“My sister might have been close to Dr. Allegro, but I was one of the students actually working on his scroll team. I learned much more about the Nephilim than she ever did. When a Sidhe approached me—her name was Rhoswen—I went willingly. But I couldn’t tell my sister. She’d given up on Allegro and fallen madly in love with your grandfather. She had dreams of starting a family once she graduated. If I’d shared too much, she, too, would’ve had to leave all that behind.”
“But what about now?” interrupted Sara. “Is she safe?”
“She is, don’t fret. I collected her myself this morning,” said Claire. “There is much more to talk about, but we must hurry and decide what to do about your situation.”
The Sidhe spoke with a voice rich and full. “We’ve come to offer you another way out.”
“This is Lasair,” explained Claire. “Rhoswen’s son, a bit human and you won’t believe how old. Together they lead an alliance of Sidhe and crossbreeds unrelated to the militant group who plan to do you harm—those others will stop at nothing to conceal all knowledge of your photographs. Rhoswen’s faction takes a more peaceful approach. They continue to hold vigil for the Morrígna’s return. I’ve been living with them.”
Sara struggled to take all this in. One thing she did grasp was that she had been right—this gorgeous man was a Sidhe. How old could he be? As her fear receded, her attraction grew. She wondered if he was casting some sort of Sidhe spell on her, then decided she didn’t care. She forced her attention back on Claire, who was still talking.
“It’s up to you what happens next, my dear. You can take your chances with the militant Sidhe, which won’t end well. Or you can come with us. We’ll bring you to a place where we can protect you.”
Lasair gave her a sideways smile. “I’d like to show you my home.” He extended his hand.
Sara took it without thinking. “I’ll come with you, then.”
“Wonderful,” said Claire. “Now, we must be quick. The militants may well send a Fomorian or two to intercept the ship.” She glanced nervously over the side, then walked off.
Lasair led her back to her cabin. She did not ask him how he knew the way or how he opened the door she knew she had locked. “What did you bring?” he asked.
“Just that,” she said, pointing to her small, battered suitcase in the corner.
“Good. You’ll have to leave it. Now I need your clothes.”
“They’re all still packed in there,” she replied hesitantly.
Lasair smiled at her again, a smile that made her wonder when she would get a chance to seduce him, or the other way around. She found out, in part.
“No. I need the clothes you’re wearing,” he said. “It’s important.”
“All right.” She removed her coat, sat on the bunk and kicked off her shoes and socks, stood, wriggled out of her jeans, pulled her sweater over her head, unbuttoned her blouse, slid it off, and dropped it on the pile.
He looked at her. She met his gaze. “All of them,” he said.
Sara cocked her head at him. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his lips. He returned the kiss, which to her felt like kissing chocolate, chocolate that melted into her. “There, now I’ve a reason to undress,” she said, adding her bra and panties to the pile, and then she looked up into his eyes, hoping for another kiss.
Instead Lasair sorted through the pile of clothes and began reassembling them, laying them out on the bunk. He placed panties into jeans, bra into blouse into sweater into coat, until he had everything arranged perfectly, including her shoes. He bent and breathed into the sleeve. To Sara’s amazement her clothing inflated like a balloon and then not a balloon—it became her, or rather a specter of her, lying there on the bunk.
The door opened, and Claire squeezed into the cabin. “My, you’ve grown into a beautiful woman,” she said, handing Sara a stack of folded clothes with shoes on top.
The thing on the bed that looked like Sara rose. In the confined space, it bumped against them as it wobbled toward the open door, then walked haltingly down the passageway toward the stairs. Claire closed the door behind it.
“Where’s it going?” Sara asked.
“It’s going to fall overboard, my dear. Now, put on those clothes. We won’t be able to slip you out unnoticed like that.”
Suddenly remembering that she was still naked, Sara hurriedly dressed. “How did the militants find out about Grandmother and me?”
“There was a renovation at the Shrine of the Book, and someone discovered a children’s book of faerie tales among Allegro’s old papers. He must have overlooked it, or died before he could stash it. The shrine is always under surveillance by the militant Sidhe. They became suspicious as to why he would have such a thing. They found its hidden photos and traced the connection.”
“I can’t believe all this is happening,” said Sara as she laced up her replacement shoes.
“Your bloodline, our bloodline, has always been drawn into events involving the Nephilim, even when unconscious of the connection. It’s more than fate,” said Claire.
“My bloodline?”
“That’s why Rhoswen’s group has been watching over you. They’re the ones who made sure your grandmother escaped. But you must move now. We’ll talk of all this when we arrive, my dear.”
Sara followed Claire and Lasair out of the cabin, her satchel tucked firmly under her arm. “Where are we going after you sneak me off the ship?”
“To the Middle Kingdom, of course.”
IN THE END
Geoffrey Chaucer died eight months after Richard II, leaving his magnum opus, The Canterbury Tales, unfinished. Cries of murder were largely ignored. Chaucer was the first writer interred in the area of Westminster Abbey known as Poets’ Corner.
The legate, Cosimo de’ Migliorati, was elected pope on October 17, 1404, his reward for bringing the Irish Church into the Holy See. He took the name Pope Innocent VII, but his turbulent reign was cut short when he was found dead just two years later.
Cardinal Orsini, previously high exorcist of the VRS League, remains in the cellar of Innocent’s fortress on Vatican Hill, bound into the bronze vessel with the demon Vepar. When the legate became pope, he had intended to have the VRS League try to extricate Orsini, but he died before he got around to it. The Orsini family faded from prominence, losing much of their land and power, due to a curious inability to produce male heirs.
Isabella, no longer the English queen, was released from prison to return to France once the new king, Henry IV, was in firm control of the throne. Little is known of what happened to her there, except that the VRS League had possession of her body upon her death at the age of nineteen. They bound it with linen straps coated with silver, an ancient technique to prevent witches from returning from the afterlife, then interred it in the abbey of St. Laumer in Blois. In 1624, responding to reports of Isabella’s reappearance, the Vatican opened the tomb and found that her body was perfectly preserved, as if she were sleeping. For security, the body was moved to the Church of the Celestines in Paris, where the bodies of many women of the High Coven were interred and guarded. Though, for some, just their entrails were secured there. At the time the VRS League believed that it was impossible for a necromancer to resurrect a witch who did not possess her entrails, and the guts took up so much less room than a whole body.
Queen Isabeau of France, the Grande Sorcière, made two more attempts to gain permanent control of the English throne. Joanna of Navarre, the Second Sorcière, murdered her husband so she could marry Richard’s successor, Henry IV, in 1403. Shortly thereafter Henry IV developed a disfiguring skin disease and began having seizures, often leaving his new queen to speak for him. After Henry’s death Joanna was tried and convicted of witchcraft. She was imprisoned in Pevensey Castle, Sussex, England. Then Catherine of Valois, another daughter of Queen Isabeau, was sent to seduce and marry Henry IV’s successor, Henry V. Henry V died of an overdose of one of Catherine’s potions in 1422, two years after their marri
age. Catherine was killed by Owen Tudor when he discovered her practicing witchcraft.
Valentina Visconti, the High Coven’s “Keeper of the King,” was accused of using a tarot deck and witchcraft by the Duke of Burgundy, who was plotting to usurp the High Coven’s power over the French throne. Valentina was exiled and died of unknown causes.
The Vatican attempted to crush the power of witches in Europe by orchestrating a series of extensive witch-hunts, culminating in the Valais witch trials of 1428. Hundreds of witches and sorcerers were burned to death. Thousands more were imprisoned, frequently dying there, often under torture. The trials were run by Cardinal Gabriele Condulmer, legate to Pope Martin V. Legate Condulmer was later elected pope himself, Pope Eugene IV, by promising all the other cardinals that half the revenues of the Church would be distributed to them.
Matteuccia de Francesco, the Witch of Ripabianca, tutor to the children of the High Coven, was captured and burned alive the first year of the Valais witch trials.
Catherine de Thouars, who was nursing at the breast of Béatrix de Montjean when Isabella was still studying in the High Coven, escaped the witch trials by marrying Gilles de Rais, marshal of France. He had been declared a hero of the Hundred Years’ War for fighting alongside Joan of Arc. Catherine taught Gilles the dark witchcraft practices. He was later hanged for the sadistic murders of over eighty children, whose body parts were used in the rites of witchcraft and the raising of demons. Once again Catherine escaped trial.
Joan of Arc was rumored to be the illegitimate daughter of Queen Isabeau of France, the Grande Sorcière; however, there is no record of Joan’s ever attending the High Coven.
Catherine Simon, the young girl who Cardinal Orsini accused of being a witch but promised to save from the fire as long as she was his sex slave, might not have been a real witch when she was taken to the Vatican. However, during her two years in Orsini’s chambers she learned enough enchantments to escape while he traveled to Ireland. She practiced her new craft in Andermatt and Wallenboden and taught it to her daughter, until they were both captured and burned at the Valais witch trials.
Brigid, Patrick, and Colmcille (later Anglicized to “Columba”) were canonized as saints by the Vatican in an attempt to pacify the Irish population and to reshape history into myth.
Colmcille returned to Ireland from the Isle of Man and established the Monastery of the Holy Trinity in Dublin. Tortured by nightmares, he lived in constant fear of demons and never again left the city walls. Eventually he confined himself to the monastery and then, for the last five years of his life, to his chamber. For centuries after his death, many a monk claimed to hear his pleas for forgiveness echoing down the stone passageways.
Patrick’s Blood Bell (also called Bell of the Blood, or Clogh-na-fullah) disappeared for over four hundred years until it resurfaced in 1841—sealed in a jeweled reliquary made of iron, silver, and gold and protected by enchantments—in the possession of Reverend Marcus Beresford, who rapidly rose in prominence to become archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland. Today the Blood Bell can be seen in the library of Armagh, Northern Ireland.
Fomorians are still occasionally sighted in the loughs of Galway. There were too many bodies of water for the exorcists to find and kill them all.
Johannes Gutenberg, in 1448, invented a system involving movable metal type and a new design of printing press that together could mass-produce inexpensive books. A single press using this system could print thirty-six hundred pages per workday on cheap paper (rather than expensive vellum). The resulting flood of books and pamphlets broke down the Vatican’s control over literacy, and with it their ability to reshape history as they wished also faded, though they continued attempting to do so for centuries.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MAGIC IS REAL! There is no other explanation for how I ended up with the talented and passionate team who brought this book to completion and to market.
Long before The Last Days of Magic was a novel, when it was still just an idea and a few rudimentary chapters, Adrienne Brodeur believed in what it could be. Over the years her guidance, editorial acumen, and friendship kept me writing. This book would not be in your hands without her support. I am indebted to Tim Ryan and the rest of her family for their willingness to sacrifice time with her as she worked on this project.
What inspired Carole DeSanti, vice president and executive editor at Viking Penguin, to chase down and capture the original manuscript is hard to fathom. I am fortunate to have her as an editor and grateful for all the times she locked me in various (admittedly nice) rooms, refusing to let me compromise on any chapter, paragraph, or word. My thanks go as well to Christopher Russell for his timely input and all the heavy lifting required to get this book out into the world. For their hard work and enthusiasm, my gratitude goes out to the rest of the Viking Penguin team including: Brian Tart, Andrea Schulz, Kate Stark, Carolyn Coleburn, Lydia Hirt, Lindsay Prevette, Allison Carney, Angie Messina, Tory Klose, Maureen Sugden, Francesca Belanger, and their colleagues in publicity, marketing, sales, and production.
Stephanie Cabot is a literary agent extraordinaire whose insights were as invaluable in polishing the manuscript as they were about the marketplace. My thanks go to the entire Gernert Company team, including Ellen Goodson, Anna Worrall, Rebecca Gardner, Seth Fishman, and Flora Hackett, who have facilitated everything from social media to marketing to foreign rights.
The programs and staff of Aspen Words, the literary arm of the Aspen Institute, served as midwives to this novel. Special thanks to Maurice LaMee, Jamie Kravitz, Caroline Tory, and Renee Prince.
My deep appreciation goes to those uniquely generous people who took the time to read and comment on a manuscript that I thought was finished but they knew was not: Lisa Kessler and Jenna Johnson. For their bravery, my thanks to even earlier readers: Tom and Bridget Tomlinson, Kathy Naumann, Barbara Bends, Jonathan Young, Mary and Larry Tompkins (my loving parents), and Cherie Tucker.
In Ireland, Deirdre Wadding shared a treasure trove of information on Irish faeries and magic. Dr. Andy Halpin, with the National Museum of Ireland, was quick to turn around valuable answers to my befuddled questions.
Victoria Haveman and John Beatty let me encamp in the corner of their inspirational café, Victoria’s Espresso, in Aspen, Colorado, where most of this book was written. Without their caffeine and pastries, the Gods only know if I would have ever actually finished. I also have a special fondness for Café Du Marché on Rue Cler, in Paris, where for a week I sat and scratched out the original outline.
For his wonderful personal support, both while I was writing and long before, I will always be grateful to my dear friend Rick McCord.
This novel is dedicated to my wife, Dr. Serena Koenig; she knows why.
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