The Awakening (Immortals)

by Joy Nash

  A thousand splashes struck her body. Big, powerful drops pounded the street, forming a river along the curb. The sky was nearly black with fury.

  And Christine loved it.

  Rain pelted her wholly inadequate sweater, drenched her jeans, poured into her boots. She sighed and opened her arms wide, trying to capture as much of the storm as possible. What did she care if passersby shot her odd glances from under their umbrellas? They’d been dealing with too much rain for months, while she’d been languishing under sunny skies in drought-stricken Italy. To the Brits, the rain was a curse. To her, it was a miracle.

  She lifted her face to the sky. Beautiful raindrops splashed her forehead and cheeks, tickled her chin, dripped past the neckline of her sweater. And all she could do was laugh.

  Most witches had an affinity for one of the four elements: fire, air, earth, or water. Water was Christine’s element. Water magic was life magic, flowing around her, inside her, through her. Even surrounded by the drab gray of a suffering city, despite the anxiety and distrust emanating from every human Christine had encountered on her trip, a sense of rightness filled her now. As long as there was life, there was magic. And hope.

  A homeless man huddled under the station’s overhang didn’t share her joy. Muttering something about sodding idiots and bloody loons, he retreated into his cardboard shelter. The station door swung open, discharging a handful of surly passengers. They scattered into the storm, darting in various directions. Christine sighed. Eventually, she’d have to inquire about a train to Glasgow or Edinburgh, but not just yet. Turning into the wind, she shut her eyes and reveled in the sensation of raindrops pelting her face.

  A scant moment later, the rain on her face stopped. Someone—or something—had moved directly in front of her, blocking it.

  Frowning, she opened her eyes.

  And lifted her brows. A teenage boy stood in front of her, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen tops. Like Christine, he didn’t have a raincoat. The collar of his black leather jacket was turned up—not that it was doing him much good. He was as soaked as she was. What was curious was that, like her, he didn’t seem to mind.

  He was tall and wiry, with a thick mane of blond hair and a scalloped blue tattoo on his left cheek. His sea-green eyes held a bemused expression. Three tiny silver rings dangled from his left earlobe. A backpack was slung over one shoulder, a guitar case over the other. White earbud wires snaked down his neck and into the collar of his jacket.

  He was just too cute.

  He smiled and spoke. “Like a bit of water, do you?”

  Christine blinked. The kid had a Scottish accent—she hadn’t heard vowels so rounded since her grandmother’s death. His question was close to a shout. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the rain or his earbuds.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile as they stood there with the rain pouring over them. “It’s wonderful.”

  He frowned. “What’s that, love? Speak up.”

  Chuckling, Christine pointed a finger at her ear. The kid looked at her blankly for a moment, then, with a sheepish grin, tugged out his earbuds. They dangled over his collar, the music pulsing from them at an incredible decibel level. With a jolt of pleasure, Christine realized he was listening to her favorite musician.

  “You like Manannán?” she asked him.

  His green eyes sharpened. “Do you?”

  “I’m his biggest fan!”

  “He’s an all-right bloke, I reckon.”

  “A lot more than all right, I’d say. The man’s a genius.”

  The kid snorted. “Not sure I’d go that far, love.” His gaze ran over her. “So. You enjoy rain?”

  She laughed. “Yes, and so do you.”

  He answered with an engaging grin. “Aye, I suppose I don’t mind it.” He paused. “I’m Mac, by the way.”

  “Christine.”

  For a brief second, some instinctive understanding seemed to pass between them. A thoughtful look flashed through his eyes; it was gone so quickly she thought she must have imagined it. He offered a hand. Without pausing to think, she clasped it. She didn’t mean to do what she did next—she rarely used her magic in such a forward way. But there was something about this kid…

  She cast out her senses, her brows drawing together as she sent a question through their joined hands. In return…nothing. She let out a breath, disappointed. She didn’t know why—maybe it was his choice of music, maybe his incredible green eyes—but she thought he might be a water witch, like her. But she’d felt nothing. Not only no water magic, but no magic of any kind.

  She took back her hand. The kid was obviously just a mundane teenager, doing his best to ruin his hearing before he was old enough to drink.

  “Where d’you come from, love?” he asked, shoving a hank of wet hair from his eyes.

  A sudden shift in the wind drove the rain into her face. Reluctantly, she looked back at the station door. “If we’re going to chat, maybe we should go inside.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just water.” He gave her a probing glance. “American?”

  “Yes.”

  “On holiday, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Business?”

  “You might say that.”

  “I’m in London on a bit of business myself.” For a brief moment, a shadow dimmed his eyes.

  She wondered what kind of business a teenager could have. Surely not drugs—Mac didn’t look the type. But then again, you never knew.

  “It’s almost noon,” he observed. “I won’t be in town long, but a bloke’s got to eat.” He flashed an engaging smile. “Buy you a bit of lunch?”

  Christine smiled. It was like being propositioned by a little brother. “Don’t tell me you have a thing for older women,” she teased.

  For some reason, her comment amused him. His green eyes danced. “Older women? No, can’t say as I’ve been with one of those.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t be your first. I’m not sticking around. I’m headed to Scotland.”

  “On business.” He sounded dubious.

  “Yes, I…you’re Scottish, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Came into the world there, anyway.”

  “Then maybe you can help me. Here, let me show you something.” She retreated to the overhang; he followed readily. Unshouldering her backpack, she reached inside for her sketchbook. She flipped it open to one of the many drawings she’d done on her painfully long train ride.

  “I’m looking for a certain castle. I’m pretty sure it’s in Scotland, but I don’t know exactly where. Maybe you’ve seen it?”

  He glanced down at the sketch, then went still. He glanced back up at her, a new shrewdness in his eyes. “You’re looking for this castle?”

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “Aye.”

  She felt a surge of elation. “Where is it?”

  He frowned slightly. “Near Nairn.”

  “That’s pretty far north, isn’t it?”

  “About as far north as you can get, apart from Wick and Orkney.”

  “How do I get there? By train, I mean.”

  He was looking at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “London to Edinburgh to Perth. Then on to Inverness. Nairn’s a bit east from there, and the castle’s on an island off the coast a little farther on. But I have to warn you, no one goes out there. If you think you can just—”

  A cell phone chime interrupted, a few bars of Manannán’s “Midsummer Bells” serving as the ring tone. Mac unclipped his mobile from his belt, checked the caller ID, and scowled. “She can bloody well call back later,” he muttered, shoving the phone back on its clip without answering.

  Girlfriend? Christine smothered a grin. Any significant other of Mac’s probably had good reason to worry about him—he was an incorrigible flirt. She slid her sketchbook back into her pack. “Thanks,” she said, hoisting it onto her shoulder.
“You’ve been a big help. You’ve probably saved me days of searching.”

  He eyed her. “If you don’t mind my asking, love, what’s a pretty Yank like you want with a gods-forsaken gloomy castle like that?”

  “I’m…” She caught herself just in time. Not such a great idea to broadcast her mission to a stranger, even one as cute and harmless as Mac. Tain and Kehksut could have spies anywhere. “I…I saw it in a book.”

  His brows rose. “A book.”

  “And I…I’m just…curious about it, I guess.”

  “Curiosity.” He paused. “A dangerous notion, that.”

  She made a noncommittal sound and hiked her backpack onto her shoulder. Now that she had a firm destination in mind, she wanted to get going. But Mac shifted his position slightly, taking up the space between Christine and the train station door.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ve got to get going. Nice meeting you.”

  “Until the next time, love.” With a nod, he started toward the street. As he sauntered past, he skimmed a finger along her forearm.

  His touch shot through her like a raging river over a dam. Magic—water magic—its force so intense it nearly knocked her legs out from under her. She staggered against the station door, grasping the handle to keep from falling.

  Mac was already halfway across the street. Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he gave a parting wave before continuing to the other side.

  Holy Goddess. What in the universe was that? She’d never felt anything like it. Magic, certainly—but power way out of her league. When just a few minutes before, she hadn’t felt anything. Mac had blocked her magical probe so subtly and completely she hadn’t even been aware he’d done it. Could he be a demon? No, no way. Demons had no water in their bodies, so they didn’t have water magic. But he might be spying for a demon. Or for Tain.

  She glanced back to the street. He was gone.

  “Not wise, birdie,” a voice rasped.

  She spun around. The homeless man she’d seen earlier had emerged from his cardboard home and was standing so close she could see the dirt clogging the monstrous pores in his nose. He opened his mouth, displaying three rotted teeth. Christine gagged on a fetid mixture of onions, grease, and alcohol.

  She backed away. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you—”

  “No, not wise at all. He looks harmless, that one, but I tell you, he’s not.”

  “Do you know who…what he is?”

  Bloodshot eyes darted toward to street and back. “Oh no, you won’t get me to say more,” the man muttered. “I’m no bloody fool.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Humans called them laugh lines. Well, Leanna wasn’t laughing. She stared at the creases, harshly illuminated in the dressing room mirror of her suite at Inverness’s Palace Hotel. A shudder vibrated down her spine. Wrinkles. Horrid.

  The bags under her eyes, slight as they were, were no better. Sharp, curved lines bracketed her mouth, and there was a soft look to her chin that hadn’t been there a few years ago. And her neck…She tilted her head back.

  Sagging. Definitely sagging.

  Damn it all to Uffern, she looked like she was pushing thirty. A sharp, angry breath expelled from her lungs. This was Niniane’s fault. If Leanna had been raised in the Celtic Otherworld like any full-blooded Sidhe child, she would have absorbed a good measure of Annwyn’s magic. Things wouldn’t be so dire. As it was, the Queen of the Sidhe hadn’t wanted her king to find out she’d been slumming in the human world. It must have been a colossal shock when a brawny Highlander’s seed took root in Niniane’s womb. She couldn’t get rid of the baby fast enough. Leanna had grown up in a miserable hovel with a drunken father, a bitter stepmother, and fifteen starving half siblings.

  Her childhood had been a blur of hunger, backbreaking labor, harsh winters, and terror at the hands of English soldiers. It was a wonder she’d survived until her fifteenth year, when, suddenly, her woman’s blood had flowed, her rounded ears had sprouted points, and her magic had blossomed. That was when she’d realized what she was. A leannan-sidhe. A love muse.

  Her magic had been her ticket to freedom; she wasted no time in gaining a human lover who’d taken her to France. When he wore out, there’d been another lover. And another. Artists all. Each had drawn inspiration from her, creating masterpieces while she fed on their life energy. Soon exhausted, each had succumbed to an early grave, while her own life span had lengthened.

  But it wouldn’t last forever. The proof of her mortality confronted her daily in the mirror.

  Faigh muin. As always when her emotions overwhelmed her, she reverted to her childhood tongue. The language she’d tried so hard to forget. But it was a part of her, too deeply ingrained to ever be rid of. Like her human blood.

  She gripped the edge of her dressing table. It took a full minute for her emotions to settle enough to allow her to raise her glamour. And even longer before her anxiety faded.

  Her magic-enhanced image was lovely, of course. She looked no older than a human woman of nineteen. Which was as it should be. The Sidhe race was outstandingly longlived. At a mere two hundred and sixty-two years old, a full-blooded Sidhe female was little more than an adolescent.

  She pushed away from the mirror. It could be worse. Ten years ago, when she’d felt her magic waning, she’d returned to the Highlands to be closer to the Gates of Annwyn, the source of all Sidhe power. She’d discovered Kalen then. If she hadn’t, she might look…she shuddered…forty. Bathing her soul in his Immortal essence had held back the decay.

  Now Kalen would help her another way. He’d give her a child. A child with an Immortal soul, because a Sidhe child would be useless.

  She gave a tight smile. An Immortal child would secure her future. All she had to do was find the courage to summon magic powerful enough to make it so. Dark magic. Blood magic.

  Murmuring a lock-release charm, she slid open her vanity’s center drawer. An iron-bladed knife lay amid a jumble of cosmetics. A crystal bottle lay in a velvet case beside it.

  She eased the cork stopper from the bottle’s neck. The bottle was already three-quarters full. Setting it upright on the table, she picked up the knife. The iron irritated her skin; Sidhe abhorred the metal. She tested the edge.

  Sharp. But of course it was. She’d honed it herself.

  Nausea burned in her stomach. She hated bloodletting, especially when her own blood was involved. But it was necessary. Ruthlessly, she pressed the tip of the knife against the center of her palm. Delicate skin broke; blood welled. She pressed her palm over the mouth of the bottle. The precious drops fell, forming a thick pool inside crystal. When it was done, her head was spinning, both from the sight of her blood and the anticipation of what she would do with it.

  The exhilaration she felt while contemplating her goal was like a chemical-induced high. Like the rush humans got in the vamp clubs, or the bliss Leanna’s human lovers found in the hours before their deaths. The irony of her plan wasn’t lost on her. Full-blooded Sidhe were pure life magic creatures—they couldn’t perform death magic. It was Leanna’s human blood that enabled her to draw up darkness. Now that human blood would ensure that she gained her rightful place among her mother’s people.

  Light-headed, she pressed a ball of cotton against her wound. The bottle was full. It was time.

  She tipped the vial. Blood dripped on the marble tile, crimson on white. Tainted blood. Blood not worthy. Ruby light flashed; the death rune sprang into being. She spoke a Word, and the image of a snake appeared to weave through the sharp angles of the sigil. It bent back on itself. When mouth reached tail, the snake’s jaw unhinged to devour its own flesh.

  Ouroborous. Life and death and life again. To the ancients, it had symbolized regeneration and rebirth. The essence of living magic. Life without end. A symbol of immortality.

  But everything good possessed a shadow side; each life magic sign and rune had a counterpart in the realm of death. With
a flick of her wrist Leanna invoked the dark essence of the Ouroborous.

  Her spilled blood responded immediately. The snake rose, twisting and writhing. The unending circle turned back upon itself. Decay rose like a delicate bouquet.

  The symbol of unending life had become the sign of unending death.

  She gazed on the dark beauty of what she’d wrought. She felt alive. Invincible. Strong enough to do whatever was necessary to gain the prize she craved.

  “By the power of my blood, I summon you.”

  She ended with the demon’s name—not its true appellation, for no demon allowed that to be known. Among humans, a demon could be known by several names—the more ancient the demon, the more numerous those names were. The entity Leanna sought had many names. The one she spoke now was a name given in terror by humans who were long dead. Humans who had once called themselves the Etruscans.

  The demon would hear it. If the entity was intrigued, it would answer.

  “Culsu. Come to me,” she whispered.

  For long moments there was only silence. Leanna spoke again. “I call you to this place, this time. Show yourself.”

  It began with a hiss. A rip in the fabric of the world sprang from the death rune. Black oily smoke seeped from the void, accompanied by the odor of brimstone and sulfur.

  It coalesced slowly, gathering strength, drinking power from the blood Leanna had spilled. The entity took the form of a woman: tall, regal, garbed in clinging black. Glossy black hair writhed about her perfect face. Black, fathomless eyes regarded Leanna unblinkingly.

  The entity surveyed her surroundings, gaze flicking disdainfully over the jumble of cosmetics on the table. Her attention turned at last to Leanna.

  The demon inclined her head. “I am here.”

  Her tone was imperious. No subservience infected her demeanor, no deference sounded in its voice. Yet Leanna knew that in responding to her call, Culsu consented to do Leanna’s bidding. If Leanna agreed to the price the demon set.