by S A Archer
“But could he be right?”
Lugh rounded away from her, stomping off again. Away from the cathedral. Away from the heart of the town and toward the foothills of the mountain. “They wouldn’t have even known about the artifacts, if it wasn’t for me. They wouldn’t have any idea how to create the realm.”
Within minutes they were out of the town and heading up the rolling grassy hills. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know! I don’t care!” He stormed onward. Then he spun back around. “Do you hear me? Do you hear these words?”
“I hear you.” She paused. Infuriatingly calm as he raged. Did she fail to comprehend?
“This realm… the magic is not pure fey… and it itches!” He spasmed with an internal shiver he couldn’t soothe. “If the magic of the new realm flows through an Unseelie? Do you know how disgusting that will be?”
Again he started off. This time even faster. London ran after him. She caught up to him when Lugh stopped beneath a sapling planted on the slope. The lowest branch was just above shoulder-height and Lugh slung his elbow over it and leaned against it. He glared back at the bustling fey town below them. “Always, the magic flowed through Danu. Always it was flavored with her Seelie magic. Always.”
London clutched at her side, as if she’d gotten a stitch from the pace. “OK,” she said, as if uncertain what he wanted her to say.
“It’s nothing even resembling OK.” He swung a hand toward the town. “These Unseelie! Staining all magic with their darkness. Tainting it! Is that what they want?”
“They had to deal with Danu’s Seelie magic for all those years.”
The justice of her logic irked him even more. “That’s different! Seelie magic is light! It’s pure! Like Manannan. He should stand in the center of the magic for the creation. He will, if I have any power to see it done.”
London burst out laughing. “Manannan? Pure?”
Lugh jerked on the cuff, growling with effort. Then he snatched her hands. “You could release this shackle.”
“What?” London twisted her fingers, but couldn’t escape his grip.
“Silver is a soft metal. If this was pure silver I could’ve snapped it with my strength alone. The silver is coating something harder, like steel. Which means that the internal mechanisms are probably steel too. Your gloves could affect it.”
“Lugh…” London wrenched her fingers again, but he refused to release her. “I don’t think we should.”
“London…”
“Listen to me, Lugh. Just listen. Manannan isn’t who you think he is.”
“London…” He needed her to focus on him if he meant to compel her.
But London wriggled her attention away. “You loved Danu. I know that you did.”
“London, look at me.” And with his command her concerned eyes focused on him.
But she persisted. “Manannan killed her.”
Lugh dodged the words he didn’t believe. “London, listen to me now.” With the silver on his skin his magic was shackled. But the compulsion and the magicraft weaving of her vow was already upon her, he had only to make her listen.
“Don’t you know what that means?” London gripped his wrists. “You said he twisted Rhiannon. You had been furious about that. Until he twisted you, too.”
Lugh emphasized each word. “London, open this cuff.”
Her hands covered the manacle automatically. She pleaded with him. “You can’t trust him. Please listen to me.”
Patience wearing thin, he snapped, “Open it!”
Her will no longer resisted him. The reluctant word whispered on her breath, “Unseal.”
With a metallic snap the cuff came away in her hands. Lugh’s power surged through him once more.
Even as London stuffed the cuff into her front jeans pocket her other hand clamped over his wrist where the silver had been. “Now you listen to me.” In a clear, strong voice, she spoke, “Lugh…”
The token hanging around her neck glowed. She was not merely speaking his name. She called to him through the connection of their vows. Lugh felt the enchantment shimmering through him. “I am right here. You need not summon me.”
“Lugh, I need you to really hear what I’m saying.” Each word she spoke echoed down the line of magic binding them together. It rippled past his defenses, right into his soul. “You bound me to remind you who you were some day. I intend to keep that promise now.”
Lugh shook his head, but though he would deny it, his protest would not come. He blinked down at her, an unexpected confusion clouding the conviction of a moment before. Without resistance he allowed her to bring his hand up to cover his token where it rested over her heart. The golden magic that was his own warmed his palm. The purity of it was like the summer sun burning the haze blanketing his mind. But how could this be so? He was himself once more. The beast had been locked away again. Manannan had freed him of that burden. That should have left Lugh without blemish. He felt Seelie. His noble spirit drove him once more. And yet, the magic that he was did not match the magic he had once been. “The ley lines have tainted me,” he observed.
She shook her head. “Manannan tainted you. Do you remember when he attacked you?”
Lugh lifted his eyes from the glow of the token shining around his hand to meet her gaze. “It was not an attack –”
She didn’t let him finish, pressing onward, “Do you remember what he said?”
Searching his memory, Lugh recalled the sound of Manannan’s voice, but not the words he spoke. They, too, were veiled in haze. Glamoured from his remembrance.
“He said, if Danu could not resist him then what hope had you?”
And with the speaking of those works, Lugh heard Manannan’s voice echoing over top of London’s. Manannan had said that. What had he done to Danu? What had he done to Lugh?
“Who’s Champion are you?” She demanded of him.
“I am the Champion of my king.” But even as he said it, he knew that was not right. That was the confusion. That was the fog. That was not his light.
“You are the Champion of the Sidhe.” That truth burned through his palm, up his arm, and shined right into his heart. It flared there, driving back the wisps of illusion that had wrapped around his soul.
It was the light within him that responded. “I am the Champion of the Sidhe.” And he knew that to be the truth. Lugh blinked, the mental numbness of waking up was like peeling himself out of the dream. As his gaze swept over London, and then down the hill to the fey village below them, it was as if he had never seen them before. And the hillside, and the island, were all new to his eyes. “I don’t understand.” How could everything be the same and yet so completely different to him now?
“Manannan violated you. He did something to you. You said he did something to Rhiannon. That she wasn’t the same. And he did something to Danu. He admitted that much himself.”
Manannan had ambitions. He always had. Only when he came to Danu’s favor had his ambitions begun to manifest. The All-Mother had seemed more aloof from the time Manannan began his political maneuvers, as she often became when she knew her choices were unpopular. And raising Manannan to power had certainly been unpopular. Looking back on it now, Lugh had to question Danu’s favor. If Manannan had twisted Danu to his purposes, just as he twisted Lugh, the last century acquired a whole new perspective.
As did this Isle of Fey and the realm they hoped to create.
What had he done? Plucking at his memory, Lugh drew out fragments that made him question himself. What would he have done the same? He’d had no doubts. Now he doubted everything.
“You remember now don’t you?” For a human, London could be wickedly clever. He had underestimated his druidess. Was it the result of the great weaving of destiny that the Scribes�
� spoke of in their many tomes? Or had the Sidhe who first captivated her seen this great potential?
Lugh glided the back of his fingers up her breastbone and then lifted to her chin. He tilted her head up. “You kept your promise, clever druidess.” Lugh bent forward and pressed his lips to hers. The flow of his Touch spilled from his mouth. As she inhaled, his tongue dipped between her lips, letting her taste the truth in his magic. London pressed herself into him and Lugh drew her into his embrace. The golden light of his power filled her. As truly as he had been when he crafted that token, Lugh was himself once more.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Malcolm knelt on the ground where he’d drawn up the thread of the ley lines. His fingers raked through it like water, feeling it glide across his skin like a cool stream. How unbelievable that no one else could feel this, even though it fed into every one of them. Well, most every one of them.
One more, anyway, now that Lugh was charging up with it. He complained that it wasn’t pure fey, but it really was. It peeled up from the current of a mixture of other magics. This was pretty close to as pure as they could hope for. At least from the ley lines running like rivers of light through the earth.
As Malcolm made to stand up, a pulse tore along his temple. His fingertips pressed to it automatically, finding the place where the migraine stabbed. Not since he started putting the artifact puzzle together had he taken a break. Sleep was slow to come, especially with the constant racket of magic either at the club, or here on the Isle.
It seemed every minute or two, more fey arrived. Each of them bringing more magic to see, hear, smell, and feel; clogging the very air with it. Back in Kilkenny, he’d had his own apartment separate from the Glamour Club. Just across the street, but far enough to get relief. He’d have to go up onto the mountain to get some distance from it now. But not even there would be peaceful for long. The dwarves had plans for the mountain, and the wood elves, pixies and fairies intended to cover the whole thing with a forest where they could build their own communities.
It wouldn’t be long before the Isle would be packed.
And it would be intolerable.
Wincing away the thoughts which did nothing to ease the growing stab in his temple, Malcolm wandered closer to where Donovan and Kie loitered by the tent entrance.
Donovan stood behind the younger Sidhe, watching the small figures beneath the tree up the hillside. Kieran hardly moved. Close to his head, his forearm propped against the wooden frame. Leaning there, his focus never left the pair. A narrow funnel of Kieran’s sound magic snaked all the way from him, out to the hillside like a long tube. “They argued about Manannan for a bit. Now they’re just cuddling. The Seelie is recounting tales to her. Nothing recent, by the sounds of it. Just sharing memories, I think.” Kieran twisted around, cutting a look to Donovan. “She took the cuff off him.”
“Keep listening.” Donovan rested a hand on the lad’s shoulder and gave a squeeze of approval. “Let me know if he leaves the island.”
Kieran nodded and turned back, giving Lugh and London his full attention.
“The black worms were gone,” Malcolm added, offhand.
Donovan gave Malcolm the look he was used to getting from people when he talked about magic. The what-does-that-mess-you-just-uttered-even-mean kinda look.
“The worms. The snake things.” Malcolm repeated, making a scooping gesture to his chest. “The dark enchantment that ate him up before. It’s gone.”
“Because of the ley lines,” Donovan said.
“No, they were gone when you got here with him last night. He’s all light now. Too bright to look at, sometimes.” Malcolm squinted up the hillside, seeing the blinding flare like the reflection of the sun off of a windshield.
Donovan studied Malcolm, serious now. “Lugh’s got a temper, but he’s usually more controlled about showing it. He lost control when you connected him.” It was an observation, but also demanded an explanation. One he wanted Malcolm, as the only one who could sense magic, to provide.
Sometimes, Malcolm wished he knew more words.
Instead, he moved his hands in a twisting path in front of his chest. “Like this.”
Donovan shook his head, not understanding.
“Like this.” Malcolm tried again, weaving his fingers in and about each other. “Like… Like…” There was a word for it, he just knew it.
“Like magicraft.” Willem supplied, in a soft voice.
They turned toward the Scribe. He was so small and quiet, sometimes they forgot that he was there. Or that he was mates with Lugh. Even with both Malcolm and Donovan fixing their attention on him, he made no effort to lower his head like most of the smaller fey tended to do around the Sidhe. It might be a custom for some of the races, to demure before the Sidhe, but the upturn of Willem’s chin proved that his spirit was stronger than that. Probably had to be, since he used to live with a dragon.
Malcolm nodded. “Exactly like magicraft.” He turned back to Donovan. “Like someone did weavings with the threads inside of him. All along here.” Malcolm touched a line down his middle, pausing to tap his forehead, then his throat, heart, tummy and finally just below his navel.
“The centers,” Willem added, in a hushed voice.
“What does that mean?”
More than anyone else on the planet, Donovan could give a look that was awe-inspiringly frightening. The kind of seriousness that could shatter rock just by the mere intensity of it. “It means, we don’t trust him.” That was leveled at the Scribe, who went so pale Malcolm thought he might pass out right there. Then he flicked that look over to Malcolm. “And it means that Manannan’s feral.”
Malcolm could hardly speak. All his spit was gone. “You said that name before. Manannan.”
“The Seelie bloodhound. Their king.”
His teeth clenched. He thought he was the only bloodhound around. The only one still alive anyway. He’d heard the stories. Heard about how they’d all gone crazy and been hunted down and killed, one by one. People whispered that about Malcolm, wondering when it would happen. Only Lugh actually called him that to his face. But still, besides the insult intended, he wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. “Feral?”
“Dangerous to everyone around them.” Donovan jerked his head back toward where Lugh was. “You’ve seen what he’s done to Lugh. The black snakes, as you called them. Now this violation of his very being, twisting his mind and soul to his own purposes.”
Malcolm crossed his arms tight, firming up his lips. They might be talking about Manannan, but the words hit home with him. “How can a bloodhound know what not to do, if there is no one to train them?”
“Manannan had trainers.” Donovan said. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. All he cares about are his own ambitions.” Then he reached out his palm, and rested it to Malcolm’s chest. “I’ve tried to train you. To teach you responsibility to the fey. You care about your mates, not just your power.”
But it would be so easy. So easy to lose himself in the magic.
Like he had with the artifacts.
Malcolm turned his back to the mass of enchantment behind him, created by his obsession and the will of the magic. He fixed his focus on Donovan. The man that had saved him. His leader. His rock.
The one that would keep him on track.
Keep him sane.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
When Donovan appeared the fog was so thick he couldn’t even see the farmhouse. The sunlight wouldn’t burn through this mist. Not with Tamara feeding it with her power. The ghostly swirls of water vapor on the air thickened between him and the house and swooped instead towards his left. Towards the slope that led down to the lake. Donovan followed the path that Tamara’s mist created. The fog muted the colors, washing everything out, giving it a haunted, graveyard feel.
; Donovan placed his feet carefully on the rain slicked grasses leading down to the lake. A barrier of reeds prevented him from seeing where the land spilled into the water. Moving through the trees along the bank he followed the path into a clearing where stones bordered the lake.
Only the ripples and the feathery beat of a bird’s wings reached him in the fog.
“Turning Seelie on me, or just feeling melodramatic?” Donovan asked.
Apparently, it was the latter. Tamara’s voice rose from the water beside him, forcing him to turn to face her when she could have simply appeared before him. If she meant it to put him off guard, she could have saved the effort.
“Why are you here?” Tamara stepped out of the water and onto the shore. The sheer dress she wore spilled down her beautiful body like water. The skirt parted in the front, halfway up her thighs, and trailed down to just behind her ankles, revealing her long slender legs. The sleeveless gown exposed her sensuous arms that hung by her side. Her raven hair waved down her back, unbound. Her dark eyes were a mirror to her son’s. “To remind me that I failed Malcolm as a mother?”
“I don’t waste time telling people things they already know.” Donovan watched her sensual movement as liquid as the water that she commanded.
“So then you didn’t come to tell me that someday you will have to kill my son.” Tamara drew closer, a hypnotic sway to her hips.
The days when her wiles could entrance him were long in the past. They hadn’t enjoyed each other’s company in any fashion since the Unseelie queen sentenced Taliesin to death. Tamara had never forgiven Donovan for his part in the execution, and she never would. That her son was also a bloodhound was just another thorn between them.