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

by S A Archer

  Donovan led the way, though the curved passage was wide enough to easily walk side by side. The chamber beneath the temple was little more than an expansive room. Murals were painted on the walls, and at a cursory glance, they appeared to have been made by Sidhe hands, though long ago and beginning to fade from time. In the center of the chamber, a carved platform of polished, white marble, like a table or a pedestal, gleamed. Donovan approached the empty platform with quiet reverence. He recognized the meaning of the symbols carved in the angular style of the dwarves. His fingertips traced the design, first the marking that represented the All-Mother, Danu, and then the symbols of grieving and remembrance for the slain.

  Her body had lain here. Donovan knelt beside the platform, hand to his heart where he’d felt his connection to Danu nearly all the days of his life. He’d known the moment she’d perished. He’d felt their connection sever. Though her body no longer reposed here, he grieved as if he’d found her tomb, for this had been intended as her final resting place before the Changelings violated its sanctity.

  Tiernan either didn’t know or didn’t care about the significance of the platform. He studied the murals instead. “What’s this?”

  Donovan didn’t even glance up. “The depiction of the All-Mother creating the Mounds.” Grief strangled his voice, deepening it. “Such murals are common… were common in the Mounds.”

  “Like the image of St. Patrick casting the snakes out of Ireland.” Tiernan examined the images carefully, having never seen their like before. “What’s this stuff?” He pointed to objects floating around the image of Danu.

  Donovan rose to join the younger Sidhe. After a moment, he squinted to get a better look. “I’ve never seen this,” he murmured. “No other depiction shows such objects about her.”

  Tiernan pointed to a torc that lay about the All-Mother’s delicate neck. “I’ve seen this before.” Then he tapped it excitedly. “I have this!”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Besides the greaves, Lugh forwent any armor. With a sword strapped to his hip, shield bound to his forearm, and spear in hand, he sprinted down the incline toward the cavern. Even yards away, the stench of festering animal waste and carrion assaulted him. Though instinct protested, he charged without hesitation into the black mouth of the goblins’ nest.

  Minimal daylight breached the cave at this hour. A weak glow from the bioluminescent growths on the rocks cast everything into a sickly green hue. Even as his stinging eyes adjusted to the darkness, the skulking movements in the shadows alerted him.

  As the first goblin raced up the tunnel Lugh slew it with a quick thrust to its gut. Jogging swiftly, Lugh located the first branch of the nest. This was his defense point. If he delved any deeper he compromised his escape route.

  He thumped his spear on his shield and bellowed a war cry that ricocheted between the stone walls. The answering screeches were an unearthly blend of a wounded cat and a deranged hawk. Dozens of the cries flowed and tumbled over each other as the warning blazed throughout the nest.

  Within seconds, a wave of goblins streamed up the right-hand passage toward him. Lugh slashed the first two with the metal spearhead. More followed. That was the dominance of the goblins— the mass of their overwhelming horde and their incomprehension of fear. Lugh sliced through goblins for at least five minutes, with reinforcements clamoring over corpses to fling themselves at him in an unending charge.

  Arrows and bolas whipped toward Lugh infrequently. He ducked or blocked them with his shield. Backing toward the entryway, he screamed to stir them into an answering frenzy. Their number surged around the tip of his spear faster than he could dispatch them. A net whipped toward him. Lugh ducked, jamming his spear into the netting. The weave tangled into a ball around the spearhead. The goblins yanked on the trailing ropes and jerked the spear from his grasp.

  Lugh drew the sword in its stead. He backed up faster now, as the cavern clogged with goblins rushing him. Each blow brought down two or three, but half a dozen filled the gap. Lugh jogged in reverse, never giving them his back. The goblins scurried around the edges of the walls, seeking to surround him.

  As he retreated from the cave, Lugh roared another outcry. The goblins returned with their own venomous screams. With that, Lugh spun and ran flat out.

  He need not glance back. Their fury clamored on his heels. If he stumbled they would swarm him. Many skilled Sidhe warriors fell before the goblin hordes in wars past. Good fighters, powerful wielders of magic, overwhelmed, butchered before they ceased to breathe.

  Loose stones troubled the narrow path leading into the hills, enough to confound even graceful fey balance. His long legs pumped with all the speed he could summon. Lingering twinges in his healing knee sharpened with exertion. The path curved with the roll of the hill, mounting into an ever steeper incline. The goblins’ screams mingled with vicious laughter. He soon discovered why.

  Lugh skidded to a halt as the path terminated abruptly in a precipice that reached out over the abyss. Loose rocks freefell toward the jagged stones below. He spun around before the goblins could slam into him and knock him from the edge. Using his shield he blocked the beasts that lunged for him. Each slice of the sword severed through flesh, but not rapidly enough to halt the onslaught. With no sign of the dragon, Lugh shouted, “Jonathan!”

  The concussion of the massive wings beating behind him pressed at his back. Lugh dropped to one knee and ducked as the dragon fire roared in a stream just above his head. It flowed over the mass of goblins in a molten current, charring living flesh and bone. The dragon cloaked the path in a blanket of flames, destroying every exposed goblin. His scarlet scales gleamed in the sunlight like blood-smeared snakeskin.

  As the dragon chased the fleeing survivors back into the nest Lugh recovered his footing. He pursued, skirting dead bodies swiftly disintegrating into ash.

  At the end of the path, the dragon stuck his snout into the cavern entrance and blew fire until it backwashed into licking tongues of flame that fanned over Jonathan harmlessly. The tangled paths within would prevent the flames from scorching too deeply into the belly of the nest. Though likely not destroying every last goblin, they’d certainly devastated the nest for at least one generation.

  Jonathan withdrew his head from the cavern. His enormous dragon eyes swept over Lugh. “You’re unharmed?”

  “Unharmed,” Lugh concurred.

  “Good. In another decade you can help me cull the vermin again.”

  Lugh snorted at the very notion just before Jonathan scooped him up in his talons and transported him back to the outpost.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Tiernan’s place was nothing short of a monument to decadence. His mansion topped a low hill in an expanse of manicured, emerald lawns. Kilkenny castle itself was only a shade larger than the mansion. Blaring music buffeted them as they appeared in the shade of the pool house. The sound system for the entire property linked to the DJ booth behind the poolside bar. The party never ceased at Tiernan’s, as far as Donovan could tell. Fey of several races bathed in the pool or in the sun, either in scant bathing outfits or in the nude. Humans mingled among them, and a few, Donovan suspected, might actually be werewolves, given the breadth of their shoulders and the thickness of their hair. If nothing else, Tiernan was an equal opportunity exploiter.

  Tiernan could hardly cross to the mansion without pausing every few steps to shake a hand or accept a kiss. Some of the affection appeared drug or magic induced, while others just seemed to make a point of sucking up when the chance presented itself. Tiernan’s mansion served more functions than merely an abode or even a party house. The Unseelie fancied himself a kingpin, and he ruled his domain with the cleverness and skill of a prince, while giving the outward appearance of a carefree playboy.

  Once inside, Tiernan guided the way to a parlor. The sun cast its l
ight in the opposite direction from the face of the windows, leaving the room dimly lit. The dark wood, carpet, and leather furniture deepened the shade. The closed windows muted the music from outside. A woman relaxed on the sofa, her long legs crossed casually, watching a movie on the telly. Donovan met Tiernan’s right-hand woman before. Monique smiled at him, not even attempting to disguise her fangs. Donovan nodded his acknowledgement as she flipped off the program and discarded the remote on the side table.

  Tiernan crossed to a man huddled in the corner on his knees, shaking violently, fingers clawed into the deep plush of the carpet. “How’s he been?”

  “A real trooper. No complaints. Easy babysitting job.” Monique rose to her svelte height that matched Tiernan’s only because of her heels. The drape of her dress flattered and revealed the artful curves of her body. How her dress managed to be so brief, but not reveal her bum, was one of those feminine secrets that Donovan was content to ponder and yet never learn the answer to. Had she been fey, rather than a vampire, he might have entertained an interest.

  Tiernan crouched next to the human and rested his hand across the back of his neck. A deep moan escaped the human as he trembled and rocked. His gasps and poorly controlled outcries bordered on the pornographic, but at least he remained hunched over rather than acting out in an explicitly sexual manner. To Donovan, the sight of a Sidhe Touching a human was distasteful, but Tiernan just ignored the human’s reaction with patient boredom. When the transaction of magic was complete, Tiernan removed his hand. The human slumped back into the corner, his head in his hands as he shivered and struggled to catch his breath. Tiernan said, “Your information was spot-on. Consider yourself hired. My good graces depend upon your loyalty and skill. Fail me and Monique will be the one to terminate your employment. Are we clear?”

  The human uncovered his face, nodding. Tiernan offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. “Monique will take it from here. We’ll chat more later.” With the human in tow, Monique closed the door behind herself, leaving Donovan and Tiernan alone.

  Tiernan crossed to the desk near the back wall. He rummaged through several drawers before producing the torc. The gold gleamed even in the faint light. He brought it over to the bar, let it clatter on the counter, and then served himself a drink. “Want something?”

  Donovan lifted the torc and turned it over in his hands. There was a unique image embossed in the ends where it would hang beside the collarbones. The design appeared to match the one on the mural. “Where did you get this?”

  “Payment from a Sidhe for some of Crom’s brew.” Tiernan thought back. “Maybe… thirty or forty years ago.”

  “Which Sidhe?” Donovan tested the weight.

  “Manannan.”

  “The Seelie king? Why would he desire a brew of dark magic?”

  “I’ve a strict ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. So, I haven’t the foggiest. Couldn’t have gone to Crom himself, that’s for certain.”

  “I’m taking this.” Donovan lifted the torc.

  “Pretty much, that’s what I figured.” Tiernan smirked. “I’ll bill you later.”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” Malcolm yelled at the wall above the headboard. A constant shimmer of magic glowed translucently through the wall, as if neon lights waved on the other side. The bedroom flickered with the stray magic.

  Malcolm flopped a pillow over his eyes to block out the light. Only, it wasn’t just the light keeping him awake at four in the morning. Kieran was getting his leg over with Dawn. Kieran of the sound magic.

  With his constant… annoying… clattering…

  Like a cell phone on vibrate rattling on a glass top table.

  “For the love of all that is holy! You people have got to stop!” Malcolm shouted at the wall, as uselessly as ever.

  Bloody, noisy fey. Someone was always awake. Always making a racket or shooting off sparks or reeking of some stench or something else equally annoying. “You’re driving me bonkers!”

  He smashed the heels of his hands over his ears, trying to blot out the noise as much as crush down the migraine, so blinking tired that his head wanted to split. All blinking day he’d done every blinking thing he could think of to get his magic going. Nothing. Nada. Zip. There wasn’t any magic in him at all. Not one blinking drop!

  All except the Touch. The stupid, disgusting Touch that made him want to vomit, but turned everyone else into “Horny bastards!” He screamed out that last bit.

  “Stupid magic!”

  He jolted up out of bed. Muttering to himself, he jerked on a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers and headed down to the club.

  The live band left hours ago. The Glamour Club never closed, though. Even at this hour, music piped through the overhead speakers. Malcolm fiddled with the playlist programmed into the system and set the music to shuffle. The bartender and two sloshed patrons at the bar paid him no mind.

  Malcolm hopped onto the stage and then made some adjustments to the drum kit. Sitting on the drum throne, he changed the angle on the toms so he wouldn’t crack the sticks on the rims.

  The sticks felt odd but familiar in his hands. Years of practice didn’t just vanish, even after the forced hiatus. Malcolm warmed up with a drum roll across the kit. The first song, Korn’s ‘Coming Undone,’ gave him a simple beat to get into the groove. Malcolm had lost some strength in his hands from the damage to his wrists, but he refused to show mercy to himself or the drums. The lyrics from the song cut him to the core.

  Breaking Benjamin played next with ‘Dear Agony.’ Malcolm felt the wet heat of his tears mixing with the sweat of his exertion. He dropped into himself. As scenes from the goblin’s lair bubbled up, he hammered them back down.

  More people came into the club and watched him. Malcolm didn’t care.

  He kept up with Godsmack, Evanescence, and Disturbed without even trying. Each song shredded his soul. His thoughts twisted in on themselves, dragging him down with them.

  I can’t hack it.

  Malcolm raged on the drums.

  I don’t belong here.

  He crashed the cymbals mercilessly.

  I don’t belong anywhere.

  Linkin Park’s ‘One Step Closer’ came up in the shuffle. More complicated riffs, but Malcolm demolished them. He half-screamed, half-sang along, letting his rage and hurt and exhaustion tear at his throat. To the endless racket of magic that reached him even over the music, he yelled the lyrics, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut! Up! I’m about to break!”

  So flipping exhausted. Sleep was impossible in this place. With these people. Nothing bothered them. The noise battered endlessly at Malcolm. The constant havoc tore at his mind. A total overload. Magic was everywhere.

  And none of it his.

  One drum stick cracked in half as Malcolm wailed on the high tom.

  Screaming his frustration, he flung the sticks across the club. Malcolm jumped up and heaved the drum throne out onto the dance floor. He kicked the drums, knocking them over with a horrendous crash.

  All his fury screamed from his soul. “I can’t take this! I’m so tired! So tired!” Malcolm dropped to his knees, his hands smashed against the pain from the migraine clawing its way out of his temples. “Make it stop!”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Donovan watched Malcolm beat the drums like he meant to destroy them. When the drumstick snapped, so did Malcolm. He hurled every piece of equipment off the stage before collapsing. On his knees he rocked, hands crushing against the sides of his head, screaming for someone to ‘make it stop.’ The other fey in the Glamour Club, what few there were, just stared at Malcolm, stunned.

  Dropping to one knee beside the boy, Donovan rested a hand against his back. The Glamour Club vanished from around them. In the blink of an eye, he teleported t
hem to the coast. A sandy beach settled beneath them. The sea lapped at the shore with the glint of moonlight sparkling off each ripple. Inland, there was nothing but grass as far as he could see, no buildings and no people.

  “I can’t. I can’t.” Malcolm kept rocking, fingers clawing into his newly shorn hair.

  “Malcolm.” Donovan left his hand resting on Malcolm’s back, between his hunched shoulders. “Look at me.”

  Malcolm shook his head, rocking faster. “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “You can’t… what?”

  “I can’t take it anymore. Too much. Just too much.” Malcolm dropped onto his rump in the sand. He folded into himself, legs bent up and hugged to him, head down on his knees.

  Donovan persisted, “Too much… what?”

  In a whisper almost too faint to hear, “Magic.”

  Donovan lifted a brow at that. He’d been prepared to hear a lot of things, but that hadn’t been one of them. Something pertaining to Kieran blacking his eye a hell of a lot more than ‘a smidge’ or Dawn’s over exuberant attempt to heal through sedation, perhaps even Trip’s unwelcome advances. “Too much magic? What do you mean?”

  “With Kieran…” Malcolm formed some kind of angle with his hands and pushed it out away from him. “And like…” he raised his hands beside his head, fingers extended so the palms faced his ears and then he shook his hands. “And Trip and her…” he made his hand slither side to side like a snake. “All over me. And everyone.” He raised his hands before his face, fingertips meeting his thumbs and then popping apart. “Always. Always.”