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

by S. Ravynheart

  She shook her head. “Donovan wasn’t here. He’s much more powerful. Older. Those are his recruits. Donovan is a warrior.”

  These Unseelie were nothing but children! And yet they stole from him! They cast forth their magic with no fear and no consequence, not shackled by the Fade as was Lugh.

  And they’d denied him his blood!

  The beast surged forth with snarling rage that Lugh didn’t even attempt to suppress.

  London’s voice chimed through his black fury. “Easy now. There should be more relics here. We’re going to get through this. Let’s not blow a gasket.”

  He spun toward her, teeth bared as he growled.

  But she didn’t shrink from him. Only held up her empty hands in a gesture meant to calm. “Settle yourself there, Sunshine. You’re Seelie, remember? Civilized. In control.”

  He snapped, “You think I have forgotten?” Lugh straightened his shoulders, her words slinging an arrow into the heart of him. The ever-present awareness of her was a flickering candle flame in the deepest night. A touchstone. A beacon.

  And he was Seelie. The brightest of the summer court. Honorable! Not some animal like the rotten Unseelie that slipped his grasp. The Shining One. The Champion of all Sidhe, even the filthy Unseelie urchins who nipped at him.

  No matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t twist their heads from their crushed corpses. He wouldn’t yank out their entrails with his bare hands. He wouldn’t smear himself with their blood.

  He wouldn’t.

  He would not!

  But I would. The beast growled deep within him.

  Chapter Eight

  In the Scribe’s office, Lugh flung the folded leather jacket over the back of a chair, and then dropped into the seat. He needn’t bother with apologies for the Unseelie raid of the haloed halls of the Scribe’s collection. Willem’s gushing sufficed. Although Quinn, just as flustered by the action to which he’d witnessed but in which he’d taken no part, hardly ceased in his astonished rambling, thrilled by the excitement now that the danger had passed.

  Lugh dragged his fingers back and forth through his hair, giving his impatient hands something to do other than strangle the chatter out of the idiot Scribes. He struggled for focus against the demands of the beast. He was Lugh. The Shining One. He was Seelie. And yet, he didn’t feel any of those things. Not when the beast paced within, snapping at him.

  Then he felt hands rest upon his shoulders.

  London.

  Gently, she massaged at his tension.

  A shiver rippled over his flesh, such that Lugh barely contained his hiss. The human knew not what beast she stirred. It demanded carnal knowledge of her, yet Lugh denied it, seeing within London a single ray of light he wouldn’t risk extinguishing. The keeper of his secret. As if within her lay the solitary unsullied spark of his true sun, bound to her in the symbol that she wore. His beast didn’t truly understand why he valued her or it would have slain her already.

  Clenching his fists so that the bite of his fingernails distracted the building urge, Lugh stared at the four artifacts on the desk. In them harbored his hope. In the new realm that would cast out the Fade and the corruption from within him. “So these are all the relics from the first realm of fey, other than the flute that the Unseelie rabble absconded with?”

  Quinn piped up, “Several well-preserved pieces, too. There may well be more in the Scribes’ library next door.”

  “Library?” Willem perked up. “A Scribes’ library?”

  And with the mention of the library, the Scribes began to gush with an excitement that set the beast’s nerves on edge. Even as Lugh meant to snap at them, an annoying buzzing beat him to it.

  The jacket behind his back vibrated like a giant angry bee fought to escape its folds. He twisted around, scowling at the offensive thing, debating if stomping on it would suffice to kill the creature.

  London boldly jammed her unprotected hands into the various pockets of the jacket until she produced not an animal, but a cell device. She handled it with expertise, weaving quick finger motions over the surface until the mechanism silenced its complaint. In a confused voice, she stated, “Eat.”

  “What do you mean?” Willem blinked up at her. “Is it time for dinner?”

  “Apparently.” London drew more designs against the device. “The alarm was set for three times each day, all saying ‘eat’ and nothing more.”

  “How very odd,” Quinn agreed.

  London continued, “Cell phones are treasure troves of information. Most people don’t even realize all that could be discovered just from allowing unsecured access to their smartphones. Looks like we’ve got photos, some video, contact numbers—”

  Rising from the chair, Lugh cut off the persistent chatter. “I wish to contact Donovan.” Surely, the Unseelie enchanted a binding on their scrying devices so they connected to each other. Such was the purpose of the contraptions.

  “You want to speak with him now?” Uncertainty twisted London’s expression. “Maybe you should wait.”

  The beast within him snapped at her. “Now!”

  Wisely, the human forestalled any further insolence. She poked at the device and then held it against her face, waiting and glancing off into the middle distance rather than at anyone or anything in particular. Suddenly, London began to speak. “Donovan? Hold one moment, someone wishes to speak with you.”

  She handed the device to Lugh, and when he failed to hold it properly she repositioned his fingers. Then she pushed it against the side of his head in the same fashion as she’d held it a moment before. He listened, hearing a distant music filtering through, but nothing more. He glanced at London.

  “Say ‘hello,’” she instructed.

  Lugh repeated the spell word to enchant the device. “Hello.”

  “Seelie.” The rough voice spat the attribution like an insult. The infamous Donovan, no doubt. “What do you want?”

  At the aggression in the Unseelie’s voice, the beast within Lugh snarled. Fighting to maintain his control, Lugh rolled the voice over in his mind, like a flavor upon the tongue, trying to associate a face with it. Though familiar, he didn’t recognize this voice as it spoke English. Testing a theory, Lugh switched into an antiquated elvish dialect. “The flute that your lad snatched would be a start.”

  “What do you want it for? What are you scheming this time, Seelie?”

  His desire to bite flicked within him like the panther’s furious tail. Lugh craved the knife-edge scent of blood.

  Although the Unseelie replied in English, he’d understood what Lugh said. This was a Mounds-born Sidhe, but he spoke with modern, human colloquialisms. Perhaps Donovan was one of the exiles he’d heard of.

  “I am no mere Seelie, knave, but your Champion. Cease this impudence and surrender to me that which is mine!” The fury of the beast swelling within him spiraled. Had he this Unseelie before him now, he’d rend his flesh from his bones.

  “Ha, you are no Sidhe’s Champion. The Champion would not let the Mounds fall. The Champion would not let his people be exiled. The Champion would not allow one court to be ground beneath the heel of the other.”

  Each accusation slashed at his heart like silver-studded whips.

  The darkness surged forth with such fierceness that it clawed to the surface against all Lugh’s resistance. The desire to kill spilled into his veins.

  His gaze fell upon the Scribes and the human before him. And they saw the truth of the black wrath that stoked within him.

  There would be blood.

  If not this Unseelie’s… then theirs.

  Forcing his voice to bear some semblance of control, Lugh said, “I demand a parley under the Cloak of the Raven.”

  To parley under the Cloak of the Raven— the term invoked the memory of Macha, the Sidhe whose aspect of power lay in the making of both war and peace. It referred to the council between warring lords, and no Sidhe of the Mounds would deny his enemy that right.

  The Unseelie appa
rently understood this. “Meet me at Cantwell’s Castle at midnight. Bring your second.” The cell device beeped in his ear, and when Lugh pulled it away the scrying mirror informed him that the call had ended. He discarded the cell into London’s hands.

  Demanding the parley ensured Lugh his meeting, but it shackled him to the conventions. Conventions his beast wouldn’t tolerate. Conventions that, if he broke them, meant banishment. The code transcended even the courts.

  He’d need London. His druidess. His touchstone.

  He’d need to regain control.

  The beast bore its teeth, and with it, Lugh bore his. And when he opened his mouth to speak, the beast hissed in warning instead.

  Seeing his fragmenting restraint, London hustled the Scribes toward the door. “Willem, you and Quinn check the archives for other relics. Go. Now!”

  The lesser fey slipped past Lugh like darting squirrels, but he thrust out his hand before London could escape, blocking her path.

  London backed away from him. Back into the office.

  Turning toward the Scribes, terror shining in their eyes as they saw the truth of the beast glaring at them, Lugh closed the door. Shutting them out. He slipped the bolt into place, in case the fools thought to risk heroics and barge in on him.

  He needed London.

  She belonged to him.

  And none would stop him.

  Chapter Nine

  Lugh’s hand pressed to the wooden door.

  Blood, the beast demanded.

  His fingers curved, like claws, and scratched down the wooden surface.

  He couldn’t… Wouldn’t risk violating the parley.

  The singular pulse of London so close to him promised respite.

  I need her.

  She’s mine.

  Mine to take.

  Mine to bite.

  Lugh shivered as he wrestled with the beast. The smooth fur offered no purchase. It slipped with feline agility from his grasp. And when it moved, he lacked the strength to stop it.

  The beast would have its blood. The urge, a rising passion that demanded release.

  “I know what you need.” London’s voice, cautious but unafraid, broke through his black haze.

  With his back to her, Lugh bared his teeth. The desire to bite so strong his gums ached. His fist clenched.

  Control.

  He needed control.

  “What…” His voice deepened as he fought the beast flexing within. “…do you know?”

  “I’ve been around parahumans enough to know bloodlust when I see it.”

  She thought him a predator, like a vampire? He was so much more dangerous than that. Lugh snapped his head around, and paused at the sight of the dagger in her hand. She’d just grabbed it from the shelf, her hand still extended toward the stand from which she’d taken it. Now that he stared at her, the burning aggression undisguised, she shifted to point the blade at him. Ignoring the threat, he breathed, “And what do you know of lust?”

  “I crave the Touch. That need is more wretched than any bloodlust a vampire has ever known. You ease my need. I can ease yours.” And with that, she extended her other palm and drew the blade down a shallow cut. The bright red swell of blood dribbled down her wrist.

  Mine!

  The beast lunged. Taking over, it snatched away the dagger.

  Grabbing her other wrist so she couldn’t recoil from him, the beast sank its teeth into the heel of her hand.

  London screamed at the violence of the bite, trying to jerk away from him.

  Knowing the beast would kill her to have her, Lugh Touched her instead. The magic of his Touch gushed forth from his mouth into her hand, lacing pleasure over the pain to stop her resistance.

  Tear open her flesh! The beast surged forth with violence and hunger.

  Lugh flung himself back, away from her. Away from her wound. Even as he shoved himself away, he cast just enough heat to cauterize the wounds and block the flow of blood that would tear away all hope of control. “Stop it!”

  The beast clawed inside him, but Lugh wrestled to subdue it. She’s mine! He snapped at the beast. You shan’t slay her!

  “You can’t go back out there with this craze over you, Lugh. I’m your druidess, now. And I am going to see you through this in any way I can.” So brave. So bold. She held her ground before him.

  Had she no clue what she was playing with? He was no vampire who could be sated by a mere pint of donated blood. “I could kill you!”

  “If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t have stopped. Feed the beast and get yourself under control.” London glared at him. And in the depths of her dark eyes, he saw understanding. Devotion. The full intent to be to him what he needed, no matter the personal cost. “Or go back to Selena, if you think she’s better able to handle you.”

  “There isn’t time!”

  “Then do what you meant to do when you locked that door!”

  He meant to slake the beast’s lusts long enough to sustain his control for the parley. And his druidess offered the only willing option.

  Even as the beast twisted and clawed to escape his waning control, Lugh approached London once more. The beast demanded three things. Blood. Violence. Sex.

  When it slipped his restraint, nothing would stop it. At most, he might direct its path. With the tip of the dagger, Lugh caught the pendant she wore. His symbol. His mark upon her. “Druidess, I have need of a promise from you.”

  “I am here for you.” She was no Sidhe, but London was beautiful in her own way. And in seeing her sacrifice herself for his sake, he saw a deeper beauty in her still.

  He’d lost his world. His people. His loved ones. And now, in the final agony, he was losing himself. Save for the single spark of his magic that he’d bound to her. Voice cracking with lament, he beseeched, “Some day, remind me who I once was.”

  And before she could answer with anything more than the compassion shining in her eyes, the beast slipped free of his grasp.

  The tip of the dagger dropped from the pendant to her breast where it just showed inside the scoop neck of her shirt. With a flick, he drew blood.

  Mouth covering the wound, Lugh drank deeply of her. The Touch flowed not from him alone, but from the blend of man and beast. Although Lugh could not stop himself, he directed the power of the beast’s lust into sexual arousal.

  Taking London was not about her pleasure. Nor even his own. Through the Touch and the sex, he purged himself of the wickedness that would not be suppressed. Although loud and aggressive, she never flinched away from him. And through her, he found release that fractured the beast’s control over him.

  If only for a little while.

  Chapter Ten

  Lugh knew from the position of the stars and the moon when midnight approached, even with the wisps of clouds crossing the sky in ragged formation like a flight of ghosts.

  Forestalling her curiosity, Lugh instructed London to wait for him by the auto. She disliked being left behind, even though she knew not where he went nor why. For this meeting, she could not second him. Only another Sidhe should stand in that place, or at the very least an ally of considerable strength and influence. Better to go alone than to bring someone Donovan considered weak.

  Following the customs of the parley, Lugh removed his jacket and shirt. He would go forth without a claim to status or to court, only as a Sidhe. The symbolism acknowledged that, in the whole of things, being Sidhe trumped any other obligation or association. No court finery. No badge of office. No cloak bearing rank or allegiance.

  He went forth alone and unarmed, although his thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans so his palm covered the small bottle tucked inside. With the night breeze at his back, Lugh strode up the rise toward Cantwell’s Castle. The dark windows stared after him like the hollow eyes of a skull. The stone of the castle glowed with the murky reflection of bone. The tattered ivy swayed like half-rotted tomb shrouds about the dead castle.

  As Lugh crested the hill and began the shallow
descent toward the dry pasture at the base of the castle, the shadowy shapes of two figures appeared. Both male, based on their silhouettes. They faced each other, speaking in low voices. The man bared to the waist, this Donovan he’d come to meet, had his back to Lugh. Even in this pale moonlight, Lugh could tell that Donovan’s hair was black as a raven’s wing. The other, a young man with dark umber-colored hair and nearly colorless pale eyes, watched Lugh’s approach. The young man murmured something and then nodded toward Lugh.

  Disturbing the hush, Lugh asked of the man whose broad, defined back faced him, “Donovan?”

  As Lugh stopped a few paces shy of reaching him, the Unseelie turned to face him.

  But not a man.

  A ghost.

  “Jhaer…” Lugh breathed the dead man’s name in a graveyard whisper. “But you perished…”

  “Buried alive in a mass grave with all the Sidhe you murdered.” Cold condemnation froze the hatred in his voice. “But I did not die.”

  “You blame me?” Lugh recoiled with confusion and disbelief. They’d grappled with each other before the Collapse, but when the sky began to fracture and the Mounds shuddered in its death throes, they’d cast off the conflicts of their Courts and worked together in a vain hope to save the All-Mother. “You know I was of no complicity in the Mound’s Collapse.”

  “Bloody liar!” Jhaer stalked closer. “You conspired to crush the Unseelie! To dominate all magic! To kill Danu!” Pounding his chest with his fist, he shouted, “I warned you!” Then he flung out his hand as if casting something away. “And you refused to listen to me!” Now he pointed with accusation. “You! You stopped me! You stood in my way! The Collapse was your fault!”

  The beast’s fur ruffled, though Lugh suppressed it. The hours spent exhausting its lusts, serviced by his druidess, afforded him this temporary mastery. “What are you playing at? You know me better than to even jest such insults. You’ve never been one to twist lies to win advantage. Rising from the dead must have shattered your mind,” Lugh snarled with disgust.