by Keri Arthur
By the time I’d run back, the false wall was down and the fuel source revealed. The flames raged through the first section of a vast shelving unit filled with ancient-looking books. Mo’s magic flowed either side of this unit, shielding and protecting its sister shelves.
“Aim at the base of the fire and gradually sweep upward.”
Mo’s voice was distant, her expression one of intense concentration. The energy pouring from her fingertips was so fierce it made the small hairs on my arms and neck rise.
I squeezed the extinguisher’s trigger handles together, and foam sprayed out. It didn’t immediately smother the flames, but I swept the nozzle back and forth, covering the base of the unit before working upward. White smoke billowed, catching in my throat and making me cough, but the foam eventually did its job.
When the last flicker of fire was erased, I released the handles and put the extinguisher down. Only the books on the top shelf of this first section of shelving had escaped major damage; the rest were a charred and stinking mess.
Mo lowered her hands, but her magic lingered in the air, tiny wisps of power that hung like fireflies in the darkness. She took a deep, somewhat shuddering breath and then walked past me to inspect the shelf.
“It’s the goddamn history section that’s been hit.”
I grabbed the flashlight, but the yellowish beam just made the damage seem all that much worse.
“Why would someone want to burn history books? It’s not like there aren’t plenty of libraries containing the oral and written history of the witch houses.”
“Yes, but this is the only place that holds, amongst other things, the full birth records of all seven houses, dating back since before the time of the Witch King. And there are books missing.”
My gaze shot to the charred remnants. “How can you tell?”
She motioned toward the top shelf. “Whoever set the fire wasn’t counting on anyone getting here so fast. Books four, six, and eight are gone.”
I pointed the flashlight up. The top shelf contained the birth records of the Aquitaines. My heart began to beat a little faster. “Someone’s looking for Uhtric’s heirs.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you were attacked on the day of blessing—the one day of the year the sword is vulnerable.”
“Except the sword wasn’t attacked—someone had been trying to draw it. And the demons didn’t hit until after the blessing was completed.”
“Which could have been a matter of mistiming on their part. Demons aren’t the brightest creatures sometimes.”
Could have been, but wasn’t, her tone seemed to imply. “Do you think demons are also responsible for this fire?”
Mo shook her head. “Demons ain’t got the smarts to get past the protections around the tower. Whoever did this was a witch of some standing.”
“A Lancaster?”
“Maybe, although as I said earlier, it wasn’t anyone from around here.”
“Could it have been the man who raised the sword this morning? I know the Aquitaines generally aren’t capable of personal magic, but given the line isn’t pure anymore—”
“There are a few direct descendants left, even if they no longer live in these parts.” Mo frowned. “I think I’d better contact Jackie up north and see if she can track down the two up there.”
Jackie was one of Mo’s old school friends, if I remembered right. I’d never actually met her, but they talked regularly on the phone. “If someone intends to go after the competition, why now? That sword has been stuck in stone for hundreds of years and even we—the last of its guardians here in Ainslyn—don’t know what Uhtric ultimately intended beyond saving it for the next true king.”
Which in itself was rather odd given that Uhtric, at the time of his death, had one son and two daughters. Surely either his son or his grandsons, however young they’d been at the time, would have fit that description.
“The sword is a weapon against darkness and exists because evil exists,” Mo said. “But such power can be dangerous in the wrong hands, so the sword is always sheathed until the time comes again for its use.”
I blinked. “That sounds as if Uhtric wasn’t the first to draw the sword.”
“He wasn’t—there were two others before him. The sword is not a part of Aquitaine rule, even if only one who wears the crown can draw it.”
Which was news to me and made me wonder just how much more there was to the story of the sword and the crown than I’d been taught. “But the crown—and the rule—of the Aquitaine kings no longer exists.”
“Their rule might be long over, but the crown remains.”
I frowned. “Isn’t it a replica on display in the Tower of London? Wasn’t the real one destroyed in the cleansing of artifacts that happened after Layton married Elizabeth?”
Layton had been the very last king to sit on the Aquitaine throne. Not only had his marriage to Elizabeth of York combined human and witch royalty and signaled the end of true witch rule in England, it had also handed his descendants a means of curtailing any magical attacks on human monarchs—one that was still in force today.
“Yes, it is,” Mo said. “But the real crown wasn’t destroyed in the cleansing—it disappeared weeks before the marriage.”
“But he was wearing it the night of the ceremony.”
“That was a hastily created copy—the very one that now sits in the Tower. No one knows for sure who took the true crown, but some suspect the Blackbirds were involved.”
My confusion deepened. “Why would anyone think that, given their duty was to protect the king?”
“Their duty was to crown more than king, and Layton in his madness was in the process of destroying everything they’d sworn—on their lives—to protect. It was obviously enough to draw them out of what I can only presume was a self-imposed exile.”
“Layton wasn’t mad—”
“You didn’t know him.”
“Neither did you. You’re old, Gran, but you’re not that old.”
She swatted my arm. “Call me that again, and I’ll curse your sex life for the next month.”
“Go for it. It’s not like it’ll affect me in the slightest.”
In fact, I’d been in a serious rut ever since Tris had left to chase work in London ten months ago. He’d been my first boyfriend, and while we were no longer romantically involved, we remained in the “friends with benefits” category.
Mo shook her head, her sad expression countered by the twinkle in her eyes. “It’s sometimes hard to believe we came from the same gene pool. Must be the Okoro blood in you.”
“I doubt that has anything to do with it.” Max never had any trouble getting partners, and he’d obviously inherited far more Okoro genes than me.
“Then perhaps I should—”
“No.”
“Just a tiny little—”
“No. Definitely not. I’d rather remain celibate for the rest of my life than have you magic someone into it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do anything too permanent. Just a week or two, to ease some of the tension.”
“My tension levels are just fine, and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own needs if necessary.”
“No granddaughter of mine should be reduced to self-service—seriously, what is wrong with the young men in this town?”
I shrugged. It was Mia’s theory that we were all simply “too much woman” for them to handle. I rather suspected it more a case of “familiarity breeds contempt.” We’d grown up with most of our male peers, and they all had one thing in common—a very high opinion of their prowess, be it magical or sexual. Thankfully, Tris had never really fit into that category. Maybe I needed to head up to London for a week or two … although I never liked going anywhere uninvited, and Tris had all but fallen off the map these past few months. He didn’t even text me anymore, despite the fact we used to talk on the phone every other day.
“I’m not having this conversation with you yet again, Mo, s
o if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check why the damn alarms aren’t working.”
Her chuckle followed me. I ignored it and walked around the basement’s perimeter, scanning the ceiling for smoke alarms and sprinklers. There were a dozen of the latter and six of the former, and a telltale shimmer surrounded each of them. I stopped under the one near the exit door.
“Found something?” Mo said.
I glanced across at her. She had her phone in hand but had obviously told whoever was on the other end to hold. “The smoke detectors are shielded by magic.”
“And the source?”
I returned my gaze to the alarm. “I’m not sure … it’s almost elemental but darker in feel.”
“Define darker.”
I narrowed my gaze and looked past the shimmer to examine the twisting strings of energy of the spell. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before and reeked of evil. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was demonic in nature, which make no sense given demons aren’t capable of magic.”
“There’s more living in Darkside than just demons, Gwen, and many of them are capable of magic.”
Darkside was basically a reflection of our world that existed in the same space but on a different plane. Through means no one really understood, gateways had formed between our plane and theirs. The major gateway—Hell’s Gill—was the one Uhtric had sealed. Minor gateways still existed, but for the most part they were located in regional cities rather than major. Generally, the only demons that came through were either minor or juvenile, with the occasional appearance of the winged warrior class. There’d been no full-blown, coordinated attacks since Uhtric’s time.
I looked across at Mo again. “Uhtric’s war destroyed the dark elves.”
“No, Uhtric merely re-caged them, and the effort basically killed him. You cannot destroy all those who live in shadows—not without killing all those who live in light. One is a reflection of the other.”
“Oh, that’s just—” I paused and cocked my head. After a moment, I heard it again—a very faint tick, tick. It was coming from the other side of the exit door, and moving away rather than toward us. Someone—or something—else was in the building. “Mo, is this door alarmed?”
“As far as I’m aware, only the upstairs exit doors and the exhibits are. Why?”
“There’s someone moving around on the floor above us.”
“Could be security running a check, but take Einar with you, just in case.” She whipped the long knife from under her coat. “And be careful. We have no idea what else the bastard who lit the fire might have been up to.”
I walked across. Einar was far older than even my daggers, and had been carved out of a solid piece of stone that was as black as ink. I had a similar stone knife but mine was plain, unadorned, and held absolutely no power. The glyphs that ran down Einar’s blade glowed briefly at my touch, as if in recognition, and then faded back into darkness. As the hilt warmed in my grip, a soft but steady pulse rose from the stony heart of the blade. Mo had once told me that it was nothing more than the lingering echo of the power that had once flowed through it, but I’d always suspected there was far more to this blade than that.
Which was a pretty common suspicion when it came to my grandmother. I loved her to bits, but her often enigmatic replies to my questions were more than a little frustrating.
I turned and walked back to the door. The handle was cool against my fingertips, despite the lingering heat in the air. Tension pulsed through me, and my grip tightened on Einar’s hilt. The blade’s inner beat grew stronger and made me wonder if it was somehow echoing my fears.
I cautiously opened the door and peered out. An unadorned stone corridor led to ancient stairs that spiraled upward. I stepped out, then froze as the ticking stopped and a thick wave of awareness rolled through the air.
Not mine.
The intruder’s.
My pulse rate leapt, and my breath caught in my throat. The silence stretched on, eating at my nerves.
After what seemed like an eternity, the ticking resumed, but more cautiously than before. Recognition stirred.
Claws.
The ticking was the sound of claws against stone. There was a demon in the tower.
But how was that even possible, given the time? Demons couldn’t move around in daylight, and there’d been no hint of their stench in the tunnel we’d used.
So why was it here? Did it have its own agenda or was it working with whoever had lit the fire? While it was extremely rare to find a witch willing to deal with demons—those who did cross that line were swiftly and brutally dealt with—it was also unlikely that the demon’s presence here was a coincidence. Somehow, the fire, the attack on the island, and this demon were all connected.
It was the how we needed to uncover.
I padded forward silently, my gaze on the stairs but every other sense focused on the sound coming from the floor above.
The ticking stopped again. I paused, one hand on the wall as I looked up. The curving nature of the staircase made it impossible to see anything, but even so, the imminent sense of danger jumped tenfold.
I rolled my shoulders and then cautiously continued on. Once I’d neared the top of the stairs, I stopped again. The simple rope barrier stretched across the exit arch swayed lightly, though the air itself was still. I couldn’t see a great deal of the main hall from where I stood, but I knew the layout well enough. The old tower was quadrilobate in shape, rather than the usual circular design, with each “lobe” holding different functions. The one to my immediate left contained toilet facilities—updated for modern sensibilities, of course—while the two opposite were now the souvenir shop and the display room, which currently held the throne, amongst other things. The floor above—the most intact and original portion of the tower—contained the bedchambers.
The intruder was in the display room.
I took a deep breath, then ascended the remaining steps and carefully peered around the edge of the archway. The main hall was empty, but the motes of dust dancing in the light streaming through the window slits spoke of recent movement.
My gaze went to the doorway of the opposite lobe. I couldn’t see any sign of movement but the ticking had now given way to a steady thump, thump. The intruder was hitting something.
I stepped over the rope barrier and walked on, my sneakers making little sound on the old stone floor. Even so, I was barely halfway across the great hall when the thumping stopped and that wave of awareness rolled over me again.
I paused, my grip tightening on Einar’s hilt. Nothing moved. Nothing rushed out at me.
But just as I was about to walk on, energy surged, a force that was both fierce and foul. Its source wasn’t one of the witch houses remaining today. Wasn’t a creation of light.
It was born of darkness. Of ill intent.
Smoky strings of magic slithered through the doorway and slunk toward me. Goose bumps fled across my skin, but I somehow held still against the instinctive need to run. While the design of the spell as a whole was unfamiliar, some of the outer strings held similarities to a probing spell. That being the case, running might just set off whatever retaliatory action had been woven through the rest of it.
Einar began to glow fiercely, and the blade’s power pulsed outward in waves. I had no idea what it intended or whether it would, in any way, be a match for the dark spell, and had no immediate desire to find out. Especially given that, in my hands, Einar was little more than a razor-sharp blade with a thirst for demon blood.
And it certainly wasn’t a demon standing in the throne room.
I hastily shoved the knife under my shirt, against my skin, and vaguely hoped my natural immunity to magic would somehow shield the pulsing. Several strings broke away from the main part of the dark spell and slithered toward me. It took every ounce of willpower to remain still, to not react as the smoky snakes wound up my legs. They might be insubstantial wisps, but they were heavy with a sense of depravation. I shuddered, and the strings
paused, their ends rising sharply and snapping back and forth, as if ready to strike.
Magic surged.
Its source wasn’t the snakes or even the unseen intruder. It was Mo, casting a sunsphere spell and, I suspected, deliberately drawing the probe away from me. She would have sensed its creation, and the fact she hadn’t come flying up the stairs to confront the intruder meant she thought me more than capable of dealing with the spell’s creator.
Which should have gone a ways to calming my inner tension, but didn’t.
The snakes unwound themselves from my legs and chased after the main spell, slithering into the stairwell. I sucked in a deep breath and then pulled Einar free and continued on.
The thumping resumed.
I padded across to the open doorway and pressed back against the wall. After another of those useless deep breaths, I edged forward and peered around the doorframe.
The throne had been pulled away from its position against the far wall and the shards of both physical and magical alarms lay in pieces around its base.
Standing side-on to it, with an axe in his hands, was a man. He was tall and thin, with pale gray skin and long white hair that was held back in a ponytail by an elaborate metal barrette. His face was long and gaunt, and his ears pointed, their ends tipped with black metal that matched the color of his armor. My gut began to churn.
A dark elf.
Here, in the last remaining remnant of the Witch King’s castle.
Fuck.
He looked up at that moment and our gazes met. His eyes were red—all red, no white—and his pupils narrow and oval in shape, rather like a snake’s.
A long, slow grin stretched thin blue lips and, in a casual manner, he rested the axe against the splintered and broken back of the throne and then reached for his sword. Anticipation gleamed in his eyes, and for one weird moment, I got the impression he knew who I was.
But that was impossible … wasn’t it?
“Fortune favors the dark realm, it would seem,” he said. “You will not escape us a second time, little witch.”
I’d been expecting the guttural harshness of the demons, but the dark elf’s voice was deep and as sweet as honey. It only made me fear him more.
