Kneeling, he placed his flattened hands on the ground and sank his awareness deep into the land. When he connected with the land magic that was so rich and abundant, he asked it to take the bodies. After a few moments, the land responded. The ground shifted, and the slain Hounds sank below the grass.
Once he had rid the clearing of the evidence of the battle, his attention turned to the Sainsbury bag on the ground. He had almost forgotten why he had stopped in this village in the first place. Gathering it up, he strode rapidly along the path to the nearby car park.
At least he had bought petrol before he had gone in search of a supper he could eat on the road. He didn’t take time to change out of his blood-soaked clothes. Several moments later, as the fog dispersed completely and the late afternoon sun came out in full force, he pulled onto the motorway and sped north.
* * *
Later that night, Nikolas’s black Porsche flowed along the hairpin curves in the forest road. Dense, heavy foliage pressed in from all angles, drenching the air with the sense of an immense, green life that carpeted the land for miles around, while an early harvest moon hung low over the horizon.
He kept his windows down to let the fresh air stream in, on high alert for the slightest hint of anything out of the ordinary. Gatherings were a calculated but necessary risk, and they always put him on edge. After the Hounds’ attack, he was even more on edge than usual.
Once he had put several kilometers between him and the scene of the attack, he’d pulled over to change out of his bloody clothes and examine the contents he’d stripped from the bodies. The magic items had been relatively uninteresting—either amulets of protection or strength enhancement. There were four mobile phones, all with passcodes that he didn’t have time to try to break at the moment.
He tucked those away to examine more closely later, then he rifled through wallets, pocketed the men’s IDs and cash, and tossed the wallets away. He found nothing to indicate how the Hounds had located him and nothing that seemed to connect them to the unknown woman in the vision.
After examining everything, he continued on his journey, and he’d had several hours to think about what had happened.
Earlier, when the questing, feminine Power had brushed against him, he had bristled and whirled to attack, but now that the heat of battle had died down, he was fairly certain that the woman’s psychic signature had felt distinctly different from both the magical fog and the Hounds.
And the woman he had seen—at first she hadn’t looked afraid or guilty as if she had been caught doing something underhanded. Instead, she had simply looked amazed. He had received the impression of black, curling hair falling into wide, startled eyes. Then she began to reach out to him as if to see if he were real. It had been a gesture of wonder, not aggression.
Perhaps the psychic connection had been an accident. The thought was outlandish, but it wasn’t impossible, in which case, no harm, no foul.
Or perhaps his impressions were wrong and he had indeed disrupted a spy, and the only accident had been that he had caught the other magic user before she could throw another spell. That was the possibility that kept him poised like a weapon, ready to go on the offensive at the first sign of trouble.
While he was lost in thought, the road he traveled narrowed to one paved lane, then the pavement turned to gravel. The steady purr of the car’s turbo engine never faltered. After driving some distance farther, he finally came to a large open clearing. One end was covered with gravel along the edge of a crumbling fieldstone fence.
A variety of vehicles and motorcycles clustered on the graveled end. He pulled the Porsche up beside a large Harley-Davidson. As he cut the engine, opened his door, and climbed out, quiet settled over the area. The cool, damp air smelled like woodsmoke. He reached into the car for his jacket, settled his sword harness into place over it, and slung a heavy canvas bag over one wide shoulder.
Several meters away, the shadowed figure of a large man slipped into view like a knife pulled from a sheath. The figure moved with a leashed aggression, and for a moment an answering aggression flared in Nikolas in response. He controlled an impulse to reach for his sword.
“Nikolas.” The man’s voice was deep, rough, and familiar. Nikolas’s flare of aggression subsided as he realized the approaching figure was Rhys. “When you weren’t here to greet us, we got worried.”
“I ran into a pack of Hounds,” Nikolas replied tersely.
Rhys hesitated. “Is everything okay?”
“They’re dead. I’m not. Situation handled.”
As the other man drew closer, Nikolas took note of the lines of tiredness on Rhys’s face. While they stood close to the same height, that was where the similarity between the two men ended. Nikolas had black hair, dark eyes, and a dark nature, and had a slim, rangy build filled with whipcord strength, whereas Rhys was a wide, solid mass of muscle.
Rhys looked hard and drawn, and a new scar slashed across his cheekbone.
Noticing the direction of his attention, Rhys told him with a tight smile, “You should see the other guy. Oh wait, you can’t. He’s dead and buried too.”
“I expected nothing less.” When the other man reached him, Nikolas hauled him in for a hard hug.
For the briefest of moments, Rhys’s body remained stiff and unresponsive in his embrace. Then the other man relaxed and returned the hug.
When Rhys pulled back, he gave Nikolas a narrow look. “You think running into a pack of Hounds was an accident? Or do you think they somehow found you?”
Nikolas didn’t want to waste time talking about the unknown woman. They had other things they needed to focus on. “When I find out, I’ll let you know.”
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that counts, right? Come on.” Rhys slapped his back as he stepped back. “I know we don’t have long, but we can take a few moments before we start. Gareth brought food.”
Nikolas followed him down a narrow, overgrown path toward another clearing and the light of a small campfire. Across the clearing lay a shadowed, ancient ring of standing stones. Nikolas glanced at it before turning his full attention to the group of talking men standing or squatting around the fire.
The sight was like taking a sword thrust to the gut. He took grim note of their total.
He had known their number had diminished before he had come, but seeing was quite a different thing from knowing. Only eight men had answered Nikolas’s summons. Only eight, when they had once been a hundred warriors strong.
Quickly he searched the faces of those who were present. Rhys, Ashe, Thorne, Gareth, Cael, Rowan, Braden, and gods, it was so good to see Gawain again.
Each one stepped forward to greet him with a tight clench. Gawain was the last, most fierce embrace.
“Good to see you,” he said roughly.
“And you.” Gawain clapped his back. The other male had a fist like iron. Nikolas bore the blow gladly. “We made it to another solstice.”
“That we did.” Nikolas took a deep breath as he and Gawain shared a sober glance.
He could see the dark knowledge in Gawain’s expression although neither man said a word.
If their circumstances didn’t change drastically, and soon, their group might not see another solstice. The last cash withdrawal Nikolas had made on the bank accounts meant they were low on funds, although that in itself wouldn’t pull them under. Nikolas could always find or make plenty of money.
No, the real killer was that they were isolated from one another. They had no sanctuary where they could gather to rely on one another and get true rest and refreshment in safety.
For decades now, they had been searching and fighting, and dying, and despair might be the worst, deadliest killer of all. Ferociously he shoved that thought out of his head. Despair had no place here. It had been a long, dark battle, in the darkest of wars, but they would hold. They would all hold.
“Come on,” he said to Gawain as he handed over the canvas bag. “Distribute this so we can do what
we came to do.”
They strode to the fire ring, where the others made room for them. Gareth shoved a rough sandwich into Nikolas’s hand, made of grilled sausage wrapped in bread. After rummaging in a Tesco bag, Ashe pulled out a pint of Guinness, popped the tab of the can, and offered it.
As Nikolas took the can, Ashe said, “What took you so long?”
“I got sidetracked.” He took a long swallow.
The other man frowned. “I thought you said you were going to take the M6 north.”
“Not that kind of sidetracked,” he said drily, looking around the group. “But I’m here now.”
Even though he had already eaten, he gladly tucked into the simple food, more to soak in the companionship than for need of the sustenance itself. As he ate, Gawain dug into the canvas bag Nikolas had brought and handed out thick packets of cash to everyone.
The passing of time pressed down on them, but it was good to take a few minutes to just be together. The food was hot and filling, useful since the group would be expending a great deal of energy in tonight’s work, and there would be no time to linger when they had finished.
Nikolas listened to the other men talk, their quiet, tired voices filling the clearing. For all too brief a time, the arid wasteland that had taken over his soul eased into something that felt suspiciously like warmth and comfort.
Something that felt like home.
While the men talked of their adventures over the recent months, Nikolas remained silent, watching their faces. Living isolated and constantly on the run had marked them. Once quick to laugh and joke, Cael’s profile had turned severe and closed to scrutiny. Ashe’s demeanor had turned hard and sardonic, like a sword perpetually half-pulled. And just as he had when Nikolas had hugged him, Rhys held himself back, standing slightly apart from the rest, unable to relax and join in the camaraderie.
They were worn to the bone, like lean, starved wolves caught in an endless winter, caught perpetually in a long, savage fight for survival.
I need to find a safe haven for all of us before it’s too late, Nikolas thought. Somewhere we can defend and claim as our own, at least for now, until we can find a way to break through to home. They need a place to rest and recuperate.
His thoughts were nothing new. He had been preoccupied with them for some time. It was challenging to try to find a safe, defensible haven that couldn’t be detected or breached by their enemy. Right now the longer the group remained together, the greater the danger became. That danger cut away at the most fundamental aspect of the ties of friendship and common purpose that bound them all together.
When he finished the sandwich and swallowed down the last of the Guinness, the wasteland took over his soul again, and he was filled with nothing again but purpose and strength of will.
Nikolas said, “Time’s up. Let’s go.”
Chewing the last of their food and gulping down their drinks, the others stood and strode across the clearing.
The stranded Daoine Sidhe knights of the Dark Court gathered at the ring of ancient standing stones under the pale light of the harvest moon.
Whenever the Daoine Sidhe gathered, they raised the natural energies of the world around them. It occurred involuntarily as each knight’s Power came in contact with another’s. A few knights working actively together could knock out the power grid in a large town or small city.
As a group, they couldn’t remain together for long before the Light Fae Queen Isabeau and her deadly Hounds fixed on their location and launched an attack. They were too few and the Hounds too many. No matter how many Hounds they killed, Isabeau and Morgan could create more, whereas every time one of their group died, they suffered an irreplaceable loss.
Blocked from sanctuary in their own land, they had no recourse but to live on the run and occasionally stand and fight. And, eventually, no matter how well they fought, they died.
For that reason, Nikolas had chosen the night’s gathering place at a stone circle located outside a remote village in Northumberland, more than two hundred kilometers away from any of their true concerns. Even so, they would only be able to take a precious few hours together at most before they would have to go their separate ways again. Isolation might be eating away at their souls, but it was also their most important means of survival.
From where Nikolas stood at the center of the stone circle, he watched the other knights step into their positions. Wherever the moon’s shadow touched them, something of their true nature appeared. Moonshadow always revealed truth to those who knew how to see it.
Gawain walked through the shadow of one tall standing stone, and briefly, Nikolas saw a vision of his real nature.
Gargoyle blood ran in Gawain’s veins. While he stood in the moonshadow, Gawain’s face came straight from a nightmare, and gigantic wings flared behind him. He wore chain mail armor, and a sheathed sword marked with magic runes was strapped to his back.
The next moment, the other man stepped away from the standing stone and out of the shadow. The vision faded, and his physical form appeared once again, a large, somewhat rough-looking man with strong, human features, wearing biking leathers.
Demons, the Dark Court of the Daoine Sidhe had been called, although they were not Demonkind.
Changelings. Impure.
Gods’ monsters.
If they were monsters, Nikolas thought, why then so be it. These were the most fierce, loyal warriors he had ever known. He would always choose his great-hearted monsters over life, luxury, and always, always over the corrupt purebloods of Isabeau’s Light Court.
Ashe and Rowan were dhampyres, the strange, rare creature born of a union between a half-breed Fae or Elf and a human undergoing the transformation to Vampyre. Several of the men, Nikolas included, had Wyr blood flowing through their veins. Some had stronger animal natures than others. In the moonshadow’s magic, Cael’s Fae features were covered with the light green skin of a medusa, the pupils of his eyes vertical slits, and Nikolas knew all too well what would be revealed in his features.
The face of a feline beast, part man and part leopard.
They were all Fae yet not fully Fae. They were among the rarest of all the Elder Races. In modern-day slang, they were “triple threats,” creatures with the blood of three different races flowing through their veins. The strongest, most magical—the most tainted.
The Fae of the Light Court called them abomination.
Nikolas called them brothers.
Letting his hands rest at his sides, he turned them so the palms faced the middle of the circle. He began to chant an ancient invocation, calling in a deep voice upon the balanced energies of sun and moon.
Power rose from the earth and the standing stones. One by one, the others joined in. The combined magic in their voices cut through the fabric of this land, reaching out to another.
The figure of a woman appeared. Her transparent form was less distinct than they had achieved through previous callings, but they had so few numbers now available to cast the spell.
The woman was beautiful in the way of the Fae, with angular features and elegantly pointed ears, but instead of having the pale skin and black hair of the Dark Fae, or the golden skin and tawny hair of the Light Fae, she was spotted like a cheetah, her skin speckled with golden freckles.
Large green eyes and high cheekbones contributed to the effect. Her hair was a deep russet color, with streaks of gray at her temples. Laugh lines kissed the skin at the corners of her eyes and mouth, although currently there was no smile on her face. Instead, like the men who called upon her, the woman’s expression was grim and tight.
As the others held the spell strong and steady, Nikolas eased out of the casting. He said, “Annwyn.”
She turned, searching until she caught sight of him. Nikolas knew from experience she wouldn’t be able to see or hear the others in the circle, only him as he stood in the center.
Her expression lit with gladness. “Nikolas. It’s so good to see you.”
“And you,�
�� he told her. “Have you made any more progress in waking Oberon?”
She shook her head, frustration evident. “Not since he fell under the enchantment. I don’t have the healing skills needed. None of our healers know what to do for Oberon. His body is cold as ice. I would think he was dead if it weren’t for the fact that I can feel a spark of his life force buried deep in his body, or the fact that his Power is raging out of control.”
His mouth tightened. Oberon was the strongest of the Dark Court, a weather mage, and their King. If his Power was left to rampage unchecked without his iron will to control it, it wouldn’t matter how hard his knights fought to break through the barriers that blocked the crossover passageways leading back to their lands.
Soon they might not have a home to return to.
“How bad is it?” he asked, dreading to hear the answer.
“The city is completely underwater,” she told him grimly. “And the sea keeps rising. We have evacuated to the highest point on the peninsula at Raven’s Craig, but I don’t know if it will be enough, and we’ve lost critical tracts of farmland. Even if the sea level stops rising, we’ll be facing starvation as our food supplies run out.”
They had lost Lyonesse? The news rippled through the group like a physical blow.
Braden had family in the Other land. His chanting faltered, causing the spell to waver. Nikolas shot him a warning look, and the other knight’s voice steadied.
“Annwyn, how long has it been since we last contacted you?” Nikolas asked.
He always asked when they talked. She replied readily, “A fortnight. And you?”
“Winter solstice,” he told her. “Six months ago.”
She sucked in a breath. “So the time slippage between the two lands remains significant.”
“That is working in our favor right now,” Nikolas said. “Have faith and stay strong. We’re fighting to get home to you.”
He didn’t mention how few of them were left to fight their way home. That, at least, was one blow he could spare her.
She shook her head. “You know my strength lies in combat spells, but I’m doing what I can. We all are.”
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