Chapter Twenty-Six
Shea met Daniil the next day, jet-lagged and sour, at the airport’s car rental.
As the woman behind the counter—whose name tag read GRACE—handed over the keys, Shea decided not to question how Daniil had managed to circumvent the twenty-one-year-old age requirement.
She supposed that when you had enough money, laws were more like suggestions.
“Be careful,” Grace said. “That’s wet rain out there. Are you going far?”
“To Bri Leith,” Shea replied.
A shadow passed over Grace’s expression. “And why would you be going there?”
Neither she nor Daniil replied immediately.
“It’s a very dangerous place to go,” Grace continued. “I know it’s not spoken of much anymore, but any who disturb the faerie forts will suffer a lifetime of bad luck—that is, if you don’t drop dead within a week.”
Shea had heard the stories herself. A man who chopped down a faerie tree and died of sepsis. An entire economic crash blamed on building a road through a network of faerie hills. Even though it had been more than a century since the fae walked among mortals, people didn’t forget.
Daniil scoffed. “I don’t believe in luck.”
“We’re not going to disturb them,” Shea interjected. She scrambled for some lie but came up short.
“We’re chess players,” Daniil supplied, shooting Shea an impatient look. “It’s like a pilgrimage for us. Bri Leith is where they play that tournament.”
“I know that much.” Grace looked suspicious still, but she procured a map from a drawer.
For once, Shea was grateful that the average person could not name a single professional chess player.
Grace might’ve felt differently if she’d known they’d already been kicked out of the Otherworld.
She marked a few spots on the map: their current location and the fabled site of Bri Leith.
“Best to leave them be,” she said, “as they’ve let us be.”
“We will,” said Shea. “Thanks.”
With one last warning look, Grace relinquished the map.
They went out to the car and loaded their things into the trunk.
Daniil slid into the driver’s seat with a bilious aura, a ball cap pulled low over his brow, and a pair of sunglasses screening him from the world.
He deposited his black iced coffee in the cupholder.
She wanted to tell him he looked ridiculous, because he really did.
It was miserable and gray outside, for one thing.
For the other, she was pretty sure that cap was cashmere.
But she kind of owed him, so she kept it to herself.
“So,” he said as he started the engine. “Are you going to tell me why you had me buy two shovels? It’s among the stupider ways I’ve spent my money.”
“Stupider than digging up really old photos of some girl who beat you in a chess game?”
“No,” he replied, without a hint of irony. “That was brilliant.”
Shea kicked up one foot onto the dashboard and fiddled with the heat settings. “What do you know about elfmounds?”
“Nothing,” he replied in a tone that implied he found it a distasteful question to be asked.
She was inclined to agree. Everything she’d learned had been more or less against her will.
But it seemed Ciara’s fun facts would come in handy again.
“Ciara told me that the Otherworld is anchored to the mortal realm. If we do something to the elfmounds from this side, it has an impact in the Otherworld.”
“Okay,” he said, clearly impatient for her to arrive at the point.
“Bri Leith is anchored to a hill in County Longford. When we climb it, we won’t be able to slip into the Otherworld like people used to. But we can knock on the door until they let us in.”
Even through his sunglasses, she could tell he was fixing her with a deeply skeptical stare. “With shovels.”
“Knocking is a metaphor,” she said irritably. “We’re going to dig it up.”
“I’m sure that’s illegal.”
“So was renting this car underage.” She smiled a thin, unpleasant smile. “You got a better idea?”
Without any reply, he pulled the car onto the highway.
Their destination was no more than a two-hour drive along the M4.
The two of them battled for control of the radio for a while, until Daniil emphatically turned it off.
In the grim silence, Shea monitored chess media outlets for any updates on the final game.
It was supposed to happen today. All of this would be for nothing if they didn’t make it in time.
It took some effort—and a lot of bickering—before they found the spot Grace had marked on the map.
Shea had been puzzled by the phrase “wet rain” until she climbed out of the car and into what seemed to be a cloud.
The rain was so fine, it was nearly invisible in the mist. Within seconds, her face was drenched and her jacket was quickly soaking through.
They stood in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but boglands and swathes of gray mist for miles.
Some buried instinct warned her to turn around.
Her unease wasn’t helped by the trio of cranes wading through the shallow pools of water, watching them with unseen eyes.
Shovels in hand, Shea and Daniil trudged through up the hill.
The trail looked eerily familiar. They’d walked this same path and foraged from these same bilberry bushes on the other side of the Veil.
At the summit, a single apple tree grew tall.
Blushing fruit weighed down its boughs. No other vegetation dared touch it; it was as though the earth had been burned and salted around it.
They approached it slowly. With every step, the air grew warmer and thinner.
Her ears popped, and her skin prickled. Here, the Veil felt painfully thin.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Daniil said.
Together, they began to dig. At first, it was horrible—and far more difficult than she’d expected, even with the earth damp with rainfall.
The wooden handle scraped against her skin and rubbed blisters into her palms. Every strike of the spade reverberated through her bones.
As the seconds wore into minutes, it became rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
Give me back my sister, she thought, with every shovelful she lifted. Give her back. Give her back to me.
Her mind glazed over. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or food—or how she still hadn’t recovered her sense of time since returning from the Otherworld.
Or maybe it was something about this place.
She could practically taste the honeyed air of the Otherworld.
The wind rustling through the tree’s branches whispered to her: Come away, come away.
Daniil’s hand clamped down heavily on her shoulder. “Let’s take a break.”
He sounded winded, just barely—enough to remind her that she couldn’t plow onward with no regard for him.
He studied her with his usual affected disinterest and scorn, but Shea could see the faintest glimmer of concern.
Maybe he’d felt it, too. If they didn’t keep their senses, they could be lulled into working themselves to death. The thought sobered her.
“Right,” she said. “Good idea.”
They ate a picnic lunch—sandwiches and chips they’d bought on the trip down from the city.
When they returned to their task, the hole they’d dug was gone.
Shea stared at what should be there—but wasn’t—uncomprehendingly.
There were two sets of footprints in the boggy soil.
There were their shovels caked in drying mud.
The earth beneath the apple tree was undisturbed, as though they’d never touched it at all.
“What the hell?” Shea muttered. “This is…”
There were no words to capture the depths of her confusion and frustration. They’d spent hours on nothing. Daniil remained silent.
“Well,” Shea concluded weakly. “They know we’re here.”
Daniil’s brittle patience apparently could withstand no more. “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this half-baked scheme of yours. We’re doing things my way now.”
With that ominous pronouncement, he pulled his phone from his pocket and stormed off a few paces.
Shea massaged her temples. It was all she could do to beat back her own meltdown.
This was a sick game the fae were playing.
If they could undo their work in a matter of seconds, then they could’ve easily disposed of the shovels as well.
It was like they wanted them to try again, just to see how long they’d keep at it.
She listened to Daniil swear and bluster over the terrible cell service.
When he finally managed to make a call, he spoke lowly and gruffly in Russian.
Then, after about ten minutes, he began yelling in Russian.
She didn’t speak a word of any language but English, unless you counted chess terms borrowed from French or German, but she got the gist of his conversation.
Someone had told him something he didn’t want to hear.
He returned to her, simmering with unspent outrage. “No one will bring an excavation crew here.”
Shea was unsurprised. Grace hadn’t even wanted to tell them where this place was. “No?” she asked, as casually as she could.
“Apparently,” he said, his voice oozing pure disdain, “it’s bad luck.”
Shea retrieved their shovels and held one out to him.
He snatched it from her without a word. What else was there to do?
They settled into a rhythm of quiet desperation: dig, take a break, return to find their work undone.
On and on they went as the light drained from the sky.
When sunset arrived in bands of purple and orange, Shea gritted out, “Let’s try one more time. ”
“No thanks, Sisyphus.” Daniil sat on a log, glaring at her through the mop of his sweat-damp hair. “I know how this story goes.”
“Fine.”
She set to work herself, but it felt pointless.
Her body was on the edge of total collapse, while the fae tormenting them could likely keep this up forever.
There was no winning this game. She was so consumed with her thoughts, she let out a yelp of surprise when her shovel struck something solid.
The dirt shifted beneath the blade, as if something was stirring from deep within the earth.
“Daniil?” she called.
“What?”
He dragged himself over—just in time for two figures to burst free of the depths.
Both Shea and Daniil stumbled backward. What stood before them were two massive black hounds, shaking dirt off their coats.
Mud spattered Shea’s shirt, but she hardly paid it any mind.
As their red eyes bored directly into her soul, she experienced a vague and consuming dread.
“What have ye against us, O Shea Fury and Daniil Tsoi?” one asked.
“We have dealt ye no injury,” said the other.
The irritation was plain in their voices. Maybe pure stubbornness paid off from time to time. Shea recovered her senses first. Injecting as much confidence as she could into her voice, she said, “We’re looking for Midir. Let us in.”
“Crossing the Veil is forbidden by decree of Midir of the Mighty Deeds—”
“—and by the kings of the mortal realm,” finished the other.
Daniil crossed his arms. “So?”
Growls sounded deep within their chests. Their hackles rose. In unison, they thundered, “Tell us why we should not devour ye where ye stand.”
“Because,” Shea blurted out, “he’s one of the kings of the mortal realm.”
Daniil did not contradict her, nor did he look terribly surprised. In a way, maybe he was. What couldn’t you do with infinite wealth and resources? He shrugged. “I’ve been wronged. Midir owes me a debt I intend to collect.”
The dogs exchanged wary looks. After silently conferring with one another, one said, “Take blind whelps with you and blind cats and leave them here.”
“That is the work ye must do every day,” said the other.
“For how long?” Daniil asked.
“Until the work is done,” they replied in unison.
Daniil laughed humorlessly. “No, I don’t think so. I will bring in artillery the likes of which your kind have never seen. You do not understand the lengths I will go to or the armies I have at my disposal. Nothing and no one will stand in the way of what I want. No one denies Daniil Tsoi his due.”
Although their expressionless dog-faces remained unchanged, Shea could sense the concern radiating from them. This—debts and warfare—was a language they understood. “What would you have us do?”
“Bring him to me,” he said, enunciating every word with venom. In his voice, Shea felt exactly what made him so fearsome over the board now and, probably, one day in a boardroom: cold and imposing and unwavering. “Now.”
A wind shivered through the heath, and they were gone.
“You scared them,” Shea said, marveling at how such a ridiculous speech could produce such a result. “Feel better?”
“Hardly.”
“Do you think it worked?”
“It had better,” he said darkly. “Or he’s a coward.”
The fog billowed and thickened around them.
Out of the gloom, the smudgy outline of a figure emerged.
Shea saw the snap of his cloak first, then the five prongs of his spear.
The golden hair came next—and last, the soft, pleasant smile clashing with the cold fury burning in his one green eye.
Midir of Bri Leith had come to greet them at his gates.