Gold.

A Bandia Novel.

Talia Vance.

ONE.

Ireland is magic. There's no other way to describe it. The air is alive, so cold it cuts right through skin and bone, even though it's supposed to be summer. Ever present clouds move across the sky, dampening the ground with fat drops of rain that make everything glisten. The earth smells of loose dirt and something richer. The elements converge and meld, coming together so fiercely that even a human must feel their power.

I am drunk with it.

I ride in the back of a black BMW driven by a tall guy with ginger mutton chop sideburns and a tight blue suit. Apparently, the full facial sideburn is making a comeback here. His name is Mikel, which rhymes with pickle, but he had to tell me three times before I got it right, so I'm just going with Mick. He doesn't smile, but he keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are rimmed with a sadness that makes him seem older than his eighteen years.

"Did Joe tell you why I'm here?" I ask.

Mick shakes his head. "Not my business."

"Don't you want to know what I'm running from?"

"Nope."

When Joe left me at LAX yesterday and told me his friend would be there when I landed in Dublin, I a.s.sumed that Mick already knew what he was getting into. That he understood the danger.

"You should. You might change your mind about helping me."

"Doubt it." Mick concentrates on the narrow road in front of him.

The houses get farther apart as we drive. Sheep graze in pastures so green they make my eyes hurt. I blink back a tear. I refuse to let myself cry.

It wasn't my fault.

I take a deep breath and concentrate on pulling myself together. "Where are we going?" I ask, trying again to engage Mick. Trying to distract myself.

A hint of a smile teases at the corners of his eyes. "A place I think you'll like."

"Thank you Mr. Vague."

"Lorcan Hall on the Dingle Penninsula."

The unfamiliar names mean nothing to me, but at least we have an actual destination. It's not enough to ground me, but it's something. I lean back against the seat and suck in another taste of the wild air. I need to tell him what's coming. "The Sons are looking for me."

I wait for some reaction, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. "Figured as much."

"You get what that means, right? They want me dead. And I won't go down without a fight."

He sighs. "You never have."

What's that supposed to mean? He sounds so certain. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Yes." He must catch my look of confusion in the mirror, because he adds. "Perhaps not yet."

"What do you mean not yet? Either we've met or we haven't." And I'm pretty sure I would remember meeting a red-headed Elvis Costello with mutton chops.

"We have a mutual friend."

"Joe. I know. That's not the same thing as actually meeting. Did Joe tell you about what happened?"

Mick shakes his head. "I wasn't thinking of Joe. I meant Lord Lorcan."

"Not ringing a bell." I don't know a Lord anything. I mean, Blake can be holier than thou at times, but he's only a demiG.o.d.

"You probably know him as Montgomery."

The cold air fills me until I'm nearly numb. I haven't heard his name in weeks. Austin Montgomery. A murderer. A G.o.d. The air in the car swirls around me before I can think to call it. I fight against the urge to blow out the windows of this d.a.m.n car. I struggle to keep my power under control. It's what got me into this mess in the first place. Besides, Austin is safely locked up in the underworld where he belongs. I start counting in exponents of seven until the wind settles around me. I don't speak until I'm certain I can say his name without losing it. "Austin is not my friend."

Mick lifts his chin stiffly. "Sorry to hear that."

I wonder if this means he won't help me. "You can just let me off at the next town."

"I promised Joe I would keep an eye you."

c.r.a.p. I don't even know this guy. Maybe this was a set up to begin with. Blake was furious when he sent me off with Joe. "Here then." I look out the window. There's nothing but fields and sheep and rain.

"Easy, bandia."

It's what Blake said to me the first time he saw me. The tears are back all at once. They stream down my cheeks in long lines, little waterfalls of saline that I can't stop.

Mick doesn't say anything more. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road. I don't have much choice but to trust him. I'm halfway around the world with no friends and a bunch of demiG.o.ds out to kill me.

I don't know how long I cry, but it's a good half hour later before Mick tries to talk to me again. "I don't know what happened with you and-" he pauses before he stumbles over Austin's name. "It doesn't matter. I am sworn to protect all that is his."

My anger is back tenfold. My body burns with fire. It's a welcome relief from the hurt that squeezes my heart and twists. "I am not his. Not even close. Austin killed my horse. He nearly drowned my best friend. He made me kill my boyfriend. I sent him back to the underworld where he belongs."

Mick covers his mouth with his hand. "Oh my."

"Are you laughing?" Blue flames start to spark on my fingertips, my power there before I can stop it, ready to strike. I take a deep breath and concentrate on another element, water. Ice.

Better. I can control this. I have to.

Mick shakes his head, but he keeps his hand firmly over his mouth.

"It's not funny."

Mick removes his hand, and looks as stoic as ever. "The path to your destiny never is."

Then he does laugh. "I think I'm going to like you."

That makes one of us.

TWO.

"We're almost there," Mick says from up front.

I open my eyes, trying to focus. I glance at my watch.

Nearly four hours have pa.s.sed since we left the airport in Dublin. The rain stopped somewhere along the way and the sun peeks out from behind fluffy white clouds, making everything even brighter.

We drive through a little town that looks like something straight out of a theme park, with cobble stone streets and rows of old buildings in bright colors. The pub on the corner has a suit of armor standing guard at the front door. Tiny little iced cakes dot the window of a bakery across the street. As we turn up a hill, I get a perfect view of the harbor, filled with fishing boats and a few pretty schooners.

"Cath is beautiful, isn't she?"

"Cath?"

"The town. The prettiest stop on the Dingle Penin sula. But then I'm biased."

"It is pretty."

"Wait until you see Lorcan."

"Is it here?"

"About ten kilometers north. The ancestral home of the Montgomerys."

"We're going to his house?" As much as I don't like the idea of Austin's anything, I have to admit, it's the last place the Sons will look for me. Joe is kind of brilliant. "More of an estate. I manage it. But you needn't worry.

A Montgomery hasn't set foot on the property for at least a thousand years." As he drives, Mick gives a history of the estate and the improvements that have been made over the last few centuries. I'm sure it's not uncommon for people to know the history of the property they manage, but he talks as though he personally oversaw the work. And then it occurs to me. He has.

Joe isn't the only giolla. Joe has always served the Sons, but it makes sense that the G.o.ds would enlist the giolla to help them too.

"You're like Joe?"

"Not at all. I'm far more outgoing."

I'm not letting him evade the question. "You're a giolla?"

Mick sits up straighter, the top of his head brushing the ceiling of the car. "In the service of Arawn." Arawn is Austin's true name. "For how long?" Austin had been banished to the underworld for a thousand years before he showed up in Rancho Domingo. He only made it three years before he was banished again. Not that I feel bad about it.

"A long while."

The road narrows as it winds higher, twisting and turning through a forest of trees until I can't see the town or the ocean anymore.

"Can you remember the last time Austin came here?"

The giolla are keepers of the history they live.

"Aye. The lord graced us in the year of our G.o.ds 1009.

The house never got a wink." Mick's eyes crinkle in the corners, and I wonder how he manages to keep from getting crow's feet given the centuries he's been alive. "What was he like then?" I can't imagine Austin as some kind of medieval lord.

"Fancied himself quite a lad."

"Figures."

Mick nods his head like he's made a decision. "I give him a new name and persona every sixty years or so, even though he never comes back to claim it."

"Did you know he was back? In California?" It's kind of sad that Mick has been maintaining Austin's life on earth for all these years for nothing.

Mick doesn't answer. He straightens a little more, though there's barely room in the car for him to do so. "Are you truly a bandia, then?" Mick asks, changing the subject.

"Is that what's stirred the Sons?"

The Sons of Killian have hunted my ancestors for centuries. The same way they hunt me now. "Who else knows? About the bandia?"

"Even the most stalwart among us knows our history." He smiles. "Best you don't go throwing your powers around where anyone can see."

Maybe Joe did fill him in on why I'm running. "So you're saying my one woman magic show is out?" Mick smiles. "Perhaps not. I imagine most folks would pay a small fortune to see it."

Just when I think I'm going to be carsick from all the turns, he pulls the car off the road, stopping in front of a huge pair of iron gates. Each gate has a giant metal sun at its center, and is flanked by a high stone wall that goes on as far as the eye can see on either side.

Mick hits a b.u.t.ton on the roof of the car and the gates open with a creak, inviting us in. He picks up his phone and says something in a thick brogue I can't understand at all.

After a mile or so, we crest the top of a hill. The ocean is visible again, stretching out behind a flat expanse of land that ends with a steep drop to the thrashing waves. The house sits back on the bluff, with gra.s.s and stone pathways leading up a low stone wall at the edge of the cliff.

The jagged hillside matches the fierceness of the white caps and rocks below. It's more of a castle than a home, a giant stone building with two immense wings that fold behind it, walling in a courtyard on three sides. Matching round turrets flank the corners, like something out of a fairy tale.

To the right is a large barn, encased in matching stone. A man lunges a shiny bay horse in an adjacent field. It's a home fit for a king.

For a G.o.d.

"You like it?" Mick stops the car so I can take it all in. My chest expands as I breathe in the salty air. "It might be the most beautiful place I've ever seen."

"I know exactly what you mean." He eases the car down the hill, gliding to a stop at the front of the house. Eight people line the stone circular drive in front.

They look perfectly starched in their black uniforms, but on closer inspection, they all seem to fidget, shifting in their places as they try to get a glimpse past the dark tint of the car windows.

Mick gets out of the car and walks around to open the rear door. The eyes of the a.s.sembled staff settle on me as I step out in my slept-in jeans and sweat shirt. I push a strand of brown hair behind my ear, in a useless attempt to tame it.

Mick goes down the line, introducing me to each person in turn. I follow, bowing my head and extending my hand. I try to commit their names to memory, but by the time we get to the frizzy-haired, freckled woman on the end, a cook named Rhiannon, their names swirl around in my head in a jumble.

Rhiannon takes my hand. I'm about to let go, but she tightens her fingers, trapping me in a painful squeeze. She stares at the silver charm bracelet around my wrist. Her eyes go wide and she drops my hand just as suddenly as she trapped it. She backs up a step. "I'll not work in the house with her."

Mick puts a hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. "She is a guest, and you will treat her as one."