by S A Archer
As much as the magic of the ancients summoned him, and the pulsing power within the Isle surged within him, a single thread recalled Donovan back to his body, back to the life he’d lived for thousands of years.
“I feel you,” she whispered.
Donovan reached a hand toward her. “I feel you,” he echoed.
Her fingers twined in his and she lay down beside him, curling beneath his arm and against his chest. Each stroke of her hands over his body drew his awareness away from the earth and the magic, and back within the confines of his flesh. She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed the fabric aside so that her Touch hummed into his torso.
As he drew her closer, Kaitlin slid over top of him. Her body covered his. Her knees tucked beside his hips as she straddled him. Soon his body responded to hers, pressing against the soft heat between her legs.
Inhaling as their mouths met, Donovan stole her breath. Their tongues twined about, tasting and exploring. The Seelie princess fed her Touch into his mouth and Donovan greedily drank in the magic. Music tumbled into his mind and trickled across his skin like rainwater, soaking into his body as if he were soil. No fey could deny the call of music to their artistic souls. Not even Donovan, who denied himself most pleasures since the Collapse, in favor of stewardship over the fey and the Glamour Club.
But here, and now, he was no more than fey responding to the call of magic. No more than a man responding to the generosity of a woman’s tender body.
As the kiss deepened, they rid each other of the clothing that impeded them. Donovan cupped Kaitlin’s face as he rolled her beneath him, claiming the more dominant position. Her legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him down. The slow penetration of her moist heat brought a hiss of desire from him. Clutched in each other’s arms, they joined in body and in magic. Each thrust of his hips pulsed in time with the throb of power moving through the ley lines. Kaitlin’s music surrounded him, poured over him. Since the day they’d been connected he’d felt her, but never so fully as this. Their Touch flowed between them, giving and taking. Pushing and withdrawing. Magic becoming the harmony to the melody of their bodies.
Kaitlin was so soft and beautiful. So pliant and willing. Time lost meaning within her embrace. Only sensation remained, building with intensity. The first time his body surged forth with his magic and his need, washing away everything but the passion between them, wouldn’t be the last.
Chapter Fifty
London closed the small handbook Willem had given her and smoothed the cover down flat. The little book, hand-scribed by Willem himself, contained so much essential knowledge. So much so that she’d read it cover to cover twice, just to be certain that she hadn’t missed any of it. Lugh hadn’t exactly denied her this information. Most of the things he said and had done were right out of the manual, but she hadn’t realized the practice of captivating humans and taking them as druids had been such an institution back in the day. Even the oath Lugh had her swear was practically word for word the oath druids had made for centuries.
Even though humans were outsiders, as a druidess, she had a place in fey society. From the front porch of the beach house London watched the first glow of the morning light illuminating the small village just a few minutes walk away. Already the early risers were beginning to venture out into the streets. The mountain to the east shielded the town from the abrupt sunrise, and protected the morning mist from burning away. Now and then the sluagh, like great hunting birds, patrolled the skies, soaring on the sea breeze. The feathery haze gave the lights festooned around the fairy-tale village a mystical glow. It was magical and lovely, like a fantasy painting, and oddly enough, this was part of her life now.
London finished her breakfast tea and left the cup on the porch table. With the break of day she expected Lugh to rise soon, although he had company who might keep him occupied for a little while longer. The man hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that his unofficial nickname had been ‘the cad’. He couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Not that she judged him for that. Sex was one of the currencies of the fey, as much as blood and magic, according to the handbook. Every woman Lugh had taken to his bed had furthered his purpose and he was masterful in taking full advantage of his willing companions.
The problem lay not with Lugh’s Seelie methods, but with the king that he served.
Wearing the elbow-length, fingerless thieves’ gloves she’d purchased from Bain, London started off for the village. The golden leather didn’t match her pink cotton top or the blue jeans she wore, but she didn’t care. Besides Lugh’s token, these were the only magical items she possessed and they’d already been vital.
London had waited until it wasn’t suspiciously early before beginning her search.
“Scone, Miss?” A Brownie woman in an apron and ankle-length dress offered a tray full of sweet pastries. Shorter than London, who wasn’t tall by human standards, the woman blinked up at her with those large fey eyes. Brownies, like Scribes, fell into what London thought of as the ‘cute’ category of fey. The sluagh flying overhead joined the Changelings in the terrifying group. The Sidhe, of course, always lead the pack in the drool-worthy class.
Hesitantly, London selected a small scone from the tray. She wouldn’t be expected to pay for it, by the rules of fey culture, simply because she was druidess to a Sidhe. Even still, London half expected the woman to mention payment, the conventions of human society were so ingrained within her. But the Brownie just smiled, pleased to have been of help. “Thank you.” London smiled back, before asking in a softer voice, “Do you know where I could find Willem? He’s a Scribe.”
“I just carried Cream Tea to him this morning,” The Brownie chirped pleasantly, then pointed to the tent large enough for a circus further up the rise from the village. “He’s just there.”
Before the Brownie turned away, London quickly added, “And Kaitlin?”
If all of the fey of the Glamour Club were moving to the isle, then maybe Kaitlin was here somewhere. The Sidhe girl had hinted at things. She knew Manannan and she knew Lugh, and London needed to know more about both.
“Check in the hostel.” The Brownie nodded behind London.
The building was like no hostel London had ever seen. More like a posh hotel or villa. Only two stories high, like most of the village, with a balcony along the second floor above the wide porch encircling the first. Leaning against the post by the porch step, and blocking her view of the front door, was Kieran.
Chapter Fifty-One
“Where does that last piece go?” Willem glanced from his cooking pot back at Malcolm, who sat with the cat napping in his lap and a dwarven war axe beside him.
“Up near the top.” With his head tilted back, Malcolm considered the hole in the magic of the artifact puzzle, nearly fifty meters above their heads.
“How’re you going to get it up there? Dangle from a rope? Get the dwarves to fashion you a really long ladder?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Still figuring on that.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” Willem asked, as he brought two heaping bowls of stew, each topped with a block of cornbread, to the blanket on the ground where Malcolm sat cross-legged. He handed off one bowl, and then one of the spoons he’d stuffed in his shirt pocket.
“What?” Malcolm accepted the bowl. It smelled good, and after shoveling a spoonful, decided that it tasted even better. Already the Brownies had set to caring for their needs, bringing them a camp stove and a couple of cots to sleep on. The covered space the dwarves made to house the artifact puzzle had been constructed in a hurry, but it looked really sturdy. From outside, even with the morning just begun, they could hear the sounds of construction; hammering and sawing and planks of wood being slapped into place. The whole of the Glamour Club, and all the fey that called it home, were transplanting here in one great whoosh of activity. Every time Malco
lm peeked out of the tarp covered entryway there were more buildings springing up on the plateau and the hillside leading up to it, like mushrooms that just seemed to pop up whenever you weren’t looking. Above the plateau, along the sharp incline to the mountain peak, wood elves and fairies and other woodland folk planted saplings, and cast magic to make them grow. Everywhere on the island began to glow from one kind of magic or another, making a background noise to the music of the artifact puzzle.
“The Star Wheel of Arianrhod in Tír na nÓg.” The Scribe said, as if the babble of words spilling from his mouth were supposed to make any kind of sense to Malcolm.
“Do what?” Malcolm asked around a mouthful of steak and potato.
Willem gestured with his spoon. “The cross bars that all link in the center like that. That’s like the contraption Arianrhod created to show the movement of the stars and planets through the heavens. Those bars even rotate around the center point at different rates and along different paths, like hers did, just with platforms instead of globes.”
Malcolm halted mid-bite, staring at the small fey like he’d lost his mind. “What platforms? What bars?” Turning back to the magic of the puzzle, Malcolm saw nothing of what Willem described. The threads and shapes created a massive, swirling ball of magic with eddies and currents moving through it, just missing a single hole in the overall perfection of it. “I thought you said you saw the artifacts floating in the air in like a golden cloud.”
“That was before. The magic must be manifesting. Becoming more than magic.” Willem shrugged. “I see bars and platforms, just like Arianrhod’s contraption.”
Without thinking about it, Malcolm’s hand covered the ring in his hip pocket. His finger worried over the shape of it, feeling the depression where the denim covered the center of the ring. Setting aside the remains in the bowl for Tom Cat to finish, Malcolm rose to his feet before the magic. The power of it spoke to him in all the tongues of the many races of fey, and together, they were a chorus. The echo of it rolled through him at all times, telling him what needed to be done.
Hooking his hand in the tail of his t-shirt, Malcolm reached into the pocket and pulled out the ring. Keeping the silver from his skin with the fabric of the shirt, he considered it. The silver would silence the voices. Hide the magic from his senses. But then, he could see what Willem saw. What anyone who wasn’t a bloodhound would see. Was there more to see… More to know… than just the magic?
Gazing up at the great mass of magic, Malcolm set his jaws firm.
Then slipped on the ring that tingled with the first hint of burn on his flesh.
Before him, the globe of light faded to just a hint of its shape, and left behind were thick braids of magic that formed the arms of the contraption Willem described. A few dozen or more of the platforms, each just wide enough for one person to stand on, moved in slow orbit around the center, where another platform held the center position. Seeing this now, made fragments of understanding begin to slip in place for Malcolm. Everything the magic had sung to him, he understood it intuitively now.
Reaching out, he gripped one of the bars extending from the center and tugged down on it, testing its strength. Then he backed away. “Do we have rope?” It only took a few minutes to find a bit of discarded rope left with the other construction clutter no one had cleared away yet. With one end looped around the axe head, and the other tied to the end of the handle, Malcolm hooked it onto his torso like a heavy bow, with the rope across his chest, instead of a bowstring. He adjusted the axe against his back, and then leapt toward the lowest bar that swung down in his direction. Slowly it rotated upward, carrying him with it, but away from the place he needed to go. Malcolm timed his jump, hooked his hands over another bar, and flung himself upward towards a third.
He caught that bar, pinning it between his chest and upper arms. Then the weight of the axe slipped, jerking down on his thin frame, and yanking his arms down. Malcolm’s grip slipped as Willem shouted, “Be careful!”
Malcolm curled his fingers tight as his hands pulled over the bar, and he caught it before he dropped. Swinging his legs a few times, he got enough momentum to jerk himself back up and crawled onto the bar, straddling it while he caught his breath.
“Whew!” Willem called up to him. “Thought you were going to fall on that axe!”
“That would be all kinds of not good.” Malcolm shifted the axe again, making sure it was secure, then walked along the length of the bar like a balance beam. He climbed the rest of the contraption like a tree, getting all the way to the top, where he balanced on one of the platforms. Only then, did he remove the ring.
Below and around him, the mass of the magic reappeared. Now that he’d seen the shape of the contraption the enchantment was manifesting, he could make it out in the flows of the liquid movements of the magic. Within the massive globe of power, currents twisted and connected. He could still see the various artifacts floating within the creative force that was building, and the axe at his back already tugged to fill its spot. Malcolm removed the rope and tossed it aside. It took it several seconds to hit the ground. Then he knelt on the shifting surface of the magic, and began fitting the item into place. The threads of magic connecting from the axe to the other artifacts filled the final void, and smoothed this part of the puzzle. With the final piece slipping into place the whole of the artifact puzzle shivered into solidity.
The magic had manifested.
With hands out to the side, Malcolm balanced on an arm inside the contraption. All of the beams joined right in the center around a platform. Malcolm slid down one of the beams and then found a junction where he could balance without stepping on the platform itself. Reaching into the magic, his fingers caressed over the space.
He already knew what it would whisper to him. He already knew who it was the magic had claimed for its heart.
Donovan.
The magic from the artifacts had worked through Donovan to create the Isle of Fey. But that was just the barest hint of its power.
If anyone could handle it, it would be Donovan, Malcolm thought. The burst of magic that had created the island had been immense. Even across Ireland, the sound and light and fury of it had nearly devastated Malcolm’s senses.
It might have, too. If not for the silver that had shielded him from the impact.
His hand covered the ring, where it was hidden in his pocket.
Malcolm had his place in the contraction, too. As did many others. At the end of each beam, a smaller platform awaited a fey. Thirty-six, if he’d counted right, not including Donovan at the center.
And this time, Malcolm wouldn’t be able to use the silver. He’d be at ground zero with what was going to be a nuclear blast of magic. Talk about your big bang theory. This was going to be one smashing huge explosion. One strong enough to tear open the fabric of existence and pop out a whole new realm.
No doubt it was going to be spectacular.
And probably hurt something unimaginable. Malcolm knew a lot about pain. He had a mass of scars to prove it.
And this… was going to hurt.
Bad.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Whether it was the sex, or the few hours sleep with Kaitlin curled against him, Donovan felt far more clearheaded on the morning of the last day of his life.
Malcolm didn’t need to tell him when the final artifact wove into its place. The chorus of the ancients, that memory of the fey that forged the history of his people, murmured into his mind, Gather your people.
Stroking Kaitlin’s short, blond hair, Donovan roused her from her slumber. “Time for me to go.”
She just nodded to that, rolling away from him to get dressed. They were both moderately disheveled, but Donovan didn’t care as he headed down to the enchantment that called to him.
Even before he saw the manifestatio
n of the artifacts’ magic, he saw it in his mind’s eye. Stepping into the tent only confirmed what he’d already come to understand.
The construct within a misty globe of golden magic filled the tent with almost no room to spare. In the very center floated a platform spun from magic. No more than a single man could perch upon it, but only one man would need to.
Extending from that center point three dozen arms of woven magic stretched forth like branches which rotated sedately along independent orbits. Each branch ended in a platform about the width of his shoulders. Beneath each, floated one of the artifacts.
The three fey standing before the complex magicraft stared up at it in awe. Even Tiernan, who normally made it a point never to seem awed by anything.
“This doesn’t exactly look like the mural.” Willem considered the parchment upon which Donovan had sketched the image painted in Danu’s temple.
Through the wisdom of the chorus, Donovan understood why. “She never completed the construction, which is why the relics are floating about her, seemingly unconnected. And why she, alone, is depicted.”
With his hands stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans, Malcolm watched Donovan. “I’ve done what the voices wanted me to do. They don’t talk to me much anymore.”
He merely nodded. The chorus was finished with the bloodhound. They weren’t finished with Donovan though.
“Tiernan, I need you to contact an enclave of every race of fey. I need a single, magically-gifted fey from each, and I need them here by nightfall.” Donovan tilted his head toward the Scribe. “Willem will represent the Scribes and will help you get them organized.”
