by S A Archer
All the while his focus flowed through the ground beneath him. Searching. Seeking. Catching a hint of movement. A surge. A flow.
Not underground water. He’d feel the saturation of the mud if that had been the case. This had a throb to it. A pulse. Of course he’d encountered ley lines before; the earth was crisscrossed with them. For the most part he’d avoided them. Like lightning, the ley lines moved immense power. Just like the airborne equivalent, getting in the path of such a force had potentially deadly consequences.
Jhaer positioned himself above the crossing ley lines that had guided the druids, secretly consulted by the builders of the castle, to select this place of power. Jhaer raised his arms before him, simultaneously closing his fists. As he did this, the earth beneath him sank. Like a liquid, it gathered him inside the cool element until the ground closed over his head, leaving no sign of disturbance on the surface.
The residual power from the ley lines vibrated through the ground around Jhaer like a warning. There was nothing for it now. Turn back and Fade? Or go forward and risk instant death? Even as Jhaer thought it, he knew there truly was no choice. He moved through the layers of sediment to within a foot of the nexus of power. The rush of magic roiled through the ground like the wild flood of energy in a pyroclastic flow. Massive, even at this distance.
Pain postponed was just pain prolonged. Same could be said of death, if that’s what came of it.
Jhaer grit his teeth as he plunged into the crossing paths of magic. Didn’t make a difference, though. A scream ripped from him as the magic tore through his element and into his unprotected body. The ley lines, the very arteries of the planet, penetrated his flesh, his mind, and his magic. Unlike anything he’d ever experienced, the massive power boost expanded his consciousness until it shredded his endurance. The earth. His element. The total of the entire planet. All of it. Alive inside him. Around him. Part of him. Saturating him. His essence and the planet, becoming one in totality.
His eyes opened to all that the earth knew. All its secrets. All its history. All its potential. All its violence.
And all of it wholly within him for this frozen moment of time.
Strands of magic laced around Jhaer, binding him. Penetrating him. Lancing into the very heart of his existence.
Like the wildly chaotic force of a landslide, the ley lines tumbled Jhaer and knocked him free of their path, tossing him through the intervening layers of soil. He burst from the ground and rolled onto the grass. Claiming a deep lungful of air, he struggled to process all he’d experienced.
The Mounds, created by and bound to the magic of Danu, a Seelie, had never felt like this. The magic of the Mounds had been pure fey, recycling and renewing like the flow of rain from the sky, to the river, and through mist back into storm clouds. And yet flavored with Danu’s essence. Tainted by her Seelie nature. Now he drank in the magic of the ley lines, flowing through his element of earth, like the purest of waters. This magic was not filtered through any fey before him. This was pure in the wildest sense. Uncorrupted. Making him beholden unto none for his access to it. No wonder the exiles thrived. They were free as no Unseelie of the Mounds had known freedom.
Jhaer, head of the Unseelie Elite, may have been the man who sank into the earth. But the man who rose from it was Donovan. Dark chieftain. The one who would gather the scattered Sidhe and unite them. Not just for mutual protection. He’d create for the Sidhe, and the lesser fey loyal to them, a new beginning. One here on the surface. He’d teach the earthborns what it meant to be Sidhe and Unseelie.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The enchanted gold dust spiraled in a vortex as if a miniature tornado spun within the vial. The glass container itself was not much longer or wider than Lugh’s index finger. Magic twinkled off the dust, as though chips of stars mixed with the gold.
Lugh glanced up from the vial to the row of terraced houses. They had the architectural appeal of bay windows and artistic brickwork. Even still, this neighborhood in Bristol appeared unremarkable compared to most other modern, middle class neighborhoods in England. If not for the reaction of the gold dust in the vial, Lugh would not have guessed that one of the artifacts might have found its way to such an unassuming place. Somewhere in the heart of this mundane humanity, seemingly devoid of even the faintest spark of magic, lay a fragment of the ancient realm of fey.
Even this bit of magic in his hand, this vial of enchantment, seemed ridiculously insignificant in the hands of a Sidhe. And yet held within its simple magicraft it harbored the fragile hope that might save what little survived of the fey. The notion was laughable. The likelihood of success so slim as to be the width of a fairy’s eyelash from total impossibility. Fool’s errand this might be, what else had he? Accept defeat and surrender to the Fade with noble stoicism?
For most of the morning, Lugh watched the house from his perch on the top of a stone garden wall just across the narrow lane. Secure in the belief that his Glamour rendered him invisible to the eyes of mortals, Lugh debated his options. Direct assault? Not his usual strategy, but not beneath him, either. The double-paned, wood-framed windows likely would shatter beneath a precise kick. Then there was the consideration of someone summoning the constables and that was always a needless hassle.
Without having seen inside the building, Lugh could not merely teleport into the house. How ignoble of him to contemplate peeping through the window like a tomcat. Still, if it brought him the prize he sought, then nicety must give way to necessity.
As Lugh debated his options, a young blonde woman emerged from the house. Her loose hair fell in unkempt locks down her back and shoulders. The patchwork peasant skirt flattered her lovely, long legs. The skirt had a gypsy look to it, as did the odd choices of tops. The long, pale blue sleeves flared around delicate forearms, and a dark, tight-fitting top covered it, so the elbow-length sleeves contoured to her thin arms and the feminine curves of her chest.
A seductive grin tugged at his lips. Now charming beautiful women was one of his specialties.
The woman scanned the street with a cursory glance. Lugh remained perfectly still. As her gaze flicked by him he thought, for almost a fraction of a second, she made eye contact.
No mundane human possessed the magic to detect him. And yet her eyes met his. Of this he felt certain.
She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and strolled at a good pace away from him. Lugh dropped down off the garden wall to trail her, his Glamour still tight to him. Her skirt swished in the most fascinating way as it brushed against the maiden’s lovely bum. With casual curiosity, Lugh studied the movement of the cloth as he strolled along behind her, learning the shape of her with each whispered hint of the fabric, a rounded handful that promised a soft surrender.
With each step her skirt swished, giving an impression of the way her hips flared from her narrow waist. The dressmakers of the Seelie Court would encase a figure like hers in lengths of satin that glinted in the light as it drew the eye reverently over every feminine secret. The ladies of the court rarely bothered with a corset, as Sidhe beauty required no augmentation. This woman was no Sidhe, but truly compared to many of the other fair races of fey.
Thinking of the ladies of the court brought back the visions so familiar to him that he could recall every detail perfectly. Rhiannon’s dark grace. Leannan’s shy poise. Kaitlin’s perchance for mischief. Melancholy threatened, as memories stirred of Sidhe lovers who surely perished in the Collapse of the Mounds. Depression would only serve to quicken the Fade. Only after he accomplished his mission to restore the power of the fey would he indulge in bittersweet mourning.
Returning to the lovely distraction before him, Lugh firmly silenced that part of his mind for now. Rather, he surrendered to the legendary appreciation of beauty that had his friends teasingly suggesting that his nickname should be changed from The Shining One to The
Cad.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The building the humans constructed as their jailhouse possessed no magical wards whatsoever. Of course the majority of humans, with the exception of the various orders of wizards and druids, forgot the power of magic. The concrete and metal sufficed to barricade human miscreants, Donovan supposed, but it possessed no power to control the comings and goings of the fey.
Which meant that either the young firebrand called Bryce was content to stay there or was so woefully untrained as to not know how to simply walk away from it. These young Unseelie assimilated far too closely with the humans. Understanding humans enough to pass among them unnoticed was a must. There were simply far too many of them to avoid that. But never subject yourself to their laws or their expectations. Certainly not the Sidhe at any rate. Fey sometimes contented themselves with passing off as human, taking humans as friends and working amongst them. It stained them.
The security cameras outside the jail could not penetrate Donovan’s Glamour. Invisible to eyes physical and electronic, the Sidhe strolled along the wall of barred windows, glancing in. Most of the cells stood empty. Humans of various bedraggled states occupied a few. Picking out a Sidhe among humans was no more challenging than selecting a polished and ornately faceted gem from mud-caked river stones.
Like most fire wielders, Bryce possessed crimson hair, one of those quirks of magic that affected appearance. Just as most Seelie were fair in complexion and coloring and the Unseelie tended to be dark.
The young Unseelie slept on the cot, a thin woolen blanket tossed over him. No other occupants in the cell. Donovan didn’t concern himself with the possibility of the humans in the adjacent cells stirring from their slumber. In a blink, he teleported from outside the cell to stand just next to the head of the cot. Dropping his Glamour, Donovan descended on the youth. His hand clamped hard over Bryce’s mouth, muting his startled cry and keeping him pinned against the pillow. In a panic, the boy swung a fist. Donovan caught the boy’s wrist before he could connect. He easily held him fast in the moment of testing strengths. A test that proved how soft this new generation of earthborns was. They lacked not only magical training but physical training as well.
Donovan leaned close, his expression stone serious. In a low voice for Bryce’s ears only, he said, “You want to stay here?”
Donovan allowed Bryce just enough movement to shake his head.
“Then you will come with me, Unseelie. Learn your true nature. Learn to control your fire. And follow me.” Each a mere statement of fact. Not a question.
His impossibly green eyes widened in fear. Even still, Bryce nodded as vigorously as he could.
And just like that, they were gone. Teleported away.
Chapter Thirty
Lugh trailed the attractive young woman a mere few blocks before the road ended, spilling into a more populated boulevard lined with shops, cafes, and autos. The Glamour cloaked Lugh in invisibility but did not render him incorporeal. With the grace of the fey as brilliant to witness in dance as in battle, Lugh wove between the passersby without brushing against them. His height, well over six feet, enabled him to keep sight of his quarry.
The woman slowed as she approached the display carts of a flower vender that impinged upon the walkway. Lugh’s strides shortened as he watched her maneuver around the wooden pushcart. A brightly colored canvas created a shading roof suspended above the cart by planks rising from either side of the platform. The effect was of that of a window. The woman turned to examine the flowers, so she faced Lugh. The cart’s design created a frame around her, a suspended bed of flowers between them. As Lugh crossed to stand on the other side of the cart, the woman paused.
Slowly, her eyes lifted from the flowers. Even though the Glamour should have shielded him completely, making him invisible to her, the woman’s gaze lifted. To his chest. Then higher. Until, at last, her winter blue eyes found his.
There was no mistaking the impact of her intake of breath. “You see me,” Lugh’s resonant voice murmured, so no other than the woman could hear him.
Immediately she dropped her gaze. Her trembling hand reached to caress a flower, but the ploy fooled neither of them. If she wanted to play games, Lugh would play them. The soft leather soles of his boots made no sound as he circled the cart, drawing nearer to her. The woman shifted away from him, casually but clearly in reaction to his approach. His fingertips brushed lightly up her forearm, eliciting a shiver from her. “You see me,” he repeated.
She shied away from the touch, drawing her hand up to nervously brush her hair behind her ear. A curiously shaped ear. One that rose to hint of a point. So subtle and yet so revealing. “You are fey,” Lugh whispered, so near to that ear that his breath disturbed her hair.
The woman drew away from him. Her back pressed to the brick wall of the flower shop. Her gaze lowered, but still fixed upon him about heart level. Lugh did not pursue her. Rather, he stroked his fingers over the flower petals beside him, directing his attention to them rather than intimidating her further.
“Forgive me if I startled you, maiden, for that was the furthest from my intent.” Rarely did one go wrong with chivalry and courtly manners when dealing with Seelie fey. How she reacted to the tactic would clarify her temperament, for rarely did the Unseelie abide such things as gilded pleasantries. “Will you entrust me with the name by which you are commonly known?”
Her hand flattened to her chest as if by a nervous habit. A thin chain that hung from her neck disappeared beneath her shirt. Whatever charm hung from it, she toyed with now through the cloth. Her hesitation ended with the shy offering of her name. “Ariel,” she confessed.
Since she saw him already, once Lugh ensured no curious mortals faced in his direction, he released his Glamour. As the magic cloaking him fragmented like mist to reveal him in all his Sidhe majesty, Ariel’s expression changed. Though she had clearly seen something of him before, the widening of her eyes and the intake of her breath proved that she had not seen him as she did now. The power to see anything through Glamour was a rare one, even among the fey. Her features had a delicate elven cast to them, but not as defined as most. Ariel was not full-blooded elf. Part pixie or fairy perhaps. So her abilities were even more unique given her lineage. Lugh voiced none of his observations, nor gave any indication of his assessment in his easy expression.
“You are Sidhe,” the words spilled from her in her surprise, her thin fingers rising to brush lightly against her lips. “I mean… you are. Aren’t you?” Now her trembling hand reached out for him. This time her fingers moved up his forearm, as if her hand needed to confirm the evidence of her eyes.
Lugh watched her hand glide up as far as his elbow before meeting those searching blue eyes of hers. She shrugged out of her shyness as if it had been nothing but a cloak she allowed to slip from her shoulders. The tease of her smile transformed her from innocent to seductress. The alteration quite fascinated him, how the Sidhe could affect lesser beings.
“You came from the Mounds?” Her hand massaged his forearm as she pressed closer still. “Your clothes are out of a renaissance faire.” The music of her laughter was like a bird song.
“You jest,” Lugh smoothed the embroidered vest to his chest. “These garments hardly possess a flair or flourish. Not even silk or satin, merely suede and cotton.” He smiled easily, enjoying the banter for the meaningless flirtation that it was.
Meaningless to him, anyway. Ariel closed the space between them until her warmth spread against him. Lack of resistance appeared all the encouragement this half-fey maiden required. The soft press of her breasts against the wall of his chest promised pleasure. As her arms caressed up to circle his neck, his hands settled to her hips, where he could maneuver her either closer or further away, depending on his whim. Her face lifted, lips parted ever so slightly in invitation. Lugh left her wanting, t
oo tall for her to merely raise to her toes and steal a kiss without him leaning down to accept it. The fey were often casually sexual, so this familiarity hardly struck him as odd. If not for the urgency of his mission, he might have indulged Ariel in an afternoon of mutual appreciation. As it served his purpose to accept her advances, for now Lugh did not disabuse her of the notion that she might yet discover the Touch of the Sidhe that she clearly longed to sample.
Her fingers stroked through his short hair. “I have some old clothes of my brother’s I think might fit you. Jeans and a polo are far less conspicuous than this.” She stroked down his body. Lugh pulled her hips against his before her hands could stray much lower than his solar plexus.
This time when she raised her face to gaze into his eyes, Lugh rewarded her with a smile that matched the lasciviousness that she seemed to desire. An invitation into her home simplified the question of how he was going to gain access. Whether he might claim the artifact through gift or guile or by theft remained to be seen. The Seelie in him much preferred that it came willingly, but it was merely a preference.
Chapter Thirty-One
Donovan idly tapped a finger on the side of the glass of Guinness as he appeared to relax in the window booth. The pub had a clear view of the corner on the opposite side of the street. Five “corner boys,” as Tiernan called them, loitered there with the casual brashness of youths in the first blush of freedom. Stronger in body than any time before in their miniscule lifetimes and left to their own devices, they’d reverted to the pack mentality of dogs. Not even wolves, but the formerly domesticated dogs now roaming the streets with a small number that gives confidence in the ability to take down any single prey, regardless of size or strength. Street toughs. Believing they could conquer anything, because they’d faced almost nothing.
