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

by S. Ravynheart

  The beast padded forth on silent paws, rising to the surface of him. And together, they drew her closer. Nuzzling. Dominating.

  Mine, the beast agreed, bringing forth a purr from within Lugh’s chest. Mine to keep. Mine to take. Mine to kill. All mine.

  Smiling, he dozed with her trapped in his arms. Possessed.

  Chapter Five

  London’s soft warmth and fair scent filled Lugh’s awareness as he awoke. With his arms still wrapped about her, he drew her in tighter against him. As he flexed his hips, the trapped awakening of his body rubbed firmly against the curve of her bum in an aching and enjoyable way. His face nuzzled to her neck.

  I could bite her, if I want.

  But he wouldn’t. He’d keep her. Keep her close. Feel the steady presence of her. Stabilizing. Calming. A lighthouse in the darkness.

  I could have her body, if I want.

  And he would. His hand glided down London’s side and hip, her curves a pleasing shape.

  But not yet.

  His hand settled over the bottle stashed in the pocket of his jeans, feeling for it even though he was certain it was there. The bottle contained no more than a dram of the dark magic, but if the Fade became acute once more, nothing else would save him. And in saving him, it would poison him further. Alter him from a being of light into a creature of darkness. Suppress his Seelie nature, and cultivate a more wild and vicious one.

  And would that be so bad?

  It would. But he had to struggle to remember why.

  It would strip him of everything he valued. He was Seelie. Champion of the Sidhe. The Shining One.

  And the last hope to save the fey.

  He must never loose sight of that, or they would all die.

  As he stirred, the woman in his arms twisted slightly, lifting her face toward him. Her mouth soft and ready, wholly unaware of his violent urges and internal debates.

  Lugh kissed not her mouth. Rather, he kissed only her cheek. “Let us break our fast and begin our labors.” Disentangling himself from London and the sofa, Lugh rose. Offering her a gentlemanly hand to aid her came automatically, although from her hesitation the gesture was unexpected.

  Once on her feet, London crossed ahead of him to the kitchen to fetch pastries and tea, which he accepted with gracious murmurings, and then he inquired, “Did you have success with your magicraft?”

  “With my what?” London claimed the seat before her scrying mechanism.

  Lugh tapped the top corner of the scrying mirror, which came not to life at his touch, but responded instantly when London pressed her finger to the lower corner.

  “Oh, you mean the laptop.” She smiled with amusement. “It’s not magic.”

  Humans possessed no true magic of their own. Of course, Lugh knew this. It was their desire for possessing magic that led the wizards to find endlessly brutal ways to strip the power from the fey for their own use. More recently, the mass of humanity found ways to manufacture the effect of magic with some strange weaving of power they dubbed ‘technology.’ To the fey of the Mounds, such was simply called ‘human magicraft’ and marginalized as anything of interest. Even now, when rationing his own use of magic, Lugh maintained a steadfast resistance to acquiring any knowledge of human magicraft beyond what circumstances forced upon him.

  London smiled, and it was an attractive one. As pleased with herself in this as the Scribe, Willem, was when he teased some key piece of wisdom from an ancient text. “I scanned the images into the computer, and then did an image recognition search on the Internet.”

  Lugh merely nodded for her to continue, assuming that at some point she would say something from which he could gather some sense of what she spoke.

  “See?” She rotated the device toward him so that he might gaze into the mirror himself. “I’ve found the actual photos of the items from your drawings. This chap has at least five of them.”

  Lugh glanced over the images. The series of pictures along the side of the mirror indeed appeared to depict the very artifacts from the drawings made thousands of years prior. Opposite the artifacts, the image of a man smiled at him, dressed in the garb of a human professional with a dark suit with an azure tie to add the touch of individuality and color. The name below the image was Quinn Cuidightheach. Lugh felt his own smile beginning to spark. “He’s a Scribe.”

  “A historian and a collector of antiquities, actually.” London corrected, having misunderstood him. “He’s in charge of the collection of Celtic historical treasures near the University College campus in Cork.”

  “He’s a Scribe. One of the lesser fey. Myopically large eyes, wide grin, diminutive. You can almost catch the shape of his pointed ears hidden beneath his hair.”

  “Oh.” She leaned closer to inspect the photo of the fey. “So you know him?”

  “No, but I know someone who might.”

  Chapter Six

  The detour through the Ring of Kerry, to collect Lugh’s Scribe companion from the safety of the dragon’s keeping and then to make their way along the easterly trail back toward Cork, consumed an unseemly number of hours crammed in London’s undersized automobile. With impatience, the beast growled and paced. Lugh glared out of the window, arms crossed firmly over his chest, despising the Fade for the ignoble mode of transport.

  More tedious even than the monotonous roll of landscape was the Scribe’s endless blathering. Since collecting him, the lesser fey only ceased to stare at Lugh when blushing his way through conversations with London. Of course, Willem could intuit the wrongness in Lugh. And, of course, his curiosity twisted within him, tormenting the Scribe. Nonetheless, Lugh refused to acknowledge Willem’s concerns or suspicions, even when he whispered in fear, “Your eyes…”

  Lugh could see for himself in the mirror fastened outside the window the dark smudges staining the soft flesh below his bloodshot eyes.

  Evidence of his corruption. Of the dark magic spreading.

  Consuming him by inches.

  And Willem knew all too well the horrors of the coming eclipse.

  Kill him. The panther stalked back and forth, agitated. Claw out those eyes that see too much.

  Shut up and be still. Lugh snarled back at the beast.

  Still, it paced. Watchful. Ready for its chance to slip Lugh’s control.

  “We’re here.” London dispelled the auto into silence. Besides her vehicle, no other occupied the lot before the long, low building. “Looks empty, but the sign says it’s open.”

  Lugh unfolded himself from the auto and stretched his long legs. “Willem shall speak with the Scribe. London, you’ll accompany him and keep them on task.”

  “You’re not going to join us?” Willem, fool that he was, moved within arm’s reach. His intense expression searched Lugh’s face. Sharp hazel eyes seeing right into the truth of his darkness.

  The beast bore its fangs. Snatch out his eyes!

  Instead, Lugh snatched him by the front of his shirt and hissed through his teeth. “Do as I have bid you, Scribe.”

  Willem’s small hands covered Lugh’s, patting at him. The Scribe’s wide smile was a forced one. “As you have said. No need to be cross.” His thin fingers pried at Lugh’s until the Sidhe released him. Even as he hurried toward the museum, Willem never turned about. Never trusted Lugh with his back.

  At least London had the sense not to question him, only following Willem inside.

  Once they’d departed, Lugh lingered outside, standing in the full power of the sunlight. The light penetrated his flesh with a reassuring burn. What untainted magic of his own that yet remained within him rallied under the power of his sun.

  He turned his face upward, as if the light shining upon him could burn away the shadows within. As if it could restore him.

  The Shining One. Seelie. Champion. Lugh. That was who he was. That was who he wanted to be.

  On clear, peaceful days such as this, one could almost forget the tragedy of the Collapse. The young humans gallivanting about the manicured law
ns by the university buildings across the lot blithely relished the day in blissful ignorance of the lost realm beneath their feet and of the loss of the civilization from which so much of their culture and heritage spawned.

  Even as the sunlight warmed his face, the shadow moved within him, biding its time. The beast troubled him not overly just in this moment of calm, but soon enough it would stalk once more to the surface with demands he could scarce deny.

  Although he felt the press of the bottle in his pocket against his thigh, Lugh’s hand rested protectively over it, ensuring its intact presence. His only weapon should the Fade shred him once more. But if he surrendered to the temptation of the dark power the fey would perish, along with the hope for the new fey realm.

  Lugh only turned away from his sun as an automobile maneuvered to the side of the museum. Both the front doors flung open and two young people, a lad and a lass, fairly leapt from the vehicle. Quick as sprites, they raced into the side entrance of the building. Though he saw them for scant more than a few seconds, Lugh recognized immediately what they were. And in having not seen another living Sidhe since the Collapse, the passing sight of these two now struck him like a thunderbolt from the clear sky. He knew not their names, but from the darkness of their features, the young couple almost certainly aligned with the Unseelie temperament.

  And the Unseelie wanted London dead.

  Chapter Seven

  Lugh raced into the museum. The voice of Willem echoed through the display rooms filled with collections and void of visitors, scattering the sounds so the true direction of the source was unclear. But no one need tell Lugh where to find his druidess. Her presence resonated within him always. She belonged to him, and no Unseelie would deny him his right to possess her. The panther rose within him with the rushing of his heartbeat, driving him to move faster. Propelled by his long strides, he burst into a wide chamber in the back of the building.

  With the shine of fear in her eyes, London stared at her cell device. How she used it to prophesize he knew not, but at the sight of him she blurted out, “The Unseelie are here! They’ve come for me!” The woman was truly adept with her human magicraft, earning the praise that had come with her recommendation to him.

  At the mere mention of the Unseelie, Willem and his fellow Scribe huddled toward a corner, making themselves insignificant as targets, for if the Unseelie meant to do battle, they would surely view them as no real threat. Not when London bore the order of execution upon her and Lugh, as a Seelie, was a target of principle.

  The sizzle of an oil-soaked bonfire surged forth in a deadly rush like a fire dragon’s breath.

  Lugh spun and dove. Not away from the flaming column that burst into the chamber, but into its path.

  Even though London cringed away, the fire wouldn’t have missed.

  Blocking London with his body, Lugh gathered the flood of flames between his outstretched hands. No fire, magic or otherwise, could singe the sun. With a twist of his hands, Lugh shredded the flames, extinguishing them.

  Some thirty feet before him, four young Sidhe blocked one of the two arched exits. Three male and one female. No doubt, the redheaded lad possessed the fire magic. Though Lugh saw them murmur to each other, not even his sharp fey hearing could catch the words they spoke among themselves.

  Lugh could hardly help but chuckle at the ‘Unseelie’ London so feared. Not one of them aged more than two decades at most. Hardly more than infants. Even his beast paused at the sight of these clumsy kittens before it.

  But they were beautiful, these fresh-faced Sidhe. A little gangly yet, with a lean and rangy look to them, that roused not rage in his beast, but hunger.

  And nothing tastes like Sidhe blood, the panther mused. It recalled that flavor from the last time it raged forth a few hundred years prior. Not without reason did the scent of it turn a werewolf feral and the taste drive vampires to obsession.

  London rushed up beside Lugh, her pistol drawn.

  He placed a hand over the barrel and, with a flick of his wrist, he twisted it free of her grasp. “No killing Sidhe.” Knowing enough about dispelling such weaponry to eject the stored projectiles and clear the firing chamber, he did so, and then cast the pieces away. “Stay behind the display. These youths shan’t harm you.”

  As London retreated per his order, Lugh smirked at the teenagers. As the wild wolf-kin, these youths banded together for a strength they lacked individually. And among them, not one possessed the bearing of a true alpha. Proof-in-point, they hesitated before him, their initial surprise attack thwarted. Lugh raised a hand and beckoned them forth. “Come, children. Show me your skills.”

  The tallest boy cocked his head toward the lass beside him. It was these two that Lugh had seen entering the building from the side. “Combo,” he said, and the girl nodded with some understanding of what he spoke. The both of them stepped forward, moving with excessive effort as they summoned forth their magic.

  Lugh snatched a poleaxe, with a shaft of some six feet, from the grip of the suit of armor beside him. As he faced off with the pair, an inky mist poured forth across the floor and flared up to encase Lugh with a column of sheer black as thick as the darkness of a forgotten dwarven mine. Accompanying this, a peeling siren screamed into Lugh’s ears with the deafening and painful keening of the banshee’s cry.

  Even without seeing them, Lugh knew the direction, distance, and positions of the Unseelie. In a twisting leap, he attacked blindly. In mid-flight he cleared the pillar of shadow. As he landed, Lugh swung about with the staff of the poleaxe, smacking aside the fire Sidhe’s extended arms and deflecting his second flaming attack away from London to instead harmlessly scorch the marble floor. “You shan’t have my companion for your trophy kill this day.” He laughed at the boy.

  Twisting and striking with the poleaxe like a quarterstaff, he tripped the fire Sidhe, driving him to the floor on his back. The lass, he swatted on the bum with bruising force, eliciting an offended and pained outcry.

  Lugh spun toward the taller lad, the one who’d given the order to strike. This may well be the infamous Donovan of which he’d heard. Nothing but a cheeky lad. Lugh jammed the end of the pole into the lad’s gut, doubling him over. The screaming noise ceased, this Unseelie having been the source of the sound magic. Then Lugh swept the back of the boy’s knees, taking him down with force enough to knock a yelp from him. Bending over the lad, Lugh snatched him by the throat and lifted him up from the ground. He demanded, “How is it that you are not Fading?”

  With his thumb and fingers wedged beneath the boy’s jaws, Lugh forced the lad’s head to the side, exposing his throat. The hint of fang scars marred the perfection of his flesh. He’d been fed on before, many times.

  Bite him! The beast surged forth in Lugh so suddenly it overwhelmed his resistance, demanding the hot, fragrant spurt of Sidhe blood.

  Lugh curled back his lips, baring his teeth to strike.

  From behind him a massive crash, punctuated with the shattering of glass, shook the chamber.

  Willem shouted, “The artifact!”

  Dropping the Unseelie lad, Lugh swung around.

  The long display case behind which London had retreated now glittered on the floor in a shower of glass shards. The fourth Unseelie, a skinny boy clad in a brown leather jacket and blue jeans, bent over the debris. He snatched up a flute hewn from a stag horn, one of the artifacts. With a cheeky grin, the youth showed it to Lugh. “Betcha were looking for this.”

  Black rage unfurled within Lugh. If not for the Fade, the fury in his glare would have vaporized the brat where he crouched. The panther’s muscles bunched to attack. Demanding blood.

  And there would be blood.

  Blood everywhere!

  Flesh and carnage would splatter all around him as he rent each of those bony limbs from that kid’s smartass body.

  Even as Lugh tensed to attack, the tall Unseelie pounced upon his back and gripped him tight about the upper arms. “Run, Malcolm! Run!”

&nbs
p; The slight boy scrambled away, bashing into London and knocking her down.

  Lugh jerked his arms backward, dislodging the lad from his back. His elbow caught the Unseelie in the eye, and sent him falling away. Lugh cast aside his weapon, intent on using his bare hands. Within seconds, he bolted after the one called Malcolm, with the full intention that when he caught him, he would snatch his head clean from his body.

  The lad raced ahead of him down the long hallway, but Lugh’s longer strides ate up the distance. Their pounding footfalls echoed like war drums. Lugh reached out a hand. His grasp ever closer. Stretching to just an inch apart.

  Reaching…

  Lugh’s fingers hooked the collar of the jacket and he jerked it.

  Dropping his shoulder back, the lad let the jacket peel away. But it wouldn’t be fast enough before Lugh could tackle him.

  And then…

  The jacket released without resistance into Lugh’s grasp. The lad vanished before him, teleporting.

  Growling insults in a mishmash of Gaelic and Elvish, Lugh charged forth, still at a run. He slammed out of the door and into the sunlight.

  Before him, Malcolm climbed onto the back of a motorbike. The redheaded Unseelie revved the engine and then gunned away, while the scamp hanging on to him brandished aloft his stolen flute and howled with his success. The auto Lugh had seen earlier swerved in behind them and the lot of them made good their escape.

  “Blasted Unseelie!” He cursed after them, gripping the worthless jacket like his rage alone could choke the life out of the one who’d worn it. Twisting toward London, who hesitated just a few steps behind him, he demanded, “Which one was Donovan? The tall one?”