We followed Levi into the short connecting hallway, which was just as opulent as the antechamber had been. Ridiculously gaudy wall-mounted lamps of filigreed gold and silver lit the way with more spectral firelight. Nooks and crannies dotted the hall, each containing priceless artwork or otherworldly sculptures, often depicting creatures that had never walked the earth. Baroque paintings and intricate tapestries decorated the stone walls, showcasing scenes from dusty mythologies, long since forgotten by even the most studious scholars and historians.

I was the last to head into the deadly hallway and when I turned around on instinct, the door I’d just strutted through was gone. Vanished. Only endless hallway stretching off behind me for what looked like miles and miles and miles. A sick sense of dread invade my belly. I sure hoped Levi knew what he was doing and that we’d made the right call here. And by we, I meant me since I’d pushed for this.

Absently, I reached for pistol, tucked up along my side, hidden by the black leather coat trailing down past my waist. It wasn’t my coat—that hadn’t made the trip back from Hell, unfortunately—but it was still spelled leather, capable of stopping small caliber rounds even better than standard Kevlar. The god-killing weapon was nestled safely right where it belonged and that, at least, gave me some small sense of relief. Being here was a gamble, but if things really got desperate, Sullivan and I could always try to summon Lord Lugh with a binding circle and then I could threaten to murder the son of a bitch with the scythe-turned gun.

Not ideal, since I needed my few remaining rounds to deal with the Morrigan and the Savage Prophet, but it would do in a pinch.

That douchebag Lugh was nothing if not a pragmatic survivalist and being threatened with soul obliteration was a compelling motivation. It was always good to have murdery options.

I dropped my hand and turned, breaking into a slow jog to catch up with the rest of our ragtag crew. Although the hallway stretched out endlessly behind us, it only continued on straight for twenty or thirty feet before doglegging sharply to the right. Levi trailed his fingers along the dark gray walls, faltering occasionally to stop and squat, pressing his digits to the ground as though he couldn’t quite trust whatever he was feeling. We turned onto the branching hall, but before moving more than a handful of feet, Levi froze mid-stride, and did a prompt about face—

Heading back the way we’d just come.

I frowned in uncertainty, but when I turned to follow, there was now a narrow hallway that snaked away to the left. An offshoot that hadn’t been there even a few seconds before.

Ferraro shot me a nervous glance but said nothing as we backtracked into the new hallway. The walls here were devoid of art or wall hangings, and instead boasted a series of sweeping arched windows. The first looked onto wide rolling hills of green, dotted with bone-white trees covered in purple foliage. Full night had settled, but the gigantic moon overhead, paired with a host of stars, shed enough silver light to illuminate the landscape for miles. A flock of colorfully plumed birds, about the size of large quails, roosted in the tree branches.

Ferraro looked on, mouth slightly agape, and reached a hand toward the window, clearly captivated by the breathtaking view outside.

I reached out and grabbed her wrist, “Better if you don’t. Nothing here is quite what it seems. Best if we stick to the path.”

“Yeah, of course,” she murmured softly, sounding more than a little dazed. “I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

I knew what she’d been thinking, though, and drew here further from the window. I’d bet every penny in my savings account that the landscape let off some kind of glamour, designed to ensnare the unwary. Like one of those deep-sea angler fish that lured lesser prey to death with its pretty light.

The next window looked out on a wind-swept bluff, overlooking a white-capped sea with water the color of freshly spilled blood.

The window after that showcased a blighted land, studded with gnarled barren trees and sand dunes so brilliantly white they hurt to look at. It was high noon, wherever there happened to be.

Ferraro shivered and pushed as far away from the windows as she could, then checked and double checked the tactical shotgun slung across her chest.

“So, you and Lord Lugh have some previous history,” she said after walking on for another few minutes in tense silence. “I’ve never heard you talk about him before. Or coming here.”

Although she didn’t come right out and ask a question, one lingered in the air nevertheless. What the shit had happened here? Why was I so cagey? The statement, so casually tossed out, landed like a punch to the throat. She had no idea just how personal that topic was. There was a damned good reason she didn’t know about my first and last trip into Tír na nÓg and that’s because I didn’t talk about it. Not ever. With anyone. Even Sullivan, who’d been with me during that royal shitshow, knew it was a conversational No Man’s Land.

And for good reason.

The last time I’d come here, it had ruined my entire life. That was the last time I’d really been happy. The last time I’d been in good standing with the Guild and the last time Ailia had been alive and free from the Morrigan’s influence. This place and the people who called it home had turned my life upside down at the drop of a hat and I’d never recovered. Shit, I was still living in the back of a friggin’ El Camino, playing blues music for beer money more often than not. And this place was at the root of it all.

But Ferraro? She didn’t know any better.

I cleared my throat and absently rubbed at the back of my neck.

“We don’t need to talk about it,” Ferraro amended, quickly picking up on my discomfort. “Not unless you want to.” She glanced down and absently tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

“It’s the touchiest subject,” I replied as we walked down the widow filled hallway, looking out onto a host of different landscapes. Grasslands, rugged foothills, dense jungles with lush foliage. “But it’s alright. Might do me some good to talk about it.” I faltered, listening to the clomp of heavy bootsteps on marble tile. “Three of us came. Me, Sullivan, and Ailia. This was back in ’98, before everything went completely off the rails. We had a deep-ops asset go missing and the Arch-Mage got wind that one of the members of the High Court was likely behind his disappearance.”

“I take it her suspicion was right?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow, though keeping her gaze trained on the windows for any sign of potential threat.

“Got it in one, but the thing is, nothing turned out the way we thought. These Tuatha De Danann dickbags are all about subtly—every one of ’em except for the Morrigan. She’s about as subtle as an Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the face. Even then, she was stirring up shit. She was all kinds of pissed that Dagda and his brothers were working with the Guild and playing nice with the rest of humanity. So, naturally, she was planning a little coup with a bunch of dark aged horrors called the Fomorians. They enslaved humanity for a good long while, at least until a bunch of ol’ timey Druid Magi and the current Pantheon teamed up to kick them out on their collective asses.”

“Let me guess,” she said, still scanning the hallway, “your Intel asset discovered the coup and the Morrigan conveniently managed to disappear him.”

I snorted and shook my head. “Yeah, you'd think so. That’s the obvious solution but remember these Irish asswipes aren’t about the obvious. Admittedly, that’s what we thought to,” I added with a shrug. “Turns out though, that dickweed Lord Lugh was responsible for the disappearance. The asset was fine, but we didn’t know that at the time. Instead, Dagda and Lugh set us up. Moved us like friggin’ pawns on a chess board and put us firmly between the High Court and the Morrigan and her invading army. He pointed us at her like attack dogs.”

Ferraro and I talked as Levi lead us deeper and deeper into the warren of interconnecting passageways. Levi moved slowly, methodically, always tracing his fingers along the walls or pausing to consult with the floors. The turns were seemingly at random, a left here, a right there, only to double back and retrace our steps exactly, which inexplicably brought us to sections of hallway that we’d never seen before. The hall of windows gave way to one lined with suits of gleaming armor from ever period of history. Meanwhile, I moved slowly through the string of disastrous events that eventually lead to our final showdown with the Morrigan.

Ferraro visibly paled, her brow furrowing. “Cavalo,” she swore under her breath as I finished. “So the Morrigan assumed you were siding with Dagda and Lugh, even though the Guild and a specific non-intervention policy for Court Politics.”

“Bingo.” I shot her a finger gun. “But there was no explaining that to the Morrigan. By the time she showed up, guns blazing, and with an army of nightmares at her back, it was either fight or die. Truth be told, we never would’ve survived at all if King Dagda hadn’t busted out some ancient trinkets that let me, Sullivan, and Ailia swing way outside of our weight class. It was a clusterfuck, is what it was. Sullivan had to drag my ass out of Tír na nÓg before I could bring the whole place down around us. Ailia though…”

I cleared my throat and trailed off as Levi ushered us into a massive library—not a room proper, but a narrow hallway—with ornate bookcases stretching up and up and up, spanning impossible heights.

I’d told Ferraro more than I’d told just about anyone else, but I couldn’t tell her about what the Morrigan had done in the end. I could see it in my head, though. Just like it had happened yesterday. Ailia’s body dangling from the Morrigan’s scythe blade, her back arched, legs limp, arms splayed out. Face a portrait of shock and pain as dark-crimson blood frothed at her lips and poured down her chin and neck. I could see her mouthing the words I’m sorry. I love you.

That should’ve been the end of it. A quick clean death. Ugly, brutal, final.

But the Morrigan was more than some random godling. She was the Irish War-Walker. The Raven Lady. The Chooser of the Slain. She could’ve let Ailia pass, but instead she cursed her with life. Chose her body as a fleshly vessel—not so different than when Azazel had been in the driver seat of my body—just to spite me.

I couldn’t say that to Ferraro, though, so I let the heavy silence speak for me instead.

Ferraro, being smart enough to read my body language, didn’t press the issue. That was one of the many things I liked about her—she was okay with quiet and with giving me the space I needed.

The hallway-turned-library continued straight as an arrow for damned near a mile or more before eventually giving way to dark wooden walls, covered with glass display cases that depicted dusty tomes, cuneiform tablets, and a number of Egyptian-looking artifacts—everything from bracelets and necklaces to daggers and clay pots. Every item looked like itbelonged inside of the Smithsonian. Small bronzed plaques engraved with fanciful script, further solidified the notion that this section of the halls was some sort of museum, but the text was in some tight, looping script I didn’t recognize.

I knew if I really wanted too, I could’ve asked Azazel, but there was nothing in here worth the price he would demand.

I slipped away from the rear of the party and jogged to catch up with Levi who was still diligently trudging onward. He didn’t seem to be particularly concerned by the fact that we’d been hoofing it for what felt like hours, but I sure as hell was. Time could flow funny in places like Tír na nÓg, so it probably wasn’t as long as it seemed back in the real world, but we were working with a shot clock. The Morrigan’s fancy-ass cocktail party was going to happen whether we had the Scion or not and we still knew next to nothing.

“So,” I said, dropping a hand on his shoulder, feeling the unyielding flesh beneath my fingers. “Any idea how long this is gonna take?”

He shrugged my hand off.

“The hallways keep on shifting,” he grumbled, fingers still ghosting along the wall. “It’s like the place is actively trying to keep us from whatever’s at the center of the maze.”

The center had to be the throne room, which stood at the very heart of Tír na nÓg. The Dreamwood throne seemed to be inexplicable bound to the Land of the Young and that was almost certainly where we’d find Dagda and Lugh.

“But we’re getting close now.” He nodded his head, a strange half-smile quirking his lips. “Earth calls to earth, stone to stone. Won’t be too much longer now.”

By the time we finally wandered the twisting labyrinth of artifacts and antiques, my stomach was grumbling like a hound that hadn’t gotten a decent meal in a week.

And I wasn’t the only one, either.

I saw Sullivan absently running a hand along his stomach and Ferraro was licking her lips as though thoughts of greasy cheeseburgers were dancing through her head. Only Levi seemed immune to the feeling drifting so heavily in the air. That was about the time I noticed the smell. A heady aroma of grilled meat, blackened char, and tangy sauce all tangoing together in perfect harmony. The scent only got more intense as we moved.

Like someone was throwing the grandest barbeque on the planet.

In the space of a single step, glass-fronted cases and wall plaques peeled away like a magician’s flourish, revealing an oversized dining hall. The walls were bare, a platoon of crystal chandeliers dangled from the arched ceilings at ten-foot intervals. Warm golden light spilled from the chandeliers and onto an enormous mahogany table with highbacked, velvet padded chairs all running around the outside.

The damned thing could’ve fit a hundred guests, easy.

And much to my surprise, most of the seats were filled with men and women, all smiling politely and talking quietly—sharing soft laughs—as silverware clinked on porcelain plates. None of the guests seemed to notice our appearance or if they did, they didn’t care in the slightest. And it was hard to blame them. They had one helluva feast to occupy their attention. Enormous silver dishes and finely tooled platters ran down the center of the table, each one near to overflowing with meats and breads, assorted desserts, fruits and soups and sauces of every kind.

I’ve always been an eater. Aside from good company, good music, and good bourbon there is nothing in the world I enjoy more than a good meal.

And this was a meal for the ages.

I found my mouth watering as my gaze skipped from plate to plater to bowl. Braised short ribs and full racks slathered in deep red barbeque sauce. Fried catfish and shrimp po’boys with dipping sauce. Juicy pulled pork sitting ever so temptingly between toasted golden brioche buns. Hot cornbread, golden and slathered in butter, perched beside a heap of crispy hushpuppies. It was everything I ever could’ve asked for and more than I could ever possibly eat. The rumbling in my belly was thunderous now, blocking out almost every other sound.

The sharp clink-clink-clink of a knife rapping on the side of a crystal champagne flute brought everything back into focus, although it did nothing to dispel the ravenous hunger taking root in my belly.

A prodigiously fat man at the very head of the table stood from his seat. He was sharply dressed, though his attire was wildly out of date. He wore high-waisted pants and a dour vest that wrapped around his bulk. A top hat and a silky tailcoat completed the look. His face was somehow gaunt, despite his girthy frame, though bushy mutton chops cut through the serve angles of his cheeks.

“New guests!” he boomed, voice warm and welcoming. “My but it feels like an age since we’ve had new guests.” For the first time, the other partygoers stopped eating and turned their faces toward us. Toward the newcomers. They were smiling, but those smiles never quite seemed to reach their eyes which were somehow hazy and vacant.

“What is this place,” I choked out, ignoring the tantalizing scent of the food and the ever-increasing desire to take a seat and pull up a plate.

“A way station of sorts,” the standing host said with a grin, spreading his hands out in invitation. “The halls can be a treacherous place you know. Oh yes. So hard to navigate. Death by starvation is a very really possibility. So our hall travels about as it were, seeking out the wayward in their time of need. We merely seek to offer a moment of reprieve and merriment before you continue on your journey.”

“Yes,” Sullivan said, his voice flat, “a moment of reprieve. That sounds rather lovely, old sport.”

“We can’t stay,” Ferraro said, teeth gritted as she forced herself away from the table. “We’re looking for King Dagda. Do you know where he is?”

“Well of course,” the man said, sticking his thumbs into the ample waistline of his trousers. “If you’re looking for his Majesty, you’ve done a remarkably good job. In our current position, we are the last room before the throne—but surely, you’re tired from your long and arduous journey, no? Come. Sit. Just a moment, of course. Have a bite before carrying on. It won’t take more than a few minutes to eat your fill.” He paused, offering us a wide smile that briefly appeared to be filled with a few too many teeth. “Besides, I find it’s always best to have a full belly before dealing with any sort of tribulation and confronting King Dagda will certainly be that. Tribulation of the grandest order.”

“Well that sounds reasonable enough,” Sullivan said lurching toward one of the open seats. “We’ll have to eat at some point and this meal does look incredible.”

“No.” Levi stepped forward and latched on the Sullivan’s arm with an unshakable grip. “I’m afraid we’ll need to decline. We have places to be. We’re close and the way could shift any time.”

“Come now, don’t be rude,” the portly gentleman urged, though less friendly than before. “Sit. Eat. I insist. Please don’t make a poor host of me.”

“We did intrude on his party,” Ferraro said, though the words caught in her throat. “We’re basically walking through his living room and he’s been kind enough to invite us to share his meal.”

Her words set of warning bells inside my head.

That didn’t sound at all like Ferraro. I mean, the woman could certainly eat with a gusto—and she enjoyed a steak as much as the next person—but she was the definition of mission oriented. Plus, she had absolutely no problem with being rude. She’d once invaded Old Man Winter’s home and knee-capped him with a shotgun full of iron and salt. And when he got uppity about it, she did it again.

Ahead, Sullivan was actively fighting to get past Levi and take one of the seats while Ferraro was gracelessly lumbering toward an open chair like a sleepwalker on unsteady legs. Her shottie hanging at her side, completely forgotten, her guard entirely down.

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

The smell, invading my nostrils, made it hard to think, but that was just another warning sign. A little voice whispered somewhere in the back of my mind and although I couldn’t quite make the words out it seemed to jar something loose inside me. Or maybe, it knocked something into place. I’d felt power like this before—only a time or two, understand—but I’d nearly died on both occasions so it was impossible to forget the sensation. The first time had been back in the jungles of Vietnam in ’69, during my last month in country.

When I’d lost more friends than I could count. All driven insane by unearthly music, impossibly drifting up from the tangles of Vietnamese bush.

And the last time had been during a trip deep into Tylwyth-Tir, the capital of Anwnn, land of the Unfettered Fae. When I’d finally come face to face with the Sirens who’d killed my buddies forties years earlier.

The Sirens could use their music to worm their way inside your head. To corrupt your thoughts and compel you to do even the most heinous acts. It was a powerful type of compulsion mixed with a slick sheen of glamour to misdirect potential victims until it was too late to do anything about it. This was the same. But instead of music, it was food. The smell of childhood, the aroma of happiness. I’d never heard of a Siren that ensnared the unwary with a banquet, but there was one other creature of Irish folklore that fit the bill…

The Fear Gorta.

Up ahead, Levi was now actively struggling with Sullivan, physically restraining him. The golem had his arms wrapped firmly around the man’s chest, lifting his feet from the floor, pinning him in place with a tight, unyielding bearhug. But he wasn’t the only concern. Ferraro looked half-crazed as well, a hungry glint in her eyes as she stalked forward. I couldn’t let her take a seat and I sure as shit couldn’t let her sink her teeth into any of the food lining the table.

The smell was still clawing at my nose, enticing me with every breath, but with an effort of sheer will, I pushed my ravenous cravings aside and broke into motion. Positioning my body in front of hers, blocking her way toward an open chair. But it was hard. There was definitely a fog clouding my head, masking my thoughts. Thankfully, I’d become surprisingly competent with mind influencing constructs and, after dealing with Azazel’s corrupting presence for so long, I was more aware than most when something was whispering a malicious thought into my ear.

I focused my thoughts, pulling in Vis and Nox in equal measures, quickly weaving a scalpel of fire, spirit, and earth then turning the destructive construct on the power wafting through the air. Now that I knew what to look for, it was easy to sense the threads of power permeating the air like a gentle breeze, and it was just as easy to slice through them with my invisible blade of conjured power. As the hungry weaves parted like silk, something further clicked inside my skull, a key turning over the tumblers in a lock, and the hunger disappeared in a heartbeat.

That wasn’t the only thing that disappeared either.

I’d been right about the glamour and now I could see the dining hall for what it was.

A feast for the dead and damned.

I glanced back over my shoulder at the table and nearly vomited onto the floor. The table was covered in a thick layer of dust, and though there was food, it was nothing anyone would ever want to eat. Rotten meats covered in writhing maggots. Moldering fruit, and platers of yellowing bones. Human arms and legs, charred and carefully arranged for the partygoers hunkered down in their seats. The party guests had likewise undergone a transformation of their own. The smiling men and women had been replaced by the emaciated remains of mortals and halfies who had fallen for the bait and taken a place at a meal that never ended.

Piled in front of them were mounds of intestine—their own intestine—which the zombified creatures ate and ate and ate, filling themselves up but never being full.

“Oh my god,” Ferraro cursed. She stumbled away from the table, hands instantly flying toward her shottie as the spell lost its sway over her thoughts. “What the hell happened?” She pressed her eyes shut for a moment and shook her head as though she couldn’t believe what we were seeing. “What the hell is this?”

“A dirty friggin’ trap is what it is,” I growled, turning my gaze to the host at the far end of the table. He too had changed when I broke the glamour. His belly was larger than ever, straining against his food stained suit. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes beady black balls set deep into his face, and his mouth was a gapping slit filled with rows upon rows of teeth.

“You could’ve made this easy,” the creature hissed. “But apparently easy isn’t part of your vocabulary.” He reached up with oddly skeletal fingers, tugging on the lapels of his long-tailed jacket. “Lugh was right about you, but I think you can be persuaded to eat yet. And if not”—he grinned and shrugged beefy shoulders—“then you can contribute to the feast in other ways.” His dark eyes darted to the charred limbs decorating the serving platters.

“This is an ill-advised choice,” Sullivan said, finally back in his right mind. “Our business is with Dagda, not you. But if you make our business with you…” he trailed off and pulled free a silvered blade from his cane. “You will sorely regret it.”

“Though it’s gonna be the last thing you ever regret,” Levi said, his face now burning with a very different kind of hunger, one that hadn’t been present a few seconds before. As a golem, Levi never hungered for food, but there was one thing he had a substantial appetite for: killing. Particularly the nasty things that preyed on innocent humans.

The Fear Gorta licked its thin lips with a black tongue. “I only ever have one concern and it is the feast. You’ll make a fine meal,” he chortled.