by Joy Nash
He was in some dark, dank space, sprawled on slime-covered rock. A subtle odor of rotting fish struck his nostrils, along with the stench of stagnant sea water. The deep silence was punctuated by the muted roar of the sea. He knew where he was, though how he had gotten there was a mystery. Never before had he translocated in his sleep.
He hadn’t set foot in this cell in over five hundred years, since the day he’d claimed this abandoned castle as his home. He’d not expected to return until another 293 years had passed.
He willed light into the darkness. A soft glow illuminated stone walls slick with slime and oozing with niter. He was in the lower level dungeons, directly beneath his office, close to sea level. The cell was little more than a cave hollowed from bedrock. Its ceiling was barely higher than Kalen’s head, its width less than an arm’s span. Remnants of iron shackles, now little more than lumps of rust, clung to the walls. The air was thick, rank, and not worth the trouble of breathing.
The original occupant of Kalen’s home had been a tyrant—he could almost hear the sobs of the men who had rotted here. Kalen, however, had imprisoned something entirely different here.
Uni’s crystal spear.
Once the magical weapon had been so familiar it had almost been a part of his body. Now, after so many centuries, looking at it was like gazing on the rotted remains of a severed limb. Except that Uni’s spear hadn’t decayed. It could not be destroyed.
Kalen would have shattered it into a thousand pieces if he could have. Even with it whole, he might have buried it or cast it into the sea. But the danger of the weapon being found was too great. In the wrong hands, the spear’s magic crystal tip could cut a wide swath of destruction. So Kalen had done the only thing he could think of—hidden it in his own home, under his feet, protected by the strongest defensive magic he knew.
Gerold’s blood still stained the spearhead. The sight of the rust-colored residue made Kalen’s stomach churn. The spear was the instrument of his disgrace as a god and as a man. In three centuries, when his debt was paid, he might have again wielded it in defense of humanity. Now he had no faith there would be any life magic left in the human world to defend.
The spear lay discarded in a corner of the dungeon. He took a step toward it. As if sensing its master’s nearness, the tip winked to life, white sparks tingling on the edges of the crystal. Ice-cold energy, awaiting Kalen’s command.
He stared at it for a long while. Then he extended his right arm, his palm open. He didn’t bend to retrieve it. He didn’t have to. At this close range he had only to will it and the weapon appeared in his hand.
His fingers closed on the shaft. The spear’s heft felt clumsy. Unnatural. He’d once felt naked without it. Now he could hardly remember how to use it. He rubbed his thumb over the shaft, revealing the Etruscan runes etched in the ancient petrified wood.
TARAN. It had been his people’s name for him. They’d thought him a god. Built temples in his honor.
It was a name he’d not heard since Gerold’s death. A name that no longer held any meaning.
He stared at the inscription for a long time, remembering.
When he left the dungeon, his hands were empty.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Unseelies.
Ugh.
The things were smelly, hideous, and vicious. Mac had killed three of them on the road between Nairn and Inverness. Now he felt like he needed twenty-four hours in a hot shower. The fetid odor of dung and rotting garbage was indelibly imprinted on his brain. Even worse, the ripe aroma had raised memories he thought long forgotten—the abject terror of a child surrounded by slavering monsters.
You’re not a child anymore. Mac’s jaw tightened. Kalen was right. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t helpless. He was a bloody demigod.
It was well past midnight when he gunned his Norton through the outskirts of Inverness, slicing through a gloomy drizzle. His cell phone chimed, but he ignored it. If he talked to Niniane right now, he’d only piss her off. He gripped the Norton’s handlebars until rubber and steel compressed under the force of his frustration. Pathetic, that’s what he was. Seven hundred and twelve years old and still tethered to his mother’s apron strings. Not that he’d ever seen Niniane wearing anything so mundane as an apron.
He sped into the center of town. Bank Street was deserted apart from a trio of vampires loitering on the sidewalk in front of the Free North Church. Smarmy creatures. Not as bad as Unseelies, but Mac had never had much charity for the undead. He sent a bolt of elfshot whizzing over their heads as he zoomed past. The vamps jumped and scattered, yelling curses. Mac grinned. An adolescent display of power, but bugger it all, it felt good. There were far too many death creatures around. He was sick of the lot of them.
Speeding over the Young Street Bridge, he rolled past Leanna’s tour office. According to the poster, a tour was in progress at that very moment. Niall and Ronan had told him as much when he’d called them earlier; he’d sent his cousins to spy on the festivities. That would provide Mac the opportunity to take a private look around Leanna’s hotel suite.
He halted in front of the Palace and tossed his key to the night valet. The hotel was the best Inverness had to offer, but that didn’t stop Leanna from complaining. She was used to London’s Connaught, Paris’s Concorde, Vienna’s Intercontinental. Well, a fat lot of good those addresses had done her. They were too far from the Gates of Annwyn, the source of all Sidhe magic. Leanna had been forced to come crawling back to Scotland to renew her powers. Which she’d done in spades. Was some of that power due to death magic? Gods, he hoped not.
He nodded to the doorman as he entered the hotel. A human, one he’d seen before, though the bloke’s name escaped him at the moment. At Mac’s greeting, the man stiffened, fear flashing through his eyes. Mac scowled. He’d never harmed a human, wouldn’t dream of it. Leanna and her half-breed friends weren’t quite so particular.
The elevator whooshed to the top floor. Leanna’s suite was at the end of the hall. He grabbed the knob and all but wrenched the door off its hinges. As he’d expected, her rooms were deserted. He rummaged about, opening doors, looking in closets and under beds, dreading what he might find. Damn it, if Leanna had gone to the dark side, he couldn’t help but feel partly responsible. She was his kin, after all.
And their mother was a bloody nightmare. If only Mac had known about Leanna’s birth, he would’ve raised his half sister himself. But he hadn’t known, not until nearly a century later when Niniane had admitted the truth. In private. His mother had told him she’d deny it up and down and around the block if Mac ever told Lir about her indiscretion.
He strode into Leanna’s dressing room and stopped abruptly. There was an unmistakable taint of death magic in the air—an aura of brimstone and sulfur. A close inspection revealed faint bloodstains in the grout between the marble tiles. Sniffing, he caught the unmistakable scent of dung and rotting garbage.
He closed his eyes. Damn it. Leanna wasn’t stupid—she should know better than to fool with death magic. Calling his deepest power, he cast his senses into the subtle vibrations left by the events that had occurred in this space. When the vision formed, it sickened him. Leanna, piercing her own flesh…collecting the blood…spilling it out…forming the inverted Ouroborous.
In the haze of his mind’s eye, he saw a portal open. A demon in female form, with wild black hair and glowing red eyes, stepped through the burning archway. Two vaguely human Unseelies emerged from the rift to hunker at her feet. One licked a viscous drop of drool from its red lips.
The demon placed her hands on the Unseelies’ heads as if they were treasured pets. “These creatures owe me their freedom from Uffern. They and their brethren will be yours to command,” she told Leanna. “If you prove yourself worthy.”
Leanna inclined her head. “How can I serve you?”
The demon’s crimson eyes flashed. “Strip.”
Obediently, Leanna began to undress. Sickened, Mac let the vision dissolve. Christ
ine had been right—Leanna had turned demonwhore. Why? What did she want that only a demon could give?
Emotions seething, he strode to Leanna’s makeup table, where the scent of death was strongest. He yanked open the center drawer, breaking both the mundane lock and the spell that enhanced it. The vial he’d seen in Leanna’s hand, filled with dark red liquid, lay in a padded velvet case. He picked it up.
The glass warmed his palm, then began to burn. The blood it contained was potent. He felt its essence: half human, half Sidhe. Powerful enough to summon an Old One. He’d destroy it, but not here, where its power would mingle with the darkness she’d already unleashed. He dropped it into his pocket and contemplated his next move. Wait here for Leanna? Or leave and plan a meeting on his own turf?
He opted for the latter. There was no telling how much dark power a half-Sidhe demonwhore could command. He’d listen to Niall’s and Ronan’s report before he made any decisions. Retracing his steps, he left the hotel, laying a patch of rubber as he roared up the hill to his tiny, unexceptional graystone house. He frowned as he noted lights blazing from the first-floor windows.
He opened the door and saw red. Ronan and Niall weren’t on Leanna’s tour at all. They were kicking back on Mac’s sofa, swilling Mac’s Guinness and streaming MTV over Mac’s broadband. Half-empty Chinese take-away containers were strewn about the table and floor.
To make matters worse, the pair didn’t even notice his arrival. The were too intent on Mac’s sixty-inch plasma screen.
“The Real World?” Ronan scoffed, gesturing with his bottle. “What’s so real about three virgin werewolves sharing a two-room London flat with three newly made vampires? There’s no bloody chance that would ever happen.”
“Who gives a shit about real?” Niall answered. “They’ve got cameras in the bedrooms.”
“What’s the matter, mates? Can’t find your own action?” Mac entered the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ronan leapt off the couch, spilling his stout on the carpet. “Bugger it all, Mac. You scared the shit out of me.”
Niall hastily kicked a take-away carton under the coffee table. “Didn’t expect you home so early, Mac. How’d your visit to the Palace go?” As an afterthought, he snagged an unopened bottle off the floor and tossed it in Mac’s direction. “Here. Have one.”
Mac caught the bottle in one hand but didn’t open it. “Turn that damn telly down,” he barked. His ire didn’t abate as Niall scooped up the remote and complied. “Why are you two here? You’re supposed to be on Leanna’s tour.”
“We joined it for a time, Mac, but then she spotted us and started peppering us with elfshot. Now, we could’ve fought back, but there were too damn many humans underfoot. So we backed off.” Ronan took a swig of ale and shook his head. “Your sister’s in a rare temper.”
Mac sank into a leather lounger. “She’s turned demonwhore.”
“She couldn’t,” Ronan protested, aghast. “She’s Sidhe. We despise the sodding things.”
“Apparently, Leanna’s human side isn’t so particular.” He extracted the crystal vial from his pocket and held it up to the light. “I found this in her dressing room. Her own blood.”
“She’s collecting it? That’s sick.” Niall looked slightly nauseated.
Mac could sympathize. Holding the vial was making his own stomach more than a little queasy. “Leanna’s demon mistress has given her dominion over the Unseelies. She was probably the one who helped them escape in the first place.”
“Damn, Mac. What are you going to do?”
A female laugh sounded in the doorway. “Yes, Mac. What are you going to do? I’d love to know.”
Mac leaped from the lounger and spun to face the door. “Leanna.”
She stood on his threshold, her lush body adorned in nothing more than two horizontal strips of leather. One encircled her chest, barely covering her nipples. The other did a piss-poor job of hiding her shaved mons.
Mac stared at his half-sister. She was younger than Mac by a few hundred years, but looked a few years older. How many men had she driven to death with that perfectly formed body?
Niall reached again for the remote. The TV sputtered into silence. Leanna arranged her body in a seductive pose against the doorframe, regarding Mac with hooded eyes. Dougal, her ever-present watchdog, lurked behind her on the stoop, a snarl twisting his ogrelike features. Mac’s fingers curled around the crystal vial. He ignored the pain the contact brought.
Leanna’s eyes made a long sweep of Mac’s body, lingering on his crotch. When at last she raised her gaze and licked her lips, his stomach turned. She’d never hidden the fact she wanted to fuck him. Her own brother. The thought disgusted him. And made him hate the circumstances that had given Leanna such a twisted view of the world. Damn Niniane for her part in this.
He pitched his voice low. “You know better than to fool with death magic.”
Leanna pushed off the doorjamb and sauntered into the room, her bare feet silent on the wool carpet. Ronan and Niall—bloody cowards that they were—retreated to the far corner of the room.
Leanna trailed her hand along the back of the sofa as she approached him. “When was the last time you had a woman, big brother?” A surge of magic accompanied her words.
He regarded her dispassionately. “Give it up, Leanna. Your magic doesn’t work on me.” He opened his palm, revealing the vial of her blood. “Dealing with demons, Leanna? Unseelies? Are you bloody nuts? You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Killed? I daresay not. Just the opposite.” She looked all too smug.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She glided around the couch and came to stand before him. “Now give me that. It’s mine.”
“You’re kidding, right?” He crushed the vial in his grip, incinerating it with a blast of elfshot. His hand stung with the force of the implosion, but he didn’t so much as wince.
Leanna’s eyes blazed. “You little shit! You have no right.”
“Oh, I have every right. You’ll stop the death magic, Leanna. Now.”
Her leather-bound breasts brushed his chest. “And if I disobey, will you punish me?” Her bottom lip nudged forward and her lashes lowered in a mockery of submission. “Just the thought of it makes me wet, Mac. It’s been my secret fantasy for years.”
A starburst of magic accompanied her breathless whisper. Her lashes swept up, her ice-pale eyes glinting. She arched against him like a cat in heat, wrapping one leg around his thigh and riding it.
Mac shoved her away with an oath. “You’re disgusting.”
He turned his back, knowing the dismissive gesture would infuriate her. “I’ll give you one last warning. Whatever demon you’ve been fooling with, don’t perform the summoning again. Because if I find out you’ve done so, you won’t have to worry about death magic hurting you. I’ll be a much greater threat.”
There was a profound moment of silence in which Mac felt Leanna’s hatred radiating in waves. His door slammed a second later, but he felt no satisfaction.
Leanna pressed the blade to her wrist. Closing her eyes, she drew a breath and cut. The hot streak of pain was so intense she couldn’t stifle a gasp. Damn Mac, for making her do this. Cold sweat beaded at her temples and trickled in a thin line down the side of her face. She felt nauseated, and lightheaded, and for several long seconds her vision faded to red. When it cleared, she was panting.
She forced herself to watch the blood drip from the wound into the shallow bowl on her dressing table. She was oddly detached from the scene, as if she were about to float away. It didn’t matter. This was necessary. Fresh-spilled blood was more potent than stale blood. It would afford her a deeper measure of Culsu’s power.
The dizziness got the better of her. Reaching for a gauze square, she stanched the flow. The room didn’t stop spinning until she’d wrapped her wrist in a tight bandage. Only then did her heart slow.
Once she’d regained her equ
ilibrium, she looked into the bowl and breathed a sigh of relief. It contained more than enough blood, at least for the moment. Dipping her finger in the thick liquid, she smeared a circle on the marble tiles. Then, taking the bowl with her into the center of the circle, she traced the sigils. When the shadow aspect of the Ouroborous sprang to life, she said the words.
“Culsu. Come to me.”
The demon appeared immediately, in a curling, hissing cloud of smoke that mimicked the dark, writhing locks of her hair. Her intense frown clearly indicated her displeasure at being summoned. The answering thrill that shot through Leanna’s body was a visceral thing. Already, her sex was tingling and softening. Remembering. The leather strips at her breasts reminded her of the bonds Culsu had used to restrain her during sex. The experience had been humiliating—and mind-blowing. Finally, she understood the dark desire that led her human lovers to sacrifice their souls to their muse. She craved more.
She forced a casual tone. “Bad timing?”
“What do you want?” Culsu snapped.
Leanna met the demon’s gaze. “My brother knows about the Unseelies.”
Culsu gave a smooth shrug. “He can do nothing.”
“Then tomorrow night…”
“Will proceed as planned.”
Leanna let out a sigh. “Good.”
Culsu’s gaze sharpened. Her eyes glowed red as she scrutinized Leanna’s body, lingering on her breasts and sex. Wetness streaked down Leanna’s thighs.
“But first,” Culsu said, “there is the small matter of payment.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Strip.”
“We could take the train. Or rent a car.”
Kalen snorted. “You’d prefer five hours in a rattling mundane death trap to a twenty-second translocation?”
Christine wanted to wipe the smirk right off his handsome face. “Yes, I would. I know it’s hard to believe, but I have this illogical aversion to having my body exploded and put back together again.”
