by Angel Lawson
I cannot bear another night of screams from the dungeon.
What I have done to my brothers is unredeemable. Even if Morgan ever chose to look past my actions or if I can assist in her stopping the Queen, the Guardians, my brothers? They will torture me in the ancient ways.
I deserve nothing less.
Stepping back from the canvas, I exhale an exhausted shudder of relief. It’s complete. I’ve worked day after day, night after frigid night, until my eyes blurred and my fingers cramped.
But the painting is a masterpiece, if not in subject but ability. My magic is so much stronger here. It doesn’t take the layers and layers of infused ingredients to create the gate. Here, the magic is combined in every brush stroke, every drop. Runes mixed with images, stirred with spells and paint. But even then, there’s nothing that can be done until the oil dries, which may take days with the damp chill of the castle. Glancing around the room, I spot the fireplace and the dry heat it emits. There’s little wood—I’m only given a few logs a day—just enough to keep my fingers nimble. I stare at the other paintings. The rejects—or ruses. The wood backing would make acceptable kindling. The jar of turpentine, a decent accelerant.
The Morrigan’s impatience for war has brought me to this moment. I toss the first canvas in, watching the painting melt with the heat of the fire. I watch the earth realm disappear into a puddle of goo, and direct my most recent painting toward the heat.
Soon I will cross back over, and with the gods on my side I’ll earn the good will of my mistress. If not, I think, watching the canvas vanish beneath the flames, I’ll brace for the future and the hellfire that will destroy us all.
Chapter 14
Morgan
I step out of the bar, feeling the faint tingle of my magic having been returned after crossing the wards. Again, my magic is faint—weakened by the split and being separated from my mates. Dylan is a pleasant boost, but not enough. I’m hoping what the Shaman and others have said, about magic being stronger on the Otherside, is true. It explains a lot about why the Morrigan wants me trapped over here.
I wait for the car to arrive—I’d been too chicken to drive here in one of The Nead’s vehicles. There’s little doubt that they are outfitted with trackers, anyway. Pulling out the phone, I check the app—the car is three blocks away, caught in some kind of traffic. It gives me a moment to go back over the final moments of my conversation with the Shaman, how I’ll pass through the gate and where.
The instructions were vague. He’d told me to go to the last place Bunny had been seen. Look for the “cracks.”
“The gate will still be there. It was created centuries ago. That house was built over the portal. You just have find the actual gate.”
Bunny’s studio makes the most sense. The magic is strong there. It always has been. I’d known it since that day he’d painted me with runes. The catch would be getting up there unnoticed. It’s a long way from the cells in the basement of the house to the attic. I’ll have to figure something out.
A block down the street buzzes, catching my attention, and I’m sucked into a strange sense of déjà vu. I step into the road, into a flicker of a memory—no, not a memory—a photo. One of the scenes from Sam’s photos.
The street is empty except for leaves blowing against the curb. The air is cold, but it’s nearing winter. It’s not the icy fingers of the Otherside clawing through the realm, although in my mind I can almost make out the black tendrils of smoke, the vision of Clinton bound and beaten. I can taste the sulfur in the air. The image of him is superimposed—this world over the next—and I reach my hand out, wondering how far away he really is.
Leaves crunch behind me and I center back in this world.
“Well, well, well,” a deep voice says. “Isn’t it a little dangerous to be out here alone?” I spin and face a lanky man. His skin is pale. A heavy beard covers his chin. I don’t know him.
I cut my eyes away from him, looking down the street for the car. “Why would it be dangerous?”
“Dark street, outside a shady bar. Three people went missing in this very spot a week ago.”
Ah, so he knows who I am. He doesn’t need to know that I’m aware. “I heard.”
He eases closer. I feel the brush of his leather jacket against mine. The hair on the back of my neck prickles in warning. “Plus there’s a nasty virus going around. You’re not afraid?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, wrapping his arm around my waist. I rear back, jabbing him with an elbow and stomping on his foot. I spin, kicking him in the thigh and catching the glint of silver from a blade in his hand.
“There’s only one reason for you to come back here tonight. You’re going to try to stop her.” He lunges, swiping the knife toward my gut. I jump back but he snags the front of my jacket, tearing the leather. “I can’t let you do that.”
I quickly move behind a parked car but he scrambles for me, sliding over the hood. While he’s off balance I punch him twice in the face, slamming his wrist against the window shield. He struggles but my adrenaline surges, and like with Hildi, magic rallies. My nails grow long and pointed, stabbing into the thin skin of his wrist. He releases the knife with a surprised jerk. It clatters under the car.
“Stay away,” I tell him, panicked at the nails, sharp as razors. He’s frozen, and that gives me time to race toward the main road. The metal of the car hood groans under his weight but within seconds he’s back on his feet, chasing me.
The color of his eyes darken as he runs, the hatred in his veins vibrates off his skin. He moves his hands together, creating a ball of visible energy—like fire but not quite. He tosses it in his hands before throwing it at me. I dodge and it crashes into a blue mailbox, knocking it to the ground.
With nowhere to run, I take a deep breath and conjure every lesson, every training session, every skill I’ve developed over the past five months, and add it to the rage boiling beneath the surface. We clash in the middle of the street, fist to fist, foot to knee, elbow to rib.
If I’m surprised at my strength then I know he is too, but the training has changed me and with every punch and jab I feel an increase in confidence. His moves grow sloppy, his punches miss. I lasso the energy and fling it at him and a rope lashes out, snapping him across the chest. He dives for me and I duck, forcing him to land on his back on the ground. I stand over him, wishing I had my sword, because I’d run it through him. My nails spike again, itching to draw blood.
“Stay out of fights you don’t understand,” I tell him.
He’s dazed, probably concussed, but he still speaks. “You’ll never beat her. Her legions are only just now assembling. War will come to this realm.”
“As long as I am alive that is not an option. And when I kill her, death and destruction will end in her world, too.”
I kick him in the side, hearing the snap of bone. Headlights flash on the street and a horn honks. I leave the broken man—or demon, whatever he was-- on the street and get in the back seat.
“Take me home,” I bark, spilling the address.
Chapter 15
Dylan
I walk the foyer, pacing like an animal in a cage. At some point, Morgan slipped from the house while I studied Sam’s photographs. She got past me. The Sentinel. Shame and disgust wracks through me. A time like this is not appropriate for me to forget my true mission.
I couldn’t just run into the city chasing her down. I’d lost my wings—my ability to fly. Where would I even begin? Angry despair takes over and I wait. I’d give her an hour before I totally lost my mind. An hour or I’ll tear the city apart.
Forty-six minutes later I hear the car pull up to the curb and Morgan’s voice lilt up the front steps. Thirty-two seconds after that, she opens the door and I freeze in my spot.
“What the hell happened to you?” I roar. She’s dirty. Covered in forming bruises and blood. My heart plummets at the same time as my blood pressure rises. “Who did this?”
She sighs with annoyance
, taking off her coat. “Some minion of the Morrigan’s, if I had to guess.”
“He attacked you?” The thought is incomprehensible. I knew there were loyalists out there but to actually attack Morgan on the street…
“Yes.” She glances down at a broken nail and mutters, “Fucker.”
“Morgan.” I am seething. Beyond seething, but I need to calm down. Need to. Will try to. Failing miserably. “Are you okay?”
She finally looks at me—like really looks at me for the first time since she walked in. She takes in my anger—probably my fear—and her eyes soften. “I’m fine, Dylan. I’m sorry if you were worried about me.”
Unable to handle her nonchalance for one second longer, I explode. “You don’t get to walk out of the house like that. Not now. Not anymore. We’re on the cusp of a great war, already in one, and your days of walking around freely are over. Do you understand?”
Her eye tics, a flash, and I wonder for a quick moment if I’ve stepped over a line. I don’t care, though. Her life is worth more than ten of mine. She’s the key to all of this. Always has been and always will be—until her final breath.
“I’m fine,” she says, instead of a million other words that threaten to cross her lips. I watch her swallow them back. “I beat him, without magic, just using the skills you all have taught me. I thank you for that.”
“Good.”
I have ten other questions. Where had she gone? Who did she meet? How did the attacker find her? Where is he now? What secret is she keeping, because she has one. I see the shadow of it in her eye.
I don’t ask any of them.
She yawns. “It’s late. I really do need to go to bed now.”
I nod and watch her go up the stairs. Once she’s in her room with the door shut, I grab a chair from the dining room and carry it up three flights of stairs. There, I return to my duty. Watching over the Queen. She won’t get past me again.
Chapter 16
Morgan
I do make time to shower and change, but otherwise my body gives out on me and I crash into bed. Tomorrow I’ll go through the gate and find my Guardians. Beyond that I have no plan other than to kill the Morrigan and return home.
I have no delusions it will be that easy, and those are my final thoughts before I drift into an exhausted, anxious sleep.
The castle ripples with the angry chill emanating from the Queen’s quarters. She’s not who I’m here to see—not this time. I walk away from the throne room and turn down a side hall. I have an inkling of what I’m looking for. The castle tower with the bedroom window, like the one I’d seen in the pictures. Someone lurks behind the glass.
The halls seem endless, a continuous, twisting maze. Tapestries hang on the walls. Voices echo off the stone. I pause more than once in an alcove, ducking from the soldiers wearing all black. Their feet move in unison, stomping off the hard stone. Blades hang from their belts, polished to a gleaming shine. There’s no doubt this is another dream, but everything about it--from the sound of feet on the ground to the chill in my bones--makes me hide. When they pass, I keep on my journey, finally making it to a stairway that goes up.
I take the chance, running up the steps. It feels warmer as I go higher—a slight break in the chill. I stop when I hear an angry voice, my heart pounding in my chest, both from adrenaline and exertion.
“Is it ready?” The man asks, his voice impatient and booming.
The response is said quietly—too soft for me to hear. I risk moving closer to the arched door that’s not completely closed. “Her Majesty has grown impatient. Her needs are growing—surely you noticed that yourself when you were in her chambers. She requires you to fulfill your duties, which at the moment are only half complete.”
The sound of the voice that replies rocks me to my core. “Surely having the Guardians here have kept the decline at bay. With Morgan not feeding, at least not at her typical levels, shouldn’t that slow the regression?”
Bunny said that. Bunny is just on the other side of the door. I know it’s just a dream but I want to lunge into the room and gut him with a sword. Watch him bleed out. Shake the truth from him. From the snap in the other man’s reply, I think he feels the same. “You do not get to presume what the Queen needs or not, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Bunny replies, his voice soft again.
“How long?”
“Tomorrow—maybe tonight. The paint is nearly dry. That’s why I built the fire. Otherwise it’s too damp and cold for the oil to set.”
The response to that is a growl, low and menacing, and I truly fear for Bunny’s life. I wish for the man to lose his composure and break him with a snap. He’d deserve it, but I need that gate open as much as anyone. I glance around for something—anything, and land on the tapestry hanging at the base of the stairs. Quietly I tip-toe down and yank on the cloth, bringing it and the iron bar holding it to the ground. I’ve started running before metal hits stone.
“Who’s out there?” the man’s voice shouts, but I’m gone.
This time I head down. Down, down, down. The warmth of Bunny’s fire vanishes and I’m plunged into freezing temperatures. The scrape of metal catches my attention. My feet stick to the floor and I glance down, looking at the dark, congealed fluid. A groan—low and painful—ricochets down the hall. A sick feeling lodges in my throat and I know, I know what is behind the bars at the far end of the wall.
Footsteps echo down the stairwell, angry commands. I can’t go down the hall—can’t see what’s waiting down there. I also can’t go back up. I press against the wall and close my eyes, wake up, wake up, wake up….
My eyes pop open. It’s daylight and my bed is a soft cushion beneath me. My hands tremble—fingertips cold. The dream was so real. More so than any I’d had before. I sit, feeling a presence in the room. Not human. Not Dylan. No, magic. Magic filled that dream. It was sent to me. By the Shaman? By the Queen? I don’t know, but I now have a timeline. Tonight or tomorrow the gate will be open and Bunny will try to pass through.
I slip from the bed, figuring out how I’m going to get everything in motion. It’s going to take a lot more than magic to make this happen.
Chapter 17
Dylan
I doze in the chair outside Morgan’s room. Half in, half out of sleep. I’m tugged fully awake by what feels like a shift—magical in nature. I hold my breath and listen, but there’s nothing and no one unexpected in the house.
I hear the click of the lock before the door opens. My main emotions lately have been frustrated and angry. Exhaustion outweighs both of those. But looking up at the tense, hungry expression on Morgan’s face and the thin pajamas she’s wearing catches my full attention.
“Keeping watch?” she says.
“I’m just worried.” I sit straighter in the chair. “Something’s building. Do you feel it?”
She nods and stands directly before me. Her T-shirt is so thin it may as well be a second skin. Her shorts leave nothing to the imagination. She’s bare beneath both and if she’s trying to knock me off my game, it’s working.
Her lips are pink and her hair is a curly mess around her head. Energy vibrates off of her—the same one she’s struggled with for months. She basically needs to feed, and my body reacts accordingly.
She steps forward, our knees touching. “Do you trust me?” she asks.
“Always.”
“Even when I do things like last night—wandering off on my own?”
I touch her hip. “That’s not about trust. That’s about safety.”
She licks her bottom lip. “Do you understand that sometimes I have to do things on my own? Make my own way in this battle with the Morrigan?”
She’s asking a lot of questions, but her scent, her proximity, and that damn tight shirt are making it hard as hell to focus. It only gets worse when she tugs at the string holding up her shorts and they fall to the floor. Blood rushes from my brain, building to an ache between my legs. I swallow and skim my thumb over the flesh of
her hip. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“The time has come for me to deal with the Morrigan. You’ve trained me. You’ve educated me. I’m as ready as I ever will be.”
I shake my head, fighting through the fog of lust. “We need more time—we don’t even have access to the gate.”
Her hands reach for my belt. Mine go to her ass. I knead the skin as her fingers unleash me from my pants. A graze of fingertips sends a jolt through my body, I pull her on top of me, her legs straddled over mine, our bodies hot and wet against one another.
I push at the hem of her shirt, moving it over her head. I take her left nipple with my mouth, her right with my fingers. She exhales, resting her chin on my head.
She whispers, “When I get the gate open you have to stay here. Do you understand? We’ll need someone on this side of the realm to keep watch—to be ready for our return.”
She lifts up and my cock follows her like a magnet, angled up. She lowers herself quickly and I clench my jaw, feeling the most intense connection between us. I can’t speak, I just listen as she tells me her plans in a breathless rush. “You’re the anchor, Dylan. The rock that keeps us tied to this world.”
I nod, even though my brain knows it’s a fool’s errand. There’s no way she’ll get the gate open any time soon. My research has come to a screeching halt. But she’s got me mesmerized with the rocking of her hips and in her sheath of tight warmth. “You’re the bond,” I tell her, our lips touching as we move together. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe, to protect her role in the future.
