Remnants of Magic (The Sidhe Collection (Urban Fantasy))

by S. Ravynheart

  Malcolm grabbed up his pencil again. Explaining what he sensed wasn’t easy. Drawing it wasn’t much better, but Donovan told him to try, so Malcolm kept at it. He tapped on the paper, thinking. How to draw what he felt in that kiss? The magic filled him, surrounded him, got into his mind and into his soul. Magic was so much more than what it looked like or sounded like or smelled like. It was a knowing. An experiencing. A… Something. Something intense. Something profound.

  That was the word. Profound.

  How to draw that?

  Kieran bent closer and Malcolm figured he was about to pop off another joke about his sketching, only Kieran whispered to him instead. “Donovan was talking about you, wasn’t he?”

  The pencil stopped moving. Malcolm stared at the paper, frozen.

  “Donovan said London attacked two of us. What happened, mate?”

  Without a word, Malcolm dropped down off the stool. Leaving his stuff behind, he stormed out of the club.

  Kieran chased him outside into the alley. “Why won’t you just tell me?” He caught Malcolm’s shoulder and spun him around. Malcolm brought his fist up, aiming for Kieran’s jaw, but the other Sidhe dodged back before it could connect. “Whoa! Calm down, mate! Don’t take it out on me!”

  “You know what?” He stuck his finger in Kieran’s face.

  “What?” The blasted bonehead didn’t even rise to Malcolm’s anger, too bloody laid-back for his own good.

  “You know what?” Malcolm demanded louder, shoving Kieran just to get through his thick skull.

  “What?” Finally, Kieran snapped back at him, showing that he had something in him.

  “I’m sick of this crap! I’m sick of hiding! I’m sick of being afraid! I’m sick of it, Kie!” Furiously pounding his chest, “I’m sick of this feeling inside. This… This…” He growled, having no words to describe it. “You think Donovan hides in this club? You know what he’d do if anyone messed with him?”

  “Kill ‘em, probably.” Kieran mumbled.

  “He’d kill ‘em!” Malcolm barked it out as if Kieran hadn’t even said anything, on accounta Kieran wasn’t mad and he should be. He should be furious. “And we’re gonna kill her. She messed with you! She messed with me! Now we’re gonna kill her! You hear me?”

  Shifting back, the idiot glanced off. Thinking again.

  Malcolm shoved him hard. “You hear me?”

  “I hear you!” Finally, Kieran yelled back. Finally, he was getting mad, like he shoulda been all along.

  “We’re gonna kill her.” Malcolm pointed to Kie and then to himself and back again. “You and me. We don’t put up with crap! We’re Unseelie, mate! Mess with us, we kick your arse. You hear me!”

  “Mal…”

  “You hear me?”

  “Mal, we can’t just go around hurting and killing people.”

  “What? Are you a complete nutter?” Kieran was a couple inches taller than him, and a couple years older, but Malcolm still cuffed him in the side of the head. “These people are trying to kill you!”

  Kieran recovered from the swat and dodged back, bouncing on his toes like a boxer. “Malcolm, for real.”

  “You think they care about you!?!” Malcolm spit on the ground. “That’s what you mean to them. You kill ‘em before they kill you!”

  “I’m not a killer, Mal.”

  “So what’re you gonna do? Run all your stupid life? Hide here? Hide behind Donovan? Like a kid hiding behind his dad?” Circling Kieran, Malcolm kept on yelling at him, all his fury boiling over. “You just gonna let them hurt you? Keep on hurting you whenever they want?”

  “What do you want from me?” He snapped.

  Malcolm charged him. His shoulder slammed into Kieran’s gut, knocking the air out of him, throwing them both to the dusty ground in the alley. Kie landed hard, but that didn’t stop him. The scuffle was on. Punching and kicking. Tumbling over each other. Kicking up the dirt that stung Malcolm’s eyes and got into his mouth as he cursed.

  They tussled and wrestled. Malcolm got a punch into Kieran’s ribs before Kie kneed him in the gut and kicked him back. They scrambled up to their feet. Kieran had height, weight, and strength, but Malcolm was wily, furious, and fast. Malcolm twisted out of a hold and caught Kie with a foot sweep. Kieran snatched him by the shirt and the rumble hit the ground again in a frantic scuffle.

  Malcolm wedged the crook of his arm under Kieran’s chin. Exhausted, Kieran couldn’t conjure the strength to break free. Still on the ground, they struggled a bit more, but Malcolm had a good hold and if it was the last thing he did in life, he wasn’t going to lose this fight. They both panted. All covered in sweat and dirt.

  “You gonna help me go after her?” Malcolm snarled in Kieran’s ear. “You gonna help me kill her?”

  Kieran paused, probably thinking again. The bloke thought way too much. “She really hurt you bad?”

  “Bad.” Malcolm managed to growl out a reply.

  “Then, yeah.”

  Malcolm let him go.

  They disentangled and struggled to their feet. Kieran stayed bent over, catching his breath and cradling his side where Malcolm got a clean shot. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”

  Malcolm stuck out a hand and they bumped knuckles, still friends and allies. “Nice shot with the elbow.”

  “Brilliant foot sweep. See that in a movie?” Kieran brushed the dirt off as he limped toward the garage at the back of the alley.

  “Yeah. Cool, huh? Didn’t think it’d work.” Malcolm grinned a little.

  “Very cool.”

  Malcolm picked a set of keys from the pegboard just inside the garage at the back of the alley.

  “You know how to drive?” Kieran teased, following Malcolm over to the black Honda, one of the dozen or so cars that belonged to the Glamour Club.

  “I’ve done it before, you know.”

  They settled into the car. Malcolm turned over the engine and shifted it into gear. He barely tapped the pedal and the car lurched backward. It jolted hard to a stop with the crunch of metal and a shattering of glass that sounded suspiciously like a headlight smashing.

  Wordlessly, Malcolm twisted sideways in the seat. Kieran’s wide eyes stared back at him. Together, they slowly turned around to see out the rear window. At the way-too-close view of the Aston Martin.

  Chapter Seven

  From the passenger seat, Malcolm scanned the buildings through the windshield. The car coasted along as slow as Kieran could go without coming to a dead stop. They’d cruised the same couple of blocks a few times before Malcolm zeroed in on the direction of the dread that tugged at his chest. He’d felt it wicked strong when London came into the club. Following the feeling wasn’t as easy as a game of hot ‘n cold, but after a bit Malcolm got the hang of it. “We’re close. I can feel it.” He pointed to a block of flats. Way up on the top floor he caught a hint of a glow through the walls. “There. Stop. Stop the car.”

  Kieran didn’t pull over. “Don’t you watch the telly? We park a few blocks away and then walk in so no one sees the plates or gets a description of the car.”

  Turning around in the seat, Malcolm kept his eyes fixed on the magic from the top floor flat until Kieran turned the corner. He pulled into a spot off a narrow side street, where the angle of the sunlight cast long shadows between the buildings. Kieran reached into the backseat and then tossed a hoodie at Malcolm. “Hide your ears. Don’t look anyone in the face. Keep your head down.”

  He didn’t argue, just did what Kieran said. Before Donovan found him, Kieran ran with a gang of humans and knew the score on how not to get nabbed by the coppers. “You gonna wear one?”

  Kieran shook his head. A cloud of fuzzy, pink magic formed over him. Glamour. It worked to fool everyone else, but not Malcolm. He grabbed the rear view mirror and twisted it around so he could see Kieran’s reflection. Malcolm didn’t see the pink fuzziness in the mirror, just the disguise everyone else saw. Kieran looked like Brad Pitt. “Show off.” The reflection of Brad Pitt just grinne
d at him.

  With the hood pulled around his face, Malcolm headed back toward the apartment building. Kieran strode along next to him. “So you’re sure this is it?”

  Malcolm rubbed the place in his chest. It connected to here, this feeling. He looked up toward the top floor. The apartment complex butted up against the one next to it, which was one story shorter. “Can you teleport us up there? To that rooftop?”

  After a moment of considering it, Kieran pinched the sleeve of the hoodie and tugged on it. “Come on. Bet there’s a fire escape ‘round the back.”

  Apparently, they weren’t the first with the fire escape idea. The ladder from the first landing had already been lowered. Malcolm started up first with Kieran hot on his heels. Their light, fey steps didn’t make a sound as they hurried up to the rooftop. Malcolm cleared the last ladder and hopped down from the low wall onto the flat rooftop. Someone had set up the whole roof as a private balcony; with a barbecue, patio furniture, and even potted plants to spruce it up real nice. He knelt down so folks on the street couldn’t see him and waited until Kieran joined him. “This is it. Come on.”

  Staying low, Malcolm crossed to the window. The sheer curtains blew out, fluttering in the breeze. Malcolm ducked under them and peeked inside. Kieran crept next to him. He whispered, “Maybe we should get the others.”

  “She’s in the bathroom. Hear the shower?” They could see the bedroom, a lived-in mess with too much junk everywhere. Chick stuff, like make up and clothes and costume jewelry. The door to the right was partially closed. They couldn’t see in, but Malcolm saw the glow through the door, kind of like heat vision, only it was magic he saw. The glow moved and shifted. Still in the shower, he gathered. That wasn’t the only magic in the flat. Other bits and bobs gave off light. And then there was the smell — the sickly sweet, earthy odor of cinnamon. Malcolm’s stomach twisted. He knew that scent. Even catching a whiff of it choked him.

  As he climbed in through the window, Kieran hissed something, but Malcolm ignored him. Moving slowly, he followed the scent, which wasn’t hard to find. The air around a case of wine bottles tucked in next to the dresser wavered, like heat, only it was from the magic. His hands trembled as he reached into the magic. A crawling sensation crept over his flesh like groping fingers. Malcolm could taste the spice. Even without drinking the brew, the first swooning head-trip reached him from the potion.

  This wasn’t London’s place.

  He’d followed the lingering connection to his own Touch magic, but not to her. This magic… this smell… this feeling… twisted his insides. Malcolm could almost see the dark pit in the earth where they’d kept him. He could almost feel the goblins clawing at his face, forcing him to swallow this brew. How it made him feel. What it did to his mind. To his body. Stripped him of everything that was his. Control. Choice. Will.

  So the humans and vampires could have him.

  Blood, sex, and magic.

  Malcolm gripped the neck of one of the bottles and drew it out of the case. The sounds from the water had stopped and he’d not even really noticed it. When the bathroom door pushed open he straightened up, bottle still in hand.

  A blonde, wearing a fluffy, white robe and rubbing at her wet hair with a towel, stepped out. Shreds of Malcolm’s magic still lingered in her stomach, with streaks running down her legs, but most of the magic filling her wasn’t his. Her skin blurred it, but designs twisted and flexed in the magic. Complicated and beautiful and trapped inside her. The woman froze when she spotted Malcolm. They stared at each other for a second, each recognizing the other.

  Flora.

  The witch who’d betrayed him. The witch that worked for the Changeling who’d enslaved him.

  She scrambled toward the bathroom. But not fast enough. Malcolm bolted after her. Struck her on the head with the bottle. Knocked her down.

  The bottle hadn’t broken and he dropped it on the carpet.

  Flora rolled, groaned, grabbed at her bleeding scalp.

  He snatched her by the back of the robe and drug her back. When the robe started to peel off, he grabbed her by her blood-streaked hair. She didn’t fight against him too much, just flailed and batted at his hand weakly.

  “That’s not her,” Kieran hissed through the window. “Mate! Let’s go!”

  Malcolm shoved at Flora, rolling her over. From the laundry basket he snatched some pantyhose that he twisted and knotted around her wrists.

  “Mate!” Kieran wasn’t using his name, like that mattered now. “She’s not London.”

  The knob on the bathroom door seemed the right spot to tie her wrists. He jerked her arms above her head, lifting her a bit off the floor, to bind her to the knob. When she started kicking at him, Malcolm knelt on her thighs to pin her down. He grabbed her face until his fingers pressed so hard into her cheeks that her lips puckered like a fish. “Whose magic is this?”

  She shook her head and muttered around his hand, “Don’t know… what you’re… talking about…”

  Malcolm clawed at the magic moving beneath the skin of her forearm, unable to get at it. “This magic. Who Touched you? Where are they?”

  She shook her head, tried to scream. He clamped his hand over her mouth, crushing the sound before she could make it.

  “Mal!” Kieran stuck his head inside. “Listen to me! This isn’t her! We have to go!”

  “She’s the worst of the lot!” Malcolm raked his nails down her arm, leaving trails of bleeding scratches. “This isn’t my magic. Whose is it?”

  Shaking her head, Flora screamed against his hand.

  A swirl of gray magic spiraled around them. Kieran’s magic. Enclosing the room. Keeping all the sound inside. Malcolm smiled at the magic that surrounded them. He released her mouth and Flora screamed and screamed. Malcolm didn’t care. Didn’t hardly even listen. Her screams were as useless as his had been. Just like for him, no one would hear. Just like for him, no one would help.

  Malcolm jerked out his knife. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out for myself.” He stabbed the blade into her arm, and then drew it down in a long slice.

  Chapter Eight

  “I heard about your lad getting roughed up.” Not surprising that Tiernan Kilgrave caught that bit of gossip. Not much slipped past the Unseelie purveyor of all things pleasurable and addictive, which was why he’d always been an invaluable informant. “The lassie nipped out of here easily enough, didn’t she?” He smirked, as cocky as ever.

  “That’s not why I asked you here.” Donovan shifted through a thin sheaf of papers. “Of the exiles I know of, none of them have a particular aptitude for the darker strains of magic. Am I missing anyone?”

  “Not among the exiles maybe, but at least one of the earthborns.” Tiernan leaned his bum against the table in the center of the War Room. “Your lovely shadow weaver has that distinction.”

  “I’d prefer to find someone more skilled. Besides Trip, are you aware of any others? Perhaps one of the Sidhe on your crew?”

  The grin on Tiernan’s face was at once playful and sly. “Are you asking for personal reasons? The earthborns in your stable a little too inexperienced for your more… sophisticated tastes?”

  Donovan gave a crooked grin, at once telling the younger Sidhe he enjoyed the cheeky suggestion, but also showing he was off the mark. “Not for that. Just answer the question.”

  “Pity, I was going to suggest swapping once in a while.” Though Tiernan questioned the combat readiness of Donovan’s Sidhe, it hadn’t impinged upon his appreciation of their finer physical attributes. He affected a long-suffering sigh as he considered the question. “Some of their sexual proclivities run toward the darker side, but as for their magic, unfortunately not. In the past I always relied on Crom to meet my need for dark magic. Unfortunately, he hasn’t made his presence known since the Collapse.”

  That was the preferred way to state the matter. No one wanted to speculate on the actual casualties of the Collapse of the Mounds, though most fey surely perished, a gr
eat number of Sidhe among them.

  Tiernan tilted his head as he continued to ponder the question. “How strong do you need the magic to be? A few among the dark elves can manage a bit of the dark stuff. Nothing spectacular, but usable in magicraft. Crom might have some items he personally infused laying about his stronghold. His servants might have some pieces they would part with for the right price. Though, my impression was that he didn’t keep much of the good stuff on the surface or I’d have dropped in over there myself for a look-see.”

  The device in Donovan’s pocket buzzed softly. He drew it out and glanced at the name. Kieran. He answered the call. “What?”

  “I just threw up.”

  Donovan lifted a brow. “You did not call to tell me that.” By which he meant ‘you had better not have called just to tell me that.’

  “That’s not why I called.” Kieran hesitated, his voice dropped to a whisper. “You better come see for yourself. Mal… He’s…”

  “What’s Malcolm done?”

  Tiernan placed his forefingers to his temples and closed his eyes. “Don’t tell me.” He affected psychic concentration. “I’m predicting your bloodhound has gone feral sooner than anticipated.” He winced as if struggling to get more clarity. “And I foresee myself telling you ‘I told you so.’ Am I right?” Chuckling, Tiernan’s nearly colorless eyes opened, glittering with mischief.

  Donovan cut a sharp look at the younger Sidhe, which should have had him predicting his own future as a cheeky upstart coming to an abrupt and bloody end. From the snickering, Tiernan apparently wasn’t as psychic as he supposed.

  “You just better get out here.” Kieran whispered into the phone. “He’s… He’s not right.”

  Donovan clutched the phone harder. “Where are you?”

  Chapter Nine

  Back when Donovan led the Elite for the Unseelie queen, keeping a mental catalogue of teleportation landmarks allowed him to travel swiftly to most cities throughout Ireland. Though the queen, and indeed the Court, no longer existed, the usefulness of the landmarks remained. Mahon Castle, within the city of Cork, still looked very much as it had centuries before when he saw it built on the banks of the River Lee. Donovan appeared in the shadows of the castle, surrounded by Trip, Bryce, and Dawn, each with a hand upon him.