“Thank you, Grandmother—for everything,” I say, and she pulls me to her and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Be safe, dearest one.”
THE library is dark when Alexander arrives, lit by only the soft glow of a fire, which does little to illuminate such a cavernous space. Alexander keeps to the shadows while he appraises the situation, listening carefully for any sign that Lord Tyrell is here. When it seems the room is empty, he relaxes a fraction but remains attuned to any noises beyond the room. Alexander remembers Tyrell to be a creature of habit, almost to an unyielding degree. He never deviates from his routine, which he treats as sacred. And in the late evening, Tyrell always enjoys a glass of brandy by the fire. The only potential hitch, the one that Alexander has no control over, is whether he has arrived on the scene too late. He will have to wait here, in the dark, until he can make that determination. He would rather have the element of surprise on his side when he encounters Tyrell, rather than the very real danger of searching his house—parts of which Alexander has little familiarity with.
His decision to stay thus made, he moves silently about the room, searching for the best vantage point as well as any hidden weapons. When he opens one of the desk drawers, he breathes in the lingering sweet smell of pipe smoke, and he is instantly transported back to so many memories from his childhood: evenings spent reading with Lord Tyrell by the fire, Lord Tyrell teaching him how to use his spiritual power to sense others like him, and learning for the first time in his young life that he was something extraordinary.
His memories are all positive ones, which only serve to taint his mind with feelings of betrayal.
But it is Lord Tyrell who is the betrayer, he chastises himself. Lord Tyrell who formed an organization to hunt his own kind.
He has only to think of Lucy, of this all-consuming desire to keep her safe, and he knows no one will stop him from his goal—not even the man who helped raised him.
Alexander moves silently to the bookshelf. One of the books catches his eye—an old copy of a collection of Arabian tales. As a boy, Alexander had read it many times, and now, as a man, Alexander relives the memory of evenings spent reading here. He wishes, suddenly, for the queen’s power to show memories as moving images. For, looking back, he realizes his time spent with Tyrell is missing a vital aspect of a young boy’s life: an emotional response.
Though Tyrell is present in so many of Alexander’s memories, and took him under his wing when he joined the brotherhood, there was a distinct lack of any sort of humanity—no sympathy, no kindness, no signs that he cared at all beyond the fact that Alexander was another member of the Order to do his bidding. If it weren’t for his loving nanny-turned-housekeeper, Alexander might be as cold and unyielding as Tyrell himself.
Like a strong wind, the dark mists of guilt are blown away. Alexander is not betraying a loving father figure; he’s bringing justice to an ancient being long lost to evil. Thus freed, Alexander’s gaze sweeps the room with renewed energy. He notes the single entrance, the serving cart with a crystal decanter of an amber-colored drink—freshly prepared, as though waiting for the master to return, and the few options for weapons in the room: a letter opener, an iron fireplace poker, a table that can be easily overturned and broken.
The darkest part of the room is a niche flanked on both sides by bookcases, and Alexander moves there in just a few quiet strides. He has no need for the weapons right now; his goal will be to incapacitate Tyrell as silently as he did James Wyndam. But as Alexander has found, it’s best to be prepared for anything—especially when dealing with someone who is clever and powerful.
He watches the clock on the mantel with growing unease: Lucy still has not joined him in her spirit form. If she should join him at the wrong moment, it could jeopardize the element of surprise. But almost as if his thoughts summoned her, a soft glow appears before him.
Her back is to him, her beautiful hair ghostly pale. Softly, he calls her name, and she turns. Seeing her here, in this place of danger, makes every nerve in Alexander’s body stand on end. He has to remind himself firmly that she is insubstantial—Tyrell will pose no threat to her here.
She moves toward him without a word, clever enough to stay silent, and Alexander reaches out to touch her—as a reassurance to himself and to her—but then he remembers he cannot. It has the strangest effect on him—like being suddenly deprived of sunlight. He pushes away the worrisome thought.
They wait together without speaking, Alexander’s eyes on the clock. Much past midnight, and Tyrell will be turning in. It’s half past eleven now.
A noise comes just outside in the hall, and Alexander shifts his attention to the door.
Lord Tyrell enters with confident strides and moves toward the serving cart. There, he pours himself a brandy in a crystal glass. He swirls the liquor around pensively for a moment. As he walks fully into the light of the fire, Alexander can see that he is still dressed in a formal tailcoat as though just returned from dinner. He looks as he always has: tall, imposing, and not a day over thirty-five.
The signs had always been there, it seems, if Alexander had ever chosen to make himself aware of them.
“I had wondered if it would be you,” Lord Tyrell says to his glass, his familiar baritone of a voice having the very unfamiliar reaction of curling both Alexander’s hands into fists. Alexander steps out of the shadows to meet his gaze, and Lord Tyrell smiles. “Wallace told me to expect a traitor to reveal himself soon and was adamant it was you.”
His words both take Alexander by surprise and send the first icy whisper of warning into his mind. By all accounts, Tyrell is dangerous and powerful—an arcana drainer, one of the first. Alexander’s advantage was in his personal relationship with him. He had hoped he could talk to him, catch him unawares. But now that Tyrell is clearly already on guard …
Alexander knows the tide could easily turn against him.
“And?” Alexander says evenly. “Did you believe him?”
Tyrell smiles and takes a drink from his glass. “I think I’ve always known.” His gaze shifts to Lucy’s ghostly form behind Alexander, and Alexander tenses. “You are in good company, though, my boy. You are not the first who betrayed another on behalf of a woman.”
“He is not acting solely on my behalf,” Lucy says, taking a step forward. Alexander feels a surge of protectiveness within him, and he has to remind himself that Tyrell cannot hurt her. “He is acting on the behalf of all those you have wronged, including those you coerced into hunting their own blood.”
Tyrell swirls his drink around and around, the amber liquid catching the light. “How righteous you sound. Alexander, did you ever feel wronged? If it were not for me, I daresay you’d be little better off than an orphan.”
Before the barb can find its mark in Alexander’s heart, Lucy says, “Raising a child to be your own personal hound to track down the Sylvani is hardly a loving situation.”
Her words seem to break free the last link of the chain that binds Alexander to this traitorous man. “For once in your life, Lord Tyrell, tell me the truth. Because here is how I see the situation: you found a boy who had lost his mother, who had no father to protect him, and you knew that boy was part Sylvani with the arcana capable of finding others like him—like you. You made him think you were taking him under your wing, but in actuality, you were turning him into a minion to do your bidding—to find you more arcana to keep you alive so far from Sylvania.”
Tyrell smiles, the gesture more threatening than friendly. “Figured it all out, have you? I suppose you think yourselves terribly clever. If you know so much about me, Alexander, then I wonder if you know who I really am?”
“Centerius,” Alexander says, the name still strange to his ears.
Tyrell closes his eyes for a moment. “Ah, it’s been a long time since I heard that name.” When he opens them again, his expression turns dark. “Then you must also know the arcana affinity I have been gifted with.”
Alexander’s lip curl
s at the use of the word gift. Draining another of their life force didn’t seem to be a positive thing in any stretch of the imagination. “I know of your power—the power Wallace has always abused.”
“Wallace’s arcana is anemic compared to mine. Do you take my meaning, Alexander? If you persist on your current path, I will not be held responsible for the consequences. You may try, but you will fail.”
Alexander knows all too well this is not false bluster. He may die in this encounter, and as he thinks of Lucy behind him, he is relieved beyond words that she is not here physically. It’s a cause he’s willing to give his life for. Tyrell must be stopped no matter the cost, and one life is nothing compared to the hundreds it may spare. Still, Alexander is not defeated yet. He has one advantage left to play: he is deadly fast.
Tyrell moves to take another swallow of his drink, and Alexander strikes. He hits Tyrell just above the heart, the center of his chest, and the middle of his abdomen in rapid succession and with complete and total precision. Only one of these pressure points will render him unconscious, but Alexander doesn’t take any chances.
After such a powerful attack, Alexander allows his own momentum to carry him away. But instead of the crash he expects to hear as Tyrell hits the ground, Lucy screams a warning. Alexander spins back toward her. At the same time, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He dodges, crouching low to keep himself a smaller target.
Tyrell is not only still conscious, he’s still on his feet. He dashes the glass in his hand against the fireplace and moves toward Alexander purposefully.
Alexander’s mind races ahead. He knows if Tyrell touches him, it will give him the chance to drain his arcana. Alexander must keep moving.
As Alexander evades, he moves steadily toward the fireplace—keeping furniture between himself and Tyrell. When he earlier scanned the room, Alexander noted all possible weapons. The iron fire poker is his best choice.
Alexander grabs hold of the poker just as Tyrell arcs a jagged piece of glass toward Alexander’s throat. Alexander contorts away and then immediately goes on the offensive with a weapon in hand.
Alexander wields the poker like a spear with deadly force, but Tyrell manages to evade him. Thrust and evade, thrust and evade, until they are caught in a grim dance.
Tyrell knocks one of the armchairs aside and comes at Alexander with the piece of glass. Alexander takes advantage of his close range and raises the poker—if he can, he will bludgeon him and render him unconscious. The piece of glass arcs toward him again as the poker falls, and seemingly in slow motion, Alexander watches Tyrell drop the glass and grab hold of the poker instead.
Alexander prepares to release it, for he does not want Tyrell to pull him off balance, but then his chest erupts in excruciating pain. Alexander cries out, and distantly, he hears Lucy calling his name, but he cannot even look at her. It feels as though every drop of prana is being pulled forcefully from his body, surging outward from somewhere deep inside him. In its wake, a wrenching pain, like his heart is being slowly cut from his chest.
How? he thinks through the haze of pain. He was so careful. Even now, there is no physical contact between Tyrell and Alexander. But as he tries once again to release the poker and fails, he realizes the truth: Tyrell has used it as a conduit.
Alexander summons what’s left of the prana in his body just to have the strength to let go of the makeshift weapon. But as his energy rises within him, Tyrell’s power grabs hold and siphons it away. After several attempts, Alexander grasps the true depth of the dilemma, but rather than give into the fear, he thinks of how helpless he was when he first entered the realm of Sylvania. Then, he hadn’t had the ability to even lift his head. He thinks of what Lucy told him: that he is Warrior class. If he can break free from Tyrell’s hold before he can drain him completely, then he may stand a chance against him.
Perhaps prana or arcana isn’t the answer at all—perhaps he must rely entirely upon the strength of his muscles. He tries a different tactic. Instead of trying to release his hold or pull back on the weapon, he shoves it forward with all the considerable power of arm muscles honed by years of daily training.
Tyrell stumbles back, and the poker clatters to the floor. Much too soon, though, he rights himself. Power is radiating from him in waves—like black flames, visible to Alexander as surely as if the man had been lit on fire.
Faster than Alexander would have thought possible, Tyrell lunges toward him, and though Alexander dodges agilely away, Tyrell’s hand grasps hold of Alexander’s arm.
Bloody hell, Alexander thinks.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I move toward Alexander as if to help him, intending to wrench Tyrell’s hateful hand off his arm, but then I remember I have no substantial presence. Before me, Alexander’s back is bowed in obvious pain, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Desperation rises within me, and I know if I don’t do something to help him, Tyrell will drain him completely. In my mind, I see Grandmother drawing the rune—the one that called down lightning. In this small space, though, I see the possibility of more harm than good coming from such reckless action. I rack my brain, running every rune I’ve ever seen through it. No weapon can help me—I can neither wield it nor expect Alexander to be able to. Again and again, my thoughts return to forces of nature. Typhoons and hurricanes and tornados. But again, to release any of them in the confines of this room …
If only I’d had more time to train! Still, I must do this.
And then the solution comes to me, so suddenly it must be divinely inspired. I’ve always had the ability to combine runes, and in this case, it can mean the difference in destroying the room and everything in it with lightning, and sending a bolt directly into Tyrell’s heart.
The rune for lightning is a short, jagged line. The rune for a sword is a single slash of ink. If all goes well, I will wield the summoned lightning like a sword. I raise my hand and try not to think about the implications—that I’m about to make an attempt on someone’s life. He may be evil, and this is in clear defense of Alexander, a man I clearly have strong feelings for no matter our differences, but murder rests uneasily on my shoulders.
I draw the jagged line in the air, pulling arcana from Rowen through the portal’s connection to my physical self. It shimmers brightly, but just as I add the line that will transform it to a controlled bolt, I feel a fierce pull from behind. It disturbs the flow of arcana, and the rune fades harmlessly.
I raise my hand to try again, but the pull comes once more, insistent this time. The library and Alexander’s struggle for his life begin to fade, and I cry out as fear grips my insides painfully.
“No!” I shout, struggling against the pull, but the library fades still more, until I am thrust back into my body in Grandmother’s art studio.
Before I can demand what has happened or try to send myself back, the words die on my tongue. A battle rages here in this room.
The sound is terrible: the roar of a bear, the screeching cry of Serafino, the buffeting winds of a conjured hailstorm, in the center of which is Grandmother, locked into battle with Lord Titus and two others—sentinels by the looks of them, though they wear red uniforms instead of the silver I’ve grown accustomed to.
Titus slips past Grandmother before I can make a sound, striding right for me. “Let me through the portal,” he says, his dark eyes flashing. “Let me through, and I promise not to kill you.”
I’m so desperate to return to Alexander, I almost do as he says right then.
“You cannot, Lucy!” Grandmother calls in a strained voice as she and Serafino hold off the other two sentinels with whirlwinds that imprison each of them. “You know what he plans to do.”
“I want to wipe you all out,” he says with such malice in his face and in his tone I take a step back. “I want to do what should have been done long ago.”
Again, I think of Alexander—is he still alive? How long have I been gone? Fear and desperation claw within me like a frantic animal,
and suddenly, I realize the solution to the current crisis. A way I might be able to solve two problems at once.
“If you swear not to harm Grandmother or me, then I will take you through,” I say.
Grandmother’s eyes widen in horror. “Lucy, no!”
Titus nods once. “You have my word.”
I have a plan, I tell Rowen, and he nods that he heard.
The paints and paintbrushes have been strewn around the room in the chaos, and I scramble on my hands and knees to grab hold of a brush. I dip it in a pool of spilled golden paint and slash the rune messily across the bottom of the canvas. The drawing of Lord Tyrell’s library yawns before us in perfect detail—save for the two people currently locked in battle.
Please be alive. Please, please, don’t die. I’m coming.
Titus steps through confidently, and the moment the canvas returns to normal, I draw another rune and send my spirit through after him.
ALEXANDER knows that Lucy’s spirit form is no longer in the room with him, but all he feels is calming relief. The queen must have sensed the danger here, and the very real and almost certain possibility that Alexander will die at Tyrell’s hands. Twice Alexander has broken free from Tyrell’s hold only to be caught again, more and more energy and prana draining from him with each contact. Alexander’s body has been trained to fight and maintain control in reduced circumstances: fasting, lack of sleep, extreme thirst, extreme cold or heat. But even his otherworldly ability to control his body is slipping.
He stumbles instead of dodging, and Tyrell nearly lands a solid blow with the iron poker. “There’s no use running from me, Alexander,” Tyrell says with a taunting smile on his face. “I know everything about you. Your strengths, your weaknesses … who really murdered your mother.”
Stunned, Alexander misses a step, and Tyrell scores a glancing blow off Alexander’s ribs.
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 29
