by E. G. Foley
Wyvern took a deep breath and lifted his chin, bracing to see his father as the two Noxu guards hauled the massive doors of the throne room open to admit him.
Blackness yawned ahead: the castle’s very inner sanctum.
Wyvern caught a faint whiff of sulfur wafting out of the ceremonial chamber, and a shiver of awe ran down his spine. It was heady stuff, standing this close to so much power.
Then he stepped past the guards into the darkness, eager to find out what malevolent new mission his demon father had for him now.
CHAPTER 1
Palace Intrigues
~ Merlin Hall ~
Wiltshire, England
Spymaster was not a role in which a thirteen-year-old lad generally found himself. But gazing down upon the colorful whirling chaos of the ballroom far below his shadowed balcony, Jake Everton, the young Earl of Griffon, knew for a fact that somebody down there tonight had to have some information on his Gryphon’s whereabouts.
He just needed to find it—any sort of lead. And he would. With the help of his secret team of spies.
Standing alone in the gloom of a high, curved balcony overlooking the vast ballroom below, formally dressed for the gala in progress, Jake braced himself against the polished railing before him, his hands planted wide.
The gryphon rampant on his signet ring gleamed by the glow of the chandeliers. They hung several feet beneath his high perch, up near the gilded frieze encircling the noisy ballroom.
All the while, from beneath his blond forelock, he scanned the gathering with hawklike intensity. He had eyes and ears everywhere down there tonight, and they all would report back to him with any sort of clue they could find.
For now, the dull roar of several hundred conversations floated up to him, threaded with strains of the lively Renaissance music in progress. He could feel the brisk pounding of the drums, hear the winding melodies of woodwinds and lutes that filled the tapestried chambers of the great medieval palace.
Delicious smells from the kingly feast on offer wafted up to his nostrils, as well. Too bad he’d lost his appetite ever since they’d told him three months ago that the Dark Druids had captured Red.
But Jake would find him. Aye, tonight’s stealthy operation offered the best chance of doing just that, for the ballroom down there was crawling with VIPs from all over the world.
Representatives from the far reaches of the British Empire had been arriving at the palace in recent days for the opening of the magical parliament.
Likewise, September marked the start of another six-week round of training for all the various kinds of magical students.
As a result, everyone who was anyone in Magick-kind was down there right now.
Except for those who’d gone missing, of course.
In any case, tonight’s annual Harvest Home feast was merely the Elders’ way of welcoming everybody back to Merlin Hall for autumn sessions before official business began tomorrow morning.
Personally, Jake found the party completely inappropriate at such a time.
War was brewing. His Gryphon was missing. His parents’ bodies had not been in their caskets.
And they’re here bobbing for apples. Adults. Jake shook his head.
So be it. He would turn this foolishness to his advantage.
With a roomful of visiting dignitaries, someone down there had to have a lead on where the Black Fortress had last been seen.
Wondering if any of his mates had heard anything yet, he homed in on them, one by one, around the ballroom.
There, a glint of golden hair revealed Cousin Isabelle, discreetly using her empath skills to learn what she could in a palace swirling with secrets.
On the opposite side of the vast room, Henry DuVal, the boys’ tutor, leaned against a marble column, drawing on his wolfish instincts to sniff out any information from the visiting shapeshifter clans.
And over there, dressed all in black with a glittered orange spider pin adorning her spiky jet hair, the young witch, Nixie Valentine, sauntered past the sweets table, looking even more furtive than usual. Listening, no doubt, to conversations all around her, nonchalant as a little black cat.
Jake did not see his cousin, Archie, however. Probably outside talking to the giants. Jake doubted their thickheaded friend, King Snorri, knew much of anything, but perhaps Queen Kaia, his wife, would have something intelligent to say.
He’d know by the end of the night. But forget the towering Norse giants—for the smallest of his spies checked in a moment later.
Gladwin Lightwing of the royal garden fairies swept back and forth in broad S-curves over the heads of the crowd, trying to look casual as she made her way toward Jake’s end of the ballroom.
As she approached, she shut off her sparkle trail and suddenly zoomed away from the throng, racing up past the chandeliers to hover before Jake’s dark, galleried overlook.
“Nothing so far,” she reported in her high, tinkling voice.
Jake hid his disappointment.
With Gladwin’s position close to the court of Queen Victoria herself, he’d had high hopes that, of all his secret agents, the tiny royal courier might’ve heard something useful.
Gladwin landed lightly on the banister and gazed up at him. “Are you coming down to join the party soon? Everyone’s asking for you. Especially Dani.”
Ah, Dani.
Jake felt a twinge of guilt mixed with great fondness at the mention of his trusty carrot-head.
Ever since Sicily, when she’d rowed out to sea and saved his life, the two of them had reached a sort of understanding that they were more than friends.
All Jake knew was that, these days, the dauntless redhead was the only person who didn’t run from him on sight, on account of his having been in a horrible mood for three months straight.
He had reason.
Dani understood. He wasn’t trying to be mean to anyone. It was simply that he was in the middle of enduring the most agonizing months of his life, and that was saying something.
He would never admit it aloud, but his heart was broken over Red, and all the pieces were dagger-sharp.
In short, he hadn’t been very nice to be around lately. But her loyalty never faltered. She was a sturdy little Rock of Gibraltar planted by his side, going through it with him.
To him, she was just the best and most necessary person in the world.
“Tell her I’ll be down in a few minutes,” he said. “I’m waiting for Maddox.”
Gladwin raised her eyebrows. “Since when is a Guardian ever late?”
Jake merely snorted. It was true, the stern soldiers of the Order tended to be both disciplined and prompt.
But that just went to show how out of sorts both boys had been ever since they’d heard the news that had come out of that desert battle in June.
While Jake was distraught to hear that Red had been captured, Maddox’s birth mother, Guardian Ravyn Vambrace, had not returned from the fray, either.
Nobody knew whether the proud warrior woman had been captured or killed.
The worst part for Maddox was that he had not said goodbye to her on the best of terms. No surprise in that. Maddox liked to give Ravyn (and nearly everyone else) a hard time.
Now, however, the seventeen-year-old suffered continuously over what might have become of the woman who had given birth to him.
As for Jake, the worst part of it all was knowing that he was ultimately responsible for this happening to Red.
The Gryphon was as fierce in battle as he was gentle with children. Red had made it clear that he wanted to go and join the fight. But it was Jake who had given his noble pet permission to participate.
Why, oh, why did I ever let him go? He tormented himself with this question day and night.
Even now, the thought of his own role in his beloved pet’s possible destruction brought a lump to his throat, but, at once, he stiffened his spine.
He could not afford to be weak or muddled with tangled emotions. He needed a clear head
tonight; the pain would only cloud his mind.
Lord knew it had already begun messing with his telekinesis. His gift had gone wonky in recent weeks, due to his continuous state of churning anger and grief.
Why, just the other day at his studies, he had reached for a glass of water and sent the cup flying before he could ever touch it. Accidentally splashed water all over poor Henry.
Blimey, this whole situation was turning him into a proper menace. He had to get Red back before he went barmy. Then he thrust off his roiling thoughts.
“Maddox will be here any minute,” Jake told the waiting fairy. “Then we’ll both be down.”
Gladwin nodded and lifted off from the railing. “Very well. I’ll keep digging.”
“Be careful,” Jake warned. “You, of all people, can’t afford to get caught.”
Spying on the Queen of England and her court was highly illegal, after all.
“I don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks,” he added.
“Yes, well, it’s worth it for Red—and for you, dear boy.” The fairy fluttered up and gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Jake, we’ll find him.”
He managed a smile. “Thanks.”
“Not at all! I owe you, remember?” she teased. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in a box in your Uncle Waldrick’s basement. And if it weren’t for Red and his wonderful healing feathers, I wouldn’t have these.”
She pirouetted in midair, fluttering her bright new wings.
Jake gave her a nostalgic smile, and Gladwin zoomed off again to continue the search.
Amused at how well the fairy had taken to her role as secret agent, Jake watched her sparkle trail as Gladwin flew figure eights over the crowd.
Now that she’d mentioned Uncle Waldrick, though, Jake started thinking about that miscreant again.
He hadn’t seen Uncle Waldrick since he’d been hauled off to prison, but lately, Jake had been wondering whether, in all fairness, Uncle Waldrick still deserved the life sentence he’d received.
The man had supposedly committed murder, but Jake had seen for himself that neither of Uncle Waldrick’s victims—Jake’s parents—had been in their caskets in the family mausoleum.
He’d checked. It hadn’t been pleasant opening the tomb, but he’d forced himself to look after Fionnula Coralbroom had made such shocking claims.
The incarcerated sea-witch had given Jake reason to hope that his parents might still be alive. Where they might be now—and where they’d been all these years—were questions for another day.
Questions Jake would begin seeking answers to as soon as he got Red back.
Until then, he could think of little else.
Fortunately, another one of his palace spies arrived to give his report before Jake could sink back into his brooding: Constanzio, the jolly Italian ghost who’d been dubbed “the King of the Tenors” by the newspapers until his demise a couple of years ago.
He was Jake’s favorite ghost, of all the dead folk he’d ever met.
Materializing in midair a few feet in front of Jake’s balcony, the portly spirit looked smart in a spectral tuxedo for the occasion, just like he would’ve donned for his worldwide opera performances in real life not long ago.
With his love of food and wine, the famous singer seemed to be having trouble letting go of mortal life.
He was clearly enjoying the party tonight, a ghostly glass of champagne in one hand, a little plate of hors d’oeuvres in the other. “Bounasera, ragazzo!”
“Bounasera, signore,” Jake answered wearily. He had no patience for small talk this evening. “Anything?”
Constanzio floated closer. “Actually, yes.”
Jake straightened up. “Good man! I knew I could count on you, Constanzio. What have you got?”
“Well, I was over there, by the champagne fountain”—he lowered his magnificent voice—“when I heard the Djin ambassador telling one of the wood elf courtiers that the Black Fortress was sighted just a month ago—”
“Where?” Jake interrupted, holding his breath.
“In the Mesopotamian Marshes,” he said gravely.
“Huh?” Jake scrunched up his nose.
“It only stayed for an hour or so before it jumped again,” Constanzio said. “What they were doing there, the Djin fellow didn’t know, but it hasn’t been back since.”
Jake stared at, or rather through, his semi-transparent friend as he digested this strange information.
“What the devil are the Mesopotamian Marshes?” he said. “I never heard of that before.”
Constanzio shrugged. “Marshes in Mesopotamia, I should think.”
“Hmm! Well, at least that’s something,” Jake said, mystified. “I just wish there was some way we could track that blasted castle. This is so frustrating! Why does a building need to move around, anyway?”
“I know, I know.” Constanzio shook his head. “The Order has tried for ages to come up with some way of tracing its various jumps. But it’s too well shielded. Black magic, no doubt. The cloaking spells must be as strong as the dome over this place.”
Jake nodded with a sigh. That was the reason the Order had not been able to rescue Red yet. They simply couldn’t find the blasted building where he was being held captive—otherwise, the Elders would have sent a rescue team.
Jake had never seen the Black Fortress, nor this Wyvern fellow who supposedly ran the thing, but he already knew that he hated them both.
Wyvern was the chap who had personally taken Red hostage, had tortured Jake’s mentor, Guardian Derek Stone, and had captured their Lightrider friend, Tex, the crazy cowboy from the Wild West. The same rotten blackguard who had trapped Aleeyah the djinni in her smoke form with a dark spell (though Archie was working on that).
It was Wyvern who had captured the angel, Dr. Celestus, and treated him with unspeakable cruelty.
And, last but not least, Lord Wyvern had tried to kill Jake by sending Nightstalkers after him.
Jake shuddered at the memory of how he’d been hunted that night by three phantom assassins.
There was no question in his mind that he’d have been dead, dead, dead if it weren’t for Prince Janos.
Derek could say whatever he liked about the roguish vampire, but the rebel of the Order had swooped in and saved Jake’s life that night, right when all hope seemed lost.
In any case, Jake had heard that the Dark Druids shielded their moveable castle by some inscrutable blend of magic and science that allowed the whole building to materialize wherever they wished, and then vanish again without a trace.
Cowards. He shook his head in disgust. What a cheap strategy. Rather than staying to hold a fair fight, they’d make their sneak attacks then jump away again—strike like snakes, then quickly slither off into the weeds.
Jake didn’t realize he was scowling until he saw Constanzio scanning his face with a look of concern.
“Never fear, my young friend,” the tenor said gently. “Sooner or later, we’ll find a lead. I’ll keep working the room. Perhaps I can charm some information out of one of the clairvoyants.”
“Worth a try. Just mind that you’re discreet.”
“Always, m’boy. Ciao.” Constanzio lifted his glass in a toast, then dissolved.
“Grazie, signore,” Jake murmured, but the ghost was already gone.
Finally, Maddox St. Trinian came prowling down the side hallway that led to Jake’s balcony.
The tall, black-haired lad greeted him with a curt nod. “Let’s get this over with.”
Jake turned from the railing, arching a brow when he noticed his friend’s clothes.
Guardians were usually dutiful in all matters, but Maddox had decided to state his protest of the Elders’ holding a party at a time like this by boycotting formal attire. Instead, he wore the brown leather jacket that marked him as a Guardian apprentice, along with a plain tan shirt, sturdy canvas trousers, and his rugged work boots.
“Well, don’t you look smart
,” Jake drawled.
Maddox flicked an equally dismissive glance over Jake’s tuxedo. “At least I’m not a penguin.”
Jake smirked at him and left the balcony. “Let’s go.”
Maddox nodded. It was time to get down there and do a bit of spying for themselves.
CHAPTER 2
Fathers & Sons
With the musky odor of the Noxu guards lingering in his nostrils, Wyvern found his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness of the throne room.
The half-trolls pushed the doors shut behind him, and he began striding down the slick black granite slab that served as a walkway into the ceremonial chamber.
Twin rows of small blue flames illuminated the walkway on both sides; their eerie glow played over the carved cloven hooves of the huge ebony devil statues that served as columns in the throne room, each holding up portions of the very high ceiling on its shoulders.
The carved devils’ ugly faces leered down at Wyvern as he stepped off the walkway into the throne room itself. Here, thirteen tall black chairs were arrayed in a triangle shape, with Zolond’s elevated throne at the apex of the pyramid.
For now, of course, all the thrones were empty. The Dark Druid Council was not in session.
Wyvern slipped in between two of the thrones and walked into the triangle.
In the center of the floor lay a mysterious round hole—a bottomless pit, about ten feet in diameter, that dropped away into the underworld.
From right there in the middle of the chamber, Shemrazul would sometimes rise to give the Dark Druids his counsel—or, more often, their orders.
Unfortunately, this was about as far into the mortal world as the Horned One could come on account of his chains.
But perhaps that was a good thing. For even among the warlocks, it was deemed prudent to contain the demon somewhat.
Mighty as he was, not even Shemrazul could cross the ring of arcane symbols, powerful sigils, and spells engraved in gold on the floor encircling the fiery pit.
