The Awakening (Immortals)

by Joy Nash

  The man was not so pure. Tense, sexual awareness infused his body. He rose above the woman, as if about to press her onto her back and enter her with one hard thrust. And yet…his hand on the woman’s hip seemed hesitant, as if it had hovered for a long moment before the man had dared to touch his beloved. There was reverence in that touch. Honor. Love.

  Kalen had had many women in his long existence—more than he cared to count. Each one had been eager; all had given him pleasure. But none had aroused the emotions evident in this pair of stone lovers. Leanna had brought him close, with her muse’s magic. Yet, try as he might, he could not grasp Leanna’s magic fully. Would her plan to conceive truly make a difference?

  He’d hoped a visit to the tower room would soothe the unease left by his nightmare. It didn’t. Still unsettled, he descended five levels to the kitchen. There, amid the whitewashed walls and crockery, he found the only female he’d ever fully trusted.

  Pearl Hornblower stood on her stool before her long worktable, flour dusting her muscular forearms. Her dull hair was tucked neatly into a pristine white mobcap that only served to make the gray tinge of her skin more pronounced. The ruffles on her white apron were freshly starched and pressed, as was the plain gray dress she wore beneath it.

  She looked up and scowled as Kalen entered her domain. Efficiency was Pearl’s passion, and Kalen’s presence in the kitchens was detrimental to order. Kalen’s housekeeper came by her fastidiousness naturally. Her father had been a gnome, a race fanatically devoted to tidiness, especially in their gardens. Pearl’s mother had been a halfling, a people who horded and catalogued everything.

  Pearl’s bristling brows drew together. Kalen knew his housekeeper’s current mood went beyond fear for her tidy kitchen. She was always like this after one of Leanna’s visits.

  “So. Ye’ve dragged yer bones from bed at last,” she said.

  “A good morning to you, too.”

  She made a derisive sound. “Morning? ’Tis past noon.”

  “Then it’s no wonder I’m hungry.” He lifted an oatcake from a platter by his housekeeper’s elbow and slathered it with clotted cream and jam. He did enjoy Pearl’s cooking.

  Pearl sniffed, pride clearly warring with displeasure. Pride won. Pulling her fingers from the dough, she wiped them on a dish towel. “Let me fix ye a proper meal, at least.”

  “No need. I have business in Edinburgh this afternoon. Tonight I’ll be in Inverness.”

  “Inverness. Bedding that Sidhe luid again, I reckon.”

  Kalen was silent.

  She shook a stubby finger. “I know ye doan’ want to hear it, Kalen, but I’ll say it true: that one has no respect, what with her dancing and fornicating inside the ancient stones. Mark my words, she’ll come to a bad end. It canna be otherwise.”

  He took a bite of oatcake. Pearl frowned at the shower of crumbs. “Leanna’s tour may be outrageous,” he said, “but there’s no harm done. It’s just a show for the tourists.”

  “That female preys on human weakness, Kalen. Sooner or later some human is going to be hurt on that tour.”

  Kalen occupied himself with a second oatcake. He didn’t approve of Leanna’s tourist shows, but she made a fortune on them. She was too proud to take a lover’s money. If she were accepted by Niniane, she’d have no need to support herself in that way. She’d have a steady supply of gold and silver from Annwyn, as any full-blooded Sidhe did.

  He washed down the oatcake with a swig of fresh milk. “You worry too much. Every one of Leanna’s tourists signs a waiver. No one’s misled about the magical risks. Whatever damage idiot humans do to themselves is no concern of mine.”

  Pearl gave him a hard look. “It used to be.”

  His lips twisted. “Perhaps. But those days are long gone.”

  The confrontation with the demon left Christine feeling bruised all over. She was on Tain’s radar now. So much for her hope of traveling unnoticed. She only hoped the rogue Immortal and his demon captor didn’t stop her from reaching Kalen.

  Drained, she fell into a fitful sleep that lasted until the train pulled into the station at Inverness. After stumbling onto the platform, she located the scrap of paper on which she’d scribbled the address of a local Coven of Light witch, Maired MacAuliffe. Maired lived in a farmhouse a few miles out of town. Christine had sent her an e-mail from an Internet café before leaving Rome, but hadn’t seen a computer since. She hoped the Scottish witch didn’t mind a stranger appearing on her doorstep.

  She left the platform to find a store clerk or a friendly pedestrian who could tell her the quickest way to get to Maired’s farm. She found the main drag easily enough—two roads on either side of the river Ness, lined with a haphazard mix of old and new buildings. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the clouds were still ponderous, giving the city an air of dejection. Even the magnificent hilltop castle seemed depressed.

  She trudged down Bank Street. A few pedestrians passed, heads bowed and shoulders hunched. Not one person made eye contact. Christine sighed. It was the same in Rome, and, she suspected, all over the world. Death magic had gained the upper hand. People were wary, and rightly so.

  “Lovely day, no?”

  The cheerful, lilting greeting belied her dark musings. She turned toward the speaker, and saw nothing. Her gaze dropped.

  A little man, standing no taller than her waist, grinned up at her. He was dressed completely in green, the fabric of his shirt and pants cut to resemble leaves. No, wait a minute. She looked more closely. His clothes were made of leaves. His hat, which sported a jaunty point at the top, was constructed of tree bark. Curling hair and pointed ears protruded from under the rim. Delicate gossamer wings unfurled from his back.

  A faerie. She couldn’t believe it. Faeries lived in country meadows and glens. She’d hardly expected to be accosted by one on a city street.

  “Lovely day,” the faerie repeated.

  Christine glanced at the menacing sky. “Most people wouldn’t think so.”

  He grinned. “Rain’s stopped for a spell. These days, ye take what ye can get. On holiday, are ye?”

  “Um, yes.”

  He rubbed his palms together. “And fresh off the train, I’d wager. Ye’ll be needing a place to stay? And a hot bath and a meal? If ye doan’ mind my saying so, ye look right knackered.”

  She couldn’t deny it. After four days of traveling, she felt gritty inside and out. She was about to drop from fatigue. She wanted to reach Maired quickly, but the prospect of a quick bath was too tempting to pass up. And she had to eat, right? Salt and vinegar potato chips were all very well and good, but even Christine knew she needed something more nourishing.

  “Well?” The little man beamed. “What is it?”

  “I guess I could use a room.”

  The faerie snatched his bark hat from his head and sketched a bow. “I’m your man, then. Gilraen Ar-Finiel, at your service. The missus and I run a guesthouse here in town.”

  “Is it warded?” she asked.

  “Aye, of course. With the strongest life magic spellcraft in the Highlands. The missus has a fine hand with magic.”

  The place was sounding better by the minute. “I don’t have much money.”

  “Ah, then, but ye’re in luck. We don’t ask for much.” He shoved his hat back on his head. Wings fluttering, he rose a couple of feet off the pavement and hovered at eye level. “Follow me, if ye please.”

  Christine hiked her backpack higher on her shoulders, wincing. Her scrying bowl felt like it was made of stone. “All right, then, but…”

  He looked back at her, brow cocked. “But what, lass?”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you and your wife doing in the city? I thought faeries preferred the country.”

  Gilraen’s expression tightened. “Ah, so we do. But the mountains and glens are too dangerous these days.”

  “Worse than the city?”

  “Aye. ’Tisn’t safe in the countryside. Why, just last night…” He
nodded grimly at the news kiosk just ahead. “An entire coven of witches were foully murdered. Slaughtered inside their sacred circle.”

  “No,” Christine whispered. A sudden, sick dread assaulted her. She made a beeline for the newsstand and grabbed a copy of the Inverness Courier. Witch slaughter screamed the headline. Underneath the stark two inch letters was a picture that turned Christine’s stomach. She focused on the accompanying article.

  Local witch Maired MacAuliffe and her coven sisters were found murdered last night after neighbors reported a paranormal disturbance at her farmhouse outside Inverness. Parapolice rushed to answer the call, only to discover a grisly scene: thirteen witches brutally murdered, their bodies drained of blood. A foul odor hung over the corpses.

  There were no survivors or witnesses to the atrocity. Inverness vampire overlord Johnny Guthrie indignantly denied any involvement by local vamps. “The undead are not mindless thugs,” he declared. “We unequivocally decry this kind of senseless brutality.” Leering, Guthrie added, “Besides, we don’t need to hunt humans. They come to us.” Para-inspector Constable Brian Tilton was not convinced, however. Two local vamps, Timothy Hadley and Geoffrey Dagget, have been detained for questioning…

  “That’ll be fifty pence,” the newsstand clerk said irritably.

  Christine shook her head and handed the paper back to him. “I don’t want it.”

  “Move along, then. I’m not running a bloody charity here.”

  Gilraen sighed as they continued down the sidewalk. “’Tisn’t the first tragedy, either. It’s been happening all over the countryside. And I’m thinking the para-inspectors are wrong. These murderers are something worse than vampires. Keep to town, that’s my advice. Ye’ll be safe in my home, I promise ye.” He started across a bridge spanning the river. Christine followed, her mind still reeling with shock.

  The sluggish waters of the river Ness smelled of death. An oily sheen floated on the surface and clusters of rotting zombies loitered on the banks. Christine shuddered. She’d hoped for help from Maired’s coven, Goddess rest their souls. Now she was on her own.

  Tourist shops crowded the road on the opposite bank. The buildings had clearly seen better days, but somehow the shops still managed to look festive. Christine’s eye took in a jumble of tartans, postcards, and shortbread, and a bin filled with stuffed Loch Ness Monsters. She was almost past the row when one shop caught her eye. It was closed, but there was a large, colorful poster in its window.

  SEX MAGIC: THE ULTIMATE THRILL! proclaimed bold red letters. Below that lurid promise was a photo of a stunning red-haired Sidhe. Christine stopped dead. It was the woman from her vision. Kalen’s lover.

  The Sidhe’s skin was white and delicate, her eyes a clear, pale gray. Her figure could have stopped traffic—enormous bust, tiny waist, lush hips. She wore an outrageous silver and black leather corset that left her rouged nipples exposed. Lower on her body, a matching black thong left very little to the imagination. Black stockings encased her long, shapely legs; her tiny feet were shod with silver and rhinestone stilettos.

  Bored with vamp clubs? Thirsting for something different? Take a midnight tour with Leanna and experience the ultimate in Sidhe Sex Magic. A night you won’t soon forget!

  Gilraen, who had flown on ahead when Christine halted, turned back when he realized she was no longer at his side. When he saw what she as looking at, he sped back, wings buzzing furiously.

  “Come along, lass. Ye don’t want that.”

  Christine barely heard him. She was too appalled. This was Kalen’s lover? A woman who peddled sex magic to tourists? Just what kind of life did the Immortal lead?

  Gilrean tugged on her arm. “Please, lass. Leave it.”

  She looked at him. “What do you know about this?”

  He flew in close, pitching his voice low. “Enough to know ye should forget ye ever saw it. The Sidhe who leads the tours…some say her blood is tainted. She’s a bad one. I’d rather face a zombie horde.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Christine said quietly. And probably incredible in bed.

  “’Tis a deadly beauty, to be sure. She has lovers all over the city. Artists all. Doesn’t take long before they’re dead.”

  “She kills them?” Christine asked, aghast.

  “No. Not that. At least not outright. They die by their own hand, or from sheer exhaustion. A human male canna satisfy a Sidhe female.”

  But an Immortal could.

  Gilraen gripped her elbow. “’Tis a sordid business, I tell ye. The tour takes place at a cairn. An ancient burial site,” he amended as he caught Christine’s puzzled expression. “Ringed with standing stones. It’s a sacred spot, and she defiles it for her own purposes.”

  Christine swallowed. Selling sex atop a grave site, inside an ancient circle? Who would be so bold as to taunt the gods that way? The price for the tour was outrageous: one hundred fifty pounds for a green spectator pass. Almost twice that for a red participant’s ticket.

  “Is the tour popular?” she asked Gilraen.

  “Oh, aye. Verra popular.” His expression darkened. “There be no shortage of fools, especially in these dark days. The world has gone mad.” The little man wrenched on Christine’s arm again, this time with enough force to make her stumble. “Let’s be on our way. The missus will tell ye of sights a nice human lass like yerself would be interested in. Inverness Castle. Museums and kirks. That kind of thing.”

  Christine let Gilraen lead her away. But not before she noted the departure time of the next sex magic tour.

  That night at eleven.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Faerie Lights was a squat graystone building with a somber facade that was entirely at odds with its fanciful name. Gilraen’s wife, Arianne, had done a competent job with the wardings. Christine’s room was small, but clean. After a bath and a bowl of vegetable soup—to which Christine added several generous shakes of salt—she felt strong enough to face her problems again. Alone in her room, she pulled out her scrying bowl and scried for Amber Silverthorne, an American witch who’d been working with the Coven of Light since her older sister’s death. Not wanting to alert any demon spies who might be lurking about, Christine used tap water and only a weak spell. Luckily, Amber was at home and answered her call. The image in the bowl wasn’t the clearest, but it would do.

  “Where are you?” Amber demanded. The Immortal Adrian’s broad form was just visible behind her. “When I didn’t hear from you, I thought—”

  “I’m in Inverness,” Christine interrupted. “I’m pretty sure Kalen is nearby. But something horrible has happened.” She related the facts of Maired’s murder.

  “Goddess,” Amber said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Christine replied tersely. “Although I did have a close call on the train ride here.” She recounted her runin with the demon. “So I’m keeping a low profile in case Tain is looking for me.”

  “You’d better track down Kalen quickly.” Amber’s tone was grave. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Not exactly. But I have some very good leads.” For some reason, she was reluctant to tell Amber about Leanna and her Sidhe sex tour. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him. I’ll get in touch once I do.” She paused. “Any leads on the other missing Immortals?”

  “Nothing yet about Hunter,” Amber replied. “But there’s been news about Darius. A witch named Lexi Corvin spotted him in New York City.”

  Christine exhaled. “Thank the Goddess. Hopefully, I’ll have something on Kalen soon.”

  “Be careful,” Amber said.

  “As careful as I can be. Blessed be.”

  “Blessed be.”

  She blinked as Amber’s image dissolved. Rising, she poured the water, which now carried a magical charge, into her water bottle. Dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a bulky sweater, she anchored the water bottle’s strap firmly across her shoulder as she descended the guesthouse’s narrow stairway.

  Arianne was as chatty as her
husband; a half hour was gone before Christine managed to duck out the low doorway of the guesthouse, the shrill protests of the faeries following her.

  “’But—’tisn’t safe!” Arianne exclaimed, wringing her hands.

  “Be back afore dark,” Gilraen added. “Please.”

  Christine gritted her teeth. “I’ll be fine.” If only she believed it.

  Drawing a determined breath, she retraced her steps to the tourist shop displaying Leanna’s poster. The door was propped open, revealing a small, brightly lit room with a long counter along one side. Various tourist trinkets were displayed on the shelves opposite. A male with pointed ears, the shop’s only occupant, sat behind the counter. He wore a blue and white football jersey sporting the slogan “I’m for Scotland and anyone playing England.” His head was bent over the sports page of the Inverness Courier.

  He didn’t look up. Christine approached the counter and glanced down at the article that had the Sidhe so engrossed. INVERNESS VS. VAMPIRES UNITED: CAN THE HIGHLAND LADS DODGE THE BITE? Christine didn’t know, and frankly, she didn’t care. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

  The Sidhe looked up with a scowl. “Aye?” His voice was gruff and though his features were handsome, his skin had a decidedly green cast. His dark blond hair was coarse and his shoulders far bulkier than a Sidhe’s should have been. He was half-breed, Christine realized. Part ogre. Goddess.

  She fumbled for her wallet. “I’d…I’d like a ticket for tonight’s tour, please. If you don’t mind.” It really wasn’t wise to get on the wrong side of an ogre.

  The half-breed’s mud-colored eyes appraised her frankly. “Red ticket or green?”

  Participant or spectator. “Green,” Christine said quickly. “Definitely green.”

  He grinned, showing a row of yellow ogre teeth. “Are you sure? Red’s worth the price.”

  “No, thanks, I’ll stick with green.”

  He snorted. “Of course you will.”

  Her eyes snagged on the twin gauntlets he wore on his wrists. The dull gray metal caused the fine hairs on the back of her neck to stiffen. Worse, the bands were engraved with mirror images of the runes Christine used in her own magic. Such inscriptions invoked the shadow powers of the sacred symbols.