“This way, Finn!” Donal said over his shoulder.

They had reached the crossing, and Donal heard his brother’s footsteps soften, as if he was running west towards home. Donal would not look back to confirm it on the chance he’d see the dullahan catching up.

“Why aren’t we going home?” Finn yelled from behind.

Siobhan had caught them in the hesitation. Donal fell in line and followed her.

“We’ll explain everything as we’re riding away,” she said.

“That’s kind of their way,” Donal said.

He ignored the glare from the side of Siobhan’s eye.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “I assume so, anyway.”

“Did you say, ‘their?’ Who else is involved?” Finn asked.

“Run now. Talk later,” Siobhan said.

It was something on which everyone could agree. They spent the last two minutes in a dead run; their strides and breathing were labored. Donal pointed to Murrough’s wagon as it appeared on the horizon.

“I see you found my wayward nephew,” Murrough said as they arrived.

Nobody answered. Siobhan bypassed the back of the wagon and leaped into the empty seat next to Murrough. Donal flopped into the cargo area. Finn rested his elbows on the back of the wagon and gulped for air after every word of his question.

“Why aren’t we going home?”

“Your home is too close to risk it following us,” Murrough said. “We need to put some distance between it and us. And going home risks getting cut off from the east, where we’ll need to go anyway. Get in, please.”

Finn looked behind, shook his head, then climbed in the back. Murrough had the horse in full gallop before his last passenger was fully seated.

The group rolled through Ards Beg. Donal’s eyes fixed on the road behind as he scanned for any signs of the dullahan. Siobhan studied Finn for most of the ride, a look of concern on her face. Finn said nothing, but scowled at the darkened buildings that passed the wagon on both sides. Once they left town, his eyes returned to the marks on his wrists.

A road merged from the south. They had entered Gortahork, a town twice the size of the last, yet Murrough continued to fan the reins.

“We’re not stopping here?” Donal asked. “Maybe someone can help us.”

Finn scoffed.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Not intentionally,” Finn said.

“The area that the dullahan must search for us grows with every mile we add,” Murrough said. “We’re traveling far enough to ensure an uninterrupted rest.”

“And where would that be?” Finn said. “Derry?”

Murrough either misheard or ignored the tone in Finn’s voice.

“Good idea, but we’d never make it by sunrise.” Murrough said. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there in only a little while.”

They skirted the southeast side of the bay. Donal knew the Crossroads lied around the next bend. He faced his body forward in anticipation as Murrough slowed the wagon. They turned north instead, toward the fields of Ballyconnell.

The scenery no longer alternated between untended treelines and cities. Here, north of the Crossroads, fields and ranches sprawled in three directions. Most were as barren as their counterparts on the west side of the bay.

The road curved back and followed the bay’s eastern edge towards the sea. They slowed once more and headed down a private drive, toward the nicest house Donal had seen all night. In truth, it was two houses of differing sizes connected by a smaller structure in the middle.

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The roofs were covered in stone shingles, not thatch, and a proper chimney poked out of the center of each larger structure. Matching entrances protruded from either side and every window was lined by shutters trimmed with pain-staked detail. Donal found no spots of discoloration on the cladding. Set against the backdrop of the moonlit bay, he would have forgiven anyone who thought the owner of this house owned the entire area.

“Do we know these people?” Finn asked Murrough. “I can’t imagine anyone would be keen on the four of us arriving unannounced at this time of night.”

Siobhan smirked and looked back at Finn.

“It’ll be fine,” she said. “We’ll put in a good word for you with the owners.”

The door on the right opened as the wagon rolled to stop. The shadow of the person standing on the threshold wasn’t tall enough to keep the warm light from spilling onto the ground in front of them. A female voice called out.

“You’re late.”

Siobhan hopped down from her seat.

“Calm down, Mam,” she said. “I told you we’d all survive. Besides, it’s Finn’s fault we’re late.”

She looked back in time to see Finn roll his eyes.

****

It had been weeks since Donal tasted meat, but he was too hungry to savor it. Siobhan joined her three guests resting at the table. The bowls in front of them sat empty—save for the stray sliver of purple carrot.

“The stew was delicious, Mrs. MacSweeney,” Finn said.

He elbowed Donal and gestured toward the widow with a swing of his head.

“Yeah, it was grand,” Donal said. “Thanks.”

He slammed his eyebrows down at Finn and mouthed, “Happy?” His brother shook his head and looked away.

“It was nothing at all,” the widow said over her shoulder as she attended to something across the room.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Siobhan asked her mother.

“Nonsense. You rest. Your brother and I can deal to this.”

Donal leaned back in his chair. Manners aside, his brother was poor company. Finn leaned forward in his chair. His mouth was as flat as the table that held his gaze. The insides of his brows dipped to meet the wrinkled bridge of his nose as he massaged his wrists. He survived a situation he ought not have yet there was no gratitude or relief on his face.

The mad swirl of the past few hours settled into a timeline in Donal’s memory as the adrenaline wore off. He considered his brother’s ordeal, what little he knew. The longer he did so, the larger his need for distraction grew. His concentration broke and his eyes wandered around the main room of the MacSweeney house.

An open hearth warmed the room from the center as it would in Donal’s house, but there the similarities ended. Several walking sticks leaned in a corner next to the threshold. An especially ornate stick hung on the front wall above a mounted buckler covering two crossed spears. Several other spears were propped in the other corner.

Across the room from his seat, a cracked door offered a glimpse into another room dedicated to preparing food. The door to its left likely was used for storage. The widow and one of Siobhan’s older brothers worked at a counter between the doors. Above her head hung a shelf packed with toys made from cloth and wood. The toys were the only things in the room that were worn or frayed.

Between the two windows on the back wall, another shelf held small books and parchment. The wall behind him divided the sleeping area from the rest of the house. The home was cluttered, yet nothing seemed out of place.

The hosts finished their work. The brother grabbed a book from the shelf and Mrs. MacSweeney dismissed him to the sleeping area with a peck on the cheek. She crossed the room and sat at the head of the table with the boys on her left, Siobhan and Murrough on her right.

“What’s this nonsense about Finn making you late?” she asked Siobhan.

Donal bristled at the casual nature of the question. Finn’s face darkened. They were the only two reacting to the madness they left in Ards Beg with the proper perspective.

“That’s a fine way to describe being nabbed and held by a fella with no head!” he said.

“A dullahan?” Mrs. MacSweeney asked. “Murrough, did you know about this?”

“We didn’t know they were capable of summoning that kind of help,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Finn,” the widow said. “I didn’t know. What happened?”

Finn recounted his capture west of Gortahork, his ride through Ards Beg and his time in the portal tomb.

“And then Donal of all people comes bounding in,” he said.

It wasn’t a poetic ending but Finn showed little interest in continuing. Donal glared at Siobhan once he noticed the smirk on her face.

“You asked the dullahan a question?” she asked. “What did you expect for an answer?”

“Excuse me?” Finn said. “By my count that would be only the fourth-strangest thing that happened tonight—right behind Donal’s rainbow knife throw, lightning nearly hitting Siobhan and a damned dullahan jumping out of a storybook to drag me to a tomb!”

The widow raised an eyebrow in Murrough’s direction.

“‘Rainbow throw,’ he says?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Murrough said.

Finn pushed his palms against the eyes and then pointed his hands to the ceiling.

“Dya’not hear the other two things I mentioned?”

“We did,” Murrough said. “The knife throw is the only one of the three I can’t explain—directly, at least.”

Finn’s eyes widened. His nostrils flared. The corners of his mouth quivered as if questions in his mind were delayed somewhere along the way out. Instead, he wobbled his head and threw himself backwards into his chair and immediately lurched forward with a grunt.

“You’re not hurt—are ya, boyo?” Murrough asked.

“The dullahan caught me in the back with his whip.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that?” Mrs. MacSweeney said. “We can’t read your mind after all!”

Finn’s face disappeared into his hand and his head shook. Donal gave his brother a soft pat on the arm with the heel of his fist.