Right about then, the banshees came for us.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

We all gasped right from our very toes, not one of us remembering that I was maintaining a magic that rendered us unseeable. That collective gasp should have been our undoing.

But nothing short of a freight train whistle could have been audible over the banshees' keening, and even that would probably just blend in. They knew the door had opened and closed again: that was clear from how they dove at it time and again while the four of us scattered. Bleak-faced women zoomed by close enough to touch, scraggly hair streaming behind them and their skeletal faces contorted in rage. They sc.r.a.ped long nails through the gra.s.s, tufts flying everywhere as we all rolled frantically in different directions, trying to avoid their touch. It would take only one to let them know it hadn't been the wind banging the locked door around.

By the time they began to settle we were spread across the entire courtyard. Caitriona had found a doorway to press into, but she kept giving it worried looks, as if it might open behind her. Meabh had curled up into a s.p.a.ce next to what I thought of as a b.u.t.tress, although I also kind of thought those belonged on castle roofs, not in their courtyards. Either way, the aos si woman's face was twisted, presumably with anger at being forced to hide instead of fight. Gancanagh had gone to ground in an oddly literal way, becoming a lump of earth that hadn't been there before. I could see him if I tried, but his chameleon performance reminded me that this fairy realm was his as well as the Master's.

That idea floated in my mind for an instant, then solidified on the thought I'd had earlier: that we'd crossed into the Lower World when we'd taken the tunnel beneath Sheila's bones.

I was far more familiar with Native American cosmology than Irish. There were three easily accessible levels of reality in Native cosmology-the Middle World, which was the one everybody lived in day to day, the Upper World, a rarified place of spirits and souls, and the Lower World, which was very much like the Middle World except the colors were wrong, distances were peculiar and it was littered with all sorts of astonishing creatures, many of which were dangerous. Dangerous was still the name of the game, and although the landscape was different, Gancanagh's sudden melding with the earth looked so much like something that would easily happen in the Lower World that I was pretty certain I was just viewing it through another mythology's eyes. On one hand, that was great: I had a reasonable amount of experience in the Lower World.

On the other, it was very, very bad, because the Native American version of the Lower World wasn't so permeated by the Master's touch that its denizens regarded it as essentially his territory. I didn't know if all of Europe-and if all of Europe then I would think all of what had been Mesopotamia and never mind the vast Chinese empire that stretched back far beyond European civilization-I didn't know if Ireland's corruption meant all those places also had versions of the Lower World that were saturated by the Master's influence.

Which might mean the Americas, with their comparatively recent settlements-the Americas and maybe Australia-were the last holdouts in a world already deeply affected by the Master's life-destroying ways.

I stood there squished into a corner while a host of thwarted banshees gathered in the center of the courtyard, their keening much quieter now, as if they'd lowered their voices to discuss what to do next. They chatted, and I glared futilely at the sky. At the makers of the world, if they lived up there. At Grandfather Sky, whom Coyote had once named specifically as someone responsible for my arrival on this little blue ball floating in s.p.a.ce.

I didn't want to buy into the whole "peaceful natives save the world" storyline. I might not have known a lot about the mythology of the Native peoples of America, but I knew a fair amount about their history. The modern implication of "peaceful natives save the earth" was "backward savages don't recognize the benefits of progress," a violently prejudiced viewpoint of what had been some truly astounding cultures. I wanted to scream with outrage at anything that lent itself toward perpetuating it, including myself. There were plenty of examples where American native settlements and cities had gone beyond their resources and collapsed the system.

None of which negated the fact that a great number of them had lived harmoniously within the system for a long time, and perhaps in doing so had given the Master just a little less room for a toehold in their territories. So by all rights maybe I should have been full-blooded Cherokee, one hundred percent about reversing wrongs and saving the world, but oh no. No, I was G.o.dd.a.m.ned Luke Skywalker, bringing balance to the Force. Product of two cultures, both steeped in magic, one that had been fighting contamination since way back when and the other comparatively fresh and clean.

I scowled at the shredded arm of my coat and promised myself that was as close as I'd come to getting my d.a.m.ned hand chopped off.

Meabh sneezed.

Gunfire couldn't have been louder. The banshees went utterly, unnervingly silent, and everybody in the whole courtyard looked toward Meabh's corner.

Her face was still contorted, another sneeze threatening. I'd never tried healing somebody when I couldn't lay hands on them, and besides, I wasn't sure sneezes were things to heal anyway. By the time I'd thought that through, it was too late: she sneezed again, even more explosively, and two dozen banshees converged on her.

Unholy delight filled her face as she bared her sword to take on Aibhill's host. I would never, not in a million years, show that kind of glee going into battle. My many-times-to-the-great-grandmother lived for this s.h.i.t, and right now she had one huge honking advantage: they couldn't see her.

Magic silver swords forged by Nuada might not have been much against dragons, but it turned out they took on banshees just fine. She waited until they were on her before she stood, and she came up swinging with all the strength of a six-foot-eight warrior woman whose life had been spent in the pursuit of bloodshed. Banshees, the old ones at least, were papery, and her cleave shredded three of them before the sword caught in the fourth's juicier ribs. Not as juicy as Sheila: dust, not blood, fell from the wound, but still, that one was fresher than some of the others. The first three didn't have time to scream. The fourth one did, and mortar fell from between the courtyard bricks at the sound.

Meabh didn't so much as flinch. She wrenched the sword sideways, moving it deeper into the banshee. Juicier or not, it didn't weigh all that much, and with a roar I could hear over the screams, she heaved the wailing woman to the ground and came down on it with all her weight.

Its spine severed just like the three before it had, and by that time the rest of us were in the fray.

As crews went, we were a motley one. Caitriona and Gancanagh had no weapons at all, making them more liabilities than fighters, and I had only my psychic nets. On the positive side, I'd caught a banshee with my nets before. On the less positive side, it had taken Sheila's help to hold it in place. But on another positive side, I was a lot more confident in my powers than I'd been then. Of course, on the negative side, that confidence was currently stymied by a werewolf bite and a general uncertainty about using my skills at full bore. Then again, back on the positive side-apparently I was an octagon-if things were going to explode, they might take a banshee or two along with them. And on yet another negative side, I wasn't confident of my ability to cast the nets and keep us all hidden from sight, either. I'd gone into battle plenty of times, but never while invisible.

Exasperated, I stopped worrying about what might happen and just cast a d.a.m.ned net.

I was right: as the net flew out, my light-bending trick wobbled and failed. Probably my own fault for not having faith I could manage it all, but then, fighting banshees was a ferocious test of my faith, period. So I was content that the net spun out, silver and blue interconnected in flowing lines, and caught the nearest banshee like she was a tuna. She shrieked and whirled toward me, entangling herself further. Clawlike nails extended from her fingertips, sawing at the net. I felt the reverberations rattling all the way back to my soul, but unlike the first time I'd fought one of these things, the net held. Her jaw dropped and she screamed again, this time like she really meant it. For a hair-raising moment I thought she was going to pull off the trick Sheila had done, breaking through my shields and getting under my skin.

Except Sheila was my mother, and on some level I'd known that even when we'd had the little throw-down outside Meabh's cairn. She had a lot more connection to me, a lot more reason and ability to break through my shields. Random banshees from Aibhill's host didn't so much. I dropped my own jaw, shouting back in defiance. My shields strengthened with the yell, and the banshee's cry faltered. Buoyed, I pounced forward to dig my fingers through the net and throttle her.

Net or no, her dead skeletal arms were longer than mine, and her nails infinitely sharper and more dangerous. I barely escaped with both my eyes, and wouldn't have if my gla.s.ses hadn't still been precariously balanced on my nose. For things I rarely noticed, they certainly could alter between annoying and lifesaving.

The banshee looked like she was counting what I called lifesaving under the "annoying" banner. She opened her mouth to scream again and I slung a power-swollen strand of net into it. She gagged and I chortled, which was probably not good warrior etiquette and which I paid for with her fist in my gut. Apparently thickening one strand of net thinned some others. I doubled over, wheezing, and when I felt her come for me again decided against the whole mano a mano thing. I had a net, after all. I seized the ends nearest to me, wrapped it around my right wrist-my left arm was still all but useless, though the pain had disappeared thanks to the excitement-and spun to slam the banshee into the nearest wall as hard as I could.

It wasn't hard enough. She didn't quite bounce off, but she wasn't out for the count, either. I grunted and did it again, then felt nails score marks along my shields at my spine. I'd gotten so busy with my banshee I'd forgotten there were about nineteen more to deal with. Meabh, however, had not, and while the banshee at my back was busy with my back, she shoved her sword through it and crumbled her to dust. Instinct told me to duck and she leapt over my head, gazellelike, to take out my netted screamer, too.

For the s.p.a.ce of a breath we were back to back, ready to take all comers. Caitriona was a few yards away, wailing like one of the banshees herself, a weird wobbly tune with familiar notes I couldn't quite place. Whatever she was singing obviously took a lot of concentration but put it to great effect: the darling girl had shields glimmering around her. Not very steady ones, as they rose and fell with the intensity of her humming, but they were enough to rebound the worst of clawed attacks. I wanted to applaud, but Gancanagh sauntered in front of me to face an oncoming banshee.

I saw Morrison, or someone very like him, walking into the face of danger. She, the banshee, saw...something else entirely. She stopped, horror and hope written on a face that might have at one time been lovely. For the first time I heard a banshee speak not in rhyme, but then, it was only a single word: "Aidan?"

My heart stopped. My blood stopped. Everything in me went cold, just for a split second. Then I knew she was seeing an old lover in Gancanagh, not my son-my son, whose name probably wasn't actually Aidan, since somebody had adopted him and probably given him a new name-but for that hideous instant I thought it was going to all be about me and her and keeping a little boy I didn't even know safe from devils he didn't need to dance with.

"Sure and it's me, alanna," Gancanagh whispered. "I've missed ye so, me love. Come to me, my girl, for all our troubles are behind us now." He extended a hand, and although he was in front of me, talking to someone else, I wanted to run to him myself.

Banshees weren't immune to his charm, either. Some of the film cleared from her eyes, like tears were rising to moisten paper, and she stepped forward, reaching out to him as she did.

He took her hands tenderly and drew her close, the whole of his att.i.tude warm with welcome. He lifted a hand to her jaw, the other tracing her collarbone. She smiled, terrible expression of joy in a face too long dead to show emotion as other than a skeletal grin.

Gancanagh, who looked like Morrison, ripped her head off and threw it away.

The air went out of my lungs. He glanced back at me and smiled that come-hither smile, and even with a dead woman's dusty blood staining his hands, even with sickness in the pit of my stomach, I still wanted to go to him. Dangerous, Meabh had said. Gancanagh is dangerous. "Fight," he said, and I felt a compulsion in my bones to do just that. To do anything he asked, in hopes of winning his love.

This was going to be a problem, later. But now I only nodded once and turned away, heart beating too fast, to do as he'd asked me. To fight, because the odds were still about fifteen to four, and we had yet to meet Aibhill. I flung another net, wishing I dared to catch more than one banshee at a time in it, but the first one had put up enough of a struggle. I didn't want to find out two was more than I could handle. I wished I had a weapon, and then with bell-like clarity, an idea came to me. Hoping everybody else would continue to keep up their end of the bargain, I ducked out of the fight for a second time, and fell into my garden.

I'd never been in such a hurry before when I crossed into the gardens. I tore through my own territory to fling open the ivy-hidden door, and raced out into the crater that I'd always found my garden at the bottom of. I scrambled up the sides, heading for the greater gestalt of souls and bellowing, "Coyote! Coyote! Wake up, wake up, I need your help! Get the spear!"

A few ginormously long strides later I rushed into the arid, beautiful desertscape that was Coyote's garden. He wasn't there. I started picking up stones, desperately trying to find some kind of access point that would let me deeper into his soul, and shouting all the time. I finally hauled a rock nearly as big as I was aside, revealing a cool little cave, but before I could dash into it, Coyote emerged in his coyote form. He looked sleepy and bewildered, his ears at half-mast, but he was carrying the spear I'd asked for, his teeth full of it. I dropped to my knees, hugged him one-armed and blurted, "Bless you," with a fervency largely unfamiliar to me.

He shifted mid-hug, and though logically he'd have still held the spear in his mouth, it was instead in one hand as he hugged me with the other arm and said, "What's going on?" in confusion. "Take this, I can't stand it."

I seized the spear, wood cool in my fingers, even where he'd been holding it. It was a piece of art, a weapon grown, not made. The haft was polished white birch, and the head black ironwood, and though they were nominally bound together by leather strips and feathers at the neck, I had no doubt the entire weapon was a seamless single piece of wood. That was what happened when demiG.o.ds of the forest offered gifts: magic. The demiG.o.d in question, Herne, had given it to Coyote as custodian, but my mentor was a healer. Even carrying the weapon gave him the creeps, so I'd been the one to use it. "I need this. We're in a fight. I lost my sword." And Gary, but this was not the time to go into that, even if the reminder made me swallow a sob.

"What-where are you?" He wasn't going to stop me from taking it, but I could see him gathering himself, waking up, preparing to jump on the next flight to Seattle to help pick up the pieces.

"I think I'm in the Irish version of the Lower World. Ireland, anyway, look, I can't talk, but the sword, Coyote, I can pull the sword from anywhere in the world, and you've just given the spear to me here, that means you've relinquished custodianship again, right? So I should be able to pull it to me, too. And even if it doesn't work in the Middle World I'm in the Lower so it should work. Right?"

He interjected, "Ire-Low-lost-cust-?" through my panicked response, but gave up halfway through, golden eyes growing increasingly round as I reached the end of the rushed explanation. Then he said, "Yes," with utter certainty, which was all I needed. I wanted my idea to work, but I wasn't quite sure I believed it would. He did, though. He believed, and shamanism was belief, and I believed him, so I believed me and whispered, "Thank you," with all the heartfelt grat.i.tude I could manage, and surged back to the fight.

Almost nothing had changed. Another banshee was down, a second was failing to fall to Gancanagh's wiles the way the first had-a woman scorned, I thought-and as I steadied myself Caitriona went down under two of the screaming monsters. She was the only one of us who was genuinely defenseless, though her warbling song kept shields flickering in and out around her. It wasn't enough. I was not going to go to her mother in the Middle World and explain how I'd lost her daughter, my cousin, to a host of banshees in the Lower. I took two running steps, planted the spear's b.u.t.t in the earth and managed a clumsy, one-armed vault over a low-flying banshee to crash onto one of the two that had toppled Caitriona. The other I seized with a net, and for a minute we were a tumbling, screaming, rolling ma.s.s of furious women.

I had no leverage to use the spear and roared, "Caitriona!" as I flung the thing sideways, hoping she would catch it. Then I had my fingers in a banshee's pointy mouth and was trying to pull the top of her head off while another one scrabbled and spat at the net winding ever tighter around her. I'd never fought such a physical battle with as focused a mental aspect. Either I was getting better at this, or fighting in the Lower World helped integrate my talents at a level I despaired of reaching in the real world. The banshee I was fighting exploded into magic-filled dust, and for the second time that day, Caitriona O'Reilly stood over me with a weapon and the remains of a fallen enemy at her feet.

The spear had hit my shields, or it might have gone straight through me, too. A good shot, too: right over my heart. I had a sick lurch of appreciation for Laurie Corvallis's sheer nerve after I'd done the same thing to her with exactly the same weapon, and then Cat was offering her hand and pulling me to my feet. I came up ready to fight, or as ready as I could be with one arm dangling uselessly.

Evidently it was enough. The remaining banshees took a look at the four of us, turned tail and fled.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

A much more ferocious warrior than I probably would have given chase. Meabh started to, in fact, though to my eyes it looked less like she planned to catch them than as if she was giving them an all-out "Yeah, take that! Run, you scared little girls! Run!" boost on their way. She stopped after a few yards and turned back to the rest of us. Gancanagh was dusting off his Morrison-like suit and slacks, having taken out the woman scorned after all. Caitriona held the spear like she'd never let it go. She was banged up worse than the rest of us, but she looked like she'd just come to life, color high and eyes bright. I was equal parts envious and proud of her.

"What," I said to her, "were you singing?"

A blush of laugher crept up her cheeks. "The old Star Trek theme song. You said Trek shields..."

"You're a genius." I totally meant it, and gave her a sloppy hug. "Holy c.r.a.p. We kicked their a.s.ses. d.a.m.n, we're good."

"I would like to learn that magic," Meabh said. "The power to be unseen. It might change the flow of history."

I'd gotten the idea from comic books and wanted to suggest she go read some. Instead I said, "Except it hasn't, so either you didn't learn it or it didn't matter. Besides, we have enough screwed-up history to fix, or haul back toward center. Let's not add another loop to the timeline." Between losing Gary and my mother's captivity it was hard to remember that taking the Morrigan out to restore some balance was how my day had gotten started. Lugh's scarlet blood splashed over the Lia Fail was visceral, but not as personal as losing Gary. I looked up at the castle towering over us. "If we take the O'Brien banshee down, is that going to get your mother's attention, Meabh? Because I'm tired of p.u.s.s.yfooting around. I'm feeling ready for a showdown."

Meabh, guarded, said, "It will, but it's your mother we're here to save, not mine we're here to defeat."

"It's all the same." I kept expecting the banshees to converge again, but instead I got glimpses of white faces and flowing hair as they rushed from one castle window to another. All that was left of their sisters was dust, so I wasn't sure how many we'd killed, but I thought it was at least half-half of which, in turn, Meabh alone had been responsible for. "The banshees perform ritual murders to strengthen the Master, but there's obviously a hierarchy here. He probably doesn't give the orders to them himself, you know? It goes to the Morrigan to Aibhill to the blades." It wasn't that the one I'd met was the Blade. It was all of them, voices like blades, nails like blades, faces like blades. Maybe a grouping of banshees was a blade of banshees, like a group of crows was a murder. It didn't matter. What did matter was, "I'll work my way up to the top one by one if I have to."

"You would face him?" Gancanagh sounded impressed, and I found myself stalking toward the nearest castle doors as I answered.

"You know what, a week ago I'd have said no, but a lot's changed since then. I wasn't ready then, and maybe I'm still not, but we're getting one step closer to a throw-down every day, and if that means it's on right here and right now, then fine. I've got too much riding on this one to run away, so I'll take it. We'll do our best. I. Will do my best." Since I couldn't really drag the others into my fight just on a say-so.

"You have a warrior's spirit after all," Meabh said in approval. Caitriona, spear still in hand, ran to catch up with us, and Gancanagh, when I looked back, was sauntering along behind like he wasn't really part of the group but didn't want to miss any of the action, either. Morrison wouldn't have been so coy, which made me feel better about the resemblance I saw. Armed with that knowledge, I shoved the doors open and walked into a great hall.

Stone arched dozens of feet above the floor, supported by oak beams and the grace of G.o.d. I had one of those moments where it seemed more likely aliens had built the pyramids than humans had been able to create such soaring masterpieces without the help of modern technology. Stained gla.s.s found sunlight somewhere and spilled a riot of color onto the gray stone floors, but they weren't the religious figures I was used to seeing depicted in stained gla.s.s. A whole different history of the world unfolded up above us, and before I had even the slightest chance to begin appreciating it, a woman came gracefully down a stairway I hadn't noticed.

She was beautiful.

I simply hadn't expected that, not after the banshees I'd encountered, up to and including my mother, who'd been pretty in life. I'd expected skeletal and clawed and papery, not fair and blue-eyed and curvaceous. Aibhill-because it had to be Aibhill-wore white, lots and lots of flowing white. So flowing I couldn't really call it a style or name an era it might have come from. It was like she'd been dressed in breezes dipped in white to make them visible, the way the light fabric flowed and folded and wove around her. That seemed almost likely, given that we were inside and there was no actual wind to give the cloth motion. Her hair wove the same way, tangling delicate hands and soft white arms, then releasing them again. Somehow her face was never obscured. Even I, who had had a crop cut since I was fifteen, might wear my hair long if I could make it never fall in my face.

She came down the stairs toward us, her hands extended in greeting. Prudently, and without discussing it, we all took a step back. Even Gancanagh, whose gaze was a mix between starstruck and avaricious, retreated. I wondered if Aibhill was like him, a seducer, and I wondered what happened if two of them started working their wiles on each other. I bet it would either lead to instant all-out warfare or fantasmagorically good s.e.x. "You," she said to all of us in what could be legitimately called dulcet tones, "you have all been very naughty. Which of you is the child of Sheila MacNamarra?"

Quite certain I would regret it, but also not entirely able to help myself, I reversed the step I'd taken and put myself forward. "That would be me."

Aibhill pursed her lips. Fine full lips of a perfect pearly pink. Women spent vast amounts of money on lipstick trying to achieve that shade, but as she came closer it became clear it was her natural coloring, as was the milky pale skin and the honestly blond hair. No honey-colored roots saying the blond came from sun bleaching: she was one of those rare adults who made it to adulthood and remained towheaded. Why, I wondered, were the banshees so impossibly ugly, if Aibhill was so lovely, and at the back of my mind the suggestion of a penny dropped. I scrabbled after it, lost the thought and tried to focus on the unearthly beauty in front of me. "I'm Joanne Walker. Sheila's daughter."

"And you'll be wanting her back," Aibhill said with gentle amus.e.m.e.nt. Gancanagh took a step toward her, drawn like a cat to cream, and she smiled at him so sweetly that jealousy spiked in me. I didn't want anybody smiling at Morrison like that except me.

He wasn't Morrison. And my mother wasn't Aibhill's yet, not even halfway, because we'd burned her bones. "She doesn't belong to you."

"No." Aibhill looked Gancanagh up and down, still smiling, then turned her attention back to me in a way that suggested I was a trifle to be dealt with and Morrison-Gancanaghwas far, far more interesting. "No," she repeated, idly, "I suppose she doesn't quite, not yet, but I can hardly afford to let her go, can I? Not when you've struck down so many of my blades. Did you not think to ask? Ask, rather than come as warriors?"

I wet my lips and glanced at my companions. Gancanagh paid me no mind, his very breathing in tandem with Aibhill's. I wanted to slap him. So, from Meabh's expression, did she. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off caring how the banshee queen affected a fairy man, and said, "Well, no." There was a reason I hadn't come asking, either. I was sure of it. I was just having a hard time remembering, what with Morrison salivating over the white-gowned woman.

"It's hard work," Aibhill explained rather earnestly. Morrison cast me a condemnatory look, like I should be ashamed for not believing her. "Making the blades. Shaping their grief and anger into weapons. I give them revenge, you understand."

I knotted my hand into a fist and stared at Aibhill's hem so I couldn't see Gancanagh-Morrison. "You mean revenge on innocent people they've never met, all so a horrible death monster can grow stronger."

"Revenge on the lovers who scorned them," Aibhill corrected. "As you would no doubt like revenge on Lucas, mmm? Or you on Ailill," she said to Meabh while my stomach went heavy. Meabh made a sound like what I felt, and Aibhill's smile broadened. "Shall we go to him together, Morrigan's daughter? Shall we give him a taste of your anger?"

"He's tasted my revenge already, and will again soon enough," Meabh said thickly. I could hear the temptation in her voice, but really, she'd killed him once. That was probably enough for most people. Except she probably thought my captain, standing there mesmerized by Aibhill, was her Ailill, which meant she was not only deluded but that Morrison was potentially in trouble. I edged half a step forward.

Aibhill, unconcerned by me or by Meabh, turned her smile back to me. "Then think of the sweetness of your revenge, Sheila's daughter. Served cold, all unexpected, all rich and savory. Would it not be a delicious dish?"

There was nothing even slightly cold about the revenge I was plotting on Meabh just then. My fist worked itself open and closed again. I might be able to take her, if I surprised her enough. Failing all else, I could turn to the wolf.

Heat flared in my left arm like excitement had taken up residence there. It would hurt for a second or two, but then I'd have Meabh's long throat in my teeth and Gancanagh would be mine. I might have to rip Aibhill's throat out, too, but I distantly thought that was what I was there for anyway. My voice had an awful lot of growl to it as I asked, "How do you even know what I want, anyway?"

Surprise filtered across her lovely face. "I see into women's hearts, of course. Every score, every mark, every bleeding place a man has left, I see, and offer succor."

Gancanagh drifted even closer to Aibhill, all moth-to-flame. Jealousy flared toward rage. He needed to stay away from the banshee queen. I didn't like his expression of adoration. I didn't like how she turned to him with a welcoming smile, or how their gazes met with a profound understanding. They were too much alike to be happy. I bet he could also see into the hearts of men-or women. I bet that was how he was so shiveringly appealing. Aibhill's smile grew wider still, and she offered him a hand. Smitten, he extended his own.

Meabh, with a barbaric shriek, chopped it off.

Everybody in the room started screaming. Gancanagh, because he was holding the-not b.l.o.o.d.y, but dusty-stump of his arm in his remaining hand. Aibhill, for no reason that I could see except she was a banshee, which was reason enough. Caitriona, out of shock. Meabh, because she was going after Gancanagh again, sword whicking through the air.

And me, because my great-grandmother had just chopped off Morrison's hand. Utterly ignoring my lack of weapons, I launched myself at her, knocking her aside just before another blow would've severed Gancanagh's pretty head from his shoulders. Her hand hit the stone floor hard enough to loosen her grip on her sword. I batted it away, then punched her in the mouth.

She bit me, slammed an elbow up, caught me in the windpipe, then kicked me as I rolled around on the floor gasping and she jumped to her feet. Her sword wasn't very far away. I didn't have my breath back by the time she got it. Nothing to fight with. No chance against the warrior queen.

Not unless I gave in to the thickness in my arm, the poison running through my blood. Gancanagh's screams, thin and high and furious with pain, reverberated against my skin. Meabh had hurt my Gancanagh, and a little lupine vengeance sounded just the thing.

Agony crackled in my arm as I relaxed my fight against the wolf. I rolled to all fours, struggling out of my coat, and lowered my head as the itch became unbearable, then delicious- -and then stopped. Stopped cold, stopped entirely, stopped beneath the vicious cut of Aibhill's harpy voice. "Both betrayed by Gancanagh's love. I could ask for no more, with my host so depleted."

Beautiful, gentle, sweet Aibhill stepped into my line of vision, unleashed a handful of claws and drove them into Meabh's stomach.

I should have seen it coming. We all should have seen it coming, except the part of me that could still think about something besides Gancanagh had expected her to go for me. Meabh made a horrible soft sound of pain and wrapped her hands around Aibhill's wrist, but moved no farther. Caitriona had never stopped screaming. I crawled one tiny jerky step toward the entangled pair, but Aibhill clenched her fist and Meabh went whiter and I held still again.

Only Gancanagh responded quickly. I didn't see him move. He simply landed on Aibhill with all fours-all fours, his hand had grown back-and he slammed her to the ground. She shrieked, an ordinary woman's scream, but the longer it went on, the more banshee cries I heard in it. They piled in, one on top of another, until her voice could peel paint from the walls, separate solderings, h.e.l.l, split atoms. It was unbearable, blasting out my eardrums and making my nose bleed. Horrible, itchy, painful blood, except I had it easy, because Meabh was bleeding from everywhere.

From her nose, from her ears, from her belly. She fell to the floor in slow stages: knees, hip, hand, collapse. I forgot the rivalry that had driven me to tackle her in the first place, and crawled another inch toward her. She lay barely three feet away, but Aibhill's screams were a physical barrier. I focused, trying to make my shields pointy so they would slide through the sound more easily, but there was nothing easy about it. Meabh was dying, and I wasn't going to be able to save her. I was afraid to even look at Caitriona for fear her head would have exploded from Aibhill's cries.

I didn't know how the banshee queen could keep screaming while she and Gancanagh fought. They'd rolled several feet away, weight changing from one to the other, but she didn't seem to need to draw breath in order to scream. I wasn't even sure she needed to open her mouth. The screams came off her in relentless waves, and somehow Gancanagh still held on. I could all but see his fury rolling off him, fury that he, of all creatures, had been caught in Aibhill's net. He wasn't fighting for me or Meabh or against the Master. He was fighting for his own lost dignity, for having been the seduced instead of the seducer. He was fighting to restore his sense of self, and he would do anything to achieve that.

Anything. Even die. And he was about to, because he was a thing of small magics, and Aibhill was fed not only by the Master but by the banshees she reigned over. The thought finally came all the way clear: youth and beauty retained by draining the vitality from others. It was cla.s.sic, in a fairy-tale sense. With half of her host already obliterated, Aibhill was at the weakest she'd ever be.

And it wasn't weak enough. Not for Gancanagh to take her out. But he could distract her, hurt her, give me time to get Meabh back on her feet and maybe, just maybe, give the Morrigan's daughters a fighting chance.

I bellowed from the bottom of my lungs and surged the foot or two to Meabh's side. Collapsed beside her and called for the healing power as triumph entered Aibhill's scream and dust filled the air. Fairy dust, I thought inanely, and wondered if it could make me fly.

What it could not do, it seemed, was make me heal. The power stuttered and ended at my fingertips, as it had done in the past when I'd been making bad choices. I whimpered in shock, which wasn't very grown-up, but at least it was heartfelt. I tried again. No magic, no healing, though since I hadn't turned completely into a werewolf I a.s.sumed the power was still running rampant in my veins.

"It's my territory, la.s.s," Aibhill said, and the mockery in her voice was so sweet it could have been sympathy. "There are things I cannot stop you from doing, perhaps, but there are others that I can. Be grateful, little shaman. If I release your power now, the wolf will take you."