Once a fear dearg discovered a liking for some bit of cruelty, he never lost his taste for it.
If only the iron weapon had arrived! What was she to do?
“Now”—the Crimson Man took a single step closer—“how to rid myself of both you and that ridiculous haberdasher at once.”
“What has that rogue to do with anything?”
“He knows what I am, just as I know what he is.” The fear dearg flipped back one side of his cape. “I suspect I’ll have to invite him to cook dinner.”
Invite him to cook dinner. She knew what that meant. Every Irish child knew what that meant. Any human invited to cook dinner for a Crimson Man found themselves roasting a fellow human over a spit. And if Royston were invited to cook, she’d no doubt she would be the unfortunate main course.
The new position of the squire’s cape revealed something Tallulah had not seen him carrying before: a burlap bag. She ought to have known he had one. All fear dearg carried them. Always. And always for the same purpose: kidnapping and hauling off their human victims. If she was seeing it now, then she was moments away from being stuffed inside.
“I’ve delayed this bit of mischief for a long time.” Mischief. Not a strong enough word for what she knew would come next when that burlap sack appeared.
There was a means of preventing it, though. She had been told there was. But what was the method? It didn’t stop fear dearg entirely, but it prevented being kidnapped. Heavens, what was it?
“You played me a dirty trick sending off the little ones.” His hand inched back toward his bag. “I do know that children are delicious.”
It was something she was meant to say. Her gran had told her. ’Twas a particular phrase.
He came closer, reaching for the bag.
What was it? What was it?
His free hand reached for her. Once he caught hold, there would be no escape.
Across the years, the voice of her gran whispered to her. Tallulah spoke her words as they entered her thoughts. “Na dean fochmoid fàin.”
He froze, his expression turning putrid with anger. “That will save you from the confines of my burlap bag, but you may very well wish you were there.”
The chairs at the table flew at her. She dove out of the way, only to have something else deal her a blow. She could hear the heavy, scurrying footsteps of the Crimson Man. He couldn’t abduct her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t kill her.
She groped around until she found something heavy that could fit in her hand—a shattered chair leg. Tallulah rolled enough to lean on her opposite hip and swing the leg with all her might at the fear dearg. He nearly toppled but managed to remain on his rat-like feet.
The stumble was enough to grant her time to scramble to her feet, the chair leg—now cracked—still in her hand.
He spun about with a jerk, eyes glowing so brightly the entire shop was lit in red. “I am tiring of these games.”
“Perhaps we ought to stop playing.”
He shook his head, no longer bearing even a shadow of human shape. “My games end only one way.”
“With me on a spit?”
A grotesque grin grew on his rat face. “I will enjoy that. I’ll have to continue playing after you are gone.”
Once fear dearg had a taste for something . . .
Royston stepped into the shop. “I propose, rather, we continue playing after you are gone.”
“You will be easier to defeat,” the Crimson Man declared. “You haven’t the fire of this one.”
“Perhaps not, but I do have this.” He raised a mighty axe.
The monster was unconcerned. “‘Though blade of stone or axe of steel, the Crimson Man you’ll never kill.’”
Royston’s face filled with pity. “How very misinformed you are.”
With a chuckle that sent ripples of dread through every inch of Tallulah, the fear dearg threw his rodent head backward in amusement.
“I need him within swinging distance,” Royston mouthed.
She circled back, holding her pitiful chair leg with as much confidence as she could muster. The monster eyed her doubtfully, amusedly. She swung the leg with no intention of actually hitting him.
“How very pathetic,” their enemy said. “And how very futile.”
“I am protected from your bag,” she said. “I must protect him.”
Realization filled those glowing red eyes. Tallulah swung more frantically, more wildly. With annoyance, he stepped farther from her, but not near enough to Royston.
The supposed rogue held the axe firmly in both hands, eyeing his target with a firmness of purpose that belied his assumed character.
“He is not safe from my bag.” The fear dearg cackled and turned. “Abandon your pathetic axe. It will avail you nothing.”
“I like it,” Royston said, securing his grip. “It is unlike any weapon I’ve yet yielded.”
Claws on his burlap bag, the Crimson Man began to close the gap between him and Royston. “And you and your unique weapon can both turn over a fire.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Royston said. “Iron can be difficult to digest.”
The fear dearg stopped, frozen to the spot.
Tallulah took a giant step forward and swung the splintered leg hard against his back, sending him reeling forward. Royston did not miss his opportunity.
A swing of the axe.
An otherworldly cry.
The shaking of the very ground.
Then all was still, and dark, and quiet.
Rain began falling during their walk home. Vera’s umbrella was in no state to offer the least protection, so they arrived at the flat more than a little wet. Brogan emerged from his bedchamber, changed and dry; Vera was still in hers. Any doubt that he still looked a sight was put to rest when Móirín spotted him and immediately laughed.
“You should’ve seen me before I changed,” he said. “M’best suit ruined, and I don’t know if it’ll ever recover.”
“You’re fretting over your clothes, but you’d do best to clean up your face.”
Brogan eyed his vague reflection in the window. A bit of dirt and likely blood was smeared across his forehead. That had probably happened during the fight with Four-Finger Mike. His hat hadn’t offered him much protection from the rain, but it had managed to prevent that smudge from washing away.
Móirín tossed him a dish rag. He scrubbed his face with it.