B00T3PMJTS EBOK

by Tracy Tappan

  Jaċken’s eyes narrowed. “So when Videön performs an un-protection ritual on a man with an original family last name, he’s accessing the soul of one of these Fianna warriors?”

  “Yes, but only if the bearer of the original last name is in fact a sacred vessel. Not all are.”

  Dev rasped a hand over his goatee. “How is Videön finding men with original family last names who actually carry these souls, then?”

  Idyll shook her head, her face drawn. “I have no idea.”

  Jaċken frowned. “And once Videön has access to the Fianna soul, what does he do? Manipulation, abuse, theft…?”

  Idyll exhaled unevenly. “This is an intuition, a guess, mind you, but I feel strongly that he’s stealing them. Take these souls, and a person gains immense Fey power.” She waved her hand. “This Videön, however, would need somewhere to store them. As a Tenebris Mala, he couldn’t take these souls into his own body.”

  Jaċken paused, then cursed. “I think I know how he’s doing it.” He glanced at Tonĩ. “Nỵko told me that Videön’s men were wearing amulets that gave off evil power. The men were regular humans, but had strength and healing powers that went beyond regular capabilities—and their scent was off.” He turned to Idyll. “Is that a way to store these souls, with enchanted amulets?”

  “Yes,” Idyll said quietly. “The wearer would gain the soul’s power.”

  “Christ,” Jaċken hissed. “Why the hell is Videön amassing an army of men with Fey power? For his war with Raymond or for something even worse? And how is he able to perform this un-protection ritual to do it? We never determined that, either.”

  Idyll fidgeted with one of her necklaces, the longest one with the carved wooden African beads. “It’s worse than you realize. You see, a symbiotic relationship of sorts exists between the Treasures and the vessels. Because they’ve been divided, there can’t be one without the other; the souls depend on the magic of the Treasures for their survival, and the Treasures cannot have complete power without that which is kept within the vessels. By stealing souls, Videön is upsetting the balance of all Fey power. If he takes too many, one of the Treasures will fall, and then all Fey power will cease to exist. That means those of us with Otherworldly gifts—people like you, Tonĩ, and me—will lose whatever makes us special. Videön, too, although he’s obviously too stupid to know it. Their kind”—Idyll gestured at Jaċken and Dev—“will likely die off completely.”

  Idyll touched the Tarot card at the northern compass point of the reading. “See here? This is The Empress, the fertile, life-giving mother, our connection to the natural world. I believe she represents the mother goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann. She sits in the position of an Alternative Future, which I sense means the continuation of the power stemming from her is uncertain.” The thin lines on Idyll’s face became more pronounced. “I’m telling you all, we’re looking at a catastrophe of biblical proportions for those of us of the Otherworld, if Videön is allowed to continue unchecked.”

  Faith’s lashes fluttered, then a clammy trickle of ice rolled down her spine. Who would’ve thought that these symbol killings could have such profound meaning hidden behind them. She glanced around at the circle of faces, finding nothing but grave expressions.

  “Now it makes sense,” Tonĩ said, “why Raymond isn’t involved with this. He’s smart enough to know this kind of soul stealing wouldn’t gain him power, like Videön thinks, but ultimately destroy it.”

  Jaċken’s attention was still aimed at Idyll. “Is there anything in those cards that might tell me how I can stop Videön?”

  “You can’t,” Idyll said. “If Videön can perform a Celtic un-protection ritual, then only the Tuatha Dé Danann have the power to stop him.”

  Tonĩ’s eyebrows popped up. “The Tuatha exist today?”

  Idyll nodded. “As long as the Treasures exist, so will the Tuatha. They are the guardians, or custos, of the Treasures.”

  Jaċken massaged the bridge of his nose. “Hell, if the Tuatha are in charge of protecting Fey power, then why aren’t they stopping Videön?”

  “They can’t,” Idyll said. “Not without a conduit from the Middle World to the Shifted World. They’re fairies, you see.”

  A tightness flickered across Faith’s forehead. Did Aunt Idyll just say…?

  Kacie had a perplexed expression.

  Tonĩ sighed broadly. “Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any stranger. Okay. Explain about these worlds.”

  “There are worlds within worlds,” Idyll said. “The Middle World is our here and now, our reality. The Upper World is in the stars where one goes to meet spirit guides. The Lower World also offers a place for guidance, but is accessed through use of a power animal. As a shamanka, I can travel to both the Upper and Lower Worlds. But fairies live in a Shifted World: a world that exists here and now, in today’s Middle World reality, but is beyond normal perception.” Idyll tucked the Celtic surname book into her purse. “The Tuatha can shapeshift to human form, but cannot use their power in that form. In their fairy shape, they can affect the Middle World somewhat with their dust. But to use the full strength of their power, they need to act through a person in possession of a fifth element enchantment skill. Fifth elements are the conduits.”

  “And let me guess,” Jaċken drawled. “You don’t know any fifth elements. Because that would be too easy.”

  “No,” Idyll confirmed. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Jaċken’s lips formed a hard line. “So here we are, sitting on the verge of an Otherworld apocalypse, and—”

  “Oh, God.” Tonĩ breathed the words.

  Everyone at the table turned to look at her.

  The bartender was turning off the television sets. It was time to go.

  “What?” Jaċken prompted his wife.

  “I was just remembering the enchantment designator I saw on Pändra. Dr. Jess thought it was the letter V, but…now I realize it’s a Roman numeral five. We know a fifth element.” Tonĩ inhaled deeply. “It’s Pändra.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Ţărână: the next day, December 25th, Christmas

  Thomal eased a blue-striped button-down shirt off a hanger in his closet, sending the wire triangle swinging. He vacantly watched it rock lazily on the rod. The hanger was bent in two places, but he couldn’t find any appreciation for its interesting asymmetry. The color of the shirt also didn’t splash against the backs of his retinas like it usually did, inspiring all kinds of creative painting ideas until he pushed those images aside. His view of the world was narrowing in on him every day, and it was beginning to scare the shit out of him.

  He was fucked up all to hell, though; no need to ask Carnac the Magnificent to figure out that one. His marriage-that-wasn’t-a-marriage didn’t exactly make him want to cue the laugh track on his life, but it wasn’t the primary thing messing him up. No, he and Pändra had settled into an uneasy routine over the last two and a half weeks. Every Sunday he came to feed on her to get strong for the training week ahead—although he’d needed a bolster three days ago after he was shot at the Park Place condominium complex.

  He entered her bedroom without knocking. She stood at the bedpost. He fed on her, avoided touching her as much as possible, then spun an about-face and left. All this was accomplished without a single syllable spoken between them. They also never spoke or had contact during the week. Although he spied on her. A lot. Why he did it, he didn’t know and couldn’t figure out right now because all of his conscious attention was focused on his brother’s deterioration.

  Arc was systematically cutting himself off from everyone who was important in his life, his wife, Beth, and his kids.

  Me.

  Thomal didn’t think he and his brother had exchanged more than two words in the past couple of weeks. A whole lotta mondo bizarro still sat between them. Which sucked to high heaven. Thomal missed the solidity of their former relationship, missed the easy camaraderie that had always been between them. It was like bei
ng minus a limb.

  Exhaling, Thomal pulled his attention away from the swaying hanger, which he found weirdly disturbing, and shrugged on his shirt, the movement twinging the partially healed wound on his abdomen. He buttoned up, then jammed his feet into a pair of loafers, now ready for Christmas dinner at his mom’s house. Beth, Arc, and the kids would also be there. He had no idea what Pändra was—

  Distracted by his thoughts, Thomal jumped slightly when his phone rang. He crossed to his nightstand and picked up his cell. “Hello.”

  It was his mother. “Arc’s not coming tonight,” she told him, her voice heavy with worry and disappointment.

  Ah, shit. Thomal scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “Beth will be here late,” Livy added. “The kids are with Claresta.” She was the community’s elementary school teacher, who also babysat her charges on occasion. “But Arc just called and said he wasn’t coming at all.”

  This was getting fucking ridiculous. It was time for Thomal to quit waiting for his big brother to fix this, and do something about it himself. “I’ll go talk to him. Sorry about dinner, Mom.” He hung up and trudged out the door.

  When Thomal stepped into his brother’s living room, he found Arc sprawled haphazardly on the couch, knees wide, one arm looped halfway along the back of the sofa, the other hand wrapped around a bottle of Budweiser, which he had propped on his knee. Arc was watching a game show on TV, and looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and an unhealthy hollowness to his cheeks. A Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, already looking tired.

  Thomal closed the door. “Hey.”

  Arc didn’t acknowledge him. Just kept watching Jeopardy or whatever it was.

  Annoyance and exasperation mixed in Thomal’s gut and curdled. His brother wasn’t making the slightest effort to be reachable. Walking over to the television, Thomal snapped it off. “It’s Christmas, Arc. You can’t bail on your family today.”

  Arc shifted his gaze over, a dark aggression in his eyes revealing a rage so deep-seated it gave Thomal the willies. He was beginning to wonder if his brother would ever recover from what had happened.

  Or if he would.

  He did a lot of his own stewing and festering these days. Seemed stuck there, in fact, but the problem was, the man he usually turned to for help when he was screwed up was currently an equal mess. Maybe a worse mess. Dev should’ve been another option—he was Thomal’s best friend—but the finer nuts and bolts of how Pändra had ended up in Thomal’s life was, oh, a slightly embarrassing topic.

  “Turn the TV back on,” Arc ordered.

  “We need to talk,” Thomal said. “You’re heading down the tube—we both are—and it’s time we put a stop to it.”

  Arc’s jaw jutted a bit as he tipped beer into his mouth. “No, we’re not,” he retorted.

  That was such an obvious lie, it was insulting. Thomal’s voice wrenched tighter. “We need to clear the air between us.”

  Arc’s response was a fulminating silence.

  Thomal crossed his arms, a spike of his own temper triggering a surge of acid in his stomach, which wasn’t at all nice for the ulcer he felt was already brewing. “Or,” he snapped, “I suppose I could go talk to Dev about this, start off with, ‘hey, man, if you had a brother and Marissa sucked his dick before hooking up with you, would that, like, make you want to kill lots of things all the time?’”

  Arc roared off the couch.

  Thomal had never seen such fury on his brother’s face. It probably should’ve clued him in about what was coming next, but he was shocked momentarily stupid by the sight, so nearly got his feet tangled under him when he was suddenly being hurtled backward, Arc’s hands fisted in the front of his shirt.

  “You think I need reminding about what went down that night?” Arc snarled, ramming him into the wall by the front door. “I was forced to watch.” He emphasized that last word by pulling Thomal forward and slamming him into the wall again.

  Air shot past Thomal’s lips. The bleak, soul-shredding anguish on his brother’s face kept him stalled out in a too-shocked-to-do-anything gear.

  Arc showed Thomal a set of teeth clenched into a rigid line. “That vicious, black-eyed whore never should’ve had the chance to abuse you, Thomal. I failed!”

  “Y-you…?”

  “I should’ve saved you!” Arc glanced down at the hand Thomal had clutched to his injured side. He shoved himself off Thomal and snarled again, though this time softly, like a wounded animal. He turned and paced a couple of feet away.

  “Are you crazy, Arc?” Thomal said to his brother’s back. “We were both locked in chains. Mürk was restraining you, too, and he’s no lightweight, and Pändra is stronger than a dammed Cyclops. No way you could’ve—”

  “No!” Arc rounded on Thomal. “I should’ve been strong enough to stop them from doing what they did to you.” His face blanched a stark white. “To me.” He rammed both hands through his hair. “I promised Dad,” he added in a low tone.

  Thomal breathed heavily for a couple of moments. “What does that mean?”

  Arc dropped his hands. “Before Dad died, he made me promise to look after you. I…” His eyes glistened. “That night in the hotel room, I broke my word to him.”

  You promised Dad you’d…? Heat needled the back of Thomal’s neck. Did that mean his father had been pretending when he’d acted happy about Thomal going into the Warrior Class? Well, hell, if what Arc just said was true, then clearly Dake hadn’t believed in Thomal’s abilities. And, obviously, neither had his brother, seeing as Arc had bought off on Dake’s plan. Tightening his jaw, Thomal yanked his button-down shirt back into place. “You can unload that guilt trip right the fuck now, big brother. I don’t need your babysitting.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  The flush ran from Thomal’s nape up into his cheeks.

  Arc’s voice went toneless as he started reciting facts. “That night at the DoubleTree Hotel ten months ago when we went into Tonĩ’s room to help her and Jaċken, Rën threw you out a four-story high window. The night we were at Scripps Hospital to kidnap Tonĩ, Rën nearly strangled you to death. The night the Spec Ops team saved Marissa and the other women, you got shot. You got shot again on the recent mission to save Dr. Preston. Then when you were on the op to—”

  “Jesus, Arc,” Thomal cut in. “You act like I’m the only warrior who ever gets wounded. What about Dev taking an exploding Bătaie blade to the shoulder when Lørke was trying to capture Tonĩ? Or—”

  “Dev purposely threw himself into the line of fire to save her,” Arc countered.

  “Great.” Thomal stepped back and flung his arms out. “So when another warrior gets hurt he’s heroic, but when I do, it’s because I’m being a doofus?”

  Arc drew in a deep breath, then exhaled it in a long stream. “You’ve always had to work twice as hard as the other men for half the results, Thomal. Frankly, I’ve never agreed with your decision to go into the Warrior Class. Going from paints and brushes to fighting? I mean, come on.”

  Thomal’s jerked his chin in, his stomach burning so hot now that a load of saliva dumped into his mouth.

  “I’ve tried to keep an eye on you, but…” Arc sank down on the couch again and grabbed his half-empty beer, his knuckles white. “You’ll excuse the hell out of me if what happened two weeks ago isn’t sitting well. I hate losing. You may be used to it, but I sure the fuck am not.”

  Thomal’s face actually hurt, he was blushing so furiously now. All these years, his brother actually thought of him as a doofus. The concept was beyond comment. He said nothing.

  Arc glanced around the couch, then jammed his hand between two cushions and extracted the remote. He clicked on the TV, the gesture a pretty damned clear dismissal.

  Thomal slammed out of his brother’s house and stomped down the front steps, nearly bowling into Claresta, who was returning with Lysha, Brynt, and the baby, Garez.

  “Hi, Thomal,” the teacher greeted him. “Merry Christm
as.”

  “Hey,” Thomal returned shortly, angling past her.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to ask you—”

  “Do you think we could talk later? Now isn’t the best time.” I’m kinda busy eating myself alive with self-doubt and guilt. Dammit, if only he hadn’t let a moment of weakness stop him from tearing out Pändra’s throat, none of this would be happening.

  Claresta inhaled a quiet breath. “I know your life is out of sorts right now, Thomal, but I could really use your help. I need you to teach Hannah and Willen Crişan’s eldest boy, Ællen, how to draw.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.” Going from paints and brushes to fighting? I mean, come on. Hunching his shoulders, Thomal stalked on.

  “Ællen is having the same problems you did in school,” Claresta said softly.

  Thomal jerked to a stop.

  “Learning how to draw helped you, didn’t it?”

  Ah, shit. Thomal aimed a hard stare across the street at nothing. What was he supposed to say to that?

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Topside: La Mesa, San Diego, five days later, December 30th

  The front door of apartment 6D started to open…

  John Waterson shoulder-rammed himself the rest of the way inside, sending Ria stumbling back with a sharp gasp.

  He slammed the door shut behind him. “You really should check your peephole before you open the door,” he grated between his teeth, the rage he’d been nurturing for a month adding a scratchy menace to his voice. “You never know who might be lurking outside.”

  “I did check. I just figured I needed to get this over with,” Ria said forlornly. “I knew you’d come for me sometime.”