by C. L. Roman
He unlocked his front door and left it open behind him. Maeve must have followed him inside, because the next thing he knew, her hands were on his shoulders, pressing him down onto the couch.
"I'll get you a cup of tea. You look beat."
"Yeah, it's been rough," he said. His gaze fell on Gran's book, still where he'd left it on the coffee table. Rising, he picked it up and slid it between two paperbacks on a makeshift bookshelf he'd created from pine planks and cinder-blocks. "She's always been a major force in my life. The world feels... smaller, somehow, without her in it."
Maeve paused in gathering the kettle and cups for tea. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table. "Is that why you're suddenly ready to acknowledge my existence? I don't need your pity."
"You have my sympathy, and that is a very different thing." She put his cup on the table and sat down across from him. "But to answer your question..." She hesitated, turning her cup on its saucer before raising her eyes to meet his again. "After our little meeting last week, I went home for a few days. Until you showed up here, I thought you were dead. So, when I saw you, I was angry."
"At me?" His eyebrows arched in surprise. "I was seven the last time I saw you. They told me you were imaginary. How was I supposed to know any different?"
"I knew," she said quietly. "So, I assumed you did too. It never occurred to me that your family would hide your abilities from you — or even that such a thing was possible."
"So now you know. Are you still angry?" He looked at her, his insides twisting as he waited for her answer.
“I felt abandoned, but that wasn’t true.” She shook her head. "Even if it was, you didn't owe me anything. After all, just knowing me nearly cost you your life. But I was mad, even though it made no sense. And then it made even less sense when I knew it wasn't your fault." She sighed and gave him a crooked grin. "Hard to hold on to anger when you know there isn't any reason for it."
Something in her words caught at him. "Wait. How did you know that it wasn't my fault?"
"The same way I knew that Neala died. My mother told me."
"Neala? You mean Gran?" he asked. "And how did your mother know?"
A tiny smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. "She tends to know a lot of things she probably shouldn't. But in this case, she knew because Neala told her."
"That isn't possible. Gran hasn't been to the Fae realm since —"
"There are a lot of ways to travel, Jackson. And believe me, your grandmother knew them all. Aelfholm is her birthplace. She could have gone there any time she wanted. But you're right. After Balor tried to murder you, she didn't want to."
"Yeah, that lines up. But it doesn't answer my question. In my experience, dead women don't talk much, so how did your mother know Gran was dead?"
"I told you; Neala told her. Her body is dead, Jacks. But her spirit is very much alive." Maeve stood up, gathering the cups and taking them to the sink. After a moment she leaned her hip against the counter and faced him.
Jackson stared at her, his mouth hanging open. "That isn't... If she's dead, shouldn't her spirit have..." He waved his hands in the air. "I don't know. Gone to heaven?"
"Heaven? What makes you think she'd have gone there?"
Anger burned along the back of his neck. "Gran was a good person. She certainly wasn't deserving of Hell."
Maeve dismissed his words with a swish of her fingers. "That's not what I meant. Neala was half Fomorian. Her spirit would have been welcomed in Avalon when she died. I guess she could have gone to Heaven if she wanted." She shrugged. "The point is, she had options, and she chose not to cross over. At least for now."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"I agree. But I don't have an explanation. All I know is, she came to my mother and asked her to send me back into the human world." She turned back to the sink. “She didn’t mention your name, and wouldn’t tell Mother why, only that it was important. But I think maybe she wanted me to help you.”
"Help me with what?"
"I was hoping you'd know."
Jackson hesitated an instant before replying. "No idea."
A thump and a thick paper rustling came from the living room. With a quick look at each other, the couple went to investigate.
On the table, laying open to a blank page was the grimoire. As they watched, writing appeared in an elegant script. Tell her.
Maeve tilted an eyebrow at him. "Tell me what?"
"Who is doing that?"
"If that's Neala's grimoire, I'd bet on her." She gave him a measured stare. "What does she want you to tell me?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
The writing continued. Our last moments together. Tell her.
Jackson gritted his teeth as guilt gnawed at him. "I —"
It wasn't your fault, you daft boy. I told you that. When are you going to start listening to me?
Maeve tilted her head to read and then looked up. "What wasn't your fault?"
Jackson dropped onto the couch. "Her death. She was holding my hands, and she cast some kind of spell. For my protection, I think. And then she... She died."
Maeve's cheeks drained of color, and she sat next to him. "When she cast the spell, what did you feel?"
"Feel?" Jackson frowned. "I don't know. There was this hum of — energy — I guess. And then light around our hands. It sort of sank into me and then it was gone."
"And you felt charged? Like your body was too small to hold your energy." It wasn't a question.
"No — yes." He shook his head. "I mean, yeah, for a second there was that, but then I realized Gran was gone and all I could feel was her loss."
Maeve leaned back on the couch. "This is bad."
"What is? What are you talking about?"
She glanced at the grimoire, but no additional writing appeared. "I'm not certain. Hold still a minute." She sat forward and cupped his face in her hands. The warmth of her touch sent a spiral of heat into his chest, then down into his groin, but he tried to ignore it, pulling away. "Stop it," she snapped and tightened her grip. He stopped resisting.
She closed her eyes and whispered in a language he didn't understand, but that sounded vaguely familiar. Purple light drifted from her fingers, crawling over his face and down his neck, coiling around his arms and chest. After a moment, the light faded and Maeve sat back. "She gave it to you."
"The grimoire? Yeah. So?"
"Not just the spell book. She gave you her power."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Every race has some magickal ability. It comes from the center of whatever realm they inhabit. For the Fae — elves, fairies, pixies, all the creatures you humans have confined to myth — it comes from the Fomora, the center-stone of the Fomorian realm."
"Every race has magic? Even humans?"
Maeve shrugged. "I guess, but most humans are so disconnected from the Earth, where their magick is sourced, they can't access it anymore."
"Gran could."
"Sure, but she was half Fae. You had only an eighth of her heritage — enough to give you the ability to pathwalk and not much more."
Flashes of the incident at the gas station went off in his mind. "Until..."
"Until she passed her power to you, which is against Fomorian law. They aren't going to like it, not even a little bit."
"And who are 'they'?"
Maeve drew a deep breath. "I told you that Neala was half Fomorian, right? That means that she inherited the ability to use magick — with a k. Not those stupid card tricks humans are so fascinated with. The real deal."
"She was a witch?"
"No, though her mother probably was. Witches are human." Maeve blew out a frustrated breath. "She was Fae, born in Aelfholm to a human mother and a Fomorian father. She received her magick in her mother's womb, and when she died, it should have gone back into the center of the Lower Realm, where it came from. But she preempted that. She gave it to y
ou instead."
"And that's a no-no?"
"A big no-no. Dinael isn't going to like this one bit."
"Who is Dinael?"
"Aelfholm's king, and one of the most ruthless Fomorians in recorded history." She looked at him. "And that's saying something."
"Sounds like a real peach. And not something I want any part of."
A soft, scratching noise drew their attention to the grimoire. Don't be an idjit, Jackie-boy. You'll need someone to teach you how to use the power I gave you. Maeve will do nicely.
Maeve lurched to her feet, holding her hands in front of her. "That isn't happening. I have my dissertation to finish, and then I have to go home. I don't have time to teach an amateur how to use his power."
Pffft. You always were a selfish bit of fluff. You'll put his life in danger, again, for the sake of a degree that you don't really want, and certainly don't need?
"That's not fair."
Neither is leaving him to suffer the consequences of my mistakes, but I had little choice in the matter, and neither do you.
The hard glint left Maeve's eyes. "Loving Bran wasn't a mistake."
The ghost of a laugh drifted through the air. Try telling that to Dinael. He heartily disapproved of our relationship, and he hated the idea of us marrying. So much so that he committed fratricide to stop it. Too bad for him it was already done, and worse luck for us that he didn’t know that at the time.
"You don't know that he killed Bran," Maeve said.
I can't prove it. Not the same thing. Never mind that. I gave up on justice long ago, and I learned to love again. Will you help Jackson or not?
Maeve bit her lip. "They will come after him."
And if you help him, they'll be after you. But you have a bit of insurance, don't you? Dinael is a son-of-a-bitch, but he loves his sister, and because of her he loves you.
"I wouldn't count on that." Maeve snorted. "We aren't exactly close, my uncle and I."
All the more reason —
"Don't I get any say in this?" Jackson clenched his fists. "I don't want any training, especially if it puts Maeve at risk."
"Every mage needs —" Maeve began.
Shut up, Jackie. Don't be any more of a nit than you can help. You'll let Maeve train you. Think of it as my dying wish.
"Except that you don't seem to be in any danger of actually dying," Jackson said, and immediately regretted it. "I didn't mean that."
All the writing on the page faded away, leaving it blank once more. After a moment, new words scrawled across the page.
Don't worry, lad. I know what you meant. It's a strange thing we're doing here, and you're not sure whether to be grieved or glad. Sadly, we haven't time to wait for you to adjust.
"She's right. Mother will tell Dinael that Neala is dead. He'll check with the elders to make sure her magick returned. And then he'll know something happened. It won’t be a big stretch for him to figure out what."
And he'll send Balor to finish what he started so long ago. You must be able to protect yourself, Jackie-boy. You've power enough, now, to defeat him. But not the understanding. Maeve can give you that.
"Forgive me, Neala, but even with what you gave him, he doesn't have enough power to survive if Balor decides to use the Eye."
He does if he uses Solcruth.
Maeve stared at the writing, and then at Jackson. "You have a stone of power?" she asked, her voice cracking on the words.
Jackson held up his wrist, showing her the sapphire. "I have this. Gran gave it to me on my first visit."
"Neala! What were you thinking?" Maeve asked. "You've made him a target for every king, chieftain, and elder in the three kingdoms. They'll all want it. You know that. AND they'll assume he's too weak to hold it." She sat on the couch and dropped her head into her hands. "It's an invitation to disaster."
It was the only way to keep him safe. The stone is his heritage, and I’ll be damned if I’d give it back to a murderer. The writing stopped, then resumed a little way down the page. Solcruth is mine to bestow, and it’s done. Nothing can change that now. And the fact is, between the stone and the power I gave him, he can stand against any who would do him harm. But he needs training.
"Humans don't have —" Maeve broke off, biting her lip.
"You two need to stop talking about me like I'm not here." Jackson shot to his feet and walked away from them. "In fact, you two need to stop talking." He jerked the front door open.
"Jackson, we need to decide how to handle —"
"Look, I appreciate you wanting to help. But I've had about all I can take for one day. I got a dead Gran, only she isn't exactly, a magick rock, and a book that seems to be able to walk around by itself." He gestured broadly to include the entire situation. "You get that this is all a little more than I was expecting to have to deal with, right?"
Maeve nodded reluctantly.
"I'm kind of wiped out, right now. So, unless you plan on joining me in the bedroom, it's time to go."
She arched one eyebrow, a sardonic grin twisting her lips. "That's a hell of an invitation."
Dark color suffused his cheeks. "Like I said. It's been a long day. I need some rest."
With a last glance at the grimoire, its newly blank page gleaming in the soft light, Maeve sauntered through the door. Once across the threshold, she turned to speak, but Jackson swung it closed, shutting her out.
He crossed the floor and slammed the grimoire shut. "Now, where do I put you so I can get some sleep?" A shiver passed through the cover, and he nearly dropped the grimoire but tightened his fingers before it could slip free. In a couple of strides, he was in the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator. He tossed the book onto the sparsely occupied top shelf. "That ought to cool you off for a while," he said and slammed the fridge closed.
Flapping and the tinny ping of something rattling against the rack sounded from inside.
"Knock it off, or I'll put you in the freezer," he said, and silence fell.
Jackson made his way into the bathroom, stripping as he went.
"Haunted spell books and magic-freaking-powers. What next? Pixies? Fucking trolls?" He flipped on the shower and waited for the ancient plumbing to catch up to his request for hot water. "A shot of whiskey and a nap is what I need. With any luck, I'll wake up, and this will all have been nothing more than a weird dream."
He scrubbed off the road grime and pulled on a pair of boxers before falling face-first onto the bed, allowing the weight of grief and exhaustion to pull him under.
Chapter Eleven
Maeve walked into the apartment she used as a gateway into Aelfholm. Muttering the opening incantation, she waited while the purple words drifted into the air, broke apart and expanded into a silver oval. A vine motif etched the arch's surface, with an amethyst as big as Jackson's fist glowing at the apex — the gatestone that powered this entry into her home realm.
The view beyond the opening revealed an old-growth forest. Through the branches, she could see the winking lights of homes built far above the forest floor. A narrow path threaded between the trunks, and she followed it for several minutes before arriving at her place, the gateway having closed behind her as soon as she stepped through.
Holding her palms out flat, she whispered a spell and purple light flowed from her hands, propelling her gently upward until she was on her front porch. Another step and the light extinguished.
The little house was not entirely different from Jackson's apartment. The front door opened on her living room, with a kitchen and dining area to the right, her bedroom to the left. With a sigh, she dropped her bag on her desk and went to mix herself a drink.
It won't be long before Dinael finds out what Neala has done, she thought. How do I keep him from finding Jackson? Let alone setting Balor on him. And if — no, when — Balor finds out about Solcruth? I don't care what Neala says, Jackson doesn't stand a chance against Balor and the Eye. Jackson may have the power, but he doesn't know how to use it. And if I can't get him to l
et me teach him…
She shook her head and tossed the drink back in a single gulp.
"He'll let me. He has to," she muttered.
"Who has to?" The soft voice was gentle and non-threatening, but Maeve whirled as if she'd been attacked. She dropped instinctively into a defensive crouch and filled her hands with fire.
A sharp command echoed through the little house. Maeve's fire flickered and went out. "Is that any way to greet your mother?" The tiny woman sitting on the couch frowned heavily. Gwyneth Fyerholme could have been any age from twenty to four hundred, so little did her age show in her calm features. The silver hair and bright blue eyes remained undimmed by time.
"Mother." Maeve sighed. "You scared the life out of me. What are you doing here?"
"Watching my daughter try to drink herself into oblivion, apparently, though that was not my intent or expectation."
Maeve grimaced. "Well, you shouldn't show up unannounced if you don't like seeing the real me."
A ripple of hurt flowed across Gwyneth's face, quickly erased. "We had dinner plans. Did you forget?"
Slumping into a convenient chair, Maeve covered her eyes with her hands. "We did. I know we did. I'm sorry Mother. Give me a minute, and I'll be ready."
"You look tired. Would you like to do it another time?"
"No, no. I'll just..." Maeve looked at her mother with affection. "Give me a minute, and I'll be ready." Going into the bedroom, she cast a glance over her shoulder. "Have you seen Uncle Din today?"
"No, why?"
"No reason. Just wondered if you told him about Neala yet."
Gwyneth sat back in her seat, staring at her only child. "And why would I have done that? After she and Bran… He barely acknowledged Neala when we were young. Her life and death would have little meaning for him." Traces of bitterness colored her tone, and Maeve glanced up in surprise.
"You sound like that upsets you."
Gwyneth shrugged. "It's an old resentment and not something I want to discuss. Unless..." Her eyes narrowed. "I know Neala wanted you to do something, but you don’t owe her anything. Please tell me you haven’t been in contact with Jackson. You have to stay away from him, Maeve. For both your sakes."