I slapped his arm. “Cormac—"
“One big happy dysfunctional family!”
My nose wrinkled. “For Belisama’s sake! You’re rotten!”
Whatever childish conversation we carried, died as heavy footsteps echoed from the top of the foyer staircase.
I should have been more attentive, but my nerves and exhaustion were too heavy to ignore.
The entrance hall was coated in a fine layer of dust, broken only by a path made by wolf paws, disturbing the grime.
Our host stopped at the top of the stairs, leaning on his fist as he stood, studying us. His red hair was tied back with a ribbon, and he wore a blood-red huntsman jacket with more buttons than made sense. His trousers were pristine white; despite the neglected surroundings, not a speck was on them.
I did not know if the Sídhe in front of us was a god, only that he appeared to be a huntsman by profession. The kind of Landfae that sometimes stumbled too far away from the Day Court with their fae hounds and mounts. A rare sight indeed.
Cethlenn had said that Lugh controlled the Wild Hunt, though the myths often spoke differently. The Wild Hunt was something feared even by the most ancient of the Sídhe.
The Huntsman looked down his nose at us, his eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher if we were truly there or not.
“We were told Lugh the Craftsman lives here,” Cormac called out. “Cethlenn sent us.”
I didn’t see the huntsman move. One moment, the imposing figure stood at the top of the steps; the next, his neck was craned over Cormac’s shoulder as he studied the Mer unnervingly close.
Cormac jumped and let out a squeak, before clearing his throat and brushing his hands down the front of his chest—still bare save for his purse filled with the hag's fingers.
The huntsman showed no reaction to Cormac. He blinked and cocked his head to look at me.
He studied me for a long moment.
“Cethlenn?” The huntsman’s voice was husky with disuse.
“The soothsayer. In the woods.” I knitted my fingers together.
The huntsman nodded a few times, eyes blank. “Yes, yes.” He murmured to himself. “She has been most helpful, unless she is feeling decidedly unhelpful.”
“The soothsayer said you were Lugh,” I explained delicately. “She said you defeated Balor. With a weapon you forged of your own blood.”
“Did I?” The Huntsman’s brow furrowed. “Well, she would know. Wouldn’t she?”
“I suppose so,” I replied. “Could make us a weapon?”
“Oh dear.” The huntsman shook his head and stepped away. “Have you seen my hounds? They must be around here somewhere.”
Cormac met my eyes; his expression told me everything I needed to know. He thought Lugh was bonkers.
“Cethlenn said that you made a weapon of your own blood, a-a-and—” I tripped over my own words. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to see my mates again. I wanted to be safe and warm and away from all the strange gods and unfamiliar surroundings. I wanted to be away from the iron in Cormac’s pack, which made my nostrils burn.
The Huntsman regarded me closely, his gaze softening. “I cannot make weapons, God-Child. I no longer have the power. I am no longer a craftsman but a huntsman.”
“I see.” My voice was thick with unshed tears.
“I can send you home, if you’d like.” The huntsman eyed me like a youngling, though I supposed I was to him. “I’m very good at stitching two places together, you see.”
“You can’t make the weapon?” Cormac piped up.
The Huntsman ignored him, bending down to look me in the eye. “Who do you belong to, God-Child? Shall I send you back to your parents?”
I shook my head and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, feeling every inch the youngling he spoke to me as. “I’d like to go home to my lake,” I told him. “Balor is there, and I have to stop her before she releases the Fomorians.”
