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

by S A Archer

  Three other elven males waited near the head of the bed, watching Lugh as he took in the details of the room himself. Kev and London stayed near the door. No one demanded that she leave, which was good, because she’d every intention of staying. She might not know much about the ways of their magic, but Lugh was hers to protect in any way that she could, and she wanted to stay close. Kev leaned in and whispered an introduction into her ear, “Cai, the head magic weaver, and his apprentices.”

  “How does this work?” Lugh asked of no one in particular.

  The healer brought him a shallow bowl with some kind of a steaming broth. “The laurel leaves of Annwn.” She offered the bowl as if expecting him to drink from it.

  Lugh gripped her wrists and lowered the bowl from his face with a hardness to his features that London hadn’t ever seen before. His voice was even harder. Through the Glamour, his cold eyes shifted with a sharp edge. “Death blossom?”

  The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. Kev, standing by London’s side, stilled with it. It was as if the entire room held its collective breath. Even if anyone had been fooled by Lugh’s Glamour, his behavior gave him away. There was little of the courtliness or the gentleman about him anymore.

  Cai stepped up and claimed the bowl from Niamh’s grip before she spilled it. “Just enough to induce the dream walk.”

  Niamh’s fearful eyes searched Lugh’s face, and saw more than the magic masking it. Lugh didn’t release her wrists, even when she twisted them a little, uncertain and probably not without some discomfort.

  The elven male handed off the bowl, and collected Niamh from Lugh’s grip. To London’s surprise, Lugh released her. The elf steered Niamh away. “With a base mixture of fairy ring caps and oak sap to preserve life.”

  Lugh cast a glance about him and London could tell that he knew as well as she that the elves suspected something was off with him, though they probably didn’t know to the degree to which his corruption had gone. He smiled again, all pleasant save for the edge of bemusement that was not exactly good-natured. Even if the elves knew something was wrong with Lugh, they didn’t call him on it and he didn’t cease in his pretense that all was well. How very Seelie of them all to keep up the polite appearances and continue to play the game as if they didn’t know the cards the other held. “And once the dream walk begins, then what?”

  Mckenna answered this time. “You seek the power of this realm. The ley lines cross near to the surface here. Draw their power into yourself and connect with it.”

  Cai said, “Your magic should seek the connection. Like water to water.”

  Lugh slid his gaze back to Cai. “Of course,” he said, and London couldn’t tell if he agreed or if he was being sarcastic.

  “Should we begin?” Niamh asked, her voice soft.

  As Lugh reached for the bowl, Mckenna laid a soft hand to Lugh’s wrist, forestalling him. “Is there something we should know, Champion? Before we begin?”

  “This is dangerous enough without the element of the unknown complicating matters,” Cai agreed.

  And this was more of a challenge than London expected the lesser fey to make of a Sidhe, but she appreciated their effort. With the dark magic already holding so much sway over Lugh, anything else might mess him up big time. Her heart sped up, hoping that he’d reveal something of his condition so that they might anticipate any potential problems.

  But Lugh shook his head and smiled once more. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  Eyes flicked to her. And as Lugh’s druidess, and sworn keeper of his secrets, she could do nothing more than give a slight shake of her head, indicating that she had nothing to add. They all knew she was holding out on them, but there was nothing more any of them could do if Lugh wouldn’t be straight with them.

  London glanced up at Lugh, still feeling the weight of everyone’s expectation on her, and she saw approval in Lugh’s face. She’d kept her pledge to him, and with each time she fulfilled her role she knew their bond as druidess and patron grew deeper.

  She craved that bond. Needed it. And because of her addiction to the Touch, she couldn’t live long without it.

  “Then we shall begin,” Mckenna acquiesced.

  Niamh gestured toward the bed. “You’ll need to lie down.”

  The randy quirk of his lips at the elven woman held more than suggestion as Lugh stretched himself out on his back. Niamh shifted under his gaze. London imagined from the blush that the elven woman was both flattered and frightened by the attention. But more frightened, for sure.

  If she had any real clue what was wrong with Lugh, if she knew anything at all about the Eclipse, she’d have been scared out of her mind.

  Cai offered the bowl to Lugh and London resisted speaking a warning. Lugh knew what he was getting into more than she could even fathom, but the sound of ‘death blossom’ was enough for her protective hackles to rise. Kev rested a hand on her shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. Not that London was all that reassured. She clutched Lugh’s token in her fist. Recalled all he was before the Eclipse, and all she’d promised to help him remember some day. Holding on to her pledge, and her faith that somehow all this was part of the greater tapestry, even if she couldn’t see all of the stitches in the weave, she watched with the pit of her stomach plunging with the sense of doom. She’d put all her hopes in Lugh, in somehow helping him through it all. Because without him, she may well find herself at the non-mercy of the Unseelie who would see her dead before helping her with her addiction to the Touch.

  Cai lifted the bowl as Lugh’s hands cupped around his. He tilted it up and Lugh drank a few sips. “All of it,” Cai murmured, and Lugh lifted the bowl to drain it.

  London barely breathed and she wasn’t the only one. Everyone else held their breath, too. The room fell deathly silent as all eyes watched Lugh.

  Cai stepped back and London was glad for a clear view. Even if what she saw was anything but reassuring.

  Lugh’s eyes closed before he dropped back onto the bed. His body slumped with unnatural relaxation, arms draping at unconscious angles. He was out cold before his body fully crumpled onto the sheets. A sigh like a final deathly exhale shuddered from his body, and then he was stone still.

  The disguise of Glamour dissipated like a layer of frost, revealing his true self. Dark blond hair in attractive disarray. Bronze skin tone.

  Brushing back Lugh’s bangs from his face, Cai whispered, “What magic is this?”

  “Some dark magic, to be sure.” Mckenna glanced once more at London, but there was nothing for it now. The elf didn’t appear all that much older physically than the others, but the weight of his years showed in subtler ways. Like in the graveness of his frown, and in the depth of his perceptions. “Possibly the only reason the Fade hasn’t consumed him so far. The potion has been drained and what will come of it is beyond our control now.”

  The burn of fear made her eyes tear just a little. Holding her breath, as Lugh did not breathe again. London prayed silently as she gazed down at Lugh, who was still as death.

  Chapter Nine

  Malcolm crouched next to a tree, the four other earthborns with him like a pack of wolves. They stayed quiet, as Donovan and Tiernan slipped closer to the brush along the tree line, their Glamour camouflaging them to everyone else, except Malcolm, who saw them glowing with a bright pink aura of magic. Why did Glamour have to be pink, anyway?

  A soft gray swirl swept around the area where the Unseelie hid, watching the wood elf camp in the clearing beyond. That sweep of magic belonged to Kieran and it buffered any sound from giving away their position.

  The excitement had them antsy. They’d gone on missions before, but nothing this big. To his left, Trip whispered something to Dawn. Other than that, the lassies were holding pretty still. On his right, Kieran and Bryce both shifted with more energy
than they could contain. Everyone’s magic juiced up, buffeting Malcolm’s senses.

  Everyone’s magic except Malcolm’s, that is, since Malcolm didn’t give off magic like they did. If it wasn’t for the Touch, which he still didn’t like, and the bit of panic-induced teleporting, he wouldn’t have any magic to show at all. Even Glamour, that the youngest pixie could do, he couldn’t manage. Because if he could, he wouldn’t have to hide his scars under the wristbands and long-sleeved shirts.

  But he wasn’t completely without magic, just at the moment.

  Malcolm worked the ball of Trip’s dark magic between his hands like a blob of black putty, stretching it and mashing it together. Pulling it into shadow shapes, and twisting it back onto itself. He couldn’t just will it to do what he wanted, like Trip could do, but he could work it with his hands. All chilled and pliable, like the shadow it was. Or almost was. No one could see it but him.

  “What’s he fooling with?” Bryce asked Kieran. The fire Sidhe’s red hair fell into his eyes in a haphazard way. Besides Malcolm, no one else wore a blade except Bryce, who had two long knives strapped in a crisscross over his back the way the fairies’ wore them. Trip had a quarterstaff, and was pretty good with it after some intense practicing. She’d even figured ways to use it while tumbling, and that was cool to watch. Not quite ninja-style yet, but trying to be.

  Kieran leaned over to look in Malcolm’s hands. “Looks like playing Cat’s Cradle, but without any string.”

  “Just a bit of Trip’s magic,” he whispered back, smirking a little, glad to have some kind of magic to play with, even if it wasn’t his own.

  “How’d you get ahold of that?”

  “She kissed me.”

  Kieran and Bryce snickered, no doubt imagining dirty things. Kieran was a certifiable perv, but Bryce was no slouch in that department either.

  From the other side, Trip whispered, “I am never kissing you again, by the way.”

  Malcolm squeezed the ball of magic in his fist and made it squish out between his fingers. “Why not?”

  The incredulous, how-can-you-even-ask-such-a-thing look was one that lassies seemed just born to be able to do. And Trip had it down pat. In a very are-you-stupid voice, she answered, “Because you freak out.”

  “I didn’t freak out.” He mashed the magic back and forth between his hands. Now that he knew how to keep the magic from going inside him where he didn’t want it to go, he could just save up all kinds of magic, just not letting the Touch melt into him. Now that he knew that, he wanted more. Loads more. “Just don’t be so pushy.”

  “Yeah,” Kieran smirked. “Give the virgin boy a break, hot pants.”

  “I’m not a virgin.” Malcolm felt the hot blush burning his face.

  But Bryce and Kieran, not believing him, just snickered again.

  “Wankers,” Malcolm hissed the insult under his breath.

  Chapter Ten

  Lugh’s body felt gloriously heavy as he slumped down onto the lush fabrics spread over the feather-soft mattress. It was singularly comfortable. A perfect place to surrender to peace and sink into oblivion. For a fraction of a second, he did just that.

  But then he was aware of the voices around him still. Clear, but softened with the whispering. Mckenna spoke of dark magic, though Lugh’s foggy mind didn’t fathom why.

  When Lugh opened his eyes with lazy interest, he saw his druidess there at the foot of the bed, worrying his token between her fingers and drawn tight as a bowstring. It brought a smile that was not tinged with the beast’s cruelty. A smile, soft and secret, with the reason behind it forgotten. But the feeling persisted. Lugh valued her beyond all his possessions. He valued her like his own life. More so even, as he’d taken the potion on himself, though it might kill him, but he would not have risked her to such an uncertain fate. As long as he yet lived, he craved her presence close to his side. It made him feel… complete in an odd way. She belonged to him; this much he knew. And he would protect what was his beyond even his own ability to justify it to himself.

  Lugh’s body felt sluggish, and when he pushed himself up with great, exhausting effort, no one came to aid him. “Cai,” Lugh called to the weaver beside him, but the elf made no move. Just watched with grave attention. Lugh reached out a hand toward him, and then, in seeing… or rather not seeing… his own outstretched hand, he remembered.

  He saw nothing before him, though his own arm was raised. Lugh drew his hand before him and looked closer, still seeing nothing of his invisible self. Then he raised his head enough to glance down at his body. He saw his own arms folded onto his chest. Curious, his invisible hands moved down to stroke his physical arms. The sensation was uncanny, as if he possessed four arms instead of two. He both felt the sensation of the stroking in his invisible fingertips, and the light gliding of the touch on his physical arms.

  As Lugh moved to sit up, the sluggishness made the effort a battle. Bullheaded determination alone pushed him through, as slow as winter sap, up from the bed where he managed to swing his legs over the side. He rested there a moment, gathering his strength once more. As he did so, he glanced around. Still no one moved much, like a deathbed vigil. It was kind of boring, to say the least.

  Shoving himself forward to the edge of the bed broke the last of his invisible self’s contact with his body. His thoughts cleared some with the separation, though he still felt so exhausted he fought to bring himself to his feet. Standing at last, he cast a backward look.

  The body on the bed didn’t seem like his own. The skin and hair a much darker tone than he was accustomed to seeing in the mirror. And even seeing himself now, without the reflective reverse of his features, made the body seem even more foreign to him. Not much evidence showed of the thousands of years of life the body had endured. The battles. The losses. The joys. Time itself had not eroded him physically, though the darkness and the Fade seemed all too evident in the crumpled form. Lugh felt a tinge of sorrow for that body, that had labored long and hard at his bidding. Suffered and served as he demanded of it. Like it was a separate thing. And someday, it would be a mercy to see it to rest.

  But not this day.

  He had more he intended to do before ending his journey.

  The whispers of his former self rose with the memories of the Mounds. Of the search for artifacts to restore it. Of the fey he’d sacrificed himself to save.

  Then the beast surged forth once more, casting away the tempting whispers of the Seelie side he’d suppressed. The dark determination of his beast reclaimed his true desires.

  He would have his own magic restored. He would wield it without mercy and without care. He would be all he was meant to be, before Danu and the others ground out his soul and reformed him into the image they wanted for him. A slave to the Seelie and all fey. A servant drained of his will and his years. Now he served no master. And never would again, now that he knew freedom once more.

  He would do as he meant to do when he drank the poison of the death blossom. He would seek out the ley lines that his Unseelie enemies siphoned to power their magic and he would know its power for his own. At least until he could rebuild for himself a fey realm to power him.

  Refusing to allow his fatigue to drive him back to the bed, Lugh forced himself onward. He was dream walking. A bodiless wanderer, like a shade. Even still, he slipped between Cai and his two apprentices rather than brushing against them. At the edge of the room, he pushed his hand against the wall. The wall resisted him, something he’d not expected. Shades could pass through such things, couldn’t they? After all, what was he in this form besides his will and his magic? Lugh pressed against the resistance of the wall, forcing his incorporeal hand into the surface, and felt a painful buzzing sensation for his efforts. They should have done this outside, where he’d no such impediment. Lugh pushed again, forcing his arm through the
wall clean to his elbow, the pain of the buzzing making him growl with the effort.

  There was nothing for it but to get through it. So Lugh plunged forward with all his might, yelling out his pain, though no one in the room acknowledged the sound he made. It seemed excessively long to filter his being through the solid mass, but at last he dropped through, falling from the elevated wagon down to the ground where he landed as if on a cushion. The ground didn’t have the same impact as when he had the weight of his body. Or perhaps it was because it was natural and not a construct, like the wagon. The dynamics of dream walking interested him only in so much as his need to deal with it.

  Somewhere, nearby, were the ley lines of power that he must seek in order to survive. He wasn’t so sure the fey possessed such a thing as a soul or spirit that survived death. Being equal measure physical and magical, he imagined when the physical died, and the magical returned to the renewing cycle to be called up and used by other fey to sustain their lives, anything of whom he’d been would be unraveled, never to take this shape of memory again. Death being not so much a total ending, as the ceasing of the shape he was now, as all that made him returned to the base elements to be reused by the living. Certainly, when he Faded at last, he would never know himself again. Never be whole or Lugh, again. Like a sand sculpture that, once demolished, could never be exactly replicated.