Blackbird Rising (The Witch King's Crown Book 1)

by Keri Arthur

  But his comment basically confirmed my fears; the attack on the island had not been aimed at the sword but rather me. Why was the question that now needed an answer—though it was one I was unlikely to get from this elf.

  I stepped fully into the doorway. He could certainly stick me like a pig, given the length of his sword, but at least the stone frame offered some protection against a full swing.

  I raised Einar; the long knife looked totally inadequate against the dark elf’s blade, even if blue-white flames now caressed its sharp edges and the glyphs pulsed with power. Or perhaps it was hunger. There was certainly a deep eagerness in the inner beat now.

  The dark elf stepped clear of the partially destroyed throne and strode toward me, his bony feet bare, metal-clad claws scraping the flagstones with every step. I shifted my feet, lightly adjusting weight and balance. He might have the advantage of reach, but hopefully I was lighter and faster.

  But I’d never fought a dark elf before and had no idea if they could move with the grace and speed of their literary cousins.

  “Perhaps,” a deep but familiar voice said, “you would allow me the pleasure of taking care of this one.”

  I jumped, and only a deep sense of self-preservation prevented me from instinctively swinging around and attacking. I had no doubt the minute I looked away, the dark elf would charge.

  I stepped to one side and waved the mysterious stranger through. “Be my guest.”

  Air caressed my face as he strode past, but he was wrapped in light and basically invisible. My gaze went to the dark elf. He’d stopped and was regarding the doorway with a quizzical expression. He’d obviously heard our conversation but as yet hadn’t seen the Blackbird.

  Then his nostrils flared, his gaze narrowed, and he spun, his sword flashing up to meet another. The sound of metal against metal rang out, and the fight that followed was swift and brutal but rather weird to watch, given only one of the two combatants was visible.

  The stranger’s sword, I noted, was silent. Perhaps it only hungered for demon blood.

  The fight ended with the dark elf partially going down, blood spurting from a wound that ran the length of his thigh and took a chunk out of his knee. A heartbeat later, his head was on the floor and rolling toward me. His expression was one of shock, and black blood and god knows what else spurted from what remained of his neck.

  My stomach rose abruptly, and I bolted for the ladies’, where I lost every bit of food I’d eaten that morning and perhaps a bit more.

  After a final few dry heaves, a hand appeared to the left of my face, plucked Einar from my grasp, and then gave me a plastic cup of bluish-looking water.

  “Rinse your mouth with this—it’ll take away the aftertaste.”

  Mo, not the stranger.

  “Thanks.” I accepted it gratefully and quickly swished. It tasted vaguely of mint and lemon, so why it was blue I had no idea. “I take it our stranger has yet again disappeared?”

  “Indeed, I have not,” that deep voice said.

  I straightened abruptly and looked around. He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, his arms crossed and his pose casual. The sword that had so swiftly dispatched the dark elf was nowhere to be seen, though the slightest shimmer near his left shoulder suggested it was now sheathed across his back—a position historians had spent centuries saying was illogical, as it was all but impossible to draw a long sword held in such a position. Unless, of course, you had gorilla arms, and the stranger certainly didn’t.

  They were, however, very well muscled, a point emphasized by the somewhat bloody material of his shirt being stretched to breaking point around the bicep area.

  The rest of him wasn’t exactly shabby, either.

  He was tall and, rather surprisingly, considering those arms and the width of his shoulders, built more like an athlete than a weight lifter. His short hair was as black as sin, his eyes the most startling shade of jade, and his face … gorgeous didn’t even begin to do it justice. The man looked like an angel … albeit an angel with a sword that screamed like a banshee.

  Mo cleared her throat, amused speculation evident in the quick glance she cast my way, and then said, “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, my dear Blackbird?”

  One dark eyebrow winged upward. “You know what I am.”

  It was a statement rather than a question, and Mo’s amusement grew. “Of course I know. There’re not many in this world who control soul blades.”

  “There’re not many in this world who would even recognize one.”

  “Ah, but I’m far older than I look. What do you want, Blackbird, and why are you here?”

  Just for an instant, amusement flirted with his lips, and my heart did a weird sort of flutter. I rather suspected a full-blown smile would have it stopping entirely.

  “The fact that I’ve saved the life of your granddaughter twice now is not enough?”

  Meaning he knew exactly who we were. That should have had trepidation rising, but the fact was, if he’d intended me harm he could have done so at any time, either this morning or now.

  “Said granddaughter is more than capable of saving herself,” Mo said. “And Blackbirds were not known for acting against either demons or dark elves unless they threatened the crown or king. Gwen is clearly neither.”

  He nodded, his gaze flickering to mine. I felt the weight of it all the way down to my toes. “No. It is her brother I seek.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “all the good-looking ones usually are,” but I somehow managed to restrain it. “Why?”

  He lifted one shoulder, a small motion that was somehow elegant in the extreme. “I’m merely a foot soldier doing as I’m told.”

  Mo snorted. “For such a pretty man, you can’t lie for shit. You got a name or do we just keep calling you Blackbird?”

  Once again a smile ghosted his lips. Once again my heart did its weird little dance.

  “Lucas Durant, at your service, ma’am.” He didn’t exactly do a full bow, but he did incline his head. Maybe courtly manners were a prerequisite for Blackbirds.

  “I’m too young to be handed the ‘ma’am’ moniker, so you’d best keep it to yourself and call me Moscelyne.”

  “It is indeed an honor to use the great mage’s first—”

  “Stop talking shit, Lucas,” Mo cut in. “Why are you here? Tell us, or leave. We’ve too much yet to do to be playing word games with you.”

  “Fair enough.” He pushed away from the frame, all amusement falling from his countenance. “There have been a number of dark elf incursions of late, most of them centered around the few remaining artifacts from Uhtric’s era. Five of us have been dispatched to guard said artifacts—Ainslyn is my patch.”

  Which at least partly explained his appearance on the island and here at the keep—they were the only two places in Ainslyn that still held original pieces from Uhtric’s reign. “And my brother? Where does he fit into all this?”

  His gaze met mine, and this time the shiver that ran through me had nothing to do with desire or attraction. Those jade depths were now a sea of cold distance.

  But why?

  Max had certainly walked the edge of civilized behavior more than once, but he’d never crossed that line and stepped into the shadow realms. I was his damn sister—his twin. I would have sensed it if he’d strayed so far from the light.

  “I simply want to speak to him. Nothing more, nothing less.” He paused. “At least at this point.”

  “You don’t think my grandson is responsible for these events, do you?” Mo’s tone was extremely polite—a sure warning of trouble brewing to anyone who knew her. “Because I have to warn you, such an accusation will not be well met unless you can produce proof.”

  Lucas’s gaze flicked to hers, but its absence from mine in no way eased the inner chill. “As far as I’m aware, no, we do not.”

  She crossed her arms and studied our Blackbird for several seconds. Judging him, judging his words. Believing them, up
to a point. “Then what do you wish to speak to him about?”

  Lucas hesitated. “There was a break-in at the British Museum a few nights ago. Someone fitting his description was seen leaving the area.”

  “Was anything actually taken?”

  “The sovereign ring.”

  Mo’s eyebrows rose. “The one on display is fake, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—the thief obviously wasn’t aware of that fact.”

  “I take it the real one remains safe?”

  A smile touched his lips. “It’s been safe for centuries.”

  Meaning the Blackbirds had it, not the nation.

  “Good.” Mo paused. “I take it there’s video evidence of this thief?”

  “No. Whoever broke in used a light shield.”

  “Given the only witch group capable of such a feat are the Durants,” she commented, “I presume you’re searching amongst your own ranks for the culprit?”

  “No, because it was a spell rather than a manipulation of light. We were called in as soon as the alarms sounded and found the fading traces of it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Given the world in general thinks the Blackbirds are as dead as Uhtric’s line, who called you in?”

  “The one person who knows we are not,” he replied. “Queen Eleanor.”

  “You still serve the royal family?” I couldn’t contain my surprise. “Why? It’s not like the royal line—past or present—is magic capable.”

  Layton might have given humans the means of ruling over us all, but his marriage to Elizabeth had never produced an heir capable of witchcraft. Even though subsequent kings and queens had periodically taken witch partners, the result had never altered. It appeared there was something in human biology that nullified whatever gene enabled us to either create magic or control the elements.

  “While that’s true,” Lucas said, “what relics remain from Uhtric’s rule are part of the royal treasures, and it is to those pieces our duty lies.”

  “Does that include the crown?” I asked. “The real crown, not the fake one on show in the Tower of London?”

  Surprise flickered in his eyes. “What makes you think the crown is fake? It is the one that Layton wore on the day of his marriage.”

  Mo’s phone beeped, cutting off my reply. She pulled the phone out of her pocket and glanced at it. “Barney just arrived downstairs. Why don’t you two go see what that damn dark elf was up to in the throne room, then come downstairs and help us clean up the mess?”

  “I have other—”

  “No doubt,” Mo cut in crisply. “But if you want my help finding my grandson, you’ll be doing as I say.”

  His dark eyebrow winged upward again, but he didn’t argue. He simply stepped to one side and motioned her through. Then he glanced back at me. The remoteness remained. “Would you prefer to wait here?”

  “No, I damn well would not.” I dumped the cup in the nearby waste bin. “I wasn’t expecting a decapitation, that’s all.”

  Wasn’t expecting so much blood and gore and fluid stuff to come spraying out of a severed head.

  My stomach rolled at the thought, but I ignored it and strode past him. His scent teased my nostrils, a warm mix of musk, sandalwood, and cinnamon. It was rich and sexy and made my insides quiver and my body ache with the need to just—

  I cut the rest of that thought off, suddenly glad he was behind me and unable to see the heat creeping across my cheeks. I’d been in the presence of sexy men before—hell, Tris wasn’t exactly a slouch when it came to the hot guy stakes—but this was the first time I’d had a reaction at such a base, almost primeval, level.

  I cleared my throat and tried to corral my unruly hormones. “The crown in the Tower might be the one he wore at his marriage, but it’s not the Witch King’s Crown. It disappeared several weeks before the ceremony.”

  “Says who?”

  There was amusement in his tone, but I didn’t look back. Too much heat remained in my cheeks. “Says Mo.”

  “And she is the keeper of all knowledge regarding Uhtric in Ainslyn?”

  “She’s a De Montfort, one who has spent most of her life protecting the king’s sword and studying what information remains about Uhtric and his line. So yeah, I guess she is.” I risked a glance his way. “You never did answer the question as to why you’re here at the King’s Tower.”

  “I’ve been staying here,” he said. “The beds upstairs are old but comfortable, and it kept me close to the throne.”

  I guess it wouldn’t have been hard for someone who could manipulate light to make it appear a room was empty when it was not. How he’d gotten around the security measures after hours was a different matter.

  I stepped around the dark elf’s head and tried to ignore the liquid it still leaked. His body wasn’t much better, but at least there were no eyes staring up at me.

  “If you’re staying here, why didn’t you stop whoever started the damn fire? Surely you must have felt him breaking the illusion and spelling the alarms?”

  “Yes, but then the dark elf entered, and I thought it better to discover what he was up to.”

  Suggesting he might not know what the vaults contained—or didn’t care. I stepped over the broken barriers and stopped in front of the throne. The arms were shattered and part of the back splintered and broken, but overall it remained in pretty good shape considering it had been hacked at with a great big axe.

  “Why would they want to destroy the throne? It’s not required in a crowning ceremony, is it?”

  “Officially no; generally the crown is placed on the head of a kneeling monarch. Perhaps they’re merely being cautious.”

  “Then why not simply take it rather than make such an inept attempt to destroy it?”

  “Dark elves do not think as we do.”

  I shifted position and spotted deep indentations across the back of the throne, just under the still intact portion of the crest rail—something I’d never seen before, thanks to the way the throne was generally displayed.

  I brushed my fingers across the old wood. The indentations were more than deep scratches from past misuse. There almost seemed to be a pattern to them. I frowned and pulled out my flashlight. The dull light didn’t really reveal all that much more.

  Lucas bent to study them; it placed his face entirely too close to mine and had his scent once again filling my nostrils. I bit my bottom lip, using the pain to override sensory input. It helped. A little.

  “Those scratches appear to be glyphs of some kind. Give me the flashlight.”

  I did so, careful not to let our fingers brush. “Why can’t you just make the light in the room brighter?”

  “Light manipulation is more about concealment.” His reply was absent as he brushed his fingers across the wood. “There’re several lines of words, but I’m not recognizing the style. It’s very old—perhaps even older than the throne.”

  I frowned. “Didn’t Uhtric have this one made after the original was destroyed in a fire?”

  “They salvaged fragments, apparently.”

  “Huh.” My gaze returned to the glyphs. “Do you think it’s some sort of prophecy? Or warning?”

  He shrugged, his shoulders brushing mine and igniting the inner fires yet again. Damn, this was strange.

  “It could be either, but I think the more pertinent question is, how did that dark elf know about them when we did not?”

  “We” being the Blackbirds, obviously. “Whatever it says, they certainly didn’t want us to see it. What’s the plan?”

  “We hide and protect the throne, obviously.”

  “I’m sure the heritage council will just love that.”

  “They won’t even know.”

  “Seriously? You think they’re not going to miss one of their main attractions?”

  He gave me a look—one that was a weird mix of amusement and cool distance. “Obviously, a replacement will be brought in.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Meaning your lot has fake thrones just
handily hanging about?”

  The amusement got stronger, and my pulse rate did a happy little skip. “Illusion and a stand-in will do the trick short-term. We’ll have a proper replica created if it’s deemed necessary.”

  “Huh.” I took out my phone and took a couple of photos. I had no idea whether Mo would be able to understand the glyphs—or if they’d even be visible in the photos—but a couple of the symbols did echo the ones on Einar. “So what do we do with it now?”

  “I’ll run some protections around it, then ring headquarters and apprise them of the situation. I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”

  I hesitated, then nodded and headed out of the room. Breathing suddenly became a whole lot easier. I shook my head and made a mental note to get over my reluctance to go where I possibly wasn’t wanted and ring Tris. The need for sex was obviously a whole lot more dire than I’d presumed.

  I clattered down the stairs and found Mo and Barney studying the wall to the left of the storage area, directly opposite the tunnel we’d used. The sunsphere Mo had created to distract the snakes hovered near the burned remnants, but it was still bright enough to light the entire area.

  “What’s up?”

  “Another tunnel entrance,” Barney said. He was a well-built man with silver-gray hair, craggy but handsome features, and kind brown eyes.

  “Well, there obviously had to be, given our arsonist didn’t come through the abbey one.” I stopped beside them and studied the wall in question. Vague strings of energy drifted across the stone surface but there was nothing to suggest a major spell at work. I brushed my fingers across the stone. “It feels solid rather than an illusion.”

  “Well, there’d be little point in having an illusion that any Tom, Dick, and Harriett could fall through.” Mo’s tone was amused. “But in this case, it is an actual wall. The tunnel is to the left, just below that white stone.”

  The white stone was actually a pebble, and it was situated a mere two feet above the floor. “That suggests it’s not a very big tunnel.”

  “It’s not, which is why we’ve never used it, and why you and our Blackbird can have the honor of exploring it. Barney and I are far too old to be clambering about on hands and knees.”