have forgotten, and it is a surprise to me that you have not yourself recalled it.”
Once more an eyebrow lifted. “And that is?”
“There is still one ship that should be faster than any of Finvarra’s.”
“What ship is that?”
“The one you gave a certain Mortal. I have heard Fionchadd speak of it often, how it uses all the subtlety of your people’s art—and all their latest delvings into Power. Surely that boat would easily outdistance any fleet of Finvarra’s.”
“It might, Lord, but it is no longer mine to offer.”
Lugh’s eyes glittered dangerously. “No, it was a gift given freely, I presume. Or was there, perhaps some other motivation? A desire to protect it, maybe? To hide its secrets from my druids?”
Morwyn smiled cryptically but did not reply.
“I am right then!” Lugh cried triumphantly. “I knew it, and curse you for screening your thoughts so that I might not see the truth.”
“Yet if I had that ship…”
“And I swore to keep my druids from it…”
“—I might slip away this very evening, and none the wiser.”
“You might even evade Finvarra…”
“One problem yet remains, though.”
“Besides retrieving the ship, I assume?”
“Aye. The vessel was made for speed only, not for confrontation. It is vulnerable to attack. Therefore I must leave as soon as possible, to minimize chance of engagement.”
“Will you see to it, then?”
Morwyn nodded, and stood. “I go to make myself ready. And by the way, have you seen my son?”
“Fionchadd?” Lugh asked, as he retrieved his goblet and joined her. “I believe he is somewhere with Nuada.”
Morwyn frowned. “And I have a notion where that might be.”
Chapter V: Odd Man Out
(Enotah County, Georgia — Friday, August 16—early evening)
Though he should have been flipping burgers, Alec McLean had been spending rather more time that hot August afternoon staring at his fingers. There was nothing remarkable about them, really; they were merely the hard, knobby digits due a moderately active seventeen-year-old boy—unless he rearranged them. He did it again: thumb and pinkie folded, the remaining three extended scouts-honor-wise. Three, he thought—until he shifted his index Anger sideways. Two-and-one, now—except that all of a sudden it’s one-and-two, whereupon the indexer rejoined the others, and the ring guy was on his own.
Back and forth; in and out: three, two, one; one, two, three …
“For heaven’s sake, Alec, pay attention!” his father called behind him. “That’s the third batch you’ve ruined today! I didn’t get you this job to burn up the profit!” He sounded more put-upon than exasperated.
“Huh? Oh—sorry, Dad!” Alec spun around and tried to salvage the six patties charring on the grill beside him.
Maybe the black wouldn’t show if he squirted on enough mustard and catsup.
Dr. McLean, a solid three inches shorter and a flabby forty pounds more portly than his only child, rolled his pale eyes toward his purple-and-gold Lions Club hat and pried the greasy flipper from his son’s nonciphering hand. “Just forget it, boy; these are goners anyway. You might as well go home, much good you’re doing here.”
Alec frowned. “Sorry, I…I guess I’m just not with it today.”
“I guess you’re not. But do try to be tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s David’s uncle’s party!”
“Not in the morning, it isn’t! Or at night.”
“Da-aad!”
“I signed you up for thirty hours in here, and thirty you’re gonna do! Now scat! I can get by till Gary comes on board—assuming he’s on time.”
It was Alec’s turn to roll his eyes. “What would you do without the MacTyrie gang as slave labor?” he wondered aloud, as he untangled himself from his stained white apron and sidestepped his father on his way to the concession stand’s flimsy wooden door.
Dr. McLean applied himself to methodically dismembering an onion. “Darrell’s picking you up, right?”
“Yeah,”
Once more an eyebrow lifted. “And that is?”
“There is still one ship that should be faster than any of Finvarra’s.”
“What ship is that?”
“The one you gave a certain Mortal. I have heard Fionchadd speak of it often, how it uses all the subtlety of your people’s art—and all their latest delvings into Power. Surely that boat would easily outdistance any fleet of Finvarra’s.”
“It might, Lord, but it is no longer mine to offer.”
Lugh’s eyes glittered dangerously. “No, it was a gift given freely, I presume. Or was there, perhaps some other motivation? A desire to protect it, maybe? To hide its secrets from my druids?”
Morwyn smiled cryptically but did not reply.
“I am right then!” Lugh cried triumphantly. “I knew it, and curse you for screening your thoughts so that I might not see the truth.”
“Yet if I had that ship…”
“And I swore to keep my druids from it…”
“—I might slip away this very evening, and none the wiser.”
“You might even evade Finvarra…”
“One problem yet remains, though.”
“Besides retrieving the ship, I assume?”
“Aye. The vessel was made for speed only, not for confrontation. It is vulnerable to attack. Therefore I must leave as soon as possible, to minimize chance of engagement.”
“Will you see to it, then?”
Morwyn nodded, and stood. “I go to make myself ready. And by the way, have you seen my son?”
“Fionchadd?” Lugh asked, as he retrieved his goblet and joined her. “I believe he is somewhere with Nuada.”
Morwyn frowned. “And I have a notion where that might be.”
Chapter V: Odd Man Out
(Enotah County, Georgia — Friday, August 16—early evening)
Though he should have been flipping burgers, Alec McLean had been spending rather more time that hot August afternoon staring at his fingers. There was nothing remarkable about them, really; they were merely the hard, knobby digits due a moderately active seventeen-year-old boy—unless he rearranged them. He did it again: thumb and pinkie folded, the remaining three extended scouts-honor-wise. Three, he thought—until he shifted his index Anger sideways. Two-and-one, now—except that all of a sudden it’s one-and-two, whereupon the indexer rejoined the others, and the ring guy was on his own.
Back and forth; in and out: three, two, one; one, two, three …
“For heaven’s sake, Alec, pay attention!” his father called behind him. “That’s the third batch you’ve ruined today! I didn’t get you this job to burn up the profit!” He sounded more put-upon than exasperated.
“Huh? Oh—sorry, Dad!” Alec spun around and tried to salvage the six patties charring on the grill beside him.
Maybe the black wouldn’t show if he squirted on enough mustard and catsup.
Dr. McLean, a solid three inches shorter and a flabby forty pounds more portly than his only child, rolled his pale eyes toward his purple-and-gold Lions Club hat and pried the greasy flipper from his son’s nonciphering hand. “Just forget it, boy; these are goners anyway. You might as well go home, much good you’re doing here.”
Alec frowned. “Sorry, I…I guess I’m just not with it today.”
“I guess you’re not. But do try to be tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s David’s uncle’s party!”
“Not in the morning, it isn’t! Or at night.”
“Da-aad!”
“I signed you up for thirty hours in here, and thirty you’re gonna do! Now scat! I can get by till Gary comes on board—assuming he’s on time.”
It was Alec’s turn to roll his eyes. “What would you do without the MacTyrie gang as slave labor?” he wondered aloud, as he untangled himself from his stained white apron and sidestepped his father on his way to the concession stand’s flimsy wooden door.
Dr. McLean applied himself to methodically dismembering an onion. “Darrell’s picking you up, right?”
“Yeah,”
Similar Books
