by S A Archer
The threat hit them where they lived. There wasn’t a voice that wasn’t raised in agreement, London’s and Joe’s included. Rand folded up the map, “Move it, Junkies. Impress me.”
Joe waited for everyone to filter away from his Jeep before giving her the nod. “Get in.” The tension in his face made his jaw seem hard as granite. She climbed in and belted up. Joe didn’t wait for the others. “Jackknifed cluster hump is what this is,” he growled, peeling out and kicking up gravel dust. “You know what’s out there, don’t you?”
“Not a clue.”
“The Mounds.”
“The Mounds? I thought they were gone.” She braced a hand on the dashboard as he jerked the wheel into a tight turn.
“Dang straight. Nothing but a crater now.” The sour frown carried more to it. “But overlooking that crater is the temple for Danu, the Sidhe All-Mother.”
“So we are raiding a temple full of fey?” London double checked her extra clips. “Maybe even a Sidhe?”
“If there is a Sidhe in there, and I am not talking about one of these earthborn kids that don’t know shite, but a for real Mounds born and bred Sidhe warrior, then none of us are getting out of there alive.”
Chapter Fifty
With fingers hesitant with longing, Lugh stroked the porcelain cheek of the Sidhe who was once worshiped as the moon goddess. Such a precise likeness, this statue of Rhiannon captured her features in frozen perfection. Crafted with such careful attention to detail, Lugh almost expected the statue to move. More than once he thought it actually breathed. A trick of the light made the statue’s chest seem to lift with shallow breaths. He gazed into the white eyes and felt himself beholding Rhiannon herself.
So painfully beautiful, Lugh fought the sting that blurred his vision. His palm caressed the statue as if he might lift her face toward his. He could not resist the temptation to place a light kiss to the chilled mouth that did not yield to his affection. Drawing back only enough to speak, he murmured, “Return to me.” The statue refused him even the least of encouragements, and that, more than any other evidence of his senses, proved that this sculpture was not his Rhiannon.
His Rhiannon always succumbed to him, just as the moon reflected the light of the sun. She could no more deny him than the fey of the Mounds could resist the dominion of the All-Mother. Although Unseelie by nature, Rhiannon transformed when Lugh’s magic infused her with his influence. When he Touched her, she glowed like the hunter’s moon, full of light and gilded glory. With him as her escort, she thrilled to the dance of the Seelie Court. With her onyx tresses and night-ocean blue eyes set off by her milk-cream skin, she was a rare, dark jewel among the fair Seelie. Alas, she could not sustain his persuasion perpetually. Her phases required Lugh to relinquish his sway over her and surrender her to Crom. As Lugh was the lover who lured her to wax with the purity of the light, Crom was the paramour who seduced her back into the waning depths of the dark.
The sound of Willem clearing his throat parted the veil of fantasy in which Lugh indulged himself. He backed away from the porcelain figure, the daydream broken and fading. The hollowness of longing remained. In all their travels they’d discovered not one Sidhe.
Not one.
In all the temples throughout all of Ireland, not even the slightest evidence that any Sidhe, save Lugh, yet lived. Never in his many millennia had Lugh endured such a span of time deprived of the Touch of another of his kind. The bonding of magic was essential. It refreshed and renewed. The Touch was a basic requirement for health, as much as nourishment, sleep, and copulation. The depletion of his magic in the wake of the Collapse certainly heightened this perception of yearning.
Lugh pivoted toward the Scribe, only peripherally aware of his hands wiping down his chest, as if closing the window to the pain within, shrouding it once more from himself and others. Lugh loved his people above and beyond all things. His compassion knew no measure, even for the Unseelie with whom he found so little common ground. Above all else, he was Sidhe. There was nothing he would fail to do, no service he would fail to perform for his people. The very notion that all others, with the exception of himself, may have perished pained him beyond the telling of it.
Embracing both denial and pride as his armor, Lugh fixed his expression into a calm composure. If even one other Sidhe yet lived, they deserved Lugh’s full focus and dedication. What emotions lay buried in the treasure chest of his heart, he’d effectively secured and suppressed. When he regarded the Scribe, nothing but confidence showed. Of this Lugh felt certain, for in that moment it was true. Such self-deception was a Seelie talent that required centuries of practice to master.
The diminutive Scribe angled his neck to address Lugh, who was nearly twice his height. His irrepressible grin blossomed as he presented Lugh with a pair of hair combs of polished ivory. Lugh recognized them. The cameo figures carved into the handles would settle into the flowing waves of Rhiannon’s midnight hair as if they were sprites dancing in the night sky. Lugh reached out to collect the delicately crafted combs, which hardly showed any evidence of wear. “These are from the first realm of fey?”
“Most assuredly.” Willem passed the vial of magicraft over the combs as Lugh inspected them. The vial blazed with magic as the gold flecks within spun in a tight vortex. The Scribe blinked up at Lugh, innocent excitement in his bright, fey eyes.
“But no indication that anyone has dwelled here since the Collapse?” Lugh’s fingers worried over the smooth teeth of one of the combs. Rhiannon left her temple furnished. She’d not abandoned the remnants of her past as a deity to the humans, as most of the Sidhe had done.
Willem nibbled on his lower lip, cast down his gaze and shook his head.
Lugh relinquished the combs to Willem, who stashed them in the satchel with the other artifacts from the first realm. He indicated that the Scribe should precede him from the room with a graceful wave of his hand. The gesture, though polite, served a greater purpose. Lugh tarried at the threshold. Upon the wall to the east of the door, Lugh traced a Celtic knotwork symbol for the sun. His signature. He infused the tracing with Glamour and sunlight, so that it would glow upon the wall for months to come, unless someone dispelled it. If, by chance, Rhia survived and sought out this haven, she would know he was searching for her. One last time, he glanced back at the statue, which passively watched him depart.
Chapter Fifty-One
Silver bullets. They weren’t just for werewolves any more.
London drew her weapon. With as much stealth as she possessed she dodged through the trees and came upon the temple from a wide angle. The Glamour did a good job hiding it. The building looked like English ivy had completely overgrown the place, dipping in and out of windows, curling around the pillars. Wrapping the entire building utterly until not a bit of it showed past the foliage. And yet, when the breeze blew the trees, the ivy did not blow with it. It remained fixed. So the longer she watched it, the more her eyes grew accustomed to defining the shape of it against the movement of the real greenery around the illusion.
In her peripheral vision London kept tabs on the two human teams coming up the hill from either side. Joe paced her on her left, close enough to easily reach out and brush against his arm. She kept two hands on her pistol with the muzzle aimed down. London sprinted to keep up with Joe’s longer strides, while remaining bent low. The humans rushed the temple depending on the element of surprise.
Joe and London weren’t the first to reach the temple entrance, nor were they the first to fire their weapons. Moving through the Glamour on the wide portico was downright freaky. The illusion was like a hologram. She passed right through it. The real surface was deeper than the ivy illusion suggested and she nearly stumbled as she dropped inches lower than she anticipated. It wasn’t some worn granite beneath her, but polished marble, slick to the soles of her boots despite the treads. Where
the others recklessly charged into the temple, Joe and London each manned positions on either side of the doorway and stole glimpses inside. The humans were running and gunning, shooting anything that moved, occasionally even each other. “I hope those aren’t Sidhe they are gunning down.” London gripped her pistol tighter, preparing to rush inside.
“Go right, down the hall,” Joe directed. “We’ll avoid the crossfire.”
London nodded and then rushed into the temple. She bore right as the semi-automatic gunfire echoed with sharp reports through the main entry chamber. Joe covered their rear as London skirted the wall deeper into the hall leading to side chambers.
Right before she reached the first doorway a dwarf burst out, a war hammer raised overhead ready to strike. A patch covered one eye and he limped heavily, which slowed him down, but the fury in his battle cry and the swing of his hammer left no doubt as to his intention to cave in her skull. London squeezed off two rounds that hit him dead in the chest. Sidestepping, she avoided his falling body and weapon.
She surveyed the room. Someone’s private chamber, probably the dwarf’s. No frills to the furnishings and at a glance she could tell there were no hiding places, at least no natural hiding places. Glamour was a tricky thing. She unsnapped the pepper spray from her belt and swept a stream through the room.
The Glamour fragmented as a second dwarf screamed with the pain of the spray burning his face. Giving up on all attempts to hide, the dwarf swung blindly with a mace. This time Joe fired, dropping the dwarf with a single headshot.
London paused, leaning against the wall as Joe overtook her for the next stretch. She cringed at the sound of gunfire and screaming, hating the thought that they were killing innocents. But there hadn’t been an option to spare the dwarves, she justified to herself. It had been kill or be killed. Once the sounds of gunfire invaded the temple, any fey with the strength to teleport could have easily fled the danger. In her estimation, those that remained intended to fight.
Already she heard fewer gunshots and more screaming. The combination didn’t bode well for the humans. Joe kicked in the next door and snapped off a couple efficient shots. London didn’t even glance in, focusing instead on covering the hallway and watching their backs. After a few moments, probably double checking for anyone hiding in Glamour, Joe reemerged.
One more door on the short hallway, London took her turn on point. The door was closed, but a twist of the handle proved it wasn’t locked. She shoved it open and burst in, weapon up and ready to fire.
She absorbed the scene instantly; another simply furnished room, two child-sized beds on either wall. Two fey girls clutched to each other, with their huge, innocent eyes making them resemble living Precious Moments figurines. The taller of the two barely stood more than four feet high and had a more fairy cast to her, with the classic open-backed dress for her wings. Only she had no wings, just the stubs where the wings had once grown. The fey she hugged to her like a younger sister was certainly a pixie in her full-sized incarnation. The dragonfly wings made the identification as a pixie pretty straight forward. Tears streaked their delicate faces, but they both remained silent with terror.
London’s first guess was that the injured fairy couldn’t teleport and her pixie friend had refused to abandon her.
London jerked her head toward the long open window behind them. She mouthed the word “go.” When the humans charged the temple, they hadn’t left anyone to guard the perimeter. If the girls made a run for it they had an excellent chance for escape. She glanced back to make certain Joe wasn’t watching, and when she looked again the girls were gone.
Methodically, London swept the room to search for any Glamour that might be hiding another fey, but found none. “Clear,” she called out to Joe and then rejoined him in the hallway.
The hallway ended with a stone facade. If Joe hadn’t gone to inspect it for Glamour London would have. The abrupt end of the hallway wasn’t logical, not that the fey were known for their logic. Joe ran his hands over the stonework, and London could see perfectly how his fingers followed the shapes of the stones. Had the stonework been Glamour his fingertips would have passed through the illusion to whatever was veiled beneath.
From a tactical standpoint London had to agree with Joe, this whole mission was a cluster hump. They didn’t have a layout to work with, so couldn’t plan their attack. There was no perimeter to cover their assault, which turned out to be a good thing for at least two of the fey. No communication to know how the other teams progressed and who might need back-up. And even clearing this hallway gave no assurance that it would remain free of hostiles, given their talent for teleportation.
Things had quieted down. No more gunshots. No more screaming.
London glanced over at Joe and saw the tension in him. Pretty much that was what she figured. Her impression was that while the human attack force probably caught several fey by surprise, the tables quickly turned. There were no more gunshots not because all of the fey were dead or wounded, but because the humans were.
Guns against magic were like pitchforks against cannons.
Again they stayed close to the wall, listening to the ominous silence for any whisper. Even with senses hyper alert London detected nothing but the scent of gunpowder and the tang of blood. Joe crept to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner with a quick jerk and then pulled back. He met her eyes as he lifted two fingers and then waved indicating the far side of the wide receiving hall. He mouthed “elves.” Joe pointed to her and then to the left, London nodded.
Gun in one hand. Pepper spray in the other.
They burst into the hall and London opened fire on the elf on the left. Joe fired at the one to the right. The bullets ripped through the illusion of the elves like light projections on smoke.
“Crap!” Instantly the real elves struck them from behind. Joe went sprawling first. London managed to twist and catch only a glancing blow. As she fell, she spun and released a stream of the pepper spray. She caught them both, hitting only one in the face. A line of the irritating spray cut across the chest of the other one, who teleported away before London even hit the ground.
Joe rolled to his back and fired three times at the blinded elf who was too pain-shocked to teleport, taking him down in a splatter of blood and brains.
The second elf reappeared, crouching on Joe’s chest. The elf used his ribs and the inside of his upper bicep to trap Joe’s outstretched arm. The fey thrust down the knife he clutched, aiming for Joe’s heart.
London shot the elf in the face, knocking him to the side so the knife missed Joe’s chest and impaled his shoulder instead.
Joe clutched his wound, gritting back most of the scream. London hooked her arms around him and helped him to sit up. With the wound in his gun arm, he was pretty much out of commission and London wasn’t going to attempt to press further alone. Those elves might have been the last of the fey defending the temple, but she seriously doubted it.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, helping Joe and keeping her gun ready in case of attack. They made it out onto the front steps just as half a dozen of Rand’s Changelings reached them. They got out of the way, leaving whatever remained inside for the second wave to deal with.
Rand strolled up the steps last, letting his companions handle the clean-up work. From the sound coming from within there was still a bit of it to do. “Nobody else make it?” It was a casual question, without the least bit of surprise or concern.
“Not that we saw,” London replied. Joe didn’t need her help to walk, given the shoulder wound, but he leaned on her anyway so she made a good show of helping to keep him upright.
“Survived another one, Joe? You have a talent. Both of you. Comes in handy for me and for you.” Rand gave them a brilliant smile. “Good to work with you again. See you tonight, Joe. London, you are good for a
few weeks. I’m sure the boss will have more work for you by then.”
“Swell,” Joe winced.
“Let’s get you to a doctor,” London murmured, loud enough for Rand to overhear. Joe limped against her all the way back to the tree line, where he straightened up and walked on his own power the rest of the way. She cast a questioning glance at him.
“If he thought we were still battle worthy, he wouldn’t have let us leave until the last body hit the floor. We earned our pay.” He kept pressure on his shoulder. The blade hadn’t hit any vital arteries or there would have been way more blood. Back at his Jeep, Joe leaned on the front bumper while London peeled off his bloody shirt and used the supplies in his field kit to stitch and then bandage the wound.
“You have a high pain tolerance,” London noted.
“It’s not the loudest voice.” Joe ran a trembling hand over his chest.
She got what he meant. “How long?”
“Going on three weeks. Rand promised tonight, if I survived today.” He helped pack up the unused supplies.
“Want me to drive?”
“No, just get in.”
London waited while Joe settled in and buckled the safety belt awkwardly. She thought about helping, but he had it under control and didn’t seem the type who would take kindly to being babied over a flesh wound. Faking out Rand was one thing, and London had no problem with that. Rand had no care for them so she had no issue with lying to him.
