by Lily Velez
“Spies, most likely. I have no doubt he’s been plotting this for some time.”
The orbs of fire led us on and on and on, until doubts started to bloom in my chest one by one. It didn’t help that I was almost certain we’d passed certain corridor intersections more than once. But the halls all looked the same, so there was no way to know for sure. Beside me, though, I could feel Jack begin to tense as his hesitations mirrored my own.
He paused, looking back the way we’d just come.
“What is it?” I asked. “Do you sense something?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
I stared at the line of floating orbs, my misgivings wrestling with my determination in a battle that put me on a see-saw. “Let’s keep going,” I finally said. “We’ve already made it this far.”
The air was frigid in these corridors, my arms pebbling with goosebumps. I regretted not bringing my velvet cloak with me and rubbed my palms up and down my arms in a vain attempt at stirring up some warmth.
We turned one last corner, and then I took in a breath. Up ahead, the last of the guiding lights illuminated a path leading to two silver doors. Once Jack and I were at the doors, all but one orb vanished. The one remaining rose above our heads and expanded, growing brighter to afford us better light.
“No guards,” Jack said, frowning.
It was strange. Considering how well-protected Nightfell had been on the outside, it didn’t make sense for Morrígan to leave her treasury unprotected on a night when so many guests would be within the fortress walls.
“Maybe Kai used the orbs to lure the guards away?”
Jack considered it for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible. The question now is how we’re supposed to enter. Kai said we wouldn’t have to worry about it, but these are solid steel.” He knocked on one door, and a metallic thud filled the air.
As if to answer his question, the orb above us drifted to the doors and pressed itself against them, flattening against their surface so that it looked like melted wax against metal. Slowly, its glowing edges spread out until it formed an arched passageway large enough for us to walk through. Where there was once steel, the orb burned through, and in a shimmer, the treasury appeared on the other side.
Jack and I traded quick glances before hurrying forward. The moment we made it through, the passageway shrunk until it altogether disappeared, and the orb detached from the doors, resuming its original shape. It assumed a position above our heads to shepherd us along.
My body braced for the inevitable, ear-splitting alarm to sound, for the legion of guards to descend upon us. Again, nothing. It gave me reason to be relieved, I knew, but it was impossible to feel any shred of relief when this night was far from over.
Being that Nightfell sat amidst mountains, the treasury was carved from rock, a spacious cavern where the air was still and smelled of earth. A chill whipped through me, and I instinctively reached for Jack’s hand. He laced our fingers and gave a reassuring squeeze.
Kai’s orb eventually led us down a pathway flanked by pedestals. A flaming feather hovered above the first one.
“The feather of the last phoenix,” Jack said in a hush, entranced. “According to the stories, Morrígan pursued the creature for centuries, as each feather was said to contain magic beyond measure. After a fortnight of relentless battle, she finally felled the phoenix and cut it down, rendering the species extinct.”
On the next pedestal sat two colossal tusks.
“Those must be the tusks of Twrch Trwyth,” Jack said. “He was one of the largest boars in the days of old, known for his strength and cleverness. He always outwitted the heroes who sought to kill him. Morrígan tired of their attempts at greatness and sought to prove herself the ultimate huntress. She scoured the entire Otherworld for Twrch Trwyth, killing every boar she came across.”
“I would’ve hated to be a boar at the time.”
“Many felt likewise, especially when one of her kills turned out to be a forgotten god who’d been cursed to animal form ages ago. Curses like that have always been common forms of vengeance among the gods.”
A golden apple greeted us next. Despite its strange coloring, it was bewitching, my mouth automatically watering at the sight of it. Even its branch and leaves were gold.
“And this?” I asked.
“If I’m not mistaken, that hails from one of the most well-known travel myths among our people, The Voyage of Mael Duin. He was the son of a renowned warrior who wished to avenge his father’s death. As the story goes, he sails the sea in search of his enemies and comes upon several strange islands, one of which contains an enchanted apple tree. It turns out the apples are imbued with magic and can never be fully eaten, meaning his crew are able to eat for many days. I imagine it’s a great asset to have when you need to feed entire armies during wars.”
We continued on, passing pedestal after pedestal, each one boasting a magical object as mesmerizing as the last. In time, the pathway ended at a soaring pyramid, and the orb quickly glided up the pyramid’s steps.
Setting down my shoes and hiking up my skirt layers, I followed after, Jack beside me.
The pyramid’s texture was coarse against my bare feet, like walking across gravel. The higher we ascended, the more I was grateful to have rid myself of the stilettos. The pyramid had to be as tall as a building, and with no railings to grab onto for support, the slightest shift in balance could send a person plunging to their death.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the top, a flat plateau that was only a few paces wide and twice that in length. Though the view from these heights was astounding, it didn’t compare to the sight at the center of the plateau.
Within a pillar of golden luminescence, a magnificent sword floated, point down.
The Sword of Light.
The Eternal Flame.
I hadn’t expected to have an emotional reaction to it, so I was surprised by the wellspring of feeling that surged in me. I practically felt the need to kneel in reverence the way a pilgrim might.
I hadn’t been able to make the sword out very well in the scene Kai had shown us, which, according to him, was merely a recreation of that fateful confrontation between Morrígan and Nuada, fabricated from all the stories that had been passed down throughout the ages. I didn’t think any rendering could’ve done the sword justice in any case.
It was a breathtaking work of art. It was bigger than I’d imagined, with a gleaming, silver blade that had to be at least four feet long. Gilded scrollwork wrapped around the hilt in elaborate designs, and I thought about the fact that a god had once wielded this weapon. And not just a god, but the first Daughter of Brigid as well.
The gravity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. I took a step closer, breathless. Jack was as captivated by the sword as I was, beholding it with awestruck eyes.
One of the Four Great Treasures of Ireland. How many swords of legend had been fashioned after this one? How many had sought to capture even a fraction of the greatness that emanated from this glorious weapon like a hypnotic aura?
My eyes combed over the sword. The years had been kind to it. It showed no signs of wear whatsoever, the gold of its hilt gleaming, its blade as shiny as the day it’d been forged. And indeed, the blade still glowed with some sort of internal fire as well, exactly as Kai said it did.
The beauty of magic, I supposed.
And once it’s ours, everything’s going to be okay.
I reached for the sword.
“Scarlet, wait!”
My fingertips stopped just short of entering the pillar of light encasing the weapon.
“We don’t know if it’s somehow spelled,” Jack said. He stepped beside me and held out a hand toward the sword, knitting his brow as he concentrated on reading whatever magic was holding it in place. After a few moments, he shook his head. “The magic is like a steel wall. I can’t tell what’s on the other side.”
I considered that for a moment, weighing my options. “Kai said one
favored by the gods could wield it. Even if it’s spelled, maybe my being one of the god-touched will counteract the magic and render it harmless.”
Jack sat on the possibility, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Unfortunately, no argument he formed could dissuade me from doing what had to be done. I saw the solution to so many problems before us, and I was ready to seize it. I was ready to seize it and return home and bring an end to the nightmares these past few days had been.
I mustered up my courage, ready to take my chance. Without a word to Jack, I acted. He called out to stop me, but it was too late. My hand dove into the pillar of light, and my fingers clutched the hilt of the sword in a death grip. With all my strength, I yanked the sword free.
It gave way easily, and I stumbled back, tripping over my ball gown and crashing to the floor dangerously close to one of the plateau’s edges. I was back on my feet a moment later, adrenaline rushing through my veins. I could hardly believe I’d succeeded, that I was holding the sword, that I’d somehow evaded a death blow or whatever other cruel fate the weapon could’ve been spelled with.
I marveled at the weapon, in raptures. It was surprisingly light, as if the hilt and blade were both hollow. I ran my fingertips over the cold silver, the flat of the blade as smooth as marble. I traced the designs of the hilt, fascinated by their intricacies.
I looked to Jack, whose astonishment mirrored my own. “It can’t be this easy, can it?”
Suddenly, the orb above us imploded in a puff of black smoke, plunging us into complete darkness.
A heartbeat later, firelight hissed to life atop an army of torches. I nearly dropped the sword. On each of the pyramid’s four sides, rows upon rows of armored guards surrounded us with weapons drawn.
A figure ascended the pyramid’s steps, joining us on the plateau. A large crow sat upon her shoulder, its feathers matching the black of her wild, waist-length hair, which was made blacker by the paleness of her alabaster skin. Dark war paint was smudged over each eye, giving her the look of someone who’d newly risen from the dead. Her gaze was trained on me, and her thin lips curled into a wicked, serpentine smile.
“No,” Morrígan, goddess of death, replied. “It can’t be.”
18
Connor
Our mother was the patron saint of death.
At least that’s the incarnation she seemed bent on taking on.
I stood before the foot of her bed, Lucas and Rory on either side of me. Our Great Aunt Prudence, meanwhile, fluffed our mother’s pillows, arranging her cotton-white hair around her wrinkled, spotted face, triple-checking the wires running from our mother’s reed-thin arms to the monitors beside her.
“Your poor mother,” Prudence cooed as she maneuvered her plump frame between the bed and the machines. “I can’t imagine who might’ve done this to her. But then, your parents always did seem to have the worst of luck in life.”
“Get out,” I said.
Prudence twisted toward me, her round eyes growing even rounder. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nevermind him, Aunt Prudence,” Lucas said. “You know Connor was raised by wolves. No manners whatsoever. What he meant to ask is if you wouldn’t mind giving us some alone time with our Mam.”
Prudence frowned. Actually, it was more of a pout. Her small, pink mouth screwed up tight like she was seething from some offense. Ninety-nine percent of the time, this was a response reserved for me. But at the end of the day, she was in our house, and we were stuffing her pockets with an obscene amount of money for her services, so she couldn’t afford to get into it with us.
After a moment, she remembered herself and relaxed her features with a nod, pasting on a smile. “Of course. I’ll be downstairs, preparing a mélange of herbs to set in the windowsills. They’re sure to give her pleasant dreams.”
The moment she walked past the threshold, I flicked a hand and the bedroom door slammed shut behind her.
“Careful,” Lucas warned with a smirk. “If you don’t play nice, you’ll run her off.”
“And how is that different from what any of them have done since the beginning?”
When Jack was born with a demon’s mark, it was like our family had suddenly become carriers of the Bubonic plague. Relatives made themselves scarce lest they caught whatever contagion had corrupted us. It got worse when Jack’s powers surfaced well ahead of schedule as a child, and worse still when he brought me back from the brink of death using dark magic. More specifically, when he set Declan O’Neill on fire, roasting him like a Sabbat pheasant.
After that, we were practically excommunicated from the clans, minus the formalities. Forget family distancing themselves; they outright washed their hands of us, telling us in so many words that it would be best if we kept to ourselves.
So I’d be damned if I was going to trust any of the ‘well-meaning’ relatives that suddenly dared step foot into Crowmarsh under the false pretense of ‘family helping family.’ Our mother hadn’t raised us to be fools.
“Still,” Lucas said, “those pumpkin spice snaps Prudence makes are first-rate, aren’t they?”
“So you want to choose our mother’s live-in Healer based on whether or not they make good enough snaps?”
Lucas grinned. “It’s as good a rating system as any other.”
I rolled my eyes, shrugging off the satchel hanging from my shoulder and pulling out The Book of Fates. “Let’s get on with it already.”
Within minutes, Rory had drawn a small sigil on our mother’s pale-as-porcelain skin, just beneath the hollow of her throat. Lucas arranged the candles, half of them blue for healing and half of them orange to energize our mother’s life force.
I turned to the spell I’d bookmarked with a bay leaf, the crisp pages crinkling like wax paper. I couldn’t understand how the Sacred Grimoire managed to hold up at all from my constant use lately except to say it had something to do with its magic. Each time I pored over it, I half expected its pages to disintegrate into dust, but they never did.
Lucas set the last candle into place. “You know, if Jack knew about this…” The shine in his eyes belied his concerns. Lucas lived to break the rules, and us doing this without Jack’s knowing was the kind of infraction that would give him life for the entire week. Especially since Jack had only been gone for mere days and we were already digging into trouble.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” I said.
Besides, Jack had kept his fair share of secrets from us. That’s something we Connellys were particularly good at apparently, keeping secrets.
Granted, it probably would’ve helped if Jack did know about this. Even better if he was present for it. He was the strongest witch of the four of us, and his powers would amplify the spell’s magic by a hundredfold. But we’d have to make do with what we had.
“What sort of spell is it anyway?” Lucas asked, sidling up beside me again to peer over my shoulder.
“It’s a blend of two spells. One is supposed to heal ailments of the mind. The other is meant to rouse a person’s spirit.”
Rory returned to my other side. There was a furrow between his eyebrows. It was the expression he wore when he wasn’t sure about something.
“What?” I asked, a little annoyed.
“How potent is each one?”
“It’s not as if the spells come equipped with some sort of measuring chart, Rory.”
He took The Book of Fates from me, running his fingertip over the first spell’s directions, the translation of which I’d scribbled onto a sticky note. He flipped to the second spell, also marked by a bay leaf, and did the same thing.
“You can’t always combine two different spells like this,” he said. “If they’re both too potent, there could be dangerous side-effects. Or, if they’re incompatible, they can either create a result you hadn’t intended or cancel each other out and do nothing at all. Customizing magic always has to be a precise science.”
I rolled my eyes again and looked to Lucas, who only smirke
d. Though Rory was the youngest of us, he was the expert on custom spellcraft. As our resident sigil artist, he was constantly creating new sigils by melding together the excised fragments of others. The custom hybrids were usually more powerful and exact in their magic.
But he hadn’t acquired his skill without extensive trial and error. I vividly recalled all the times Rory’s hybrids had gone awry: accidentally reanimating roadkill, flooding our rooms at St. Andrew’s (more than once), filling Crowmarsh with a storm of every bird species imaginable, and making the ocean that lapped at Rosalyn Bay’s shores completely dry up for the better part of an hour. Although I had to admit, the day he’d accidentally rendered Lucas mute for an entire afternoon had been a personal favorite.
“I’m well aware of the consequences,” I told Rory. “I checked their compatibility more than once.” He continued reviewing each spell as if he hadn’t heard me.
“Can you imagine the level of spellcraft we would’ve learned in a proper witching academy Elsewhere?” Lucas asked. Already restless, he took out a deck of cards and began shuffling it.
Elsewhere was filled with prestigious schools of the magical arts, and it was every witch’s birthright to attend one. Unfortunately, none of us had. The magic we knew was magic our parents had taught us and magic we’d learned from studying every family grimoire we could get our hands on. And naturally, Maurice and Seamus had stepped in as tutors now and then as well.
As the thought of my uncle scraped across my mind, my veins heated. I switched my eyes to my mother’s frail body. Seamus had done this. He’d used dark magic against her, and though Scarlet had unlocked her from the prison of her mind, it hadn’t been without this consequence. I couldn’t count the number of times I wanted to storm The Citadel and have at my uncle for his betrayal, for his lies, for his ever pretending like he gave a damn about us.
