A Hollow in the Hills Read online

  Jinx came up snarling, the taste of blood in his mouth and a white fire blazing in his head. The bodach reared over him, arms thick as tree trunks, a body like rock. Another blow like that would crush him. His head still ringing, he rolled and the giant creature slammed a foot down where his chest had been a second earlier. It laughed at him, stupid and conceited, but Jinx kept rolling and came up onto his feet, crouching low, ready. The bodach lunged again but Jinx twisted aside, just in time, and brought both fists down on the back of its thick red neck, ramming it face first into the floor. It went down in a heap, with little more than a grunt and a crash of flesh on flagstones. Jinx leaped on its back and slammed its head down again and again until it wasn’t fighting any more. It slumped there, its chest heaving up and down.

  Jinx straightened, wiping his face with his hand, and glared at the crowd surrounding him. Some grinned, others muttered curses, but they still waited, mostly in silence. The bodach didn’t move.

  ‘A winner!’ The voice bounced off the copper dome of the Market’s ceiling and money slapped from hand to hand.

  In most hollows, the homes of the Sídhe, there were strict rules to be obeyed, and a matriarch to follow. Once they had been places of hiding, of safety, of absolute Sídhe power, places closed to all who did not belong there. Not here in the Market. Accessed from the gate in Smithfield, the Market was open to all, and money talked. All kinds of currency really, from euros to … well, anything … And anything could be bought. That was how Holly had liked it and even with her gone, the Market continued on its well-worn path unchecked.

  ‘Too quick, Jinxy-boy,’ said a drawling voice behind him. The Magpies stood there, pristine in their black and white, beady eyes fixed on him. ‘Not exactly entertaining when you finish them in a couple of heartbeats, is it?’

  Jinx lifted his head and fixed them with his most intimidating stare. Mags looked away, but Pie held out.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jinx asked.

  ‘Just watching the fight. You’re making quite a name for yourself. Or don’t you care?’

  ‘Silver isn’t going to like it, is she?’ Mags said, his tone darker. ‘She’s not going to like it at all.’

  ‘So?’ Silver was going to flip. He knew that. Because she already had several times. Silver didn’t like this and made her feelings abundantly clear on the subject. And now more than ever she was someone whose word he ought to heed; she had bested Holly and driven her from the Market. There were rules about that sort of thing, old laws, older than anything. It meant Silver should take charge and be matriarch. No one had the power she had. No one had imagined Holly could be beaten, and yet Silver had done the impossible. He was her emissary now and that ought to mean he didn’t go around fighting for money. An emissary was a peace-bringer, she had told him in those measured, musical tones. The role protected him, and he could walk in the shadows, in the light, in the halls of her enemies. He really should take it more seriously.

  He didn’t like to fight, but he needed to. Little else made him feel alive. Silver couldn’t, and wouldn’t, stop him; she knew it wouldn’t do much good to try. Jinx just didn’t care anymore.

  Broken inside. That’s what he was. Completely and totally broken inside.

  He only had to look at those around him to see what they thought – that long-ingrained suspicion. He’d been Holly’s to the core, once. Not through choice, but who understood that? He was Cú Sídhe. They all looked down on him, despising him. By-blow, son of a traitor and an assassin, Holly’s dog.

  Holly was gone, slunk away from the Market in the chaos that followed Silver’s victory, and her people were only just beginning to actually believe they were free. Which meant their need for revenge where they could get it was beginning to bubble up from wherever they had hidden it long ago. They couldn’t get Holly, not now, but Jinx was still there. As good as having a target painted on his back, that was. He couldn’t afford to be complacent. Fights like this just showed them it wasn’t worth the risk. Not yet.

  The Magpies were looking at him like he was the next course in their dinner. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘The boss asked us to fetch you to see him. To extend his invitation, as it were. As an emissary, naturally.’ Pie sketched an overly formal bow and grinned his filthiest grin. ‘He’d like a word.’

  ‘I’ll give him a word.’ Jinx grabbed a towel from the pile by the edge of the makeshift ring and looked around for Art. The lep owed him his cut. You couldn’t trust the little bastards.

  ‘The boss doesn’t like words like that, Jinx.’

  Another Suibhne Sídhe, a bird man like the Magpies, shouldered his way through the milling crowd. Smaller and slighter by far, he cast furtive glances at them and at Jinx before thrusting a grubby pile of banknotes at Mags and fleeing.

  Mags grinned broadly and began to sort them, flattening each one out and forming a fan worth several hundred euro, which he waved at his brother.

  ‘Who said we didn’t have a dog in this fight?’ He laughed.

  Jinx stalked away from them, aware that they were following, silent and malignant as ever. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t dare to do anything here in the Market. They were irritating, that was all.

  Art sat on top of a barrel, his legs crossed, counting out his own pile of notes. ‘Ah there you are, Jinx, my boy. Come for your share, eh? You did well out there. You did—’ The words dried up as he saw the Magpies behind Jinx. Very little could silence the leprechaun, but the Magpies had a fearsome reputation.

  ‘Here,’ said Art, shoving all the cash towards Jinx. ‘Here, take whatever you want.’

  Jinx rolled his eyes, and stepped up to the trembling leprechaun. He didn’t speak – might as well make use of the intimidation, even if it wasn’t his doing – but carefully counted out what he was due and no more. No doubt Art would have tried to fiddle him. That was in his nature. Leps couldn’t be trusted, especially when it came to money. Lucky for him most Cú Sídhe were inherently trustworthy so Jinx only took as much as he should have earned in that fight.

  And he had earned it. He could already feel the aches and bruises working their way through him. He was going to suffer tomorrow. But what else was new? He always suffered. It was his lot in life.

  ‘So you’ll come with us now?’ Pie sounded bored.

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ Jinx asked.

  ‘Because we asked nice-like. The Old Man said to ask nice. And to tell you something. What were we to tell him, Mags?’

  Mags grinned, showing all his teeth. ‘That if you don’t want to come, we’ll have to ask the girl.’

  Izzy? Hell no, he didn’t want them even thinking about Izzy.

  ‘I don’t have anything to do with her. Not anymore.’

  ‘Aww,’ Pie said. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’

  Jinx curled his lip in a snarl that would terrify more than half the Market, but only made the Magpies grin even more.

  ‘But you did,’ said Mags. ‘We all know you did. And still would. Isn’t that true? Don’t lie now. It’s you the Old Man wants to talk to though, not her really. She’s tricky, that one.’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to Silver first.’

  ‘Sure. Get her permission.’ Mags sneered at him. ‘Wouldn’t want to annoy her any more, would you?’

  Silver was surrounded, as always. With her head bent over her work, her long white-blonde hair fell forward to shield her face. Slender and delicate, she didn’t look strong enough to rule the whole Market, but she did. Or at least, she should. Silver was more than just fae. She was Leanán Sídhe, muse and inspiration and one of the most powerful Aes Sídhe alive. She sifted through a pile of petitions while those filing them with her gathered around, waiting. As Jinx approached, she looked up, aware that the murmuring fell silent, that they were all staring at his dishevelled form, at the cuts and bruises, at the evidence of his fight. Then they saw the Magpies behind him, which just made it worse. He could almost sense them thinking out loud.

>   He can’t be trusted. He’s still Holly’s. She’s marked and bound him. Just look at him.

  Silver’s eyes fell on him and narrowed. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Um …’ What could he tell her? She already knew anyway.

  ‘I hope it was worth it.’

  He thought of the money in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Yeah. Kind of. The Magpies request that I go with them on your behalf. They say Amadán wants to talk to me.’ He stepped closer, close enough to hear her breathe, and continued in a whisper. ‘Or he’ll go and talk to Izzy.’

  Silver winced, though only he would have seen it. ‘Are you okay with this?’

  ‘What choice do I have? You made me your emissary. I’ve got to do your running around, don’t I?’

  Just as she used to do it for Holly. The echoes of their former matriarch still surrounded them. They’d never shake them off.

  But Holly had been defeated. Silver had shattered her touchstone and driven her out. They really didn’t need to worry about her anymore, did they?

  She frowned, but then nodded. ‘Very well then. Come back right away. Don’t let him get you to agree to anything until you check with me first. Understand?’

  Jinx glared at her. Check with her? ‘Emissary’ must mean different things to them. She didn’t have to treat him like some kind of child. But Silver could do that without even thinking about it. She probably still saw the little feral boy she’d collected from Brí’s hollow a lifetime ago. And now, though she didn’t have to check her every action with Holly, she just treated him like she always had. It grated against his senses, but he didn’t know what to say. What she told him wasn’t wrong, that was the problem. But he already knew it.

  Instead of arguing, he quelled rebellious thoughts and nodded to her. ‘Yes, Matriarch.’

  Silver narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘You’re going to have to accept it sooner or later. You’re the matriarch here now.’

  And without a matriarch, the Market was spiralling into chaos. He knew it better than anyone. Thinking of the money he’d just won blatantly disregarding her instructions, Jinx’s stomach tightened unexpectedly. The Market out of control was becoming a dangerous place. And Silver did nothing to rein it in. Not yet. He wasn’t sure she would. And then what?

  ‘So,’ he turned to the Magpies. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Underground,’ said Pie with a smirk. ‘We’re going underground.’

  Dylan woke with a cry on his lips, though he hadn’t been aware that he’d been dreaming. He struggled out of the tangle of sheets and tried to force himself to breathe evenly. His pounding heart made his chest ache, but he couldn’t remember a nightmare. He couldn’t remember anything at all. Only falling into bed the night before, exhausted and longing for the oblivion of sleep. The moment his head hit the pillow, everything was blank.

  Except for the music. Oh yes, he could remember the music. So clear it drowned out everything else. Every single thing.

  But something had happened. He knew that. Paper littered the floor, notes scrawled on lines, pages and pages of sheet music. The recording equipment was all on, the computer showing .wav files from the middle of the night.

  Again.

  Dylan shook his head and gathered the papers up into a pile, putting them together as he did so, scanning the music with a practised eye.

  It was beautiful. It always was. So very beautiful, this music that came from somewhere else, somewhere far beyond him. But it came through him, igniting the magic that welled up inside him. He couldn’t help himself.

  It just scared the hell out of everyone else.

  Mum looked up bleary-eyed from her coffee when he entered the kitchen. Dad had already gone.

  ‘Sorry,’ Dylan mumbled.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s okay, love. Remember what the psychiatrist said.’

  So he had done it again. It didn’t happen all the time. There was that, at least. But every so often it just spilled out of him, all at once. And he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t remember it. The music just rose up and swallowed him whole. The psychiatrist said he had to get it out, that it was a way of coping with Marianne’s death. And what could he say? No, actually, I was kissed by Silver, who’s a Leanán Sídhe, and accidentally became a touchstone. I’m now the source of her magic and its main conduit. Eventually it’s going to kill me, but if I’m lucky it won’t turn me into a raving madman first. Yes, psychiatrists loved that sort of thing. So it was easier to nod and agree and promise to work with headphones as much as possible.

  Which was kind of an impossible promise to keep when you were sleep-composing and had no memory of what you were doing. His subconscious didn’t seem to be particularly mindful of others.

  He hadn’t wanted to go to see Dr Patterson, but Mum had insisted. It was family therapy and Dylan had to make sure he watched every single word. What was normal to him – the Sídhe, Grigori, angels and demons – might see him committed if he described his experiences to the wrong person. He was still coming to terms with them himself.

  It had to be hidden. But the magic wouldn’t be contained. It was bleeding out in his dreams, making him compose in his sleep.

  But the music was incredible. More than incredible.

  Transcendent.

  ‘Are you going to college today?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Sure.’ He hadn’t explained how he’d managed to get himself transferred to a pure music degree course. It wasn’t law, which was what they’d wanted. They knew that much and he felt their displeasure keenly. They didn’t know what he did in college and didn’t ask. Sometimes he wondered if they even cared now. The summer had changed everything.

  The first month of his first year in Trinity College had saved his sanity. He slotted into the department of music from the moment he had that late interview.

  A gift from Silver. Someone owed her a favour, she’d said. And the three staff members assessing him sat open-mouthed as he played.

  That, at least, had made him feel real.

  ‘Good,’ said Mum, and went back to bed, leaving him feeling more guilty than ever before.

  As he packed up all the musical creations of the night before and headed for the train, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, that he was overlooking a crucial fact – something dangerous and desperately important. Checking online he glanced over the reports of a mysterious earthquake, without taking it in, and wondered about ringing Izzy. But she’d be in school and answering the phone would only get her into trouble. Fifth year offered more freedom to go with the pressures of the senior exam cycle, but that only went so far. She still had to obey some of the rules. Not that she bothered much about that these days. She didn’t seem to care anymore.

  He wasn’t the only one to have changed.

  When he got off the train, making his way down the slope to the street level amid a horde of students and other travellers, heading for the gates into the academic island of Trinity in the heart of Dublin, he saw a familiar figure waiting for him.

  Because she had to be waiting for him. What else could she possibly be doing there, standing by the gate, looking right at him, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile?

  Mari.

  But Mari was dead.

  Since the summer, the notice board outside the Maths room had turned into the most uncomfortable place in the entire school. They meant well. Izzy knew that.

  The photograph of Mari dominated it. One of those perfectly posed school photos that Mari had excelled at sitting for. She looked like a model. Once, she’d said that was what she wanted to do for a living. Dylan had laughed at her and she hadn’t spoken to him for days.

  But she had been so very beautiful.

  Smiling, her eyes bright, eternally alive, eternally beautiful and unchanged.

  There were notes pinned to the board, fluttering coloured pieces of paper, upon which most of the girls in the school had written some lines of fare
well. Or good wishes. Or something anyway. Izzy hadn’t. Neither had Clodagh. Neither of them knew what to say.

  Marianne had been their friend and now she was gone. There were no two ways about it. She’d died because of Izzy.

  No, she had been killed, had been murdered, to send a message to Izzy. But it amounted to the same thing.

  Holly had a lot to answer for.

  Izzy frowned at the picture and the notes. A breeze made them flutter like pastel petals, drawing her attention from the photo. Irritated, she forced her gaze back to Mari’s perfect smile. She was glad she hadn’t seen Mari’s corpse. She could still remember her like this.

  Vain, shallow, callous, laughing, human Mari.

  ‘Did you know her?’ asked an unknown voice. Izzy turned to see the new girl, Ash, standing beside her.

  Izzy scowled. ‘Of course I did. We all did.’

  ‘Izzy and Mari were friends,’ said Clodagh, coming up on the other side of her. ‘Izzy, you remember Aisling?’

  ‘Ash,’ the girl said in a flat tone, as if she had to do it all the time. ‘Not Aisling. I’m not actually Irish at all.’

  ‘Where are you from then?’ asked Clodagh.

  The girl waved her hand dismissively. ‘All over. My family moves around.’ She had that look – London or New York, more than sleek and polished, slightly unreal, and her accent carried whispers of other places. Lots of them. Her dark skin tone didn’t come from a bottle or a sunbed. It was all natural. Izzy had just assumed her name was ‘Aisling’, like everyone else, and hadn’t noticed her cosmopolitan looks. She could come from anywhere. She studied Izzy with hazel eyes framed by thick lashes, so dark she’d never need mascara. The heavy plait reached the small of her back and little butterfly clips held back any strands from her face.

  Some of the transition year students went by, talking loudly about a party or something for Halloween – who was dressing up as what, who was going to be there, how late they’d be and how they’d get the alcohol inside – and one peeled off, heading for the loo.