The Shattered Mirror (Winter's Blight Book 4)

by M. C. Aquila

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Info

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Final Words

  The Shattered Mirror

  By

  M.C. Aquila and K.C. Lannon

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Shattered Mirror copyright © 2020 by M.C. Aquila and K.C. Lannon. All rights reserved.

  The Shattered Mirror is the fourth installment in a six-book YA Urban Fantasy series, Winter’s Blight.

  Though Deirdre, James, and Iain have finally reached the Summer Court after a perilous journey across England, they find their greatest challenges await them inside. While Deirdre fights to regain and control her stolen magic, Iain must participate in the dangerous Wild Hunt to prove his claims. James continues his quest for magic and power, which leads him to befriend the monstrous Cait Sidhe

  Chapter One

  Twenty-seven Years Ago

  Alan Callaghan had heard tales of the Winter Court passed down from the older generations, spoken like ghost stories to frighten children into staying home where it was safe and warm. However, no man alive had glimpsed the cursed Court and could speak of it. Only thralls knew the horrors inside, and their mouths were sealed by trauma.

  It was said that taking one step into the Winter Court was to never know happiness again. It was said that to look upon the Winter King could make a man die of fear. It was said that one could lose his way and wander forever in the desolate lands as a lifeless shell.

  When he overheard this being discussed by the other soldiers in the late-night hours, Alan had remarked dryly from his bunk, “Sounds like an average day in Neo-London. Have you ever been inside a government building?”

  “Does anything rattle you, Callaghan?” one of the men in his squadron asked, chuckling.

  “Oh, plenty of things. Long queues. Dating. Running out of tea…”

  At the age of nineteen, it was assumed by his superiors that Alan’s calm was born of arrogance, like that of other fresh recruits. But unlike the other young soldiers in his garrison of the recently formed Iron Guard, Alan was convinced he had nothing else to lose, even on a mission to the Winter Court.

  It was rumored to be located somewhere in the Shetland mainland. The islands were nearly abandoned, partially because of its barrenness and partially because of the rumors of death surrounding the area that spread like a shadow. When the Iron Guard squadron arrived by ship the next morning for a rescue mission, only the howling wind greeted them. The instant they arrived, sleet began to fall.

  “Our mission today may sound simple, but this area and the monsters here are unpredictable,” the commander in charge warned the squadron before they departed the ship. “Twelve hours ago, three children went missing from their home in Lerwick. Drag marks were found leading from the yard and vanishing, as if they were spirited away. This kind of behavior is typical of Unseelie hounds, and they are likely to have a den nearby. We must act quickly to save the children, but it is understood that we will likely be retrieving what’s left of their bodies.”

  Armed with iron artillery, the squadron tracked a large pack of black hounds back to its den, following the sporadic imprints of their savage claws in the frosty ground. The baying of the hounds was lost in the constant, deafening roar of the wind, and the squadron was caught in an ambush before it reached the den. The pack of feral dogs attacked, swift and hidden by the sleet, and ripped flesh and sinew from bone in a flash.

  The firearms were useless in a situation like this, when visibility was low and the vicious hounds could appear in and out of the sleet unnoticed, quick as lightning. When the commander was gravely injured with a messy bite to his collarbone, the squadron retreated; the dogs followed for a while but let them leave with their wounded. Alan assumed that was because they still had a prize in their den to distract them.

  “The children may still be alive, Commander. You need to send us back in.” Alan wasted no time, not even waiting until the man was fully patched up by the medic. “During the fallout of the Cataclysm, there were all manner of Fae monsters roaming the city, absorbing the radiation and feeding off survivors.”

  The commander gaped at him, the common response when anyone mentioned the tragedy, still an open wound in many hearts.

  “I saw a pack of black dogs digging through the rubble after the Cataclysm for bodies,” Alan pressed on. “The only areas they stayed away from were where the buildings were still burning. They had an aversion to fire. I assume these hounds here fear it as well. With respect, I suggest you send us back in, with flamethrowers this time, and we ambush them.”

  With only one flamethrower in the supplies, which was dangerous to use because the wind might turn against them, the rest of the uninjured squadron was armed with makeshift torches, rags soaked with kerosene tied around iron batons. The hounds had been able to hear them over the wind before, so they blasted radio static from the ship, too high for humans to hear, to distract them.

  They managed to catch the hounds by surprise, assaulting them with heavy artillery fire. Any hounds that got through were beaten down with the flaming torches. The hounds had some survival instincts, and most fled the cave den after seeing their flesh and fur melting from their bodies from the heat of the flames.

  The squadron searched the den, but only remains were left behind, scattered about the cave in piles of animal bones. The sight, mixed with the oppressive atmosphere of the land, brought most of the soldiers to their breaking point; several walked away, unable to look. Those who could bear it carefully collected the remains and made to leave.

  “There were only two of them in there.” Alan halted outside the cave. “Only two of three bodies. The last child may still be alive.”

  “Maybe they already… finished the last one,” an ashen-faced soldier said in a low voice.

  But upon searching the area outside the cave, they found fresher, faint marks on the ground. They could have been drag marks or footprints, but it was difficult to tell when the wind was already in the process of wiping them clean from the earth.

  “We will follow these and look for the child,” Alan announced, taking his rifle from his shoulder and arming up. He pointed in the direction where the tracks led farther north. “They can’t take everything from us again. Not from this family. We cannot let them.”

  “The Winter Court is that way, Callaghan.” One of the soldiers grabbed his shoulder. “The closer humans get to it, the faster they deteriorate. You heard the stories last night. It’s nothing but misery, desolation,
and death out there. The child is already dead, and you’ll be too if you go after it.”

  Alan’s mouth twitched into an empty, sad smile. “Death and desolation? I’ve known nothing else since the Cataclysm.”

  As he headed out, following the tracks, the same soldier said to him in parting, “If you want to die, Callaghan, there are less torturous ways to do it.”

  The constant barrage of wind and sleet slowed his pace and hindered his vision as Alan kept charging into the wild, empty wasteland. At first he thought the reason he was not being attacked was because he hadn’t been spotted, but he soon realized he was being followed on both sides by creatures.

  They only appeared at first out of the corner of his eye, like floaters in his vision, darting behind ancient, lichen-covered boulders to his left and right. He heard growls and snarls over the wind and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. The wind was like a continual guttural and inhuman scream. If hell existed, Alan thought it must be the Winter Court.

  Maybe I did come here to die. But if I die, then no one will see justice done. No one will make them pay. He clung to that final thought with all his might and kept moving forward.

  Amid the hungrily darting shadows of the creatures following him, there was a larger one eliminating the others, lithe and quick. If he heard a snarl come close to him, it was not long before it was cut off with a yelp. When he turned once in a kind of dazed panic to glimpse what it was, he only saw a flash of yellow eyes in the gray mist and sleet.

  Eyes watching him.

  The tracks led him to an ancient stone structure like an uncovered tomb in a sunken circle of earth. The sleeting ceased and the wind died, leaving the air still and dry. The tomb was half-collapsed into the ground and surrounded by a henge. Upon seeing the large dark opening looking like a crooked mouth about to devour him, Alan’s body shuddered as if it had forgotten to breathe and pump blood through his icy veins.

  His heart jolted back alive when the large blue-black body of a leopard slunk right by him and darted into the entrance to the Winter Court. The creature’s tail swished behind it, its yellow eyes flashing as it glanced back at Alan.

  A Cait Sidhe.

  In moments, a strange man emerged from the jagged maw of the tomb, dressed in a black eighteenth-century military uniform with tassels and gold buttons. The man looked no older than Alan and nothing like a soldier, with his long hair tied up in a bun at the nape of his neck. While the front of his jacket was littered with medals, they were from different countries and military factions. They were arranged in a meaningless, careless array, like a child’s collection of trinkets.

  “Well, you’re not going to give up now, are you, darling?” The man’s words pierced through the wind effortlessly, his gleaming gold eyes the same as the Cait Sidhe. “You’ve come all this way for a reason.”

  “A reason?” Alan rasped, the air so dry and dead that he could barely speak. Then he remembered the mission he was on only hours ago. It felt like days now. “The child… I’m here for the child.”

  The man nodded. “I took the little girl from the hounds surrounding you. But that’s not the only reason you came.”

  Clenching his fists at his sides, some of the cold desolation fled from Alan as the spark of anger rekindled in his chest. “I’m here for answers. I’m here for an audience with the Winter King.”

  “Then come with me”—the man stretched out his hand, sneering—“and I’ll take you to him. You are the first mortal to set foot here in ages, and you may have earned the Winter King’s interest. You’ve certainly earned mine, which is why you’ve made it this far. I was becoming very bored until you showed up.”

  The tunnel felt endless, filled with stagnant air, as Alan followed the Cait Sidhe down deep into the earth. While the Cait Sidhe chatted happily the entire time, Alan rarely spoke, focusing on the questions he had, feeling like he was half-awake and half in a nightmare.

  “What did you get this one for?” the Cait Sidhe asked him, prodding at the medal on his chest. “Your only medal so far.”

  “It was for acts of bravery in active duty.”

  “Ah, I see. That’s good. You’ll need your bravery now.” The Cait Sidhe studied him, eyes shining greedily. “I think it will go nicely with the others I’ve collected, if you don’t survive.”

  The tunnel eventually led to a snow- and ice-covered forest under a dead, false sky underground, etched with fungus like a mockery of stars. The air was even drier there, and nothing moved or breathed in the forest. Blood glittered in frozen droplets in the snow like rubies while the trees stood like dark, watchful sentinels.

  When he reached the throne of the Winter King, Alan understood the rumor that looking upon him could kill. The faery’s skin was pale, the color of bleached bone, and his form was skeletal but imposing and giant. Small, deep-set red eyes glowed in his skull. On his head were overly large horns like those of a mountain goat, twisting through his mane of crimson hair.

  At first he appeared dead, not even seeming to breathe. But the force of his presence smothered any doubt that he was a living thing, and it settled over the room like frozen magma. There was no sound in the room save for Alan’s ragged, shaky breathing. He was painfully aware of the beating heart in his chest threatening to burst and of his own humanity as he avoided looking into the Winter King’s unblinking, piercing eyes.

  Sitting next to the king on a gnarled wooden throne was the Winter Queen, an Unseelie faery with stark white hair, yellow eyes, and cadaver-purple skin. She stared at him, her eyes flashing with horror, if she could feel such a thing. Her spindly, delicate fingers gripped the tree-root arms of her throne. When she spoke, her tone was both soft and piercing.

  “What is this boy doing here?” she demanded. When she snapped her face toward the Cait Sidhe, the man smiled brightly at her as she pressed, “Why have you led him here? The Winter King does not desire for you to throw the scraps of your playthings at his feet like a house cat drags in a kill.”

  “I am the king’s strategist,” the Cait Sidhe said, throwing his hands in the air. “This is part of a strategy.”

  With the most disdainful scoff Alan had ever heard, the Winter Queen leveled the Cait Sidhe with a withering look. “You insignificant little thing. You are not the king’s advisor, nor are you his strategist. If anything, you are his fool.”

  The man shrugged. “Fool, emissary, companion…” He flashed a wicked smile. “I am pleased to act in any position that serves the Winter King. In this case, I am acting as his strategist, and I believe it is in the Winter Court’s best interest to hear this daring lad’s request.”

  Alan flinched as the Cait Sidhe placed a hand on his back and gave him a little nudge. As he stepped forward, a surge of determination kept him steady as he asked, “Who was the faery who caused the Cataclysm?”

  When the Winter King did respond, the sound of his voice froze Alan in place. It was like the shifting of tectonic plates in the core of the earth, louder than thunder, seeming to shake the very foundations beneath them. Fear for his life filled Alan for the first time in ten years.

  “A traitor named Lonan.” The Winter King shifted in his seat, leaning forward, the sound like a stone statue moving. “He was once the judge of my Court, wielding dark magic like a blade in my name. He impersonated your leader and sent the destructive human weapons to annihilate the Summer Court, like a coward.” The king bared his sharpened teeth, revealing black gums. “He failed when the Seelies put up a barrier around all their realm. The bomb was kept from bursting, suspended over the barrier with magic. The other bomb doubled back on the human lands after it struck the Seelie barrier and was redirected by it.”

  The words were both like a hand gripping him, crushing his chest, and a burning poker prodding him into action. Alan let out a breath, eyes glazed and unseeing. “They… The Seelies sent it back on us.”

  He had been right to think the Fae were responsible, but he had never imagined this even in the darkest d
ays of his life.

  Then a strange calmness enveloped him. “Where is this Lonan now?” he asked, chin held high.

  “In the Summer Court, where he fled after his betrayal.”

  “Is he at least suffering?”

  The Winter King laughed, the sound like a chaotic rattling of bones. “He was welcomed as an equal with open arms. For all their magic and talk of honor and light, the Seelies have no compassion for humanity. They are just as heartless as they see us.”

  “How can the barrier be broken? It must take magic. Your magic?” Alan became aware of the Winter King’s impatience or perhaps boredom as the faery tapped his clawed fingers against the armrests of his throne. He would not entertain more questions for long.

  “The barrier is bolstered with more magic each day,” the queen answered. “No one will be able to get inside without a Noble faery’s assistance.”

  The Winter King added, “The magic of hundreds, perhaps thousands of faeries concentrated would perhaps be able to break through. Such an organization and concentration is unlikely, unless humans use the same ingenuity they utilized to make those delightful bombs to create something new. In that case, perhaps humanity could be spared.”

  “I could do it.” Alan did not immediately realize he had spoken aloud. He spoke with the conviction of an oath, a certainty, like the same promise he had made to those he’d lost to avenge them. “If I had time, I could see it done. I’ll succeed.”

  The Winter Queen was shaking her head, trying to get him to back down.

  Laughing again, the Winter King said, “You had better hope you do.”

  As the Cait Sidhe escorted him out again, Alan felt the eyes of the Winter King on him even as they exited into the open field. Once outside, Alan doubled over, the weight of what he had experienced hitting him like a tank.

  “I am rather impressed,” the Cait Sidhe said. “Your legs were wobbling more than the marmalade I had on my crumpets at breakfast, yet you stood your ground and got your answers. I quite like you.”