And when the worst passed, she rose on shaky knees to see Euna beside her whimpering, a layer of dust blanketing her cowering body.
Brodie and Doran?
Vanished.
Euna lifted her head, peering around her cautiously as if judging a trap. The heavy fall of her silver-blond hair disguised her wretchedness, but Morgan noted the sagging defeat of her shoulders, the uncontrollable shaking.
She crawled to her, freeing Euna’s hands. Pulling the other woman into a reassuring embrace.
She gathered the ruin of her gown over her chest. Tremors shook her body, her teeth chattering as if she were freezing. But it lasted only minutes. Then she looked up, her eyes hard with a bravery Morgan had glimpsed in memory, but thought lost forever under the stern protectiveness of Sir Joshua. Euna seemed to gather herself together, swallow her shocked terror.
Something in Morgan’s expression must have given away her unspoken question. Because Euna shook her head, her eyes drilling the corpse of the dead man as if she’d love to put her own bullet in him.
“It’s not true. They didn’t hurt me.” Her gaze fell as she lifted a hand to her breast, before letting it fall. Unable to touch her scar. The slur she’d bear forever. “At least not the way they said.”
Before Morgan could comment, Euna scanned the wreckage of the canal bed. “Will he be back?”
“Not likely. He’s crawled into a hole to lick his wounds.”
Morgan hated to admit it, but after that display of power, her dagger probably hadn’t killed Doran. Simply slowed him down. Made him mad.
Euna’s gaze narrowed. “Where’s Brodie?”
Morgan didn’t know for certain, but she’d a good idea and it didn’t bode well for the captain. “He’s been taken.”
“In my place?” Euna asked, a tremble returning to her voice.
Morgan could think of only one reason Doran would bother with Brodie. But to explain why to Euna was impossible.
“I don’t know,” she said, hating the lie on her tongue. If anyone deserved the truth after living through what she had, it was Euna Sinclair. But Morgan would leave it to Cam to fill in the blanks. She needed to track Doran while the trail remained fresh and burned into her skull. But where was Cam? He should have been down here as soon as the spell had dissolved. As soon as his sister had been freed. A plunging stab of fear hit her with enough force to throw her back on her heels.
“Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Euna looked like she wanted to argue, but again she gathered her strength. Nodded.
Morgan rose, her eyes searching out Cam’s position. “Cam?” she shouted, but no voice returned her call.
Picking her way through the wreckage, she climbed up from the half-completed lock. The path treacherous with shifting dirt, loosened scree that broke and tumbled beneath her feet. She adjusted her steps. The shot had come from this direction. Up. Left. Dodge a hole. Push through a tangle of rope and crates and busted barrels.
And there it was. The rifle, lying abandoned. A smoothed place in the dirt where someone had rested. Waited. And been dragged away.
She knelt, gleaning what she could from the marks. The second man coming from behind. The unexpected attack.
Fighting panic, she followed the broken route away from the lip of the canal, her eyes burning, her throat closing around a dry choking fear. And just as she half expected, the trail ended. Cam and his captor disappeared.
Fisting her hand around her sword, she looked up, the wall of the city looming above her like a tidal wave, the sounds and smells and pounding energy of its millions flooding her senses. Drowning her power.
And now Doran had two.
Morgan knew it was wrong. Knew she should accompany Euna to the door. Hand her off to her aunt and uncle with explanations and assurances. But she’d no time for either. Not if she was going to track Doran. Find Cam and Brodie. Save them from Neuvarvaan.
Uncle Owen’s premonition rose up, hitting her with the force of a blow. Her only solace his other admission that no future was writ in stone. She could alter fate if she hurried.
Oh, and why not just hold back the tides, rope the moon, and single-handedly align the stars while she was at it?
Euna seemed to understand her impatience. She stopped Morgan at the corner. Squared her shoulders. Lifted her chin. The fith-fath Morgan had flung over the other woman had gotten them this far, but Euna would have to cross the last few yards alone. Exposed.
Euna mustered the tattered edges of a smile. “I’m not the china doll you think me.”
Morgan raised a surprised brow. Cocked her head, seeing Euna in a different light. “What will you tell your family? There will be questions. Not to mention…” Her unthinking gaze fell on Doran’s mark.
Unspilled tears shimmered in Euna’s eyes. Tears she fought to hold back. She gave a quick up-and-down of her shoulders. “Truly? I don’t know.”
Then with a slap of torn skirts and a duck of her head, she flung herself away from Morgan. Out of her shadow. Up the street. And into the supposed safety of her home.
Free at last to concentrate on the greatest problem, Morgan retraced her steps, her long, ground-eating strides swallowing the miles. Up Piccadilly. Through Covent Garden and Holborn. Into the City. Past St. Paul’s and the Tower. Back to the river. Back to the unfinished canal. Back to Doran.
Cam swam up out of unconsciousness, a drumbeat pound in his head, cramped muscles in his shoulders and back. He tried shifting his weight, coming up against the heavy rasp of rope, binding his wrists. His ankles. A slow drip of water echoed every thud in his skull, making thought nigh impossible. But he didn’t have to think too hard to realize who’d struck him from behind. Who’d brought him here. In confirmation, the spine-crawling snap of Rastus’s cracking knuckles sounded off to his right.
Dim, murky light illuminated a rounded misshapen ceiling, pools of brackish oily water, the flotsam of shovels and spades, crates of what he hoped weren’t explosives.
No more than ten yards away, in the center of the room, stood Doran Buchanan, a hand pressed to his side, over the prone figure of another. A man bound just as Cam was. A man he recognized with a sick churning in his gut.
Brodie.
But if Brodie was here, where was Morgan?
He tried craning his neck to search the room for any signs of a third body, but his range was limited, and he didn’t want to call attention to himself. If they thought he remained out cold, all the better.
Think, Sinclair. What now?
As he struggled to form even a ludicrous plan of action—better than giving in to the defeatist idea that he alone still lived—Doran stirred. Words ripped from Cam’s memory slit the air.
“Airmid gwithyas a’n fenten. Ev sawya.” A language that in Morgan’s sultry voice heated his blood spilled now like the speaking of a curse. “Dian Cecht medhyk a’n spryon. Ev sawya.”
A wounded Doran sought to heal himself.
Uncurling from his place by Brodie’s side, seeming more creature than human, he unsheathed Neuvarvaan.
And Cam got his first sight of what he’d risked his life and soul to find.
Double spirals decorated the pommel, more of that ancient, headache-inducing script etched into the hilt’s quillion. Seeing the mottled reflection off the wide-leafed blade, he knew he stared death and life in the face.
Apparently whatever magic Doran had used worked. With the toe of his boot, he shoved Brodie onto his back. Raised the sword high overhead, point poised over what Cam knew would be Brodie’s heart.
A high-pitched whine like that of a mosquito began, an incessant uncomfortable buzz that dropped in octaves even as it lengthened, the buzz stretching to individual pulses of sound as the seconds passed. It was hardly perceptible at first, Cam chalking the steady throb up to the lump in his head, the rush of blood in his ears. Yet this low pulsing thrum came from around him. Vibrating through the air. Carried through the soil.
Finally it became like the gr
owl of the ocean or the whoosh of the wings of a thousand geese as they rose from the fields. But not at all like any of them. It was a tribal chant. A barbaric call for blood. A sound he knew signaled the beginning of the end.
Part of Cam wanted to curl into a ball, hunker farther behind the cluttered stack of barrels and boxes, and pray Doran forgot about him. Another part couldn’t tear his gaze from the dreadful action playing out before him.
Even as it grew louder, it grew more focused. Buried itself in Doran, expanding him. He seemed taller. Burned brighter. Crackled with a sinister light.
Then just as the sound became a deafening crescendo, silence fell over the room, but for Rastus’s useless prayers.
With a primal scream, Doran plunged the sword downward, Brodie’s body heaving with the force behind the blade’s descent into his flesh.
Writhing against his bonds, Cam swallowed his own scream. Bit his lip until blood flowed.
Waited for Brodie to age. To die.
Wished it had been him.
The trail couldn’t have been clearer if Doran had marked it with a big arrow. Drawn down into the empty warehouse cellars by the combined scents of blood and mage energy. Compelled by the sudden gripping in her chest as if a giant hand squeezed her heart. Pulled the part of her that was Other from between her ribs. Stole it. Used it for Doran’s black arts. His Morkoth sorcery.
The narrow corridor opened into a larger room. Doran stood fifty feet away, the air quivering around him, Andraste’s sword still embedded in the chest of the man lying spread-eagle on the ground.
Cam. She’d been too late. Uncle Owen had spoken truth.
Shrieking her fury, she hurled the darkest, deadliest spell she knew at Doran’s exposed back. Let the voraciousness of the nownek glas burrow into his blood, where it would eat him from the inside out, leaving the shell of a carcass behind.
Focusing on his victim’s expected transformation, Doran wheeled to face the unexpected attack, catching the spell in the face. Eyes bulging, the bones of his skull collapsing in on themselves as the spell worked its destruction.
Morgan advanced, sword drawn, the solid weight of her blade like an extension of her arm, the justice of her fight pushing away any doubts. Any hesitation.
And coming closer saw with mingled relief and sorrow the dead man’s face. Still young. Still lifeless. But not Cam.
One more twist of his wrist and Cam would have secured enough give in his bonds. Hard to do without altering Rastus. But not impossible. Besides, from the few fearful moans and prayers for deliverance he heard behind him, the traitorous bastard remained completely focused on the doings at the far side of the room. Not on him.
He chafed at the thick rope, the flesh of his wrists tearing, the sticky blood from the cuts slicking his hands.
And then he was free. Unarmed, but free.
But even as he slid his wrists out of their restraints, a movement caught the corner of his eye. A rise and fall of Brodie’s chest? A twitch of his fingers?
Had Doran actually succeeded?
Cam took opportunity as it came. He’d not get another such.
Rolling to his right, he came up swinging. Rastus going down with a whoosh of stunned surprise.
But the fight hadn’t completely left him. He struggled for the pistol caught in his holster. Came up instead with a knife. His actions quick and clever, but not near enough to stop Cam.
Behind him, the sounds of battle rose and fell. But all Cam’s focus was on the bastard who’d turned on him. Smashed him over the head. Thought he could best him.
None had fought and survived the assassin, Sin. They’d all died with his name a curse upon their lips. His pitiless stare their last glimpse of life.
It would be the same with Corporal Rastus.
He lunged, the knife ripping through Cam’s coat. Again. And again, the blade catching flesh, a searing slash of heat grazing Cam’s ribs.
Did Rastus really think he could win? That he even had a chance against him?
Cam dodged the next attack. Drove in, catching Rastus’s wrist. Bending it until the knife clattered to the ground.
The ground beneath his feet shook, dust gritting his eyes, tipping barrels, scattering boxes. The air seemed to grow thick, the room’s walls pressing in on them. It was all he could do to keep his feet.
But if he was having difficulty, so was Rastus.
His hand fumbling for the pistol, he scurried for the exit even as Cam lunged for the loose knife.
The pistol’s report slammed through the room with a gut-loosening roar at the same moment Cam released the dagger, threw himself down and to the left.
Rastus’s aim was good. The bullet slammed into Cam’s shoulder.
Cam’s aim was better. The knife ended hilt-deep in Rastus’s chest.
Doran lowered his head, stared out at her from beneath heavy brows. And Morgan felt that same compression in her chest as he strove to use her own power against her. The spell’s feeding slowed. Stopped. The parasitic magic of the nownek glas crushed under the combined weight of Doran, Morgan, and all the Other of London.
“It’s begun,” Doran said, from the lipless orifice that had been a mouth. He gestured to Brodie, whose sightless eyes stared up at her as black as death. “My first recruit in my army of Undying. The Fey will take notice now. Realize they’re not the dominant race any longer. A new order has arisen.”
Morgan’s sword came up, her tattooed arms flexed in anticipation, her stance one prepared for battle.
Doran merely laughed, yanking Neuvarvaan from Brodie’s body with a wet suck that made her want to throw up. “You desire to be next?”
Doran raised Neuvarvaan. The sword no longer held the deathly green glow as if lit from within. Instead, light seemed to be drawn into the blade, swallowed by the dark power of Andraste’s sword. Causing it to grow. Stretch. Feel its new strength. Its new creation.
The world tilted on its axis. The ceiling above, the floor beneath, the slime-dripping walls, all a whirl of color and sound, and then she felt nothing. Heard nothing. Saw nothing as if she’d been blasted into the emptiness of a Fey passage between worlds. Stranded outside of place and time.
She opened her mouth on a silent scream. Knew the madness of such an entrapment would claim her in a matter of minutes.
But they were minutes she could use to fight back. With the only weapon she could think of. If Doran had shown her it was possible, Uncle Owen had given her the means.
Taking a deep mental breath, she let her mind expand. Cracking the door of her consciousness wide. Seeing the universe of mage energy as a crackling horizon of writhing light. Pulsating in all colors and patterns. The endless power a well that could be drawn on for infinity. Giving her the strength of millions.
In Doran, the Morkoth magic had tempered that energy. Allowed its use without ill effect. She’d not that luxury. Unwarded and defenseless, such a violent surge in power could kill. But she’d run out of options.
The gathering of mage energy into her body filled her until she felt as if too many shared her skin. They warred within her, crushing the breath from her lungs, warping her muscles, clamoring in her brain until the din deafened her. And still she called for more to come to her aid.
Light infused her. Filled her vision until it scorched her eyes from their sockets. Until all was flame. Until she became a living firestorm of energy and power.
“Kuntell galloes. Ladra galloes. Gul devnydh a galloes.” The words came thick as ropes. Binding Doran. Tightening around him. Wrapping him in the same fire that consumed her.
“Merwel re’m galloes.” Flinging out her arms, she released the fusion of Other energy. Let it pour from her eyes, her mouth, her fingers. Let it tear into the Morkoth-tainted Amhas-draoi. Set him ablaze.
Blinded, still she felt him falter. Felt his power ebb. The tremble in the air as Neuvarvaan and Doran fought against her control.
A gun blast from the other side of the room broke through her control. Set
the energy rippling and curling through her body.
It was time.
A maelstrom of light and sound, earth and air threatened to shatter her bones to dust. Pull her body apart nerve by nerve. So many thoughts not her own. So many dreams and hopes, skills and spells. She wove them into a weapon not even a Morkoth-aided Doran could withstand.
Screaming her defiance and with the last of her strength, she torched his very soul, shriveling him to ash and choking smoke and a few floating embers.
Remembered nothing after.
Chapter 29
She had no recollection of Cam, dazed and wounded, carrying her out of the warehouse. No memory of Brodie Mackay’s explosive awakening, the death glow of Neuvarvaan marking him as Undying even as he made an anguished escape into the confusion and anonymity of the city. No recall when they spoke to her of the dark hours she spent between life and death when all had despaired but the one man who’d never left her bedside.
Until the day she’d awoken.
Cam had walked away even as she struggled up out of the swamp of unconsciousness, whispering his name through cracked lips. Sending a silent plea for the comfort of his strong hand in her own. The steady weight of his presence reassuring her when all her dreams left him for dead.
There were others there to welcome her back to the world of the living—Gram, whose silver-gray eyes burned clear with relief and love, her father enveloping her in a bear hug that threatened to crush the breath back out of her lungs. Scathach, who stood as one among three other Fey, two men and a single woman whose brilliance outstripped her companions’ as the sun’s bright light eclipses the stars.
Dressed in shimmering white, her silver hair coiled against her head, her upturned eyes a fathomless whirl of blue and gray and green, she stepped to Morgan’s bedside, dropping her hand to the scabbard at her hip. Neuvarvaan safely back in the hands of the warrior-goddess Andraste. She bowed her head. “We owe you a debt, little sister.”
Heat crawled up Morgan’s neck at the tribute. Stung her cheeks. “I only did what I was asked to do. Nothing more.”
Dangerous As Sin Page 27
