by S A Archer
Donovan apparently didn’t recognize any reason to object, because he finalized the negotiation with a word. “Agreed.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
London watched Willem packing his satchel, rolling a shirt to make it fit neatly into the bundle. Although she wondered how much was fastidiousness on his part, and how much was stalling. “Are you going to be ok?”
Willem stuffed the shirt into the bag. “It will be as it will be.” His shoulders were up and head down. But only for a moment, and then he lifted his chin. His large eyes settled on London, and she saw his worry and his conviction. “I go where I am led and trust all will be as it should be.”
She offered him a little smile of understanding.
“And what about you?” He asked, reaching for his next shirt. “With the beast.”
“Hanging in there.” She took one of his shirts and helped to fold it. When she glanced up, she forced a smile as uncertain and determined as his. “There’s nothing for it, though, but to walk the path.”
“That is the truth.” Willem placed a hand on hers. She paused and their eyes met. So much weight and meaning there. “When the storms pass, if we find ourselves free of the tossing of destiny’s waves, we should have a drink together. As comrades in arms after a war.”
“That we should.” And the thought of it did make her smile. If they both survived, that would be a lovely thing.
Willem squeezed her hand, and then raised up on his toes a little to kiss her cheek. And she kissed his back.
Then he slipped away to the bookcase. “I have something for you.” He brought back a bundle wrapped in a leather skin and tied with a cord.
London unbound it and looked at the book. It was a handwritten journal with embellishments on fine vellum. “It’s beautiful.” And it was. Then she read the script on the first page, and looked up at Willem. “A handbook for druids?”
“There is much you should know.” He set himself back to his packing. “And I doubt Lugh is instructing you fully, given his state.”
She wrapped the journal in the leather and refastened it. It was truly a treasure, and though she was anxious to read it, she had something she needed to do first. From her shoulder bag she drew out a cell phone. “I got this for Lugh, but he doesn’t want it. I think you should keep it.”
“A scrying device?” He turned his confused eyes up to hers.
“Here, sit with me. I’ll show you how to use it.” She sat on the bed beside him. “Jonathon’s number is here. And mine. And Selena is my friend, but she’s also a vampire, so only call that one if you are in a serious emergency and can’t reach me or the dragon.” She swiped her finger over the surface. “There’s a lot more it can do, but I don’t want to confuse you.”
“No, this is brilliant.” Willem reached for the phone, and then repeated the gestures she showed him, activating the cell. “I am a swift learner.”
When he tapped her name, her phone chimed. She answered it so he could hear her voice over his phone. “Looks like you’ve got it.”
“Most exciting.” Willem’s eyes shined as he examined the buttons. “Shall I scry for you every day, and give progress reports?”
“Absolutely. And anytime you have something you need to share with me or Lugh.”
Willem tucked away the phone in the breast pocket of his vest, then finished his packing. “If the Unseelie truly have found the secret to weave the magic, then with any luck, it won’t be long before the threat of the Fade is past, and Lugh shall be made whole again.”
“I would definitely drink to that.” London found a smile. And a sliver of hope.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As they waited, Malcolm leaned in closer to Donovan and murmured, “I don’t like this. I don’t want them messing with the puzzle.”
“No one’s going to mess with it.” And from the tone in his voice, Malcolm knew he was dead serious about that.
Even still, Malcolm didn’t like it. He crossed his arms tight over his chest. “Does the little guy have to watch over me all the time?”
“That’s the agreement.” Donovan glanced from the Seelie over at Malcolm. “Scribes are not so bad as all that. You might even find him tolerable.”
Watching the little fey giving that enchanted human a hug, he grumbled, “Not bloody likely.”
But Malcolm’s discontent vanished the second the dragon returned with the satchel that beamed with magic light even through the black fabric. He hurried to claim the bag before anyone else could even think about beating him to it. The choked and misshapen voices from the artifacts struggled to cry out to him. Its music mutilated.
Jonathan didn’t release the bag’s straps just yet. “I know the Unseelie will honor their agreement.” The dragon rumbled with something just short of threat.
“You have my word,” Donovan vowed.
“And so say the Seelie?” He cut a look at Lugh.
“It is a pact I shall defend.” He set his dark-blue eyes on Donovan.
Finally, the dragon relinquished the bag into Malcolm’s grasp. He knelt down immediately, unzipped the bag, and cried out in horror. “What have you done?” Tangles of magic wove this way and that, in and around the relics, bunching up the fibers and fragmenting the light. Malcolm plunged his hand into the bag and began jerking away all the magic weaving some idiot had tethered around the lot of it.
“We were experimenting with ways to link the magic—” the little Scribe explained, coming to kneel next to Malcolm.
He scowled. “You? You did this?” The Scribe opened his mouth, but Malcolm waved him off. “Forget it. Just forget it. I don’t even want to hear it.” He dug out the majority of the offending threads of magic and flung them aside. Already the artifacts sounded clearer. He’d finish cleaning them up when they got back. Standing back up, he flung the strap of the satchel over his shoulder. “Can we go now?”
Donovan reached out, and gripped the dragon’s forearm. “Your aid has been crucial. The Unseelie thank you.”
Lugh remained leaning back against the wall, a calculating glare leveled at them. “See you soon… Donovan.” He rolled out the name with sarcasm.
Donovan didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he glanced back at Tiernan. “I’ve got Malcolm and the Scribe. You getting Dawn?”
“Am I?” He asked her with a cocky tilt of his head and a suggestive leer.
Head upturned to smile at him, Dawn slipped her hand under Tiernan’s bent elbow. “After a day like today, I think you just might.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes. Thankfully, Donovan teleported them, sparing him any more of the flirting.
He brought them directly to the war room where the artifacts still floated about, having shifted position a bit, like constellations moving ever so slowly across the sky.
Bending down, Malcolm carefully rested the satchel on the floor.
The Scribe dropped his own bag, just letting it fall from his shoulder with a careless thump on the floor. “Stunning…” Willem reached for one of the artifacts.
“No! Don’t touch it!” Malcolm caught Willem’s arm and jerked him back.
“Alright, then.” The Scribe knelt beside the satchel. “Then I’ll just unpack these—”
Malcolm snatched away the bag before the Scribe could open it. “Leave them.”
He stood up. “Then what about—”
“No!” Malcolm didn’t even wait to hear what he was going to say. After the mess the Scribe had already made, he couldn’t hardly even stand him to be looking at the artifacts, much less handling them. He grabbed a tall stool and pushed it back against the wall by the door. “You,” he pointed to Willem, “sit.”
The Scribe climbed up.
Malcolm watched those fidgety hands of his and added. “Sit on your hands
.”
The Scribe dutifully slipped them under his bum. “Like this?”
Malcolm frowned. He didn’t even want the little guy in the same room with his magic puzzle, but if he had to be there, then this was the only way. “Now don’t move.”
Willem kicked his legs a little, like a child. Making the stool rattle.
“Don’t do that.” Malcolm shook his finger at him.
Willem tucked his feet on the top rung of the stool, staying very still. All except for blinking.
After considering it for a minute, Malcolm figured he could let him do that much. Blinking. Breathing. Swallowing. But that was it.
He turned back toward Donovan, who was grinning with entirely too much amusement.
And just as Malcolm bent to get to work, the Scribe piped up, “I have to use the bathroom.”
Malcolm half closed his eyes and growled, but Donovan only chuckled. “See? Fast friends already.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lugh slung an arm around London’s shoulder, liking the feel of the woman at his side. She served him well and, having always been something of a cad, he liked the willing companionship. She didn’t balk at anything he demanded. Not even when he bit her or claimed her body for his own needs. Her strength was admirable and her loyalty unquestioned. All lovely things about his druidess. The Unseelie had been fools to squander her.
She didn’t even flinch as the Changelings sidled up around them on the street along the harbor in Douglas. The Isle of Man appeared to have collected a considerable number of the wretched fey. Though they circled them like a pack of wolves, watching for their chance to charge, Lugh didn’t give them the least fear. “I’ve come for Deacon.”
The Changelings remained all about them as one led them down the boulevard to a posh townhouse. Though the Changelings opened the door, none followed them across the threshold.
Inside, Deacon lounged on a settee, casual in his wickedness. He dropped his cell device into his pants pocket. “Took longer than expected, Champion.”
“You know why I’ve come.” Lugh didn’t waste words. “Now give it to me.”
“A little more dark magic to sustain you?” Deacon laughed. “Not mine to give.”
Lugh snatched the Changeling by the throat. There was no guessing how long it might be before the realm was created, if indeed, it could be at all. Within days the magic in him would begin to Fade again. Before Donovan and his rabid pack of Unseelie, Lugh could show no weakness. He snapped, “You said you had more!”
“There’s plenty,” Deacon laughed as he coughed. “The Master makes it.”
“What Master? Some wizard?” Lugh snarled into the lesser fey’s face, squeezing harder.
He wheezed, “No mere wizard could concoct this.”
That’s when a tall man made his entrance in the foyer.
The Sidhe was as elegant as ever in his tailored suit jacket of a fine blue suede, and white riding pants of a type far outdated by contemporary fashions. His light brown hair was swept back from his handsome face. The smile was warm and open, as ever. And the twinkle in his eye was pure mischief.
Manannan. King of the Seelie Court, before the Court and the Mounds crumbled.
“You?” Lugh snarled at Manannan. “You did this to me?” The dark enchantment might have freed the beast, but surely Manannan hadn’t that magnanimous gesture in mind. Everything Manannan ever did served himself. That he manipulated Lugh for his own ends rankled his every nerve. The beast snarled back his lips in a threat.
“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Manannan gave no indication that he feared Lugh’s fury in the least. “I merely concocted the brew. Deacon, being the opportunistic Changeling that he is, took his advantage to introduce it to you.” Manannan lifted a dram bottle with the oily clear liquid of dark magic, and then cast a long look over Lugh, and his smile was a pleased one. “I can’t say I disapprove.”
Lugh tossed the Changeling down to Manannan’s feet. “What price?”
“You are my Champion.” Manannan held out the bottle to Lugh, crossing within arm’s reach to hand it to him. “That is all I have ever wanted from you.” He slipped the bottle into Lugh’s hand. “And for this service, I shall give you what you need to live.”
Lugh popped the cork and downed the contents. The rush of the magic soaked into him, renewing his life. Driving back the edges of the light once more. He closed his eyes, savoring the vibration of power rolling through him.
“I have another gift.” Manannan turned and held out his hand. Someone slipped from the back and glided her fingers into Manannan’s, allowing him to escort her forward.
“Rhiannon.” Lugh stilled, staring at the woman he feared had died in the Mounds. Now before him, she was the picture of dark beauty. Raven hair. Moon-pale flesh. Eyes as dark as midnight. Tall and elegant in a silken dress that flowed about her as if liquid, caressing over her perfect figure. She crossed to Lugh, slipped her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply.
He lifted her from her feet as his mouth crushed against hers. The Touch flowed between them like a rush of dark water. She was as saturated with it as he. Glorious in her new moon phase. A dark enchantress that bent to his will. Perfect in her moon madness.
She was his. Always had been. And she was his again.
“Come,” Manannan’s voice murmured over the sounds of their kissing, “once you’ve slaked your lusts, there is much we should discuss.”
###
Chapter Twenty-Six
Even with the gauzy curtains enclosing the four poster bed, the light within the room roused Lugh from the exhaustion hangover following hours of carnal exertion. What should have been a pleasant body ache, wasn’t. Frustration cast a pallor over the entire evening. Rhiannon had always been an incomparable tumble, but never once had she left him feeling more agitated than if they hadn’t had sex at all.
As he rolled over, Rhia stirred and glided her thin arm across his chest. Her pale skin possessed the same milkiness. The black tresses of her hair shined like midnight on the water. Her scent teased him with the fragrance of moon flowers like the stillness of the deepest part of the night. As her blue eyes peered at him from beneath sleep laden lashes, there was no doubt that she was the lover he’d relished for thousands of years. And never once had she left him longing.
Never once.
Before last night.
Lugh raised to his elbows, gazing down at the naked beauty entangled with the sheets and his body. Her clever fingers slipped beneath the sheet to tease and tempt him, but nothing she did could rouse him now that his discontentment had set in.
As the Sidhe of the moon, Rhiannon had always reflected his sun while in his presence, just as she shadowed beneath the dark magic of Crom, who shared her bed as often as Lugh. Each bringing Rhia through the fulfillment of her phases, both full and new. Waxing and waning. Just like the ebb and flow of the tides that danced to her influence, she’d always… always… swayed to Lugh’s influence. To his Touch.
But not this time.
At first, he assumed the dark magic within him, sustaining his life, interfered with their bond. He’d sought after the fulfillment, even at the risk of disturbing the cage in which the beast had locked the Seelie parts of him, as the dark shard of his soul possessed him. Yet, nothing he’d done had brought the echo of magic that always flowed between them when they Touched.
Though they had expended themselves for hours, the unfulfilled expectation of that magic, left him raw.
Only now did understanding unravel and fall open to him. It was not the magic or the beast within Lugh that disrupted their joining.
As she gazed into his eyes, a distant smile on her lips, Lugh prickled at the foreignness within her. This dark enchantment saturating her didn’t just color her, it blocked her f
rom him as surely as silver.
The creature before him was not his Rhiannon. Not the Sidhe he’d longed to find more than any other since the Collapse of the Mounds. He didn’t know this woman at all.
Manannan had done this to her. Fixed her in this obsidian of black enchantment. Trapped her within this illusion of herself. Violated and mutilated her magic for his own ends.
Her tapered fingers traced the muscles of his chest, as her mouth explored his abdomen, but Lugh cast her aside, snapping, “Stop, Rhiannon.”
Tickled by his anger, her musical laughter mocked him.
Lugh jerked back the curtain from the bed and flung himself from it. His druidess, stretched out on the sofa, though dressed and armed, lest some fiend of a Changeling or wolfkin barge in on them. She lowered her book, then her gaze swept over his nude body.
The beast within Lugh snarled, “Where is Manannan?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
London had to admit, the settee she’d claimed for her bed wasn’t as uncomfortable as she’d feared. Perhaps it was the mound of pillows she leaned against, or the plush blanket she had thrown over her legs. In this place crawling with Changelings, she’d kept her clothes on to sleep. Her only concession for comfort had been slipping off her shoes, but they were beside her on the floor, and easy enough to slip on at a moment’s notice. Her gun stayed holstered under her arm where she could get at it quickly, in case anyone rushed the room.
Her own safety, and comfort, were the least of her worries. Even as she read the journal Willem had given her, she kept one ear on the muttered conversation a few feet away. Thankfully, Lugh and his lover had drawn the curtain around the bed, sparing her the full show. They’d been pornograhically loud most of the night and London did her best to focus on the book. At least the beast possessing Lugh had found someone else to satisfy his needs. Those bites hurt like hell, despite the Touch he gave her to make them tolerable. Even after the noisy lovers had exhausted themselves, London hadn’t been able to do much more than lightly snooze, anticipating the Changelings to attack at any moment, even if Lugh didn’t fear them. Finally she’d given up the attempt to sleep altogether, and returned to reading the journal a good hour before she heard Lugh stir.
