Finn's Choice (3 page)

He shuffled forward and selected the one closest to him, flinching when his fingertip touched the palm of the goddess. He passed it to his master and surreptitiously wiped his fingers on his jeans.

A muscle jumped in his master's jaw as he studied the disk. “Bleedin' 'ell,” he breathed. “Do ye sport with us, Lady? We are Fey—we do not have this kind of power. Not anymore.”

“Yet ye claim to be able to train
this
one,” she gestured at Finn, “as well as I. Here be yer chance to prove if yer words are true, Gideon Lir, long-son of the Black Hand, or simply the wind in the hollows of the hills. For what better way for the boy to display his abilities—and yers as well—than by demonstrating the ancient skills?”

“That kind of power belongs only to the very first Tuatha De Danaan to step foot upon the Green Isle. Them with the four treasures.”

“Do ye concede the field?” A faint smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

A long pause. The
poink-poink
of the dripping faucet echoed around the room. Finn waited, his pulse thundering in his ears.

“I do not. I will find a way to train the lad.” Gideon locked gazes with the goddess. “I assume I can use any means at my disposal?”

The goddess narrowed her eyes in suspicion, searching the Knight's face. “Ye have permission to seek aid,” she said slowly. “But have a care, Black Hand. There be a fine line between cunning and trickery. This is a test of MacCullen's abilities alone.”

“Just so.”

“I will return in nine days for the first trial. And remember—if he fails even one challenge, then he is mine.”

Worry worms squirmed in Finn's stomach. He wasn't sure which was worse—leaving Gideon or spending years with the goddess.
And I don't want to find out
.

“He will not fail.” Gideon opened the door for the goddess.

She paused, glancing around. Her eyes flitted from object to object, taking in the well-used appliances, the scuff marks on the linoleum, the pile of drying
sláinte
nettle leaves taking up most of the counter next to the sink. Mud-caked shoes were heaped in the corner by the door. “Ye seem to have fallen in this world. This be no grand hall befitting the descendent of the Black Hand.”

“No.” Gideon locked gazes with the goddess once again. “But 'tis home.
Our
home.” A slight gesture took in Finn standing at his elbow.

Finn squared his shoulders. Straightening his spine, he tried to add another inch to his height.

The
Scáthach
raised an eyebrow. She looked from master to apprentice. Speaking in Gaelic too fast for Finn to catch, she asked a question. Gideon hesitated, then shook his head. Finn wondered what they had said.

With a shrug, she shifted the bow across her back. “I bid ye farewell.” Walking out the door, the goddess disappeared into the evening. The door closed behind her. A moment later, the sonic boom of her departure shook the house, the window and door rattling with a matching
tink-chink
.

Tempted to lock the door behind the goddess, Finn rubbed the goose bumps from his arms. He waited, desperate to ask and petrified to do so, at the same time. So many questions crowded his head, he wished he could simply unscrew the top of his skull and let his master scoop them out by the handful. “Gideon?”

Gideon stared down at the disk. Finn felt a chill run through him when his master beckoned him to follow and led the way out of the kitchen and over to the desk in the corner. Clicking on the lamp, he took a seat and gestured for Finn to take a seat on the nearby stool, then handed him the medallion.

Finn was certain it would burn his skin or turn him into a pig or some other horrible thing. One side was blank; its hammered surface gleamed dully. The other side featured an embossed symbol of what looked like flames, crudely drawn. “I don't get it. How does
this,”
he held it up between finger and thumb, “tell us what the first trial is going to be?”

And why is Gideon so freaked out?

“What is the symbol?”

Finn peered more closely at the disk. “Is it…a flame?”

“The
Scáthach
has decided to test your training, and my teaching, by invoking an ancient set of trials. Trials that, unfortunately, have
little to do with weapons or hunting.”

“Like…like what?”

Gideon settled back in his chair. It squealed softly, as if in sympathy. “You must demonstrate control of the four elements.”

Finn blinked. It took several attempts before he could get the words out. “The
what
of the…
what
?”

“You must show you have mastered the four ancient elements of water, earth, fire, and air and bend them to your will.” Gideon leaned forward and took the disk from Finn's numb fingers. “By presenting us with this symbol, the Lady is letting us know that your first test will somehow be linked to you controlling fire. It's a reference to the four Treasures that the very first Tuatha De Danaan brought with them to Ireland: the Javelin, the Cauldron, the Sword, and the Stone.”

“I don't understand.”

“The Four Treasures corresponded to the four elements: the Javelin, or Spear, was fire, the Cauldron was water, the Stone was earth, and the Sword was air. The ability to control the elements is a very ancient skill long since lost to us.”

“This is crazy!” Dismay swelled Finn's throat, making his voice hamster-squeaky. “I can't do stuff like that. Heck,
you
can't do stuff like that!”

“Finn—”

“That's like…like…
magic
! Wait!” Hope leapt in Finn's heart. “Can Iona control the elements? I mean, she
is
a sorceress. Is that how she's going to help us?”

“Most likely. She is quite the expert in elemental control. Although her help will be more peripheral, as she will not want to anger the goddess any further by using her magic directly to aid us.”

Of course not. Nothing ever comes easy for us
, Finn thought. “So, what are we going to do?” The desire to be doing something,
anything
, surged through him like a fever. It was as if a clock was suddenly ticking in his skull.
Nine days
!

“First, we will not panic.” His master's calm voice helped bring Finn's terror down to a not-going-to-barf-on-his-shoes level. “We've some time to prepare. We also need to give thought to the goblins in the neighborhood and how to continue to guard the Steel family. In this, we will need the help of—”

Finn jumped when the phone rang. At a nod from Gideon, he hurried to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. Before he could speak, a voice started babbling.

“They're in the back yard!” Savannah's voice was breathless, as if she had been running.

“Who is?”

“Goblins. Four, I think.” The muffled sound of Rufus Steel ordering Rafe to get the hell away from the window came through the receiver. A distinct
chk-chk
of a shotgun being loaded followed. “Hurry, Finn!” The phone went dead.

“Savannah? Savannah!” He slammed the phone down. “Son of a goat. Gideon!” Even as he bolted across the living room to the front door, his master was already on his feet. “Amandán! Attacking the Steels!”

Halfway across the living room, Finn's feet left the floor when a hand grabbed him by the elbow, jerking him to a stop. Gideon spun him around and pushed him toward the rack of weapons.

“Arm yerself first,” the Knight growled, his brogue deepening. “Ye'll do them no good charging into battle with naught but a single hunting blade strapped to yer leg.” Gideon had a large hunting knife in one hand.

Snatching a second bronze knife from the lower pegs, Finn dashed out the front door and across the yard, Gideon on his heels. The gate slammed shut behind them. Fighting every desire to charge through the dusk to the house across the street, he forced himself to check every shadow, wishing, not for the first time, that his moonstone would light up for him as it did for full-blooded Fey. His master's stone gleamed from the Knight's hand as he raised it higher, checking for the enemy.

A hoarse cawing made them look up. Crows circled the Steels' house, their black shapes almost invisible in the dark blue sky.

“Clear. Apparently, the beasties think the Steels are an easier target.” Leading the way to the front gate, Gideon tucked the stone back into his pocket. They sprinted across the street toward the two-story brick house. Several windows gleamed yellow. “Where? How many?” he asked as they ran.

“Back yard. Savannah thought there were four.”

“Right. We'll circle around the side of the house. With speed and surprise on our side, we'll attack before they know we're there.”

“I think Mr. Steel has his shotgun ready. Won't do him any good, since only bronze can slow them down.” He slowed when Gideon dropped to a jog. On hunters' feet, they crossed the lawn and crept to the near corner of the house, using a large tree that grew there as cover.

“No, it will not,” Gideon whispered. “But the blast and the noise might scare the beasties into retreating. And do not forget, both the Steel children have bronze weapons.”

And they're pretty good with them
. Finn thought back to the past summer, when the twins had helped rescue him and Gideon from the goblins who had captured and imprisoned them in an abandoned gold mine, Rafe wielding his grandfather's assegai, the traditional spear of the Zulu, and Savannah a hunting knife, both with deadly accuracy.
The Zulu are a proud, warrior people
, Gideon had said afterwards.
I am not surprised that Rafe and Savannah, descendants of those people through their mother, would be as fierce fighters as a certain lad
with the blood of the war goddess Danu in his veins
.

But what about Mr. Steel
? Finn had asked.
He's not from South Africa like Dr. Steel
.

A look of respect had flickered across Gideon's face.
From what Rufus Steel has told me about his boyhood in St. Louis, he is a warrior in his own way. He, too, has fought overwhelming odds to follow a path few of his peers managed to do
.

Creeping along the side of the house toward the back yard, they reached the next corner and pressed themselves against the brick wall. Finn reached down and pulled his second knife free from his ankle sheath. Gravelly voices intermingled with snarls and hoots. Shadows flitted back and forth, cast from the porch light over the back door.

“Ye know what happens to humans who team up with witches and those stinkin' Feys?” growled a voice from the back yard. A low boom as a paw slapped the glass patio door. “They gets eaten.”

“Eaten
alive
,” added another voice. “Ye've no Tuatha De Danaan to protect yer double-crossing hides now, eh?” Another blow rattled the door. Faintly, Finn could hear Rufus Steel shouting a warning. Cruel laughter from the Amandán followed. The attack on the door increased.

“Infamous last words,” Gideon muttered, pulling a second knife from behind him. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Strike fast and strike true.”

Tightening his grip on both knives, Finn nodded. “‘I am a
spear on the attack, pouring forth combat.'” He began chanting his favorite line from the Song. Almost instantly, the familiar tingling started at the soles of his feet and did a loop around his body to the very tips of his hair as the Song's power filled him. In front of him, he could hear his master also singing softly. In spite of the menace just around the corner, Finn couldn't help grinning at the Knight's choice of words.
“Boar enraged.” Yup. That's Gideon, all right. Especially when the warp spasm's got a hold of him
.

With flawless timing honed from months of hunting as a team, Finn and Gideon launched themselves around the corner. Forgoing their traditional battle cry, they charged the enemy in silence, both determined to reach the pack before they were aware that the wrath of the Celts was about to descend upon them.

Four creatures from a mortal child's nightmare, with half-human, half-ape appearances and with thick limbs covered in mossy green pelts, were crowded in front of the French doors. Streaks of slobber splattered the thick glass that still held up against the attack. Howls of frustration split the dusk, much like the long crack along one of the panels.

Gideon, with his longer stride, reached the pack first, a step ahead of Finn. Without a sound, he buried his knife in the back of the nearest beast, then yanked his weapon free. With a moist
pop
, it exploded in a cloud of grey ash. The stench burned Finn's eyes. He blinked away tears. The other Amandán whirled around; their eyes reflected the porch light with an eerie green light, like cats congregating for a night of mischief.

The nearest goblin charged. Finn ducked under the beast's desperate swing; its black-tipped fingers carried death from the
poc sídhe
, the killing touch that caused a stroke-like death. Taking advantage of his position, Finn thrust upward, stabbing the second creature in the gut. Squinting to keep goblin ash from blinding him, he held his breath, dancing backwards until he was free of the suffocating cloud, then sucked in a clean breath and looked around.