The Avatars Series: Books 1-3

by Blackwood, Lisa

  “You do not have the training you need, that is what happened.” Each word came out clipped.

  Not good. He sounded pissed, which meant he was scared.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I overheard Sable and Kayla talking yesterday while I was getting ready for the Hunt. Dryad magic sounded so easy and natural. I’m tired of knowing nothing. . . .”

  “We will talk of this later.” Gregory’s ears swiveled toward the entrance of the maze. “I hear the others coming. Please, do not call on magic until I have time to teach you some basic rules.”

  Lillian concluded Gregory didn’t lie very well. Yes, the others were coming, but that’s not why he didn’t want to talk about magic. Every time she wanted answers about magic, he evaded her questions. “Okay. I won’t use magic again.”

  She lied better than her gargoyle.

  * * *

  From her position under the shade of her redwood, Lillian surveyed each of the Council members as they emerged from the maze. Two young girls arrived with Gran, one to each side. Gran led them to the picnic tables next to the stream.

  On closer inspection, Lillian realized these were not children, but delicate four-foot-tall women. Each wore a simple, but elegant cream robe tied at the waist with golden rope. The taller of the two had mottled brown-and-white hair, not from age—this was a pattern. The brown-and-white layers ran horizontal. The other women had the same style hair, but tan and brown. They gazed around the meadow, their jewel-bright eyes immediately drawn to the redwood at meadow’s center. At the sight of the majestic tree, the taller one made a soft cry, and what Lillian had thought were bangs lifted from her forehead into a short spiky ruff.

  Gran gestured at the food laid out on the tables and then headed in Lillian’s direction.

  When she reached Lillian’s side, she smiled and nodded toward the others arriving. “I figured I’d tell you a little about each member as they arrive.”

  Lillian nodded absently as she studied the next person to enter the maze. He was the man she’d seen leading the Hunt the night before. “Okay, they’re getting ahead of you. The two short women, who are they?”

  “Hyrand and Goswin are sprites. They are mother and daughter and represent the lesser elementals of the Clan. Both have been members of the Council for decades. All the Council members are allies, but some are less dangerous than others. You can trust Hyrand and Goswin.” Then Gran nodded to the taller silver-haired man who stood looking at the tables with distain. “That is the sidhe lord, Whitethorn. I doubt that’s his real name. I’ve known him for a number of years, but he doesn’t trust easily.” Gran gave a little shrug. “Even in this realm he is powerful and holds the Clan and the Coven together by sheer strength of will. Do not offend him, or challenge him in any way. While he and I may not share an unending attachment, in the past we have always gotten past our differences of opinion. At the very least, he deserves respect. He has given up much of his power to protect our people.”

  “Got it. Don’t piss off the big, pale one.”

  While they’d been conversing, a small, black horse eased out of the maze’s shadows and into the light. At first, Lillian wondered if this was the sidhe lord’s steed. Then it turned to look at her with glowing yellow eyes, like they burned with an internal flame.

  “Ah, the pooka has arrived. Good.”

  Lillian studied him a moment more. Something about him caused a shiver to race down her back. “I can already tell this isn’t one of the friendly types.”

  “Like many of the old ones, the pooka took the greatest joy in the Hunt when it was untamed. He will not even gift us with a name we can call him by, so we call him the pooka. Though, he likes the naiads and the dryads more than some of the other species, so you might get him to open up.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be striking up a conversation with him anytime soon.”

  “Ah, here comes Greenborrow.”

  Lillian tore her eyes away from the pooka and noticed an older-looking man hovering in the shadows of the cedar walls. With one hand he was petting the maze, in the other he held a massive club. A raven perched on his shoulder, and a giant wolf walked at his heels.

  “I hope he’s friendly. What’s he doing to my maze?”

  “Oh, likely admiring the thickness. A little pride on his part. He planted this hedge for you many years ago. Greenborrow is a leshii: a forest lord—another of the old powerful ones—much diminished now, but don’t let on.”

  The leshii ignored the others gathered around the picnic tables and made straight for Gran. His taupe-coloured tunic was without a belt, like he’d lost it at some point and couldn’t be bothered to find another. Bare feet covered with dust and grass stains added to the newcomer’s wild-man look.

  “Well, so this is our fine young dryad. I saw you and the gargoyle at the Hunt last night,” Greenborrow said, then slapped his thigh. “I’ve never seen such power. Magnificent. Your gargoyle, he’s here?”

  “Yes,” Lillian paused, realizing Gregory had drifted off somewhere. “. . . He was just here.”

  “Oh, nevermind dear. He’s over by the pooka.” Greenborrow pointed behind her.

  Lillian turned. Her breath hissed out in surprise. The pooka was behind them, less than ten feet away. Gregory stood on all fours, his wings mantled in aggression as he faced off against the black horse.

  A streak of white blurred between the tree trunks and the unicorn skidded to a halt next to the gargoyle. Both equines eyed each other with disdain.

  “I don’t think they like each other,” Lillian remarked.

  “No,” Gran replied. “Two stallions seldom get along. And Gregory, well, he doesn’t trust anyone, and the pooka has a nasty enough history it sets alarms a-ringing in his head, I imagine.”

  “To put it mildly,” Greenborrow added, his accompanying laugh echoed across the meadow. Both stallions turned toward him. The leshii inclined his head to the unicorn and the pooka. “If you two misbehave, I’ll see what I can do to discipline the both of you.” He ran his hand along his club, caressing the wood. “Anyway, I wish to talk with Hyrand and Goswin. It’s been entirely too long since I’ve last spoken with the lovely sprites. Good day, ladies.” He bowed and then wandered away.

  “I like him,” Lillian declared.

  “Old Greenborrow is a good sort, but like all his kind, he has a dual nature. Be certain to always be on his ‘good’ side.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. By what I’ve seen of the Clan and the Coven so far, I don’t think I want to witness his bad side.”

  Gran smiled. “If he had a bit of ambition, he’d be the Clan’s leader. But he doesn’t. Though he has the loyalty of more people than Lord Whitethorn, Greenborrow is loyal to the sidhe lord so it all works out, for now.”

  “Is the wolf at Greenborrow’s side a dire wolf? They seem smaller in the daylight.”

  “No, it’s just a wolf. Last night the dire wolves lost their alpha female. The Pack will remain in seclusion until a new alpha pair is chosen.”

  Lillian barely had time to nod before Gran launched into her next introductions.

  “Ah, here comes Mardina.” Gran gestured at the woman entering the meadow.

  The one called Mardina was of medium height, and with her alabaster skin and white-blond hair that flowed passed her shoulders, she drew the eye. Her hair was held back out of her face by two long, silver combs. She ran a hand through the locks, smoothing the wind-tossed strands back into order. If it hadn’t been for the deep grey under her eyes and her strange robes, she would have been beautiful. Grey and sea-foam white, the robes were flimsy and frayed, and looked more like a ragged bank of fog than clothing. They floated and swayed around her body like they were caught in some unfelt breeze.

  “Mardina is a banshee.”

  “Oh.” Lillian’s mouth dropped open, but she snapped it closed in the next. “Is she friend or foe?”

  “Mostly friendly, depending on how pure one’s soul is. Now”—Gran cleared her th
roat and chuckled evilly—“if she were to run across a murderer or rapist . . . then she might not be so nice.”

  More movement at the entrance caught Lillian’s eye. Sable entered with Lillian’s uncle.

  Uncle Alan held a metal toolbox at arm’s length, like it might bite. He went directly to the picnic tables without a word of greeting to anyone. After he placed the box on the center table, he tossed back the lid and frowned down at the contents. One by one, the others gathered around the table came to look within the box. No one reached to touch whatever was inside. By their expressions, Lillian envisioned a severed limb or a mummified cat stuffed within the confines of the toolbox.

  “It’s here. We should begin.” Without glancing at Lillian, Gran marched over to the picnic tables and seated herself at the center table.

  Gregory appeared at Lillian’s shoulder and she instantly felt stronger, if not braver. “Guess it’s our turn,” Lillian muttered as discomfort enveloped her in a nervous sweat. Gregory shadowed her steps. Briefly, she wondered what they looked like to others—two very different beings moving as one across the dew-dampened grass.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lillian arrived at the table as the pooka leaned over the box. He tilted his head and one bright yellow eye fixed on the mystery item within the toolbox. His lips curled back from his teeth and after a quick sniff, he jerked his muzzle away with a snort and a shake of his head. Glossy black skin shivered like he was being attacked by invisible flies.

  Unable to stand the mystery, Lillian leaned forward until she could see inside the box.

  The knife lay within.

  The knife which had tried to kill her gargoyle. “You,” she hissed and snatched it out of the box. Her grandmother shouted and Whitethorn made a motion to knock it out of her hand, but the gargoyle blocked them with his wings. She glanced first at Gregory and then back at the knife. She turned it over in her hand. A dark, reddish-brown stain soiled the smooth mirror surface of the blade. Gregory’s blood.

  Rage tensed her muscles and her pulse pounded in her ears. This was the thing that had tried to take her gargoyle’s life. Power bubbled up from within Lillian, fed by the wrath until it simmered in her blood, lending her muscles strength. She laid the knife flat on the table and pressed her hand over it until the table creaked with the strain. She held the power back, letting it build. When it spiked, she channeled it upon the knife. Destroy it, she whispered to her magic.

  A bright flash like a bolt of lightning blinded her. Sparks danced across her vision. She blinked. When her sight returned, she looked down where the blade had been.

  It still lay there. Perfect. Untouched by her magic.

  A growl tore up from her chest.

  The amount of power she’d summoned should have reduced the knife to ash. Yet there it lay. She leaned closer. No, it was not completely untouched. The blood was gone.

  Without the visual reminder of Gregory’s near-mortal injury, Lillian’s turbulent power and consuming wrath slowly dissipated. Taking measured deep breaths, she calmed, her heart resuming a normal pace.

  With her power’s abandonment, she collapsed back onto a chair and rubbed at her temples to ease the tension. Weakness descended upon her body a layer at a time as the seconds flew past. A clawed hand settled on her shoulder. Before she could look up at Gregory, he began to share power with her.

  “I’m sorry. I know I promised I wouldn’t use my power, but I wanted that thing destroyed for what it did to you.” Lillian rested her cheek against Gregory’s arm.

  “Shh . . . I know. Rest,” he whispered into her mind through his touch.

  “Well, that was fascinating,” Greenborrow stated. The leshii leaned closer and waved his hand over the blade.

  A good six inches of empty air stretched between the steel blade and his flesh. And Lillian could still feel how the blade sucked the magic through the air, weakening the old fae.

  Greenborrow retracted his hand. “Interesting how a lowly dryad can hold a demon blade and not have it consume her, and yet all I have to do is stand close enough to the thing to feel it draining me,” he said, his tone offhanded, like he was commenting on the weather.

  His remarks stirred the others at the table out of their shock. Multiple conversations erupted at once. The hum of discussion buzzed around the table for several chaotic minutes. Gregory flicked his wings in annoyance, then issued a deep barking challenge in his own language. The verbal debates dwindled to silence.

  The sprite, Hyrand, was the first to gather her courage. She inclined her head in Gregory’s direction. The gargoyle nodded.

  Hyrand bowed her head in thanks, then looked to the leshii. “Greenborrow, are you accusing Lillian of carrying darkness in her soul?”

  “Nothing so serious, my dear.” He glanced at Gregory. “Just saying it’s interesting, is all.”

  Hyrand didn’t seem convinced, and she studied Lillian from under her lashes until Lillian became uncomfortable. The sprite cleared her throat and continued, as if she chose her words with care. “I would hear how you stopped this blade from destroying your gargoyle.”

  “Gregory was injured by the vampire. It was my fault the vampire got in a lucky shot. My magic reacted to save Gregory’s life.”

  “And the Riven, he just stood aside and let you do this?”

  “No, of course not. He was already dead by the time I reached Gregory’s side.”

  “Yet you said you distracted the gargoyle and the Riven got close enough to stab him. You did not say Gregory killed it. So, the gargoyle dropped before he killed the Riven?”

  “Yes,” Lillian blurted before she could stop and think.

  “So what happened to it?”

  “I don’t know, everything happened so fast. It was blurry and dark. Gregory was injured. I panicked. I think I ran at the vampire. I must have had a weapon with me because the next thing I knew, I was at Gregory’s side and the vampire was dead.”

  Greenborrow interrupted. “The vampire was torn to shreds. Gutted. His heart missing and half his ribcage spread out across the grass. Tell me, what kind of bladed weapon does that?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head, more to deny the existence of a void in her own memories than in response to Greenborrow’s question. Gregory leaned down and rested his chin against her hair, saying in his silent way not to worry. It didn’t work. She trembled and her hands shook like she’d been in a car accident. “Why does it matter? He was evil, and now he’s dead.”

  “Exactly. He’s dead. A dryad has no hope of killing a vampire in a one-on-one fight. But if that dryad is something rarer than her sisters, and she could draw magic directly from the Magic Realm, well then—that is one sorry Riven.”

  Silence thickened like fog on a cool autumn morning.

  “I have magic. I don’t really know anything about it. Heck, I didn’t even know about it until a couple days ago. I certainly don’t know how to use it. That I have magic is no secret. You all say the gargoyle and I raised magic the night of the Hunt. So maybe I did use that power to kill a vampire. So what?”

  “But,” Greenborrow continued, “that’s my point. We saw the remains of the Riven and felt the echo of the magic used to do the damage. That was not dryad magic.”

  Lillian fisted her hands against her thighs. “First I am a human, and then I’m not a human. Next I’m a dryad and now I’m not a dryad. What do you think I am?”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t a dryad, only that the magic used wasn’t dryad magic.”

  “My gargoyle can string together better sentences. Say what you mean or leave me alone.”

  Gregory tightened his hold on her shoulders. “The leshii is older than the others, and his memories run deeper. He recognizes what we are, or has, as you would say, put two and two together.”

  “Huh?”

  Greenborrow clapped his hands together. “Ah, I’m right.”

  Gregory tightened his hold on Lillian’s shoulders and his tail lashed, both signs he was
faced with something he’d rather leave untouched. Curious, Lillian craned her neck to meet his eyes. “What is he talking about? Please tell me.”

  “Very well. The time for secrets is past. I have tested everyone here. There is no recent darkness on any of your souls.” He paused and looked at the pooka and the banshee. “I will share a truth with you.” Gregory’s voice rumbled over her head, darker and more sinister than she’d ever recalled hearing. “If you want the truth, stay. But you shall never repeat this to anyone outside of this meadow—you will not be able to for my weaving will steal your words. After you’ve heard what I have to say, if any of you try to harm my lady, I will steal more than your words, I will escort the betrayer to the Spirit Realm myself. Stay or go, the choice is yours. I will give you a few minutes to decide among yourselves.”

  Even immortals could be shocked into silence. Lillian didn’t take comfort in that fact, though. What was so terrible about her past that Gregory would kill to keep it secret?

  After his ultimatum, Gregory turned and marched over to her tree. He merged with the shadows to await the Council’s decision. When Lillian realized all the faces had switched from following the gargoyle to staring at her, she lost her nerve and bolted after the gargoyle.

  She probed the shadows until she caught him, then locked her fingers around his arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Giving the truth.”

  “Like the stuff you told me last night about our history?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t make me swear some kind of death oath.”

  “No.”

  She clinched her jaw. His one word answers were scaring her. “If we’re going to trust each other, you need to fill in some details.”

  “What I reveal will be more than I’ve told you.” He sighed. “While I have not lied to you, I have not told you the full truth. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Gran came over to them before Lillian could ask what he was talking about.

  “The others are in agreement,” Gran said with a glance over her shoulder at the other tense-faced individuals waiting at the picnic tables. She frowned and Lillian wondered if Gran was annoyed that Gregory hadn’t told her everything up front. Gran wasn’t the only one.