by S A Archer
“You can’t have him!” London screamed at Isaac. Truth was, she had no clue how strong that magic was, or how long it would last. She didn’t want Kieran to be the one to find out.
In a rage, Isaac flung himself forward, racing on all fours toward London.
She bolted into the second stairwell and up the next flight of stairs. At the top London nearly tumbled as the door flung open beneath her weight, revealing the cool darkness of night as she skid onto the gravel-covered roof. Spinning around she shoved all her weight into the door. Just before it could close, Isaac’s massive hairy arm reached out and swiped deadly claws at her. London smashed against the door, fighting to crush it closed against that arm. “Seal!” She screamed. The magic crackled again, but nothing happened. Not with something blocking the door from reaching the jamb.
Isaac rammed against it, ripping it from its hinges and flinging London back across the roof. He launched himself at her again.
No where to go. No where to hide. Nothing to fight with.
London scrambled backward in a panicked crab walk, unable to get her feet under her with the slippery gravel.
An explosion shattered the air just as Isaac hurled himself toward London. The impact of the concussion sent the werewolf tumbling over her, missing her with his slashing claws.
Kieran rushed for London. Snatching her up by her arm, he jerked her back. “Get inside!” He yelled at her.
Isaac recovered his footing and charged them. The air rippled as Kieran blasted another concussive wave, but Isaac spun mid-leap, to avoid the brunt of it. His full weight crashed into Kieran, knocking him away from London. The two hit the ground in a scrambling and kicking mess. One London was certain Kieran was going to lose in a majorly bloody way.
She flung herself onto Isaac’s back, wrapping her arm around his throat in a choke hold. She squeezed with all her might, not sure if her human strength was enough to close the werewolf’s airway.
As much as she wanted to protect her patron, there wasn’t anything more she could do against the furious slashing of the werewolf. Kieran kicked and punched and screamed with each swipe of claws gouging through his flesh.
London screamed, “Lugh! Help us!”
The token on her necklace flashed with a burst of golden sunlight.
Chapter Forty-Five
In the chaos, Lugh hadn’t the opportunity to wonder as to the safety of his druidess.
Until her scream tore through his mind.
Lugh’s head snapped upward, knowing immediately where she was. “The roof!” The words came from his mouth without him even realizing that he’d spoken them. A spike of panic yanked him into teleportation before he could even debate the action.
The last time he’d teleported, the Fade had nearly shredded him. This time, the power of Manannan’s enchantments spared him that rending torment.
When Lugh reappeared he slammed bodily into the struggle, knocking apart the combatants. With fey grace and speed, Lugh wrapped his arms around London’s waist and spun them out of reach of the tumbling werewolf. Lugh scrambled to his feet, still clutching London’s smaller body against his chest, not yet even looking at her, but feeling her movement and warmth as proof that she lived.
Rising to a knee, the werewolf spread his bloody claws wide. He roared a threat meant to drive them back from the beaten earthborn he’d taken as his prey.
The javelin of flame that suddenly punched through his chest transformed that roar into a death scream. It flung the animal backward, nearly tumbling him from the roof.
Lugh hadn’t noticed the others teleporting in behind him. Twisting, he saw Bryce still holding his arm extending from the javelin he’d thrown. The lad’s focus intense on the animal as if expecting it to get up again.
Like the others, Lugh stared down at the werewolf, as in death his corpse slowly morphed back into a human. It was then that he recognized the man who had threatened London outside her flat.
Realizing how close he’d come to losing his druidess, Lugh clutched her all the tighter.
Tilting his head toward the battered Sidhe, he asked of Donovan, “How is your man?”
The healer already knelt by the lad’s side. Once Donovan confirmed Bryce’s kill, he went to the young man. Despite the copious amounts of blood splattered about, the moan proved the Sidhe still lived.
“Kieran will recover.” Donovan helped him to sit up even as the tears in his flesh healed closed. Only his ruined clothes, shredded and bloodied, gave evidence of the attack he’d suffered. A few minutes more and the damage would have been fatal. The escape had been far too narrow.
Losing even a single Sidhe would be a blow to the race. Losing his druidess would have been even worse for Lugh.
Turning with her, so his back was to the Unseelie, Lugh clutched her in his embrace. His face lowered to press against the hair beside her ear. To those that watched, it would appear a moment of compassion and relief.
Against London’s ear Lugh hissed so silently that no other could hear, “You never jeopardize yourself!” His arms about her jerked tighter in fury. “Not ever!”
Irrational though it was, he knew without a modicum of doubt that losing her would destroy him. Down in the most intimate, secret part of his soul, he knew this. His druidess mustn’t be risked. Her importance was far too great.
Why this should be, he could not voice.
But it was the most true thing he knew in this world of cataclysmic changes. If she’d been killed, then all was lost. At least for Lugh. He couldn’t explain it, but he needed her to understand it.
London squirmed in his iron grip, her face turning against his. “You should have let me bring my weapons.”
Sometimes, he forgot that she wasn’t some frail human. There was a fount of strength in his druidess that he tended to underestimate. His arms loosened fractionally.
“You should have listened to me,” London persisted, anger more than shock giving the tremor to her voice. She’d not been huddled to the side in terror as the werewolf tore into Kieran. A mere human woman, with no weapons and no great strength, still flung herself into the fight to save a Sidhe. Was this a hint as to why he needed her?
Perhaps.
But deep down, he knew there was more. Something he’d once known, but forgotten. It echoed in his mind like the chime of crystal, but still he could not reclaim it. It troubled him, for he knew it was important.
Taking advantage of his hesitation, London insisted, “Just like you should listen to me about…” He felt her turn her head slightly, seeing who was within earshot, before continuing, “…about you-know-who.”
Pulling away from her, Lugh stared hard into her face.
Something there. So close… So close… He felt that his fingertips just barely brushed some understanding.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Donovan help Kieran to his feet. “Bryce, call Arlan. Tell him to get his redcaps over here to clear away the bodies. Kieran, coordinate with the trolls to check for any other werewolves. Just because everyone is moving doesn’t mean they can get lax. They’re to be the last to leave. You two are in charge of security until the move is complete.”
The lost understanding drifted out of Lugh’s reach like a shining coin spinning into the depths of dark water. And the farther the glitter of it tumbled out of sight, the more he’d forgotten that he’d even reached for it.
“What move?” Lugh demanded, holding his anger in check.
London, now only loosely held in his arms, quickly volunteered, “They are moving the whole community to the Isle of Fey.”
“The Isle of Fey?” Lugh glanced from London to Donovan. Although the Unseelie were not as well known for their trickery as the Seelie, they were not unskilled at the practice. Had Donovan hoped to secret away the artifacts an
d their magic, taking the whole of this community and vanishing into the mists like Avalon? “What Isle is this?”
Donovan held out a hand for them. “I will show you.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Leaning against the railing, Lugh gazed at the brilliance of the setting sun over the Celtic Sea. Somewhere, beyond the horizon, was Ireland. His home, for all his thousands of years, resided there, either on the surface or in the Mounds below it. In his heart, it had always been ‘the isle of the fey’. Now there was a new land, a new isle. The Unseelie had dubbed this place ‘the Isle of Fey’, and it was from here, outside the Great Veil that protected Ireland, that the new realm of fey was to be created.
It wasn’t the place Lugh would have chosen.
Not that he could deny the beauty and appeal of the place. No humans. No vampires or werewolves. A place where the fey could be themselves, away from the rest of the inhabitants of the earth realm.
The setting sun glittered on the waves that lapped with foamy rushes onto the sandy beach below the porch where Lugh stood. The beach house he’d been given had been created that very day without any particular person in mind, but it was fine enough to have been offered to a Sidhe first. The villages that already dotted the isle had several vacant buildings, with the anticipation that soon they would all be filled. And Lugh held no doubts that they would be within short order. It made no sense to the fey, the way the humans built their towns in a haphazard piecemeal fashion. Like every other artistry of the fey, the creation of a village was done with elegance and balance. It gave a pleasing flow to the design so that to walk through it one knew that it had been created by master craftsmen with the effect of the whole, and not just the details, in mind. It reflected the more communal nature of the fey. At least for those fey willing to join themselves into a community.
Unlike most Changelings.
“Show yourself,” Lugh spoke to the seemingly empty evening air.
The shimmer of Glamour faded from around Deacon, and the Changeling grinned his wickedness. “So the Unseelie have made themselves an island. So very industrious of them. Did they think they could hide here?”
“The Unseelie didn’t come here to hide from the likes of you.” Lugh turned his gaze upon the Changeling. His jaw tightening to see the vile amusement on the lesser fey’s face. “Tell your master that the Unseelie are nearing completion of the magic for the new fey realm. He should prepare himself. I will send word when the time is ripe.”
“Of course you will.” Deacon laughed that wicked laugh that grated on Lugh’s nerves like the shattering of ice. Then he vanished with a flick of teleportation.
Lugh glanced back out across the water. Waiting. Expecting.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“You’re going to betray the Unseelie?” London’s voice was soft, but edged with that strength she had. Once, when they first met, Lugh had thought her delicate, But with each day, he discovered more about this druidess of his. Although she would play submissive when the time required it, she actually wasn’t. She was just extremely adaptable to circumstance. Flexible, almost out of self-preservation. Even now, though she disapproved, London carefully modulated her voice not to reveal this. She would make a good Seelie. And in some ways, she was too clever. If the binding of her pledge to him hadn’t been magically sealed, he might have been concerned.
“Magic must live at the heart of the fey realm. The Unseelie perceiver is a child. Untrained. The task will crush him. Donovan doesn’t see this. Everyone involved will perish when the magicraft collapses in on itself like a dying star.” He met her eyes, searching for understanding there. “Then there will be no fey realm. What fey survive this failed attempt to restore the realm will still Fade. And there would be no Sidhe left to supply the Touch you require.”
She was quiet for so long, he nearly thought she’d acquiesced. “I don’t trust Manannan. Not after all he’s done to you.”
“He saved me from the Fade. He saved me from the corruption of dark magic that loosed the beast upon you.” Lugh allowed a smile to tug at his lips. “He will be the savior of all the fey.”
And this he knew with a conviction so deep that it bore no doubts. Not even with London’s almost inaudible mumbling, “Not bloody likely.”
Lugh gathered her hands in his. His thumbs rubbed over the leather of the thieves’ gloves she’d acquired somewhere. “Have you learned to wield these yet?”
She shrugged as he released her hands. His druidess was learning fast. He lifted his symbol at her throat… the other magical item she wore. “I am learning,” she said.
Lugh’s thumb glided over the cool gold filigree of the Celtic knotwork sun. He’d created this ages ago and London wasn’t the first to wear it.
“I will remind you of who you were.” London stated definitively.
The angle of Lugh’s head remained lowered. His eyes alone lifted to settle on the determination of his druidess’ face. A slight grin, one coy with a touch of amusement, tugged at his lips. “You think I haven’t recalled?”
“You haven’t.” She spoke so assuredly. So unambiguous. Like an Unseelie. Not quite an accusation, more like an indisputable fact.
A tremor of something undefined rolled beneath the surface of his soul. The glimmer of his smile vanished, replaced by the troubled furrowing of his brows as his thumb traced the lines of the golden sun symbol.
“Lugh?” The soft, feminine voice caressed the night air.
After the foreplay of the Touch and the horrors of the werewolves, he’d anticipated this. More than any other, this had been his reason for lingering on the porch. Lugh released the charm to slide from his fingertips and land against London’s chest before he turned to greet Dawn.
The healer shimmered in a slinky white shift gilded with the same golden tinsel strands as she’d woven into her hair, embracing the Seelie style. The smile he offered her was genuine. She sparkled, and not merely in her manner of dress. Like a Seelie flower blossoming in the light of his sun. Becoming the golden woman she knew she truly was. She hungered for this acceptance. To embrace the freedom of her true self.
Stepping away from London, Lugh caught Dawn’s reaching hands as she rushed with youthful exuberance to him. With the smallest tug, he drew her up against him. Leaning down, their lips met for the first time. Excitement swirled within the passion of her Touch.
Embracing her, Lugh guided Dawn inside.
###
Chapter Forty-Seven
At the very mention of the word ‘werewolves’, Malcolm froze. Every muscle in his body tightened. Even breathing came hard, with his ribcage so rigid about his middle. Not even his eyes blinked, as he stared right at the Brownie that had just blurted this out when he brought the tray of food to him and Willem.
In that frozen instant, Malcolm didn’t care a whit about the artifact puzzle he’d obsessed over since finding the first piece. His home… His people… were in danger.
Werewolves were something he’d not had to face, but Kieran had. And so had Dawn and Bryce. Werewolves were the things of nightmares, growing bigger than a Sidhe with massive canine jaws as big as his forearm and claws as long as his palm. They didn’t just feed off fey like a vampire. They didn’t just kill the fey, either. They ate them.
And the little Brownie just popped off about it like it was some bit of gossip.
Quick as a snake, Malcolm snatched the little fey by the front of his shirt and jerked him close. He had to know more. Had to know what happened. Had to know if everyone was alright.
But he couldn’t even choke out the words that lodged in his throat. The Glamour Club? Werewolves in the Glamour Club?
Was no place safe?
Jerked from his feet, the Brownie squawked. His small hands covered the leather bands around Malcolm’s wrists, but
he wasn’t able to break his grip. Which only proved how fragile the Brownie was. Not since the silver burned deep grooves into his wrists did Malcolm have a lot of strength in his hands.
Willem leapt from his cot where he’d been consulting his journals, hurtled over Tiernan, who’d fallen asleep on the floor, and skidded to a stop just short of bashing into them. “Was anyone hurt?” The Scribe blurted out, asking the question Malcolm needed the answer to.
“I don’t know!” The Brownie wasn’t any bigger than the Scribe, both of them like a foot or so shorter than Malcolm. Both of them with those big, innocent eyes that seemed to plead with Malcolm. Like a child’s.
Like his sister’s.
The very thought of Regan made Malcolm drop his grip on the Brownie. He wouldn’t have done that to her. He wouldn’t have bullied or scared her for anything.
This Brownie couldn’t tell him anything. Malcolm twisted away from him, letting his eyes refocus to see not the physical world around him, but the magical one. As he turned slowly, he didn’t see the wooden frame and the stadium-sized canvas tent that surrounded him and the artifact puzzle.
Magic drenched everything on the Isle of Fey, making the landscape itself glow and hum. Down a little ways, the fey town was alight with every kind of magic. The lesser fey gave off glittering light of every color, depending on their race and talents. But besides himself, which didn’t give off any kind of magic, and Tiernan snoozing on the floor, his energy so knackered that even his magic was pretty much sticking close to him, he didn’t even see any other Sidhe on the island.