by S A Archer
Lugh slipped back into the shadows. Still touching the silver of his blade, he climbed with the graceful ease of an elf along the rough stone facade moving from balcony to balcony until he reached his suite. Only when he was within the privacy of his chamber did he risk releasing the silver.
He’d slain men before, most often in war and always for the good of the fey. The rare instances of assassination rested even less easy, leaving a sickening disquiet that only time could subdue. Lugh swallowed the feeling beneath his determination. That one death was but the trumpet call signaling the final hours for many. In the final count of bodies at the end of this day, he hoped that no wizard was spared.
Placing a hand against the heart of his magic, Lugh closed his eyes. Calming his thoughts, he focused on the thread of his power connecting him to his druidess. It was to ensure their connection through time and distance. He felt her now and knew where she was. As he’d hoped, even at this hour, London was alert. With a long, slow exhale of his sun magic, he gave her the signal. Straight away, he felt her respond to it.
Opening his eyes, he released his focus from upon her. His druidess proved more skilled and capable than he’d originally imagined. She’d become an extension of his will and purpose; even with her blunt Unseelie sensibilities. The dangers of this day may well prove beyond her capabilities. If it did, there would be precious little he could do to aid her. Her fate would become a stinging regret in the ocean of pain this day would bring.
Abandoning his doubts, Lugh embraced his determination. Within his suite the clothing, weapons, and armor he’d requested laid out before him. Taking his time, he donned them. And when he was finished, he would seek Manannan.
Chapter Fifty
London leaned against the back wall in the darkened security center. Her fingers worried over the sun symbol she wore as she watched the play of images on the bank of screens. Their soft blue glow cast the only illumination on the room and the three technicians who monitored them. Her hard, neutral expression reflected her tension. On the center screen another three men entered the complex. Wizards, all of them, based on the clothing and the confidence. Middle aged, too. Which meant that they’d been at the magic game for decades. That brought the number of wizards ‘in house’ to eighteen. Her research indicated that there were at least twenty-three, if you counted the apprentices.
The red numbers glowing on the wall burned her eyes when she glanced up at them. Quarter after four. The signal had better come soon, even if they were short on the total wizard count. The battle would come with the sunrise, and it would take time for the wizards to get to the ships and cross the passage to the Isle of Fey.
The magic from her patron exhaled into her like his Touch. The power of his conviction stoked her confidence.
Her hand closed over the glow of his symbol, hiding its light within the suede grip of her fingerless thief’s glove.
London stuffed the charm down inside her black cotton shirt. Without a word, she slipped to the exit. She only stopped when a hand closed over her elbow.
Peyton leaned close so no one else heard him murmur. “Going somewhere?”
Her cold glare fixed on his grip, and when he didn’t release her she stared up into his eyes. “Walking the perimeter.”
He glanced at his watch pointedly. “It’s early.”
“I need to stretch my legs.” She twisted her arm free, and then pushed out of the security room. Forcing herself to walk fast, rather than run, she headed down to the garage first. The weight of the equipment in the pockets of her black fatigue pants reassured her. The non-skid grip of her boots didn’t make a sound as she crossed the echo-enhancing concrete.
As she walked past each vehicle, she glided her fingertips over the hood. “Seal,” she whispered beneath her breath. She didn’t miss a single one. Then she crossed to the garage doors. Again, she swiped the surface of each. “Seal.”
Moving quickly through the ground floor, she tested each exit. And then sealed them with the magic of her gloves.
In a matter of minutes, every ground floor exit was locked down. Resting her hand on the canister attached to her belt, London returned to the security room. Taped to the back side was a small EMP device she’d stolen from the wizard’s own store room. She pulled the pin on the canister, activated the 2 second timer on the EMP, and then tossed it inside. A coiling stream of smoke sprayed from it as it bounced across the floor. The EMP flared and the electronics in the room squealed. She slammed the door closed against the screams of shock and whispered, “Seal.”
Now she did jog. She hit the button for the elevator and glanced around as she waited for it to open. When it did she slipped inside and pressed the button for the sixth floor. Impatiently, she jammed the ‘door close’ button a few times. As the doors closed, an arm broke the plane and forced the doors back open.
London jerked her gun from the holster on her hip and pointed it right into the face of the man entering the elevator.
Peyton stared her down. “If you are going to start this, you better finish it.” His Cork accent elongated the Rs with a hard growl.
“I intend to finish it,” she hissed.
He gave a nod, and then pulled his own handgun. He cocked it, and then lowered it to aim at the ground as he pushed into the elevator. This time he hit the button to close the door. With a ding, the elevator obeyed his command. “Then let’s do this.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Donovan had said to let these people believe that he was still leashed.
The best he could manage was to keep his mouth closed, because if he said one thing to this man, he’d know Malcolm was freed.
And dangerous.
London had brought him to this flat inside the horrid wizard headquarters, one floor beneath the fey kept in cages. The flat they meant for him was mostly empty, with that modern type of furnishing that looked as uncomfortable as it was plain. No privacy, either, with everything in the same big room and a wall of glass keeping him from the elevator and stairs. London had not said, and he’d not asked, but Malcolm didn’t plan on staying inside this cage long.
The man who’d come to see him was hard. The wear on his face made him seem like he’d seen a heck of a lot of bad. It was in his eyes, too. A bright intensity that said it could see through Malcolm’s game.
Or maybe he was just testing him.
Malcolm didn’t know and didn’t care.
Sitting on the dining table, with his knee drawn up and elbow resting across it, he stared at his hand.
Since Donovan rescued him from the goblin cave, Malcolm trusted him completely. He’d never let Malcolm down. He’d never dismissed Malcolm’s senses, or called it madness. Malcolm’s loyalty to Donovan never failed. If anyone else told him to trust London and let her bring him willingly into the wizards’ clutches, he would have fought them like the feral animal most people thought he was.
But Donovan told him to trust her. And for Donovan, Malcolm would do anything. Even if it did kill him.
And even if it meant putting up with this human glaring at him.
Only from the side of his eye, did he keep track of the man moving about him.
The black uniform he wore was like what the swat teams on TV would wear. The way he moved even with the gear strapped to him proved he was used to carrying it. Even with Malcolm not looking right at him, the guy crossed to stand so he was just beyond Malcolm’s focus. The two guards outside the room had called him ‘Commander’, like he was their boss. Probably, that was the reason they’d let him in here, when London and the guy she’d been with had said no one should be allowed in to see him. “Why are you getting the preferential treatment?” The Commander asked, crossing his arms.
To Malcolm, he was out of focus. His eyes fixed instead on the glittering dust of magic floating in the air.
It filled every place in this building. Like a thick cloud that could have choked him if he’d breathed it in too deep. It didn’t move with the currents of the air, like real dust would have. Instead, as he flexed the magic close to his skin, it moved to follow the shape of it. He could push the dust back, clearing the space around his dangling fingers, or he could draw it closer until such a thick layer of it coated his skin that it dewed up into droplets of magic and dripped from his fingertips like water.
The magic was fey, suspended on the aura that spilled out from the ground up fragments. Malcolm’s experiments were only just beginning to discover what he could do with it.
The Commander moved closer, tilting his head to get Malcolm to meet his gaze.
Malcolm didn’t like what he saw there. The same sick, hardness that Rand had.
“Reginald must think you’re pretty special,” he pressed on. “The last Sidhe we had didn’t get a flat.”
Gritting his teeth against saying anything, Malcolm narrowed his eyes. His eye contact telegraphed his hate.
They’d had Kaitlin. They’d tied her to a bed and drained her magic until she was transparent.
“There it is.” The Commander nodded his head. “There. It. Is.” He smirked, like he’d known it all along. “The Sidhe superiority.”
It wasn’t superiority Malcolm glared at him.
“What was it Manannan did to you, huh?” He asked, the intensity rising about him. “Does it make you obey?” His smile toyed with the enjoyment of that idea. “Is that why they call you a bloodhound? They want to use you like the Changelings to hunt down fey?”
Malcolm shoved himself up from the table.
London better hurry up and get him out of here if she wanted to keep up the pretense that he couldn’t kill this man. He stared at the window that overlooked Liverpool, but focused on the reflection of the man behind him instead. When Malcolm crossed his arms, he felt the nakedness of his scarred wrists. No one had offered him back his bandannas, so the thick ligature marks showed for all to see.
For all to know that Malcolm had been enslaved once before.
It didn’t matter if they saw them now. Malcolm was no one’s slave.
And he’d killed to prove it.
The Commander laughed, having gotten under Malcolm’s skin and knowing it. “It’s going to be interesting working with you.”
Malcolm didn’t answer.
After a minute, the reflection of the Commander touched his ear. “I’ll be right there,” he said to whom ever talked to him over the ear piece. “We’re not taking the kid to the Isle?”
Malcolm listened intensely. The Isle…
The Isle of Fey.
That’s why Donovan wanted the wizards stopped at all costs.
Now he only needed to wait for the signal.
“Guess you’re sitting this one out, kid.” The Commander turned from him and walked towards the door. “We’ll get you in next time.”
Yeah, right, Malcolm thought. He was going to be in it this time, and so not how that human expected.
Chapter Fifty-Two
“That can’t be comfortable.” Dawn’s caress through his hair accompanied her observation.
Kieran hadn’t really been sleeping, even though his eyes had been closed. The dread of sleeping alone kept him half awake throughout the night. That, and the stone foot gouged in his back from the statue he leaned against. He groaned with the movement of stiff muscles as he forced himself to sit up. Gripping the stone steps where he’d spent the night, he arched his complaining back. “It wasn’t.”
“You’re not going to start acting like Malcolm, are you?” Dawn lowered herself to the step beside him and offered him her hand, palm up.
Kieran slipped his hand into hers, accepting the Touch she offered. The flow of her magic soothed him, allowing his muscles to relax. “You are an angel.” He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.
“But, I’m not wrong.” She said it with a questioning conviction that wanted him to admit it.
Kieran just gave her a smile that refused to follow her into that conversation. Accepting the Touch of her magic, he leaned back again, finding a less uncomfortable position to settle into. He glanced up at the image of Donovan carved in stone. It was an incredible likeness. But that wasn’t the reason he felt Donovan so near.
He lived. Somehow, some way, he lived on. In the magic, in the essence of the realm itself, Donovan lived.
It had been Donovan that pulled him and Tiernan into the realm when Tiernan was dying. Kieran never could have made that teleportation on his own. When he’d reached into the depths of his connection to the new realm, Donovan had been there. Alive. Real.
Just like Malcolm had said.
But more than that, the evidence of this past night convinced him even more. Since hitting his late teens, the pain and need for the Touch had gnawed at him. The nights always were the worst, when his personal magic would run low and the first aching pains of the Fade would begin.
He knew that was what it was now. Tiernan had given him the name for Sidhe with his disorder. Unlike the other fey, Kieran couldn’t replenish his magic and maintain it just on the connection to the ley lines alone. Nor even his connection to the new fey realm.
But since he’d reached back through the connection… But since he’d felt Donovan at the source… things had changed.
He’d passed a night alone without the horrendous ache of the Fade rising up to gnash at him.
Kieran wasn’t sure how long the effect would last, but it gave him hope.
And conviction.
Donovan was alive.
“I’m afraid whatever peace you’ve sought here is over now,” Dawn said, getting up as four fey in mid-argument entered the temple. She straightened the white and gold knee length gown she wore. The choice of clothing was both elegant and Seelie, Kieran thought. More and more, he saw that in Dawn. Her Seelie side was asserting itself as she became comfortable in her role in the new realm. For the most part, Tiernan had handed over the reins to her, and she’d slid into her position as Vice Regent like one of her silk dresses.
“We should name it Domhanda Orga,” the dwarf huffed, using a battle axe like a walking stick.
The fairy pressed her hand to her forehead as if fighting down a headache. “It sounds like you are growling with a mouth full of pebbles! The new realm needs an elegant sounding name. Something elvish, perhaps. Like Vanima Templa.”
The dwarf grumbled, “Why should it be elvish, when fewer fey are elvish than not? Gaelic is the traditional tongue.”
Willem, the Scribe, jotted down all of the suggestions into his journal even as he crossed to Kieran’s side. He plopped down next to the Sidhe and grinned up with his wide smile. “This is very exciting!” He informed Kieran.
“If you say so,” Kieran joked back, but his tone was lost on the Scribe who just continued to scribble away.
King Mckenna, the only other fey in the group Kieran knew by name, separated himself from the others, choosing to stand closer to Dawn. “Elvish is a beautiful language, I propose that we use it for whatever name is chosen.”
“Of course, a wood elf would think so!” The dwarf snapped gruffly.
The fairy tried again. “Why not English then? It is the common language among the races.”
“A human language!” The dwarf snarled.
“A common language!” The fairy insisted back, not at all intimidated by the rough nature of the dwarves.
“Why not let Donovan decide?” Kieran offered. Everyone stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, but Kieran just kept looking right back at them without any shred of doubt.
Dawn cleared her throat. “Perhaps if Donovan were here…”
“He is here.” Kieran informed them
. “He never left. All you have to do is reach back through your connection to the realm, and you will know it is true.”
No one moved. Except the fairy, who just blinked at him.
Then Dawn gave a sweeping hand to the others. “Let’s table this discussion for now.” She herded them out of the temple as if she meant to return, but the whispered argument started up once more just outside the temple steps.
Willem, however, didn’t join them. He just tilted his head to the side. “Just reach back,” he repeated, thoughtfully, “and you will feel him.” He turned his face up to the statue of Donovan and then squeezed his eyes closed.
Kieran watched him as the Scribe held his breath. He held it so long, Kieran thought the little fey might pass out on him.
But then Willem’s eyes popped open with surprise and elation. “I felt him! I felt the Creator!”
“See?” Kieran shrugged. “Not so crazy after all.”
“No, not at all!” Willem grinned, his pointed ears wiggling in Scribe-like fashion. “Have you spoken with him?”
“I’ve spoken to him,” Kieran admitted. “I’m waiting for him to speak back.”
“Wise to wait for it.” Willem nodded in agreement. And he waited, too.
For all of seven seconds.
“Shall we wait in the tavern? The only entity talking to me right now is my stomach.”
Kieran chuckled. “Shouldn’t we wait here?”
“Why?” Willem rose and stretched, as if he’d been the one to sit there all night. “He’s the Creator. He’s connected to all of us. He can talk to us as easily in a tavern as at the foot of a hunk of rock.” He looked up apologetically at Donovan’s statue and patted its hand. “A handsomely carved hunk of rock,” he corrected himself.
