by S A Archer
Rhia stretched like a cat, collecting one clear stemmed and one black stemmed glass. She handed Lugh the clear one. “I have missed you, my Shining One.”
Lugh sipped the clear liquid from the wine glass. More pure than water, the potion coated his tongue and cooled his throat. He tossed back the rest of the drink, swallowing the crystal enchantment. The magic spread through him with a restoring chill. The edge of the Fade retreated once more, as the magic renewed him. “This is how you’ve maintained your strength since the Collapse?”
“Another glass for Lugh, Reginald,” Manannan ordered the wizard, then settled back comfortably upon his throne at the head of the small circle of sofas as if others might be joining them. “We can’t have our Champion lacking for reserves.”
They chuckled companionably. Not since before the Collapse had Lugh been so at ease. With a nostalgic sigh, he glided his fingers over the curve of Rhiannon’s hip. “I almost expect the rest of the Seelie Court to come bustling in as the sun rises.”
The sly angle of Manannan’s gaze foreshadowed his words. “We three are not all that remains of our court,” he assured Lugh. “Restoration of the Seelie Court, and of the fey, is already underway.”
Straightening, Lugh didn’t bother to hide his keen interest. “Of whom do you speak?”
Manannan stalled as he set aside his glass, as he would have done in the Mounds when Lugh wasn’t always his confidant. Instead of answering, he leaned back and watched the wizard serve a second round of drinks.
“I am your man,” Lugh insisted. “All that you require of me, I am honored to perform.”
“Yes,” the king rolled the word in his mouth, as if savoring it. “You are my Champion now, in heart, mind and magic.” The cut of his grin hinted at something wicked, but nothing about it alarmed Lugh, for his king spoke the utter truth. “We are not insubstantial in number, with more returning to the fold every day.” He gestured toward Lugh as a case in point.
As Lugh reached for the second wine glass of enchantment, his druidess at the foot of the dais captured his notice. Leaning against the wall with her hands tucked behind her as if in casual repose, London’s attention never ceased to travel about her, from the Changelings loitering near the doors, to the wizards, to the two Sidhe with Lugh, viewing them all with the same distrust. Only yesterday, he’d have commended for her diligence. But things had changed and he must find a way to help her to understand.
“Aren’t you the one who argued against captivating druids?” Rhiannon murmured against his ear. Collecting his face between her fine fingers, she turned him to look at her.
Lugh grinned up at Rhia, his dark beauty. He opened his mouth to the kiss she offered. The tempting tease of her tongue invited him inside. Inhaling the Touch of her shadowed magic didn’t stain the purity of his light any more than his sunlight cleaved at the solidity of her night. Deepening the kiss, he gathered her delicate shape tight against him.
The shatter of glass jerked them apart.
Manannan’s smashed wine glass scattered across the floor, forgotten. He flung himself from his throne and leapt down from the dais with innate Sidhe grace.
“What is it?” Lugh dislodged Rhiannon from his lap and raced after his king.
Nothing but Manannan’s pained outcry responded. He burst out onto the balcony, and then immediately twisted away from the view shielding his head with his arms like a vampire cringing from the sun. Jerking away and stumbling as if slammed with some force, Manannan flew backward. Only Lugh’s grasp saved him from crashing to the ground.
Lugh knelt over Manannan, helpless against the convulsions that racked his body in spasms. Expressionless, Rhiannon watched them from the doorway, that familiar and distant look in her eyes that appeared when her moon madness was verging.
Pushing out against an invisible resistance, Manannan stretched out his arms. Every muscle in his body fought with trembling strain, as he struggled to his feet.
Watching him for clues, Lugh stayed close as Manannan forced his way to the balcony railing. “What is this magic?” He roared out into the early morning sky as if expecting the whole of the world beyond to answer him.
Lugh’s expression darkened. “Have the Unseelie made the new realm?”
“What new realm?” Manannan snapped, shards of fury ripping through his voice.
Before Lugh could explain, Manannan shoved past him and then snatched up the map he’d been studying earlier. Lugh kept up with his long strides, and saw the place in the Celtic Sea where his king pointed. “Deacon, investigate! Report back all you find.”
Over Manannan’s shoulder, Lugh examine the singularly unique patterns scribed over the familiar distribution of land and water. “This…” He traced the lines of various shades. “Is this even possible?” If the marks were the ley lines, and he suspected that they were, it appeared that they had, or would, unravel their rivers of power.
Manannan jerked the map away before Lugh could inspect it closer. “Tell me about the Unseelie. And about this realm of which you spoke.”
Lugh confessed, “They intend to remake a realm as Danu did.”
Manannan’s expression darkened, strained with fury and pain. “Danu’s secrets perished with her.”
“Not entirely,” Lugh assured his king. “The Scribe of her temple kept the key to her secret hidden, and revealed it to me after her passing. She wove the magic with artifacts from the first realm of fey. I collected the artifacts that the Unseelie are fashioning into the enchantment.”
Manannan flicked a hand angrily outward, toward the balcony and whatever wash of power he’d retreated from. “How do the Unseelie devise to accomplish such magicraft?”
“They have a perceiver.”
The shock and disbelief colored Manannan’s face. “A perceiver? Who?”
“Just a boy. Talented, but untrained.”
Manannan snarled, “They dream that some precocious child can spawn an entire realm?”
“Jhaer seems to think so.” Lugh glanced back toward the breaking light of dawn beyond the balcony. “That Elite calls himself Donovan now, and leads the Unseelie. They don’t call him king, but he is one nonetheless. And his Glamour Club is the new Unseelie Court.”
“Ever things remain the same.” Manannan growled. “Find out what progress your Unseelie allies have made, but heed my warning, Lugh. No child can wield such magic. It will snap every thread of magic in his body, scattering the shreds of him to the winds. No one within screaming distance will survive the blast.”
“You could wield it.” Lugh gripped his king’s shoulder. “If anyone could, it would be you.” When Manannan didn’t immediately respond, Lugh insisted, “If Danu could, you can.”
Manannan winced toward the light beyond the balcony as if the bare illumination was blinding. “If they finish the weaving summon me. I shall see what might be done.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Even in sleep, Donovan wasn’t lost in black silence. The magic of the earth hummed through him with a comfortable resonance that moved through his being like a body buzz. Everything ached, like gloriously exhausted muscles. Floating in semi-awareness, the scent of the sea and the sand reached some distant part of him. The cool lapping of water lulled him as it washed over him again and again.
Until pressure under his arms lifted him. Then the drag of his body left the caresses of the water behind. Replaced by the heat of sun-warmed sand that soaked into his chilled body with the comfort of a lover curled against his back.
Murmurings danced on the air, as meaningless as images in mist. Shadows passed between him and the brightness of the sun beyond his closed eyelids.
His arm bent as something pressed on his hand. Someone clasped it between both of theirs.
Fingers wiped at his face. Then a moist cloth, cleanin
g away the itchy tightness of drying salt water and the grit of sand.
The peace of his slumber disturbed, Donovan turned his head away. But the hands persisted.
A new set, smaller than the others, glided up his stomach and over his chest. Cool power soaked into him everywhere the hands rubbed on his torso. It spread through him like a deep and cleansing breath. Donovan gasped deeply in response.
Body awake before his mind could follow, Donovan struggled to sit up. Only the spinning of the world and the grip of the hands covering him pushed him back down. Eyes opened and unfocused, three shadowy forms drew close to him. Again the voices rolled around him, now with an excited rush, but the shape of the words blurred as much as his vision.
“Who?” The word found its way out of his mouth, stealing most of the strength he’d recovered, dropping him back down with boneless exhaustion.
The hands that wrapped around his fingers gripped tighter as the tingling warmth of the Touch cascaded down his arm. Donovan, Malcolm’s mental voice reached him. We have you. We found you.
Exhaling, Donovan sunk back into patient peace. The comfort of the Touch glided into him with steady reassurance. Through his chest, light and healing restored the reserves that he’d spent.
Behind those sensations, the very earth throbbed in his consciousness. Beneath that deep and constant pulsing percussion of magic, the voices remained. Not silent. Not gone, now that he’d done as they bid of him.
For he knew, they were not finished with him yet.
The next time his eyes slipped open, the figures around him came into focus. Malcolm, clutching his right hand in both of his. Dawn, kneeling at his left side, her palms against his bare abs. When had he lost his shirt? The memory eluded him. Kieran pillowed Donovan’s head beneath his bent legs. This time when he moved, the three of them helped him to sit up.
At his feet, down on one knee, knelt someone Donovan didn’t anticipate. The dragon, Jonathan Wyndracer, in his mostly human incarnation. Only the black leather wings and whip of a tail gave a clue to his race. The deep rumble of his voice hinted at bemusement. “Rejoining the living?”
“Barely,” Donovan waited for the tilt of the world to reorient to level.
“You gave the hatchlings a scare.” The dragon offered a hand, which Donovan accepted, and then pulled them both up to their feet. “This island is your doing then?”
Donovan widened his stance to better his balance on the shifting sand. Slowly, he turned to take in his surroundings.
A strip of sandy beach stretched along the shoreline, rising up a few feet to a gently rising plateau of soil that extended for a few kilometers before pitching upward to a great peak of a mountain that dominated the eastern portion of the island. Donovan knew every inch of it. Felt it, like he did his own body. “The Isle of Fey.” The place knew its name. Knew its purpose.
“Have the fey Glamour enough to hide this isle from the humans?” Jonathan lifted his face in a considering glance over the island before them.
The earthborns, in their awed silence, watched Donovan more than they glanced about with wonder.
“We have. Though it may take a few days to construct it.” Slipping the constant pulse of the magic into the back of his awareness, like the dull pound of a headache that begin to swell between his temples, Donovan focused on the practicalities that faced them. “We’ll relocate the sluagh first thing. Their song should keep sea traffic at bay. They will avoid the sense of dread and steer clear.”
“That’s a start, but not enough,” the dragon observed. “Not with human technology.”
Donovan nodded, tumbling the problem over in his mind. “Tiernan Kilgrave has connections. Enough, I am certain, to bend the traffic patterns of sea and air transports around this place.”
Turning back toward the sea, Jonathan extended his leathery black wings and gave them a few flaps. The waves gave up a mist that thickened and moved over the island. “This should last until your Glamour is in place.”
“That is appreciated.” Donovan scrubbed his hand back and forth through his hair, knocking free the sand that still clung to him.
“It does none of us any good to have the humans grow curious about magical doings.” The dragon turned back to Donovan.
“Those aren’t the only problems.” Malcolm volunteered, edging closer to join them.
Donovan knew better than to dismiss the bloodhound’s concerns out of hand. Not when the lad saw nuances of magic that no other could detect. “What do you mean?”
“Wizards,” Malcolm whispered, as if speaking their name might attract their attention. “We’re outside the magic veil protecting Ireland.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Temporarily restored by the magic Manannan gave him, Lugh managed the teleportation from the Isle of Man to the industrial section of Kilkenny with only mild discomfort. The closest he’d ever been to the Glamour Club was the street upon which it resided, so this was where they arrived.
Almost immediately, London jerked her hand from beneath his elbow. “Alright, mate.” She snapped around in front of him and poked him in the middle of his chest. “Talk!”
The laughter bubbling up from within wasn’t meant as an insult. London was petite for a human, perhaps not much over five feet in height. Lugh was tall for a Sidhe. Even the most modest of his race topped six feet, with Lugh approaching seven. And yet, she boldly challenged him as if she considered thumping him if he didn’t oblige her. “Commanding a Seelie to talk is like commanding a dwarf to drink. It happens quite naturally, and often to excess.”
“I am not kidding, Lugh!” She poked him again. “You tell me what happened to you back there.”
Lugh glided his hands down her arms, and collected her hands in his. A compassionate gesture which conveniently prevented any further poking of his person. “My lovely, patient druidess.” He said, even though she wasn’t terribly patient at the moment. To give her credit, she had held her tongue remarkably well until they were alone. Lugh smiled brightly down at her. “Just as Manannan said, the beast is vanquished. I am restored.”
Scowling, she pulled back her hands, London crossed her arms, as if in good measure to ensure he didn’t reclaim them. “Why does he work with wizards?” She hissed the word like the poison of accusation. “And Changelings?”
“Shh.” Lugh traced her lips with a finger, an act that might be interpreted in any number of ways. The lowering of his eyes might have even made it seem romantic. But when he touched his finger to the charm that she wore, the thread of his magicraft sealed the command. “You shall not speak Manannan’s name. Nor breathe any word about those wizards or Changelings. Not on purpose and not in error, and certainly not where any Unseelie or their ally might hear.”
London’s wide, dark eyes stared up at him with undisguised shock. “You trust him so much?”
“Implicitly.”
Frowning, London complained, “You could have at least made that creep give me back my gun.”
“During the span of the alliance, we should not insult our Unseelie hosts with weaponry.”
She tilted her head back, searching his face. “What about predators? And Isaac’s warning?”
“They won’t challenge the fey of the Glamour Club whilst the sluagh resides in their rafters.” Lugh reassured her.
His druidess couldn’t argue that point. After all she, herself, had endured the dread of their screams.
Offering his arm for her was the habit of chivalry. She slipped her hand beneath his elbow, though she wasn’t entirely finished with him yet. “Then you should at least give me some enchanted weapons. Something magical that I can use.”
“Reading the journal Willem gave you, have we?” Lugh reached across his body to brush a hand down her jacket, beneath which he knew she carried the book. “We will out
fit you with the appropriate gear soon enough.”
As they drew nearer to the club, Lugh began to spy signs of the fey. Glamour shifted in places where it hadn’t been secured as diligently as it might have been. Flower boxes with Morgana’s tears and fairy’s breath and other blossoms not common outside of fey villages for their need of magic to propagate brought splashes of color like crystal prisms. The murmur of a dwarven dialect wafted with the scent of mead stew from an open window. Careless though this was, most humans who were unfamiliar with the fey would no doubt miss such details.
“This way.” London tugged lightly on Lugh’s arm, guiding him down a passageway between two industrial style buildings constructed of brick. Reaching out so her fingertips trailed along the facade, London slowed her pace. When her fingertips brushed the curtain of Glamour she pulled it aside to reveal the metal door hidden beneath. “This is the way Kieran brought me, when I was here last.” Her hand hesitated over the door knob. “Ready for this?”
“Of course.” Lugh reached under her hand, and twisted the knob himself, and then pulled it open.
The flickering of the multicolored fairy lights strobed with the heavy percussion of the music within. Shadows of bodies danced in the low lighting. The scents of the fey carried out on the warm air, woodlands and grasses, flowers and leather, sweet smoke and hearty liquors. It smelled like home. The smile on Lugh’s face was wide and genuine, despite London’s obvious concerns. He leaned down and kissed the worry from her lips, his own joy prodding her mouth until she inhaled and softened beneath his Touch. Then, taking her hand in his, he guided her inside.