying lesson. I'm not sure she even noticed. Her face was contorted in a concentration so deep, it was practically dementia, her lips moving frantically, and she held a wand in either hand, moving them in entirely disconnected movements, as if directing two different orchestras through two different speed-metal medleys.

And as I watched, two other forms bounded up onto the Water Beetle's rail, then into graceful leaps that carried them over onto the barge-directly into the center of the ritual that was still running at a frantic pitch.

Thomas had gone into the fight with his favorite combination of weapons-a sword and a pistol. Even as I watched, my brother whirled into a mass of figures on the deck, blade spinning, blood flying out in wide, clean arcs. He moved so swiftly that I could barely track him, just a blur of steel here, a flash of cold grey eyes there. His gun fired in quick rhythm between strokes of his falcata, scything down the Outsiders' mortal henchmen like sheaves of wheat.

The second figure was grey and shaggy and terrifying. Mouse's lionlike ruff of fur flew out like a true mane as he whirled and lunged into the ritual's participants wherever Thomas hadn't. I saw him rip a shotgun from the hands of a stunned guard and fling it with a snap of his head into another one before bounding forward and bringing half a dozen panicked men to the deck under his weight-and smashing them through the circle that had surrounded the ritual.

The reduced energy the ritual had been able to use, the framework that the ley line would have turned into a deadly construction, vanished, released into the night sky to be shaken to pieces by the music. We will, we will, rock you.

"Hey, Sharkface!" I shouted, stepping forward, gathering Winter and soulfire as I went.

The furious Walker whirled back to me just in time to have the heavy, octagonal barrel of the Winchester slam through the ridge of bone that he had instead of front teeth, and drive all the way to the back of his mouth.

"Get rocked," I said, and pulled the trigger.

Along with the .45-caliber bullet, I sent a column of pure energy and will surging down the barrel and into the Walker's skull. His head exploded, literally exploded, into streamers and gobbets of black ichor. His cloak of rags went mad, throwing the headless body into the air and sending it thrashing through the shallow water like a half-squashed bug. Dark vapor began issuing from the frantically twitching body-then suddenly gathered into a single cloud, all in a rush, and shot away, emitting a furious and agonized and terrorized scream as it went, alien but unmistakable.

Then the body went limp in the water. The cloak continued flopping and thrashing for a few seconds before it, too, went still.

A unified howl of dismay rose from the surface of the lake, from the Outsiders, and V-shaped wakes appeared on the surface, retreating from the island in every direction, chased by flickering spears of light and music-and the horns of the Hunt began to blare in a frenzy, ringing up from the water's quivering surface. I saw a massive black-and-white form seize a fleeing Outsider and roll, while a shadow-masked rider lashed out over and over with a long spear. In another place, a shark exploded from the waves, hanging against the sky for a second, jaws gaping, before plunging down directly atop another Outsider, driving it beneath the waves where a dozen wickedly sharp fins abruptly converged.

The woods stirred behind me and Murphy came panting out of them, her P90 hanging from its sling. She came to my side, staring at the chaos.

I couldn't blame her. It was horrible. It was unique. It was glorious. It was . . .

Suddenly it felt like my heart had stopped.

It was distracting.

"Molly!" I screamed. "Molly!"

Mac heard me through that mess, and shook Molly. When she didn't react, he grimaced and then delivered a short, sharp smack to her cheek.

She gasped and blinked her eyes, and the sky show and sound track abruptly vanished, right in the middle of the guitar solo.

"Get them out of the water!" I screamed. "Get onto the shore! Hurry!"

Molly blinked at me several times. Then she seemed to get it and nodded her head quickly. She and Mac hurried down to the Beetle's slanted deck, to the door to below. She called out and Sarissa and Justine appeared, both looking terrified. Molly pointed them at the island, and the three jumped from the ship to the waist-deep water and started wading ashore.

Mouse caught what was happening and let out a short, sharp bark. Mouse doesn't bark often, but when he does he can make bits of spackle fall from the ceiling. He and Thomas plunged from the bloodied deck of the barge into the water, and began swimming swiftly toward the island.

The cries of the Hunt and frantic Outsiders filled the air now, and even as they did, I forced myself to calm my thoughts, to take slow breaths, to focus on my intellectus of the island. I couldn't sense anything specifically, but an instinct dragged my chin around, turning me to stare up toward the crest of the island, where the old ruined lighthouse stood among the skeletal forms of the late-autumn trees.

Then it hit me. I shouldn't have been able to see the lighthouse or the trees from down here, not on a cloudy night, but their silhouettes were clear.

There was light up there.

And as my friends reached the shore and hurried over to me, I realized that there was an empty place in my awareness of the island. I would never have sensed it if I hadn't been looking. I couldn't feel anything from around the top of the hill.

"The Walker was just the distraction," I breathed. "Dammit, they're not pulling that same trick on me this time." I turned to them and said, "I think someone's up at the top of the hill, and whatever they're doing, it ain't good. Stay right behind me. Come on."

I was pretty sure I knew who was up there, and I wasn't about to do this alone.

So I started toward the top of the hill, taking the agonizingly slow route that I knew would enable my friends to keep up with me.

Chapter Forty-six

Whoever was up at the top of the hill had things ready to stop me from getting there. It didn't work out well for them.

I knew about the trip lines that had been strung up between the trees at ankle level, and knew where the gaps were-more harassment-level opposition from the enemy Little Folk, I was guessing. The people with me didn't even realize that there were any trip lines.

After that was a trio of particularly vicious-looking fae hounds, the little cousins of Black Dogs. I had taken a Black Dog on once, in my calmer days, and didn't care for a rematch. I clipped one of the hounds with a shot from the Winchester while it was crouching in the brush ahead, waiting for me to come a few steps closer, and I set on fire a thicket where another one hid before we got within thirty feet. Ambush predators become unnerved when their would-be prey spots them. Fae hound number three hustled out of a hollow log where he'd been planning to rush out and attack with his buddies, and retreated with the two wounded hounds to the far side of the island.