Banished

by Liz de Jager

  For a few seconds we sit quietly, peering back through the back window. Thorn grips my arm. ‘There!’ I follow the line of his pointing finger and then I see it. The dragon must have climbed high into the sky and banked over the forest. Its course is set for Blackhart Manor.

  We sit in stunned silence and watch the creature pass over the wards without any harm and head straight for the house. It opens its massive jaws and a sound like the world tearing itself apart emanates from it in waves, rolling over the Manor. For a moment everything looks fine, but then the house starts shaking and trembling, as if the earth itself is trying to dislodge it.

  Beside me Thorn is very still and hardly seems to breathe. The wind whips around us, shaking the car from side to side. I unlock my door and struggle out, ignoring my impulse to run, to hide from the big bad thing flying above us. The rain is icy against my skin and I’m drenched within seconds but I only notice it peripherally.

  My eyes are riveted to the spectacle below us. A vortex of spinning darkness opens in the middle of the Manor and keeps growing, consuming the house, brick by brick, inch by inch.

  A noise reaches me, dampened by the clouds and the rain and wind howling around me. A shriek, sounding very human, lifts from the depths of the house as it continues its slide into the abyss.

  The man from the forest strides towards the house, a swirling mass of energy trapped in his hands. He seems completely unconcerned about the dragon circling back towards the house, and as he gets to the edge of the garden, he launches the cone of energy at my home.

  Numb with shock, I watch as the dragon drops lower, swooping towards the Manor, chasing the cone of energy. The dragon rears back its triangular head and unhinges its jaw. The pulse of pure blinding power that emanates from it hits the house, in conjunction with the energy from the denim-clad guy, and rips apart the final wards protecting the house.

  I feel them tear to shreds like a physical blow to my chest and double over, a moan wrenching itself from me. I drop to my knees and tears stream down my face as the place gives a final jolt before sliding like sludge down a sinkhole.

  I catch movement to the side and watch as the dragon flies towards the man who just blasted my house to bits. My breath hitches, fully expecting the dragon to crash to the ground, but instead it curls up into itself somehow as it plummets to earth. It strikes the ground in a flurry of wings and when it straightens up, my world-view of things that can be and that can’t be changes once more.

  A tall figure rises upwards in its place, dressed in a cloak that whips around his long legs. The newcomer clasps the first aggressor in a brief hug, before turning to survey the achingly empty black pit where the Manor once stood.

  I lean against the car, racked by sobs, letting the tears mingle with the driving rain. In just over a year I’ve lost two homes. First, the home I shared with my nan, burned to the ground because an Unseelie noble hated the Blackharts – even ones who refused to accept their lineage – and now the home Jamie brought me to after Nan’s death.

  The Manor became a place where I could rest, feel safe and be part of a family I never knew I had but so desperately needed.

  The rain keeps coming and I start shivering and grip myself hard for warmth but also comfort. The torn earth where the house stood looks like a raw wound amidst the neat landscaped gardens. Emotions churn inside me as I watch the distant group carousing, counting the loss of the Manor as a major battle won.

  Thorn, who must have joined me at some stage, reaches for me and helps me stand. He runs his hand down my forearm and grips my hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, his voice hushed. He makes a gesture that expresses the futility of trying to convey his feelings but I do understand. There are no words to express the sadness and anger, so I give him a nod.

  ‘I know,’ I say dully. ‘Let’s get in the car and figure out how to make all these bastards pay.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The storm follows us, increasing in strength and anger. Two hours into our journey I’ve stopped shaking and crying and sit behind the wheel of Lolita tense with concentration as the car is hit by sheets of rain. Thorn sits beside me, rigid in his seat, his face pale. We’ve propped a towel from one of the backpacks against the door so that his arm doesn’t rest against the metal of the car, but even so, he doesn’t look well.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I say, slanting a glance at him. ‘Are you okay for us to stop and get something to eat?’

  He nods mutely and I turn my attention back to the cars ahead of us on the road and when we see signs for the next service station, I indicate and pull in.

  Inside, the place is far busier than it should be but we find a free table at the back of the communal eating area. I buy a selection of sandwiches, crisps and drinks and we tuck in without bothering to make small talk.

  I feel bleak, empty and worried. I showed Thorn how to use my mobile in the car and he’s checked it every few minutes for messages, both texts and emails, but no word from anyone. Anxiety eats at me and I wonder if we are doing the right thing, travelling to London. I don’t have Olga’s number and the number listed on the shop’s website just goes to voicemail.

  I look up from eating and notice the TV screens facing the eating area. Several of them hold reports about the unseasonable weather, reporting that Cornwall and Devon seem hardest hit by the freak hurricane winds and rain. There are warnings of local flooding and that motorists should be extra careful driving. Two schools have been shut and there’s footage of a giant oak tree torn from the ground and flung across several cars.

  ‘The dragon.’

  I jerk with fright and look at Thorn. ‘What? Did you see it? Is it here?’ Sitting at the back of the restaurant area, there’s no way he can see the front of the building. There are no windows, but it doesn’t stop me from staring around.

  ‘No. Yes, the dragon is here.’ He gestured in a big circle with his hands. ‘The dragon is here, in this realm, on your earth, but not here-here.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. We both saw it.’ I am tempted to tut at him, but something in his gaze stops me. ‘What do you know that you’re not telling me?’

  ‘I think I know what it is.’

  This time I do tut and make a hand-swirling motion to show him that he has to go on. He shakes his head at my childishness but does continue.

  ‘When I was little, my mother used to tell us stories of the Time Before Time. Her favourite stories were about dragons. She always made them sound noble and interesting. Not this.’ He shakes his head and rubs the cut above his eyebrow. ‘Having a dragon in this world, in the Frontier, is more dangerous than I can explain. These storms we’re seeing are the dragon’s presence unbalancing your world. There is a reason the dragons were banished when they were, all that time ago. The world needed to thaw, to learn how to be green again.’

  I put the cup of coffee back down on the table.

  ‘Are you talking about an Ice Age?’

  He nods. ‘Essentially, yes. Dragons are elemental beings and they are powerful. Their essence or rather their life force is fed by the earth’s magic. They suck worlds dry and leave destruction in their wake. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ His eyes rake my face and I nod vaguely, not really understanding but unable to say otherwise. ‘If you or your family or any of my people go up against this dragon when the time comes, they will have to be very close to use their magic.’ He pushes a piece of salad around on his plate. ‘My mother always said that no sorcerer was ever able to stand against a dragon on a fair fight. Not when using magic at least. It’s like fighting fire with fire. Any fight will have to be hand-to-hand combat.’

  ‘That is spectacularly crap.’ I stare blankly at my empty mug of coffee. ‘How about cannons? Can we shoot it with cannons?’

  ‘Honestly? I have no idea.’

  ‘Who are we going to see?’ Thorn asks me after we’ve driven another hour. I’ve shown him how to operate the radio and we’ve gone through talk radio, news, jazz music, classics and th
en hip hop.

  ‘This lady called Olga. I don’t know her very well but she’s friends with my uncles Andrew and Jamie. She comes around on the equinox days and helps.’ My breath hitches. ‘Helped us strengthen the wards on the house. My cousin Kyle says she’s a witch, but a real one, one that can curse you or cure you at will.’

  ‘Witches are as powerful in Alba as any sorcerer in my father’s academy. I think that the man we saw helping the dragon, uhm, person is a sorcerer.’

  ‘What’s the difference between sorcerers, witches and wizards?’ I ask him. I have my own suspicions, but hearing it from someone who lives in the Otherwhere, where magic is a part of everyday life, will be interesting. ‘Like, when that man tried to come out of the mirror, you threw a ball of fire at it. What are you?’

  ‘Sorcerers and witches use the energies around them, tapping into the songlines, to produce their magics. You call them leylines but the people of Chin call them dragonlines. Wizards and witches use spells, which in turn require ingredients, to produce magic. Sorcerers have no need to learn spells, not in the way you would perhaps read a recipe. They need to know what needs doing and then they will it to happen by using the energy from the leylines around them. Failing that, if there are no leylines to tap into, they will instead use captives and drain them of energy to power their magic.’ He rubs his face and drinks some of the water we bought at our second stop. ‘I have a little magic only, a bit of skill, mostly for cantrips and bits of glamour. My eldest brother is an adept and even when he was a baby there were rumours of his stunning abilities. I’m definitely a disappointment to my father. The seventh son of the seventh son and all I can do on a good day is float a book around the library on air and then set it on fire.’

  ‘But that ball of fire,’ I say, ‘and the mirror. That was pretty impressive.’

  ‘Thank you, I was only trying to save the fair lady.’ He smiles and pretends to puff out his chest a bit and I laugh.

  ‘Have you got any idea where your parents would have gone?’ I ask him. ‘We will need to figure out how to get you back to them.’

  ‘They could have gone anywhere in the world,’ he replies. ‘Either in the Otherwhere or your world. The person I was relying on knowing where they’d be wasn’t at the Manor.’ When he sees my look, he explains. ‘Your Uncle Andrew.’

  ‘No, he’s hardly in the UK any more. He works in New York most of the time.’

  ‘Petur didn’t know that or he would have had me travel there instead.’

  Annoyance plucks at me as I stare out of the windscreen, watching the rain falling and the wipers work double time to keep up with the load. ‘I’m sorry that the right people weren’t ready to save your arse,’ I say, keeping my voice low. ‘That you got me instead, the new Blackhart. The clueless one.’

  ‘That is not what I meant,’ Thorn says, the regret clear in his voice. ‘Had I gone to New York, it’s most likely your home would still be standing.’

  I consider this in silence for a few seconds and decide he has a point. But I’m still not too happy with what he said or implied.

  A frosty silence falls for a while and he fiddles with the radio again, finding yet more talk radio. By the time I’ve unwound enough to look at him again, he’s fallen asleep in his seat.

  We stop twice more on our way to London. Traffic is a mess everywhere and it takes us eight hours before we pull up outside Olga’s shop, Emm’s of Mayfair.

  My eyes are burning and I’m more tired than I’ve been in a long time. Thorn looks wiped out and we both move like much older versions of ourselves when we unfold ourselves from Lolita.

  The rain is still pelting down with no sign of stopping and it’s cold. Not just a summer evening kind of coolness to the air, but proper cold, like autumn, heading straight for the claws of winter. I shudder and hitch my bag and sword higher and head up the stairs to the front of the shop. The lights are off and the ‘Closed’ sign in the window would have turned away a casual passer-by. I use the gnarled dragon’s head knocker with some reluctance and let it drop against the door. The sound echoes through the building and gives the impression of a much larger space behind the door than indicated by the frontage of the shop.

  Thorn seems to cope better with the cold than me, but he looks bedraggled and miserable when he comes to stand next to me on the step. He’s reloaded the pistol and it’s stuck through a loop in his jeans. His sword gleams dully in the darkness and he has the bow and arrows slung casually over his shoulder. We look like refugees from a historical re-enactment society, only far more battered and tired.

  ‘Is she here, do we think?’ he asks, looking up at the sign. The sign itself gives nothing away. It is maybe a bit old-timey and reads only, ‘Emm’s of Mayfair – Purveyor of unique items to the establishment’ – which in fact means very little – but if you know Emm’s, you’ll know it means exactly what it says on the sign. I know Olga lives upstairs, above the main shop, so I just nod and huddle under the light and turn slightly away from Thorn to peer upwards again, expecting to see movement or lights coming on upstairs, but instead I hear footsteps nearing the door. A light from one of the table lamps comes on in the shop and I turn sideways to look through the window. A strained pale face looks back at me, and I recognize Olga. Her usually smiling face holds reluctance and a wariness I’ve not seen before.

  ‘Kit? Who do you have with you?’ Her voice sounds muffled and suspicious through the thick door.

  I shoot an embarrassed look at Thorn before answering. ‘It’s Prince Thorn. King Aelfric’s youngest son. We need help, Olga.’

  I expect the door to swing open immediately but there is a hesitation that worries me. My knife is in my hand before I’m aware of it and I push Thorn out of the way so that I face the door fully.

  ‘Olga? Are you okay?’

  There’s a muffled noise from behind the door and I can hear voices talking rapidly and urgently, but it eventually opens and Olga stands there. She’s dressed in jeans and a cardigan. Her hair’s a mess and she looks as if she’s been crying. Behind her the shop stretches into darkness and I can just make out cabinets, tables and chairs and a few random objets d’art that Emm’s sells to ‘normal’, yet very rich, people.

  ‘Come in, quickly.’ She steps aside and I hurry in, aware of the light magical tingle that touches the nape of my neck as I pass over the threshold. Behind me Thorn passes through the wards unharmed, showing that he means her no ill will. He’s not wearing his ring and I wonder if he has it on him or if it disappeared with the house. I let out a small puff of breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and try and look tough and competent and in charge.

  Olga shuts the door behind us and goes about locking it. I feel the air in the shop move against the skin of my face and I whip my remaining pistol out and level it at the shadows to my right. A young man walks into the light, unfazed by the pistol pointed at him.

  As he walks closer, from a patch of shadow into the murky light, I have to blink against the illusion of a wolf’s head on his shoulders. I physically shake my head and the image clears instantly. By my side Thorn lets out an exclamation and I realize he’s seen the boy’s head shift from that of a wolf’s too.

  There is no scent of magic in the air; my own magic tells me no spell has been triggered. So I know what I just saw was real. I’ve heard about werewolves but I’ve never actually seen one in the flesh. Until now.

  Thorn’s presence is solid behind my back and I catch a glimpse of Olga behind him as I edge my body to track the boy’s movement. She’s standing very still by the door, her expression tense.

  I swing my gaze back to the young man and see that his hands are up and an amused grin twists his lips. He’s attractive in a rugged way. Shaggy dark unkempt hair, blue-green eyes with flecks of gold. Firm jaw, cheekbones all angles and upswept black eyebrows. And tall too, at least six four but he looks no older than eighteen. His build is rangy and I have the impression that he’s not yet stopped growing into his shoul
ders or hands. He reminds me of how the promise of size can be seen in the shape and size of a mastiff puppy’s paws and how it takes a while to fulfil the promise of its breed. But there is nothing puppy-ish about the way he looks us over. His gaze is lazy and lightly challenging as he takes us in, assessing our level of threat.

  As big as he is, I don’t doubt for a second that I can stop him in his tracks with a bullet between the eyes. It might not kill him, but it will give me long enough to get both Olga and Thorn out of the shop before he changes into his more animal form. Nothing I’ve encountered in the past could dodge a bullet to the head.

  ‘Olga? Who is this guy?’ I shoot a quick glance at Olga as she moves up behind me. I notice her favouring her left leg and she’s not moving as gracefully as I remember. Thorn is standing easy, watching me for cues, holding his pistol in his right hand and sword in his left. He looks like a modern-day pirate in a scruffy t-shirt and jeans.

  ‘He’s a friend, Kit. Put your weapons away. You too, your highness. Today has been a bad day for all of us. Let’s not make it worse.’

  She brushes past me and walks down the long passage to the back of the shop and up a set of stairs that lead to her living quarters. She doesn’t pause, she doesn’t offer any other comment and I narrow my eyes at the young man. Just because Olga trusts him doesn’t mean that I have to. I gesture with the pistol at him.

  ‘Go on, we’ll follow.’

  He walks past me, close enough to brush against me.

  ‘You smell very interesting,’ he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. ‘Like anger and thunderstorms.’

  I stand my ground, not giving a millimetre, knowing that he’s doing it on purpose to try and intimidate me. Thorn takes half a step closer to me and growls softly in his throat. The noise brings the boy’s head around sharply and his eyes flash a bright blue for a second; I feel my heart stutter and my grip tightens on my gun. My other free hand drops to the knife resting in the sheath behind my back.