Scattered Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 1)

by S A Archer

London picked it up and then frowned. “What’s this mean? Twelve thousand?”

  “That’s what it’ll cost you.” She smiled, fangs flashing.

  “Twelve thousand for the location? I don’t think so.” London dropped the napkin, ready to pretend she would walk out rather than pay the ridiculous price.

  “No. The cash isn’t for us, it’s for Rand.” She chomped with her sharp, white teeth. “The twelve thousand buys a party.”

  London tapped her finger on the tabletop as she thought. “When?”

  “When can you get it?” Charnel laughed.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  To some, ‘The War Room’ might sound like a misnomer, but to Donovan the name seemed apt. A map of the surface world curled along one wall of the round room, the arbitrary delineations of human kingdoms blocked out and named for his convenience. The European continent commanded center stage as the home to the highest concentration of fey.

  On the opposite side, books lined the shelves from floor to ceiling, almost all of them donated by the Scribes. Leather furniture arranged in conversation groupings occupied the floor space on that side.

  Donovan remained focused on the massive table in the center of the room. Papers from his personal files scattered over the entire surface in the early stage of organization. As the head of the Unseelie Elite, Donovan periodically had to run down various exiles hiding on the surface. Though the exiles tended to relocate frequently, his files provided a starting place. He shifted through the slips of paper. Just paper, and yet the only clues to what remained of the Sidhe in the wake of the Collapse.

  The scattered earthborn offspring of the exiles, mostly untrained, often orphaned or abandoned, likely outnumbered what Sidhe escaped the Mounds. They held so much potential and yet were so vulnerable. The last hope for survival of his race teetered on the brink. The predators already tasted blood in the water. Circling in, they picked off any unwary and unprotected Sidhe they could run to ground.

  A war this was. A war for survival. A war with more lost battles than victories, but he would never surrender.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Getting twelve thousand Euros in cash within the hour was not hard, London simply asked Selena for the money. Friends and loans never mixed, but this was a business arrangement. If the twelve thousand was indeed to pay for a party with a Sidhe, then it was going to be a party paid for and enjoyed by Selena. Since Rico’s run in with a Changeling, Selena had been without access to Sidhe blood herself. Seemed as though vampires craved the blood, but other than that annoyance, they didn’t suffer from their craving. Only humans got the raw end of that deal. And what sucked even more? A cursed human couldn’t be embraced and become a vampire. Selena had tried and failed on that score. So London was well and truly screwed, and not in a good way.

  Selena wore an elegant white satin blouse and stylish dress pants. She could go from a boardroom to an upscale party to a nightclub and still not look out of place. Selena was talented like that. It was a trick that London imagined she was born with, rather than had learned in her long vampire life. Her sleek blond hair hung with perfect shine and smoothness. The total package that she presented was very different from London, whose short-cropped, dark hair and white t-shirt and black jeans seemed a poor imitation. Not that such things mattered, especially when the urgency of the addiction had London fidgeting in the seat next to Selena.

  On rare occasions Selena pulled out the limousine and tonight was one of them, mainly because they needed to haul more people than could fit in her Town Car. London leaned against the door, peering out of the dark-tinted windows at the street lamp lit corner in front of The Dog’s Hind Leg, the bar where she’d met with the young vampires. “That’s them.”

  “Pull over,” Selena instructed the driver.

  London pushed open the door and called to them. “Alright, get in then.”

  Charnel climbed in and shouted, “Limo!” Her mini-skirt barely covered her butt as she tried to walk inside the vehicle while bent ninety degrees at the waist. All in white, from her fake fur coat to her stockings and hip boots. What was it with some vampires and wearing white? Did they have a magic formula for getting out bloodstains? Or just liked the look of bright red blood against the canvas of snow white? Charnel looked like a rockstar ready for the stage. The other vampires were similarly attired in party clothes. Jimmy held aloft an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s and howled when he climbed in and bounced his bottom down in one of the side facing seats next to Charnel.

  Selena shot London a “for real?” look and London just offered a half apologetic shrug.

  Brandy and Colin climbed in last. Brandy saw Selena, clamped her lace glove covered hands to her mouth and stifled a fan-girl scream. When the others gawked at her in confusion she waved her hands at her face and struggled to squeak out, “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Selena? The Selena?”

  London grinned with a little too much amusement at Selena’s expression of “What have you gotten me into?” All four junior vampires jammed in around Selena with copious amounts of idle worshiping and chatter. London excused herself to the sofa opposite the huddle and smiled sweetly at her friend, knowing that there very well better be a Sidhe at the end of this ride. At least witnessing Selena hold court among her fans offered some distraction from the craving the gnawed at London.

  The Limo pulled into the side alley beside the Fairy Circle Shop, one of those new age kinda shops with so many scented candles, incense, and herbs that anyone breaching the threshold with allergies was doomed to a ferocious sneezing fit. The junior vampires all spilled out. Their laughter and chatter only sped up with their excitement. Selena followed with London bringing up the rear. She’d heard about this place. It fronted for a lot of the drug dealing for the parahumans; magic brews and potions geared for blood drinkers and weres. London hadn’t heard that the place dealt with the fey, too.

  London lagged behind a little, letting the others push ahead as she cast searching glances around the dark alley. The vampires went in the back entrance and there was barely room enough for London to wedge in without getting all up close and personal with the fur of Charnel’s coat each time the vampire girl squealed and hopped on her three inch heels.

  Selena handled the money exchange swiftly. It was then that London caught a glimpse of this Rand fellow. A Changeling, London was certain of it. The last few times she’d dealt with Changelings bad things happened. Despite the assurances of Charnel and her friends, London’s instincts went on high alert.

  The Changeling worked fast, blinking in and out he teleported first Selena, and then the other vampires a couple at a time. It took all of maybe forty five seconds for the Changeling to ‘magick’ away the vampires, which left London alone when he blinked back in. Rand crossed his arms and sneered. “I don’t usually mix clientele. Vampires can get territorial when they feed.”

  She tried to make a quick assessment to see if she could get a bead on his intentions. Though his clothing appeared pricey, they didn’t quite fit him, almost like he shopped for labels instead of size, a little long in the sleeves and a little loose through the shoulders. The gold Rolex watch had to have set him back a mint, as did the gems in the clunky gold pinkie rings. It seemed to her Rand had more money than style, shopping for price tags and the image that went with it, but with no innate appreciation for those things beyond the status symbols.

  “I can take care of myself.” London tensed, disliking the way Rand fixed her with unblinking eyes. Just like the few Changelings she’d encountered, Rand’s smile chilled her like an evil finger of ice tracing down her spine.

  “I bet you can. But you see, there is another problem.” The Changeling said, as he circled her slowly, overtly checking her out with long, dragging looks that practically made her feel groped. “My boss, the Sidhe? See, he’s got certain rules. Certain busines
s practices, let’s say.”

  London glanced back over her shoulder at him as he lingered in his assessment of her rear end. “What kind of business practices are we talking about?”

  “See, for vampires it is a straight cash only arrangement, so the party only covers them.” Rand finished his circle, stopping right in front of her, way inside her personal space. She had to crane her neck back to look at him.

  “And for non-vampires? What’s the deal?” London refused to back away, refused to break eye contact. Changelings, in general, were a shifty bunch and she was still learning the nuances of the expressions, body language and vocal tone of the fey. Something she’d been focusing a lot of energy into learning since getting cursed by one. As far as she was able to discern there weren’t any clear commonalities between even fey of the same race, much less across the various species of fey.

  Rand held out a hand. London glanced at it and then slipped her hand into his, expecting him to teleport her to the party now. Instead, he knocked her hand aside with annoyance. “Your weapon, Junkie.”

  London debated denying that she was packing. Finally, she withdrew her gun from under her blazer where she’d holstered it at her lower back. She handed it over, knowing the safety was on and watching to see if the Changeling flicked it off.

  He checked the weapon, popping out the magazine and clearing the chamber with an expert technique. Rand put a thumb against the bullet in the top of the magazine. He’d know if it was silver from just the briefest touch, or so she’d heard. And silver was as bad on fey as it was the weres, by all accounts.

  He slapped the magazine back into place and handed it over. “You any good with that? Or you just like feeling badass?”

  “I’m good enough,” she said, giving him her best badass glare.

  “The deal for humans,” Rand began, lingering on the word “humans” for a beat, “is service. The boss gets plenty of money out of the vampires. Sometimes money will work, but really, cash is like water. It comes and it goes. What’s harder to find is motivated, dedicated muscle. That’s where all you lovely humans come in. Now vampires like the Sidhe blood, don’t get me wrong, but they won’t risk death to get at it. You take a strung out human, though, and now you got someone who will go to any length to get another hit of the magic. Any length, am I right?”

  London shifted, not wanting to admit the truth.

  “What wouldn’t you do for the Touch, Luv?” he asked, and they both knew he was right. Denial only wasted everyone’s time.

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s my girl.” Rand grinned like he owned her. Or at least his Sidhe boss owned her. She might need the Touch bad. She might do a lot of unpleasant stuff to get it. But no one owned her. Rand went on, “So the money paid for the vamps to party. You…” he poked her in the chest, “will still have a debt to pay. We’ll settle it up tomorrow. I’ve got a project you can help me with.” He checked his watch. “The vampires should have latched on by now. You can slip in, but don’t challenge them. Find a spot and get your fill. Got it?”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “We’re not interested, Jhaer.” Seamus dug his hands into the metal guts of some rusted contraption on wheels. A ridiculously tattered straw hat shielded his face from the sun. Oil might stain his denim overalls, but the very humanness of the outfit and the shabby shack of a farmhouse stained the Sidhe wallowing in them.

  “Donovan now,” he corrected. He swept his critical gaze over the place. A flock of muddy sheep in the back pen. A barn so weather beaten a moderate wind could cut through all the missing and broken boards. Random chickens milled about. A Sidhe girl of perhaps only a decade old perched on the porch roof, her colorless dress ill-fitting. Her too thin arms hugged her knees under her chin. Her dark, dark eyes watched Donovan, rarely blinking.

  Seamus knocked his hat further back on his head with a flick of his finger on the brim. “You call yourself what you want. We left the Mounds. And the politics. And the infighting. And we were right to do so.” He banged down the wrench. “My family won’t be part of it. Not before. Not now. Not ever.”

  Honestly, Donovan hadn’t expected any different. All too often exiles dug their hiding holes like mice and nested in them. Finding security in squalor, when any decent village of lesser fey would clamor for the chance to cater to a noble elf. Doing such a grand job of isolation in service to their cowardice that no one even noticed as they vanished one by one, taken by predators. “It’s not about politics. It’s about survival. How soon until the wizards catch wind of the Mounds collapse? Without the Sidhe to mount a defense, how soon until they begin raids on Ireland in earnest?”

  Donovan lifted his gaze to the child’s once more, the intensity with which she watched him, nearly palpable. When Seamus stubbornly held his silence, Donovan persisted, “And what of your children? Is this what they want for themselves?”

  The farmer laughed at that one. A forced, dry laugh. “Regan’s not of age, Elite. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Though spoken softly, the child’s words rang with musical clarity. “What about Malcolm?”

  “Away with you!” Seamus snapped and waved a hand at the child to shoo her, but she didn’t even flinch.

  “Malcolm ran off. He hated it here,” she said, matter-of-factly. Regan’s little chin stayed on her knees. “Da and him had a row.”

  “That’s enough, Lassie.”

  “Tell me you taught your son more than how to tend chickens.” Donovan glared at Seamus, knowing all too well the answer.

  “I told the boy if he stayed here we would protect him. He got all these notions in his head about going out into the world. Sixteen at the time. Seventeen now. The lad needs to stay at home. Does the daft boy listen? We finally told him what we are. Why he and Regan could never go to school or go out on their own. Did he listen? Not a bit of it!”

  Donovan’s eyes narrowed. “And now he is at the mercy of all that prey on the fey. Vampires. Werewolves. Wizards.” He sneered, “Your son could very well be dead right now, and you have done nothing to aid him. And I thought only the Seelie were so selfish.” With disgust, Donovan stormed off.

  “Wait!” Regan cried in protest. Donovan paused, giving her time to scramble down the trellis from the roof and run to him. She reached up as if to hug him. Donovan leaned down to her. Her thin arms circled his neck. She whispered against his ear, “Find Malcolm.”

  Donovan leaned back to study those serious, dark eyes of hers. “I won’t stop looking for him,” he promised. “Not ever.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Eleven Months Earlier

  The next time the goblins came for him they flooded into the chamber and then spilled through the bottleneck at the door of his cell, filling the space with their leathery, spindly bodies like an army of giant insects, all hive mind with one focus. Even knowing he’d lose, Malcolm never stopped struggling. Never accepted. He squirmed wildly as he bodysurfed along the mass of them, spindly arms keeping him aloft. Only then did he notice the humans beyond the mosh pit of goblins. Three females and a male, huddled close to each other, out of the sea of goblins and staring at Malcolm with starved intensity, like they could eat him up raw.

  The goblins tossed Malcolm down on his partially healed back. The silver was released from his wrists. Any relief from the burns vanished under the twisting grip of clawed fingers. This time goblin hands secured his arms and legs, not bonds.

  Malcolm twisted uselessly against them, growling viciously. Words meant nothing here. A wasted effort. Nothing could scream his protest louder than the violence of his struggle and the throat ripping fury in his snarl.

  And all of it… None of it… mattered.

  Three or four goblins clutched his face. A goblin pounced onto his chest like a monkey and popped the cork off of Flora’s wine bottle. Ma
lcolm flailed. More hands jerked his head, keeping it straight. Malcolm clamped his mouth closed. Teeth locked together. He would not! He would not! No! No!

  Someone pinched his nose. Lungs screaming for air. Burning for it. He gasped through clenched teeth. Couldn’t see anything. Hands everywhere. Fingers pried at his face. Peeling back his lips. Forcing apart his jaws.

  Strong cinnamon scent stung his nose. Thick liquid dripping like molasses into his mouth.

  Malcolm spit it out. More poured in. Hands smashed closed his mouth hard. Couldn’t spit. Couldn’t breathe. Cinnamon syrup churning his senses.

  Fighting to gasp. Choking. Coughing.

  Swallowing.

  It seared like lava all the way down his throat and into his stomach. Fire spread through his belly… Through his body… Vibrating down his arms and into his fingers. Thighs tingled with heat. A rush whooshed up into his head. Couldn’t focus. Sounds muffled until his own panting was all he heard. Spinning. Everything spinning.

  A crackle of power. Of magic. His body alive with it. Pulsing. Glowing.

  And then…

  And then…

  And then Malcolm stopped struggling.

  An exhale shuddered from him as all the tension and fear vanished from his body.

  For the first time since the ordeal began, Malcolm felt…

  Good!

  The goblins parted. Moved out of view.

  An intense rush rose up from within him. Spread through his muscles. Glistened on his flesh. Light flickered beneath his skin like millions of fireflies covered by his translucent flesh.