That was how the attacker sounded when Keeran attacked. He felt the man’s body bend around his fists, creasing over his knuckles as if he’d suddenly turned into a balloon filled with silicone. Keeran kept moving, prepping for a second strike, and even planning what he would do for a third, when it dawned on him that the man was no longer conscious.
So, the Shadow King solidified once more, tall and still, as the young man’s unconscious form crumpled to the ground at his feet.
Keeran knelt to assist the injured woman, when all at once the world flashed completely dark around him, instantaneously growing black from edge to edge. It was sudden and unexpected, and Keeran rose and took a stumbling step back, blinking to clear his vision. Darkness never obscured his sight. He could see right through it! What was this?
But just a few beats after it darkened, it lightened again into twilight. Just a flash, that was all it had been. But Keeran had never experienced anything like it.
A pain, dull and throbbing, came on as suddenly as the blackness had, and focused somewhere near the center of his chest. Keeran touched it gently, his expression growing concerned.
The woman on the ground stirred. Keeran bent, placed her phone in her hand, and firmly wrapped her fingers around it. He used magic to make the call – 911 – as he gently brushed a lock of hair from her bloodied forehead. Then he stood, moved back into the shadows, and exited another alley miles away. He had just stepped out onto the main street when the world went black again. It lasted a millisecond and lifted, but alarm shot through Keeran as it never had before.
The very next moment, complete silence also engulfed him. At once, he felt as if he were floating, disconnected and light. He closed his eyes, and an image popped into his mind:
In the midst of the surrounding shadows of the deepest woods stood a single oak, tall and proud. Its branches were far-reaching, its roots winding, and it glowed like a second moon. A lonely animal howled in the distance.
Keeran opened his eyes, at once understanding. He moved again, and the world slowed down around him. He was shadow and mist and solid will, slicing through dimensions like a passing thought, a wolf on the trail of a scent more precious than existence itself.
*****
The moment the spell released, Violet realized two things at the same time. She realized it was a mistake to have cast it, and she realized it was too late to take it back.
Once, very long ago, when she was quite small, Violet had crawled over her garden wall and wandered into the rose maze behind her family home. Rose mazes were popular among Tuath, however they had to be regularly groomed, or the hedges developed blood thorns. These appeared just like rose thorns, but were slightly darker, and much sharper. The thorns lay splayed across tentacle-vines, and those long, thin vines carried food to a mouth that waited hungry and deep within the rose bush.
The Blood Thorns themselves were small animals that sat inside the rose bush as if in a nest, soft and furry and so dark red, they were nearly black. Black cherry, she would call them now, she supposed. But they fed on one thing, and one thing only: blood. They created the tentacle-vines and their thorns through their own kind of survival magic in the thickest, most un-tended-to areas of rose bushes.
Violet had entered the wild rose maze, and after wandering for some time, she leaned against the wall. A Blood Thorn’s tentacled vine pieced her palm. There was an initial sharp sting, and Violet tried to pull back her hand. But the vine had her.
And in the next moment, her blood was pulled out of her arm so fast, she felt it rush, hard and furious, and the feeling was terribly odd and wrong in a nauseating way. She was only fortunate that her sister had come looking for her, or she would have met a bloodless end in that maze.
Now, as she released Lovelace’s spell in the deep woods of the Twixt, she felt something horribly similar to that in her right arm. This time, however, it wasn’t her blood that was rapidly sucked through her palm and into the world beyond – it was her magic. It flowed as if a massive bellows were inhaling it, pulling it viciously from the depths of her soul. At the same time, something else rushed in to fill the empty space vacated by her own magic, and that something new was darker, stronger, and more potent.
The overall effect was one of fierce shock. Violet heard a scream rip out through the forest, and she was vaguely aware that it was her own. The tall trees bent to twist around her. She watched from a strange, suspended distance as her magic slammed into the group of half a dozen men. Upon impact, the night seemed to explode. Their forms erupted, shifting from solid matter to black mist, dusted with what looked like trillions of miniscule star fragments. But it didn’t stop there.
More power flowed through her; she’d become a conduit for darkness – in and out, through her body and spirit it poured, ripped her apart, and sealed her back together again differently. The cloud of sparkling shadow stuff the men had become swirled in a building wind. The wind spiraled, rising through the bending, warping trees, until the sparkles within it matched the shining of the stars in the circle of sky above.
When the cloud of black thinned out to a mere twinkling fog before disappearing completely, Violet at last felt the spell give. It was like a living being, this blast of legerdemain. Stronger than her, it used her body, used her mind, and now that it had finished what it was created to do, it surrendered to quiet.
Violet’s arm lowered. Her knees hit the ground. She doubled over, only now realizing that she’d stopped screaming. Her fingers curled into the ground beneath her, which had been blasted clear of thorns, plants and debris by the spell, and was now nothing but dirt.
Her body trembled, infused with something unfamiliar, something wildly wonderful, and something decidedly deadly. She was intoxicated, poisoned once again, but this time on the black magic of the world’s most notorious warlock.
She closed her eyes, feeling simultaneously and inexplicably giddy.
At the sound of a footfall, she turned her head to find a shining black boot beside her. For some reason, she had the strangest urge to laugh.
Chapter Twelve
He arrived at the small clearing just in time to watch Violet Kellen let loose with one of the most powerful dark magic spells ever invented. The moment he came out of his transport and became solid, he locked eyes on her. When he saw her tightened fist open outward, he instantly recognized what she was doing.
The men standing several feet away from her froze in fear, and probably would have recoiled if they’d had a chance, but none was afforded.
Keeran knew enough to protect himself from the magic’s ripple effect, and had barely made it behind the nearest tree when the shock wave washed through the clearing and dispersed into the surrounding forest. It ripped the roots of several trees from the ground, vacuumed the floor of all its thorny vines, fallen leaves, and debris, and cracked off branches to send them flying deeper into the woods. Keeran kept his head down, braced himself, and weathered it, gritting his teeth when he felt its familiar power brush the confines of his shadowy mind.
It whispered. They were sounds he almost understood, words nearly formed, things he automatically and naturally yearned to decipher. They taunted and tempted, brushing along his nerve endings until his fangs were once again scraping the top of his bottom lip.
But he shoved them back in with instant ferocity, and pushed the sounds away with the same furious intent, as his nails carved a brutal path in the bark of his sheltering tree.
A few long moments later, the spell died down and the whispering quieted, becoming the scrape of autumn leaves across the ground. Keeran opened his eyes and straightened. The forest had gone silent.
But there was a roaring in his soul, re-awakened by the touch of something long forgotten. When he stepped around the tree and his eyes fell on Violet’s brightly glowing form kneeling in the blast center of her spell’s aftermath, he knew damn well what she’d done. For a timeless moment, he stood stunned, just gazing upon her. His body was motionless, his breath arre
sted, but his spirit trembled, and he could feel the mirrored protection of his eyes giving way to a heated glow he’d long since thought he’d lost.
Then she stirred, and he was beside her, going to one knee in order to gather her into his arms. He felt the weight of the powerful substance that swam within her, though she was light and fragile, like a thin, crystal container for something colossally dangerous.
She turned toward him in his arms, her eyes closed, and he saw what she was wearing around her neck. It was the diamond acorn he’d given her. Rather, it was an acorn diamond – shed from the Diamond Oak in his private garden. It dropped one such acorn every one thousand years. The one she wore had been the first seed his tree produced, so many years ago.
It was already glowing as if lit up from the inside by a candle’s flame, but it pulsed repeatedly brighter, like a star dancing to some hidden music; it was beating in time to Violet Kellen’s precious, perfect heart.
She wore it. She actually put it on….
A glimmer of hope blossomed inside him. If she’d donned the necklace he’d given her, then perhaps it meant she instinctively trusted him? Might it possibly even mean she felt something toward him? Was it conceivable she might accept her place as his queen after all?
That she might accept him?
And all my darkness….
She opened her large, luminous eyes just then and looked up at him, blinking slowly. Then she arched her brows. “That was a doozie,” she whispered quite emphatically.
For some reason, that surprised him.
“I bet it was” he retorted, but it ended up sounding a little like a question as uncertainty settled in. She was acting strange.
“A real wwwhopper,” she said, dragging out the “w” as if she were drunk.
Drunk, he thought, his gaze narrowing. Violet smiled broadly, an absolutely breathtaking display of a smile, and she laughed. Though the sound was like magic itself, understanding began to dawn on Keeran. He glanced over at her backpack, which had fallen beside her during the spell, and partly spilled its contents.
A black leather-bound book lay atop the rest of her belongings, both obvious and ominous. The cover was blank and buckled tight with magic locks that only a warlock of immense potential could unbind. But Keeran knew the book. There were few mages, especially in the Shadow Realm, who didn’t know what it looked like. And they knew by legend what was written on the inside cover: Shadow Workings.
The title graced the first page in silver scrollwork. Beneath the title, in smaller letters, but even more implied importance, was scrawled the name of the man who’d authored the destructive volume: Wolfram Lovelace.
Keeran looked back down at the angel in his arms. She was shedding light in the blackness of her surroundings like a fallen star. She’d become a vessel for Lovelace’s magic. Her own power had been used up nearly in its entirety during the spell’s casting, and to fill that empty space, the infamous warlock’s magic had moved in.
“Drunk” was probably a good description for what she was feeling just then. She was literally drunk on power.
Thoughts chased each other through his head as he stood, taking her with him. He held her tight to his chest, trying desperately not to notice how right she felt there – especially when she circled his neck with her hands in an openly trusting manner.
“Come on, little warlock, let’s get you to bed,” he said through clenched, aching teeth. He turned in the field and headed into the shadows of the forest.
The men who had approached Violet tonight were the same who’d attacked her in the Underground the night before. He could feel their presence there still, detached and scattered. The spell was meant to disconnect a being’s spirit, or soul, from their body. But these men had been demolished to mist, severed in twain physically because they were already two-dimensional. There was no soul within them to separate from the body. Or, perhaps there was no body to separate from the soul.
Keeran would forever wonder which it was. Not that it mattered.
He understood why they had gone after Violet. He understood why they’d been instantly fascinated with her when they’d found her beneath the streets of Seattle. He knew why they had no doubt followed her signature, like the scent of flowers or chocolate, and why they’d even managed to find her here, in the Twixt.
They were Pan Shadows. And to them, her unique formula of beautiful darkness was the answer to their eternal loneliness. To them, she was the vessel that could reconnect them and make them whole again at last.
He wondered what exactly the six of them had planned on doing. Were they going to fight over her? Only one Pan could claim a body as its own. Perhaps they’d simply agreed that their leader would have her.
Keeran found his grip on Violet tightening, and he had to force calm back into himself. He did that by recalling the way she’d obliterated them with her spell. A smile hedged at the corners of his mouth. She’d proven very effectively that she could take care of herself against someone of their caliber. It would be years before they found all their shadow pieces again and put themselves back together.
“Oh, acorn. You’re way out of their league.”
“Yeah, I only play for the Giants,” she said conversationally, nodding as if it made perfect sense. He exited the shadow portal and bypassed the wards that would allow no one but him into his private quarters. It was fortuitous they didn’t try to stop him, even though he carried a stranger in his arms.
Because she’s no stranger, he thought as he stopped in the long, lavishly appointed hallway outside his bedroom door. She wobbled a bit on her long legs when he gently set her down. He steadied her with one hand, opening the door to his room with the other.
“I don’t feel so right,” she said softly.
“I can imagine.”
The bedroom was on scale with the largeness of the mansion, its ceilings rising to spires twenty to thirty feet overhead, its black marble floors giving one the impression of walking on night. Violet looked down, gasped, and jumped back a bit as if she were falling.
He held her from behind and assured her. “It’s solid. I promise.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
He walked her to the four-poster bed against the opposite wall, and she quickly lost interest in the floor, choosing to lovingly pet the drapes hanging from the canopy above instead.
“I think I caught something from someone on Facebook,” she said as she started to go down, and he caught her again, lifting her once more into his arms.
“That’s not actually possible.” He used magic to turn the plush blankets down, and gently laid her on the silk sheets over the mattress.
“Cucumbers.”
“What about cucumbers?” he asked as he pulled the blankets back up and tucked them gently around her body.
“They’re evil. I hate them.” Her eyes were earnest as they gazed up at him.
“Well, I can’t argue with you there. The morals of a cucumber are questionable at best. Now sleep.”
She sat up, and he stepped back. She looked around the room as if making certain they were alone, then leaned toward him conspiratorially. She crooked her finger at him, and he just about died with adorableness overload.
He leaned in.
“I have a confession,” she said, slurring the double “s” just enough that his lips turned up again.
“What is it, acorn?”
She blinked – so slowly. “I think I’m addicted to coffee.”
He grinned, completely unable to help himself. “I dare you to name a single Tuath who isn’t.” He straightened, then added, “Or human, for that matter.”
She shrugged, turned away, and plopped straight back onto the bed again. Her hair fell about her in a cascade of shimmering multi-hued blonde, and Keeran found himself frozen in place, the smile stuck on his face, his breath caught for the second time that night.
Then her eyes closed once more, and this time he figured it would be a while before they opened again.
Chapter Thirteen
He was wrong.
He’d just reached the door to his room and grasped the handle when Violet’s voice cut through him like ice.
“You’re the man from the Underground.”
Slowly, he released the handle of the door and turned to face her. She had tossed the blankets to the side, and was sitting up rigid-backed. She eyed him with completely sober distrust.
That was fast, he mused. She was very, very strong.
“Feeling better, I see.”
But she ignored the pointless statement and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to stand up. Her gaze narrowed dangerously. “You’re also the man from the poster, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. She’d figured him out. “You’re that Shadenigma guy. The one who creates video games about shadows.”
She really had figured him out.
Keeran wrote programs involving creatures urban legend had come to call the “Black Eyed Kids,” and “Black Eyed People,” and so forth. He did it to make mortals aware of the dangers amongst them – dangers that he was responsible for. Because those creatures were real.
And they were actually Pan Shadows.
The games he created served a purpose. Sometimes Pan Shadows slipped by him and made it into the mortal realm. There, they hunted, searching endlessly for bodies to connect with, to drain, and to ultimately claim as their own.
Keeran wanted to warn mortals about their presence among them, if even on a subconscious level. But he had never come out and told anyone anywhere that the video games were actually about shadows. Violet had simply surmised as much.
“That’s why I recognized you in the Underground.” She stepped nervously, took a brief moment to look around the room, and then snapped her gaze back to his. “What do you want with me?”
Most people would have first asked what he was. Obviously, he wasn’t human. She knew that much. But she’d cut right through the haze and asked about his intentions. She was seriously smart. Or maybe she already thought she knew what he was.
The Shadow King (The Kings Book 7) Page 7
