May 6th, 1901

Ireland

Bealtaine. The words came to Barnabas Halward in a moment of clarity. Something rare and tangible through the soft buzz that often filled his mind. Bealtaine; May Day. The dawning of summer. A time of freedom and celebration. When the Veil lifted, leaving magic to mingle alongside the festival-goers and fire.

He had forgotten about Bealtaine. Bloody hell.

The cart bounced, drawing Halward from his thoughts. He looked back, eyes narrowing as he followed its curves along the mountainside and into the sinking sun that clung to the horizon. He looked forward again: the shadows played against the light, casting strange colors on the clouds and shaping the not-so-distant Dublin into an ominous silhouette.

Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder. The cart was quiet. Summer wind sent ripples across the deerskin tarpaulin that covered its width.

His cargo remained undisturbed.

Halward looked to the road, tightening his grip on the reins and coaxing the horse forward. He knew he had to find a graveyard before nightfall. Before the festivals started. This was no time to travel. He had already spent too long in the mountains, chasing the sun through the bogs and wilds all through his afternoon. Just dodging the grips of his pursuer, so strong under the fractal of May Day belief.

Of all days to fight…

Minutes ticked away a village outskirts appeared, morphing the settled shadows to warm browns and grays. The wheels ached as dirt turned to fresh cobble. He had trailed into Rathgar at last, its bricked buildings small and packed close. Hawthorn and cooking meat beckoned around his nose. Locals teemed from their homes in masquerade garb, scattering in the marketplace roads, oblivious to the lone driver as he parted the crowds. Halward remained equally unaware of their presence. A few miles from the market was St. Joseph’s, and its consecrated ground with it. The blessed earth was still new, but it would suit his needs for today.

A grin carved onto his face. He could make it. He could win.

A muffled sound cut the silence. The tarpaulin jolted, making him startle. His jolts froze.

The horse threw its head with a snort. The tarpaulin jumped again, and people stared. People stopped, eyes wider behind the masks and fanfare.

Halward shuddered a breath and urged the nag forward, pulling the buggy around a corner until he located a quieter alleyway just outside of the marketplace. Away from prying eyes and warm smells. He had barely dropped the reins when he looked back.

The tarpaulin rolled and shifted, pushing out into shapes which resembled feet. Two of its knotted corners unhitched, falling and tangling in the same swift motion.

Halward rolled his eyes through another sigh. His fingers curled over his palm, tracing the interlocked rings of his tattoo. Magic sparked through the Five-Folds, his mind becoming overrun by its comforting darkness. He had already used it too much, covering his tracks with fog and redirecting the crows. He dropped the reins and hoisted himself out of the cart, sliding the hand into his coat pocket.

“Lovie.” His voice clicked with brogue as he circled the vehicle. “I thought we had an agreement...”

He stopped behind the cart, watching the tarpaulin roll. Before another hook could break, he gripped into deerskin and yanked it away. The tied ends were shredded before the tarpaulin fell to the ground.

She came into view, lavender eyes glimmering with pure defiance as she glared from the cart bed. Her silvery hair had pulled from its braid, loose strands catching in the rope that bound her wrists. Her right leg was still in the air, half-tangled in bindings.

Halward watched said defiance falter as she caught sight of him, his tall frame casting shadows over hers. He grabbed her freed calf and dragged her forward. Producing the small knife from his pocket, he leveled it at her face and held her down.

Her eyes widened at him, then to the knife. She still fought to regain her glare.

Halward scowled right back. “You’d think one spell would be well enough to quiet you. Can’t you just—”

A caw cackled overhead.

He glanced up, eyes pinpricking. A murder of crows rustled past, settling into the crux of the nearest thatched rooftop and hopping over the tiles.

She’s found me. I’ll need to make this quicker.

He swallowed, looking back at the girl. His fingers grew tight against the knife as her face shaped into a smirk.

Halward just scoffed, breaking the tension as he gripped her leg tighter. “Supposin’ we’re just going to have to keep you still some other way…”

The girl’s confidence failed her once again as he raised the knife overhead. She struggled to escape his hands. Her eyes kept finding the crows, desperate and wide. Halward’s thoughts clouded with a dark-hearted nature, enjoying her bout of panic. He sensed the mock of a laugh in his throat, but stowed it fast. He directed his attention to the alley road instead, assuring himself that he wasn’t being watched by others. He gazed back on his victim.

And back to the road.

He lowered his arm to his side.

Out from the market, a figure stumbled away from the crowds and into the alley wall. A man, tall and scruffy at a distance. His gait so uncoordinated that he could scarcely keep from tumbling to the ground. He groaned and the murder of crows took flight, their fleeing forms ink blots that stained the twilit sky.

A drunk? Halward narrowed his gaze. People usually spent Bealtaine drinking. He expected to encounter wanderers, even outside of Dublin.

His mind trailed to the birds though. Or… is it, Mae?

He looked down at his captive for a long moment. She was avoiding his gaze as she curled away, eyes shut tight against her own demise. A pang moved through Halward’s chest, and he closed the knife with a flip. Pocketing it again, he sighed before leaning in closer to the girl.

“Back in tick, then.” His voice sounded wrong in his head.

Halward flinched inwardly as he allowed the burn of magic to overtake his veins. The spell flashed through his mind, seeping into his Five-Folds as he cupped a hand over her mouth and nose. She struggled away, but not for long. The spell soon sent her crumpling into an unconscious ball of silver hair and small limbs.

With another sigh, Halward re-gathered his tarpaulin and fluffed it clean of dirt. Reminding himself to be kinder this time, he draped it over her form and tucked her legs in. He would bind her ankles again once he returned.

“Well, sir!” Halward turned to the drunk, bringing forth a wave and a grin. “I was just on my way into town for the festival. Having some problems with the horse, so…”

Halward met the man in the alley before he could finish his lie. His other hand curled at the handle of the knife, still hidden in the folds of his coat. The drunk came to a wobbly halt, letting out another sharp groan once he righted himself.

“So… enjoying yourself on this May Day?” Halward fought to keep his grin human.

The drunkard just gaped in response, his eyes darting like flies over rotten fruit.

Wretched mortal; he can scarcely tell up from down. Halward twirled the knife over his fingers. Shouldn’t take any chances though…

With one fluid swipe, he went to free his weapon.

And the drunk stumbled forward, his fingers digging into Halward’s shoulders. The knife was buried into its respective pocket.

“Easy now, sir.” Halward clinched his teeth, shoving at the man. “Why don’t take a lie down?”

The drunk held his ground though, his grip as stone as he rocked on unsteady legs.

Halward tried to free hand again. “Sir…”

The drunk coughed once and swung his head back, letting loose a howl so hollow and wrong. The noise echoed through the air before devolving into an injured wheeze, the man slumping against Halward’s chest in a defeated sigh, shoving him against the alley wall.

His neck was low enough that Halward saw the deep, bloodied gash around his throat, its edges gnawed and ugly.

Halward’s eyes widened. “What in Danu’s—”

The drunk jolted back to life, wrapping hands around Halward’s head and unhinging his jaw.

Teeth sank into his face. The splatter of blood. The crush of flesh. The muffled blur of magic as his marked hand spasmed. The knife slipped from his grip, clattering to the wet cobble.

Halward’s wail shattered the silence, but sudden, joyous shouts from the villagers were loud enough to drown it away.

The bonfires were lit. The sun had set. Bealtaine had begun.