by S A Archer
Twisting around, glancing up toward the mountain that rose up on the eastern side of the island, Malcolm did finally catch sight of Trip. Her shadows flicked up there with a bruised black and purple hue. So there was one. But where were the others?
He didn’t really even need to ask that question.
They’d all been at the Glamour Club.
Too far away for him to see.
Too far away for him to teleport to.
His hands pumped into fists. Tight and loose. Tight and loose.
Couldn’t hold still.
Couldn’t do anything useful.
His gaze flicked down at Tiernan. He could teleport that far.
Malcolm punched into his palm, furious with his body for fighting him. Shaking out his hands, he banished the tension choking him. When he spoke, it came out rough, but at least it came out. “Wake up!” Standing over Tiernan, he nudged at the bloke’s side with his trainers. “Tiernan!”
The groan from Tiernan threatened death to the idiot that didn’t leave him be.
Willem and the Brownie, whose name Malcolm didn’t know, backed away. No way they were going to be in the middle, if two Sidhe were going to tussle.
Tiernan might wallop him for waking him, but Malcolm didn’t care. He bent down to grab his shoulders and shake him. “Wake up!”
But Tiernan didn’t. Just shoved away from Malcolm and rolled to his other side, then jerked the pillow back up under his head. Just as quick, he was back to sleep.
But it didn’t matter. A whoosh-pop of teleportation made Malcolm’s head jerk up.
Jumping up, Malcolm blinked past the world at the magic again. It hadn’t been real close, but it had been pretty big. Someone with strong magic, like a Sidhe.
Down the hill… All the way to the beach.
Malcolm broke into a run. Once outside the tent, he could see for real the place he needed to go. The slope from here to the beach wasn’t steep, but it was probably a good fifteen minute run through the middle of the village, which was crowded even in the early evening.
Teleporting was more of an accident than an intention. In mid-run, Malcolm ‘slipped’ and teleported just a few strides short of the front porch of the beach house. The sandy ground gave under his feet more than he expected and Malcolm half stumbled the last bit to the porch. He leapt up onto it just as the front door opened and Donovan stepped out.
Malcolm jerked to a stop.
Donovan was alive.
Only… his clothes were all ripped up and tacky with dried blood. Same for Kaitlin, whom he held against him with a steadying arm.
They weren’t still bleeding. Weren’t doubled over or hurting or anything. Dawn had healed them.
But the blood… The rips…
It had been bad. Real, real, real bad.
“Werewolves,” Malcolm managed to breathe.
“They’ve been dealt with,” Donovan assured him in that stoic way. The way that said he’d dropped a mountain on them, or something equally devastating.
“Kieran? Bryce?” Shifting to the side, Malcolm glanced past Donovan, not seeing the magic from either of his mates. Only a figure of white-yellow light and the hazy outline of a Touched human. Who was the one with the light? A Sidhe. Had to be, with that much magic.
Dropping a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, Donovan steered him back towards the village. “They’re fine. No fatalities. The wounded have been healed.”
Oh, geez. It had to have been bad to say stuff like that.
Malcolm let Donovan propel him along the dirt road back towards the town. Already the fey saw them coming, and started rushing to gather about. Not getting under foot, but still listening. “Why now? What happened?” His mind whirled, tumbling and stumbling over itself to understand. When Malcolm first came to the Glamour Club, he’d worried about Changelings, or goblins, or vampires, or even Touch-crazed humans coming after him. It’d not been long before he’d come to think of it as a safe place. A place no one would dare attack unless they had a death wish.
But even though Donovan obviously got tore up some in the fight, he didn’t seem the least surprised. “They probably found the club after Kieran’s brush with them. The sluagh would have kept them back until now.”
Malcolm glanced up at the mountain. Way up there, just now and then, he caught sight of the sluagh against the early evening sky, like great birds wheeling in the air. They’d moved to the Isle just that day, meant to protect it.
The first chance the werewolves got to attack the club, they had taken it.
The fey of the Glamour Club fought them off, but there were some badass fighters at the club. Kieran and Bryce could probably hold their own for a bit, and Donovan was flat brilliant. Then there was the head-bashing kinda fey like the trolls and red caps, that played bouncers for the club.
But the fey of the club weren’t the only ones Malcolm cared about.
He gripped Donovan’s elbow, not letting go until the boss turned his serious attention Malcolm’s way. “I want to get Regan and bring her here.”
Donovan paused, considering what Malcolm asked of him. “Do you think your father will listen?” He asked in a tone that said that they both already knew the answer to that.
“I promised I would come back for her. She’s just a kid. If the werewolves…” He couldn’t even force out the rest of the words.
“First thing in the morning.”
“Now.” Malcolm insisted, the panic mounting already. “Before something finds them.” And there were a lot of bad things out there that wanted the fey. The Sidhe, especially. There weren’t even any warriors at his family’s farm. Regan was just a kid. His da had a shotgun, but what good was that, if he didn’t see the attack coming? Or if they were overrun?
“Not like this.” Kaitlin twisted away from Donovan’s arm. She clutched the ripped front of her own shirt with one hand, and then plucked at the shreds of Donovan’s bloody clothing.
Almost immediately the crowd rustled. Within thirty seconds a pair of Brownies pressed forward with neatly folded clothing for both Donovan and Kaitlin.
Donovan, no more modest than most of the fey, changed right there. His ruined clothing vanishing into the keeping of the Brownies as quickly as the fresh clothing had arrived. Kaitlin switched out more carefully, managing the trick of putting on and taking off clothes almost simultaneously without actually getting naked. The fresh capris slipped up under her mini skirt before she removed it. The loose t-shirt went on over her head before the ripped up halter was pulled out from beneath it. It was kind of like a magic trick how she did it. All sleight of hand and clever timing. He’d seen girls naked before, but never when he was sober and never a girl who was fey. He stared at her with distraction, trying to suss out the way she’d managed the switch without showing anything, until Donovan snapped his fingers and got Malcolm’s attention again.
“You sure you want to do this now?” Donovan asked, all serious and dark.
Malcolm nodded. This time, with Donovan there, they’d have to listen.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Donovan allowed Malcolm to precede him up the porch steps. Only a single fairy light by the front door illuminated the dusky farmyard. The countryside was unnaturally quiet. A hint of a ground mist stirred.
So she knew they were there.
“Da’s not in the house,” Malcolm murmured. His head flicked now and then, searching the night and seeing more than Donovan, no doubt. The bloodhound moved silently, disturbing the quiet with not even the slightest of sounds.
It didn’t matter. She already knew. The door opened before they reached it.
Even with the light from within casting her into a silhouette, Donovan recognized Tamara’s long and slender form. She hesitated only a moment before collecting her
son into her arms. With the light from the porch spilling over her face, Donovan could see her intense, dark eyes, which were identical to Malcolm’s.
Donovan merely nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though much passed between them. Of the exiles, those Sidhe that left the Mounds prior to the Collapse to seek freedom from the reign of the Seelie, Tamara was one of the eldest. She’d refused to come to the Mounds after the Sidhe-wizard war, having argued vehemently against the weaving of the Veil that cut off the wizards from Ireland, but that conceded the rule of England, and her home in Cornwall, to the wizards. That wasn’t the only, or the worst, argument for which they’d been on opposing sides. No doubt, that was why she drew Malcolm inside and away from Donovan, as if now she might protect him.
The lad didn’t notice. He just broke away from his mother to catch the girl that flung herself into his arms. Regan, perhaps twelve he guessed, resembled her mother almost perfectly at that age. “You’re home!” Regan crushed Malcolm in a tight embrace that made the young man grunt.
Donovan would have smiled at the exchange, if not for Tamara’s suspicious glare his way. Folding his arms, Donovan remained clear of the family scene, allowing Malcolm his time and space to handle his purpose for coming.
“Not home,” he corrected, “come to get you all.” Malcolm gripped his mother’s hand, until she returned her focus to him. “I want you all to come to the Isle of Fey, where you can be safe from the likes of werewolves and such.”
“Your father won’t have that,” she replied gently, as if this was a familiar conversation.
“He never listens.” Malcolm stiffened, a hand balling by his side. “Why did you even marry him?”
Tamara laughed as musically as the tumbling water of a brook. “Because he gave me you.” And that had been the way of things, under Danu’s rule. All fertile Sidhe couples were bound over to marriage immediately, in the hopes that they would produce more children in a race that rarely sired them. That had been the reasoning. Donovan knew the lie of it now. The abundance of earthborn Sidhe was all the proof he needed. Tamara stroked her daughter’s hair. “And he gave me Regan.”
Tamara, tall as her son, remained cool despite Malcolm’s excitement. She tousled the brunette hair that no longer covered his ears. “How you’ve grown. And look, you’ve had a trim.” The smile she gifted her son was elegant and loving, but the expression lost its warmth as she cut a glance to Donovan. Still speaking to Malcolm, she added, “You look exactly like your grandfather.”
Not quite, Donovan thought. Malcolm was thinner than Taliesin had been, even in the worst throes of his madness. They did have the same intense eyes though. Just like Tamara’s.
A gruff voice from the doorway interrupted, “Until he went feral.” Seamus stepped into the room. Donovan hadn’t felt the approach of footsteps, so Malcolm’s father must have teleported. “And had to be put down.”
Malcolm twisted away from his mother and sister, squaring off with his father. “You have to bring Mum and Regan to the Isle of Fey.”
“I know of your Isle outside the protection of the Veil.” Seamus rested the barrel of his shotgun against his shoulder. Casual enough, but easy to bring down and fire if he’d the notion. Donovan watched the man closely, ready to act if Seamus thought to risk such a stupid move. “No. No, my family is staying here where I can protect them.”
Malcolm gestured vehemently, apparently not frightened of the weapon his father wielded. “How are you protecting them? With a shotgun? Werewolves aren’t foxes.”
“You are the most dangerous thing to ever set foot on my land, boy.” His father couldn’t have hurt Malcolm worse if he’d slapped him.
The lad’s face flared red and his eyes glistened. “Why won’t you ever listen to me? Da,” Malcolm pleaded, “please!”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t listen. Now, off with ya!” Seamus batted at the air, as if casting him away.
“No!” Malcolm flinched, an angry fist already coming up.
Donovan was behind him in a blink.
His hand clamped down on the bloodhound’s shoulder, jerking him back before he could do anything to escalate the argument to violence. “We can’t force them.” Donovan’s deep voice rolled with a smooth timbre meant to calm the youth. “That isn’t Unseelie.”
No one moved. The awareness that Malcolm could do so much worse than punch his father sizzled in the air.
In the tense stillness, Donovan flicked a look about him, pausing the longest on Tamara’s face. On the open surprise there, which broke through the hard distrust that had preceded it. She was the one to part the silence with the smooth sway of her gait. “Malcolm.” Her gentle voice trickled like the murmur of the rivers over which her magic held sway. With endless grace, she bent to collect an adolescent cat. The fluffy gray creature purred as she cradled it in her arms. “Do you know what keeps cats from going feral?”
The bloodhound stiffened, chin raised in defiance. Surely, he’d heard the whispers. The bets on when it would come. On when he’d tumble over the edge of control into the madness that consumed almost every bloodhound before him. Like it had eaten away at his grandfather’s mind, until the Elite and the Wild Hunt ended his life.
“Love,” she told him, stroking the cat.
A choked sob broke from Regan. Wet streams of tears already glistened on her face. The lassie scooped up the cat from her mother’s arms and rushed at Malcolm. “Take him!” She cried. “So you have someone to love.”
Donovan offered the child a gentle smile, not sure if she misunderstood, or understood more deeply than anyone else.
“You are free to join us at any time.” Donovan said, “The invitation has been extended.” And with that, he teleported himself and Malcolm back to the isle.
The light from the magic of the artifacts glowed brightly inside the canvas building housing it. Tiernan slept still on the floor with a moist cloth to cover his eyes. Donovan knew that fatigue. Felt it down into his bones. “Get some rest.” He nodded to the cots set up for Malcolm and Willem. “Actually sleep tonight. I need you fresh in the morning.”
Malcolm nodded and mumbled something of an acquiescence, heading toward the makeshift bed with the cat meant to barricade him from his feral tendencies clutched in his arms.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Seeing the bloodhound to his rest, Donovan paused before the magic of the artifacts. Reluctantly, his body edged around to face it. Nothing about this ancient magic did he fear. Only the enormity of it weighed upon him. The expectation.
Soon, the chorus of voices promised, speaking all at once in as many tongues and dialects as the fey possessed.
It left him breathless.
There would be no denying the magic that had been set into motion. From the moment he’d brushed the magic of the artifacts, he’d known what was to come. The catalyst had been found. The cascade of events were inevitable.
Not that he’d for a moment refuse the fate that the ancients had woven for him.
Soon, just as the voices had whispered.
Soon… his life would be over.
But not just yet. So his body turned away and his feet carried him forth from the tent. He felt hazy. Mentally diffused. Donovan found himself moving without thought, without direction other than the pull of the magic that still dwelt within him.
Outside, he strode away from the village, and down the path leading into the foothills. The dwarves had informed him that they meant for Donovan to take the country house on the windward side of the hill overlooking the village. Fine though the large cottage was, his footsteps didn’t carry him that way.
The throb of magic within the Isle of Fey rolled through him like the rumble of thunder. Or the pounding of a heart. Donovan did not count his steps, did not measure the distance he walked in time. Instead, he fo
llowed the feel of the magic. When he found the place he sought, the source of the pulse and the heart of the island’s magic, he allowed his body to drop down. The soil beneath him cushioned his body, as he rolled to his back. Below him, the lights of the village twinkled like fireflies through the few trees and bushes already planted along the hillside.
As he exhaled, Donovan’s mind sunk into his element, into the earth that mounded into this isle for the fey. Beneath him, just beneath the surface, the ley lines arced up and pulsed, like a blood vessel. Donovan felt it in every cell of his body. The life blood of magic for the earth realm. A mingling of the residue of all the magic poured forth onto the earth realm. Fey. Dragon. Nordic. Greek. Roman. Demonic. Angelic. All of it, into a great river of power.
Pulsing… Surging... Rushing… So like the blood in Donovan’s own veins.
Beneath the tent where the magic of the ancients swelled, a single tributary unraveled from the ley lines passing directly beneath. The energy within that capillary of power glittered in Donovan’s awareness. The attraction of like to like, which occurred with magic, peeled a thread of pure fey magic from the deluded mixture of the ley lines.
Even the very earth prepared for the manifestation to come.
The lightest of footsteps tapped against Donovan’s consciousness.
The pull of a singular connection drew him to open his eyes.
Kaitlin approached, slow but not hesitant. As if unsure and yet determined.
Through him the power of the ley lines flowed into Kaitlin. Malcolm had tied them together to save Kaitlin from Fading, unaware of the long term consequences of his rash action.