Bastion of Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 4)

by S A Archer

  Malcolm turned his head, his thoughts interrupted by whimpering.

  The kids were cringing by the cave. Crying. The youngest had to be maybe four. The oldest around ten. These goblins had really had a thing for the young ones. Malcolm holstered his guns. Looking at their magic, or lack of it, he sorted them out. Eight humans. Three fey. And one… One human boy about eight years old, was addicted to the Touch. A kid this age couldn’t have asked for it, but he was enchanted none the less. Malcolm could see the magic inside him. The kid had dark circles under his eyes. He was gaunt, even more than the others. Malcolm could guess how it happened. The cinnamon brew Rand fed the Sidhe kid would have forced the Touch magic out of him. One accidental contact was all it would take to enchant. To curse. Probably the Sidhe lad kept feeding it to the human after that, out of guilt or pity. Gave him way too much, by the dreadful looks of him.

  “You fey stay here,” Malcolm pointed to the three and indicated the spot where they already stood. To the humans he pointed to the west. “See that smoke? Head that way and you’ll find your people. Now go! And if I see you stop one more time I’ll kill you myself!”

  The human kids started to hustle off at the threat. Malcolm grabbed the cursed boy by the back of his shirt and jerked him back. “Not you. You stay.”

  He waited until the humans had managed to scramble down the ravine. Then he pushed the lad, still gripping him by the back of the shirt just above the shoulder blades, toward the cave entrance. Just far enough that the fey kids were out of sight.

  Malcolm shoved the boy. Because he held the shirt, the kid hit his knees but did not fall flat. Malcolm drew his gun, and pressed the muzzle to the kid’s skull.

  The boy turned his head, pleading up at him with those big, lost-innocence, and hurt eyes.

  Malcolm knew his torment.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Those eyes that reminded him too much of himself closed.

  The gun jumped in Malcolm’s hand. The sound startled a blink from him as much of the wet spray misted over his face and body. He didn’t even feel himself pull the trigger, but the deed was done.

  He let the gun drop with a clatter on the ground. Malcolm was not on a rescue mission. Never planned it that way.

  As he returned to the fey kids, he remembered Donovan carrying him out of hell. He told the fey kids to hold hands, and he gripped the shoulder of one of them. He teleported them to the car he’d left on the side of the road. Maybe he didn’t have the same finesse as Donovan, but he got the job done.

  For a while, the kids made sniffling sounds, but they’d settled down into a shocked silence by the time Malcolm parked behind the townhouse. He glanced into the rear view mirror, seeing the shocky, glassy eyes and blank expressions on the strained and dirty faces. When he got out, none of the kids moved.

  Malcolm opened the back door. “Come on.”

  But the lot of them just stared at him.

  Malcolm scooped up the youngest, a skinny elven girl of maybe four and slung her onto his hip. Then he reached out and bumped the Sidhe boy of maybe eight years old on the shoulder. “Come on.”

  The boy looked at Malcolm’s hand, and then took it and slid out. The last girl, a Ghille Dhu somewhere between the other two in age, clung to the Sidhe boy’s hand and then Malcolm led the lot of them inside.

  Inside, Griffin lay sprawled on the sofa, tuning his guitar. He glanced up. “What are you? The pied piper?”

  Malcolm ignored the failed attempt at a joke. “Where’s Kaitlin?”

  Griffin twisted on the sofa and shouted back toward the kitchen. “Kait!”

  She appeared in the doorway, a pencil tucked behind her pointed ear and a notebook clutched to her chest. When she saw Malcolm, dirty and bloody, and then the kids, who were in just as bad a state, she dropped the notebook on the side table and rushed forward. “All-Mother! What happened?”

  Malcolm passed off the girl to Kaitlin. “Make sure they get to the realm, will you?” Then he pushed the boy’s hand into hers. Still, the young Sidhe refused to make eye contact. Not once had he spoken. “Make sure someone takes care of them.”

  He left the kids with her and started upstairs, even when she called to his back. “Malcolm? What happened?”

  In his room, Tom Cat scolded him. “Not now,” he muttered at the animal as he headed into the shower.

  Closing his eyes and turning his face up to the water that pelted him Malcolm saw those eyes again. The eyes of the cursed child. So big and so lost. Somehow, they had followed him.

  Lowering his head, with the water flowing over the back of his neck and dripping from his face, Malcolm whispered, “Go away. I did what I had to do.”

  Enchanted humans were rabid. A danger to everyone. It had been merciful to everyone to end it now.

  The world was safer without the Changeling in it. Or his enchanted humans. But there were more of those humans out there. Humans that had hurt him. And the kid he’d pulled from the pit.

  They were rabid. Every last one of them. Just like the goblins. And someone needed to hunt them down.

  He could do that for the fey. Rid them of this threat.

  It was the only thing he could do to end the pain.

  ###

  5 days after the creation of the new fey realm

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kieran woke slowly in anticipation of the pain slithering into his consciousness. When it didn’t come immediately he waited a moment longer before opening his eyes. On his side in the deep mattress, and his face half implanted into the pillow, he couldn’t see the face of his bed companion. His fingers flexed against bare flesh. The Touch dribbled from his fingertips like sweat, as it always did when he slept. Which was why sleeping was so horribly draining for him. The echo of his magic returning to him wasn’t flavored with the magic of another fey. This was simply his own magic recycled and reflecting back to him like the soft lapping of ripples upon a sandy shore. Which meant the person next to him was a human.

  With a slight lift of his head, Kieran peered down at the man next to him. His short brunette hair mussed against the abuse of the pillow. Neither of them managed to keep the sheets over them so the length of Riley’s tanned body glistened with a coppery hue in the morning light. Turned on his side and facing away from him, Riley seemed completely relaxed in sleep. The waistband of his athletic shorts had slipped down over his narrow hips. Kieran had to admit that for a human Riley wasn’t unattractive, but that hadn’t been the motivation for inviting him into his bed.

  Kieran’s hand curled against Riley’s side where it was pinned between his ribs in his upper arm, finding the skin warm. Only when Kieran withdrew his Touch did Riley stir and roll onto his back. In the faint light Riley’s eyes appeared green as he blinked up at Kieran. “How was it for you?” He asked, with genuine concern coloring his voice.

  “Better than expected.” Sitting up and propping his elbows on his bent knees, Kieran scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Keeping it low-key and constant seems to help. What about you? How are you doing after a second night with the Touch?”

  There didn’t appear to be any bruising beneath Riley’s eyes that might indicate Kieran’s magic was beginning to burn him out. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Riley said, but the first two fingers of his right hand pressed to a spot near his temple.

  “A bit of a headache?” Kieran watched Riley work his way out of the bed and shuffle into the bathroom.

  He closed the door most of the way behind him, leaving it cracked just enough to be heard. “No. Just not awake yet.” The sound of the shower running ended the discussion.

  Kieran changed out of the pajama shorts and into a jersey and jeans before Riley reemerged, looking refreshed with his wet hair and the towel wrapped around his waist. Kieran offered, “Want s
ome privacy?”

  “No, I’m good.” There was nothing sensual in the way Riley shucked on his clothes, because it wasn’t like that between them. Kieran wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be like, but somehow they’d just both fallen into a casual ease with each other. “So have you figured anything else out? From the book, I mean.”

  Kieran had been reading the book last night when they’d gone to bed. The one that London had given him about druids and what that meant. “There’s magic weaving involved. Magicraft. I know that much. I’ve tried to learn it before but I’m not very skilled at it.”

  “What about Tiernan?” Riley asked, as he tucked in his shirttail. “He’s more experienced, right?”

  “Not with magicraft, he isn’t.” Kieran skimmed the page with his finger following the words. “And it’s not just my magic, but it’s both of our intentions that create the bond between a druid and his patron. How did it happen for you before?”

  Riley escaped back into the bathroom. All Kieran could see of him was his back as he combed his hair in front of the mirror. “It was pretty intense, I can tell you that much. I could feel the magic. I could feel it lacing through me. If that makes any sense.”

  Kieran flipped a few more pages. “Are you sure you even want to go through that again? Since it was so intense, I mean.”

  Riley didn’t answer immediately. For a bit, he just stared at his reflection in the mirror, but Kieran wasn’t sure if that’s what he was really looking at. Slowly, he turned and leaned both hands against either side of the door frame. It took another breath or two before Riley raised his gaze. “My first patron is dead. He died in the Mounds.”

  That had been a sore subject that neither of them had broached yet. Kieran knew that Riley’s patron had been a Seelie, and that was why Tiernan, and his vampire lieutenant Monique, hadn’t trusted Riley at first. And still didn’t fully trust him now. But Kieran understood losing people. He understood the need to move on. “I’d rather not try this,” Kieran pointed to the ritual in the book, “until I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt you.”

  Riley gave him a half smile, turning back into the bathroom. “That’s why you’ll make a great patron.”

  Watching Riley’s back as he moved to groom himself and brush his teeth, Kieran considered this human. He was already becoming attached, With his kindness and his skill, Riley would be his first Druid. He felt that. And he wouldn’t be his last. Kieran felt that, too. Just like Druantia, from whom he was apparently descended, the need to surround himself with druids and druidess was beginning to play at the back of his mind. But even if he accepted the vows of other humans, Riley would still hold a special place for him. He felt that much, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Technology was a wonderful thing. The fey might find their magic handy, but for London’s purposes, you couldn’t beat a good hacker.

  Cell phones, for example, were a marvelous invention. Almost everyone carried one, and with the right software, they became little personal homing beacons. You could track someone anywhere they could get a cell signal, which these days, was just about everywhere.

  The triangulation of cell phone towers put this particular phone in question somewhere in the Red Light District of Amsterdam. Immediately, she suspected which establishment she’d find it in. And with the signal tracker app on her own phone, she confirmed that suspicion.

  “We are being a bad boy, aren’t we?” London smirked to herself. She did so like it when the targets made her job easy.

  The unadorned door in a slight recess appeared to be nothing more than a private entrance to one of the sex clubs or marijuana serving coffee shops, but anyone with connections to the parahuman underground would pick up on the nearly invisible pattern of scratches. The werewolves and vampires had been using those markings for ages. Near the top of the door was two sets of claw marks, creating an up arrow. It meant all were welcome, but neutrality was expected. Basically, you can party, but start trouble and you’re out on your bum.

  In the neon lights of the district, the drab green door almost looked black. Only the gold handle gleamed, with the shape of a lotus flower cast into the knob. To those that knew what it meant, it was all the advertisement the club would need.

  “Unseen,” London murmured, and then gripped the handle and turned.

  The satyr leaning against the wall and smoking hash barely glanced her way, aware of her presence but not taking close notice of her. He didn’t question her, and after the cursory half-glance, he went back to staring at the curls of smoke from his cigarette.

  London walked slowly down the long, poorly-lit hallway towards the flickering lights in the dark room beyond. She’d been here twice before, though not recently. The place hadn’t changed at all. The hallway opened onto a balcony that circled the main floor. Deeply cushioned booths in a three-quarters semi-circle lined the balcony. Over the railing, and down a couple of steps, the dance floor occupied the area to her right. The bar was against the back wall. The rest of the area was dotted with suede cushioned furniture about half the size of a bed. Perfect for lounging and unhurried romancing.

  The music wasn’t overpowering, but had a hypnotic edge to the techno beat. The throb of it washed over London with the enchantment, making her feel mellow. Everyone else appeared to be feeling it too, moving with a lazy ease. Even the dancers swayed with slow sensuality. In this place, there was no hurry. And for some, the party could last a lifetime. It was the danger of this type of magical intoxication, if you didn’t know how to handle it, it could trap you like an insect in amber.

  The pulse of Lugh’s pendant at her throat combated the worst of the effects, allowing London to focus while all about her barely noticed her.

  She found the man she was looking for in one of the circular booths overlooking the dance floor. Peyton Price possessed a serious look even with his hazy, half-closed eyes. Like he’d seen too much and even the drugs and magic in this place couldn’t reach him anymore. Even with the half-eaten tray of ambrosia and three nearly-empty glasses of nectar, Peyton didn’t crack a smile. Handsome and toned, the twenty-six year-old Irishman wasn’t old enough to carry that weight in his eyes. Even with his neck arched back so his head rested on the back of his sofa seat, he didn’t look relaxed.

  The nymph gracing him with her attention didn’t seem to notice or care about his distraction. Her hands rubbed at the smooth chest revealed by his unbuttoned shirt. She kissed and licked at his pec muscles, encouraged by the hand resting on the back of her head.

  London loved it when her target made it easy. For the next twenty minutes, she leaned against the railing on the opposite side of the balcony from him, snapping pictures and capturing videos of Peyton with her phone. Peyton eating the ambrosia. Downing another fluted glass of nectar. Kissing and being fondled by a nymph. All very incriminating stuff, for someone who worked for wizards.

  London sent the video and image files to her email, just in case. In the event of her untimely demise, her friend, Selena, knew where to look. Given the nature of her work, it was always good to have a backup.

  With more than enough evidence, London said, “Seen.” The power of the gloves didn’t make her look any different to herself one way or another, but people who had been nearby all this time, now glanced over at her as they only just now noticed her. No one bothered her though, not when their own pleasures took paramount to any other concern in a place like this.

  With a self-satisfied smirk and a cocky sway to her walk, London strode around the circular balcony to the booth Peyton occupied.

  She was right up on him before he rolled his head to the side to focus on her. It only took a moment for recognition to shadow his expression, but he waited for her to speak first.

  With a bright, overly friendly smile, London dropped into the seat beside him l
ike they’d been best mates for ages. “You should check out these amazing photos I’ve taken.” She showed him her phone as she flicked her finger side to side over it, showing one picture after another that she’d taken of him. “I’ll tag you in them when I post them to Facebook.”

  Fisting the mass of the nymph’s blond curls, Peyton pushed her away from him. She took the hint and disappeared from the booth.

  As Peyton straightened up, London kept right on with her chatter. “I think the videos will go viral on YouTube, don’t you think? Check this one out. You can even see the texture of the ambrosia you’re eating. Was this one strawberry flavored? It looked like it might be.”

  “What do you want?” Peyton’s dark expression wasn’t the least amused. The muscles around his square jaw and hard cheek bones flexed, even though his pupils still possessed the not-quite-focused look of intoxication.

  Ignoring the question, London chattered on, “I rather thought wizards weren’t supposed to be fraternizing with magical types. I’ll have to text Reginald and double check. Or should I just ask Manannan? I am sure Manny knows all about what wizards are supposed to be doing.”

  Peyton leaned closer. “What… do you… want?” He repeated, slower and with even less humor.

  “You, my friend, got me into this mess.” She gripped his shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze, even though she felt anything but friendship towards Peyton. “Just a simple job, you said. Just find Deacon and bring him to meet you. Easy money, you said.”