“Exactly,” Eoin said. “Incidentally, the ten families share in some of that. The Fae blood in our veins allows us to live longer, and we’re all pretty easy on the eyes.”
Liam grunted. “Then I must be a disappointment.”
A confused expression crossed Eoin’s face. “What are you talking about?”
Turning away from the painting, Liam looked around the rest of the room. “I’ve just never been accused of being, how’d you say it? Easy on the eyes?”
“If you don’t mind my saying, you’re very attractive.”
A rush of heat went into Liam’s cheeks. “I have a boyfriend now,” he said with a stupid grin on his face.
Eoin laughed. “I did too, and I’m not really on the market.”
It took Liam a second to catch it, but when he did, he looked at Eoin. “Wait, are you gay?”
“Open is more like it. Pansexual, I believe, is the term used these days. Many in the ten families, those with Fae blood, at least, tend to be more open-minded when it comes to sexuality.” He started to a doorway off one side of the room. “When you live as long as we do, you learn not to limit yourself to only one gender or identity. Love comes and goes for most of us, and it’s silly to only expect to fall in love with one sex. I’ve had some fiery affairs with men in my time.” A shadow passed over Eoin’s face, a memory that Liam decided not to ask about.
“Wow,” Liam said. “A bunch of enlightened old folks.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Eoin said with a laugh. He opened the doorway, and it was another long hallway, this one rather plain compared to the room they’d just left. It was finished and painted, but there was no art, no real decoration, just tasteful wall sconces to light the way.
As they walked down the hallway, they passed arched doorways that led off into smaller rooms, some of them with dark-wood tables surrounded by chairs like a conference room, others with seating and tables. It reminded Liam of the study rooms in the library at DePaul.
“What is this place, exactly?” Liam asked.
“These are our work rooms. This house isn’t exactly active, so the rooms aren’t as used as they would be in the other houses, but it’s a pretty standard setup.” Eoin stopped at a set of double doors. “And this,” he said as he pushed the doors open, “is the library.”
When Liam peered inside, he saw lines of bookshelves filled with numerous volumes, many of them quite old from their appearance, covered in dust and the bindings flaking with age. The room was expansive with higher ceilings than he expected. And, though dark in most of the areas, the back part of the room glowed with a blue light that seemed to dance as he watched it.
Eoin turned on a light switch, and pools of light lit up various parts of the room, mostly over reading tables and seating groups while the shelves themselves remained stuck in the shadows.
“What do you keep down here?” Liam asked as he wandered over toward one of the shelves to look at a stack of books there. As he approached, a lamp clicked on above, only illuminating the small section where Liam stood. At first, it startled him, and he peered up at the light overhead. A simple sensor with a tiny red light. They were on all the lights, apparently to only keep them on for as long as necessary. Archival lights. He’d heard of this in some of the Vatican libraries in order to keep extra light from reaching precious manuscripts. Sometimes mundane technology was the better way to go, apparently.
He turned his attention to the book on the top of the stack. The writing on the spine wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen before.
“This is where we keep old texts, some artifacts. Libraries like this are where we do most of our work,” Eoin said. “This particular library houses some of our lesser-used texts, obscure spells and magic artifacts that we want to keep but that we didn’t think were needed at Aelhollow.”
Liam looked at the books again. He reached out and lifted the top one off the stack. “These are magic books?”
Eoin came to stand next to him to peer down at the book in Liam’s hand as Liam carefully opened the front cover. “Mostly. We keep a lot of our historical documents here too, a lot of bookkeeping. Everything’s been computerized since, so we moved the hard copies out of our store rooms back home and shipped them here.”
“Enough that it requires archivists.”
“Some of these texts are thousands of years old.”
“Books,” Liam said with a tone of skepticism.
“Yes.”
“But don’t they disintegrate with age?” Liam asked.
“Normal books do,” Eoin said. “These books are infused with magic. They’re a little more robust than your standard book.”
Liam moved the stone to his other hand as he flipped through some of the pages. It made him wonder exactly how old the book was that he was holding. It felt old. The pages were yellowed, and the outer cover had seen better days. But the text inside was still crisp and readable.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Liam said.
Eoin lifted the book cover and glanced at the cover. “It’s Philosophy of Taxonomic Runes. Pretty dry reading, really. A classification of runes that categorize specific types of magic. Purely academic, if you ask me, something to keep those archivists busy.”
“What language is this?”
“Isfunan,” Eoin said.
“Isfawhat?”
“It’s an obscure language, primarily a written form. It originated in Tir na Nog.
“And you can read it?”
“Sure. You can too. One of these days, I’ll teach you the spell. It’s one of the first things you should learn, actually. But, considering our situation, we have a need to skip a few base lessons. For now, though, let’s move to the center of the library.”
Liam closed the book and followed Eoin out of the stacks and into a wide center of the room. Once again, Liam was surprised at how large the room was. It was almost as if it extended beyond the footprint of the house above. And, standing in the center, Liam could now see why.
The entire back wall of the room was lined with tables. On one wall was what looked like a bar and a kitchen.
The wall itself, though, was what caught Liam’s eye. It gleamed a bright blue, and the wall seemed to dance. “That’s water,” Liam said.
“Lake Michigan,” Eoin said. “We needed the space, so we expanded.”
Liam turned to Eoin. “Into Lake Michigan.”
“Where else?”
“The entire back wall of this room extends out into the lake.” He had to repeat it again just to be sure he was understanding all of this correctly.
“Yup. Pretty neat, actually.”
“Neat is one of the tamer words that come to mind.” It didn’t mesh. In his high school, he was forced to take history, one of the courses covering local Illinois. Much of Chicago was built over filled-in swampland. “How is that possible?”
Eoin moved to stand beside him. “Ward stones,” he said. He pointed toward the back where Liam could see two stones sitting on black marble pedestals. “There and there,” Eoin continued. “One keeps the walls of the library secure, and the other keeps the water out. The first Council created stones that separated the worlds and kept the Fae out of our world. Building walls strong enough to keep water out is pretty easy by comparison.”
Liam studied the back wall a little more. “I gotta say, that’s damned impressive.” He’d been to Shedd’s Aquarium before in downtown Chicago, but that had nothing on this setup.
Eoin moved deeper into the center aisle.
“Aren’t you worried that somebody’s going to try to scuba dive down there or something and peer in?”
“They won’t see anything,” Eoin said. He stopped at a circle inlaid into the floor. “If we can keep books from aging for thousands of years, a camouflage spell is a simple thing.” Eoin moved to the center of the circle.
Liam didn’t step inside. His experience inside of circles associated with this group hadn’t been the best.
&nb
sp; “Come on,” Eoin said with a wave of his hand.
Reluctantly, Liam stepped in. He wasn’t sure what he expected. There was no feeling, no weird sensation as he passed over the barrier laid into the floor. But he was still nervous about it. He held the stone like it was a cross that would protect him from some sort of circle monster.
Eoin whispered something, though, that caused the hair on Liam’s arms to stand straight, and he rubbed his arms.
“What was that?”
“Safety precautions,” Eoin said. “It’s a practice area. Every library needs a place to work magic.”
“Of course,” Liam said. “I think I’ve heard that before.” He was being sarcastic.
Eoin didn’t react to Liam’s sarcasm. “Inside this circle, you can cast just about anything and witness the effect, and those inside it will remain relatively unharmed.”
“Relatively,” Liam repeated.
With a shrug, Eoin said, “It’s not perfect.”
“That’s so not reassuring.”
“Relax. You’ll be fine.”
Liam still wasn’t convinced, and it must have shown in his expression. “What kind of magic is this?”
“There are lots of possibilities,” Eoin said. “We draw the power from the earth. Magic lives in natural objects. It’s weak, but a skilled mage can draw it from almost anything.” He pointed to the back wall. “Water is the best carrier. In our libraries, you’ll find a water feature in almost every one of them. Water constantly comes into contact with parts of the earth that are difficult if not impossible to get to, and that brings out the magic, making it an ideal carrier.” Eoin smiled. “There are some mages I’ve heard of who sink themselves like stones to the bottom of the ocean. They create a bubble around them so they can breathe, but they soak up the power of the water.” He chuckled. “That’s one way to charge the batteries.”
“I’ve done this blue kind of spear before,” Liam said.
“That was an instinctual reaction, a fight for survival. Mages often practice and focus on one type of magic, some mundane, others more expressive.” He referred to the wall of water again. “It’s possible to make yourself like stone to live on the bottom of the ocean. Or you can become light as a bubble of air to rise quickly to the top.”
“That might be kind of cool to be able to sit underwater for a while, watch what floats by.”
“I imagine it would be. I’m only speaking in theoretical terms and rumor. I’ve never seen it done or tried it myself,” Eoin said. He moved to a side of the circle and held out his hands. They were starting.
Liam took a spot on the other side of the circle. It was almost like they were squaring off for a duel or something.
“Let’s begin,” Eoin said. He put his hands together and rubbed. “We’ll start off with something simple, fire. Creating a small flame.” He held out his hand with the palm, and a brush like a breeze blew over Liam’s skin. In a second, the center of his palm sparked and leapt up in a small flame the size of a candle. Then he shook his hand and the flame blew out. “Mimic what I’m doing,” Eoin ordered. He held his hand up again just as before.
Liam held up his own hand just as Eoin had his.
“Now, it’s really a matter of concentration for this particular spell. Imagine a flame like what I just showed you. Imagine the heat, the spark of it, the smoke it will create. See the flame in your mind as clear as if you were watching a candle burn.” Eoin turned his attention to the center of his palm, and Liam sensed the same pull of power that he had before. The flame in the middle of Eoin’s hand winked into existence again.
Liam tried. He pictured a flame similar to Eoin’s standing in the middle of his palm. He concentrated, even closed his eyes to try to see it better. But when he opened them again, there was nothing.
“Okay, that’s a start,” Eoin said. “Now try it again.”
His hand was empty. “Nothing happened.” Liam stared at him, confused.
“Wrong hand,” Eoin said.
Liam noticed the plume flame in Eoin’s palm. It was ten times the height of the previous flame, moving up in a single column of fire. “Wait, I did that?”
“I sure didn’t do it.”
With a bashful grin, Liam looked up at Eoin. “Oops,” he said.
Twenty-Six
Wilmette, IL
Patrick was alone, standing outside the back of the house. It was a spring morning, a little cool with the wind coming in off the lake, the lake water still influenced by the cold of a Chicago winter. The sun, high in the morning sky, warmed him just enough that it wasn’t cold. He hugged himself with one arm and cradled a cup of coffee in the other.
His phone rang, and he checked the number. It wasn’t a number he recognized. Cautiously, he answered it.
“I see you’ve chosen your side,” came the voice on the other end, a voice he’d come to recognize. Cyril.
“I’ve seen too much,” Patrick said.
“There’s so much more to see,” Cyril said.
“What was that thing you sent at Liam.”
“An ancient being, the result of the sins of our ancestors,” Cyril said.
“Well, it didn’t succeed.”
“I’m well aware.” There was a moment of silence. “Who’s helping you?” Cyril asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Patrick said.
“Please, Mr. Rowe. Don’t take me for a fool.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Well then, you seem to have enlisted aid from someone, shall we say, in the know.”
Patrick figured Cyril was talking about magic. Still something that Patrick was trying to come to terms with being real. “Just a couple people we ran into,” Patrick said. “Good Samaritans.”
“Our ability to locate the boy has been interrupted,” Cyril’s voice came over the phone. “And suddenly I’m having a difficult time locating you as well. So that only leads me to one conclusion: You’re working with The Council. Or what’s left of it.” There was an edge of impatience that entered into Cyril’s voice.
“Never heard of them,” Patrick said.
“Need I remind you of our deal?”
Patrick’s phone beeped in his ear, and he looked at the screen. A text message from Cyril with a video attached.
“You’ll want to pay close attention to the contents of that video,” Cyril said.
After he made double sure no one else was out on the patio with him, Patrick put the phone on speaker, and he started the video.
Unlike the other videos he received, this one was different. It was a live feed, noted by the blinking LIVE icon on the bottom corner of the screen. The remaining two members of his SEAL team were still tied up. A man entered the frame, a Taliban soldier, holding a knife in his hand. He glanced up toward the camera then turned back to the first team member—Mick. In a vicious swipe, a strip of blood appeared on Mick’s chest. He grunted in pain, his expression determined and angry. His mouth was covered with some sort of gag, likely shoved inside his mouth, or, Patrick imagined, Mick would have some choice words for the Taliban fuck intent on torturing him.
The torturer picked up a bottle of something, a white bottle that looked like a bleach bottle, but that Patrick assumed was far less benign. He doused it over the open wound, and the skin on the wound bubbled. The skin around the wound bubbled and blistered. An acid of some type. It began to eat into Mick’s flesh. Mick tried to maintain control, breathing hard through his nose, but he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. His muffled screams rattled the phone’s tiny speaker. Patrick felt sick to his stomach. He turned away.
But no. He made himself turn back. This was on him. His decision led to this.
“You can make this stop, Patrick,” Cyril said. “All you have to do is bring us the boy.”
Patrick’s hands were shaking as he held the phone. He continued to watch the phone’s screen as the torturer moved to Hawk and repeated the same process until both of them were crying out in
pain, a deep-seated kind of pain. He wouldn’t let himself look away. He needed to know exactly what he was doing and who he was doing it to. That was important for him. But he also knew one thing—Liam was more important. He believed what they said. A gut feeling told him that everything Eoin told them was the truth. He also believed in Sadhbh and that Cyril spoke the truth about that to him on the subway. Keeping Liam and the lockstone out of Cyril’s hands was the mission now. Sometimes a mission required a sacrifice of a few—or two, as was the case here—in order to save the many. He spoke silently a prayer for the two he saw on the screen.
“I can’t bring you Liam,” Patrick said.
There was a pause on the phone. “I see our faith in you was misplaced.”
“I’m much more aware of what’s going on now,” he said.
“Then what you’re about to see should come as no surprise to you,” Cyril said.
On the screen, another man entered the frame, this one not dressed like any Taliban fighter he’d ever seen, but wearing a suit and tie. He looked clean as if he’d just stepped from a nice hotel. Without even glancing at the screen, he stood before both writhing men still held up by chains, and he raised his hands. The words he spoke filled the phone’s speaker, some sort of ancient language. It wasn’t Arabic or Farsi. It wasn’t Pashto. It was something else Patrick had never heard before.
As Patrick watched, both men stopped screaming. They threw their heads back, eyes wide open and their mouths in a wide O. Either they were in too much pain to make a sound or there was something happening to them that Patrick couldn’t see.
A light filled the screen and swirled around both men. They now uttered a deep, throaty sound that resembled the air in their lungs forced out of them. That’s what Patrick believed he was seeing. He was being made to watch his last remaining team members die of asphyxiation at the hands of a sadistic magical killer.
But something else happened that made Patrick jumped.
A screech came from the speakers, one that was loud even for the poor speaker system of the phone.
The light that surrounded the men died down, and the naked bodies of the men seemed to be changing as Patrick watched, becoming thinner, more pale.
The Stone (Lockstone Book 1) Page 30
