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

by S. Ravynheart

  As he watched the movement of Malcolm’s hands, trying to decipher the gestures, Donovan’s cell phone rang,checking it he looked at the bloodhound. “Malcolm, you’re calling me?”

  “What?” Malcolm patted his pockets, in case he was accidentally butt-dialing. Only his phone wasn’t on him. Twisting around, he looked for his jacket, and then he remembered. His eyes went wide. “Oh, crap! The bloke got my phone when he snatched my jacket!”

  That dark look coming over him again, Donovan straightened as he answered, “Well, the phone says ‘Malcolm,’ but I am looking right at him. So who is this?”

  Cutting a look at Tiernan, like some understanding passed between them, Donovan growled, “Seelie,” like it was an insult. “What do you want?”

  Malcolm tilted the flute this way and that, watching the hairs sway, feeling for something. At first he thought it was reaching for him, only it wasn’t. He twisted around to look where they pointed.

  The Glamour that covered the door to the back hallway glowed like bright pink cotton candy to Malcolm’s eyes. Everyone else just saw the illusion of a wall that made the door invisible and hard to find unless you knew where to look. Pretty much everyone in the club knew about the door, though, but only the Sidhe and a few others were allowed to go back there. Malcolm moved the flute about to double check. Yep, the flute wanted to go that way.

  Donovan watched Malcolm even as he spoke into the phone. Or really, he watched what Malcolm was doing with the flute. “What do you want it for? What are you scheming this time, Seelie?”

  “No.” Malcolm’s fingers tightened on the flute, shaking his head with the first upset of panic. “No, he can’t have this. The magic chose me. It wants me.”

  Donovan raised a hand, meaning Malcolm should hush. And with that gesture alone, Malcolm relaxed some. Donovan might not feel the magic himself, but he took Malcolm seriously most of the time. Unlike most everybody else who thought Malcolm was some kind of nutter.

  Into the phone, he snarled, “Ha, you are no Sidhe’s Champion.” Everyone near Donovan backed away, and he’d not even raised his voice. “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.”

  So this Seelie was the one getting Donovan’s back up. Well, Donovan could drop a mountain on that creepy bloke and it wouldn’t bother Malcolm one bit.

  He glanced back down at the flute. At the little threads waving in the air. Moving the flute about like a compass, Malcolm watched the direction it pointed. Yep, it definitely wanted to go toward the Glamour. Staring at the magic, Malcolm got to his feet.

  “Meet me at Cantwell’s Castle at midnight. Bring your second.” Donovan beeped off the phone and dropped it into his pocket. As Malcolm started past him, Donovan caught his shoulder.

  “This way.” Malcolm pointed with the flute.

  Aware that Donovan and the others followed him, Malcolm focused on the magic. It knew where to go. It knew what it wanted. It pulled Malcolm along without him even having to try. Like the magic was wrapped up around him and carrying him in the current of its power, and all he did was make sure his feet stayed under him. The flute vibrated in his hand as they pushed past the curtain of Glamour and through the door to the back hall. The voices in the magic talked faster. Louder. Getting excited as he got nearer.

  At Donovan’s office door, Malcolm whispered, “In there.”

  The moment Donovan opened the door for him, the flute flared up with a golden light. Malcolm sucked in a breath and then glanced at the others. Even as bright as it was, none of them saw what he saw. Once he started forward, the magic drew him again. Knowing right where to go. He crouched down next to Donovan’s desk and stroked his fingers over one of the drawers. Malcolm tried to speak, but it came out in a choked murmur of need.

  Even as Donovan slid open the drawer, Malcolm’s skin shivered with the sudden gust of power. Unable to breathe, he reached inside for a golden torc that glowed like molten enchantment. Fibers of magic reached from it to the flute. When Malcolm brought the two closer to each other, the fibers on each reached for the other. And when they touched, a new light glowed all about them.

  The light spread slowly, like it was thick with power. The frantic whispers stopped. An awed silence stilled everything about them for a breath.

  Only Tiernan’s voice broke the stillness with a whisper. “Danu’s torc.”

  The fibers reached and hooked and twisted. The magic about each morphed into shapes. Weird, complicated shapes. Only…

  Heart beating frantically, Malcolm knew what to do. Somehow, the magic already told him. Had prepared him to do it. His hands shifted automatically, like in a dream, passing the flute over the torc just so... Teasing the magic to respond.

  The energy around the flute rolled and hooked down toward the torc. And on the torc a latch shape appeared that matched the hook.

  It took a few seconds of tilting and twisting the flute, but finally Malcolm released it.

  It hovered in the magic inches about the torc. Suspended in the air.

  Donovan crouched down to stare at the floating instrument, and then at Malcolm with a questioning look.

  To which he answered, “They fit.”

  Slowly, the voices began murmuring again. The magic had more to tell him.

  Much more.

  Chapter Eleven

  “So why’re you stripping your shirt off? Are you going to box with the Seelie, then?” Tiernan hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, affecting a bored stance when Donovan knew better. The younger Sidhe never really let his guard down, no matter how laid-back he acted.

  Donovan tossed his shirt over Tiernan’s shoulder. “Parley under the Cloak of the Raven. No rank. No privilege. Just two captains meeting on neutral ground.” Inhaling deeply of the invigorating chill of the night, he cleared his lungs of the heat and humidity that could build up in the Glamour Club on busy nights, and almost every night was busy since they opened. Any more regulars and they’d need to expand.

  “Sounds like bull shite. Something the Courts would come up with to play their war games. I say we wallop his arse and slap him around until he fesses up.”

  “You didn’t bring that shock collar, did you?” Donovan narrowed his eyes at his ‘second.’ The earthborns hadn’t reached the skill level to back him up just yet, but Tiernan’s allegiances weren’t guaranteed and his obedience hinged on the understanding that Donovan could, and would, beat his hide if it came down to it.

  “Maybe.” By which he meant ‘hell, yeah.’

  “Keep it stowed. I honor my word.”

  Donovan stared down his second until Tiernan backed off with a shrug and a “Whatever.”

  The terms of the Cloak of the Raven didn’t preclude animated discussion, just not full-out combat. No head shots, weapons, or deadly magical force. He’d not have asked for it, but the Seelie made it the requirement for their meeting. Whether it was because he was Fading or because he had some other nefarious purpose didn’t really matter. Donovan wasn’t going to let him walk away without having his answers.

  Tiernan’s pale eyes almost glowed in the weak moonlight as he glanced past Donovan toward the ruins of the castle. “So that’s the famous Lugh? Doesn’t look all that badass.” But Donovan could tell it was bravado and not truth that Tiernan spoke.

  Waiting, Donovan intentionally kept his back turned. He’d known Lugh survived the Collapse. The same couldn’t be said the other way around. Through the ground, Donovan felt the Sidhe’s light footsteps as he approached alone. He had the right to bring a second, but hadn’t. Either he had no worthy allies to call upon, or he’d grossly underestimated the situation.

  The voice he’d known for thousands of years spoke his name in that cultured, elven accent. “Donovan?”

  Only now that the Seelie had come within a few paces of him did Donovan turn to face him.

  The last time he had clapped eyes on his
enemy, Lugh barred Donovan from rescuing the Unseelie queen and her consort from Manannan’s clutches. Even still… even then… he’d believed this Seelie possessed a modicum of honor, if not any good sense. So when the Mounds began to crumble around them and the All-Mother’s life hung in peril, Donovan sacrificed himself to hold up the Mounds and sent Lugh to rescue Danu. Even as their world struggled in the death throes, Donovan had faith in Lugh. That he’d have done anything to save the Mounds.

  He’d been deceived.

  “Jhaer…” Lugh froze, invoking the name Donovan had not used since the Collapse, calling up memories of the Elite whose existence ceased when the Court he served had died. “But you perished…”

  Each word Donovan spoke beat like an accusation. “Buried alive in a mass grave with all the Sidhe you murdered.” He hissed through his clenched teeth, “But I did not die.”

  Lugh backed away a step, scrambling to reformulate his plan of deception, no doubt. “You blame me? You know I was of no complicity in the Mound’s Collapse.” Running into Donovan had caught him flatfooted. Even in this Seelie attempt to divert the facts, they both knew it for what it was. Not so graceful when faced down by the one Sidhe who knew the truth.

  “Bloody liar!” Donovan stormed after him. “You conspired to crush the Unseelie! To dominate all magic! To kill Danu!” Beating his chest with his fury, he repeated, “I warned you! And you refused to listen to me!” Pointing at this Seelie, he snarled, “You! You stopped me! You stood in my way! The Collapse was your fault!”

  “What are you playing at? You know me better than to even jest such insults.” The Shining One didn’t gleam so brightly now. The Fade stripped him of the surface glow that had been as much a part of him as his hair color and his superior manner. The stain of fatigue darkened circles beneath his dark blue eyes. A cauterized scar of a bullet or arrow wound marred his left shoulder. Quite a bit worse for wear. “You’ve never been one to twist lies to win advantage. Rising from the dead must have shattered your mind.”

  Even after all that happened… All the death and destruction… Lugh still coveted his Seelie games of power. Malcolm was right. That flute meant something to Lugh. Otherwise, he’d not squander the effort to reclaim it when he was so close to Fading. “I’m not Seelie. I don’t need lies and deceit.” Donovan snarled, “What are you up to, Lugh?”

  Lugh’s indignation rising, he proclaimed, “I have only ever served the Sidhe. Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for our people! Which you bloody well know!”

  “Liar!” Donovan’s fists clenched, wanting to pummel Lugh until he’d beaten that self-righteous expression from his face. “What do you want the flute for?”

  “Can you not trust me?” He pounded his hands to his chest with emphasis. “I am your Champion!”

  How dare he even breathe those words? Champion of the Sidhe? After what he’d done? Only the most despicable, slimy excuse for a Seelie would have the balls to pull that card and think it was worth more than the parchment it was scribbled on. After what he’d done? After destroying the whole of the Mounds, and nearly every Sidhe within, he dared to invoke that privilege? And here? Under the Cloak of the Raven where no status mattered? But, of course, the Seelie make up their own rules, and twist everything to their own advantage. And Lugh, the worst of the lot, was no better than the foulest of Changelings. “You are not my Champion! Nor the Champion to any Sidhe alive! You carry your tattered mantle and tout your faded glory of a world crushed beneath the earth!” Driving the heels of his hands into Lugh’s shoulders, Donovan slammed him back a couple of feet. The blow didn’t violate the Cloak, but demanded answers. “What are you up to, Seelie? Answer me plain!”

  The snarl that flashed across the Seelie’s face was animalistic in its fury. With a burst of speed, Lugh lunged. His arms wrapped around Donovan’s waist as his shoulder impacted him in the gut, driving him to the ground.

  Donovan wedged a knee up between them. Planting a foot in Lugh’s gut, he kicked him off.

  They both reclaimed their footing fast. The Seelie curled back his lips with fury and disgust. “How is it that you are not Fading? What foul magic is this? It is not fey!”

  Donovan was getting to Lugh. He couldn’t even maintain his Seelie decorum. “The magic of this realm is not purely fey, but it is free. Free from Seelie control. Free from your tyranny.”

  From the way Malcolm described Lugh’s magic, it sounded like he was desperate. Any flicker of magic he wasted brought him inevitably closer to his own death. Not having access to his magic put Lugh at Donovan’s mercy.

  Of which, Donovan had none.

  Knowing how the Seelie was likely to move, Donovan charged him.

  Lugh leaped into the air, flipping backward to dodge the attack.

  They’d fought each other for thousands of years. Donovan anticipated the acrobatics. Even as Lugh rotated in the air above him, Donovan hooked his arm around the Seelie’s leg. He twisted Lugh in mid-air and then slammed him down on the ground with all the force he could drive into his body.

  Donovan leapt onto Lugh, pinning his shoulders to the ground as he straddled his chest. “Tell me now! What is the flute for?”

  Like a wild thing, Lugh snapped his teeth at Donovan’s face, but couldn’t get close enough to bite him. Not with Donovan keeping him down. With fury deepening his voice Lugh yelled at him, “I fashioned it with Rhiannon! I mean to use our combined magic woven into the thing to find her! She is mine! Now give me that bloody flute!” He bucked his body, knocking Donovan off of him.

  Donovan rolled up to his feet with his quick, fey agility. “You lie!” He stalked after Lugh. Whether he still served Manannan or he coveted the mysterious magic for his own purposes, Donovan wouldn’t allow the Seelie to dominate the Unseelie ever again. “I will stop you, whatever you are planning. I will hunt you down! I will kill you if I must, but I will stop you!”

  Lugh snapped at him. “You shall not stop me!”

  Even as Lugh stormed away from him, Donovan shouted, “This discussion is not over!”

  The Seelie hadn’t gone more than three steps before the soil beneath him trembled, shifting to the consistency of quicksand. Even when he tried to jump away from it, the ground itself clutched at Lugh’s feet, dragging him down to his knees before clamping around his legs. In his struggle to pry himself free, Lugh’s hand pushed against the earth, and Donovan snared it just as quickly.

  Dropping to a knee, Donovan clutched either side of Lugh’s head, forcing him to meet his eyes and his fury. One last time, he struggled to reason with him. “Don’t you see what Seelie arrogance has wrought? Death! The Unseelie are the future of the Sidhe. Submit!”

  “No!” Conviction like madness burned in Lugh’s bloodshot eyes.

  Donovan could see it in his face. Lugh meant to teleport, even though it would consume his last shreds of magic. That was how determined the Seelie were to win at all costs. Donovan clutched Lugh’s head tighter. “You fool!”

  Lugh slammed his palm into Donovan’s breastbone, knocking him back. Breaking the skin contact.

  And then Lugh vanished.

  “You Seelie idiot!” Donovan shoved himself up from the ground.

  Tiernan hung back a couple of paces, out of easy reach. “Next time, I vote we shock the shite out of him.”

  “If he didn’t just kill himself with that stunt, teleporting away with so little magic left.”

  “Right determined blighter, I’ll give him that. That Seelie’s a man on a mission.”

  Donovan growled, “So am I.”

  Chapter Twelve

  No one needed to tell Donovan where the Seelie girl was, or what she was doing. Just as he’d felt the presence of Danu like an unseen Touch over his heart until the moment of her death, Donovan felt the young woman. Even at the late hour, Kaitlin hadn’t any interest in sleeping more than she already had in the last few months.

  Silently, Donovan appeared at the doorway of the workout room. Before him, leaning against
the rack of free weights, neither Kieran nor Bryce noticed him.

  And it was easy to see what distracted them.

  Kaitlin tumbled across the mat so quickly that she seemed to blur. At the end of her run she flung herself high into the air, twisting three full rotations in an extended position before landing only long enough to kick hard against the ground and punch forward into a second series of flips and aerials that ended with a flying splits before landing lightly on her graceful feet. Then, under her instructions, both Trip and Dawn began complex acrobatics of their own.

  “The lassies should always wear leotards.” Kieran whispered, “Bless it, they are gorgeous creatures. So lithe. So flexible.”

  “Nothing wrong with those legs. And the way the Spandex clings to their curves.” Bryce caressed his hands through the air, making an hourglass shape. “Mate, I could watch them all night.”

  “Or you could join them.” Donovan’s deep voice sent both of the lads jumping.

  After they recovered, Kieran cocked his thumb over his shoulder. “Us? Do that?”

  “You’re fey. Learn to use that agility of yours for something other than bedroom antics.” Donovan smirked at the lads, knowing full well their reputations. Kieran especially seemed bent on notching his bedpost. He’d already sent at least two lesser fey lassies back to their tribes with future offspring that would enrich the magical bloodline of their race. Back in the Mounds, Kieran would have been chided for wasting his seed procreating with anyone other than a Sidhe, but Donovan lacked the energy or the interest to police their libidos. Especially now that he knew that it had been Danu, and not some twist of fate, that had once made Sidhe offspring so rare.

  At Donovan’s joking, Kieran just grinned, even when Bryce snickered and jostled him with an elbow.

  After a moment, Donovan turned serious. The bloodhound weighed on his mind. “Where’s Malcolm?”

  Kieran shrugged. “Last I saw him he was going to the war room.”