A crinkle appeared between her eyes, then smoothed. “It does not matter. You survived your mistake.”
“Me mistake?” I hissed. “Ye mean takin’ on the creature ye left alive to terrorize not just the mortal realm, but Fae as well?”
“Balor was slain,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “His Fomorian kin drug his body into the sea, and he was destined never to be seen or heard from again.”
“And yet!” I said, exasperated.
“Time has begun to unravel,” she said, stepping around me to walk along the corridor, seemingly ignoring both me and the obvious inconsistency between fate and reality. “Your mother foresaw this. Someone, or something, has corrupted the balance.”
“What d’ye mean, she ‘foresaw this’—aren’t ye her?” I asked.
“Your mother?” she asked, glancing back at me. “No. I have her memories, but not her emotions. I know what she did, but not why. She separated me, long ago, in her bid to live among mortals.”
“What are ye, then?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is to me,” I insisted, hands balled into fists at my side. “I need to know t’ings. T’ings she would have known. I need ye to be her,” I whispered, finally.
“What questions do you have?” she asked, finally. “Ask them, and I will do my best to answer. But then, we must discuss your role in what’s to come.”
I started to ask what that was supposed to mean, but held back before I got off track. She said I could ask my questions, and I had several. Of course, at the moment, only one really mattered. “Why Dez?” I asked, at last.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” she replied dryly.
“Why Dez?” I repeated. “Why her? Why pick someone mortal, someone fragile? Why pick her if ye knew she was goin’ to die in me arms? How could ye do that to your best friend? How could ye do that to me?!” I finished, practically screaming at her by the time I was done.
She studied me with my mother’s face—the face in the painting that now hung in my living room, the painting of Dez and my mother. “The mortal woman your mother chose was an ideal candidate. A former member of the Irish Republican Army. Fierce. Protective. Loyal. Religious. Of all the possible options, she was deemed the most suitable. That, and—because she was mortal—she was especially susceptible to the spell.”
“The…spell?” I asked, disgusted by the clinical evaluation of Dez’s qualities as a human being, but baffled by the mention of a spell.
“The spell your mother wove.”
“Me cage, ye mean?” I asked.
“No, that was something she and I created, together. A way to keep you from attracting the wrong attention too soon. I had hoped the bracelet would act as a release for your powers, but—”
“Me powers?” I could feel a migraine beginning to burst behind my eyelids—which was exceedingly shitty, considering this was all supposed to be a dream. “Wait, are ye sayin’ those t’ings the bracelet did…that was me? Not the magic bracelet?”
“Of course it was you. The bracelet was simply a totem. A release valve, for if you unknowingly accessed your power.” She glanced down at my wrist pointedly. “When you unknowingly accessed your power.”
“But, I thought…”
“That it was your mother’s power?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Morrigan held no authority over time. That’s what I have been trying to tell you, it—”
“Wait,” I said, crossing my arms, refusing to let her off the hook before she answered all my questions. “The spell. Tell me about that, first.”
“Surely, you noticed it yourself.”
“Of course not, or I wouldn’t be askin’ ye,” I replied, scathingly.
She frowned. “The spell your mother cast was on you and your caretaker. A bonding spell that used your mother’s voice, her pattern of speech, to make certain Dez would take care of you.”
“To…what are ye sayin’?” I closed my eyes, struggling to understand. “Ye mean…”
“Your accent. It was anticipated that your caretaker would bond more closely with you if you shared the same dialect, and so your mother forged a link between you and your caretaker. We could not risk her turning you out, or failing to look after you, after all.”
I took a halting step back, then another, trying to wave off what she was saying. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Dez had loved me. Hadn’t she? It couldn’t all have been because of some stupid spell. Could it? Giving me an accent solely to forge a bond between us. That was…unbelievably callous.
Had Dez loved me…only because of my accent?
I ground my teeth, locking the treacherous thought away, fighting back the urge to scream in frustration; I was so sick of being manipulated. So tired of having my trust—already so hard to earn—betrayed.
“If that is the end of your questions,” she said, “then it’s time we—”
“Get out of me head,” I hissed.
“I’m not in your head, you’re in my realm, within the Other—"
“Fine,” I snapped. “Then I’ll go.”
“No, you must—”
But I was already gone.
Chapter 49
After the day Dez died, I knew my world would never be the same. Strangely enough, however, the rest of the world seemed to have moved on without so much as a backwards glance. The storm that had threatened to devastate Boston—which, it turned out, was dubbed Hurricane Ripley…believe it or not—got hardly any coverage. Instead, the city was quickly flooded with UFO chasers, many of whom swore to anyone who would listen that a ship had come down from the sky over Massachusetts Bay, which explained why the storm caused such minimal damage compared to the projections. I had to admit, their grainy photographic evidence did look vaguely alien—unless you knew what you were looking at.
I’d have to let Hook know he was famous, the next time I saw him.
And I would be seeing him—and the other denizens of Neverland—before long. I’d promised Peter I’d return, after all, and I always kept my promises. For now, however, I figured it was best to keep my distance from Fae. Let things cool down a bit. Thanks to the Huntress—or Scathach, if you preferred—I’d learned that Oberon’s ship had survived the massive wave Balor hit them with, and that the remaining Fomorians had been rounded up and imprisoned. I had no idea what would happen to the seafaring giants, but frankly, I couldn’t have cared less.
Caring in any capacity was hard for me to come by these days, though, if I was being honest. I’d already fielded dozens of house calls from old acquaintances from the neighborhood, each offering me some little anecdote, in case I’d forgotten what a great person my own aunt was. Eventually, I stopped answering the damned door.
Unfortunately, the one person I’d have loved to talk to was unreachable; a phone with a message had been waiting for me in my mailbox, accessible once I got a new set of keys—a message from Othello. Well, two, to be exact. The first was a handwritten note that read: Dear Quinn, hope you had fun in Fae. Figured you would lose your phone. Or break it. So here’s a replacement. XOXO Othello.
It was sad how well she knew me.
The second was a voicemail she’d left on the new phone, explaining she’d found a lead on Christoff’s whereabouts and would be in touch. I hadn’t heard anything else from her since, but it really hadn’t been long. Besides, I knew better than anyone that Othello did things on her own time. All the same, it would have been nice to talk to her.
Hemingway, too.
As the Horseman of Death, it struck me he might be uniquely qualified to give me some advice on how to grieve. And, if I was being honest with myself, a very small part of me secretly hoped he might have enough juice to let me see Dez—even just one last time. I needed to know—to find out if what my mother’s ghost had said was true. The thought that Dez might not have loved me without the influence of magic tore at me from the inside; I rarely slept and, when I did, I had horrifying nightmares.
Of course, I
could blame at least some of that on Scathach. The Faeling had a sadistic streak, for sure. She routinely stopped by in the wee hours of the morning to bang on my door, forcing me to join her on some errand that inevitably turned out to be a training lesson; two days ago, she had forced me—at sword point—to spend three full hours trying to start an industrial-sized lawn mower.
At the time, she had neglected to tell me there was no gas in it.
The next day, she informed me I now knew how to draw a bow.
And that day was even worse than the lawn mower lesson.
She was like Mr. Miyagi from Hell.
Despite the aches and early wakeup calls, however, I had to admit I appreciated her dogged insistence I brush up on my fighting skills. With my newfound strength and resilience, I couldn’t exactly train at the dojo; I might accidentally kill somebody—or worse—out myself. Plus, it helped to discover some of the limitations I should expect. Things like the various ways iron can affect the Fae. How much damage their bodies could take. What their recovery rate was like.
Unfortunately, Scathach’s experience didn’t extend to magic. She could train me to fight and use unfamiliar weapons, but had no advice when it came to refining my metaphysical abilities. At this point, however, I’d have settled for simply having access to my magic; since my fight with Balor, I hadn’t felt the barest whisper of power. No matter how hard I tried or what ridiculous incantations I muttered, I couldn’t so much as get a quarter to spin in slow motion. It was almost like my magic—such as it was—had fled altogether.
But I could sense something lurking deep inside me.
Like a light peeking out beneath a closed door.
Which, given the fact that I’d promised the Winter Queen I’d have a serious discussion with Nate Temple, really sucked. Because if there was one thing I’d learned as an arms dealer, it was that it was best to negotiate from a position of strength. At the moment, I wasn’t even sure he’d listen to me, let alone take me seriously. Which meant I needed to learn how to use my magic, and fast.
Of course, if that failed, there were always the eyes.
That’s right. Eyes. Plural.
Before Hook and his crew had fetched me, I’d managed to paddle over to Balor’s corpse and pluck the jewel from his skull, only to secure it and Balor’s original in the blanket they’d given me—keeping both out of sight, hoping everyone would be too overjoyed to have survived to care about either artifact. Luckily, I’d been right, although I had a feeling someone was bound to come asking for them sooner or later.
Which was sort of the point.
After all, while I had no idea which path I’d choose—human or Faeling or goddess—I did know what I was: a black magic arms dealer who was damn good at her job.
Besides, it never hurt to get back to the basics.
Well, it could.
But pain and I were old friends…and I could use one of those right about now.
Quinn returns in MOSCOW MULE in the Fall of 2018…
Turn the page to read a sample of OBSIDIAN SON - Nate Temple Book 1 - or BUY ONLINE (It’s FREE with a Kindle Unlimited subscription). Nate Temple is a billionaire wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn and drinks with the Four Horsemen. He even cow-tipped the Minotaur. Once…
Full chronology of all books in the Temple Verse shown on the ‘Books by Shayne Silvers’ page.
TRY: OBSIDIAN SON (NATE TEMPLE #1)
There was no room for emotion in a hate crime. I had to be cold. Heartless. This was just another victim. Nothing more. No face, no name.
Frosted blades of grass crunched under my feet, sounding to my ears alone like the symbolic glass that one shattered under a napkin at a Jewish wedding. The noise would have threatened to give away my stealthy advance as I stalked through the moonlit field, but I was no novice and had planned accordingly. Being a wizard, I was able to muffle all sensory evidence with a fine cloud of magic — no sounds, and no smells. Nifty. But if I made the spell much stronger, the anomaly would be too obvious to my prey.
I knew the consequences for my dark deed tonight. If caught, jail time or possibly even a gruesome, painful death. But if I succeeded, the look of fear and surprise in my victim’s eyes before his world collapsed around him, was well worth the risk. I simply couldn’t help myself; I had to take him down.
I knew the cops had been keeping tabs on my car, but I was confident that they hadn’t followed me. I hadn’t seen a tail on my way here, but seeing as how they frowned on this kind of thing I had taken a circuitous route just in case. I was safe. I hoped.
Then my phone chirped at me as I received a text. My body’s fight-or-flight syndrome instantly kicked in, my heart threatening to explode in one final act of pulmonary paroxysm. “Motherf—” I hissed instinctively, practically jumping out of my skin. I had forgotten to silence it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! My body remained tense as I swept my gaze over the field, sure that I had been made. My breathing finally began to slow, my pulse returning to normal as I saw no change in my surroundings. Hopefully my magic had silenced the sound, and my resulting outburst. I finally glanced down at the phone and read the text. I typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the phone to vibrate.
I continued on, the lining of my coat constricting my breathing. Or maybe it was because I was leaning forward in anticipation. Breathe, I chided myself. He doesn’t know you’re here. All this risk for a book. It had better be worth it.
I’m taller than most, and not abnormally handsome, but I knew how to play the genetic cards I had been dealt. I had fashionably shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and my frame was thick with well-earned muscle, yet still lean. I had once been told that my eyes were like twin emeralds pitted against the golden tufts of my hair — a face like a jewelry box. Of course, that was after I had filled the woman with copious amounts of wine. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyone saw me.
But tonight, all that was masked by magic.
I grinned broadly as the outline of the hairy hulk finally came into view. He was blessedly alone — no nearby sentries to give me away. That was always a risk when performing this ancient right-of-passage. I tried to keep the grin on my face from dissolving into a maniacal cackle.
My skin danced with energy, both natural and unnatural, as I manipulated the threads of magic floating all around me. My victim stood just ahead, oblivious of the world of hurt that I was about to unleash. Even with his millennia of experience, he didn’t stand a chance. I had done this so many times that the routine of it was my only enemy. I lost count of how many times I had been told not to do it again; those who knew declared it cruel, evil, and sadistic. But what fun wasn’t? Regardless, that wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it again. And again. Call it an addiction if you will, but it was too much of a rush to ignore.
The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but the victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.
I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.
“MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways into the frosty grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really want to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.
Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.
Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M.
Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantly. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just can’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The legendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as he unfolded to his full height on two tree-trunk-thick legs, hooves magically transforming into heavily-booted feet. The heavy gold ring quivered in his snout as the Minotaur panted, corded muscle contracting over his human-like chest. As I stared up into those eyes, I actually felt sorry… for, well, myself.
“I have killed greater men than you for less offense,” I swear to God his voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones.
“You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. But under the weight of his glare, even I couldn’t buy my reassuring lie. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.
The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple… your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.
“You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”
I pointedly risked a glance down at the myth’s own crown jewels. “Well, I sure won’t need a wheelbarrow any time soon, but I’m sure I’ll manage.” The Minotaur blinked once, and then bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had experienced genuine laughter. In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all of that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.
Dark and Stormy Page 28