Ruby Morgan Box Set: Books 6-10

by LJ Rivers

  “What?” This time my voice was calm and aimed at the boys. “You don’t think I’m serious? Speak ill of my family again, and I’ll show you how serious I can be.”

  Rhod started unbuttoning his red and black-chequered shirt, his silver-grey fur already protruding from his tanned and muscular upper body. He ripped his pants off, and I found myself staring into the wolf’s fiery eyes again. Osian also shifted, not quite as careful to keep his clothes intact. The smaller wolf moved to the side as if to prepare for a flank attack on me.

  “Back off!” I hated that I might have to hurt the wolves. I would heal them after, of course, but still. “There’s no need for violence.”

  Rhod sneered at me and raised his tail. He stood tall, pointing his ears forward. Osian mimicked the stance, unleashing a menacing snarl. He moved further to the side, and I was about to find myself between them.

  “Well, you asked for it.” With the fireballs still in my palms, I clapped my hands together. The effect was impressive, even to me. A loud whoosh ensued as the air caught fire, and a ten by ten-foot wall of fire appeared in front of me. “Last chance, guys.” I didn’t plan on sounding quite so smug, but didn’t mind it either. Even though I had no intention of using my fire against the wolves, I had hoped it would intimidate them enough to calm the situation.

  I was wrong.

  Osian barked and leapt towards me. I loaded a force field. Before I could throw it, however, the white wolf jumped in front of him and bared her teeth. The silver-grey wolf stopped in his tracks, snapping his teeth in response. I figured she had him under control and turned to deal with his cousin, the much larger Rhod. He glowered at me, then at the other two wolves, and back at me again. Something played in his eyes. It was as if I could see the human behind them.

  Then he moved. Slowly, he started padding towards Jen and Osian. He lowered his tail as he passed me and let out a couple of quiet barks.

  I called my fire back inside, but as I had done earlier in the morning, I kept it ready, together with my force field. Wide-eyed, I watched as the large, silver-grey Rhod went to stand next to his cousin.

  “Ruby!” a trembling voice cried behind me. “What are you doing?”

  My grandfather stood beneath the patio, two bottles of water in his hands. Behind him, my grandmother sat in her wheelchair, her mouth agape. Charlie and another girl, presumably the wee Lowrie, were standing on opposite sides of the wheelchair.

  “Ffiaidd yw hwn,” my grandmother whispered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kit lay on my lap, purring and licking my hand, seemingly unaware of the tension in the kitchen. Charlie and Jen sat next to me on the long wooden bench, while my grandparents sat on the opposite side. Rhod Hopkins and his cousin Osian had taken the horses to the northern part of the farm after my grandfather had convinced them to stay and keep their promise to assist him, and Lowrie had gone with them. It helped that Jen had talked to them as well, I suspected. She had clearly made an impression in the short time they had known each other.

  “You scared us there, Ruby,” my grandfather said.

  I understood where he was coming from, of course. I had scared Mum, too. And she already had the benefit of knowing about my mixed blood.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “That wasn’t my intention. The boys said some nasty things about Mum, and I guess I snapped.”

  “Ffiaidd yw hwn,” whispered my grandmother again.

  “I—I don’t know what that means.”

  “Llew?” she croaked.

  “Uhm, yes. I think the English word would be atrocity? No, abomination.”

  My heart sank.

  “It’s just not right, Ruby,” Lili said. “We’re Fae, and we don’t have tân. Some have light, but not tân.” She lifted her hand slowly, her fingers grasping as if to find the translation. “We don’t have fire.”

  I cleared my throat. “I can explain.” I almost added your honour, but didn’t quite think the situation was right for jokes. “As far as you know, Dennis Rivers was my father. A human.”

  One you didn’t approve of.

  “What you don’t know, however, is that he wasn’t my biological father. I won’t go into details, as this was Mum’s life, but the fact of the matter is that I’m the daughter of a Sorcerer as well as a Fae.”

  My grandmother gasped. Llewellyn didn’t show any sign of a reaction, however. Or did he? For a split second, I thought I caught something in his gaze.

  “To be honest, I thought it would make you happy,” I said, not able to—and not really trying to—hide the bitterness in my voice. “I know you didn’t approve of Mum being with a human.”

  “That may be,” Lili Helene said, “but it still doesn’t make it right. The ancient words of Queen Morgana were clear, and our kind have stayed true to it for centuries upon centuries. Elaine chose to break that promise. She chose to break the Morgana bloodline.”

  I wanted to dig deeper into this, but figured it might be best to leave it for now. “Her blood runs in my veins. It just so happens that I have the blood of a Sorcerer, too.”

  “Well, of course,” Lili exclaimed. “You have to understand, however, that you being able to wield Fae and Sorcerer powers at the same time is unheard of. It caught me off guard.”

  Charlie tapped my thigh under the table, and Jen took my hand in hers.

  “Was he a Pure, at least?” Lili Helene asked.

  I tilted my head. “Would it make any difference?”

  “He was,” said my grandfather absently.

  How did he know?

  He cleared his throat. “I mean, he must have been for you to have such powerful control of your fire.”

  Taking a deep breath, Lili placed her hands on the table, her arms trembling. “Forgive me, annwyl, but Sorcery err on the side of darkness, whereas Fae magic is borne of light. The two simply don’t mesh well.” The echo of Mum’s concerns about my heritage made me choke up.

  My grandfather patted his wife on her shoulder. “Let’s not bother the poor child with our worries, my dear. Ruby might not be a Pure Fae, but she is our grand—”

  I sighed, but before I could say anything, Charlie rose. “Ruby is a true Morgana in every possible way. Stop counting glaukocytes and get with the real world. This is the year 2020, not 1820.”

  “Excuse me, young lady,” Llewellyn said. At first, I thought he was angry, but he leaned forward, squinting at Charlie with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “What are glaukocytes?”

  “Oh, uhm.” Charlie glanced at me.

  I smiled. “Go ahead. You’re the clever one.”

  “Your magic, the magic of all Magicals, is somehow connected to your blood.” Charlie held her hand up. “No, I don’t mean your bloodline, although I guess that’s just another word for breed. Modern science has shown that magical blood contains a certain kind of blood cells as opposed to human blood.” She threw her hands up. “Like my blood.”

  Lili bit her lower lip, but didn’t interrupt.

  “Thus glaukocytes is the scientific term for blue blood cells,” Charlie continued. “By counting the number of blue blood cells in relation to the red and white ones, one can determine the level of purity for a Mag.”

  I kicked her on her shin.

  “We don’t much care for that Donnal word.” Llewellyn had sat back again, looking with interest at Charlie as she spoke. “Think you could refrain from using it while you’re our guest, perhaps?”

  “I apologise,” Charlie said.

  “Then we’ll speak nothing more of it. Now, I have heard about blood testing, but this is new to me. There’s nothing about it in my books.”

  Lili chuckled, seemingly having forgotten about her previous dismay. “Oh, that’s rich, with your study full of them.”

  “Well, I haven’t focused much on magical blood since your illness, Lili.” His voice carried a heart-breaking mix of love and sadness.

  “I know you don’t agree,” Charlie continued, “but just for the sake of a
rgument, let’s consider the possibility that your wife suffers from ALS. From what I’ve learned, any cure will most likely not be a blood-related one.”

  My grandfather shook his head slowly. “That’s where I think you and your modern medicine is wrong, young lady. If my Lili Helene has this clefyd—this disease you call ALS—nothing but her blood will save her. Just not here on your Earth.”

  “Let’s not dwell on that now.” Lili’s voice was suddenly both louder and more commanding. “No one is going anywhere today, that much is certain.” She smiled at me. “Your mother made a choice, and it’s not one you should have to answer to, annwyl. You are what you are, and we love you just the same. We will honour Elaine’s life and celebrate her spirit’s passing on Sunday. Whatever happens after that will happen.”

  Llewellyn rose. “I’d better go check on the boys. They tend to work a little fast, those Shifters, forgetting to pay attention to detail. If any of you girls can find it in you to help Lili with tea, I’d be much obliged.”

  “Of course,” I said. “By the way, the four of us are invited to the Wogans’ for dinner tonight.”

  “The four of you?” Lili asked.

  “I’ll be going with Rhys to pick up my boyfriend in Pwllheli. Brendan, remember?”

  Her chest rose in a heavy breath. “Oh, that’s right. Don’t worry, I haven’t lost my memory. Or my mind.”

  Charlie and Jen had volunteered to prepare something for tea, and while I felt I should have helped, there wasn’t much room in the small kitchen for another cook. Besides, Charlie had found a stack of old recipe books, which had inspired me to do some reading of my own.

  While the other girls shared a room, I had spent the short night across the hall alone. My grandfather had said they had plenty of room, and to a certain extent that was true. There were four bedrooms, in addition to my grandparents’, but they were quite small. A two-storey bunk bed and a chair by the window was all that would fit in mine. And it was all I needed.

  Kit had looked at me when I sat down and fished the old book out of my bag, as if he couldn’t believe I would spend such a lovely day inside. To be fair, I would have liked to sit in the sun, but I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I was reading a book full of blank pages. Kit had adopted so many human mannerisms, I just smiled at him when he scoffed at me and pranced out of the tiny crack in the doorway.

  William’s book, which was how I thought of it, had to have been written by dozens of different authors, maybe hundreds. Sometimes the pages had a name written at the top or bottom, sometimes a date or a year too. There could be drawings of the highest artistic quality on one page, while the next showed something a five-year-old might have scribbled. The topics varied from detailed stories about journeys the Phoenix had made to more banal descriptions of things he had seen. Or she, although it seemed most of the writing was done when the Phoenix lived as a man. I guessed it fit the times he or she grew up in.

  Madeleine was one of the female exceptions, and one I had grown fond of. She was raised by a poor family in the “sewers of London”, as she called it. At twelve years old, she was set to work for a wealthy merchant in Westminster, where she spent the next ten years of her life. Gregory, the youngest son of the merchant, took a fancy to young Madeleine, and while they could never live out their love, they spent as much time together as they could. When Gregory came home from school, and later university, he passed his teachings on to Madeleine.

  Charlie tapped on my window. I flinched and almost dropped the book.

  “This place is magical,” she said, her voice muffled by the thick glass. “Look!” Her hands were full of at least five different herbs.

  I gave her a thumbs-up, and she disappeared. I could hear her eager voice as she entered the kitchen seconds later, no doubt telling Jen about her findings. My heart was warm, and I sat there smiling for a while. The circumstances of our visit were still the most devastating I could imagine, but it was moments like these that gave me hope. Hope that I would make it through, somehow.

  Besides, Madeleine showed me that other people had seen worse things than I.

  Westminster, the 8th of September, 1666

  The smoke still scents the air, two full days after the fire has been quelled. Gregory tells me vast areas of London lie in charred ruins. He speaks eagerly on the subject; sometimes I fear he will reveal our alliance to his father. I cannot make myself believe his tales from inside the Roman walls; it simply cannot be true that people in the thousands have lost their homes. I dread the thought of what might have happened had the winds been eastbound. Gregory has assured me twice and twice again that my family has suffered no harm from the fire. He says we should praise the Lord in thanks, and I am tempted to follow his lead.

  Madeleine had written a couple more passages about the great London fire, and although it was an interesting part of history—and one I would have loved to tell Charlie about—it was the next part of the book that made me sit up and concentrate. It was written in 1728, and this time the Phoenix lived in the body of Francis Rivington-Blake. It was one of the very few surnames recorded, and I got the impression this Francis was a man I wouldn’t have liked. Still, as he “came of age”, he found a pressing voice inside him, compelling him to write about a chalice.

  I have no recollection of seeing the chalice myself, but as I have now learned what I am, I also accept the responsibility that follows my kind. And I use the word kind quite humorously, as I am the only one of my kind in the world. And in history.

  The chalice has not been seen for centuries, but I have spoken with Professor Archibald, and he has promised to search his personal archives. I have spent numerous afternoons and evenings at his residence, and I think he has taken a special interest in my skills. As he should, as there has been no better student at Eton for decades. My work on Robert Boyle has already been lauded as the pinnacle of work by a first-year student. The Dean thought it had been written by one of the professors.

  If Professor Archibald, or Noah, as he so generously allows me to call him, and I are successful in locating the chalice, I will be able to verify the memories that have surfaced during the past year or two. Until then, these notes will simply have to do.

  ★The chalice is made from Enchantium, a magical rock from Gwyn Fanon

  ★Inscriptions include symbols of the sword and the key

  ○(something tells me the key could be a combination of all three objects)

  ★Four symbols depict the distilling process of wine, but the ingredients do not make any sense in the actual manufacturing process

  ○I told Noah about my theory of the distilling being a false clue, and he agreed

  ○Could it be the Aqua Vitae process instead, which humans erroneously refer to as brandy?

  ○If so, Aqua Vitae might be the connection to Nimue.

  ○I will follow this up with Noah as well.

  ★I cannot grasp the final image in my head, but I suspect it will come to me in time. For now, it is something about a chest or a wooden box. It could simply be the container in which the chalice is held.

  What a pompous, self-righteous show-off. And although it would be too much of a coincidence, I couldn’t help but think about my father when I read the name of Francis’ professor. Noah Archibald sounded like the kind of alias Auberon would choose, should he have spent some time during the eighteenth century as a professor at Eton. I shook the thought away, focusing on the fact that the Etonian student was right. The chalice had indeed been in a wooden box. And, when I had found it—or it had found me—in the aircraft hangar south of London, the inscription on the box had been exactly those two words.

  Aqua Vitae.

  There were lots of symbols on the chalice, and although I hadn’t been able to interpret them, I knew I had seen them elsewhere, too. I looked at my Fitbit. It was still only a quarter past noon, but no, I wouldn’t make it today. Maybe I could talk to Rhys at dinner and ask if he would take me in his boat.


  I had to go back to the cave on Bardsey Island and look at the symbols on the walls again. And there was something else there, too, that I wanted to retrieve.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlie had really outdone herself, baking a Bara brith, a traditional bread with fruits and spices. She served it for tea, and although we were going to Rhys and Mari for supper, I had to taste it. After the first slice, I was defenceless and had two more—generously spread with butter.

  “I’ll be paying for this later,” I said as I stood to leave. “But it was just too delicious to have only a taste.”

  “You did a fine job.” Lili nodded at Charlie.

  “The recipe book,” Charlie replied. “It looks like it’s been handed down for some generations.”

  “Handed down and rewritten when it was too old and shabby. Many of the dishes were brought here from Avalon.”

  “That’s awesomesocks.”

  While Charlie tried to explain her favourite expression to my grandmother, I snuck a piece of bread to Kit and his new friend Bailey, who sat expectantly by my feet under the table. They accepted the offerings and scurried into the hallway as I went to brush my teeth and freshen up. Rhys would be here any minute, and we were going to Pwllheli to pick up Brendan. I wanted to look and smell my best.

  We didn’t talk much on the way up, Rhys and I, which was fine by me. Not that anything was wrong, far from it. After all, I was on my way to see Brendan again. Somehow, I just felt Rhys and I both wanted to enjoy the silence. He would be used to long days at sea, with only the gulls and terns to keep him company.

  Brendan was a sight worth waiting for, even if he had been the one waiting for us. He stood in the seaside parking lot, looking more handsome than ever. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt with a Union Jack on it. The necklace Mum had given him for Christmas hung around his neck, and his arms were bursting from hours upon hours of training. But his eyes took my breath away, those enchanting gems that had knocked me off my feet at the Freshers’ fair last September—well, I had crashed into him, but still. They shone like blue lanterns from his bronze-tanned face, accentuating his blindingly white smile.