The Stag Lord

By Darby Kaye

On the run across America from a vengeful shape-shifter, Bannerman Bann Boru has only one thing on his mind: keeping himself and his young son, Cor, alive. At any cost.

Then he meets Shay Doyle, healer and member of a secret group of immortal Celtic warriors, the Tuatha De Danaan, who live in modern-day Colorado. When Cor is injured, Bannerman is forced to accept her help. He quickly realizes that the golden-haired healer is shield-maiden tough and can hold her own on the field of battle with the big boys. And Shay soon discovers that there is more to Bann then meets the eye.

Now, with the shape-shifter Cernunnos teaming up with the local pack of Fir Bolgs (Bronze Age creatures with a nasty taste for children), Bannerman, Shay, her wolf-dog Max, and the rest of the Doyle clan must figure out how to battle one insane god.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spence City
• Release date: Dec 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781939392428

Darby Kaye

Darby Karchut (Darby Kaye) is an award-winning author, dreamer, and compulsive dawn greeter. She's been known to run in blizzards and bike in lightning storms. When not dodging death by Colorado, Darby writes urban fantasy for tweens, teens, and adults. Her latest novels include Finn Finnegan (2013) and Gideon's Spear (2014) in The Adventures of Finn MacCullen series as well as the next book in the series, The Hound at the Gate (January 2015). The Stag Lord is her first adult novel.

Book preview

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1

THE STORE CLERK EYED the dark-haired boy who was staring at the deer head that was mounted behind the counter just above her head. She never liked where her late husband’s trophy had been hung—it always made her feel like the thing would topple off the wall and impale her as she rang up a purchase at the cash register. Once, a customer to her curio shop, which was barely a level above a tourist trap, had joked that it looked like she was wearing the thing on her head, like a costume from a second-rate production of The Lion King. After that, she had moved the register a foot to the left.

There was something in the boy’s stare and rigid stance, the way his right hand hovered near the pocket of his grimy hoodie. It reminded her of a dog standing tense and alert when it sensed things that go shit in the night. Things with unconsecrated faces that stared in from the other side of a black windowpane.

Cor?

Both the boy and the clerk looked over at the tall man walking toward them from the display rack at the front of the store. He held a map of Colorado and a pamphlet advertising the nearby nature park and campground. The clerk noticed he had the same too-blue-to-be-true eyes as the boy, eyes that were accentuated with sweeping lashes that, on a less rugged man, would have looked feminine. On this man, they just made his blue eyes bluer. His thick, chestnut-brown hair was swept back to reveal a stern but handsome face, jaw dark with a day’s worth of stubble. Just like the boy’s messier mop, a few strands flopped over one eye.

Father and son, she guessed.

Are you all right? The man’s deep voice held the whiff of an accent, as if he was working hard to cover it with a flat-as-the-Platte Midwestern inflection. The boy nodded, his focus back on the deer head. Fetch yourself a treat, then. No more than a dollar. The man gave the boy a nudge toward the nearby rack of candy bars. Off you go.

It’s the way he says his r’s, the clerk decided. And something else. A lilt? It took her back to the memory of her great-grandmother, a woman she scarcely remembered, who had emigrated from Ireland in the early part of the twentieth century to escape religious persecution for being Roman Catholic. The clerk recalled Great-Granny complaining about all the Irish Need Not Apply signs on too many businesses’ doors.

Reaching the counter, the man placed the map on the wooden surface and slid the park brochure closer to her. His hands had the look of someone who knew their way around a toolbox—clean, but ropy with muscles and veins and tendons, and sans a wedding ring. Not even a faint cheater’s ring. He tapped the brochure. Would you kindly tell me how to find this place?

Kindly? thought the woman. Who talks like that anymore? Sure. It’s easy—just stay on this street and go west two more blocks, then turn right on Kissing Camels Road.

Kissing Camels?

You’ll understand when you see the rock formations. Now, you’ll go through a neighborhood, but just keep following the signs north and they’ll take you to the main entrance.

Right. Thank you. Studying the brochure’s list of campsite facilities, he spoke over his shoulder. Cor. Come along.

The boy lingered in front of the rack, feet never still as he jiggled back and forth in a way that suggested too many hours in a car and not enough breaks. He flipped a few more bars over, checking the prices, than gave up and joined the man. The clerk noticed the silent question from the man and a shake of the head from the boy.

Something in the practiced it doesn’t matter expression on the boy’s face made the clerk blurt out. Everything on that rack is seventy-five cents. Today only. Forgot to put up a sign earlier. Guess I’m getting old.

While the boy dashed away, the man caught the woman’s eye. Today only, eh?

She found herself blushing. For being caught in the lie as well as other reasons she thought she was too old to even think about.

He leaned closer as he dug through a pocket for the change. I thank you for your generosity. The formal tone contrasted with the man’s cheap long-sleeved T-shirt, faded jeans, and the don’t-fuck-with-me hunting knife the length of his forearm he carried at his hip in a leather sheath.

You’re welcome. The clerk leaned an elbow on the counter and studied them as they left. The boy was already half-finished with his Three Musketeers bar by the time they reached the door. A smile tugged at her lips when he held up the remainder of the treat to the man, who took a small bite, then handed it back before ushering his son outside. Moving over to the store’s display window, she watched as they climbed into a beat-to-the-gates-of-hell truck pulling an even more beat-up camper behind it. The rig eased away from the curb, merging into the late-afternoon traffic under a sky sullen with clouds, a rarity in early October in Colorado.

How much for one night? Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, the man waited as the park attendant standing next to their truck checked a sheet of paper on his clipboard. The truck idled, complaining about how many miles it had covered today while dragging that fat-ass camper behind. A faint reek of gasoline wafting through the open windows of the cab reminded the man to check the carburetor. Again.

Next to him, Cor leaned out the passenger window, craning his head around to stare up at the red sandstone cliffs forming a towering gateway. Hoodoo rocks, tall sandstone formations that looked like upright spires of frozen pink cotton candy or soft-serve ice cream, were scattered along both sides of the gravel road leading into the park. To the west, mountains formed a rampart, protecting the city of High Springs.

Standing on the seat, the boy twisted around, his wiry torso disappearing out the window to get a better view. One foot kicked a much-loved, much-read copy of Shiloh onto the floor.

With a growl, the man reached over and grabbed the back of his son’s jeans. Sit your arse down. He reeled Cor in with one hand, careful not to whack the boy’s head on the frame.

Dad, I was just looking at—

The man raised an eyebrow. Arguing with me. Now, would that be prudent?

Cor shrugged. "I don’t know. What does prudent mean?"

It means I’m weary to the point of insanity after driving this bleedin’ truck for eleven hours straight. What do you think it means?

Some kind of fruit?

The man hid a grin. "That would be prune. Think about the way I used it in the sentence."

Cor rubbed a hand back and forth through his hair, rumpling it even more. Um…smart?

Or wise. Sensible. Practical.

The attendant cleared his throat, interrupting the impromptu vocabulary lesson. About all the schooling he’s gotten this past week, the man thought. He glanced down at the book on the floor by the eight-year-old boy’s foot. Although I should be grateful for a son who will read anything, as long as it’s about dogs.

Well, it’s cheaper if you stay two nights, the attendant continued. We’ve got a special rate for after the tourist season. He handed the man a pen and a form with the words Garden of the Gods Park and Campground, High Springs, Colorado printed across the top of it, with a list of amenities and fees.

The man studied the paper, then began filling it out. Will cash be acceptable? he asked as he wrote.

Sure. The attendant took the clipboard as the man reached behind him for his wallet, then glanced down at it. ‘Bann Boru,’ he read. Unusual name.

Yes.

See you’re from Pennsylvania. A long way from home.

Yes.

School vacation?

Yes.

In October?

Yes.

The attendant gave up. Well, you should have the place to yourself. I’ll be here until six if you have any questions. He motioned at the gatehouse behind him, then eyed their rig. But it looks like you know what you’re doing.

We do. Bann gave a nod, then passed the campground map and stamped permit over to the boy.

He drove westward into the rocky labyrinth, the gravel crunching under the tires and pinging against the belly of the truck. In between the slabs of sandstone, junipers, pines, and spruces, mixed with scrub oak sporting balaclavas of bronze and gold, fought for room wherever they could take root.

Ten minutes later, Bann spotted their assigned camp. He pulled off the road, wincing when the trailer hitch grated along the ground as they bucked and rolled into the vacant site. A piney-spicy aroma, like sweetened turpentine, wafted through the cab’s half-open windows from the juniper trees fencing the site on three sides. A picnic table and a fire grill were located in the most sheltered corner of the site. Across the street and down a slight incline, a tiny cinderblock outhouse, clearly a one-holer, squatted in shame behind another screen of junipers and man-high chamisa bushes the same shade of tarnished gold as the aspens dotting the sides of the mountains.

Without speaking, father and son climbed out. A growing breeze ruffled their hair and sent a dust devil whirligigging through the campsite, inviting them to play. They eyed each other over the bed of the truck.

Not in your wildest dreams, m’lad.

Wanna bet?

A pause. Then, without warning, the boy sprinted toward the camper. Bann matched him stride for stride. Reaching the back of the truck a second before his son, he pretended to stumble.

Yes! Cor slapped his hand on the metal ball. I win!

You cheated.

How do you figure?

Why, how else could you have beaten me?

Yeah, right.

Bending over the hitch to hide his amusement, Bann began removing the safety chains. Cor unfolded the aluminum steps of their just-a-step-above-atent camper, which was scarcely big enough to hold the man’s six-foot-plus frame, with a clang, then climbed inside, leaving the door ajar. After unhitching, Bann climbed back in the truck—quite certain that if he had to drive another mile today, he’d cut his own throat—and maneuvered it around, making sure to park the vehicle nose-first toward the road.

Just in case.

With one eye on the cloudy sky, he rolled up both windows and stepped out. Taking a moment to stretch his back, he grunted in satisfaction at the spinal pop. He sighed. What would I give for a home for the two of us? A moment later, Cor appeared at the camper door, a roll of toilet paper in one hand. He waved it at his father, the loose end fluttering.

Hurry, Dad. It’s starting to poke out.

With a proper loo.

Bann led the way across the road to the outhouse. As they approached, he slid his knife free of its leather sheath. They had stumbled across the blade a year ago during their first month on the road, both of them too stunned from the sucker-punch the universe had nailed them with to do more than drive aimlessly from state to state. The West Virginia junk shop had been filled with locals whose expressions had made the spot between Bann’s shoulder blades prickle. He still couldn’t believe their luck in finding a knife of its size made of iron instead of steel.

Cor had christened it Rambo. It had been the first joke the boy had cracked since The Day. Hell, he would’ve been happy if Cor had named it Dumbo, just so long as his son was talking.

Anything was better than the silence. Or the tears, which had finally faded. Or the nightmares, which had not.

Cor wasn’t the only one still having nightmares.

Bann eased the door open with his foot, keeping both hands free. A chemical smell, worse than human waste in his opinion, burned his nose. A toilet and a sink and just enough room for two if they were either related or really close friends. After a check, including the ceiling and the tiny window covered with a wire mesh, he motioned the boy inside, then joined him.

Cor stood there, clenching both his teeth and the toilet paper roll. "I have to go. Now."

Well, get on with it, then. Bann gestured toward the boy’s middle region. It’s not like I haven’t seen you pantless before—

Dad!

—when changing your nappies. Which, I might remind you, was not that many years ago.

I’m going to explode! Cor’s voice rose higher. All over the place!

Bann backed out. A smile so rare he was surprised the facial muscles still worked tugged at the corner of his mouth. He waited a few seconds, then opened the door again. Are you finished? He ducked when the roll of toilet paper sailed past his head and into the nearby tree. I take it you’re not. Still smiling, he closed the door, then strolled over and fished the roll from the branches.

The scent of juniper clung to his fingers like incense. He lifted a hand to his nose and breathed deeply. One of nature’s most exquisite perfumes mingled with the chemical smell from the outhouse.

The sublime and the profane.

Um, Dad? Can I have the roll back now?

He started toward to the outhouse when a gray-brown blur of movement out of the corner of his eye made him freeze. The chamisa bush trembled, then stilled. Oh, shite.

That’s for sure, Cor said from inside the building. Why do you think I need—oh, wait. There’s some in here—

Bolt the door. Now. Silence. Then, a chunk-chink as a latch was slid into place.

Knowing his son wouldn’t so much as twitch or make a sound until the command was given, Bann squinted at the hedge. With a flick of his wrist, he lobbed the roll of toilet paper at it.

A leggy form exploded from within, as if the bush had come alive. Dried bits of vegetation drifted into the air as a deer bounded away. It paused once to glance back at Bann; its black eyes seemed wide with embarrassment at having been scared away from a favorite grazing spot by a roll of Charmin.

Dad? A whisper.

Just a doe. He wished he would have said fawn.

A breath sucked in. "A-are you sure? Like really sure?"

Quite certain. Cernunnos could not have— He bit down on the name, praying Cor wouldn’t catch it. The gasp from the other side of the door made that prayer, along with every other prayer, a complete waste of time. Damn me to Hell, he breathed. He closed his eyes, knowing what was coming next.

Knowing his son was going to Lose. It.

Again.

Bann envied him the luxury.

Don’t say his name! Cor’s voice rose to a shriek. "We’re not supposed to say his name—he finds us if we say it. Fingers scrabbled at the bolt. The door shuddered when feet began kicking it in frustration. It won’t open. Another kick. Dad, I can’t get out!"

Cor. Bann pressed his hands against the door. Calm down. Now, he ordered. "Lift up on the latch, then slide it—"

It’s stuck. The latch jingled as the boy clawed at it, moaning in terror.

The sound sliced a wedge from Bann’s heart. He stepped back, lowered a shoulder, and threw himself against the door. The latch snapped. The door slammed against the back wall, just missing his son, and rebounded back, whacking Bann on the head as he landed on one knee on the concrete floor. Even as he scrambled to his feet, the boy was clawing at his arm like a tomcat gone berserk, gibbering in terror. His fingernails gouged Bann’s skin, leaving stinging lines.

A shadow flitted past just outside the opening.

Cor screamed.

Whirling around, Bann whipped the knife from its sheath as he placed his body between his son and the monster, straining to hear over a heart trying to punch its way free of his ribs. Out of sight, the hiss-whisper-crunch of gravel being displaced, possibly by a foot—or a hoof—made his testicles tuck up good and proper between his legs, huddling for protection much like Cor was now huddled in the corner next to the toilet. A corner of Bann’s mind noticed that the boy was weaponless.

Tightening his fingers around the hilt of his blade, he shifted his stance, finding his center. Unbidden, the Song of his people began to whisper in Bann’s head. It sang an offering of strength and speed for the warrior who followed the Old Way.

He told the Old Way to go screw itself. I don’t need your help. I don’t need my people’s help. I don’t need anything but for the world to leave me and mine alone.

The shadow ghosted past again. Even as his mind registered the shape, a magpie landed a few feet away with a scrape and a flutter. It cocked its head at the outhouse and the man hovering in the doorway before mincing about, searching for scraps of food.

Bile flooded Bann’s throat in relief. Forcing his muscles to relax, he hawked and spat at the bird, which hopped to one side with a squawk-ka-ka. Just a bird. Just a gods-be-damned bird. He spat again, then turned to the boy.

Taking his father’s proffered hand, Cor pulled himself to his feet, face pale and smeared with tears. He glanced over as the bird strutted past again.

And just where was your knife? Bann hated himself for stomping on the boy while he was still white-lipped with fear. He did it anyway.

Cor pulled the switchblade from his pocket and held it up. He stiffened in anticipation.

Bann raised a hand, then relented with a light cuff on the head. More caress than chastisement. Next time, I best see that weapon out and in use.

Yes, sir. Cor sniffed. He dragged the back of his hand across his nose, leaving a snail’s track of mucus along his upper lip.

Here. With his free hand, Bann stretched out his T-shirt and wiped Cor’s face. Wrapping an arm around the boy, he pulled him close, wishing he could somehow suck the child inside of his skin, his father-body a fortress. All right, now?

Yeah. Still shaky, Cor wobbled outside. He kicked a rock at the magpie, missing the target as Bann knew he would.

He gets his affection for animals from you, he said silently to his wife.

His dead wife.

His slaughtered wife.

2

JOINING HIS SON OUTSIDE, Bann took a cleansing breath, trying to slow his pulse. Adrenaline surged through his body like a shot of good whiskey after bad sex. Or was it bad whiskey after good sex? Not that he had much desired either in over a year. A breeze picked up, flowing down from the western foothills, chivvying the storm clouds along and drying sweat-soaked clothes and bodies.

Come. Bann led Cor back across the street and over to the picnic table. They hopped up on top and sat side by side, the top of the boy’s head level with Bann’s shoulder. He remembered when he would balance his firstborn—and now my only—along his forearm, the infant’s head supported by the father’s cupped hand.

While the man examined the surrounding rock formations, the boy spoke to the toes of his shoes. Sorry I freaked out.

As am I for speaking carelessly. Bann laid a hand on Cor’s neck, the skin still slick with fear-sweat. He tightened his hold and shook the boy gently from side to side, a rocking motion meant to comfort both of them.

After a few minutes, Cor cleared his throat. Dad, can we… He paused as if afraid to finish the sentence.

Can we what?

See if there’s any of our people around?

Bann’s chest tightened. "I told you before: we are done with them. Our people—he spat out the words—can go to Hell."

Then why’d we come to Colorado if you didn’t want to—

We’re not having this conversation again, Cormac Boru. He hoped the use of the boy’s full name would send a message. It did not.

Cor shrugged off his father’s hand. He looked up. Maybe the ones around here aren’t like the ones back home.

Whether they are or not makes no difference. Boru stepped down off the table, mouth sour from denying his son the one thing he wanted most in life. Well, besides having his mother alive, he thought as he headed toward the camper.

But, Dad—

Bann kept walking.

"Can’t we at least find out?"

Bann kept walking.

You’re not even listening to me! Cor’s shrill voice pinged around the campsite.

Bann kept walking.

Asshole!

Bann froze. A thump and a crunch of gravel pulled him around.

Cor stood in front of the picnic table, fists clenched by his side. Ready for a fight. Spoiling for a fight. Guess I’m not the only one on an adrenaline high, he thought. Even from several yards away, he could see the flush creeping along the boy’s cheeks, a clear sign he was pissed as hell.

Make that two of us. What did ye call me? His accent, always carefully hidden, rose to the surface.

Asshole.

His own anger flared. A voice whispered in his head to let it go this time. You’re both weary from too much terror and too many miles. He ignored it. Bold words from a boyo who was gibbering in terror, trying to hide behind a toilet only a few minutes ago. I’m surprised ye dinna wet yer trousers.

Cor’s face paled at the attack. He looked away, lips twisting as he fought to absorb the blow. Before Bann could apologize for being petty—for being, as he often cautioned his son, a little man—the boy bolted.

Careening through bushes, Cor ran, tears like acid in his throat. Ignoring his father’s command to get your arse back here, he struck a hiking path leading through the maze of sandstone. Picking up speed, he ran westward into the labyrinth. Shadows pooled in the hollows and empty spaces while the tops of the rock spires were red-tipped from the setting sun, like manicured nails.

Or bloodied claws.

After a few minutes, he slowed to a walk. Panting, he looked around. Cliffs rose on either side of him, forming a gully of rock. He stretched out both arms as he walked, fingertips almost touching the sandstone on either side.

Thrilled to be free of his father’s obsessive supervision, but also jackrabbit nervous about being by himself, he let his feet wander. A corner of his mind wondered why his dad hadn’t caught up with him yet. A bigger part was relieved he hadn’t, knowing that the level of disrespect he just shown would earn his bottom an up-close-and-personal session with Dad’s hand. Or worse, Dad’s belt. Not that his father had actually ever used it on him, but the threat was always there. One never knew with grown-ups.

He emerged from the canyon and found himself on a narrow shelf overlooking a drop of about ten feet into a ravine filled with scrub oak and the occasional piñon and juniper. A well-used trail appeared and disappeared as it wound through the vegetation along the bottom.

The clouds sank lower, as if trying to smother him. The darkening sky reminded him of home and lingering on the back porch with his mother, watching as his father prepared to disappear, once again, into the woods crowding the back wall of their home in rural Pennsylvania. Time for us Knights to be about our business, hunting the goblins that would hunt us, his father had said. A single ray from the setting sun had turned the bronze dagger in his father’s hand into a flame as he had paused to wave the weapon in a farewell.

His mother had never waved back.

Is Dad going to be gone all night? Cor had asked, every fiber in his small body on fire to be allowed to go hunting with his father and the other Knights of their people.

All night. His mother’s voice had been oddly flat. But her hand on his shoulder had been warm and gentle as she steered him back inside with a promise to read two chapters of Shiloh to him before bed.

I get to be a Knight like Dad, don’t I? He thrust an imaginary blade into the air, ducking under the swipe of a goblin’s paw, its black-tipped fingers crawling at his face. He stabbed again, teeth clenched as the beast exploded in a cloud of ash. Eat bronze!

We’ll see, son.

Cor hated that expression. It usually meant no. Or worse. It meant his parents would talk late into the night, with low, angry voices that hissed and spat, filling the house with a coldness that made him creep down the stairs on tiptoes to breakfast the next morning. He was sure he could see his breath when he entered the kitchen.

But his mother’s face, the face that Cor knew was the most beautiful in the entire round world, had always made the coldness go away when she turned from the stove to smile at him.

Mama, he whispered before he could stop himself. Eyelids burning, Cor scrubbed a forearm across his face, then sucked in a breath and let it out in little hitches which sounded suspiciously like sobs. Stupid crybaby. Just shut the hell up, he whispered, using the raw language to shock his emotions into submission. Bold words from a boyo who was gibbering in terror, trying to hide behind a toilet a few minutes ago. I’m surprised ye dinna wet yer trousers. His father’s words raked him bloody. You shut the hell up too, he muttered.

The air grew colder. He squatted down and tucked his arms between stomach and thighs, resting his forehead on his knees. A strange lassitude made his joints ache, like he had aged a century in the last year. He closed his eyes.

A nightmare image exploded in his head. An image of his mother’s body, pinned to the large oak in their backyard, like a sacrifice. She hung from a set of antlers, driven through her chest and into the trunk; her head flopped over onto her shoulder from a snapped neck.

A figure stood by the foot of the tree, the oak his father had always called the gods’ tree. In the boy’s mind’s eye, the creature turned and looked at him.

Cor’s eyes flew open. With a gasp, he lurched to his feet, swiveling on his heel as he tried to watch every direction at the same time. He held his breath, desperate to hear his father’s voice or footsteps. Silence filled his ears in a warning. No breeze. No birds. Not even a distant car. It was like the whole world had decided to call it quits for the day.

He thought he heard feet crunching on gravel echoed in the tunnel behind him. He spun around to face the opening and took a step back.

Into thin air.

Windmilling his arms, he fought the losing battle against gravity and almost won. For just a second, he swayed on the edge of the ledge. Then, gravity shook its head no and pulled him. He landed with a sickening crunch. It was like being hit with the side of the entire planet. Which it was.

A white-hot pain tore him apart.

Then nothing.

For a moment, Shay Doyle thought someone was committing suicide. Frozen with disbelief, she watched a body plummet from the ledge overhead, limbs flailing.