Her vision cleared to witness a stern-faced man in armored greaves and breastplate, cross-hilted sword gripped in his fist, step through the mirror.
Behind him hovered a woman with masses of fire-streaked mahogany curls, gowned and ruffed in the antiquated fashion of the Tudor court a generation ago. Clutching the bicep of the armored figure, skin glowing as though the moon rose behind her skin, she too stepped through the glass.
Hard on her heels, gripping her arm, strode a third extraordinary figure—a slender man in the glittering garnet doublet and plumed cap of a fashionable courtier. Beneath a silken curtain of ebony hair, his fine-boned features blazed pure and perfect as a diamond. A silver signet flashed like a star on his hand.
Stricken dumb, Jayne sprawled on her rump and gazed up at these impossible apparitions.
“Dear God in Heaven,” she whispered.
The man with the sword surveyed the cabin with a frown. He was utterly unfamiliar—cropped hair framing rugged features and square jaw, eyes flashing like cobalt lightning under tawny brows. Barely seeming to notice Jayne’s tumbled form, he strode to the porthole and gazed out.
“We’re on a sailing ship,” he announced, speaking the Queen’s English in a clipped Yorkshire accent. “A Spanish galleon, if I had to guess. I can see half the Spanish navy from here.”
He trained a piercing stare on the woman. “I owe you an apology, Lady Norwood. Your magick seems to have delivered as promised.”
The dark-haired man slid an arm around the woman’s waist. “Has no one ever advised you, Uriel, an apology works best when the offending party doesn’t sound as though he begrudges every word of it?”
The dark man’s voice was pure music, pouring like honey from a golden throat. Jayne could have listened to him for hours.
Decidedly unimpressed, the blond man grimaced.
“It’s Beltran on this plane,” he said curtly. “As I keep telling you, Zamiel, I’m not as you recall me.”
While Jayne struggled to force her frozen wits to work, the man named Beltran strode to the door. When it naturally refused to open, he frowned and jiggled the handle impatiently.
“Why is this door locked?” This question was fired at Jayne.
“You had best grow accustomed to it,” she said faintly, “until the captain of this galleon returns.”
“Ah!” The woman turned toward her, sherry-gold eyes widening. “Ye’re English! Are ye a captive aboard this boat? Blessed St. Bride, have we come too late?”
“Well, as to that...” Jayne floundered. “Too late for what?”
“Which captain?” From the door, the blond man scowled. “Who commands this vessel?”
“Hell’s Bells, Uriel—I mean Beltran.” The dark-haired courtier released the woman and stepped lightly toward Jayne. “Hasn’t your wife taught you any of the social graces? You don’t just step out of a mirror and start firing questions. This isn’t one of your interrogations. Here, dear girl, let me assist you.”
Gratefully Jayne accepted his hand and scrambled to her feet. She caught a fleeting glimpse of his signet—a sinister pentagram framing the head of a goat with slitted eyes.
Hastily she withdrew her hand. Her uneasy gaze slid from the uncanny beauty of the man called Zamiel to the woman, who smiled at her kindly.
“Ye look a mite flustered, poor lass, and no wonder. We’ve given ye naught for a proper introduction, have we?”
“Not quite.” Jayne wondered if she could be dreaming.
“So then,” the woman said briskly. “I’m Lady Linnet Norwood, Countess of Glencross. This silver-tongued charmer is my husband Zamiel, the new Earl of Glencross.”
Lady Norwood paired the words with an affectionate glance at the black-haired lord, which he returned through violet eyes that smoked with intensity. Suddenly, the cabin seemed a trifle warm.
“Still has an odd ring to it, if you ask me,” the Earl of Glencross murmured. “As long as you’re content, my sweet.”
Dazed, Jayne spread her borrowed skirts and curtseyed. “Lady Jayne Boleyn.”
“Lady Boleyn?” The blond man, who’d laid his ear against the door, pivoted with alacrity. “You’re kin to the Queen? To Elizabeth Tudor?”
Jayne grasped at the touchstone of the familiar name.
“I’m the Queen’s cousin,” she said warily, “though I would not presume to claim a close friendship.”
“And he,” Zamiel sighed, gesturing toward the man, “is Lord Beltran Nemesto, the Queen’s Enforcer—a sort of magistrate for the realm. He has a lamentable lack of manners. As above, so below.”
“Zamiel,” Lady Norwood murmured.
“Sorry,” Zamiel muttered, unapologetic.
Lord Beltran shot him a narrow glance. “I realize our history has not been pleasant, Zamiel. I was the constable of the celestial realm—and you were an all-out troublemaker. We’re going to have to put that behind us. Clean page, and so on.”
“Easy for you to say,” Zamiel pointed out. “You were an Archangel, and I merely an outcast Dominion—a lesser class of angel entirely. Bottom rail’s up on top now, isn’t it?”
“An Archangel?” Jayne blurted.
Perhaps she’d taken leave of her senses after all. Indeed, someone had referred to Lord Beltran as Uriel. Mind reeling, her gaze swung to the stern portrait of Uriel, Flame of God, guarding the Gate to Eden with his fiery sword.
“Still,” Zamiel mused, “you have mellowed considerably since you married Rhiannon. Although how she tolerates your sanctimonious, narrow-minded judgments—”
“Please,” Jayne gasped, as Lord Beltran bristled. “I’m sorry if I seem slow to follow all of this, but what in God’s Holy Name is happening? Who—who are you?”
“Quite right,” Linnet Norwood said briskly, looking relieved at the interruption. “Ye’re a Boleyn and the Queen’s cousin, which makes ye an ally. That’s a bit of good fortune for us. We couldn’t see ye clearly through the Veil. Ye might have been Spanish, for all we knew. But we had to pass through anyway, aye? We’ve been trying to get through for days.”
“Through the Veil?” This, at least, was a term Jayne knew. Guiltily she glanced at her discarded gown, which had covered the glass. “Do you come from the Summer Lands?”
Linnet Norwood’s moonlight skin and topaz eyes glowed with the uncanny beauty of the Fae, though mixed with mortal blood.
“Oh, aye.” The countess nodded. “I thought ye’ve the look of the Fair Folk yerself. Which makes matters simpler to explain, for certain. But aye, we come from Morrigan.”
“From Morrigan? The Faerie Queene?” Jayne gaped. She seemed able to do naught but repeat these outlandish and shocking revelations. “Do you know about—Mordred?”
“Ye might say so,” Lady Norwood said dryly. “In fact, ye could say it’s my fault the Prince of Camelot’s roaming free about the mortal realm working his mischief, since he followed me through the mirror from Lyonesse. Of course, I knew naught of it at the time. That was Morrigan’s work as well, but I daresay she’s had cause to regret it.”
Beltran Nemesto—or Uriel, if she chose to believe that—snorted and slid his broadsword into the sheath across his back. “Aye, Morrigan regrets her trickery, now that dog Mordred’s turned on his bitch of a mother. I’m inclined to say she deserves her fate, whatever it is.”
Visibly he unclenched his jaw. “But my wife tells me I should be more forgiving. Rhiannon’s her half sister, with more cause to hate Morrigan than anyone. If she can find it within herself to forgive the witch, it’s my place to follow her lead. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Rhiannon. Jayne grasped at the name, recalling Mordred and his tale.
“We’re not here to help Morrigan, aye?” Linnet Norwood pointed out. “Even if she’s the one who saw this future in her scrying bowl. We’re here because she persuaded Elizabeth of the danger. We’re here because Elizabeth believes her. Though I suppose we ought to start by asking ye, Lady Boleyn, exactly when we are?”
“When? It’s—May.”
“Aye, but what year?” the countess asked patiently.
“What year? Why, it’s—the Year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eighty-eight.”
The visitors exchanged grim looks and nodded.
Jayne took herself firmly in hand. Time to start asking her own questions, since Calyx could walk into the middle of this cozy tête-à-tête at any moment. Then they’d all be captives. If this bizarre trio had come from Elizabeth, a sudden encounter with the capitán of the Arcángel was likely not what they had in mind.
“When is it where you come from, if one might inquire?” she asked politely.
“It’s 1562.” Zamiel surveyed their surroundings with interest. “It seems you’ve brought us forward twenty-eight years, Linnet. Barely a hiccup in time for a Faerie—or an angel.”
“Twenty-eight years,” his wife murmured. “It may be a wee skip for the two of ye, but we live a mortal lifespan now, all three of us. The twins must be grown by now—that is, if they...”
“They’ve prospered, love. I’m certain of it.” Zamiel crossed swiftly to her side and caressed her cheek. The countess pressed his hand over his and smiled up at him, golden eyes glowing.
“Of course they’ve prospered,” Lord Beltran said gruffly. A flicker of affectionate concern softened the hard line of his square jaw, making him seem for a rare moment less formidable and more human. “Your twins and my lad—they’re good comrades in arms, no doubt. That’s why Rhiannon remained behind, to see them safe.”
He glanced darkly toward the porthole, where a wallowing galleon flying the Spanish flag glimmered through a curtain of rain. “Not that I would’ve allowed her to try this stunt, in her condition. She’s a good six months along, and we could have walked out of that mirror straight into a battlefield.”
“You very nearly have done,” Jayne murmured. “Behold Philip of Spain’s great Enterprise. Here sails his Armada, bound to save heretic England and overthrow her heretic Queen.”
Beltran cursed softly and paced the cabin’s cramped confines. “So Morrigan was telling the truth—for once. I suppose the bloody Prince of Camelot’s tangled up in it?”
Jayne nodded. “He is currently occupying the chaplain’s cabin. Mordred is pretending to be a Blade of God, although Philip—surprisingly—knows precisely what he is. Mordred is also King of the Hagas, although I’ve yet to determine what part he means them to play.”
She paused. “For that matter, I have yet to determine what part you yourselves mean to play. Are you—are you truly...?”
“Angels?” Lady Norwood flashed her a sympathetic smile. “It’s a bit much to swallow in one sitting, aye? Both these fine fellows were exiled from Heaven for their wee misdeeds, sentenced to mortal lives. If ye look with yer Sight, lass, with that Faerie magick I can see ye have, ye’ll behold their true forms.”
Jayne glanced from Lord Beltran’s broad-shouldered bulk stalking through the cabin to Zamiel’s graceful form gazing at the paintings, hands clasped behind his slender back. When she blurred her mortal sight, their shadowy auras flickered and flamed into view. Jayne gasped.
Uriel—the Angel of Vengeance—towered in blinding mail of white-and-gold, a banner of silver hair streaming around his grave visage. Mighty wings of opal and cobalt swept behind his colossal form as he paced.
If Uriel was flame, Zamiel was shadow, his divine essence armored in glittering jet, ebony wings and raven mane rippling in a celestial wind. A crown of dark flames writhed above his pale brow. His eyes burned like white suns, twin infernos whose painful brightness stabbed through her. She flinched and looked away.
The everyday world of the galleon solidified around her. When her vision cleared, the mortal Zamiel was eyeing her, mouth twisted in wry sympathy.
“Sorry about the eyes,” he murmured. “It’s called angel fire. Part of what makes me and my fellow Dominions so formidable in battle. We’re one of the warrior Choirs, along with the Powers. The Archangels, like Uriel, lead us all to war. But I don’t suppose we should go into all that just yet.”
Jayne blinked away the spots that floated in her burning eyes. “Uriel is the Angel of Vengeance, I’ve been told. Which one are you?”
“Here we go,” Beltran muttered. “Kindly recall we’re pressed for time.”
Zamiel flashed him an injured look. “Yet we’ve all the time in the world to trumpet your celestial titles. To be brief, my lady—I’m Sammael, the Severity of God, though I’d appreciate it if you call me Zamiel. In the official lexicon, I’m the Angel of Death.”
“And the Son of Lucifer, don’t forget,” Beltran grunted, keen gaze shifting to Jayne as she gasped. “When Lucifer fell, this one stayed behind. Rebelled against his own name, along with everything else, and lost his divine gifts—as I did. Despite all that, he’s trustworthy enough. Being married to Lady Norwood here has settled him somewhat.”
“Oh yes.” Zamiel shot him an acerbic glance. “These days, I’m placid as a priest.”
Beltran snorted and resumed his pacing. “If we’ve finished with the courtesies, we’d best plan our attack.”
Linnet Norwood crossed to Calyx’s bunk and settled comfortably on that couch of sin, skirts of champagne taffeta billowing around her. “We’ll just follow the plan we laid out with Elizabeth, aye? The first bit of it’s gone off well enough. We’ve come forward to the right time, and here’s the Faerie Glasse, just as Morrigan promised.”
She gestured offhandedly to the mirror. “As to how this magickal talisman wound up on a Spanish galleon, that’s anyone’s guess.”
“I believe I can address that.” Feeling decidedly surreal, Jayne crossed to Calyx’s bed and sat beside her. The sultry musk of sex and ambergris and the captain’s mouthwatering body filled her senses, but she forced herself to concentrate. “The Arcángel began as an English galleon. Calyx—that is to say, the current captain, Carlos Alejandro Angelo de Zamorra—captured it in battle.
“I’m afraid he’s a bit of a pirate,” she added apologetically. “No doubt your magickal glass was aboard, just part of the spoils of war.”
“We’re fortunate this Spanish pirate didn’t pawn it for a cask of rum,” Beltran muttered. “That Glasse is unique, as Lady Norwood said. I’m surprised we’re the only creatures you’ve seen passing through it.”
“Calyx collects curiosities, as you can see.” Jayne gestured toward the astrolabe and the armillary sphere. “You’ll find he has a lively intellect and an interest in metaphysical matters—including a positive obsession with angels. He named this ship after one, and there’s a cat—”
Stricken by sudden suspicion, she gazed from the former Archangel to the former Dominion. “Speaking of which, I, ah, trust you have not done much of this...traveling through time before? Neither of you were in the habit of visiting a Castilian finca thirty years ago, I presume?”
Because if there were angels walking the earth, she thought wildly, perhaps Catarina de Zamorra had been less mad than her son believed—
“Once through that howling void is enough, believe me.” Beltran grimaced. “My only goal is to complete this mission and return home to my pregnant wife.”
“But could there be, ah, more of you?” Jayne asked delicately. “Roaming the mortal plane? Seducing mortal women?”
Beltran’s nostrils flared in outrage, but Zamiel merely laughed.
“Oh, there used to be,” the latter mused. “If you know your Scripture. It’s the whole reason Jehovah sent the Deluge to obliterate the ancient world—except for Noah and his kin in that wretched ark. Too many angels had grown restless with the endless rules of the Seven Heavens. In Noah’s time, a regular highway ran between the Gate of Heaven and the mortal realm. Many of our celestial kin walked that road, became besotted with the charms of mortal women and fathered half-mortal offspring.”
“Those days were an abomination,” Beltran rumbled. “The Archangels put a stop to that.”
“Abomination, is it?�
�� Zamiel said irritably. “It’s plain fact, though I’m sorry you and Michael found the truth so hard to stomach. In those days, many an angel sired progeny on their mortal lovers. My own infernal father, as you well know, cooked up some preposterous plot to people the earth with Nephilim.”
“With what?” Jayne gazed between them, fascinated, despite her niggling worry about the swift passage of time. Body of God, what would Calyx do when he found two former angels and a Scottish Faerie walking through mirrors into his cabin?
“Thankfully, Michael restored order among the ranks,” Beltran said grimly. “Those rebel angels deserved their fate. If Lucifer hadn’t already fallen, I would have cast him out myself for that stunt. But it’s all ancient history. There’s no point belaboring it.”
“You seem to keep forgetting this, Uriel, but you’re not in charge here.” Giving the other man his back, Zamiel gazed soberly at the women. “In Bible lore, the Nephilim were a race of semi-divine beings, half mortal and half angel, sired by celestial fathers upon the wombs of willing mortals. They were a race of giants, warlike and lustful, who taught the martial arts and the magickal arts to mortals.”
“Which doomed them to extinction,” Beltran pointed out, “when Jehovah sent the Flood. The Nephilim were wiped out as He intended, along with most of the mortal race, their bloodline irredeemably corrupted by the fallen angels—just as Lucifer intended.”
“They weren’t all evil,” Zamiel countered. “The Nephilim taught their mortal brethren the arts of mathematics and astrology, how to navigate by the stars, as well as the sciences and things mechanical. Nor did the Deluge entirely end the problem. In subsequent millennia, the lure of mortal love has continued to tempt the occasional angel. Many of these have sired Nephilim. Goliath of Goth, who fell to little David and his slingshot, was one of them.”
On the bed, Linnet curled her arms around up-drawn knees and studied her husband thoughtfully. “Ye’ve not spoken of this before, Zamiel. Our own sweet bairns must be Nephilim themselves, aye? Along with Beltran’s lad, and the babe Rhiannon carries. The two of ye are populating the world with Nephilim all over again.”
Mistress by Magick Page 19