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Into Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 3)

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by S A Archer


  An arm came around her mid-section, drawing her back against the solid form behind her. The man’s hand slipped under her cotton shirt so his palm flattened against her bare tummy. The light Touch of Lugh’s magic warmed through her with a creepy, yet sensual heat. He leaned down so his cheek rested against the side of her head. The way he held her was possessive, and London gave in to his embrace. She breathed against the Touch of his magic, knowing the feel of it made her flush. Or blush. Or maybe both. Good thing Lugh didn’t lay the magic on too thick, or she’d have embarrassed herself, writhing against him.

  Isaac’s eyes transformed from their blue to a wolfishly golden hue as he glanced up at Lugh. Not anger. Not fear. Something else in them.

  And then she realized it.

  Isaac smelled the Sidhe blood. It was a mingling of hunger and restrained aggression in his face, his animal rising close to the surface. Maybe he had enough control not to wolf-out here in public. Or maybe it was the certainty that the Sidhe would kill him that kept his wolf in check.

  Either way, Isaac didn’t challenge Lugh as the Sidhe drew London back out of the werewolf’s reach. “She is mine.” Lugh said, his voice dropping to a deadly tone.

  And he spoke the truth. She was his, as much as he was hers. Only not in any kind of romantic way. More like a dysfunctional, magical way.

  The Touch eased her addiction and kept her feeling ‘normal’. The sexual satisfaction from the magic was nice, but not the point. It did serve to deepen her feelings for Lugh as her patron, and he well knew it, using it to ensure her loyalty to him.

  And she was loyal, even if he had gone just this side of feral.

  Isaac didn’t challenge them, even as he watched them leaving. Lugh’s arm stayed around her body, keeping her against him. She hooked an arm about his waist too, like lovers walking side by side. Only they weren’t. They were something more complicated and intense than that.

  Chapter Four

  Since the very moment Donovan began to convert the old warehouse he’d once used for a clandestine base of operations into the Glamour Club, the fey gravitated toward him, making the club, and himself, the hub of this mixed-race community of fey. They looked to him now, as they’d looked to him since the Collapse, seeking from him wisdom and guidance because he was Sidhe, and because he had the strength to lead them when so many others had abandoned them.

  Donovan and his small band of Unseelie were far from the only surviving Sidhe. In his office, he had an entire cabinet filled with the details of Sidhe living in hiding, sequestered from the problems of the fey and their responsibility to them.

  The exiles.

  Those Unseelie whose faith and spirits had been crushed by the Seelie. Who gave up their connections to the All-mother and slipped into despair at the loss of her long before Danu had been murdered. The cancer of their depression had eaten at many of them, stealing their hope and their will to overcome. Even to the point that most abandoned the care of their own children, fostering them with lesser fey or outright abandoning them.

  The exiles, broken in spirit and buried in denial, and the earthborn Sidhe, their neglected offspring, were nearly all that remained of a once proud race.

  For these Sidhe, and for the lesser fey they were meant to lead, he would see this new fey realm built. Not a surrogate realm like the Mounds, living like a parasite nestled under the flesh of the earth realm. But a true and separate realm, as the first realm of fey had been.

  A free realm, without the poisonous manipulations of the Seelie twisting it.

  Perhaps there, the exiles could redeem themselves. Could remember who they were and who they should have always been.

  Perhaps there, the earthborns could rise up and take their place as leaders and warriors and caretakers of the fey.

  But until then, Donovan alone stood before these fey, ready to fight for them. To hold together, by the force of his will, what he could not when the cavern of the Mounds collapsed around him and the fey within.

  And it was with this conviction that he cast his dark gaze over the leaders of the lesser fey communities that had gathered about him. All of them looking to Donovan to lead them and do right by them.

  The workout room wasn’t as comfortable for a meeting as the war room, but then again, Donovan didn’t care about comfort. But the fairies, who did value it, claimed the cushioned weight bench for their seats. A couple of dark elves and wood elves shared the wooden bench against the wall. The dwarves, however, never bothered with chairs, not when there was business to discuss. Other representatives from each of the other fey communities that attached themselves to the Glamour Club hung to the side, hesitant to put themselves forward unless needed. Tiernan seconded Donovan, standing to his right and back a pace. The younger Sidhe had slipped into that role of late, without either of them discussing the fact.

  Without preamble, Donovan launched into the point of this gathering. “You’ve all seen what Malcolm’s calling ‘the magic puzzle.’” All eyes followed him, intense. “You understand what it represents.”

  “Clearly, a new fey realm is what yer thinkin’.” The gruff voice of a dwarf rolled up. Dalton’s braided beard bounced on his barrel chest. His short arms crossed with stolid conviction. With his wide stance, he seemed ready for battle, but then again, the dwarf king always came off with an edge of aggression. “And have ye enough Sidhe to pull off such a stunt?”

  “Danu created the Mounds without aid,” offered the pixie matron, leaning against her staff decorated with runes and ivy that were as much for enchantment as for decoration. “It appears as if the boy has begun the weaving for this magic. Why do you need to consult with us?”

  “Because we’ll need more pieces for this puzzle. Malcolm seems to believe we’ll need possibly dozens more to complete it.” Donovan glanced around the suddenly quiet and thoughtful gathering. “It will take time if the bloodhound has to wander about looking for them himself. There is no telling how far and wide they might be scattered.”

  “You’ve got a goodly number already.” Cormac, of the dark elves, leaned back against the wall behind the bench, his knee bent up irreverently and a lazy arm draped across it. “How long did it take him to find them? Two days? A little more?”

  “These were all within the community around the Glamour Club, brought together by each of you unknowing of their value.” Donovan cast a look over the fey. “You know the importance of a realm of our own. A fortress no vampire or werewolf or human could violate. A home where our races can thrive, unmolested.”

  One of the wood elves from Rowan Grove added, “And a source for fey magic.” He cast a look at the others, searching for agreement. “We can’t be the only ones with Mounds-borns who are suffering the Fade.”

  There was a murmur among the assembled. The disorder was whispered, and rarely spoken of openly. Before the Collapse, it was uncommon for a fey to Fade. Too often it was grief turned inward, inducing the Fade as a kind of suicide. It gave the disorder a stigma. For so many to suffer it now was considered shameful, and many communities blamed the victims, assuming they were bringing it upon themselves. And with the horrors and loss of the Collapse, those were likely causes for that kind of deadly grief.

  The fairy woman raised her hand to ask a question, a needless formality to which Donovan gave a curt nod to move past. “So how do we find these objects, if we are to look for them ourselves?”

  “That mallet of mine that Malcolm took was passed down in my family for generations,” offered Eircheard.

  One of the wood elves whispered something to his compatriot. Cormac whacked the wood elf with the back of his hand. “Speak up, Rian.”

  The wood elf shifted, saw all eyes on him, especially Donovan’s. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated.

  “Go on, then!” The dark elf snapped, swatting at him again.


  Rian rose nervously to his feet, using the movement to stall as much as to get out of easy smacking range. “I’m speaking of rumors, only…”

  “What do you know?” Donovan demanded, stepping closer, his dark Sidhe presence threatening.

  The wood elf glanced everywhere but at Donovan. “I… I was just saying that I heard…”

  “Spit it out, Seelie!” Cormac snapped. “Your grove owes the Glamour Club.”

  And it was true. Donovan and his earthborns had rid the wood elves of Rowan Grove of the plight of the sluagh that had been terrorizing them.

  That made Rian lift his gaze to Donovan’s. He couldn’t argue with that. “The Champion was in Adara Grove, one of our sister communities, seeking for just such things as you’ve mentioned for the very same reason that you’ve given.” He shifted, swallowing. His eyes fixing too solidly on Donovan.

  “You’re holding out,” Donovan growled, seeing too easily through Seelie half-truths.

  The wood elf’s shoulders drooped in surrender. “He called them artifacts. Items from the first realm of fey.”

  “Oi!” Dalton stormed up, standing only chest-high to the tall elf. He stuck his finger into the elf’s face. “What else have ye hiding betwixt yer ears?”

  “Yeah, spit it out.” Cormac jibbed.

  The wood elf’s shifty eyes flicked from the lesser fey around him up to Donovan’s furious dark gaze. Nervous sweat pebbled like dew on his forehead and upper lip. Under his breath, Rian admitted, “Lugh’s Fading.”

  “I know this,” Donovan said. “What else?”

  The wood elf bit his lower lip, worrying it a moment, then finally added, “But he won’t be for much longer. Adara Grove thinks they can stop the Fade.” Nearly inaudible, he added. “They’ve sent for him.”

  “When?” Donovan demanded.

  “He’s Sidhe.” Rian pleaded, “A Seelie.” And Donovan knew it strained the wood elf’s morals to betray a fellow Seelie, much less one of the Sidhe.

  “The Seelie caused the Mounds to Collapse when they tried to destroy the Unseelie Court.” Donovan snapped. And no one could argue with that. It had been prophesied since Manannan claimed the throne. It had been the reason so many left the Mounds in the intervening decades. Donovan himself had fought to stop it. Had been caught in the Collapse when the Seelie made their final attack, killing the Unseelie monarchs and the All-mother, Danu, herself.

  Defeated, Rian muttered, “They are gathering as we speak. In Westfall camp.”

  Chapter Five

  Malcolm sat cross-legged on the floor of the war room and looked into the magic of the puzzle. The ribbons of power threaded and flowed between the objects in all kinds of different colors. They twinkled and danced about, making different patterns inside. It was like watching a fire, always changing, always moving. The voices from the artifacts murmured to him softly. Malcolm knew what they needed for him to do— find more pieces and weave them into the magic. Only, Donovan told him to wait.

  So he did.

  Hands in his lap. Face upturned. Patient, because the magic was patient. It had waited ages. It could wait more. Like time didn’t even matter.

  Already the thing had grown so much. Every time Malcolm wedged another bit into it, the whole thing expanded. It stood as tall as him now, and filled about half the width of the round room and you could have parked three pickup trucks in there end to end, easy.

  When someone knocked, Malcolm glanced over his shoulder. Through the door, black mist outlined the figure of a girl. The darkness of the magic within her made her a silhouette against the brighter magic zinging around in the Glamour Club. She didn’t wait for him to say it was ok, Trip just poked her head in. “Have you eaten?”

  Malcolm checked his phone. He’d forgotten to plug it into the charger and it was deader than a doornail. Pretty much, if the alarms didn’t remind him, he’d flat forget about eating. Pondering back on it now, he couldn’t recall if he’d eaten a thing since he woke up. “Probably not,” he admitted.

  “I didn’t think so.” Trip slipped inside, carrying a tray with a couple fish sandwiches and a mound of chips.

  From where Malcolm sat on the floor, looking up at her, he got a peekaboo shot of her midriff from beneath her green crop top. Even in the low light, her spandex pants shimmered as she moved. They hugged her body, smooth and tight, so when she moved it was liquid. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail that made it easy to see her pretty face.

  Sometimes, when he looked at her, it was hard to swallow.

  Like now.

  Trip gave him that friendly smile of hers, and plopped down on the floor beside him. The tray, she set down in front of him. Then she snagged a chip, dipped it into ketchup, and popped it into her mouth. She had a real pretty mouth.

  Malcolm glanced away, down at the food in front of him. He wasn’t hungry. But then again, he never really was. But it was fuel for his magic, Donovan said. So Malcolm took a chip and ate it.

  “So this is cool, huh? All these bits and bobs floating in the air like that.” Trip munched on another chip. “How’d you make it work?”

  “It just does.” He shrugged. “Like it’s supposed to do this.” No one else could see the magic that linked all the pieces together. Just Malcolm, with his bloodhound eyes. Everyone else only saw the things floating in the air, like they dangled from the ceiling on strings. No one else even got the half of it. Didn’t understand what he understood. Couldn’t sense all he could sense.

  Sometimes Malcolm felt sorry for them, not knowing or seeing or hearing what he could. And sometimes he liked having it all to himself. Like he knew secrets no one else could even guess at.

  As Trip relaxed, her magic unfurled bit-by-bit, becoming scarves of shadows that floated around her. She didn’t know when she did that, since she couldn’t see it herself until her magic became real shadows. One of the shadow scarves brushed over Malcolm’s arm, cool and silky.

  Funny how magic had different feels to it. Malcolm reached up and stroked his fingers over the shadow magic, the silk of it gliding through his fingers.

  Trip’s breath caught. When Malcolm glanced up at her, she stared at him with her lips parted in mid-gasp. Her dark eyes fixed on him. “What did you do?” she asked, all breathy.

  “Nothing.” He twirled her magic about his fingers, playing with it. It moved like on some wind, fluttering and reaching for him. “Nothing really.”

  “I feel that.” Trip turned toward him. “Like you’re Touching my magic, instead of my skin.”

  And maybe he was. Malcolm scooted around to face her like she was facing him. Her scarves fluttered out from her and all around them.

  At one time, it had freaked him out to see Trip’s shadow scarves moving like they were alive.

  Magic didn’t freak him out any more.

  Reaching up, he coaxed the shadows to swish and brush through his fingers, like toying with a cat’s tail, how it would glide through his hand and then flick, only to come back for another stroke.

  He played with the magic, caressing its smoothness. And the magic glided around his arms, stroking him back.

  Trip smiled her amazement and Malcolm caught himself grinning back coyly.

  A bit of her shadow stroked across his cheek and Malcolm turned his face into it and inhaled. And then he blinked, trying to place the scent, but it was gone too quickly. So he rose to his knees and crawled closer.

  Trip giggled a little, but Malcolm just smirked as he leaned in. She didn’t push him away, so he didn’t stop. Just drew closer until his cheek brushed against hers. As he inhaled, his nose and lips teased just a little against the skin by her ear. She smelled like nighttime in the fall, when the air was cool and crisp. Like All Hallow’s Eve. Like the cool silence in the fields the night after the
harvest.

  When her tapered fingers fondled his hair, Malcolm tilted his head to look at her. Trip angled her face toward his.

  And he knew in that moment that she meant to kiss him.

  His heart kicked in his chest, but he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

  As her mouth came to his, Malcolm’s eyes closed. Her lips gently brushed against his. Coaxing.

  His mouth opened to catch a breath and he tasted her magic. Sweetness, like honeysuckle.

  Then the taste pressed into his mouth. Her tongue finding his.

  Hesitantly, she Touched him. The magic sank into him where their mouths melded together.

  Her scarves of power gathered about Malcolm like arms. Drawing him closer. Turning them.

  He wasn’t sure how, but he ended up rolling onto his back. Trip crawled on top of him, their kiss and the magic deepening.

  Malcolm drank in the power of her Touch. He swallowed it. It spread through his throat, his chest, and into his belly. He heard a moan. A good moan. And he’d been the one to make it.

  Trip’s knees tucked in beside his hips, her body pressing down onto his with a giving heat. The fingers in his hair drew his head back so the kiss deepened even more.

  The light pleasure of her Touch magic thickened, growing heavy with want. It spilled from her and into his mouth and he had to gulp it down or risk choking on it. The magic flowed deeper into Malcolm. Down into his belly. And then lower still. Spreading with the vibrating heat of desire.

  His eyes snapped opened when he felt his body reacting to the magic. Felt himself getting excited. Getting hard.

 

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