An acrid scent wafted toward her. She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor.
“Let the smoke seep through you.” Dubtach brought the dish closer to her. “This batch of wormwood is special. Its high concentration of thujone will bring out your sight.”
Her skin tingled—a light quiver at first. She closed her eyes to concentrate. As she breathed in and out, the sensation strengthened to a full-body tremor: she was a tuning fork responding to stimuli from the universe and the seeing drug penetrating her system. The air Dubtach displaced when he moved swept the hem of her gown. His exhalations brushed her skin. Brysys opened her eyes. The scrying liquid had acquired a mesmerizing three-dimensional quality. Hovering above the woman’s outline, a silver triskelion glimmered against the dark background.
“The peripherals!” she exclaimed. “I see what you mean.”
Raising his fist, he shouted at the surface. “What? What is it? I can’t see a damned thing.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured with some relief. At least Dubtach wasn’t directing his frustration at her.
Her relief was short-lived.
Dubtach grasped her forearm. Rough fingertips dug into her flesh and shook. “I’m tired of your games. Speak, witch. My lord and I are fed up. All this time, you’ve taken advantage of our generosity and offered nothing of value in return. Astarot is ready to feed you to his hounds. When he does, I won’t stop him.”
She swallowed, holding back a yelp of pain. What he called generosity, the dictionary would define as centuries of captivity. Protesting served no purpose, and under the containment spell, her magic powers were limited and inefficient. Her only recourse was to continue playing along and offering tidbits while hoping the universe would grant her a good opportunity to escape.
Come on, come on. Reveal yourself to me. Please. Give me something, anything.
As if hanging from a steady point above, the triskelion swung, once to each side. At last, the liquid spoke. Perhaps it was accepting her scrutiny.
“The woman’s features haven’t solidified yet. But I sense the triskelion above her head is a key of sorts, the way in. There’s a relationship between the item and her, a significance of some importance. Do you see it?”
“No. I still don’t.”
“Midpoint, two inches below the rim. Polished silver. It’s a beautiful piece. I’ve never seen anyone wearing it, and somehow…”
“Yes…” Pressing his hand above his heart, Dubtach released a long breath. “Oh, yes. I know you. Bastard. How did you escape?”
“Who?”
Ignoring her question, Dubtach glanced at Astarot. “My lord. You won’t believe this.”
The discussion between the elves and Astarot stopped.
“These days, nothing surprises me,” Astarot grunted as he left his seat and approached the scrying alcove. Walking behind him, Nylham’s lord was tall, distinguished, and bright compared to Astarot’s squat, swarthier looks. The elf lord studied her briefly. His thoughts, he kept to himself.
Clasping her hands behind her back, Brysys stepped out of Astarot’s way. He stared at her for an icy moment, then looked into the liquid.
“I knew it was too good to be true.” Astarot frowned.
The elf raised his white eyebrows. “Too good, Astarot? Your meaning escapes me.”
“Lord Alain, to my complete displeasure and shock, the waters are revealing Kailen is still alive.”
This is Lord Alain? Brysys stiffened with mounting fear. She shouldn’t be witnessing any of this. Eternal foes, elves and daemons were socializing like the best of friends. Calling upon her emergency magic, she used the slightest touch to wrap herself in shadows. If she faded, maybe they’d forget about her.
The elf leader peeked at the scrying surface. “I had no idea you had an interest in Kailen.”
Astarot arched an eyebrow. “I was assured Dian Cécht’s annoying descendant and his witch lover had met their end during the battle at Svanetia.”
Dubtach bowed. “Apologies. Evidently, we both received incorrect reports, Lord. I can assure you the female was executed. Mage Oras will be punished for his perfidy.”
“Are you certain she’s gone, Dubtach? At this point, I expect solid proof.”
“Lord, I… I personally teleported to Nadrine’s home to confirm and found no trace of her. The place was in abandoned disarray, I assumed the job—”
“Enough.” Astarot’s nostrils flared. “See that Mage Oras learns his lesson. I won’t tolerate any more inefficiency. Gods, incompetents are all around me.”
“Pity.” Alain whisked to his chair by the cabinets. Despite the dim light, his aquamarine gown shimmered. “You trusted others when I could’ve answered most of your questions. Kailen isn’t hiding, you know.”
“I believed him dead. I had no reason to inquire.”
“You’ve a point.”
“Dubtach, keep searching that water. And make sure the witch speaks.” Astarot followed Alain. “So, what can you tell me? Where is Kailen?”
“He’s living in New York State. In the Catskills, to be exact. Every aspect of life at Soren Westerberg’s mansion is under his supervision. He repelled the mates’ kidnapping attempt. As of today, he’s finished reinforcing the mansion’s security systems with the help of the new sorceress. You know, the elves have their own spy network.”
“What kidnapping attempt? Dubtach!” Astarot shouted at the sorcerer.
The high wizard’s normally dark skin faded to the color of ash. Brysys settled farther back into the alcove’s latticed frame. This rare moment of satisfaction had to be enjoyed to the fullest. Dubtach had overstepped his authority. By daemon law, Astarot controlled and approved every mission against the Titanians. A failed unsanctioned operation might cost the sorcerer his prized position of trust and the ear of his lord.
Dubtach lowered his head in obeisance. “Urgent information came to us while you were in conference with Idrás, the demon prince. Interrupting formal discussions was unthinkable, and wasting the opportunity was inadvisable. So, we took a chance.”
“We?”
“Uh…” Dubtach blinked. “Ambassador Devon discovered a mate’s symbol in Soren’s scroll. I passed the information to Midrin, Lord Alain’s second-in-command. When the initial kidnap attempt in Manhattan failed, I sent minions to Soren’s mansion the following night. The security rings collapsed, but Kailen and Roald’s damned dog repelled the attack.”
“Seriously?” Astarot’s eyes widened. “A dog?”
Alain laughed. “That dog happens to be Fenrir’s descendant.”
“Whatever. Good-for-nothing wimps, total waste of magic.” Astarot sat, waving for Nylham and Dubtach to do the same. “Sit down and give it to me straight. I want details, machinations, possibilities, and most of all, the current status of the Sterling compound. Do we still have a lab in Manhattan?”
“We don’t.” Alain folded his gown over his knees. His gestures were delicate and precise. Brysys watched the elf’s unflappable demeanor with a touch of envy. Daemons were an irascible bunch, yet the elf didn’t seem to care or fear. Being lord and leader of the elves afforded him every advantage and right.
Alain continued speaking. “Brant meddled with Sterling’s memory at about the same time that Bromm, Eachann’s close friend, was discovered snooping inside the pier lab. We destroyed the site and moved all our records to a new facility in a remote location.”
Tucked into her corner, Brysys listened, barely breathing. Eachann’s back in the fight? Centuries ago, she’d heard the guards’ chatter. The big vampire had believed Graeme’s duplicitous lies. Thinking Brysys had betrayed him, Eachann embarked on a worldwide rampage of destruction. She’d never learned the outcome of his anger. For years, she’d wondered if a Titanian had given Eachann the death he sought or locked him up in his Scottish manor where eventually, he turned to stone. Apparently, nothing so dramatic had occurred.
“What happened to Bromm?” Dubtach asked.
; “Our intention was to inflict so much pain on him that he would call out to Eachann to save him.” Alain shifted. “Lucky werewolf, when the order to dismantle the lab was sent, confusion ensued, and he managed to teleport out.”
“Why didn’t anyone chase him?” Astarot grumbled. “He’ll reveal our plans.”
Alain’s laughter rang out. “Please, the conspiracy is well known. We haven’t been exactly tidy with our experiments, and mangled remains have been left strewn over Europe. Titanians and werewolves aren’t fools.” Leaning forward, he whispered, “But they don’t have the details.” Grinning, he sat back.
“And our newest creation?” Astarot asked.
“We sent the prototype to the Manhattan bar where Titanians hang out,” Dubtach said. “The actual owner has been disposed of. The creature’s now in place, waiting for Soren and company.”
“Nice little ambush. Have you finalized the strategy for our attack on Stø?” Astarot steepled his fingers. “If you bungle that one, your life is forfeit.”
“Lord, no.” Dubtach’s skin paled again. “The attack will be carried out per your wishes and instructions. Adalheidis won’t be touched or hurt.”
Astarot held up a finger. “Not a hair on her head.”
“Of course, Lord. Of course.”
“Tell me.” Astarot turned to the elf. “What is the current situation with the lab?”
“It’s perfect.” Running his slender fingers through his long hair, Alain combed it away from his face. His sleeves rolled back, displaying a Gorgon tattoo on his wrist. “To prevent witches from extracting the location out of casual conversations, only four of us know where it is, and we use code. That includes Dubtach, here. We have the staff under a disassociation spell. They have no idea where they are and are working under a targeted hypnotic suggestion. None of them know their purpose or the end result, or question it. The lieutenants assigned to guard the site are as good as mute.”
A deep line crossed Nylham’s forehead. “My lord Alain, please forgive me. Are you sure the lab’s location can’t be gleaned through any other method?”
Brysys’s eyes widened. Nylham was on to something. She’d heard of mages and sorceresses who read memories and extracted motive and destination from inanimate objects. But those were a rare handful and required special powers.
“Very good, Nylham.” Alain nodded. “I like your suspicious mind. We’ve taken every precaution. No mage or witch alive has the power of memory, not even Khnurn. I did my research, Lord Astarot. I’m not worried.”
The elf lord exuded pride. In her opinion, he bordered on hubris. He acted convinced that nothing stood in his way and was close to bursting with satisfaction. To each idiot his own foolishness, she thought.
Astarot sighed. “Then we don’t need the witch. Get rid of her, Dubtach.” He pointed at her without looking.
Brysys dropped the shadow spell and came back to full display. Dubtach, Alain, and Nylham studied her. The mage was serious, Alain seemed amused, and Nylham sneered.
“Aww, don’t be so hasty,” Alain said. “I’d keep her. She still has good uses. Let her continue scrying the magic waters. I’m curious to hear more about Khnurn’s protégé. Where did she come from? Was she made or born? What’s her ancestry?”
“Indeed, my Lord Alain. I’m also interested,” Dubtach added. “Why did Khnurn go through all the trouble to protect her from me?”
“You see? The sorceress has her uses. And besides, you can’t eliminate such a lovely creature.” Alain winked at her. “I’ll take her off your hands, if you like.”
Astarot groaned.
“Consider that another pair of eyes keeping tabs on the Titanians and their allies is an advantage,” Alain pressed his point. “It’s important to investigate Khnurn, to follow any trail he leaves behind. One can never get too comfortable when the old goat is involved.”
“All right. All right. I give.” Astarot raised his palms. “Brysys will stay. But if she doesn’t produce…”
“I’ll handle the execution personally, my lord.” Dubtach bowed. “She’ll be gone, out of your presence forever.”
“Get up!” The harsh command and forceful tug on her arm woke her right up. It took Brysys but a second to focus on Dubtach’s eyes close to hers.
“What…” She tried to wipe the sleep off her face.
He tugged harder. “I’m taking you out now. There’s no time to waste.”
“B-but, I don’t—”
“Stop asking questions. Put clothes on, prepare to teleport.”
Dubtach waved his arm. A portal crackled open in her cell, displacing every loose item against the walls. The air within the frame rippled. Her heart skipped at the wondrous sound of freedom. What she’d dreamed about, her path out of captivity, had appeared, and so close, she could touch it. And yet her skin prickled with fear, and a weird foreboding descended upon her.
She sat frozen at the edge of her cot. “Something’s off. You look worried. Don’t deny it.”
“Yes, something is off, all right,” he barked. “Our plans have failed. It’s a complete disaster. The Manhattan drone was killed, the Alaska lab destroyed, and Adalheidis rescued. I heard Sterling and Midrin are dead, and the chemical formula Alain was so keen on having was lost when the human died. Astarot is on a killing rampage. I’m surprised you haven’t been chopped to pieces yet. Come.” Pulling her to her feet, he dragged her toward the portal.
“But I’m bound to Tenebrarium by the containment spell.”
“Don’t act dumb and stop delaying. We’re not leaving Tenebrarium. Join your force to mine and you’re out of your cell.” He stomped with impatience.
“Where are we going now?”
“To my wing in the castle. I need to figure out the logistics of escaping the exile realm, and you are going to help me.”
“Won’t that put you at odds with Astarot?”
“Since when do you care?” He leaned into her. “Besides, I’m not telling him a thing, nor am I hanging around to see what he does or how long his fury lasts. In his present state, he’ll likely blame me for the disaster and for keeping you alive.”
“He’ll know, Dubtach. He’ll know.”
“By the time he figures out what I did, I’ll be hiding under a rock somewhere on the earth plane. What’s it going to be?”
She picked up her hooded cloak and wrapped it around her thin nightgown. “I’m going.”
He yanked her inside the portal.
As Brysys exhaled, her cell disappeared. The change in locations was instant. She stood in place, bewildered, but Dubtach pushed her forward.
She stumbled a few paces as she struggled to get her bearings and balance. He came up behind her. The heat from his body seeped through her clothing. She wanted to run away, but didn’t know where she was. Her vision continued to adjust. The curtains and tapestries were not as heavy or as dark as others in the castle. The smell wasn’t as bad or as musty. The huge bed indicated this was a man’s bedroom.
“You’re in my private chambers. And believe me, wards are up. Don’t think you can escape.” His hot breath washed the back of her neck. He twisted his fingers around her hair, tilting her head to the side.
The need to push him away was unbearable, but the practical side of her mind evaluated the situation in a split second. An urgent warning to slow down, consider her options, and endure whatever came was issued. She still clung to the idea of freedom, of escape to the earthly plane.
“Liberty comes at a cost,” he murmured, his flat tongue laving her neck. Her stomach heaved. He pushed the cloak off her shoulders, and the garment slid to the floor. “And I expect my due. Without any resistance.”
His pointy fingernail ran down her arm, and her stomach convulsed again, bringing up bile. Brysys covered her mouth.
“Did you hear me?”
Dubtach ripped the back of her nightgown. The mangled pieces fell on top of her cloak.
She dropped her head in submissive resignation. She
should’ve known there’d be a harsh price attached. Nevertheless, she’d pay it.
“Yes.”
The universal gods had turned their kind eyes toward Brysys, but only to a point. The magical explosion had cast her alone halfway down the mountain. Of Dubtach, not the slightest sign or trace was seen anywhere. With luck, her path wouldn’t cross with his again. However, her magic had been depleted. She could only muster her last bits of personal fortitude to endure the elements and continue descending. Survival instinct and her own stubbornness kicked in, reminding her that life, safety, and warmth waited closer to the base of the mountain.
Her ordeal had taken forty-eight hours. Two days of bitter cold and harsh conditions, of shredded palms, abraded knees and elbows, of frostbitten toes, and torn-up clothing, of tucking her tortured body within shallow icy cracks for a few hours’ rest: her penance for her misdeed with Dubtach, for breaking her druid oath to abjure all manner of death magic.
Brysys had reached her lowest point ever, the absolute nadir of morals when she willingly gave herself to Dubtach. The Harpies, vilest of all creatures, had higher standards. And what little remained of her pride and self-esteem, the mountain had sliced to bits and hurled them to the wind.
All for the sake of Eachann. Ages ago, she’d vowed to offer anything, sacrifice herself if necessary, to reach Scotland. To have one moment with Eachann to redeem herself, show him the truth, that she could never betray the one she adored above others. How could he believe the lies Graeme had spewed, when from the beginning of their affair, she’d proven her unquestionable devotion? She’d left behind her parents and mentors, ignored the warnings of her disapproving clan to be his mate, to be at his side, to love him.
Eachann’s doubt had carved a festering wound in her, made all the more painful by the loneliness and remoteness of her prison. Ironically, he was the force that kept her living. Even if he never listened to her arguments, she’d never regret defiling her eternal soul with death magic for that one chance.
The descent through packed ice, treacherous terrain, and frigid temperatures had numbed her to the core. Had she been human, she wouldn’t have made it. Survival cost her dearly. Every step exacted a toll, a bit of life-saving magic.
The Last Danann (Titanian Chronicles, #2) Page 5