October 12.
The next morning, Ogma arrives at Mal’s place. Logan gets the door: “Hi, Ogma! Are you getting ready for Samhain this early?”

“No, I’m talking with your brother,” he says.

“Is it about old-people stuff?” Logan flinches when he realizes what he said, then attempts to run when Ogma cackles and grabs him. “Didn’t mean it, didn’t mean it--ahh!”

“Oh, you didn’t?” He tilts Logan sideways, to a squall of protest. “Ach, so delicate! You’re near grown by now, you are!”

“Sorrysorrysorry! LET GO!”

“Are you torturing him again, Ogma?” Mal arrives from the second floor.

“Count your blessings, boy.” He releases Logan, who bumps into the door on his way to the back garden.

“He’s going to get too old for that in a year or two.” Mal laughs.

“Young folk say that all the time,” he retorts with a grin. “Thirty or forty years and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“Anything to drink?” Mal asks, but Ogma shakes his head and sits at the table.

“No, no. This is business,” he says. “You offered to help me, Malachy Bray.”

“I did,” Mal sits across from him. “What do you need?”

“Alima needs to go to the smith tomorrow,” Ogma says. “For the bear-claw she got.”

“Is that… all?”

“Don’t leave her alone too much,” says the cunning-man. “Artio is a powerful goddess, but Alima’s place is still by the walls.”

---
Malachy knows Bran Hinterland the smith, as do most in Cloncarrig. Unless you’re rich enough to afford city-made things, the blacksmiths take on any task that needs metal in the west. Home security, weapons, fencing, and repairs.

“We’ll have to follow the walls,” he tells her that morning. “But Bran’s in the older part of town along the river. It’s really snaky there, so if you’re not careful, you’re going to hit four or five dead ends.”

She grabs her jacket and joins him with a pat on Bulan’s shoulder, and the heavy sweep of her hair startles Mal.

“Huh, your hair’s down.” There’s the smell of sweetgrass again, brightening the cold air. “You’re not doing anything today, are you?”

“That’s exactly why it’s down,” she admits. “Getting a necklace made and going back home? Very low risk of getting my hair caught in something.”

“Like when you failed at teleporting,” he reminds her, and she shoves him with a laugh. He rolls a lock between his fingers: The strands are like sewing thread.

---
Ned’s been curled up on Alima’s couch for a while, but a little voice wakes him up in glee: Song? It sounds like peach wood, with a naturally bright tone in addition to sheer joyful surprise, and Ned can’t help panting as he pushes Alima’s door open. SONG!

He hunts around the room for the object--whatever it is, it must be small if it can’t be heard well through the oak door’s heavy hum. The smell of fresh peach greets him through Alima’s comb-bag.

“There you are.” He takes the bag carefully in his teeth and tugs the drawstring open, shaking the comb out onto her bed. He rather likes the carving of the hummingbird and braided vines on its handle--combs are tricky shapes to carve. “Oh, you’re Alima’s comb from Goldilocks.”

Sonnnnng! Ned Song! The peach-wood comb is even happier to find him in the house. Is finding! It says to him. Malachy wants finding for Ned and Lucy Song! Ned Song is here!

“I’m pretending I understood that,” Ned says fondly to the comb, jumping next to it onto the bed. “Do you mean Goldilocks had you made to try and find us?”

Telling Alima! It quakes in delight, and in his mind’s eye he sees little peach-blossoms unfolding. Home now! Is cursed, but is home!

“Oh, fuck.” Ned whimpers and curls up around it. “We’ve been trying to tell her for months that I’m here, but the curse won’t let us. Do you know who the Hunter is?”

The peach-wood comb shivers under his front leg. King Under the Hills. Is hearing things through roots. Is many who fear him: Folk, human--many.

Ned sighs. “Yes, Hunter is bad. How did Goldilocks get peach wood, by the way? You smell pretty green, so he can’t have bought you.”

In his garden, it tells him. Got wind-tangled, and Malachy had branch trimmed. Is making winter-sleep anyway. Tree is young, only forty-two. Will grow in spring, like nothing!

“But still, making a housewarming present wouldn’t get you to talk this much,” Ned muses. “What did he do?”

Heard story from Alima! says the peach-wood comb. ‘Ned Song loves peach wood!’ Malachy has comb made--is wanting Alima happy, and Alima uses because comb is happy!

“I hate to admit it, but Goldilocks sounds okay.” He rolls over onto his side.

---
Bran Hinterland is the third generation of the Cloncarrig smiths, and he’s surprised to find Alima’s bear claw. “Did you get this online?” He wonders after taking it from the undyed linen.

“A goddess called Artio gave it to me. I’m having trouble with the Hunter.”

“Well, bears are powerful. Did she say anything in particular?”

“She just said to make a necklace and Maidin said she’s not very fussy, so whatever the most basic kind is,” Alima says. “How much do you charge?”

“Half-charge for a god’s necklace.” He checks a list off on his fingers. “So plain leather, iron wrap, no special colors--it’ll be ten euros.”

“Wow,” she says. “That’s... really basic.”

So Bran grabs some thick iron wire, pliers, wire cutters, and a couple braids of leather cord. After he measures her neck (she has to move her hair onto one shoulder), he holds the cords up and picks the darker herringbone braid. He threads the looped ends of the cord onto the wire, winds it loosely through them seven times, then pulls the wire taut against the base of the claw and clips the extra length off.

Even ten minutes seems like a lot of leeway for this, but then Bran dunks the whole thing in the tub of oak water. Lifting it out with some tongs, he breathes a hot sparking mist to dry off the necklace, then places it back in its plain linen cloth.

“It’ll take about half an hour to dry completely, and then you’re set,” Bran says to her. “The cord’s going to hit a little bit past your collarbone--it’s not too attention-grabbing, but you might not be able to stick it under your shirt if it’s too tight.”

“Thank you,” she says as she pays, and they head back to her place.

---
Just past the cairn of Westermark Howe, where even the Hill Lords fear to stay too long, Finn MacCool leads the Fianna with ten or twelve shovels and about five obsidian weapons each. (It never hurts to be armed to the teeth in the Folk’s territory, especially not since the latest King Under the Hills happens to lead the Wild Hunt.)

Two hours into the digging is when Nick realizes: "Finn, you prat, we’re gods! We have magic!"

"We do, but is the Hunter going to notice some random guys digging around?"

"He’s too bloody proud to care about--damn it," Nick answers himself.

Despite two broken shovels, nearly hitting the moat, and a fuckton of dirt, they reach the cavern of the throne room in four or five hours.

Meaning, Wes and David toss Nick into the crumbling hole that opens up under their feet.

"FuckingshitIhateyou--!"

"If you two get him killed, I will kill you!" Finn hisses, but after a moment or two Nick hits the floor and his telepathic "I’m okay, nothing’s broken" relieves them.

Every sound they make--that’s amplified. Finn can hear each careful breath, the muffled leather boot soles, and even a few faint heartbeats manage to skitter out of the Fianna’s ribs.

There is little light in the tall and long cave, but they’re gods and they don’t need it. Jagged bits and pieces of rock litter the floor, but the walls and ceiling are covered in ochre paintings. The Hawthorn Fort’s story is in them: The first figures stand atop a little red hill, surrounded by pieces of other figures. The May Tower is next, outlined in black atop a larger and higher version of the hill. Still further, flutings traced in moonmilk swirl to form the hawthorn maze, and two more towers are scrawled on the left of it.

It is a long and bloody history that the Hawthorn Fort has, like most of the Folk’s history, but patches of tranquility are there: The huge white swans are Aengus Og and Caer Ibormeith flying to the Brú na Bóinne, or maybe two of Lir’s cursed children being driven from home. One of the Queens Under the Hills sits on the Night’s Throne of blue and purple, and a bear-woman flanked by tree-men drag piles of gifts to her.

At the end of the story, where the smiling king sits surrounded by pale smudged stars, comes a figure in a deer’s skull.

On the Night’s Throne, hacked high into the wall out of dark-streaked amethyst and lapis lazuli, the Hunter is waiting. He’s wearing the Irish Elk’s skull, red eyes like planets atop a throne that seems to hover in the dark, and it looks like the mask is smiling.

"Go," Finn tells the Fianna, and as he starts the long charge up, their red suits blaze at the corners of his vision.

---
“Well, we’ve got half an hour with nothing to do,” Mal says after Alima tucks the necklace back into her bag. “You want to go anywhere?”

“I feel like frozen yogurt,” Alima thinks aloud. “I know it’s cold, but I just really miss it.”

“Why?” He opens the door.

“Well, I lived about ten minutes from a shop--”

---
Finn really should have thought this through.

Wings of bone sweep down at them as the Hunter descends to earth, and there’s a slew of curses as the Fianna yank the front members away. One set of antler tines scrapes against the cave wall, like a giant’s nails on a chalkboard.

“Duckduckduck!” Finn warns. “Get him into the open!” He rolls under the other antler and wraps an arm around the fairy’s neck.

“Out of practice, Finn?” The Hunter strains to laugh. “Or maybe you got soft.”

But he coughs and stumbles for a hair’s breadth: Enough for the Fianna to slip ropes around his antlers and shoulders, like an unruly bull, but a surge of renewed strength nearly whips Finn off--only long experience with the Folk has kept him from slacking his grip.

“Oi! Fairy bastard!” Nick is there, plunging an obsidian knife into the man’s shoulder.

Finn knows the Hunter can feel the wound, but his calm is strained. “I wouldn’t have thought of that. Where did you get--”

“The fuck won’t you die?!” Nick rips it out and aims for the heart, but the Hunter twists and Nick nearly cuts Finn’s arm. “Shit!”

“Kill or incapacitate! KILL OR INCAPACITATE!” Finn calls, pressing rowan berries hard against the hollow of the Hunter’s collarbone.

“How do we do either without getting gored?!” David demands, throwing his weight on his end of the rope.

It’s not their literal weight that’s slowing the Hunter down: It’s how they’re gods, even just gods of deer and policemen. Fairies would have been thrown by now.

---
A car parks in the driveway and shuts off. Ned hears approaching steps, and the shieling churns in response. Cousin, it says, and unlocks the gate. No telling?

“I texted her before I left--I’m just checking on the moonflower,” Hilal says. “New plants can be shaky for the first couple weeks. Bulan?” He checks inside Alima’s room. “Oh, bad dog! Get off!”

Ned whuffles and jumps back onto the floor. The peach-wood comb clacks after him.

Hilal shakes his head as he picks it up and turns it around. “At least you didn’t chew on it.”

---
Finn strains up to the base of the Irish Elk’s antlers. “Guys!” He warns. “I’m taking the elk mask off! If he runs, grab him!”

But it’s almost too easy to wrench the elk skull away, and as the Fianna’s ropes go slack for a second, the cave ceiling opens up to the air with hunting dogs howling alarm.

“Bitch, don’t you fucking run!” Nick demands, knife out.

“Nick! Less stabbing, more running!” Finn takes his deer-antler whistle and blows: The hunting horn’s call drowns the hunting dogs out, but Nick is still furious and that’s bad.

Finn doesn’t even have to call out: Trent, Roger, and Horace attempt to dogpile Nick as the Wild Hunt gathers above the cave. Even then, Nick scales the cave walls with difficulty and slashes the Hunter’s calf open.

“Get back here, you goddamn--”

“NICK!” Finn sees the other Fianna retreating back to the cairn, acknowledges it with a whistle-blast sliding down, and climbs up after the black-haired boy.

Folk blood burns an unfeeling Nick’s hands--along with his growing lack of self-preservation, Finn’s worried that Nick’s about to go berserk if he hasn’t already.

Nick and the Hunter have cleared the cave by now, two red figures running hell-for-leather. The Hunter’s cloak flies like a comet’s tail, but there’s a jerkiness to the wind of his passing. The Hunter might be nervous, or at least practical: The Folk don’t age, but they can die.

“Yep, going berserk.” Finn starts running after a deep breath in. At least he still has rowan berries.

---
Hilal grabs a cup and fills it from the water barrel, whistling as he drizzles the water around the moonflower sprig. The sprig hums in content--he doesn’t quite recognize Hilal yet, but he knows Hilal’s related to Alima. But presently the moonflower shakes its leaves and stretches up at him.

Message! It tells him. Testtesttest! From Big-Growing Woman!

“Oh, really?” Hilal grabs some paper. “What’s up?”

Oh, silly thing! Comes a woman’s voice, pulsing through the plant’s roots, and she takes control for a moment. Hello--Alima Song?

“No, this is her cousin,” Hilal says. “I can take a message, though. Who is this?”

It’s Persephone, she says.

“Hello.”

Say hi to Lucy for us! Her smile is audible, and the moonflower’s tendrils curl in happiness.

“Wait, what?!” Hilal grabs the edges of the pot, but Persephone’s already gone.

The moonflower is a couple inches taller, though.

---
Hades appears in his black trenchcoat, skimming the tall grass as Nick pursues the Hunter. It doesn’t take him too long to catch up, and in the gods’ way of seeing time, everything freezes in Finn’s vision: Past the wind, Nick’s contorted face, the heat coursing through his blood, the god gives a ruffling press to the back of Nick’s head, like a dad with his kid.

The boy drops gently asleep, and the man starts on the Hunter.

“Thank you!” Finn calls, and hoists Nick up to his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Hang on!” The other god backhands the Hunter to the ground. A small black thing falls from his shirt, and Hades picks it up: The lock of Lucy’s hair.

“Wait, Hades, we have to--”

“Oh, no,” he says woodenly. “I have no knowledge of whose hair this is, but it was clearly taken without their consent. Finn, do you know if anyone is missing a piece of their hair so that I can return it to them?”

Finn can take a hint as well as anyone: Hades knows that Lucy’s stuck in the Otherworld, but he doesn’t know the specifics of the curse. The Hunter must not have realized a Good Samaritan would come along and help. “Come with us to the Brú na Bóinne.”

“I will ask if this belongs to anyone,” Hades says, and they leave Westermark Howe.

“Please stop acting, Hades. We’re good until you find the owner.”

---
“So we didn’t even need to go to the Fort?!” Trent demands. “What the fuck!”

“Actually, you did,” Ogma says. “If we’d known he was helping, this wouldn’t have worked. It would have either made the curse more complicated or Hades would have been the one fighting the Hunter instead of you.”

“Ugh, sod the Folk and their fucking rules!” David huffs and bangs his head on the table.

“Hello, ma’am,” Hades recites to Lucy, holding out the cursed lock. “Would you happen to be missing a lock of hair?”

“Uh... yes?” She takes it, and a crack rings through the great hall. She’s gone in the echoes of the noise, and soon her startled yell dies off with only a scorch mark to show where she was.

“Well,” Danu hazards, rubbing the mark off the floor. “She’s out of the Otherworld. Boys, make sure she’s not in some forest.”

The Fianna sigh and haul out again, pushing through the weariness.

Next Chapter: XXV: how many miles to babylon