Since she had no magic, she couldn’t make a crossover passage on her own. A deadhead had to be touching someone with magical ability in order to make a crossing, and she had always known she would have to rely on someone else with magic to walk her through the passage. The most common way was to hold hands.
The stories told of a strange, surreal experience as travelers watched everything around them change while they traversed a passageway. But would she have had that experience if she’d simply walked from the middle of one forest clearing to another?
The soldier had thrown her fireman-style over his shoulder, and her head had dangled upside down. It hadn’t exactly been a priority for her to study her surroundings closely as he’d carried her down the path. She had been too busy staring at his ass and wishing she either had the courage or the lack of sense to bite him.
If he’d carried her along a passageway to an Other land, they didn’t need to put her in a cell, because she didn’t have the ability to get back to Earth on her own. She couldn’t contact any of the Djinn who owed her favors—without telepathy, she could only reach her Djinn contacts by phone, and even if she still had her cell, phones didn’t work in Other lands.
Suddenly she could no longer fight back the rising panic. Rushing to the cell door, she shouted, “Hey! Hey! Do you realize how many crimes you’re committing by putting me in this cell against my will? You can’t keep me here—I’m a Canadian citizen!”
No one came. As she paused, a deafening silence pressed against her eardrums. As far as she could tell, she was the only one in this horrid little building. They didn’t care enough to respond, and that frightened and enraged her more than anything.
Hours passed. Finally her own body’s needs forced her into using the latrine. She did so quickly, in case someone came, and afterward she flung herself onto the cot. From there, she counted and recounted the bars in her cell door and watched the light from the high window shift and eventually dim.
Her violin had been in the trunk of the car. Was it all right?
That violin was her most treasured possession. Crafted by the famous French luthier Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume, it was nearly a hundred years old, and acquiring it with her own hard-earned money had been one of the biggest triumphs of her life.
She wanted to ask one of the more Powerful Djinn who owed her a favor for a much rarer Stradivarius, but she hadn’t yet worked up the nerve, and in any case, that wouldn’t feel the same as it had felt to buy the Vuillaume for herself.
She chewed her lip bloody as she fretted about her violin, but there was nothing she could do and no way to get any answers.
Eventually hunger set in, along with boredom, cold, and exhaustion. She curled herself into a small fierce ball as she worried at her dilemma like a dog gnawing at a bone.
While her kidnapper had made Isabeau out to be dangerous, even cruel, how much could Sid trust of what he had told her?
He hadn’t been impressed when she’d mentioned she had money, but maybe the Queen would feel differently. Almost everyone liked money, and they liked accruing more of it. The possibility of collecting five million dollars in ransom should mean something, damn it. The insurance certainly cost enough.
And who had her kidnapper been stalking? She knew nothing about Isabeau and the Light Court, other than the fact that a Dark Court existed as counterpart to it. Her kidnapper hadn’t mentioned a name—just referred to he and him.
Whoever he was, he liked Sid’s concerts. She might find an ally in him.
She had to face some cold hard facts. If she really had been transported into an Other land, she might find it hard to get justice for her kidnapping. The demesnes on Earth cared far more about interactions with human societies, but the demesnes from Other lands had a much greater degree of self-reliance.
If nothing else though, perhaps this male could help her cross back over to Earth and go home again. That was the most important thing.
As night came and her cell fell into darkness, the air chilled even further. Thirsty now, very hungry, and shivering from the cold, she thought she would never be able to sleep, but eventually she slid into an uneasy, miserable doze.
A sharp clang of metal against the bars jolted her awake. Heart pounding, she stared around her, disoriented.
“Awaken, human.”
She focused on the Light Fae male on the other side of the bars. She hadn’t seen him before. He carried a beaten metallic bowl and a cup that he shoved through a space at the bottom of the bars. She asked, “Can I talk to someone in charge?”
He threw her an indifferent glance. “You’ll be talking to someone in charge soon enough. Eat. We leave for the castle shortly.”
Castle? She would bet her next year’s salary he wasn’t talking about any castle on Britain’s list of historic sites.
Swallowing in an attempt to ease her dry throat, she asked, “Are we in an Other land?”
He paused in the act of turning away, gave her a sharper look, then barked out a laugh. It sounded contemptuous. “You don’t know? I will pass on the information that you have no Power.”
Feeling stung, she ground her teeth. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, human,” he said impatiently. “You are now in Avalon, and you are subject to our laws, our Queen. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better things will go for you.”
With that, he strode out, leaving her staring after him. The ground felt unsteady underneath her feet as the enormity of what he had said rang in her ears.
She really was no longer on Earth. Not only had she been transported to an Other land, she was in Avalon.
Avalon, the land of apples and faerie, fabled for its beauty and danger. She had remembered that Isabeau was a monarch of the Light Fae, but she had not even realized that Isabeau was Avalon’s Queen. Her knowledge of the Elder Races demesnes in Great Britain was that sparse. Angry at her own ignorance, she clenched her fists.
And without any magic, she had no way of getting home, at least not without help. Much as she hated that guard for his scorn, he had a point. She was going to have to lose that ignorance and learn as much as she could, as fast as she could, if she had any chance of coping with her new reality.
She was still shaking as hunger compelled her to go inspect the contents of the metallic bowl. Inside there was a plain hunk of bread and a piece of hard cheese. The cup contained water. Carrying both to the cot, she ate every scrap, and she drank all the water too.
After eating, she had barely finished taking care of some private business when the same guard strode to her cell door. As he unlocked it, she said, almost conversationally, “I was kidnapped and brought here illegally, you know.”
“Out,” he said as he stood back and held her cell door wide. He didn’t tie her up or threaten her with any other kind of confinement.
He didn’t really have to, did he? Simmering with fury again, she strode out. “Do you have any reaction to what I just said?”
“Not my place to have a reaction. I just follow orders.” He put a hand at her back and shoved her so hard she stumbled. “Move.”
How much evil had been committed by people who claimed they were just following orders? Regaining her balance, she clenched her fists and barely managed to keep from lashing out. If she lashed out, she would get tied up again. She might even get beaten.
That was okay. If he followed orders, he wasn’t who she wanted to talk to anyway.
She wanted to talk to someone who gave the orders. That would be the only way to change her situation.
He led her to the back of an empty wagon and made her climb into it. Sitting in one corner, she wrapped her arms around her knees as she watched an entire squadron of guards gather. Most of them had horses, and several drove wagons that were stacked high with barrels and boxes. Some of it, if not all, had to be the real trolls’ tribute.
Her kidnapper had known enough about the Light Fae to know when the tribute would be delivered, and where, and he ha
d used that knowledge to insert her into the situation without causing suspicion. The calculation behind that was chilling. He might have cried when he held her, but that hadn’t stopped him from planning the details of her kidnapping with precision.
Despite her continued tiredness and worry, she grew fascinated by watching the Light Fae work at assembling a wagon train. She had never seen anything like it before.
If someone gave a signal to start, she missed it, because suddenly a wagon pulled out, then another. Eventually the wagon carrying her as its sole cargo lurched to a start and fell into line behind the others. The guards on horseback arranged themselves at either the head or the back of the train.
For most of the day they traveled through dense, overgrown forest. Quickly growing bored with the monotonous scenery and sore from the constant jostling, Sid counted all the wooden planks in the wagon bed several times over, then she tried to brace herself in the corner to doze.
They took a break at midday, and she got another hunk of cheese and bread, with another cup of water.
In the afternoon, they stopped at a few villages, where conversations occurred just beyond her hearing between the one Light Fae that she had identified as the wagon train leader and others that appeared to be villagers.
After the conversations, some soldiers led people to her wagon. As they climbed in, she studied them as curiously as they stared at her. Most were young girls, but a few were boys. All were Light Fae, and they were also quite a bit younger than she. Were they tribute too?
She tried talking to them a couple of times, but while they glanced at each other and shuffled uneasily, her attempts at starting a conversation were met with silence. A few of the girls stared unabashedly at her, their expressions filled with such fascinated repugnance, she was taken aback.
As Sidonie glanced around, it dawned on her—she was virtually the only person present who had dark hair and eyes. Also, her skin was pale and creamy, quite unlike the hue of the tanned faces that surrounded her. She might even be the first person these youngsters had ever seen who looked the way she did. Perhaps she was the first human they’d ever seen.
Compressing her lips, she settled into her hard, uncomfortable corner of the wagon and kept to herself after that. The passing scenery might be pretty, but so far, her first impressions of Avalon sucked.
That night they camped by a wide, lazy-looking river, and despite her problems, it was wonderful to get a few minutes by herself at the water’s edge to wash. Supper was the same fare as lunch and breakfast. She found a spot close to the warmth of a campfire for the night. Gathering up a handful of pebbles, she curled into a tight ball to keep warm as she counted them, while wild scenarios galloped through her head.
She could steal a horse (she had lived in New York for most of her life and had no idea how to ride a horse). And she could steal weapons (from seasoned fighters who had the weapons and knew how to use them). Then she could race back to the crossover passageway (which she couldn’t sense or use on her own).
Then, somehow, she needed to capture and force one of the soldiers there to walk her across to Earth, slip past the troops stationed on the other side, and walk until she made contact with normal civilization.
She had self-defense skills and some knowledge of unarmed combat, but those were all skills she had learned in a training environment. She had never had occasion to use what she had learned in an actual fight.
The likelihood of getting out of the wagon train encampment alive was slim to none, let alone facing the towering list of unlikely events after that. No, her only real hope of getting home again was if she appealed to someone in command.
In the morning, when she tried to approach the commander of the wagon train, a soldier stepped in front of her and forced her to go back to the area where her other travel companions stayed.
Simmering with frustration, she complied. No matter what the time slippage was between Avalon and Earth, her concert tour was almost certainly ruined now. Julie had to be worried sick, and both she and Rikki would have an administrative nightmare on their hands. Just the thought of it tied Sid’s stomach in knots. She’d never had to cancel a tour before.
But despite the amount of time she was going to lose on this journey, it appeared she would have to wait until she reached the castle before she could talk to someone who had the power to release her.
After sorting through her pebbles, she discarded the ones she didn’t like and slipped twenty-one small, smooth stones into her pocket. The second day of travel was hot and boring. Focusing on her pebbles, she counted and recounted them, and lined them up in rows on one palm, according to size.
Then according to shape. Then color.
Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one.
Toward the end of the day, the wagon train climbed a long, winding incline in the deepening gold of evening light. Sid had made a few more attempts to talk to her young companions without any luck. Resting her head on drawn-up knees, she kept her mouth and nose covered to avoid breathing in the dust kicked up by the horses and wagons ahead of them.
Even as she thought for the dozenth time that surely they had to be stopping soon, a shout sounded ahead, and the wagon lumbered to a halt. Excitedly, the others in the wagon jumped to their feet. As they craned their necks, stood on tiptoe, and exclaimed, Sid stood too, more slowly. Shading her eyes, she looked in the direction everyone else was staring.
The ground fell away from the road in a massive rolling sweep. In the distance, across a rich emerald green land, a huge castle sprawled like a great tawny dragon. Wealth, age, and power were stamped into the stones.
A city crouched supplicant at its feet, and beyond both stretched a sparkling blue body of water.
Unwillingly impressed and intimidated at once, Sid wrapped her arms around her middle. It looked like they were nearing the end of their journey, and she should be talking to someone in power soon enough.
Chapter Four
The long silver knife slid home in Morgan’s side, slicing through the still healing flesh of the original wound. A spear of pain lanced him. Sucking in a harsh breath, he hunched over as he slammed the other man’s hand aside to grab the hilt and yank the blade out. It came free with a gush of fresh, red blood.
The pain made it difficult for him to control his lycanthrope instincts, and the silver from the weapon had not yet hit his system enough to dampen his abilities. He felt his teeth elongate and his face change.
He snarled, “Back off!”
The ghoul who had stabbed him leaped back as if scalded, and his gray face twisted. In an injured Cockney accent, he accused, “’Ey now, that ain’t very friendly-like, and after I done you a favor too.”
“You didn’t do me any favors,” Morgan snapped. “I paid you quite handsomely to stick a knife in me.”
He could feel the silver’s poison beginning to burn through his veins, and his features eased back to normal. He’d kept his Beretta close, in case the ghoul decided to betray him, but the creature looked spooked and ready to bolt out of the alley.
“You is one crazy motherfucker,” the ghoul declared. “You didn’t say nuthin ’bout bein’ no lycanthrope! What if you ’ad taken off me hand for sticking you like we ’ad agreed?”
“I didn’t, did I?” He pressed hard to staunch the bleeding. Elation threaded through the pain. The geas hadn’t kicked in to force him to protect himself. He had just gained weeks more of freedom. “Let me know if you want to make the same amount next month too.”
Greed warred with caution on the ghoul’s long, mournful features, and for a moment he looked remarkably like Giles had when Morgan had last seen the doctor.
“I dunno,” the ghoul muttered. “What if next time you doesn’t manage to control that beast of yourn?”
“Up to you,” Morgan said, losing interest in the creature. Having bought himself more time, he could always find someone else to hire for the deed.
“’Ey now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Calculati
on glittered in the ghoul’s eyes. “But I’m thinkin’ there may be a price hike for me services. I could use a little danger money as a bit o’ insurance.”
Morgan coughed out an unamused laugh and didn’t bother to reply. He had already paid the ghoul more than enough. Limping out of the alley, he took a careful look around. It was the early hours of the morning, and the London street was deserted.
Walking carefully to his parked Audi, he eased behind the wheel and drove to the rooms he had rented. The small furnished flat was quiet and private, tucked at the end of a mews in a comfortable neighborhood.
When he had initially walked the streets of the neighborhood, he had found no hint of any major Power nearby, and the scents he picked up were mostly human. The location was perfect for his purposes, unremarkable in every way.
As his magical abilities had gradually returned, he had cast subtle cloaking spells around the area that would repel all but the most intelligent and determined eyes from noticing the red front door that led to the flat.
Then he began to gather any texts that were reputed to make mention of Azrael’s Athame, even if only in passing. Late one night, he drove to Oxford to slip into the Bodleian Library. One of the oldest libraries in Europe, the Bodleian had an extensive wing devoted to the history, politics, folklore, religions, and magic systems of the Elder Races.
The library was guarded by gargoyles and shrouded in magical protections, but none of the protections were a match for Morgan’s skills. He took everything related to Azrael, Lord Death, along with the books that focused on the most ancient magic items.
Between long hours of research, he built an arsenal for himself—casting spells of blindness, creating shields strong enough to hold against a dragon’s fire, death curses, flesh corrosion, deadly fireballs called morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that could make armies lose control and fight each other.
He had set them all into magic-quality jewels so when the new injury dampened his magic ability, he would still have ways to defend himself. When he was finished, he had a wealth of weapons at hand, and they all fit into a velvet pouch spelled to conceal the deadly Power it contained.
Spellbinder (Moonshadow Book 2) Page 5