Please not Seamus.
How long?
My body, dry as it was, screamed for more. Pressure built in my skull, the drumbeat thundering, burgeoning. The mote in my eye like a hot poker, every fiber of what I was—predator, always a predator, only the oath bound me otherwise—screaming for the power that was by right mine. Mine.
A gentle laugh, silvery and far away, in the back of my thoughts.
"Mags."
His voice, thready, weak from the pressure of my body and the loss of blood. His skin was clammy against my lips, his muscles trembling from the terrible position I'd pinned him into.
With or without your oath, I trust you.
A low growl built in the back of my throat, fighting everything instinctual in me. Every single urge cried out to keep going, to drain him dry, to restore what I was to full power so I could battle the night—
Oh, that logic. So deeply twisted. Destroy to protect.
No. No. That was not me.
The sun stroking my back, I summoned every drip of willpower I'd ever possessed and retracted my fangs, then yanked myself away from him, throwing myself onto the floor beside the bed. My body thrummed with power. My muscles begged to be used, my fangs extended further than they ever had before, my fingers curled into claws and lengthened, sharpening, retreating only by my force of will as I struggled against the beast within me—no, the beast that was me—to control myself.
Seamus was at my side. His hand slipped beneath my head and pulled me upright, gently, fingers shaking but firm. I recoiled from him, backed into a corner, wrapping my arms around my legs, clenching my fists and cramming my mouth closed so he wouldn't see the protrusions of what I truly was.
"Mags," he said, gently. I shook my head.
His fingers slipped beneath my chin, tipped my head up. I had to look. I owed him that much.
I'd expected horror—a stream of dripping blood upon his neck, a rending gash like that which Lucien had left on my shoulder. But there was nothing but skin—perhaps a little paler than usual—slicked in sweat. If his pupils were maybe a little too wide, his eyes too bright, he did not otherwise seem the worse for wear.
"I'm okay. It's all right."
"I was going to kill you."
"Maybe," he admitted, and crouched in front of me, crossing his legs to let his hands rest in his lap. "But you didn't. You're not your oath, Mags. You're you. And you've got to remember that, because we have a lot of work to do, and I need you at your best. Ready?"
He stood, unfolding to his feet with only the barest shake, and extended a hand to me. Dark purple bruises marred his wrist in the shape of my fingers—where I'd grabbed, where I'd thrown. He saw me looking, but didn't bother to roll his sleeve down. This was what I had done. But it was forgiven, that extended arm said. I was forgiven.
Maybe, I thought, as I gripped his warm fingers and let him pull me to my feet, maybe I was more than the beast in my blood after all.
Twenty-seven: Initialed in Blood
Harold had set the table with a fresh cup of tea and said nothing about our harried appearance as we pulled out chairs and settled in to drink. My fingers trembled a little less with each sip I took, the small nibbles of biscuit I ate roiling in my belly as Seamus's blood spread throughout me—rejuvenating, restoring. A quick glance down at my bare feet revealed the scratches healed, only the stitches remained to show where they'd once been. I crossed my ankles and tucked my feet under the chair, hoping Harold wouldn't notice my miraculous recovery. The movement drew Harold's eye.
"Couldn't help but notice you'd lost your shoes, lass." He sat down with us and took a slow sip of black tea. I couldn't think of an excuse he might believe—my mind was too tangled in my near-loss of self, and the memory of Seamus's hot blood bursting over my lips, sweet and bright.
"Have I?" I felt idiotic the second the words passed my lips. Seamus shot me a look over the top of his laptop. I shrugged. What did he expect? Passing out in front of his family hadn't exactly been a part of my training.
"Yes," Harold said, dryly. "You have. Can't leave you running around like that. You can keep the garden shoes, if you don't mind second-hand. Won't be stylish, mind, but they'll keep the road dirt off."
"I'd be grateful."
"Whoa," Seamus said to himself, leaning toward his monitor like someone had reached out, grabbed his collar, and yanked him closer. "Sonia's been busy."
"You've accessed the data?" I asked.
"Think I'd better not hear this—national security, I suppose." Harold grimaced and stood, taking his teacup to the sink. He rinsed it out, then let himself back out into the garden. Probably to fix whatever I'd ruined by collapsing on his plants.
"Part of Sonia's agenda is in here. She's had regular meetings at that garden you confronted her at, but not alone. These are all abbreviations, but it looks like six women, herself included. Initials IG, YR, RH, LM, and MH. They've been meeting for years. The doctor has it flagged as a social support group."
"Women? How do you know?"
"The meeting's a recurring date in the calendar under the name Daughters of the Moon."
I winced. "That can't be good."
"Looks like they were scheduled to meet tonight—not on the regular rotation, though. This one is unusual."
"Probably spooked her when I interrupted her last get together. Wait. RH? You don't think that might be Raina Hensford?"
Seamus frowned at the screen, scrolling through a tangle of information. "I don't know. At least, I can't be sure. This has all been pretty obfuscated—no full names anywhere. These could be code names for all I know, might not even stand for first and family name."
"But you don't believe it's a coincidence," I said.
"No," he admitted.
"Call Talia."
Seamus picked up his phone, then hesitated. "I turn this on and make the call, DeShawn will be able to find us. It'll take him a while, but he'll find Harold's house."
"Then we won't be here when he arrives. Something tells me your uncle can handle DeShawn well enough."
A secret smile, indicating some past incident that Harold handled, curled up the corners of Seamus's face. He booted up the phone—technology could be so slow sometimes—and once it had loaded called Talia immediately.
It rang, and rang, and rang.
He left a message warning her to stay away from Raina, then sent out a text:
Pick up your damn phone.
No response.
Hells.
"We have to call Emeline," I said. Seamus winced.
"You sure about that? Once she knows about the meeting, we won't be the only ones showing up. Talia could be at a movie, or something. Just because she's not picking up doesn't mean something terrible has happened."
He was right, of course. She could even be taking a nap, or a shower, for all we knew. But as the sun tiptoed toward the horizon, a sense of dread settled on my shoulders and pressed me down, urging me to listen to my instincts. The oath may not be my same unstoppable guide, but a bad feeling was a bad feeling. Raina had gotten close to Talia quickly after they'd met up at the party, a little too quickly, and though Lucien had claimed Raina chained him up by his own request... Well. He couldn't know everything that woman was thinking, and though I wanted to trust Lucien, he was what he was. There could never be complete honesty between us. Not anymore.
"Make the call."
He closed his eyes a moment and took a deep breath, gathering himself. He pressed one button and held it, then switched over to speaker phone and set the phone in the middle of the table. Emeline picked up immediately.
"Mr. Canavan. Where are you?"
"London."
"If you will not be clear with me, then—"
"Emeline, stop. This isn't about me. You can thrash me for taking off later, and I'll let you, I swear it, but right now I need to know where Talia is."
A surprised pause. "Talia? I thought she must be with you."
Dread sent freezing tend
rils through my veins. Seamus bowed his head over the phone and rubbed the sides of his head between his palms.
"She's not. She hasn't been. I have no idea where she is, she's not picking up her phone, and I think she might be in trouble."
"If she is with neither of us, I'm inclined to agree. Unless she is with Miss Shelley."
She was fishing, trying to figure out if I was with Seamus. I knew that the second I opened my mouth all the powers of the Sun Guard and DeShawn's forces would descend upon us—but maybe that was what we needed. My fate be damned. Talia was in trouble, and if I could draw all those powers to her aid, then so be it.
I made eye contact with Seamus across the table. His cheeks were still pale from lack of blood, and his fingers had left faint imprints where he'd rubbed at the skin. We could not talk, and the longer we hesitated the more stark conclusions Emeline must be coming to. He nodded. It was all the permission I needed.
"I'm here," I said, "and I have not seen, nor been able to contact, Talia since we ambushed Ragnar in the garden."
Emeline breathed so deeply the air hissed through her teeth. "Miss Shelley. You must return to the Durfort-Civrac house at once."
"Forgive me, Emeline, but like hell I will. Talia needs help and I will not rest until she's safe. Do with me what you will, but I will not let one of the mortal order—" No. It wasn't just because she was Sun Guard, was it? "—I will not let my friend be harmed because I was busy bowing my head to the rules. Punish me later. Save Talia now."
No pause, not even a beat of hesitation. "What do you know about Talia's whereabouts?"
" I'll explain the details later, but we have evidence that Sonia's been meeting there with a group of women who call themselves the Daughters of the Moon for the better part of a decade. I don't have the names, but I do have a set of initials. I could be wrong, but RH is on there—I can only think of one RH tangled up in all of this. They're set to meet again tonight at the garden Sonia owns in the country."
"You're sure of this?"
"Whether or not Raina is involved, the fact is that Talia is missing and these women are meeting in—" He glanced at the clock. "—two hours. You want to take the risk that I'm wrong?"
"No. I do not. I will dispatch the guard to the garden immediately. You two, stand down and report back to the estate."
"Like hell," Seamus said, fists clenching on the table. "I'm not standing on the sidelines while Talia's in trouble. Sorry Emeline. I know... I know you're just trying to keep everything together. But it's Talia. I can't. Be safe."
He killed the call and sat back. We stared at each other across the table, absorbing what had just happened.
"I am, most probably, out of a job," he said, then laughed roughly.
"Then we'd better make the best of your last project."
The fear that had creased his face vanished in a flash, his attention re-centering on the job at hand. "Right. Let's do this. We can borrow Harold's Imp."
"His what?"
"His... Car, after a fashion."
Twenty-eight: Higher Powers
We crammed ourselves into Harold's moss-green box of a car, and I tried not to grimace as its engine whirred and shuddered as we trounced down the road as fast as the box-on-wheels could manage. Harold had all but said we'd be doing him a favor if we broke the thing—finally give him an excuse to buy a new one, as the damned thing just kept clinging on to life—and so Seamus was not gentle as he wrenched it around corners and yanked the gearbox through its paces.
It was hard not to extend my claws to help me better cling to the thin handle attached to the door. The green rubber shoes Harold had lent me did a fine job of gripping to the carpeted floorboard, though.
"Right," Seamus said. Something mechanical let loose a scream, but he ignored it. "We're about twenty minutes from the garden. Can't say for sure when they start the main event, whatever that is, but we should get there long before they're gathered if they intend to start two hours from now. That should give you time to scout the area and for me to run interference with whoever shows up from Emeline or DeShawn's camps. We don't want to spook them until we have eyes on Talia."
"You sound like a professional," I said, teasing, and he blushed before yanking on the wheel to drift us around a corner.
"These past few months have been an education, that's for sure. Once I'm back on the Sun Guard network—assuming Emeline lets me anywhere near it, that is—it should be easy enough to coordinate you all. I have some satellite imagery of the place. After you ambushed Ragnar, I pulled up everything I could find on that parcel. Do you think..." He hesitated, pretending to focus on navigating a tricky intersection, but I knew he was trying to work up the nerve to ask me about something.
"Do you think Lucien will show up?"
I hadn't thought about that. I'd been so focused on finding and destroying Ragnar that Lucien's fate had slipped away from me. He had some sort of agreement with Raina, and though I didn't believe he knew of all of her motives, I couldn't be sure. If Raina, like Sonia, wanted to embrace eternity as a nightwalker—then why not use Lucien? He could turn her just as easily, and now that he had better control of his faculties there would be less risk of his forgetting himself and murdering her outright.
"I don't know. He wants to be free of Ragnar's influence, but Ragnar is his sire... For nightwalkers, there is no escape from that hierarchy. Not only will Ragnar always be more powerful than him, he maintains a psychic link with all of his make. Lucien is leashed to Ragnar, so long as he lives."
Which is why I must destroy him.
The thought was on the tip of my tongue, the natural impulse to share all my thoughts with Seamus dragging the words almost past my lips. Shame, hot and bitter as bile, kept my words back. Lucien's freedom wasn't be the only reason I wanted Ragnar dead. He was a nightwalker, monster, and active abuser of humanity. My oath, and my personal moral code, demanded his death. But the thought of Lucien's mind freed from Ragnar's leash... Yes. That was my first reason, if not my best. Was that so bad? Could it truly be selfish of me to want to free an enslaved mind?
A sliver within me, hot with guilt, hissed: yes.
And a softer thought, cool and detached: no.
I didn't know. I couldn't know. All I could be sure of was the ache inside me, growing every night the moon passed above me, mocking.
Seamus, bless him, pretended not to notice my choked silence.
Out on the country roads, a flashing white light appeared in our rear view. I twisted around, craning my neck to get a better look. DeShawn. His dark face set with determination, a cluster of black sedans the mirror to the one he drove spread out behind him.
"DeShawn," I said.
Seamus swore softly and glanced into the rear-view mirror. "Shit. Mags. We have to talk to him. There's no way this junk box could outrun them, and even if we tried..."
Who knew how aggressive DeShawn's people would get if they thought we were fleeing, not just trying to herd them toward the garden? Seamus punched the wheel with an open palm and flashed his lights to let them know he was slowing down, then turned off onto the shoulder and killed the engine, leaving his hands on the wheel as if he could take off again at any moment.
DeShawn's flock moved in behind and beside us, angling their vehicles to cut off all routes of escape. By some pre-arranged signal, DeShawn's people poured out and took up defensive positions behind their cars, sighting weapons over the tops of doors at us. Anger flared in my chest. I cared not if they took shots at me—I could escape this crunch if I so chose, even if all of DeShawn's people opened fire at once—but Seamus was as good as dead if even one of them had a twitchy trigger finger. These people were putting a fellow mortal at risk. Unacceptable.
DeShawn approached Seamus's door and made brief eye contact with him before reaching down to pull the handle and step aside.
"Seamus. Mags. Been looking for you two ever since you made quite a stir at London Bridge."
"Talia's in trouble," Seamus blurt
ed out. "We have to get to her, please."
DeShawn frowned and reached up to scratch at his chest. "So I heard—yes, we tapped Emeline's phone. We've got people moving to the garden now. She'll be all right."
"Who?" I asked, craning my head around. "Who is going to the garden?"
"My people," he said tightly. "Your people are on a real short leash right now, Mags. Whole damned city's on the verge of rioting. Nice contacts." He leaned forward, squinting. "Are those Crocs you're wearing?"
"You don't have a single sunstrider going to the garden?" I pressed.
"No. We don't. My people are well trained and carrying gold-enhanced weapons. Roland is with them, and as I'm sure you remember, he's adept at handling supernatural elements."
"Maeve? What of her?"
"House arrest. Damned woman tried to serve that forgetting tea of hers to all of my officers. I'm sorry, I know you're used to doing things your own way, but this is enough, now. It's time you all got some order imposed on things."
"Your people will die," I said simply. "Ragnar will come to that gathering. You remember him, inspector. I understand you're angry with me, but, please—you remember what he is. And he is furious now. You need us. Your weapons will not be enough."
"You've got to stop fighting modernity, Mags. Let us help."
"Help? You don't want to help, you want to take over, you want everything done your way without any attention or respect for what has been established over thousands of years. Do you honestly think the guard hasn't seen this before? Do you think the scientific revolution did not put pressure on us to put aside our ancient ways? There is a middle ground, DeShawn, you must not—"
A mechanical roar broke apart my words and silenced me. Down the road, a single headlight shattered the grey mists that rolled in with the setting of the sun, carving a cone of golden light. Roisin. I sensed her as easily as I sensed my own limbs, drawing near at a pace carefully designed not to be threatening to the officers gathered around us.
DeShawn stepped back from the door, craning his head to better see what approached.
"It's Roisin," I said. "Tell your people to hold their fire. We don't want to hurt you."
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