He’d expected a Tylwyth Teg to answer the door. The small creature framed in the doorway couldn’t have been more different from the Welsh fairies. About two and a half feet tall, with pink hairy skin like a pig, the creature curled back its top lip, revealing jagged teeth in what could have been a grin or a snarl.
After staring dumbfounded for a few seconds, Michael recovered enough to speak. “We’d like an audience with Gwyn ap Nudd.”
The creature’s lip twitched, and he hitched up his coarse brown trousers. “Shove off.”
He made to shut the door. Both Michael and Nightshade jumped forward to jam a foot in the gap.
“’Tis an important matter,” Michael ground out, his patience dwindling.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Brian. Let them in. Visitors are rare as hen’s teeth and break the monotony.” At the sound of the cultured voice from within the room, the creature shrugged its bony shoulders and stomped out of sight.
“What is that thing?” Michael mouthed to Cordelia.
She shook her head in bemusement.
“Ugly little beggar,” Nightshade added.
Michael pressed a finger to his lips. Best not to insult the King of the Underworld’s staff members before they were even through the door.
Unable to get a psychic vibe from Gwyn ap Nudd or the small creature, Michael led the group in warily. He stumbled to a halt. The others ranged around him, gaping. A dark-haired man sat in a huge gold throne in the center of the room. He wore evening dress, black suit, black tie, a top hat, with a gold-topped cane resting across a table at his side as if he were about to jump up and start dancing like Fred Astaire. The piggy creature sat on a cushion on the floor, polishing a shoe, while the man propped his bare feet on a red brocade footstool.
The only other furniture in the room was a wide-screen television mounted on the wall opposite the throne, muted, but showing an episode of The Dukes of Hazard.
Being raised in the Irish fairy court, Michael had learned to expect the unexpected. But even his credulity had limits. “Erm, Gwyn ap Nudd, King of the Underworld, I presume?”
Cordelia winced at his uncharacteristic lack of eloquence.
“The very same.” Gwyn picked up a remote control, and the TV screen went blank. “Can’t stand the Hazard boys, but I enjoy watching Daisy bounce around.” One corner of his mouth lifted, and the piggy creature rolled its eyes.
With an elegant flourish of his hand, Gwyn indicated his companion. “May I introduce my servant, the epitome of sweetness and light, Brian, my bottle imp.” The imp sniffed loudly without looking up.
Michael debated whether he should kneel before Gwyn. If he were visiting Queen Ciar in the Irish fairy court, she’d expect him to kneel and kiss her feet. He eyed Gwyn’s bare toes and decided he’d give that a miss. He hoped he wasn’t committing an unforgivable breach of protocol. To be on the safe side, he bowed and gave Cordelia a grateful glance when she followed suit.
“We come to ask a boon, great king,” Cordelia chimed in.
“Don’t tell me, someone’s died, and you’re sure it wasn’t their time to go?”
“No one has died, I hope.” Michael took a step closer and slapped a fist into his palm, determined to make Gwyn take him seriously. “Some humans opened a gateway to the Underworld in Cornwall. When you sent the gatekeepers to seal it, they trapped my nephew.”
Gwyn stared at him intently. Brian’s brush stilled on the shoe. He peered up at his master warily.
“Arian was among them?” Gwyn asked.
“Aye,” Michael answered cautiously, trying to gauge the king’s mood.
“Hmm.” Gwyn rose from his chair, then strode to the window. For long minutes, he said nothing, but tapped his fingers against the wall. “I wish I knew what Arian was up to.”
“But you’re the king; surely you give the orders,” Cordelia said, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
Gwyn turned smoothly, tall and powerfully built beneath his civilized attire. “I’m a figurehead, rather like the Queen of England—except without the crown jewels and embarrassing relatives.”
Frustration blasted through Michael at Gwyn’s casual attitude. For the first time he understood why Niall grew angry with him when he joked about problems. He followed Gwyn to the window. “We came to ask you to release Finian.”
Gwyn shook his head. “At the moment, I’ve no power to help.”
Cordelia came up beside Michael. “Can’t you speak with Arian? For goodness’ sake, we’re talking about a child.”
Gwyn’s blue eyes flicked between them. Michael blinked, sure that for an instant Gwyn’s eyes had flashed red.
“What race are you?” Gwyn asked, glancing at Nightshade.
“Cornish piskies,” Cordelia answered.
“The nightstalker too?”
“All of us except Michael,” she added.
“Michael?” Gwyn’s probing gaze settled on him. “You look familiar.”
Michael laughed, a short sharp burst of irritation. The last thing he wanted to do now was discuss his background. “Unless you’ve visited the Irish fairy court, we’ve never met.”
“Ireland?”
“Aye, me father is the Irish fairy queen’s bodyguard.”
Gwyn’s expression froze, while his body became preter-naturally still. “You’re Troy’s son.” The statement dropped like a stone into the pool of silence.
Unease slid through Michael. Troy hadn’t mentioned he knew Gwyn.
“Do you take after Troy?”
The eagerness in Gwyn’s voice flashed Michael’s senses to high alert. But wariness did him no good. He had no idea whether answering yes or no would be more likely to persuade Gwyn to help.
Before Michael could decide what to say, Gwyn obviously came to his own conclusion. “Show me the Phoenix Dagger.”
Gwyn must be referring to Troy’s dagger. Troy had told him to show the weapon only to Master Devin. Should he deny knowledge of the dagger, and risk alienating Gwyn? His jaw tightened until his teeth hurt. He could normally talk his way out of anything, yet now that he needed his wits more than ever, they’d flown away.
With a jolt of frustration, Michael bent and yanked the knife from the webbing strapped around his lower leg. The scintillating oval stone scattered starbursts of color across the walls as he palmed the blade and presented the handle to Gwyn.
Gwyn’s eyes lingered on the knife. He reached forward, but instead of taking the hilt, he brushed a finger lightly across the egg-sized jewel. “The Phoenix Stone,” he whispered, a hint of yearning in his voice. He glanced up at Michael, his gaze sharp, assessing. “You’ve inherited Troy’s legacy or he would not have given you the dagger.”
“How do you know?”
Gwyn laughed, a bitter parody of pleasure. “Oh, I know your father, Michael. We go back a long way.”
“What type of being is Troy?” Cordelia asked.
A subtle tension ran through Michael. He’s Tuatha Dé Danaan rolled to the tip of his tongue, but deep inside doubt wormed around, undermining his certainty.
Gwyn’s gaze flicked from the Phoenix Stone to Cordelia. Then he looked at Michael. “You know that Troy manifests the Phoenix Charm?”
Michael held Gwyn’s gaze silently, not wanting to reveal that he’d never heard of the term “Phoenix Charm.”
“So why did he give us the blade?” Cordelia pressed. “Is the jewel magic? Will it help us rescue Finian from the Underworld?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Gwyn gazed longingly at the stone.
“Do you have the power to use this dagger or the stone to help us?” Michael demanded, sure he was missing something important.
A smile settled on Gwyn’s lips, but didn’t touch the rest of his face. “Go before the Ennead, the council of nine. Ask to exchange yourself for the child. Let Arian see the dagger, but be crafty. Don’t let him know you want him to use it.”
“Use it for what?” Michael asked.
“Troy really
didn’t tell you?” Gwyn shook his head when Michael continued to stare at him. “How typical of his overarching arrogance. He believes he has the right to play with everyone’s lives.” Gwyn pointed at the darkly gleaming metal. “This is the ceremonial blade that was used to kill Troy the first time he died.”
Cordelia’s sharp intake of breath emphasized his final word.
Disbelief held Michael rigid. He shook his head in denial as little snippets of conversation he’d heard between Troy and the Irish fairy queen finally made sense.
“Troy cannot die. He can be killed, but his spirit always returns to his body, his powers multiplied,” Gwyn said. “That is the Phoenix Charm.”
“Nah.” Michael turned away, shaking his head violently, denying Gwyn’s claim.
You’re like me, Michael. You’re like me.
The memory of Troy’s softly spoken words thundered in Michael’s head. “I’m not like him.”
“Troy obviously believes you’ve inherited his gift. If you can call such a curse a gift.”
“ ’Tis not true. I’m not—”
Michael swung around, desperate to get rid of the dagger. He thrust the hilt toward Cordelia. She stared at him wide-eyed in confusion, her gaze flicking to Gwyn then back.
“Take the cursed thing!” Michael shouted.
As soon as she gripped the handle, he turned and paced the room, holding the back of his neck. Everyone watched him. “Ruddy Badba!” He spun away, facing the bleak gray stone wall. Why had his father done this to him? The bloody Phoenix Charm should have passed to Niall. His brother would know how to handle death and resurrection.
Michael rested an arm on the wall and pressed his face against his sleeve. He fought to calm his raging mind and remember what his father had told him when he’d given him the blade.
When you understand my legacy, you will have every right to hate me.
A chill seeped up his legs, numbing his muscles with fear. At the same time, his head burned, his brain creating endless scenarios of bloody pain, the dark blade piercing his flesh.
Memories of Finian floated through his mind to taunt him: the golden-haired boy safe in his mother’s arms, his tear-stained face in the car, sitting in the mud in the trench. Michael’s fist clenched. With a yell, he thumped the wall.
Surely, there must be another way to save Finian? He didn’t want to die to exchange himself for his nephew. Even if he could come back to life.
“No!” Nightshade half leaped, half flew across the room, his wings brushing the ceiling. He bounced and staggered to a halt in front of Michael. Cordelia jumped clear of his frantic flapping as Nightshade spun around to face Gwyn, guarding Michael.
“Approach on pain of death.” Nightshade crouched, arms out, muscles knotted, ready to strike.
Gwyn took a few steps back. For a moment, Cordelia thought his outline wavered like a glamour. The hair pricked on her scalp, but when she blinked, he looked solid. “Michael has nothing to fear from me, nightstalker.” He stared unblinking, blue eyes intense. “I’ve merely suggested the reason that Troy gave him the dagger.”
“How’s killing Michael going to help?” Veins stood out on Nightshade’s arms as he repeatedly clenched and released his fists.
Michael stepped out from behind Nightshade, his skin pale, his eyes unnaturally bright with shock. He squeezed his eyes tight for a second. Then he pulled in a breath and held out a trembling hand to Cordelia. She hurried forward and placed the dagger in his palm.
He was going to die. She put a hand over her mouth, her pulse weak and fluttery. Her knees wobbled, and she started to lower herself to sit on the floor.
“Behind you.” Gwyn pointed. Cordelia turned and blinked at the armchair a few feet away. Ignoring the fact the chair had appeared out of thin air, she stumbled back and plopped onto the seat. Tamsy mewed pitifully, picking up Cordelia’s distress, and jumped on her lap.
Michael held up the dagger and turned it over, sending scintillating flashes of light around the room. Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, accentuated by the paleness of the rest of his face. “When Troy gave me this blade, that’s what he intended?” he looked up at Gwyn. “That I should die?”
“I’ll kill anyone who comes near you, Michael.” Nostrils flared, jaw rock solid, Nightshade thumped a fist against his chest.
“I need to be sure this is the only way before…” Michael’s words trailed away, his gaze fixed on Gwyn. The expression in his eyes was like that of a little boy who’d been abandoned by his daddy. Cordelia stretched her fingers, aching to slap Troy ’s perfect cold face.
The King of the Underworld shrugged, a negligent flex of his shoulders. “You could present your case for the child’s release to the Ennead, the Tylwyth Teg council of nine. Seek a majority judgment. But Arian holds sway over most of the council members. I doubt you’ll persuade them to vote against him.”
“I’ll persuade them.” Nightshade’s voice boomed through the room.
Tamsy’s claws jabbed Cordelia’s legs at the sudden noise. Cordelia snapped her head around to stare at Nightshade, her thigh stinging. “Could you take the volume down a decibel or two? We need to plan, not deafen each other.”
“I’m protecting Michael, wise woman.” Nightshade stepped in front of Michael again, blocking him from Gwyn.
“Crikey O’Reilly.” Michael shoved Nightshade in the arm. “Give me space to think, boyo.”
Nightshade stared at Michael, hurt radiating from him like heat. He stomped to the window and stared out.
Cordelia gripped the arms of her chair, her emotions in turmoil. This was proving so much more complicated than she’d expected. She looked at Thorn, still by the door, his hands pushed deep in his pockets as if he wished he could hide his whole body there.
“May we have another chair, please?” she asked.
Gwyn extended his hand. Another wing chair blinked into being beside her.
“I thought you had no power?”
“Alas, I cannot take credit. It’s the room, madam. Think about something and you’ll make it appear.” The room did have a strange feel. Her psychic senses had stopped working when they stepped through the door. She couldn’t even feel Michael’s normally strong presence in her chest.
She beckoned Thorn. He made his way hesitantly across the room and settled in the chair beside her.
“You all right, sweetheart?”
He nodded with a surreptitious glance at Gwyn. “Is someone really going to kill Michael?”
“He’ll come back to life,” Gwyn said.
“Can you be sure?” Michael asked.
“Have you never heard the epithet Troy the Deathless? If you take after your father, then…” He shrugged as if the answer was obvious.
Fear twisted and tangled inside Cordelia like eels. The more she discovered about Troy, the less she trusted him. And there was something about Gwyn that set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t feel his psychic signature, and the way his gaze tracked Michael when he wasn’t looking seemed shifty.
She found herself shaking her head. “Why didn’t Troy tell Michael what he is?”
“Because he’s an arrogant bastard who likes to manipulate people,” Gwyn spat .
Cordelia stood, left Tamsy on the chair, and paced, twisting an escaped lock of hair between her fingers. “I don’t like this.” Michael shouldn’t take advice from someone who obviously hated his father.
“Neither do I.” Nightshade had turned his back to the window and stood facing the room, his expression guarded.
Cordelia halted and stared at him. Once again, they were in accord. She paced back to Michael and perched on the edge of her chair, facing him. “W hat evidence did Troy give you that you take after him?”
Michael reeled off a list of powers that they shared. Cordelia sucked her lip, unconvinced.
“What do you think?” he asked.
His eyes were so serious and troubled she could no longer imagine the teasing light that used to dance in the
blue depths. Her heart ached for him. “I think we should try to persuade the Ennead to release Finian before we make any decision on the dagger thing.”
“You’ll waste your time.” Gwyn snapped.
Michael met Cordelia’s gaze. A silent accord passed between them like a touch. Michael gave a sharp nod. “We petition the Ennead.”
Gwyn sighed. He walked back to his throne, which morphed into a comfortable armchair. “There are nine council members,” he said as he slouched back. “Arian is the strongest and controls the gatekeepers and the huntsmen. Mawgan, our cunning man, leads the seers. He’s easily swayed, unlike Arian, who is strong and single-minded. If Arian trapped the child, he will not change his mind.”
Michael shifted restlessly. “How do we get out of this place? The steps caused us a problem on the way up.”
Gwyn chuckled at Michael’s comment, but Cordelia couldn’t see the joke. “There is a certain irony…” His voice trailed away.
“Why don’t the Teg fly over the trap on the steps in light form?” Cordelia asked, looking for inconsistencies to give her grounds for the suspicion she felt.
“Someone incredibly powerful laid that trap. Each of the four elemental types is affected differently. Cornish piskies are of the earth. So the stone will have stolen your energy. You should have been rendered unconscious within a few steps. One of you must be powerful to have withstood the effect.” Gwyn glanced at Michael.
“A similar thing happens to the air elemental Tylwyth Teg. If they try to fly across the trap in light form they become corporeal and fall senseless to the ground.”
“What about Cordelia?” Thorn piped up. Cordelia’s breath stalled, knowing what he was about to say and powerless to stop him. “She sank into the stone.”
Gwyn’s blue eyes settled on her appraisingly, and heat jumped into her cheeks. “That’s what happens to water elementals.”
Everyone looked at her. She concentrated on stroking Tamsy.
“You’re a water elemental, lass? That makes sense.” The curiosity and satisfaction in Michael’s voice made her worry he’d guessed the whole truth about her nature. “When I touched you in the boat, I thought your energy was”—he stared at her, eyes unfocused, remembering—“soothing and energizing at the same time.”
The Phoenix Charm Page 10
