by S A Archer
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Details can be found at the end of
INTO MAGIC
or at
SidheTouch.com
Books by
S.A. Archer and S. Ravynheart
Scattered Magic
Remnants of Magic
Into Magic
Bastion of Magic
Knights of the Red Branch
In the very back of the book is a glossary and a pronunciation guide for the more unusual fey names.
Chapter One
The sense of dèjà vu brought on a wave of nausea for London almost as much as the reek of blood.
With her arms crossed over her middle to settle her stomach in the least obvious way possible, London fixed her expression with a hard, impassive stare that matched the other bodyguards at the feed. Borrowed holsters crisscrossed her torso and hips. Each of the four firearms she bore was loaded with silver bullets. But that wasn’t the dèjà vu part.
It was the red silk-clad bum waving in the air as Selena, vampire mistress and her best friend, sprawled over a Sidhe. And like before, the too-sexy Sidhe leaned back against the arm of the sofa, shirt unbuttoned and flung open. The black slacks fit his long legs beautifully. One leg bent up against the back of the cushions and the other stretched out so his foot rested on the floor. His fingers tangled in the vampire’s sleek blond hair, controlling and encouraging.
In this very room, just months earlier, Rico had been the Sidhe in question. That had been the day he enchanted her, cursed her with the addiction to the Touch of the Sidhe, and sent her on a path that landed her right back in this very same room, watching nearly the exact same scene play out.
Only this was no business feeding.
And this time the Sidhe that Selena hunched on was Lugh— former Champion of the Sidhe, former Seelie, and the man whose symbol London wore, having pledged to serve him even unto her death.
As he sat up, Lugh arched Selena’s head back. Blood smeared her teeth. His blood. He kissed her, stealing some of it back with deep strokes of his tongue. That kiss alone was nearly pornographic.
The other four vampires lounging around them laughed drunkenly, as wasted on alcohol as much as on blood and magic.
Lugh reached around Selena to accept the dagger they passed around like the bottles. He found his tumbler on the coffee table, knocked back the whiskey, and then laughed, “Who’s next? Roll the dice.”
Chantalle grabbed up the dice and rolled it. “Three. What’s that again?” She giggled in that vapid, empty-headed way of hers that London knew was only half the truth.
“Inner thigh.” Lugh grinned, flashing the wicked pair of canines he’d only recently acquired with the dark magic that screwed with his head. These weren’t the piercing kind of fangs like the vamps had. These babies were meant to tear flesh, like a werewolf’s or a lion’s.
When Chantalle leaned back on the settee, mini-skirt hiked up and legs spread wide for him, London rolled her eyes. The chick hadn’t even bothered with underwear. Cheap date kind of classy.
Lugh drew the tip of the dagger up and down her bare leg, teasing her as he picked his spot. With a flick and a shallow cut, he drew blood. Grabbing her bum with his free hand, he lifted her hips up to him as he went down on the wound.
This wasn’t the first time London witnessed a vampire drinking game. It was, however, the first time she stood guard over one. As the only human on security, she was the only one without a gas mask. The four vampire bouncers around the room wore them to keep the scent of the Sidhe’s blood from distracting them. Or worse, driving them into a feeding rage.
Even with the exhaust fan filtering the air, the scent of the Sidhe blood wafted out into the rest of The Satin Club, Selena’s club. Even as bad as the other vamps wanted Lugh’s blood, most of them had the sense not to try anything.
On those vampires, the silver bullets in London’s weapons would work just as well as lead bullets. Vampires weren’t the reason for the silver.
Werewolves were.
The local pack had been spotted roaming the area earlier that evening and the very scent of Sidhe blood could turn them feral.
But it didn’t matter. Vampire or werewolf, no one was attacking her patron, even if Lugh was whacked out of his mind lately.
The phone in London’s hip pocket vibrated. Uncrossing her arms for the first time since this parahuman version of a frat party began, London checked it. “It’s him,” she called over the ruckus of hooting as Lugh sank his fangs into Chantalle’s thigh, cheating at the game, but nobody was going to call out the Sidhe. They wanted him— and his blood— too much to play by the rules.
Pushing back from the vamps, Lugh licked at the blood smearing his chin. “Speak with him.” His bloodshot eyes fixed on her. His irises looked dead black in the low lighting, instead of blue. His blond hair, so dark now that it looked almost like it was black with copper highlights, fell in an artistically messy way over his forehead. Even his skin bore a Mediterranean tint rather than the fair skin he’d had when she first met him. All outward signs of the corruption that poisoned him.
London answered her cell without giving anything away to either the elf she spoke to, or the vamps around her. Lugh’s business was private and one of London’s jobs as his druidess was to keep it that way. “Yes?”
Mckenna’s voice crackled a little with the bad reception, which had to be on his end. She never had trouble with her signal when she was in Dublin. “Let Lugh know we’re ready for him. We’re at the Westfall Camp.”
“Right.” London hung up. She only gave Lugh ‘the nod’ and nothing more. He’d know what she meant.
Lugh disentangled himself from the vampires. One of the guys grabbed at his arm. “Whoa! You can’t go! I’ve not gotten my share!”
Idiot.
The Sidhe allowed this feeding at his leisure, not theirs. Something Lugh explained wordlessly by breaking the guy’s wrist.
Not many Sidhe nowadays could get away with manhandling vampires, but Lugh could, by virtue of his sunlight magic alone. If he felt like it, he could vaporize the entire roomful of vampires without even flexing a muscle. Top that off with who knows how many centuries of combat experience and Lugh was badass beyond anything in these youngling vampires’ imaginations.
Pausing just a second before her, Lugh’s gaze dropped to London’s chest. It wasn’t her breasts in the snug knit top he stared at, but the golden pendant she wore. His symbol. The one he’d given to her the day she vowed herself to his service. He did that now and then, fixated on that brilliant charm, and each time London watched for some sign.
But it didn’t come.
And he brushed past her, knowing she would follow and cover his back.
Chapter Two
It wasn’t hard to track the magic from the Glamour Club to the dwarves’ workshop next door. The more pieces of the magic puzzle Malcolm found, the bigger and stronger it became, and the easier it got to follow the threads to the next bit of magic he needed.
The headphones helped, too. It shut out everything but magic sounds. ‘Course he still heard Kieran’s chittering vibrations and Kaitlin’s melody, and some other random stuff, but he could ignore all that. Ignore everything in the world except the voices that whispered to him. And this time the voices were mostly deeper, rollin
g and accented in Dwarvish, speaking words he didn’t know. But didn’t need to know.
He knew plenty.
He knew he needed to find this piece of the puzzle. That it would make the magic grow stronger.
And Malcolm wanted that more than anything. To make the magic grow. He felt it in his gut, this need. And the voices, though he couldn’t repeat anything they whispered to him, wanted it too. Wanted it so much that it surged through the magic only Malcolm could feel. Driving him onward to do what the puzzle magic needed him to do.
And it felt good to do it. A growing want that carried him forward, step by hurried step, into the warehouse that the dwarves converted into their workshop.
It was a good thing he wore the headphones that covered his pointed ears completely, because the place looked all kinds of noisy. Machines pounded and ground metal, sending fountains of red sparks shooting across the air. There had to be maybe twenty or more dwarves and banners, which were sorta like dwarves but smaller and flickering of blue magic instead of brown and gold, all of them working on different stuff with a focus strong enough that they didn’t even glance up at Malcolm as he slipped between the hot machines.
The whispers grew louder. Murmured faster. Got excited as Malcolm drew closer to them. Drew closer to the thing they were attached to.
In the back of the workshop, he finally spotted the magic that needed him. The fibers of energy rising from the thing waved like stalks of heather in the breeze. It rose out of a massive toolbox so big Malcolm couldn’t have begun to lift it. Even the sturdy dwarves would have struggled to tote that thing around.
Eircheard must of noticed Malcolm coming, because he stepped up beside the toolbox. Not blocking it, but watching Malcolm. Soot and sweat smeared the dwarf’s face. His beard hung down to his rounded belly, and looked too hot in the heat of the workshop, not that the dwarves seemed to mind that at all. Even still, he wiped at his forehead with the cuff of the leather work glove he wore.
Malcolm didn’t really have any reason to come into the dwarves’ domain, except for this magic he sought. It was a funny thing, sometimes, how no one ever stopped him from coming in and doing what he wanted. All on accounta he was Sidhe. And that meant something.
He used to think it was just because Donovan was Sidhe and everyone ‘round the Glamour Club respected the heck out of him. The man was once an Unseelie assassin, leader of the Elite even, all before the Collapse of the Mounds. Now he ran the Glamour Club, and the community that lived all around it. Like a secret fey village of all different races smack dab in the middle of the industrial district in Kilkenny. And although everyone respected, and even feared, Donovan, Malcolm knew it was more than just that. Donovan had been the one to teach Malcolm, and the other earthborns, about who they were. About being Sidhe, and what that meant.
And it was because he was Sidhe, and one of Donovan’s crew, that Eircheard just watched as Malcolm rummaged through his toolbox, knocking things aside and tossing junk onto the dirty concrete floor. Malcolm was used to the staring, and the other dwarves were starting to wander over and do just that. He was used to people looking at him like he was a nutter, which he knew they thought he was, running around with headphones on, and sometimes even with a blindfold on. All so he could see and hear the magic better. Something they couldn’t really understand, because no one else could sense it like he could.
He was a bloodhound. That was his magic.
And it scared most fey, at least a little, even though Malcolm didn’t see why it should. It wasn’t like he could burn them up, like Bryce could. Or tear apart a mountain, like Donovan could.
So there was a little bit of respect, a little bit of fear, and probably a bunch of ‘what’s this nutter up to now?’ in the dwarves as they watched Malcolm fish out an old, battered mallet from the bottom of the toolbox.
Even as he held it, Malcolm felt the hairs of energy stroking over his hand and forearm. The golden light spilling off the tool flexed and flared like ghostly fire from ancient dwarven forges. And the voices, chanting some proud and sad dirge, like a choir, hummed through his mind so beautifully that he stared at the magic in his hand with fascination.
All up until Eircheard patted his shoulder with his heavy hand.
Malcolm glanced up from where he knelt, slipping the headphones down so he could hear what the dwarf said.
“Whatcha got there, laddie, belonged to me da. And his da before him. All the way back for generations.”
“I need it.” Malcolm rose. He might be skinny, and only seventeen years of age, but he was way taller than the dwarves. The Sidhe, like all the other races of elves, tended to run six feet or more. The lads especially.
Eircheard wasn’t one to be intimidated by height. Nor did Malcolm think the man would back down from a fight, if a fight came to him. The long knife Malcolm wore strapped to his thigh wouldn’t have backed the dwarf down either. Not with all those brutal-looking tools at hand that Eircheard and the others could wield like weapons, if they wanted to.
What made Eircheard simply nod with acceptance was because Malcolm was Sidhe. And that alone was enough. At least for the lesser fey of the Glamour Club. Not like the goblins and Changelings that loathed the Sidhe. Malcolm still bore the scars of their hatred, hidden beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt and his leather wristbands.
Eircheard nodded. “Then be careful with it. And bring it back when you’re done.”
Malcolm held the mallet against his chest, feeling the magic spilling from it and rolling through his heart. “That may be a while.”
The dwarf nodded, and turned back to his forge. The others wandered back to their work too, leaving Malcolm to his own tasks.
Leaving him to drop back into his special senses. To give his mind over to the magic whispering to him. To listen to what it wanted him to do next.
Chapter Three
London left Lugh waiting in her car on the side street and then tucked her pistol at her low back as she started for her apartment. The rest of the weapons she’d left in the backseat covered with a blanket. As much as she might like an arsenal at her fingertips, it wasn’t like she could go waltzing around Dublin like that. She’d just grab a few things, including the bag of money Lugh had trusted into her keeping, and then they’d be off. She hurried down the street, dodging the mid-morning foot traffic. Casting quick glances about, she kept watch for Donovan’s Unseelie, or anyone else who might figure her for a target. So when someone stepped in front of her just as she passed the alcove around the entrance to the teashop, she started for her pistol. But then she saw who it was and, instead, her hand settled on her hip, still close to her weapon, but not going for it yet. “Isaac.”
He wasn’t all that much taller than she. His youthfully handsome face always lit up when he looked at her, even when the expression was serious. His black Irish coloring, with his dark hair and his vivid blue eyes, was more than familiar to her, even though it was startling to see him now. Like he didn’t belong in this version of her life, but to the dream of her life from before, to fade into memory. And the hot ‘n heavy part of their history was about six years in the past. Only he was here now and too real to simply ignore.
Isaac’s hands went to her upper arms, as if to balance her after the near collision, but he didn’t release her. “We have to talk.”
“We really don’t.” She backed away, shrugging out of his grip.
“London, please.” He caught her arm once more and drew her out of the stream of pedestrians and into the alcove. “I know you’re in some kind of trouble.”
“I don’t need you to rescue me.” London twisted free again.
When she tried to step past him, he got in the road. And if not for the truly worried expression, she would have been annoyed by his obstinance. “I think you do.” His eyes flicked over her, as if taking in all the
details. “You’re running with the Sidhe, aren’t you? The pack knows about you and him.”
“So?” She crossed her arms.
He just lowered his voice to a hiss. “He killed Stephen. The pack will come for him.” Isaac angled his head to look more directly at her. “They will come for you if you stand in their way.”
She’d known Lugh had killed a werewolf. He’d said as much. Truth be told, she was glad to know it hadn’t been Isaac. But Stephen? The alpha? Without the pack leader to keep order, the wolves would be scrambling to fill the void. And taking down Stephen’s killer would be a perfect way to prove one’s worthiness.
He took advantage of her silence and pressed on. “What is he to you? A client? A boyfriend?” Isaac shook his head. “He’s not worth endangering your life.”
London frowned.
“What would your uncle say?” Isaac continued, “I promised to look out for you. To stand between you and the pack, but this is more than I can handle.”
“You don’t understand.” She side-stepped him, but stopped when he caught her wrist again. He’d never been this grabby before, probably proving how truly worried he was now. London really didn’t want to have to break his fingers to get her point across. She turned to face him, her back to the street. “I’m not yours to protect.”
“You’ll always be mine to protect.”
She saw the shadow fall across the doorway and knew someone tall moved up behind her. And from the darkening look in Isaac’s eyes, she knew who it was.
