by Linsey Hall
“Blood magic,” Aidan said. “Aerdeca and Mordaca were our consultants on this. It’s not an easy spell, nor technically a legal one. But since the creator of the charm is dead, it walks a gray line.”
Roarke scowled, as if he didn’t like the sound of breaking the law.
I hurried to clarify, saying, “Mordaca and Aerdeca are our friends who live and work in Darklane. They’re blood sorceresses, but they’re not evil.” They lived just three doors down from Aethelred, in fact, and I’d seen them while visiting. They worked on either side of the law, but most of the time they were on our side. I’d never seen them do anything outright evil. “I don’t suppose you could find Merlin in the Underworld and ask how he made the charm?”
Roarke shook his head. “No. Eventually, perhaps. But it could take years. I don’t like the sound of blood magic, but if it’s the only way to stop the Ubilaz demon, then it’s worth it.”
“So Del just needs to use her seeker sense to try to find information about the magic used to create Guinevere’s concealment charm,” Nix said.
“It’s worth a try,” Cass said.
“It’s an off chance.” But I saw no harm in it. I really wanted that info, so my dragon sense might give me something. Even better, both of my deirfiúr could look for it, too. If one of us got a lead on it, we could pursue it.
I closed my eyes and called upon my magic, working to keep my signature repressed so that Roarke didn’t get a sense of my distinct FireSoul signature. I envisioned the locket and Merlin and Guinevere, guessing at what they’d looked like, but giving it my all. Anything would help.
When the magic tugged about my middle, I grinned.
“I’ve got something.” I opened my eyes. “Near Edinburgh.”
“Scotland?” Nix asked.
Cass nodded. She’d must have gotten that sense as well.
Roarke looked back and forth between us, his gaze assessing. Shit. We hadn’t been very careful.
I turned toward him. “Do you have an Underpath exit in Edinburgh?”
The Ubilaz demon was strong. Roarke would need to be as close to full strength as possible when we found him, so tearing a hole through the ether wouldn’t be smart.
“I do. I’ll have a demon drop a car off outside.”
“A demon? Are they, like, your minion network?”
“Essentially.”
“Handy.” I stood and passed some of the books I’d been holding to my deirfiúr, keeping one for myself. “Will you guys look through these while we’re gone? See if you find anything interesting?”
“Sure.” Nix stood. “And call us if you need anything, okay?”
“Ugh, I hate that.” I stumbled out of the Underpath into a small, dimly-lit pub.
Copper mugs hung from the ceiling, and a crackling fire warmed the wooden-walled space. Once again, patrons didn’t seem to notice us as we stepped out of the wall.
Roarke’s hand cupped my elbow to steady me, which snapped me out of my funk pretty dang quickly. I shivered, unable to help liking his proximity even though he might be the architect of my final demise.
Which would not happen.
“This way,” he murmured and led me from the pub.
Snow sparkled in the glow of the ancient-looking lamps as we stepped outside onto the cobblestone street. A quick glance behind showed that we’d arrived via a pub called the White Hart Inn.
When I turned back to the street, a black SUV had pulled up to the sidewalk, and a brown demon with small horns climbed out of the driver’s seat.
“I didn’t think Edinburgh was a supernatural city,” I said.
“It’s not.” Roarke took the keys with a quick thank you, then climbed into the driver’s side. I followed. “But the Grassmarket is. This neighborhood has been a supernatural haven for half a millennia. Humans avoid it because of a spell similar to the one on Magic’s Bend.”
I buckled the seatbelt and peered out the window, taking in the row of brightly lit pubs and the winding stone staircases that led up toward another street. If I ducked my head down really far, I could just catch a glimpse of the romantically lit castle on the hill above. Edinburgh Castle.
“If you have a network of demons waiting at your beck and call to deliver cars, why didn’t you just use one of them back in Cornwall? Why let Melly drive us?”
He frowned. “I thought it would make you more comfortable to have an outside person.”
“Uh.” Didn’t know what to say to that.
“I’m really only in the business of intimidating the Kings of Hell.”
I glanced at him, surprised. Though I really shouldn’t have been. He could tear off heads with a flick of his wrist and punch his way through the ether. He clearly didn’t feel the need to exert his power in stupid ways, like controlling everything around him. Only weak men did that. Roarke was comfortable with the idea that he could handle his environment, and if he wanted to drag me back to the Underworld when this was all over, he was confident he could do that, too.
“Thanks.”
He shrugged. “You still have to go back to the Underworld when this is all over, but I don’t have to be a total jerk about it.”
To say that I had mixed feelings about this whole situation was an understatement. His courtesy with Melly gave me the weirdest warm fuzzies. But the idea that he’d drag me back to hell made my blood heat while my skin chilled.
Might as well get this show on the road. I pointed toward the castle. “We can go that way.”
I kept my head buried in the book about Guinevere and Arthur as Roarke navigated through Edinburgh and the countryside beyond. Occasionally, I poked my head up to direct him and caught sight of rolling mountains or running sheep.
At one point, my scalp itched. I reached up to scratch and found one of the tiny bumps that indicated horns were starting to form on my head.
A chill went through me as I reached into my pocket to retrieve one of Connor’s potions. I found only one.
Damn. That was the last of it. I was transitioning too quickly. We had to find this demon, or I was in trouble like I’d never known.
With trembling hands, I drank the potion as subtly as I could, jumping when I heard Roarke’s voice.
“Do you know what form this information is going to take?” Roarke navigated the lonely mountain road. Snow sparkled in the grass on either side. We’d turned onto a mountain path that led us into the lowland mountains outside of Edinburgh.
“No idea. I just asked my seeker sense to find information about the charm Merlin made for Guinevere. It could be anything. But I’ll know it when I see it.”
A few moments later, my dragon sense tugged hard.
I gasped. “Stop!”
Roarke pulled over on the side of the tiny road. We were in a valley between two rolling hills speckled with the first snowfall of the season. The sun was setting behind the hills, casting a golden glow over the frost-crusted grass.
“We’re near,” I said.
“There’s nothing here.”
To confirm his statement, a sheep bleated in the distance.
I grinned. “Sure there is. There’s history everywhere.”
We climbed out of the car. The frosty grass crunched underfoot, and the chill air froze my nose. I shivered and zipped my jacket, then adjusted my sheathed sword at my back.
“This way.” I set off away from the car, following the tug of my dragon sense toward the setting sun.
The rolling mountains around us were desolate and beautiful. When we came to a wide, rambling river crusted at the edges with ice, I stopped on the bank and analyzed my options. A path of wide, flat stones looked like they had potential.
I pointed to them. “We can cross there.”
“I could just give you a ride.”
My gaze snapped to his, and I swallowed hard. A ride? Like, in his arms. Yeah, my peace of mind could not handle that level of closeness.
“Ah, I’ll take the rocks,” I said.
He grinned w
ickedly, as if he knew my thoughts. “Suit yourself.”
I smiled weakly, then hurried to the rocks and hopped over, wobbling occasionally. Roarke followed behind, graceful as usual. When we reached the other side, my dragon sense went off like an alarm in my chest.
“We’re super close.” I squinted into the distance, doing my best to see through the semi-darkness. Dusk had fallen fully, and the moon was only partially full.
A small copse of trees sat alone in the valley. I hurried toward the little forest, shivering at the sickly sensation that welled over me as I neared the trees.
“Del, there’s something wrong with that forest.”
Roarke’s voice snapped me out of my focus on the trees. He was right. There was a charm of some kind trying to repel us.
“We should turn back,” Roarke said. “This place is evil. Dark.”
“No.” But suddenly, I couldn’t agree more. This place was terrible. I shivered and turned, ready to race back to the car.
Roarke had already turned around and was heading back to the river. The sight of him walking away from a challenge shocked some sense back into me.
“Roarke! It’s an enchantment.” A strong one. My feet were still moving toward the river even though my mind knew that I wanted to get into that forest.
I hurried toward Roarke and grabbed his arm, pulling him to a halt. He turned to me, his dark gaze cloudy.
“We must go.” His rough voice sounded a bit drunk.
Hell, my head felt a bit drunk. I shook it, trying to clear my mind. It worked a little. I bit my tongue hard enough to send a streak of pain through my mouth. It kept me in the present, at least.
“It’s an enchantment, Roarke. It’s protecting the grove.” Which meant the clue was definitely in there. “Come on.”
He resisted my tug on his arm, so I reached up and slapped him. The crack of my hand against his cheek echoed through the valley. The fog in his gaze cleared and he stiffened, then shook his head hard.
“Strong enchantment,” he muttered.
“Try biting your tongue.” I tugged on his arm. “Come on, let’s run for it. Try to be quick. Once we’re inside, it might fade.”
He nodded and held out his hand. “If one of us falters, the other can lead.”
I nodded and gripped his hand, no longer surprised at the shiver that ran up my arm. I liked holding his hand, and I always would because I was an idiot with a poor sense of self-preservation. But he was right—we’d do better as a team.
We set off, racing hand-in-hand across the grass toward the forest. As we neared the oaks, the sense of foreboding grew.
We had to turn back. We shouldn’t enter.
This place was haunted.
Which made it perfect for me.
I bit my tongue harder and pushed forward, fighting the compulsion to retreat. When Roarke slowed, I glanced over. His gaze had turned cloudy once again. My own head was foggy, the desire to turn back welling even stronger.
Fight it.
I embraced whatever haunted force lurked in the woods and clung to my dragon sense like a lifeline. It pulled me forward into the forest, so I squeezed Roarke’s hand as hard as I could and tugged him. He shook his head, and his gaze cleared. We set off again.
By the time we crossed into the forest, the horrible sense of foreboding was nearly enough to send me to my knees. But I kept going, winding through the stunted, twisted oaks that had no doubt stood here for hundreds of years. Clinging to my dragon sense was the only thing that kept me going. As long as I could focus on that tug, I could just barely ignore the repelling charm that tried to evict me from the forest.
Once we were deep into the trees, the sense of foreboding fell away. My shoulders relaxed.
“Feel that?” I said.
“Yeah.” Roarke’s voice finally sounded normal. “That was an excellent repelling charm.”
“No kidding. I doubt anyone has been in these woods since it was enchanted.” Only my dragon sense had kept me going. And we were close now. Really close.
A clearing ahead held a group of stones that protruded from the ground.
I pointed to them. “There!”
“I see them.”
We hurried across the grass. When we neared the stones, I raised my hand to ignite the magic in my borrowed lightstone ring. The glow illuminated the three large, flat stones that stuck up out of the ground. Almost like gravestones, but not quite. They were nearly as tall as I was, each carved with beautiful, ornate scenes. They were stele, not gravestones, and their style was familiar.
“They’re Pictish stones,” I said. “The Picts lived in this part of Scotland in the late Iron Age, early Medieval period. They made stones like this between the sixth and ninth centuries AD.”
Roarke leaned close to study them. “They tell a story.”
“Yeah.”
In between the ornately carved swirls were figures. The detail was extraordinary. Many Pictish stones were decorated with beautifully ornate designs. Yet, stories of this detail were unusual.
My gaze raced over the three stones, trying to figure out where the story started. On the left, I thought. At the top was a man. Concentric circles appeared around him, like they represented magic. In the next scene, he was standing over a large cauldron, his hand hovering over the top.
So he’d used potions to create the charms.
“It’s Merlin,” Roarke said. “Creating the charm with potion magic.”
I gasped. “No, two charms.”
In the scene below the one with the cauldron, Merlin stood with a charm dangling from a chain clutched in each hand.
“Guinevere was only wearing one.” My gaze raced down the stone. Where did that other charm go?
Roarke pointed to an image at the bottom of the first stone. “There he is, giving the first charm to Guinevere.”
I crouched down and peered at the carvings. Below, on a separate scene, Merlin gave a charm to a mounted knight. A large crown adorned the brow of the knight.
“Arthur,” I said. “One for Guinevere, one for Arthur.”
“Why would Arthur want a concealment charm?” Roarke asked.
“Maybe he didn’t.” My gaze raced down the stone, taking in the various scenes. “Maybe he needed something else.”
The bottom of the first stone showed Arthur and Guinevere parting ways, though it was impossible to tell how they felt about the separation. Happy? Sad? My heart thundered as I moved to the second stone.
The second stone showed Guinevere at a cathedral. She sat outside in a garden. Though the details of her face had been worn away by hundreds of years of wind and rain, her posture made her look content. There were other scenes of her life—her meeting with other people, her dancing, singing, and finally dying and being laid to rest in a crypt. I recognized the distinctive tower that had adorned Glastonbury Abbey. This stone finished her story.
I moved to the third and final stone. At the top was a scene of Arthur riding his horse toward a massive castle. I expected a battle in the next scene, but instead, he was welcomed to the castle. The pendant that Merlin had given him was clearly displayed around his neck. But rather than witnessing his life as I had Guinevere’s, I saw Arthur go down into a crypt beneath the castle walls. Several knights followed him as well. His knights of the round table?
“He’s going to his death,” Roarke said.
“How can you tell?”
“He climbs into a sarcophagus in the next scene. And look at the mourners.”
Roarke was right. Arthur was shown kneeling in a great stone box, unmistakable as a sarcophagus. And the people around him had their heads bowed. My gaze skipped to the next scene where Arthur was shown drinking a potion. The next carving showed him resting peacefully, his sword laid upon his chest just below the charm pendant.
“Why?” I asked. “Why would Arthur poison himself?”
“He doesn’t.” Understanding laced Roarke’s voice. “This is the only myth about Arthur that I ever real
ly knew, because it explained why he never ended up in the Underworld.”
“You would know.” He’d sure noticed when I’d gotten out. “What happens?”
Roarke nodded. “Arthur puts himself into eternal slumber beneath one of his strongholds where he waits to rise again, should England need him.”
“Oooh.” That was good. Very romantic and self-sacrificing. My favorite type of myth. “But you said he never goes to the Underworld.”
“Exactly. Because if he did, he couldn’t come back and defend England in its hour of need.” Roarke turned to me, catching my gaze with his own, which pinned me to the spot. “It’s impossible to escape the Underworld and rise again.”
I swallowed hard. The undercurrent in his words was clear. You, Delphine Bellator, have done the impossible. Something even King Arthur knew he could not do.
“So what’s the deal with Arthur? How will he rise again?” I asked, hoping he’d follow my lead away from talking about me.
He gave me a sharp look, but continued. “No one knows. He wasn’t born immortal. No one is.” Roarke pointed to the final scenes.
Arthur, rising from the crypt while a horde of warriors attacked his castle. The pendant around his neck was surrounded by concentric circles that made it look like it was vibrating.
“The pendant,” I said. “Merlin’s charm. It must have kept Arthur from crossing over to the Underworld.”
“That’s why he never ended up in my domain. His soul has been waiting here on Earth, ready to rise when it is needed. Merlin’s magic made it possible.”
“Whoa.” I stepped back, my mind spinning. “So Merlin’s other charm can keep the wearer out of hell.”
“Yes. I’d heard rumors of such a thing amongst some of hell’s darker denizens, but thought they were ridiculous. But those rumors came from Merlin himself, bragging of his old magic.” Worry entered his dark gaze.
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “There’s something worse about this kind of charm. That if you wore it once, you were imbued with its magic.”
“Wait, so if the Ubilaz demon even puts it on, it doesn’t matter if we take it from him? He’s immortal forever?”
“Precisely.”