Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Theo didn't wait before following Wyn down to the galley.
“Oh no,” he protested. “That is not something you simply say and then don't explain.”
Wyn walked into the study and started rifling through some liquor bottles on the mantle. He picked one up, popped the cork, and smelled it.
When it wasn't to his liking, he slammed it back down and threw open the door to an armoire.
A sword fell out, and Wyn pushed past the rack of dark clothing, disappearing up to his waist inside.
He finally grunted in affirmation and reemerged, holding a black-painted bottle.
Theo couldn't tell what kind of liquor was inside, only that the top was covered in bright red wax.
“Excuse me?” Theo pushed again, refusing to let Wyn ignore him. “Do you want to tell me what that entire thing was about?”
Wyn sat down at the large wooden table, biting through the wax and using his teeth to uncork the bottle. He took a long swig of whatever was inside.
“Not particularly, as evidenced by the drinking I'm about to do.”
Theo pulled out a chair and sat down, pointing a finger at Wyn. “You can drink and talk at the same time. A dragon? Wyn, what the actual fuck was that?”
Wyn buried his head in his hands for a minute, letting out a long, prolonged groan.
It was a noise that wasn't very befitting for an elven prince, but Theo didn't care as long as he was going to get some answers.
Wyn tossed back another shot and coughed, burying his head in his hands and refusing to look at Theo when he started talking.
“Niamh isn't a dragon.” His voice was low, burdened with the weight of an emotion Theo couldn't entirely identify. “She's a beithir.”
Theo furrowed his brow. He was well trained in the entire array of magical creatures, not only across Scotland but across the continent, and he'd never heard of a beithir.
“I’m pretty sure that looked like a dragon to me, Wyn.” Theo raised a brow, not ready for Wyn to start playing games with him. “Unless 'beithir' is another word for a flying serpent that spits fire…”
“It is,” Wyn cut Theo off, snapping his head up with a deadpan expression.
“Oh,” Theo said lamely, then he pressed on, “So she's a special dragon?”
“A beithir,” Wyn grunted again, fighting the urge to slam his fists on the table and storm out of the room.
It wasn’t Theo’s fault that he was curious. Wyn would be curious, too, if a naked woman engulfed in flame appeared on the deck of his boat and turned into a dragon. He pulled back some of his frustrations and centered himself.
“A beithir is a Scottish, snake-like creature. You could call her a dragon or a serpent. But Niamh in particular is very proud of who she is, of Scotland, where she came from,” Wyn trailed off slowly.
“You'd do well to call her a beithir in her presence. One too many Englishmen called her a dragon in 1689.”
Theo cocked his head to the side, thinking through his limited knowledge of lexicology.
“I didn't think 'dragon' was an English word.”
“It's not,” Wyn grunted, “but as I said, one too many Englishmen used it to describe her because they couldn't pronounce or couldn't learn beithir. Now, can I finish my story?” Wyn took another swig from the bottle.
Theo flushed, looking properly chastised, and guilt settled in Wyn's stomach. None of this was Theo's fault. He didn't apologize, but he poured him a glass of the dark liquor, which was better than an apology in Wyn's world, anyway.
Theo happily grabbed the glass and motioned for Wyn to continue.
“Niamh is a beithir. She has a lot of similar characteristics to dragons, except she also exhibits a little bit of control over lightning and thunder.”
Theo let out a low, impressed whistle.
“I agree.” Wyn held up his glass in mock salute.
“I get the feeling Niamh doesn't come around other magical folk too much.”
“Ha,” Wyn snorted. “You could say that. Calum knows Niamh, and he knows she's alive. That's about it. She doesn't spend much time on the mainland.”
“Where does she spend her time?” Theo pushed, an endless array of questions. Every day since reuniting with his brother, he had turned into an endless array of questions, and the sudden appearance of a new magical species wasn't curtailing his eagerness in the slightest.
“Damned if I know.” Wyn's countenance darkened again, taking a particularly long pull from the bottle. There was something personal in his tone, as if, once upon a time, he was privy to Niamh's whereabouts.
Silence settled over the room, and Theo waited, hoping Wyn would offer more context without being explicitly asked.
Wyn stared into the fireplace, his eyes lost in the dancing flames and the shadows they cast around his feet.
His face softened; his brow furrowed, and his mouth pulled into a tight line.
Without warning, Wyn started to hum, murmuring a tune under his breath.
Theo wasn't sure Wyn was even aware he was doing it.
He strained to hear it, even with sharp fae sentences, but the quiet, muffled notes were sad and wanting.
The atmosphere in the room shifted to one of ache and desperation, and it might have been all in Theo's head, but he swore the fire started dancing in tune with Wyn's melody.
He stopped, as subtly as he started, the last note trailing off into silence.
“She owed me a favor,” Wyn said, defeated.
It was Theo's turn to feel guilty, wondering how long Wyn had been hanging onto that opportunity.
“Thank you,” Theo whispered. He swallowed thickly, once again amazed by the lengths his new friends were willing to go for him. “I don't know how long you’ve been holding onto that—”
“A thousand years? A hundred years? Give or take,” Wyn interrupted, still looking straight ahead at the mantle. “There's no calling a beithir. You can't text her or even write a letter. But, if you're lucky, they might take pity on you.”
A small, nostalgic smile appeared on Wyn's face.
“A beautiful, terrifying beithir could see a sailor, a young prince dangerously out of his depth. Dare I say, she was charmed by him, if only the slightest bit. She gives you a bit of incense that, when lit, could summon her from anywhere in the world.”
Theo rubbed his hands together. The longing in Wyn's voice was suddenly palpable; it emerged from him with a strength born of years of wanting. When Wyn spoke again, his voice cracked, and Theo turned away and pretended to ignore the tears in his eyes.
“You think it's because she loves you,” Wyn scoffed, “but that would be too much to hope for.
More than a foolish, arrogant thing like you deserves.
No. She thinks you talk too much and have too much confidence for your own good.
She only does it so your life isn't on her conscience.
It's a pity, is all it is.” Wyn sank back in his chair, the empty liquor bottle falling over on the table.
Theo cleared his throat, debating on whether he should reach across the table and comfort Wyn.
“I don't know.” He shrugged, out of his depth. “That sounds like love to me.”
Wyn said nothing for a few long, agonizing minutes before letting out a derisive noise.
“That's naive, boy.” He cleared his throat, his voice raspy. “Even for you.” Wyn forced himself to his feet, stumbling with the influence of the liquor, and started ascending the stairs toward the deck.
“Might as well pray to your gods or sharpen your blade, whatever you do before a battle,” Wyn called back down to Theo. “The boat will follow Niamh's direction. By dawn, you’d better hope the three of us can take on a god.”
Wyn's heavy footsteps on deck faded slowly, leaving Theo to think about his pre-battle ritual.
He didn't have any, but this was as good a time as any to start.
Before returning to his cabin, he picked up the bottles and the glasses, tidying the study before slipping away.
Wyn's character had shifted so suddenly and so violently from the brash, loud elf Theo had met.
It was clear to Theo that calling upon Niamh was a favor he’d never forget. When this was all over, he'd find a way to pay Wyn back, if that was even possible.
Theo spent the night in his cabin, aimlessly attempting to sleep. Wyn stood out on the deck of his ship, unable to take his eyes off the trail of sparks in the sky, and the yellow underbelly of the serpent whose trail they followed, brighter than any star in the sky.
Lyra was not afraid of the water. It would be horribly embarrassing if she were, and downright difficult to function. But now, for the first time in her life, Lyra was terrified of the cold, deep waters of the Atlantic.
She was clutched in Cliodhna's grasp, the goddess keeping her gargantuan form as she slipped through the water, moving far more efficiently than a creature of her size.
The inky depths blocked out all but a precious few rays of sun.
Lyra shivered, holding on to the smallest bit of hope of being reunited with Keira.
At least now I'll be able to see if she is alive.
The irony wasn’t lost on Lyra that her Keira was caught trying to sneak away to see a boy. Despite all her judgments and warnings, Lyra was in a pretty damn similar position.
Curse Theo and that goddamn smile of his. Lyra tried to summon any anger or resentment towards him for getting her into this entire mess.
It's not his fault, though, is it? Her brain helpfully supplied, further aggravating Lyra. Just like his tall frame and wide shoulders aren't really his fault, either... Gods be damned!
Of all the times to be horny, wrapped between the massive fingers of a deadly goddess intent on killing you wasn't the time. It might be for some, but Lyra firmly wasn't in that camp.
They moved in almost perfect silence as Cliodhna navigated through the depths with ease, the magic in the water shifting ever so slightly.
Lyra could tell when they were leaving Scottish waters, the magical signatures of the Scottish and Irish tides intermingling.
Over the years, they'd maintained distinct identities, even if most people around the world grouped them.
When Cliodhna finally spoke, Lyra nearly jolted in surprise.
It was impossible to forget she was there—Lyra was, once again, trapped between her fingers—but she'd pleasantly drifted off in her own thoughts.
Her ability to disassociate served her well in terms of her propensity to stay calm.
“I have to admit,” Cliodhna nearly purred, sounding far too satisfied with herself, “I was hoping something like this would happen.”
Lyra fought to keep some of the condescension out of her tone. She was smart enough to know that a goddess like Cliodhna wouldn't take well to sass. Even if it was Lyra's default setting.
“You were hoping for this?” Lyra wasn't surprised.
“Of course.” Cliodhna grinned, looking at Lyra for the first time. Cracked lips revealed rows of sharp, nearly black teeth. Lyra had to force her stomach to stay still as she fought the urge to gag.
“It is so much more interesting when people don't play by the rules.
It'd be much less fun if you did exactly as I'd asked. Besides, a little fae prince in love with a siren? That's too easy, of course. But you’re falling in love with him?” Cliodhna laughed again, shaking Lyra in her grasp as her whole body shook. “How delicious!”
Lyra said nothing. What was there to say? Love was a strong word, but sirens weren't exactly known to do things in moderation. There was an old wives’ tale among sirens, cautioning one another to be careful in returning men's affections.
The water started to lighten, betraying their movement closer to the surface.
Lyra began to make out the shoreline far ahead, where the shelf break appeared.
It was a wall of rock, stretching deeper into the abyss, an intense drop-off under the water where no one above the surface would even know it existed.
A cave was carved out of the stone, whether by magic or nature, Lyra couldn't tell, and Cliodhna steered them straight for it.
Cliodhna released Lyra, waving her fingers as seaweed appeared out of the abyss, binding itself around Lyra's wrists.
Cliodhna shrank down to a more reasonable size, although still a few feet taller than Lyra, and grabbed Lyra's hair at the base of her skull. She forced her forward, both women swimming towards the cave’s mouth.
Lyra couldn't see anything at first, until a few floating seashells within the cave's mouth came into view.
They glowed with a soft bioluminescence, nature's own magic, and Lyra's heart sank to her feet when she got her first look at the grotto illuminated by light.
Keira was sitting against the cave wall, her hands tied behind her back, mirroring how Lyra was now bound. She heard their arrival, sprang upward, and moved towards the entrance.
“Lyra!” Keira shrieked, equally horrified and elated. Her face was etched with fear, and Lyra could see her sister's shoulders shaking even from a distance.
“Such a pitiful display,” Cliodhna hissed, snapping her fingers. The seaweed around her wrists tightened, pulling her back towards the rock wall.
“Stop that!” Lyra couldn't stop herself from trying to reprimand the goddess. “She just wanted to see me.”
“It was fun for a while, toying with all of you,” Cliodhna grunted, tossing Lyra towards the opposite wall of the cave. “Now, I'm thinking I should have simply killed the lot of you when I had the chance. You've dragged this out long enough.”
Lyra fought against the urge to look at Keira, chained to the opposite wall, knowing she'd lose her sense of composure as soon as she did.
“All of this over your pride,” Lyra sneered. “For a little tribute, nearly thirty years ago—”
“Silence!” Cliodhna spun around, striking Lyra across the face. “The audacity of a siren to speak to me about pride. I should cut all that pretty hair off and see what your little prince thinks of you then.”
Lyra’s stomach lurched. It was hardly the worst thing Cliodhna had done to her, but it was a demeaning threat at the very least.
“Never mind.”
Cliodhna growled, cracking her knuckles and losing a fingernail in the process. She was constantly decomposing, a curse of being the queen of the banshees and the sea, always stuck in the least appealing part of the cycle of death and rebirth: rot.
Cliodhna waved her hand in a presumably meaningless gesture until two wraiths slowly floated into view.
They appeared at the cave's entrance, not moving, only floating and almost perfectly still.
They rose from the depths, covered in seaweed, like someone would wear a sheet as a ghost costume.
The water temperature plummeted several degrees as they floated closer.
“Watch them,” Cliodhna demanded, pointing to the sisters, “and don't let them talk.”
The watery banshees took up their silent watch at the cliff's edge, blocking the only exit, as Cliodhna disappeared with the flick of a tail.
Lyra didn't have a plan.