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

by S A Archer

  He paused on a ridge, scanning the steep hillside upon which he perched and the identical one across the valley. To the best of his recollection, he was heading in the proper general direction. If he risked teleportation he could instantly appear within the entrance of the outpost, but the expenditure of magic was too severe. Time was an equally precious commodity that the Fade stole from him moment by moment, spurring him to travel more openly than he preferred. The hunter in him disliked the wind blowing constantly at his back, carrying his scent before him to alert what may lurk in the trees and rocky outcrops. The rough landscape was ideal for the wolf-kin, or werewolves as they’d more recently dubbed themselves. They were vicious, possessed unnatural speed, and hunted in packs that could overwhelm and rend a lone Sidhe before he could mount a defense.

  And even as he thought this, a stillness descended over Lugh that only came in the presence of a predator. The wind mocked him, altering course to taunt him with the hint of something foul and then stealing it away once more.

  As Lugh reached for the long knife the hiss of an arrow’s flight slashed the air. In the second he detected it Lugh dodged, but not knowing from whence it came he failed to escape.

  The arrow drove into the vulnerable hollow at the back of his right knee. His strength and stability failed as the agony exploded through his leg. Lugh kicked to the side with his left leg, scrambling for cover. He heard other arrows bounce off of the stones, missing him. Malicious, high-pitched laughter echoed about him. As his attackers encircled him, Lugh caught a strong whiff of their foulness.

  Goblins.

  They would besiege him in short order and with the fullness of their number, however many there were in this hunting party. Once goblins stumbled upon effective ambush techniques they employed them mercilessly. The debilitating wound rendered Lugh unable to stand, much less evade. Removing the arrow would cause more damage. He didn’t attempt to teleport, knowing the effort was futile. The searing torment was unmistakable. Silver. That metal defeated his magic the instant it touched his body, and with it embedded beneath the skin it would begin to slowly poison him. The goblins fashioned burrs into their arrowheads that easily broke off so that even if he managed to rip the arrow out, the silver would remain and his magic would still be lost to him.

  Lugh struggled to prop himself against an outcrop. With his wounded leg tucked behind him, he prepared to defend himself with the long knife. Very likely, it would not be enough.

  The goblins assailed him in a rush. Only four feet tall and spindly, a single goblin was fragile and easy to dispatch. A few dozen of the swift, determined little beasts, with their sharp teeth, claws, and rough hewn weapons, washed toward Lugh in a tide of leathery, green skin and jabbering laughter.

  Though Lugh prepared to slash and punch anything within reach, the goblins scrambling like lizards along the sharp incline above him flung a net over him. This was no thin-gauged netting like might be used for fishing, but a heavy, twisted rope weave meant to bring down prey with size and strength. The blade of his long knife stabbed through the netting where it tangled, allowing the goblins to wrench it away from him. Even as they dragged him from the rock, they chanted, “Sidhe, Sidhe,” between giddy grunts and evil giggles.

  With the crippling leg wound, the effective snarl of the net, and the sheer number of assailants, there was no chance of escape. The goblins of the Mounds would have slain him there, stabbing him through the netting until he ceased to struggle and then rending his body until it was unrecognizable. This band was determined to capture him instead. With no magic and no physical way to defend himself, there was nothing he could do to thwart them from abducting him.

  A roar resounded so loud and so near that it made the very ground quake, causing Lugh to cover his sensitive ears and wince against the power of it. The goblins discarded Lugh in their scramble to escape. Even as he struggled to free himself from the snare of the net, he witnessed a dragon slaughtering the entire hunting party, stomping and chomping his way through them all. “Rotten, little vermin fey!” The dragon’s voice growled the words like stones grinding together. Smoke curled from the dragon’s nostrils and from between his sharp teeth. A fire dragon. Not the mist dragon Lugh sought. “And you,” the dragon caught the netting with one of his fore-talons and hoisted Lugh up to dangle before him, “are trespassing, Sidhe.”

  “I’m friend and ally to Rehnquist,” he petitioned, frantic to avoid the same bone-splintering end that annihilated the goblins.

  The dragon snorted, sending streams of smoke from his wide set nostrils that blew past Lugh on either side. “Rehnquist is dead.” With that the dragon gave a mighty flap of his wings and lifted them into the sky.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  For the rest of the afternoon Kieran played tour guide, giving Malcolm the lay of the club. Flats on the second floor, and all of the ‘earthborn’ Sidhe stayed there. Counting Malcolm, there were just five of them so far, but there were enough flats for more. Donovan wasn’t an earthborn and had his own place somewhere on the basement level. The Glamour Club pretty much filled up the main floor, with some offices and storerooms in the back. The best was the lower level, which was one massive training area with a boxing ring, tumbling mat, punching bags, balance beam, targets, and a whole wall mounted with all manner of weapons. The place smelled like sweat and magic.

  Malcolm whispered in awe, “Bloody brilliant.”

  The only one other person besides them in the whole basement was a redheaded fellow who pitched fist-sized balls of fire at a metal target. Flames flickered over his entire body, but didn’t catch his clothes on fire. Each fireball he flung whooshed through the air and then burst on the metal target. Kieran called out to him, “Hey Bryce, meet Malcolm.”

  Flames licked over him even as he reached out to shake hands. Malcolm jerked away, but Bryce just laughed, “Kinda twitchy, isn’t he?”

  Malcolm backed off from him as Bryce went back to blasting the paint off the target. Blokes with flames coming out of their skin shouldn’t be practical jokers.

  Kieran didn’t seem too concerned. Instead, he grabbed a pair of boxing gloves and shoved them into Malcolm’s gut. “Let’s try some sparring. Might spark that magic of yours. You know how to box?”

  Malcolm shook his head as he slipped the gloves on and punched them together to make sure they were well seated on his hands.

  “Hands up. Protect your head.” Kieran jabbed at him. Malcolm blocked. “Let your emotions go. If you feel your magic try to do something, just let it. You won’t hurt me.”

  Bryce whipped out another fireball that exploded on the target. Malcolm snorted, “Yeah, right.”

  The air around Kieran blurred, cranking up so fast it sounded like a jet engine revving. He said something, but the noise drowned him out.

  “What?” Malcolm lowered his gloves so he could watch Kieran’s mouth.

  The punch caught him unprepared. Malcolm’s vision exploded in bright white. His head snapped back from the impact, taking him right off his feet. For a second, he didn’t know anything. Couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t even feel anything. And then the ground slammed into his back, knocking the air right out of his lungs in a great “Ooph!”

  “Crap!” Kieran yanked him to a seated position, which made the room spin and tilt at the same time. “I said ‘don’t drop your guard’ and you put your hands down? Dumb ass!” He pushed at the gloves covering Malcolm’s face. “Let me see.”

  “Dang, Kie!” Bryce rushed over. “Not ‘posed to clobber the new guy on his first day.”

  “I didn’t mean to!”

  Malcolm winced as he moved the gloves. His eye was swelling; he could feel it. His whole face pulsed with the pain of it.

  “Oh, yeah. You’re going to have a shiner for sure.”

  “You’re the dumb ass,” Malcolm grumbled. �
��Couldn’t hear you over the racket. Shoulda talked louder.”

  “I think your bell’s still ringing, mate.” Kieran tugged Malcolm’s gloves off. “Holy crap! What the bloody hell happened to your arms?”

  Malcolm blinked down at himself, trying to focus. The bandages had come off with the gloves, exposing his mangled wrists. They were as bad as he’d feared. The shackles had been about two fingers wide. The scars matched perfectly. The silver had burned down to the bone in places, and he didn’t see any bone sticking out anymore. Leastwise there was skin over them. Well, scar over them anyways. A big fat scar going all the way around and dug into the skin so it was gnarled and freaky looking. All gouged in like someone hacked away all the meat and then just put the messed up skin back in place.

  “Whoa! What happened?” Bryce reached for Malcolm’s arm. “Kie, what’d you do to him?”

  “I didn’t do this!” Kieran insisted. “Look, Mal, you have to tell us what happened.”

  “Get away from me!” Malcolm jerked back from them. “Where’d the bandages go?” He hunted around, then grabbed a glove and pulled out the shreds of gauze. “Blast!”

  He pushed himself up and then swayed. The pulsing in his eye churned through his brains. Bryce caught Malcolm’s shoulders, steadying him. The flames around Bryce didn’t burn exactly. They flicked against Malcolm’s skin with a weird, tingling bite, like a really bad itch. Malcolm shrugged out of reach. “You got bandages ‘round here?”

  “Come on, Mal,” Kieran crowded him. “You can tell us. For real.”

  “For real, go away.” Malcolm hunted through some cabinets and found more gauze. He shoved a couple rolls into his pocket for later, then snatched one and spun away from Kieran.

  Not listening, Kieran just circled around in front of him. “Who did this to you? It wasn’t vampires, was it? Wizards? Was it wizards?”

  “Do what?” Malcolm didn’t even know what to say to that. Wizards? There was so much he didn’t know. So much he should know. If he ever saw his parents again, he was going to wring their necks for never telling him nothing about anything. He growled at the gauze, on accounta it kept slipping off instead of wrapping around.

  “Here,” Kieran opened a different cupboard. “Look, let me show you something.” He pulled out a bandana and rolled it up. He dropped it over the back of his own wrist and wrapped it around a few times. He tied it using one hand and his teeth. “Check it out. A bandana wristband. Pretty rock and roll, huh? The gang I used to hang with wore ‘em all the time.”

  Malcolm checked the cupboard. There were a ton of bandanas in there. He snagged a few different colors and stuffed them into his back pocket. Then he picked a couple black ones for now. Kieran pulled out a red one and did what he did before, slowly, so Malcolm could follow. He managed the second without any help. They felt good, the soft fabric. Secure, like they wouldn’t slip or nothing. And they did look kinda cool. Kinda tough-like. Very rock ‘n roll.

  “Now you’re looking hot. Much better than bandages, no lie.” Kieran grinned at him, all pleased with himself. “Hey, enough of a workout for one day. Let’s get Dawn to fix your eye.”

  “No! I don’t want that chick messing with me.” Malcolm rubbed his forehead where she’d kept shoving her purple sparks into his head and making him sleep even when he didn’t want to. Every time he’d fight his way back, start to move or say something, ‘pow,’ she’d knocked him right back out again. Knocked him out harder than Kieran’s punch. Had to fake her out and act like he was asleep. Pounced when she wasn’t looking, shoving her down so he could get away. Found that knife and forced her to stay back.

  She’d better not ever mess with him like that again.

  Kieran said, “Come on. Let’s at least get you some ice.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Jonathan bore the entangled Sidhe to the wide precipice outside of his cave high in the mountainside. Earlier, he’d tucked the Scribe’s truck on the far side of the ledge, out of the way. Once Jonathan felt the slight weight of the Sidhe rest on the ground, he released the net and transformed himself into his human-like appearance as he stepped down beside Lugh. His wings flapped once as they reduced in size.

  Jonathan knelt beside Lugh to rip the netting open, a task that didn’t challenge the dragon’s strength, but exceeded what the Sidhe could have done for himself. Willem scrambled from the truck where he’d waited and, no doubt, fretted. Before the Scribe could tackle Lugh, and worsen the knee wound, Jonathan snapped open his wings in a barricade.

  “The arrow didn’t go too deep, but it wouldn’t have needed to before it hit bone. No doubt there’ll be silver fragments. Brace yourself.” Jonathan dislodged the arrow with a swift yank. The Sidhe stifled his agonized scream into a throat-ripping growl. Admirably done. The dragon knew from experience that tearing out an arrowhead hurt magnitudes beyond the initial strike.

  As he’d done with wounded allies in battles past, Jonathan hoisted Lugh over his shoulder. The slight weight of the fine-boned fey was no great burden and the dragon hooked an arm behind Lugh’s thighs to keep him balanced. Jonathan carried the Sidhe inside his cave, with the Scribe rushing along behind them like an inexperienced squire who’d never seen his master injured.

  Once past the entryway and through the massive double doors a few feet into the cavern, Jonathan’s home no longer resembled a cave. The interior of his dwelling was a mansion. Plush carpets covered the floors. Beyond the wide foyer, which could have easily accommodated his full dragon shape even with his wings extended, the interior rooms were lavishly attired for his human-like form. He carried Lugh into a comfortable living room with deep-cushioned sofas and recliners facing the wall-sized, flat screen television. The furnishings had been special ordered and collected in Sneem, as had some of the artwork and all of the electronics.

  After he deposited Lugh onto the sofa, Jonathan retrieved bandages from his side cupboard. “I have pried many goblin arrows out of my own hide. This poultice will draw out the minerals from the arrowhead, including the silver. You should be healed completely in the morning.”

  “I thank you for your kindness and for the rescue.” Lugh said, and to Jonathan, the Sidhe’s words seemed at once both genuine and difficult to admit.

  The Scribe assisted Jonathan in cutting away the leg of Lugh’s trousers. He used the torn fabric to wipe the excess of blood before it found its way to staining his furniture. The puncture wound itself was only two inches wide, and though the arrow might have damaged ligaments, it appeared to have missed the major blood vessels. Jonathan treated the gash with the medicinal and enchanted cream he’d concocted for just such wounds and then wrapped Lugh’s knee with enough bandages to immobilize the joint while it healed.

  “I knew that if I could reach the dragon outpost that I could depend upon your aid,” Lugh winced as the cleansing salve in the poultice began its burning sting. The pain would steadily worsen until the foreign minerals were completely leached from the wound. The Scribe tried to fuss over the pillows to prop up the Sidhe’s leg as he reposed across the settee, but Lugh waved him away. “My condolences for Rehnquist’s passing. I take it that you are the new Champion? May I have the name by which you are commonly known? I owe you a debt, Dragon.”

  “You are indebted to me.” Jonathan’s murmur had the edge of a growl that made the Scribe’s already impossibly huge eyes bulge wider. “I’m Jonathan Wyndracer, Dragon Champion. Don’t mistake my interracial hospitality to imply that we have come to an accord, Sidhe. I have neither interest nor tolerance for the internal matters of fey politics, once and future king of the Seelie Court,” he quoted the Scribe’s description of Lugh. Jonathan poured himself a drink from the decanter and then gestured for Willem to serve himself and Lugh.

  The Scribe busied himself with the task, and the relationship between the two wasn’t lost upon Jonath
an. Even before Lugh was wounded, the Scribe spoke of his pledge of loyalty to him. He’d heard of the Sidhe race’s legendary sense of entitlement. The subservience of less powerful fey races perpetuated the classism. If the fey did manage to survive the annihilation of the Mounds, he wondered if the ripple effects would disrupt this age-old sociological stratification. Jonathan continued, “I will have no part in your political ambitions.”

  “Ambition is the furthest concern from my heart, I assure you.” Lugh accepted the strong drink that the Scribe offered, and he imbibed a healthy swallow that surely would dull the pain considerably. Willem plopped himself cross-legged on the floor by the Sidhe, casting himself in the squire’s servant role. “My first and only concern is the survival of the fey. Not just the Sidhe. Not just the Seelie. All the fey.”

  “Even the goblins?” Jonathan cocked an eyebrow, amused that the famously eloquent Seelie should leave himself open on such a topic.

  “I don’t seek the eradication of their race, though I doubt anything could cause it even if I did. Controlling their rather robust and violent population is necessary to preserve life and freedom.” Lugh massaged his thigh as if absently, but Jonathan knew that silver burned the fey. Probably a scalding agony to have it imbedded in a joint. And to top it off, he knew that for the first few hours the poultice would be more painful than the wound it worked to cleanse. “Besides, they have no qualms in murdering me, so my sympathy for them is rather thin, to say the least.”