Black Fallen

Again I nod. “And I kill it with . . . ?”



He presses something into my hand. “Prayer,” Gawan says, “and this.”



In my palm, a cross. It’s old. Old as dirt.



“It’s Pictish,” he says, and pulls up the sleeve of his coat The muscles in his forearm flex as he turns it over, inside facing out. “Just like this one. It will protect you for a time.”



I stare at him.



“And you have to repeat this prayer,” he says. “In Pictish.”



I think about it and nod. “The prayer and cross protect me . . . for a certain amount of time. Anything else?”



“Jason!” Tristan bellows.



“Aye!” a young voice replies. I turn and glance over my shoulder in time to see a young guy—tall, lean, dark hair pulled back—leap from the Rover that just pulled into the gates. He’s jogging toward us, carrying something.



“Take that to Grimm,” Tristan says, referring to Gawan.



Jason hurries over to us. He has a wide smile and seems excited to see, well, everyone. “Sir Gawan!” he says, stopping just before he plows into the big ex-warlord. “Here you are, just as requested.” He hands the thing to Gawan, then looks at me. A sparkle lights his eyes. “Lady,” he says, and gives a slight bow. “Jason, presently of Dreadmoor.”



I nod. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”



Gawan hands me the thing Jason has brought him.



I grasp it and look at it in the lamplight. The team moves in around me. Eli is all but pressed against my back. I turn it over in my hand. It’s . . . a gun. Sort of. Looks like a handgun, but the place for a magazine is different. I hold it up and inspect the loading mechanism.



“’Tis a scathe, lady. Known in our day as a skatha. Made of bronze and modified somewhat, by Sir Gawan there.” Jason nods toward Conwyk. “You’ll need this, but take care of the points,” Jason says, and pulls a handful of clear, heavy glass cartridges the size of a ChapStick tube and places them in my other hand. At one end, extremely sharp and pointy. I look at him, and he seems overjoyed to be giving them to me. He’s cute, don’t get me wrong. Dead cute. I’m just . . . befuddled.



“They’re prefilled,” Jason offers as I stare at them. “I’ve a score more of them in the Rover.”



“Of what?” I ask.



“Why, the only thing that will eradicate a demon,” Jason answers. “A very strong, very powerful, very magical source,” he continues. “Pictish holy water from St. Beuno’s Well.” He cocks his head. “Have you heard of it?”



“’Fraid not,” I answer. I stare at the liquid in the clear vials, then meet Gawan’s gaze. “I trust you. One cartridge per demon, loaded into the scathe?”



“Aye,” Gawan answers. “’Tis mighty holy, Riley. Be verra, verra careful with them.”



“I will,” I answer.



“Here. I’ll show you how to load them,” Jason says, then looks down at me. “If you please?”



I don’t think in a thousand years I’ll ever, ever get used to medieval beings living in the twenty-first century. Never.



“Sure,” I answer, and Jason gently takes the scathe and a cartridge and loads it. “Pull back this lever here,” he says, showing me, “and just slip it in. Give it a push”—he does so, and it clicks—“and lock the lever back in place. You can load six at once. When you’re finished, pull the lever back down.” He does, and hands me the gun. “And you’re ready.”



“Thanks, Jason,” I say. “Any suggestions on where to stash it?”



“Oh,” Jason says sternly. “You’ll not want to sheathe this, lady. ’Twill be best to keep it in your hand at all times.”



I glance at Gawan, and he nods. After a quick look around, I see the entire WUP team is watching with intense curiosity. Ginger blinks, a look of astonishment on her face. Lucian simply stares. Noah, of course, is grinning.



Victorian, much like Eli, is frowning. And I can feel Eli’s scowl.



“Any questions?” Gawan asks.



“Um, yes,” I say. “The prayer.”



“I’ve got that,” Jason says, and pulls something from his pocket. He unfolds the paper and hands it to me. “Sir Gawan will translate for you.”



“You’ve got to practice it in Pict,” he says. “I’ve written the words to sound exactly like the Pict words here. On the other side, the English version and the correct Pict version.” He smiles. “’Tis the only way.”



I nod. “Will do.”



Gawan puts a large hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You’re a brave lady, Riley Poe. And I’m afraid you’re the only one who can enter that plane and emerge intact. You be careful.”



“I will. And thanks,” I answer, and meet his gaze. “Now say the prayer one more time. Pretty cool lingo, Pict.”



Gawan smiles. “So says my wife.”



I return the smile. “I’m sure she does.” And then Gawan repeats the verse once more.



“Here are your bags, sirs,” Peter says from the front door. A duffel bag weighs down each hand. He makes his way to Tristan and sets them on the gravel.



“Thank you, good man,” Tristan says, then looks at me. “Once all of this has been dealt with accordingly, you and your betrothed will have to drive down for a visit,” he invites. “We’ve an annual medieval tournament you won’t want to miss.” He walks over and takes my hand in his large ones. “’Tis been a pleasure, Ms. Poe. You take great care in your battles.”



“I will, and thanks for the lessons,” I respond. “We’ll kick some Fallen ass and head your way.”



“Posthaste,” Jason adds. “Lady Andi would truly love to meet you.”



“Jason!” Tristan says, already halfway to the Rover.



Jason grins, wiggles his brows, and again lowers his body to a bow and kisses my hand. “Until then,” he says, then hastens away. “Coming, Sir Tristan!”



Gawan grabs his duffle. “Godspeed,” he says, grasping my shoulder.



Damn, I can’t help it. Just once more.



“Gawan, close your eyes for just a minute,” Andi said. “I’ll wake you up when the doctor comes in.”



“Aye,” said Tristan, “you can’t just sit there, leaning on your knees with your head hanging down. You’ll get a bloody crick in your neck.”



With a hefty sigh, Gawan leaned back in the chair and scrubbed his stubbled jaw. “I’ll be fine.” He glanced around.



The waiting lobby was full. Nearly every soul at both Grimm and Dreadmoor filled the place, not to mention the four Morgans. Some stood against the wall; some sat on the carpeted floor, backs to the wall.



Rick Morgan sat, much like he did, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. Once, he’d lifted his head and glanced at Gawan, and the worry etched into the man’s face grew deeper by the second. He’d given Gawan a slight nod and then had gone back to staring at the space between his feet.



Even Nicklesby, Gawan noticed, sat very still in a corner chair, simply staring. Jason sat with Ellie’s sister; both were quiet. Everyone looked exhausted.



It had been a night from Hell.



After the medics had all but pried Ellie from Gawan’s arms, they’d rushed her to the medical infirmary. After quick X-rays and CT scans of her head and body, they’d rushed her into emergency surgery. While her arms and legs had gained no injury and her head, surprisingly, hadn’t suffered any, she had acquired multiple internal injuries that, had she not been found when she had, would have surely taken her life.



The constable had arrived and taken the woman at the farm and her drunken husband into custody. While the man had still been unconscious with drink, the woman confessed everything.



Her husband had struck Ellie with his truck that night Gawan had found her. Fearful of being sent to jail for drunk driving or, worse, vehicular homicide, he brought Ellie to his wife and forced her to take care of her. They’d moved her back and forth from the farm to the kirk, afraid of their secret being found out. Ellie could not have lasted on her own without food, water, warmth. So for that, he was eternally grateful to the woman.



Still, they had no idea why Ellie had been on Grimm’s lane. That the man had nearly run Gawan off the road while carrying an unconscious Ellie in the back of his truck made his stomach ache.



And now, she fought for her very life.



They’d been directed to the intensive-care waiting lobby until her surgery was completed. Which, thought Gawan, is bloody taking forever. They’d taken her at close to five the evening before, and now it was nearly four in the morning.



For the hundredth time, he rose and began to pace. Shoving a hand through his knotted hair, he rubbed his eyes and walked to the window. In twenty hours, he would have become a mortal again. And while he knew he wouldn’t remember later, he wanted to know now that she’d be well and healthy. It was making him daft, the waiting, and the click-click-click of the minute hand on the old, clunky wall clock echoed so loudly in the lobby, he forced himself not to yank it from the wall and bust it.



“Mr. Morgan?”



Everyone stood up.



Rick Morgan crossed the floor, and as he passed Gawan, he inclined his head. “Come on.”



Appreciation swept over him, for the man certainly didn’t have to allow Gawan to listen in on a personal family matter. Out in the hallway, the doctor waited. He looked weary, Gawan noted. And before Gawan could hop into his head, he spoke.



“Your daughter is in critical condition, Mr. Morgan,” he said, meeting Rick Morgan’s eyes with a steady, forthright gaze through a pair of spectacles. “I don’t know how she bloody made it as long as she did. Her lung was punctured by a fractured rib, and her spleen had ruptured. And with the drastic shock she was in, well”— he glanced at Gawan—“it’s a miracle she made it.”