Remnants of Magic (The Sidhe Collection (Urban Fantasy))

by S. Ravynheart

  “Trip, no one sees us.” An order, not an observation. Shadows grew like a black fog around them and spread out through the city, thickening the twilight shade of the early evening.

  That Kieran hadn’t been able to voice his concerns didn’t bode well. At least he’d managed to describe their location sufficiently for Donovan to find the apartment complex. Donovan teleported himself from the street up to the ledge three stories above and then dropped onto the rooftop, with the earthborns following close behind him.

  Kicked back on a chaise lounge, Kieran raised a hand in acknowledgment. His back was to the flat beyond. Nothing about the rooftop patio appeared out of order, with the exception of the mess near the opened window. Kieran hadn’t exaggerated about getting sick. His hands folded on his stomach, as if the turmoil within hadn’t fully passed.

  Donovan asked, “Where’s Malcolm?”

  Kieran jerked a thumb toward the apartment behind him.

  With more curiosity than caution, Bryce ran ahead. He peeked through the window and then jerked back. “Whoa! Nasty!”

  “That’s not London, by the way. Not the human from the club.” Kieran called. “I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Leaning against the window frame, Donovan gave the corpse just inside the flat a cursory glance. Hard to tell who it had been, with the skin of the face and much of the upper body flayed and peeled back. Malcolm didn’t even skirt the blood pool as he approached Donovan, a dark wine bottle in his hand. Blood soaked the sleeves of his sweatshirt almost to the shoulders. More blood smeared his stomach and down the legs of his jeans, as if he’d wiped the blood from his hands and his blade on his clothing. Donovan asked, “You want to talk?”

  Wordlessly, the lad handed over the bottle.

  Donovan uncorked it, only to catch a whiff of its contents and jam the cork back in firmly. As he tossed the poison away, he made sure the bottle landed on the bed where it wouldn’t break. It had been a long time since he had smelled wizard brew, but it wasn’t something he would ever forget. “Where’d you get that?”

  “She made it.” Malcolm tilted his head back into the room. “There’s a whole case of it in here.”

  Bryce had caught a whiff of the stuff and pressed the back of his hand under his nose as if that might staunch the odor. Blinking the stinging from his eyes, he choked. “What is it?”

  When Malcolm turned away from the question, Donovan answered. “It’s a potion the wizards use to compel magic from a fey so they can harvest it.”

  Malcolm nudged at the leg of the corpse with one of his trainers. Then he crouched down and looked at the partially skinned body. His forearms rested on his knees as he stared at her, no doubt seeing more, and different, than the rest of them.

  Trip and Dawn hung back a little behind Bryce, but they could see into the flat well enough. It was Dawn that spoke. “Why’d you slice her up like that?”

  “Magic.” He waved a hand haphazardly at the body. “Under the skin. Touch magic.” He glanced up at Donovan. “Not from one of us.”

  “Tiernan?”

  He shook his head. “No metallic taste.”

  “Sick!” Bryce gave a nervous laugh. “You tasted her blood?”

  Rolling his eyes, Malcolm muttered, “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Fair warning, I might barf again.” Kieran moaned from his lounger.

  “It’s just blood, Kie.” Malcolm climbed out of the window, carelessly smearing bloody handprints everywhere. Only once he settled onto the windowsill and glanced at the others did he notice their unsettled expressions. “What? Am I the only one who grew up on a farm?”

  Ignoring the banter, Donovan asked, “Did you get a good feel for the magic?”

  “The magic is like…” Malcolm moved his hand in little circles in the space in front of him, scribing some kind of pattern. “Like that.” He repeated the gesture. “Like… music.”

  “Can you track it?”

  The lad circled the rooftop slowly, searching the horizon. The other earthborns watched Malcolm, murmuring softly to each other. The sight of carnage still possessed shock value for them. They’d harden to it soon enough. Malcolm turned back to Donovan and shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll know it when I see it again. Maybe if we got nearer to it I could hear the music.”

  “Keep alert for it. Are you done here?”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “Bryce, incinerate the body. Use a low, hot flame until she’s nothing but ash; then we’ll get back and burn the building down. Trip, no one sees us. Kieran, no one hears anything.”

  “Already on it.” Kieran waved from the lounger with his eyes closed, unable to stomach seeing his friend smeared with carnage.

  Once the others got to work, Malcolm spoke softly to Donovan. “I have a sister.”

  Donovan glanced up at him, paused only a second, and then replied. “I know.”

  That made him stop a second, but Malcolm didn’t ask how he knew so Donovan didn’t enlighten him.

  “I want to bring her to the Glamour Club.” He frowned down at his wristbands. The leather would forever bear the stains of the blood of his first kill. Rather symbolic, though it was probably lost on the young bloodhound. “It coulda been her, you know? This could be my sister’s magic.” He shrugged, then looked away into the distance as he had when he’d searched for the magic he described as music. “I didn’t know to pay attention to stuff back then. Didn’t know no one else saw stuff, you know?” His jaw set. “If someone snatched her, I wouldn’t even be able to find her.”

  “She’s welcome, if she’ll come.” Donovan curled his hand around the back of Malcolm’s neck and gave him an understanding squeeze. “And we’ll find this Sidhe with the music in their magic, whoever it may be. Rest assured.”

  Malcolm nodded, silent and thoughtful.

  Chapter Ten

  After dispensing with the human and her stock of poisons, Donovan postponed the mission he’d intended and gave the earthborns the rest of the evening off. They needed to be sharp when they faced the sluagh. Not troubled, as he knew one of them most certainly was.

  Anticipating the visit, he’d left his office door open. The music from the club reached him, but not so boldly as to disrupt his work. Monitoring footfalls along the private hallway to his office was just part of being aware of his surroundings, something he did almost without thinking. When he sensed the percussion of the approaching footsteps on the stone floor, he knew who sought him.

  Kieran braced his hands against either side of the doorframe as he leaned into the office. “So this evening, that didn’t weird you out at all, did it? What Malcolm did.”

  “I fought in the Sidhe-Goblin wars. Not much compares.” Closing the file he’d been perusing, Donovan considered the lad. “You’ve never gone hunting and had to clean your own kill?”

  “No. But it’s more than just that.” Kieran shifted. Looked away. Stared at his hand as he picked at the paint on the doorframe. Struggled to come to terms. To find the words. Twice he started to say something and stopped. Finally, he hit his fist on the doorjamb and jolted himself out of the inner battle. “I just couldn’t, you know? Even after what happened, I couldn’t kill London. Even after you told us to, I still couldn’t.” His brows furrowed with pain and confusion. In a whisper, he admitted, “I don’t think I have it in me to take a life.”

  So there it was. The burden of inexperience. A weakness that couldn’t be tolerated.

  Donovan reached him in two strides. He clamped a hand on Kieran’s shoulder just long enough to teleport. As soon as Danu’s temple appeared around them, Donovan released the youth. Nothing had changed in the few days since he’d been there last. Since he’d discovered the carnage. The pile of burned and rotting humans still blocked the back of the main hall. Gruesome though the sight, it wasn’t what he’d brought Kieran here to witness.

  “Do you know what this is?” Donovan nodded to clothing strewn on the floor before him. From the position of th
e sleeves and pant legs, it wasn’t hard to imagine the fey who’d worn them, sprawled there dead on the floor. The powdered metal sprinkled over the clothing twinkled as if reflecting the remnants of magic.

  Even though Kieran shook his head, something in the hesitation proved that he at least suspected the truth.

  “When a fey dies and there’s no time to dispose of the body in a civilized manor, a sprinkle of silver dust will dispel the magic within, disintegrating the corpse.” Donovan circled the room, pointing to the clothing and silver strewn about. “These fey were dispatched where they fell.”

  Kieran struggled to speak. “Who did this?”

  “London. The human you spared.”

  Kieran’s dark eyes flashed up to meet Donovan’s. Shock and horror echoed in them.

  “She and the human Malcolm eliminated were but two of those responsible for this massacre.” When Kieran closed his eyes, Donovan snapped at him. “Look at them!”

  Donovan pointed to a gauzy, white dress curled under a table. “This fey girl cowered from the battle. Can’t you just see her? Hiding there. Huddling in fear. But they hadn’t spared her. Next time, that could be Dawn.”

  He moved to another pair of outlines. A set of men’s work clothes half covered a smaller, more feminine pair of slacks and blouse. “He tried to protect her. To shield her with his body. They both perished.” As he pointed, Donovan named them. “Bryce and Trip.”

  “And this one would be Malcolm.” The outline he indicated sprawled in the center of the room. Bullet holes punctured three places across the center of the shirt. With his foot, Donovan nudged at the sword just beyond the end of the sleeve. “Fighting to defend his friends, but dying just the same.”

  Donovan crossed to the youth and pointed to the remains at his feet. “Will that be you, Kieran? Standing there. Shutting your eyes. Denying that you could have prevented this? Doing nothing while everyone around you is slain?

  “Is this clear to you now? When you spare a predator, you condemn the fey. London murdered these people. You let her escape. Who will she kill next time?” He waited until the lad met his eyes. “You kill. Or we all die.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next evening, Donovan teleported himself and the earthborns to the churchyard. In the ambient light straying from the village, the church and its commanding bell tower rose before them as a ghostly, grey monument at the late hour. The dark building appeared even more desolate and abandoned than in the daylight, too well built by generations past to crumble under the neglect of contemporary indifference.

  Turning back to the earthborns, he reiterated the mission briefing. “The sluagh are the responsibility of the Unseelie Sidhe and always have been. The darkness of Trip’s magic should tame them sufficiently to wrangle. There shouldn’t be more than half a dozen of them. Malcolm will locate them and ensure that we collect the entire nest. Their cries are fierce, but Kieran will shield against them. That leaves teeth and claws. They can shred a man in an instant. Killing them is near to impossible, but if Trip can’t ensnare them, we’ll have no choice. Bryce, you’re here in case things go bad. Dawn, you’re here in case things go worse.”

  The young Sidhe shifted with nervous excitement, eager to prove themselves. Donovan gave them a slight smile and a nod of approval. Glancing back up at the dark building, he said, “Malcolm.”

  The bloodhound tilted his head back, scanning the behemoth of a chapel with its Gothic bell tower. “Right. Bet those ghosty things are the sluagh. They’re all bunched up in the belfry. The dark elf is a couple floors below. Is that the loft for the bell ringers? That’s where he’s at.”

  “Dark elf?”

  “Yeah. Just there.” Malcolm pointed to the closed wooden shutters midway up the tower.

  Only now that Donovan examined it more specifically did he notice the weak sliver of light between the shutters. The sluagh would never tolerate someone trespassing so close to the nest. “What else do you see?”

  “He’s got a dark…” Malcolm gestured haphazardly toward his heart. “Star thing. Just here. Wicked strong magic. Darker even than Trip on her best day. All swirly and stuff. But just there.” He tapped his chest again. “All the rest of him is just like other dark elves. A bruised-looking, purply-black glow.”

  “Change of plans.” Donovan pointed to Dawn. “You stay here unless you’re needed. Be prepared to defend yourself.”

  A Glamour formed about her and she vanished from view, blending into the pattern of the stone wall surrounding the churchyard.

  “The rest of you listen in.” He nodded to Kieran, since he’d be the one to make certain of it. “You’ll hear my orders. Follow them. No questions.”

  When he was certain they were ready, Donovan teleported to the ledge outside the bell tower’s shuttered window. In the darkness, his jet-black hair, loose dark shirt, and slacks camouflaged him. Abandoning stealth, Donovan pushed open the unlocked shutters and climbed in the window. His boots banged down on the wooden floor, announcing his presence.

  The dark elf jerked up from his dinner table, hand curling around an amulet that hung in the center of his chest, exactly where Malcolm had indicated. The black onyx disk in the center was nearly as wide as a man’s hand span. A filigree gold setting twined around the stone.

  He was a survivor of the Mounds, given his clothing. The long, damask tunic and silk stockings in a style that had barely altered in the past six centuries wouldn’t have been out of place in the Mounds, but certainly would garner comment on the surface. At one time, all the dark elves lived in the Mounds, since their grayish skin required constant use of Glamour to disguise and their pride rankled against hiding their beauty. A long, sleek braid whipped against the back of his ankles, a symbol of status. Panic strained his voice. “Crom?”

  “Not Crom.” Donovan stepped closer to the candlelight, allowing the dark elf to better make out his features.

  “Jhaer.” Though Donovan didn’t recognize the dark elf, surely this one had seen him before and knew enough to whisper his former name with fear.

  “You’ve claimed husbandry over the sluagh?” Donovan stalked closer. “That’s not your place.”

  “The Sidhe have no more dominion here.” The dark elf gripped the amulet in his fist as though it granted him courage as well as dark magic. “Far too few of you to hold all your old claims. The dark elves have risen to replace the noble elves. We’re to be the new Sidhe and rulers of the fey.”

  “You have no power over the sluagh, save some trinket of Crom’s that you stole. I recall your face now. You were nothing but Crom’s lackey. Your master should have eliminated you the first time you drooled over his domain.” Donovan snarled, squaring off with the elf. “Submit.”

  The dark elf laughed. “Even the Unseelie fear the sluagh. They’ll tear apart your bones before they feast upon your flesh; I promise you that!”

  “You might send the sluagh after me, but the Unseelie will come for you and strip you of that amulet. Without that stolen Sidhe magic you have no power over the sluagh. You, nor your dark elf brethren, could ever replace the supremacy of the Sidhe.” To ensure that the dark elf did indeed send the entire flight after him, Donovan sneered each word with the venom of insult. “You are lesser.”

  One vicious scream from the tower above ignited the rest. Like banshees, the song of the sluagh clawed at the sanity of their prey, threatening to overwhelm the senses with nightmare terrors. It was the least of their weapons. Donovan braced himself, gritting his teeth, holding his ground against the onslaught as the fury of beating leather wings echoed through the tower. Only when the first of the flight swooped down like demons through the trap doors overhead did he finally run, drawing them away with him.

  Bashing open the shutters with the force of his body, he leapt through the bell tower’s side window before plunging down twenty feet to the angled roof below. Donovan hit and rolled. The slick tiles and the slanted pitch of the roof threatened his balance. Only through his fey agilit
y did he manage to reclaim his footing without losing much momentum. Arms pumping, he raced the length of the roof. The furious screams tore at him like claws. The sluagh swarmed ever closer, faster than most could imagine. At the roof’s edge, Donovan leapt, freefalling toward the ground several stories below.

  Chapter Twelve

  The moment Donovan ducked into the tower, Kieran created what Malcolm thought of as a tornado of magic. No one else could see it, not even Kieran, but it reached like a cobra up into the sky and slipped its flared opening into the tower window behind Donovan. Through this, they heard every word. Malcolm watched the glow of the dark elf and the brownish swirl of magic building around Donovan. When the ghostly creatures high in the rafters stirred, icy fear dragged like fingers down Malcolm’s flesh. He whispered, “Oh, shite. I think there are loads more sluagh than he thought.”

  That’s when the screaming started.

  Horror-movie shrieks sliced through the still night, carrying blazing red knives of magic. Covering his ears, Malcolm spun away. It didn’t matter. The knives of terror shredded through him anyway. He collided into Trip and Bryce, whose screams couldn’t drown out the dismay that pierced them.

  Kieran grappled at his head, growling. A burst of magic billowed out of him with enough force to ruffle their hair and clothes. The bubble of sound magic expanded, shattering the magic knives and shielding the earthborns from the sluagh song. Malcolm scrambled back around, cursing himself for losing focus for even a second when Donovan counted on them.

  “What’s happening?” Trip jerked on Malcolm’s arm.