Gideon's Spear by Darby Karchut

impression his wealth gives him the right to speak his mind. About everything.”
    â€œLochlan’s dad?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œGreat. I bet Lochlan is just like him, then.”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œHow come they have more money than us if we all get the same monthly what-do-you-call-it?”
    â€œ Stipend . And although all Tuatha De Danaan have an equal claim to the gold reserves our people have accumulated over the centuries, some choose to supplement their income in other ways. Martin O’Neill dabbles a bit in the stock market.”
    Entering downtown High Springs, they slowed and inched their way through the rush-hour traffic. Gideon searched for an empty spot along the sidewalk. After ten minutes, he gave up and pulled into a city parking lot a few blocks from the pub.
    They walked through a crowd full of people in business attire; most held cell phones to their ears. The sun glared off the western windows of the tall office buildings and heated the streets below. A few bicycle riders braved the streets, the tick-tick-tick of chains and gears surprisingly clear over the rumble of traffic.
    â€œHere we go.” Gideon stopped in front of a dark green door flanked on both sides by tall windows. The name, Jack Quinn’s , was spelled out in golden letters above the transom. Stepping into the foyer, they paused. A packed bar took up one entire wall of the narrow restaurant.
    A hostess hurried up, several menus in one hand. “ Céad mile fáilte ,” she said, mangling its pronunciation so badly even Finn winced. “Two for dinner?”
    â€œActually, we’re meeting others.” Gideon peered past the hostess’ shoulder. A bellow of laughter from the far end of the room caught their attention. Mac Roth. “They would be them.”
    They edged through the mob clustered at the bar and headed toward a large table tucked in the back corner. Several people sat around it. As they neared, a booming voice called out.
    â€œâ€˜Tis time ye two graced us with yer company.” Mac Roth beamed at them from the far side. A boy about Finn’s age sat at his elbow. Next to the boy at the head of the table, a man rose to his feet.
    â€œA fine evening to you, Gideon Lir.”
    â€œAnd to you, Martin O’Neill.”
    Martin O’Neill’s sandy hair was streaked with gray. About the same height as Gideon, his expensive leather jacket couldn’t hide an expanding waist. “My wife, Etta Riley O’Neill,” he said, gesturing to the woman seated on his left.
    Gideon inclined his head. “Madam.”
    â€œ Fáilte , Knight Lir,” she said, her smile as warm as her strawberry hair. “And this must be Finnegan MacCullen.”
    â€œHi.” He smiled back. “And, um, I go by Finn, not Finnegan.”
    â€œFinn, then. Our son, Lochlan.” She gestured toward the boy.
    Fair-haired like all the O’Neills, Lochlan raised a hand in greeting. “Hello, Knight Lir. Finn.” His eyes widened when he caught the flash of gold around Finn’s throat as they sat down across from him. A waiter hustled over and took their requests. Everyone ordered Jack Quinn’s famous fish and chips.
    â€œAnd to drink?” the waiter asked.
    Mac Roth and the O’Neills ordered beer. Lochlan asked for a soft drink. Gideon ordered iced tea for himself and for Finn.
    â€œAre you not celebrating with us, then, Gideon?”
    â€œAye, I am,” he replied to Martin O’Neill’s question. “But I can toast your son’s apprenticeship with tea as easily as with a Guinness.”
    As Martin O’Neill pulled the waiter to one side to give him instruction concerning the bill, Mac Roth leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice.
    â€œWhy the teetotaler routine?”
    â€œI do not drink alcohol if I have Finn in the truck with me,” Gideon said simply.
    Mac Roth’s face fell. “Bleedin’