by S A Archer
Even from… Lugh listened for the echo of the name… Tiernan. The metallic taste of his Touch flavored the memory of him. Of the recent night they spent in each other’s embrace. In body, he had pleasured her, but in soul, she’d felt more alone than ever.
Knowing what she craved, Lugh gifted her with the magic she desired. The purity of his light seeped into Dawn’s skin, and spread with the warmth of the sun through her. Through the Touch Lugh gave her, he murmured, I see you. I know you. We are alike, you and I, daughter of the light.
There was a shine of tears in her eyes, and he could see that she knew of what he spoke.
And in that tender moment of magic, a shared secret wove between them like magicraft. With the gentle flow of light he fed her, that fledgling bond grew stronger.
A bond that he could use to his advantage, when the timing was auspicious.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“So what’s the plan?” Tiernan planted his hands on his hips. His face twisted into an expression of thoughtful confusion.
Considering what happened when he last touched the magic of the artifact puzzle, this time Donovan kept his arms crossed against his chest. Standing between Tiernan on his right, and Malcolm on his left, he considered the mass before him. The artifacts floated in the transparent golden glow of the magic. He could just begin to see the flex and flow and the connecting bonds. Unlike the bloodhound, he couldn’t see the fullness of the energy of the artifact puzzle. The fact that he could see anything at all proved that it was beginning to manifest, forming the first pseudo plasmic mass that would, in theory, eventually burst forth into the new fey realm they sought. “Could you deconstruct it, and rebuild it on the isle?”
“I doubt it.” Malcolm’s hands tucked into the back pockets of his loose jeans. His clothes still hung on his too-thin frame, but he’d been making progress on his weigh-ins, and his face wasn’t quite so gaunt. Even still, with the conservative goal of gaining two pounds a week, he’d still be another half a year before he was back up to a decent body mass. “Better not. Might gnarl it up.”
A thoughtful silence extended between them. Finally, Tiernan muttered, “I don’t suppose teleporting would work.”
“Not if we can’t hang on to the whole of it.” Donovan crouched down and propped his forearms on his knees as he leaned in to get a better look at the thin streams of light pulsing and glittering like spiderwebs between the suspended artifacts. “How firm are these fibers?”
Malcolm reached into the magic and gripped the torc floating before him. He gave an experimental tug. It didn’t budge. “Pretty solid. Leastwise for me.”
Straightening, Donovan said, “If we can drag it without damaging it, then we can teleport it.” He backed away, and so did Tiernan. “Give it a go, Malcolm.”
The bloodhound scrubbed his palms on the butt of his jeans, then reached into the magic. He tangled his fingers into the fibers, instead of grabbing any of the artifacts. Leaning back, he pulled. Not moving the thing. Half sitting back to get the power behind his legs, Malcolm growled with effort. The magic still didn’t budge.
But then again, the lad didn’t have a lot of weight or muscle to put into the effort.
Donovan hooked an arm around Malcolm’s waist and added to the effort. With every ounce of his strength, he tugged on bloodhound. And a second later Tiernan latched his arms around Malcolm’s shoulder and the three of them pulled with all their might.
A scream peeled from Malcolm. His grip on the magic broke as his fingers uncurled against the pressure, pitching them all backward into a heap on the floor.
“Bloody hell!” Tiernan got to a knee, staring wide-eyed at the magic. “How can it weight so much?”
“I’m not sure if it is weight, or some aspect of the magic mounting. Like mass. Or gravity.” Donovan got to his feet, and then helped Malcolm up, who cradled his hands against his chest. “You hurt?”
“Just strained.” The boy shook out his hands. “I’ll be ok.”
When Donovan had reached into the magic, he’d not felt anything solid. More like heat, vibration, and power.
So much power.
He cut a look over to Tiernan, who raked his fingers through his hair as he frowned at the thing. Donovan asked, “How strong is your control over copper?”
The metal Sidhe lifted a curious eyebrow. “As good as any other metal.”
Forty-five minutes later, Donovan and Tiernan watched as Malcolm crawled, contorted, and maneuvered through the magic to wrap the final copper wire around the last artifact. Snaking his way through the bands of power like a thief between the electronic beams of an elaborate security system, he wedged himself free of the artifact puzzle’s corona of power.
“Careful not to distort the pattern,” Donovan warned. “Maintain the spacing.”
“I got it.” Tiernan rolled his shoulders, preparing for the effort.
“Malcolm.”
The lad toed his trainers against the granite floor, then shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, the ligature scars on his wrists just barely visible under the leather wristbands. He spread his fingers into the magic and then curled them into a fist.
Donovan hooked both arms under Malcolm’s and put him into a wrestling hold that would give him the most solid grip on his body without adding strain on his limbs. The stone at Donovan’s feet softened and reformed into divits he could use for traction. Tiernan wedged his body between Malcolm’s arms, using the whole of his body to lean into Malcolm. He reached back, his own hand curling like he grabbed the invisible magnetism magic that he wielded. “Ready,” he grit his teeth.
As one, they heaved against the resistance of the puzzle, which seemed to have anchored itself into the very atmosphere. The three of them growled and grunted with the fight, and finally the puzzle slipped an inch. With another jerk, it inched forward again.
“We can move it.” Donovan managed between his clenched teeth. “We can teleport it.” His muscles trembled with the effort. “On three. One… Two…” He felt the others tensing. “Three!”
At first, nothing happened. Then they flickered with the struggle of the magic fighting to take hold. “Again!” Donovan shouted, and shoved all his focus into the teleportation.
And felt something jolt.
Falling, Donovan loosened his grip.
He landed hard on his back. Tiernan collapsed next to him.
Malcolm’s lightweight frame landed on top of him.
The world seemed to scream and tilt and spin at once. He curled to the side gripping his head against the onslaught. It took a full minute to realize that it was just the backlash of the teleportation that beat him bodily.
Donovan opened his eyes, seeing first the golden glow of the artifact magic before them. Then the amphitheater on the Isle of Fey that it illuminated in its mysterious light.
Tiernan cradled himself, rocking against the torrent of pain. Even through his pained gasps, he joked, “Let’s… not do that… again.”
“We won’t have to.” Malcolm got to his feet. Then he hooted and bounced with unseemly youthful vigor. “It worked! Not a bit of it out of place.” The boy couldn’t smile brighter as he punched victoriously into the air.
Donovan would have shared some of his enthusiasm, if he didn’t feel shredded. He flopped back next to Tiernan. Malcolm couldn’t have made the teleportation leap, so hadn’t been torn by the effort. Which left Donovan and Tiernan to endure the agony of the backlash while he cheered their success.
“I’m sleeping here.” Tiernan muttered, not even bothering to look up. His face pressed hard to the ground. “If the kid doesn’t shut it, I’m killing him when I get off this floor.”
“I’ll help you.” Donovan grumbled, hooking the crook of his arm over his face to cover his pulsing eyeballs, riding out one o
f the worst hangovers of his life.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When the young Sidhe woman with light, caramel colored hair approached Lugh, London didn’t miss seeing the wattage on Lugh’s smile cranking up to ‘charming.’ London slipped out of the way, heading toward a booth a couple over from his, giving him room to work his Seelie wiles.
London had to admit, when Lugh wasn’t overcome with dark magic, he could seduce the britches off any woman. The Sidhe woman he guided into the booth with him gazed up at him with something like enchantment in her eyes. If the Sidhe were susceptible to Touch addiction like a human, she would have thought Lugh had captivated her. Maybe his aspect of magic wasn’t really ‘the sun’. At the moment, it appeared to be ‘ladies’ man’.
Picking at the label on her Guinness, London contented herself to people watch. The last time she’d been here they’d all looked on as the earthborn Unseelie tried to kill her. Now they danced and chatted like they were born to it. How quickly things could change.
Like Lugh.
There was so much about her patron’s past that she didn’t know. Didn’t even have the first inkling about. Like his attraction to the dark haired Sidhe with the psycho eyes, or his reasons for such loyalty to a king who would fraternize with wizards.
The swagger of the fey that broke from the crowd, heading directly toward her, broke her pondering. As she focused on the man, tall and beautiful as an elf, she recognized the shapeshifter, Bain Greim, prince of the Ghille Dhu. London straightened in her seat, wishing again that she had the comfort of her gun at her low back. Bain’s smile and easy manner as he slipped uninvited into the other side of her booth gave no indication that on their last encounter, he’d nearly killed her.
Attempting to kill her was apparently a favorite fey past time.
Although she recognized him, his appearance had changed. Instead of the long hair drawn back in a ponytail, this time his black hair was trimmed in an expensive looking cut. His yellow green eyes were the same as always, though, and glowed in the low light. The delightful hunger in his expression had London sitting back in the booth, just to get even a little more distance from him. Although they appeared white and even now, she recalled the mouthful of needle sharp teeth that had snapped less than an inch from her face. His hands, elegant and gracefully, rested on the table between them, his fingers interlaced. Not the twiggy claws that had raked her throat, in an attempt to rip it out.
“Bain,” she acknowledged him, wondering if the Unseelie’s promise not to kill her extended to all the patrons of the Glamour Club. And if it was supposed to, did everyone get the memo?
“London,” his voice was musical, even with the underlying hiss. “I heard you would be accompanying the Champion here.”
The way his gaze drifted over her body, as if trying to decide which part to devour first, set off a whole plethora of warning bells. Swallowing down the evidence of her fear, she forced her voice to come out with confidence. “You came here just to see me?” The Ghille Dhu didn’t normally travel from their homes, content to dwell privately in the lush environs of their castles, hidden from the world by their Glamour and their shapechanging abilities.
“I want your blood,” Bain’s lips twisted into a hungry smirk.
London felt herself blanch. Her fingers closed around the bottle, the only weapon within reach, if he lunged for her. “You can’t have it.”
With a coy tilt to his head, he protested, “You haven’t even heard my offer.” Slowly, Bain slid his fingers closer to hers, until the tips of them barely tickled over hers.
London pulled her hands away, out of Bain’s easy reach. “What offer?”
“Nothing tastes like Sidhe blood.” Sitting back, Bain cast a glance about the club. “They won’t give me any.”
She recalled how he’d licked clean his claws after he’d torn through her flesh. “I’m not Sidhe,” she whispered.
He blinked those brilliant eyes at her, head titled to the side in a fashion she thought more reptilian than human. “You are drenched in Sidhe magic.”
Fixing her jaw tight, she stated, “My blood isn’t for sale.”
“Isn’t it?” Bain quirked his eyebrows. “Blood is one of the currencies of the fey. As much as magic.” He leaned a little closer and whispered, “As much as sex.”
The very thought of sex with Bain sent a disgusted shiver through her gut. Her expression must have shown as much.
He continued, “Blood will do, for what I offer.” From the belt at his waist, he withdrew a pair of gloves and presented them to her.
London looked them over with care. The honey colored leather was soft and pliable as suede. The design was unlike anything she’d seen. The gloves were fingerless, but they would reach all the way to her elbows. A crisscrossing leather stitching extended from the base of the pinkie all the way up the outside of the forearm. Beautiful as they were, something more drew her fingers to close over them.
“Thief’s gloves,” he said.
“I am no thief.” She raised her eyes to meet his.
Bain ignored her protest. “Enchanted by Taliesin, the Sidhe bard skilled in magicraft and a great patron of druids. Do you know what that means?”
Her grip tightened. “I could use them.”
“Only a fey or an enchanted human could,” Bain confirmed what she’d learned from the book the Scribe had given her. “These gloves have three enchantments. For the taste of your blood, I will share with you the secret of the first enchantment.”
Watching the glint in his eyes, she narrowed hers. “And for the other two?”
“Blood, again,” Bain leaned forward, in a conspiratorial way. “In about a month, I suspect I will crave the taste once more. Come to me then, and I will share the secret of the second enchantment.”
Reluctant though she was to take her eyes off Bain, London examined the gloves. On the inside were elaborate embossed symbols, but the outside was unmarred. “They look brand new.”
“And always will,” he assured her. “Have we a deal?”
“What is it that the gloves can do?”
“The first is the ability to open locks, or seal them once more. Not terribly showy, but extremely useful.” Bain let her contemplate that before continuing, “Shall we complete our transaction then?”
London watched him place a donor kit on the table. She’d seen this with some of the more public vampires, the ones that moved among the demi-vampires that passed for the goth culture. There were humans that adopted the vampire lifestyle, even to the point of drinking blood, and among them such kits were common. “We are being civilized about this, aren’t we?”
He cocked a grin and glanced about. “In a place like this, it’s best to be that way. Perhaps next time, in private—”
“Civilized works for me,” she cut him off.
He laughed, “Of course.” After unzipping the wallet sized case, he extracted an alcohol wipe and a razor. “Shall I perform the procedure?”
“No, I got it.” She’d seen it done, though she’d not ever volunteered to do it before. After tearing open the alcohol wipe, and scrubbing it over the outside of her forearm, well away from any tendons or vessels, London carefully took the razor, and flicked the blade in a shallow cut. It welled with blood immediately.
Bain reached over and collected her wrist, bringing it to his mouth to lave at the wound with his tongue.
London winced with disgust. Lugh had taken her blood, and it had hurt even under the power of his Touch, but that had been different. He was her patron and she had done what he needed of her. This felt creepy. Especially when Bain dug his tongue into the wound to force it to bleed more. “Alright, that’s enough.” She tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, and for a moment she thought Bain wouldn’t let her go. But finally, he did.
>
Licking at his mouth, he watched her. No longer smiling and clearly thinking thoughts more aggressive than he was willing to act out in this public place.
“The enchantment?” She prompted as she used the gauze and tape from the kit to cover her cut. It still bled some, making a blossom of red spread through the bandage. “How does it work?”
Touching his mouth as if still focusing on the sensations, Bain said, “Grip the thing that is locked, and command it to ‘unseal’. When you are done, simply command it once more to ‘seal’. And it will be so.”
The music from the live band stuttered off in the middle of a song, and all the fey shifted their attention to the entryway where Donovan appeared. His head was lowered a bit as his dark eyes swept the room. London didn’t know the Unseelie leader well enough to determine if he looked exhausted, or just pissed off. From the times she’d encountered him before, she imagined that he pissed off easily. At least his face didn’t bare any damage from when she’d kicked him.
Bain apparently had his own reasons to be cautious around Donovan, because he grabbed the donor kit and dropped a Glamour of invisibility over it before sliding it from the table and back into his pocket. He casually ducked out of her booth without another word.
Donovan gave a significant looking nod to the bartender, who then announced in a loud voice. “Last call!” Even though it was still early, possibly only 7:30, the whole of the Glamour Club raised in a cheer. Only a few took the bartender up on his offer.
As the Unseelie approached Lugh’s booth a few over from hers, London donned her gloves. The right one she pulled up to her elbow. The left she tugged up only to her wrist, leaving the bandage over her cut uncovered.
