It’s the Tuesday night after the Galway incident, just on the edge of October. Alima and Brighid are closing up at Standing Stone, cleaning out the kennels for the night. Brighid’s still a bit watery-eyed from her cold, but no longer contagious.

Maybe the others buy that excuse due to winter, but Alima’s suspicious that Brighid came down with something right after one of her friends got the shit beat out of him.

“Well, nobody really cares about Owen, so they probably didn’t connect it.” Brighid says. “Oh, that came out wrong.” Over her mask, her eyebrows come together while she sweeps out the next cage. “It’s not that they don’t care, they just… leave him to himself. Unless they need something and Ogma’s too busy. Then they’re civil.”

“I’ll never understand that,” Alima sighs. “‘I need a major healing spell, but I can’t afford hospital prices. Time to see the guy I used to beat up in high school.’” Alima ties the bag shut and puts it in the Biohazard trashcan. “Does this happen a lot? The Fianna seem… used to it.”

“It was worse when we were in school,” Brighid answers. “The Knights of Aaron were recruiting, and so the knights-in-training started picking on him for things--being an old-walker, being gay, dating Matthaeus.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, Matthaeus is about two years younger, so he graduated with us, but Owen was almost done with school.” Brighid tries to stuff her own bag into the biohazard can: No success. “It’s full, Alima, time for the chute.”

“Oh boy, the ‘dating a younger student’ problem.” Alima sighs and trucks the trashcan to the end of the hallway. “Did they say he was getting corrupted or something?”

“It’s ridiculous, Matthaeus was seventeen. They didn’t even start dating until later, when Owen stopped making fun of him for being a Northman.”

She shoves the trashcan the last few inches onto the chute’s platform and makes sure her mask is secure. “Chute’s open!” She calls to Brighid before she pulls the lever.

The spell coats the platform in blue light. Alima winces at the grating buzz behind her eyes--it’s not life-threatening, but it’s the magical equivalent of a dentist’s drill. After the light fades and the can’s emptied out, she tugs it back to the main kennels.

“So how did they get so stable? Owen just said he likes curly hair and even he didn’t expect it. And Matthaeus used to hate his nickname, I guess.”

Brighid crouches in front of the cage she’s sweeping out. “Thank god, last one.” She drops it into the can and brings it to the disposal chute. “Chute’s open,” she calls before pulling the lever. “I guess that’s technically true, but clearly Owen’s being stubborn--”

“THERE IS AN OCEAN IN MY SOUL WHERE THE WATERS DO NOT CURVE!” Blares a ringtone.

“Oh god!” Brighid jumps about ten feet. “Alima, your phone!”

“That’s probably Malachy.” Alima stifles a laugh as she answers it. “Yo.”

“Hey there. I’ll be off in about half an hour,” he says.

“Yeah, me and Brighid just need to close up and then we’re done.”

“All right. Bye.”

“Are you on a date?” Brighid wonders with a grin as Alima hangs up.

“No,” she says sheepishly. “He’s hitching a ride. They got the replacement seat for his car, but it turns out the Hunter’s blood soaked through the seat and the car’s floor.”

Brighid clucks and starts going through the clinic to check the doors. “Is it expensive?”

“Not too much--a couple hundred or so. The important part is that he’s stuck without a car for three weeks longer than he thought,” Alima wipes down the desks and counters. “Brighid, you locking up?”

“Yeah, just put up the wards before you leave.”

When she’s done with the desks and counters, Alima puts her jacket on and grabs her bag from the hook in the kitchen. She passes the front desk and makes sure to rap the granite stone against its two fellows: The silvery web threads out to the doors and windows, pulsing into the wood and glass. “Wards are up!” She calls as she leaves.

-----
It starts to rain on the way to the Live Oak, but it doesn’t take too long to get anywhere in Cloncarrig. Malachy’s hair is just a bit flatter than usual when he steps into the car.

“Thanks again for driving me around,” he says.

“I figured I should, since I’m the reason your car is stuck in the shop so long,” she says. “Why is Folk blood so… problematic?”

“Because they’re not from this world,” Malachy says. “They’re close, but they still aren’t human. They live longer, they have different abilities, and they don’t see death like we do. They die, sure, but they can’t understand grief because they can switch worlds like we can drive to the grocery store.”

-----
Ned comes into Alima’s room to find a tall, black-haired man in a long black coat. He’s gloomy despite his handsomeness, and he has a god’s scent--they’re all so old, old and powerful, no matter how young they look. This one smells like the dusty tang of old money, and the calm at the end of a life.

Ned can’t help a short growl at him. Then he forces himself to sit down by the foot of the bed. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t expect finding a male stranger in her room--”

“You’re not dead,” the man notes, and sweeps over to the altar. “And neither is her mother.”

“Uh... no?” He checks the altar: As usual, the food from last night is uneaten and he can’t smell Lucy anywhere. “Alima just thinks we are.”

“She’s been leaving offerings to her dead parents for months,” the god muses, poking at the air above the altar. “No wonder her mother can barely reach them.”

“I’m sorry, I’d just like a name, please?” Ned asks.

“Hades.” He tugs at some invisible thread.

“Greek Hades?” He stands and his tail shoots up, but more in caution than anger. “Why are you here?!”

“Because you’re not dead,” he repeats, forehead creasing.

“I know, but why are you in my daughter’s room? Is something going to happen to her?” Ned demands, hackles rising in defense. “Oh god, is the vision about Lucy going to--”

“D!” Ogma’s coming over. “I’m forty years too old to get smashed and tell pretty girls’ fortunes, and that room’s for a guest--oh, I’m sorry, Hades! I thought you were Dionysus.”

“Ogma, wait!” Hades is suddenly blocking the door, flinging an arm out to stop the old man. “Do you know what he is?”

“I do, but some good that does,” says the old man. “I can’t tell anyone living about him. I’ve been trying to get the Tuatha De to help with Alima, but--”

“But she’s not Irish yet,” Hades finishes. “And she’s not American anymore.”

Ogma groans. “Yes, thanks to legal magic.” He crosses to Alima’s desk and looks over from Ned to Hades. “So, why are you here, mate? Nobody’s dead.”

“Exactly!” Hades erupts. “She thinks her parents are dead, but one of them is sharing her room and she can’t even tell because some outlaw, some criminal thinks it’s a fun prank?! The living are here, and the dead move on! That’s how things go! That’s how things have been since--”

“Hades!” Comes a warning, and a small woman with corn-colored hair arrives. She smells like cracked-dry earth, but in her core is the tender smell of new sprouts. The grays and blues in her dress are warmer than Hades’ stolid coat, and the jet flowers at her throat and wrists hum with warmth. “Honey. What’s the Natural Order speech for today?”

“They’re not dead!” Hades tells her, jabbing a finger at the altar. “She thinks her parents are dead because some idiot fairy wants to fuck with her! I’m not letting someone get yanked around--”

“Honey, breathe.” Persephone rubs his shoulders and pushes him down onto Alima’s desk chair. “Did you introduce yourself?”

“Uh...” He stops to think, and then smiles for the first time. “Oh! I did!”

“Good! Now, how long have you been poking around her altar?” Persephone asks.

“Eh, five or ten minutes?” He checks the clock.

She sighs. “Hades. Remember what I told you about jaunting off and digging around someone’s altar without explaining why? Especially if the altar belongs to a woman? Who doesn’t follow the Greeks and therefore isn’t acquainted with your particular... manners?”

He takes a look at his tiny wife, coughs, and picks at a night-black sleeve.

“Sweetie,” she shakes her head fondly. “Most women don’t enjoy coming home to see a strange man in black snooping around personal things. No matter how sexy you are. And being a god doesn’t mean that it’s not…” She waits for him to finish.

“Rude?” He adds hesitantly.

“Home invasion, but close enough.” She pecks his cheek. “I’m going to stick around in case you start doing speeches again.”

“Wait, what about home?”

“Dead staying in. Living staying out. Thanatos and Hecate have it, sweetie.” She fixes his collar. “They only need to call us for the paperwork, remember?”

“And the Darwin Award winners,” the god adds with relish.

“It’s so glorious to have a name for it now!” Persephone lights up the room with her smile.

Should they be this adorable? Ned wonders, taking a whiff of their mismatched scents. They’re the rulers of the Underworld, after all, yet they’re so normal and happy that it’s jarring.

But the Darwin Awards. He can’t stop the dog-laughing as Ogma’s own laugh crackles over from the desk.

Persephone squints at him. “Sir, I’m sure your daughter is reasonably smart. Why does she not find it strange that a wolf acts tame?”

“I’m only part wolf,” Ned tells her. “The vet’s test said I’m about twelve percent to a quarter wolf. The rest is--”

The queen of the dead purses her lips. “He did a number on you. Half and half, that’s fine, but you are not mostly dog.”

-----
The rulers of the Underworld have been formally invited to the kitchen, where two slices of toast are waiting on Ogma’s altar. Hades butters his, but Persephone’s looking through the fridge. “Ooh, raspberry jam. You want some, honey?”

“Nah, too much red.”

“Oops, red makes you hyper. Almost forgot.”

Hades takes a bite of his toast, then chuckles as Persephone totes five jars from the fridge.

“Oh no,” she groans as they clink onto the table. “These are all the screw-on tops! Hades, jars!”

He shrugs and obliges, but only gets to the second jar before he stops. “Wait. You’re a goddess, why do you need help?”

“I like making you do stuff,” she admits sheepishly, and the contents from all five jars are spread onto her toast within a blink.

Ogma makes a queasy noise, and Ned doesn’t blame him: Along with butter, there’s relish in the mix with peanut butter and raspberry jam, and he’s pretty sure the brown stuff is gravy.

“Okay.” Persephone takes a bite. “Since this guy clearly doesn’t care that humans get upset when their relatives go missing, he’s probably a fairy or an elf. Does he have a name?”

“We’re not sure if he has a name, but he’s the leader of the Wild Hunt and we call him the Hunter,” Ogma says.

“Oh Styx,” Hades thunks his head on the table. “The freak in the deer-mask again.”

“What did he get up to in Greece?” Ogma isn’t surprised.

“Not in Greece,” Hades says. “But seven years ago, Hermes was taking a shortcut through Brittany and he found two men lost in the woods. They started screaming for him to get them away from the man in the deer skull.”

“Oh, that case,” Persephone shudders. “The other five died already, didn’t they?”

“There were seven of them?” Ogma asks.

“I know, right?” Persephone finishes off her toast. “And two of them weren’t even European, they were from weird places like Brazil or Canada. Poor things.”

“No.” The cunning-man blinks hard, lunges for his phone, and presses speed-dial.

“Warden Rickard Upton here,” he says, “what’s your--”

“Rick!” Ogma says. “Rick, the Hunter is starting the Fairy Raid!”

“What?! The last time the Fairy Raid was held here--”

“In Ireland it was twenty-one years ago, but he was in Brittany seven years ago!” He says. “You know Alima Song?”

“Yeah, her parents vanished.” Rickard tsks in concern. “Raw deal for the poor lass, but why--”

“Her parents go missing. She moves to Ireland. And she just happens to run into the Hunter a dozen times in the past few months?! That’s not an accident!”

“She’s new, Ogma, he picks on them.” But Rick isn’t entirely sure. “Are you sure he’s starting the Raid?”

He tries to spit the damn suspicions out--he brought her parents here, he brought them right fucking here to get her over and now he’s got half of the seven for the Fairy Raid--but even with two gods by him, the Hunter’s curse won’t let him tell the whole thing. “I don’t know,” he strains. “But call the States. We need to look for her parents--here, the Otherworld, maybe back in America if he’s really throwing people off. We have until Samhain to see if anything happens, and I hope to the gods that nothing does.”

“Got it, Ogma.”

“Ooooookay, we’re staying,” Persephone says, as much to Hades as to Ned. “Honey, do you enjoy the prospect of innocent people getting hunted and most likely killed by fairies?”

Hades straightens. “I am the god of the dead, not the god of shooting people in a canned hunt! Who does that bastard elf think he is?!”

Into the kitchen comes the other Ogma, looming gray like a standing stone.

“At least you heard me,” the mortal Ogma says, with a steely if resigned grin.

“The Hunter marked her,” says the god, bitter chuckles echoing like he’s in a cave. “‘I can track her through man’s walls, through iron, through salt.’ I hoped there was a different reason he didn’t just kill them all on sight, but what can you do?” He hands the mortal Ogma an obsidian knife, black and gleaming in an oak handle. “This can cut branches from the fairy-thorn.”

He groans. “I’m too old to go climbing trees in winter. Time to get Owen.”

-----
Owen sighs when his phone rings. “Ugh, it’s important. Granddad doesn’t call, he texts or some shit.”

“You should answer so he doesn’t come over,” King Brian tells him with a rub at his shins. “Or he’ll make May ignore me when she gets home from football.”

“Oh noooooo, she might spend time with someone who isn’t you.” Owen answers the phone, but gives the smoke-gray tabby a scratch on the ear. “What’s up, Granddad?”

“The Fairy Raid might be starting,” Ogma says. “Come on, boy, I need hawthorn for a signal fire.”

“Wait, I was six when it last happened,” Owen answers, brow creasing.

“Four. And that’s when it last happened in Ireland,” Ogma corrects. “The Fairy Raid was in Brittany seven years back. Is Matthaeus still a clumsy bastard? Because we actually need to break things.”

“The last time he came over without a god, he broke his hip. We’ll be there soon, Granddad.” Owen hears his grandfather laughing as he scoops King Brian up and activates the tethering spell on his collar. The cat spits, but he stops twisting around after it’s clear that Owen won’t let go. “Time for a visit, Your Majesty!”

“I did not break my hip!” Matthaeus insists while Owen hangs up and grabs the car keys. “I was limping!”

“Yeah, for a week.” He grins and kisses Matthaeus on the forehead, but King Brian chooses that moment to scramble onto the jeweler with a curious meow.

“Ahh--you bastard, I don’t have sleeves!” He stifles a yell at the pinpricks of teenaged cat-claws tracking up his arm.

“He’s fluffy!” King Brian informs him after a few bats at the nape of Matthaeus’ neck. “Like a bluebird or a mouse--”

“Owen, he’s clawing my fucking ear!” Matthaeus squirms, but can’t dislodge the cat.

Owen tries to grab the cat again, but the combination of his boyfriend and his sister’s cat is hard to pin down. “He’s not trying to scratch you, he thinks your hair’s fun to play with.” He snatches the box of treats from the counter, then gives it a good shake. “Your Majesty! Treats!”

That solves the problem nicely, even if Matthaeus needs to take nettle pills for a month. So Owen heals up the scratches, and they head to the car with no more trouble.

-----
King Brian is always reluctant to travel to Ogma’s house, at least when Owen wants him to, but Owen finds it strange when his fur stands up on reaching the door. “Nononononono I don’t like the wolf!”

“Alima’s dog? Don’t worry, Your Majesty, Bulan’s not--”

“Noooo!” King Brian yowls.

“Shut it--just climb a bookshelf! He’s not gonna eat you.” He grips the wriggling cat, swears when he realizes that the cat’s jammed against the pocket with his keys, and rings the bell. “Granddad! I can either keep the cat or the keys!”

“Aye, boy.” The door opens.

“Why did you bring him here?” Matthaeus wonders as they step inside. “I don’t even need animal-speech classes to know how much he hates it.”

“He hates doing what I want,” Owen corrects. “But it’s good for him to learn different kinds of magic while he’s young. Cats are useful with spells. Aren’t you, Your Majesty?”

King Brian hisses at him and bounds onto the couch.

“’Sup, Bulan.” Matthaeus holds a hand out for the wolfdog by the couch.

Ned whuffs as Matthaeus gives him an ear scratch. “I’m going to miss this part of being a dog.” He walks to the couch and gives a cautious sniff for the adolescent cat. “Hello.”

“You’re not a dog,” King Brian scoffs from his perch. “Did someone brainwash you or something? Even the tame wolves know they’re wolves.”

“Well, I’m not supposed to be a dog or a wolf,” Ned explains.

“Oh, a curse.” King Brian leans down to sniff him. “Why didn’t Owen see that? Normally he’s--”

“I knew you were just being dramatic!” Owen pokes the cat in irritation, and King Brian grumbles. “You ruptured my goddamn eardrums!”

“Owen, what’s his name?” King Brian asks the young man.

“Bulan, you tosser!” Owen stalks off to the garden, and he catches the obsidian knife Ogma tosses over without a pause. “Gods in the west! We said it fifty fucking times!”

“He didn’t hear me talking to you!” Says the tabby as the door slams. “What the hell?!”

“The only living person who knows I’m cursed is Ogma, and he can’t tell anyone,” Ned says to King Brian. “The Hunter did it.”

King Brian licks a paw. “He made you an outlaw, then. Wolfshead--he’s nothing if not creative. Can’t get help, can’t talk... even the Tribe can’t help unless you’re in physical danger.”

Ned’s ears flatten in alarm. “Is Alima an outlaw, too? The gods can’t help her, either!”

“No, that’s just legal magic.”

“I hate bureaucracy.” Ned whines and presses his back into the couch.

-----
The way to Malachy’s place has an unusual amount of traffic. Everyone’s flooding in, and Malachy checks his phone when he gets a call from Harry: “Harry, was there an accident? Gateway Road’s packed.”

“The fucking Fairy Raid, Mal,” he says. “Owen and Ogma are getting a signal fire ready to warn everyone. You didn’t watch the--oh, of course you didn’t.”

“What, the one where seven Dublin girls got killed on Samhain? I was a baby when that happened.”

“It was just the seven girls because half of Ireland got the warning and stayed home. You think the Wild Hunt cares about collateral damage?” Harry points out, and Mal shivers.

“Point, mate.”

“On Samhain, inside the town walls good. Outside bad. Thank god the tourist season’s over.”

“Business as usual, then,” Mal confirms.

“What’s going on?” Alima asks after Harry hangs up.

Malachy sighs. “This thing called the Fairy Raid might be happening on Samhain--Halloween,” he adds at her baffled look.

“Does it involve seven girls getting murdered?” She points out.

“It was only seven girls that specific time--the Wild Hunt isn’t picky about their victims,” Malachy replies, and he looks around for a way to get out of the gridlock. “Turn right on Reed Lane--nobody uses Reed.”

He’s wrong: There’s a line of cars crawling along, so people probably thought the same thing he did, but at least it’s not locked up like Gateway is. They reach Mal’s place after another fifteen minutes, and Mal stretches his arms.

“You should probably stay until things cool down,” Mal tells her. “If you’re not going anywhere for half an hour, you might as well save gas while you’re at it.”

“Good advice.” She sits on the couch and switches the television on. “I noticed people call you stupid a lot? At first I thought it was just Ogma, but--”

“Oh god,” Mal shakes his head. “I short out my laptop ONE time when I’m sixteen, and then everyone keeps reminding me! You want anything to eat or drink?”

“Soda’s good.” After he hands her the can, she goes on hesitantly: “So, aside from serial-killing, what’s the Fairy Raid?”

“We don’t know exactly,” Mal admits. “We don’t know why the marks get picked, or why it even happens. Some people think it’s a Fair Folk ritual or… a celebration, at least for the Wild Hunt, but Ogma thinks they’re just killing for fun. Either way, it happens every seven years throughout the Celtic countries. We’re never sure which country it is until Samhain. In Ireland it was twenty-one years ago.”

“You don’t try to stop it?”

“We try to save the marks!” He protests.

She realizes what she said mid-swallow. “Shit! I didn’t mean it that way, I meant… you can’t do anything to stop the Fairy Raid from happening? Like, keep them all in a safe spot that’s covered in wards?”

“They get cursed,” Malachy tells her wearily. “Salt, iron, inside-out clothes--they ward off the Folk, but only directly. They can’t keep you from getting cursed. We can’t even tell who the marks are since they’re not always Celtic themselves.”

As Logan arrives, they discuss lighter things like football/soccer, which Alima feels lukewarm towards. Then it turns to May and her cat King Brian, who has a habit of teleporting into Mal and Logan’s place in the catlike disdain for rules.

“I had a cat when I was little,” Alima remarks, redoing her braid. “Ruby. She was a nice one, though, she just liked sleeping.”

“I hope King Brian’s just being a teenager,” Mal says. “He was just another cute, fluffy little kitten when he was little.”

Between subjects they watch the news channel, drilling safety precautions into the viewers.

Sometimes they watch the moon, trailing half-empty through thunderheads.

Next Chapter: XX: bedlams