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

by Keri Arthur

  “I’ve had no reason to.” He paused. “What’s all this about, Gwen?”

  “I think Tris’s search for the bible might be linked to the break-in at the museum and the attack on Jackie.”

  “Is she okay now?”

  “Bruised but alive. She’s staying at a friend’s place for a while.”

  He grunted. “Do you want me to contact Tris and question him a bit more?”

  “He’d probably think it suspicious, and that’s the last thing we need.”

  “I’ve a somewhat justified reputation for being a playboy who not only changes his mind as quickly as the weather, but is always chasing the next big deal.” His voice was dry. “He won’t be suspicious.”

  I hesitated. “Okay, but be careful. It’s possible you’ve got a target on your back.”

  He snorted. “I’m not the one who’s been attacked several times. How about you start listening to your own advice?”

  “I will. Just make sure you talk to the damn Blackbirds.”

  “All right, all right, I will.” The irritation was back in his voice. “Is that it?”

  “For now, yes.”

  “Good. I’ll let you know what Tris says once I talk to him.”

  “Thanks—and enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

  “If you’d stop ringing, I just might.”

  He hung up. I pocketed my phone and glanced at Mo. “You heard all that?”

  She nodded “I might put in a call to Lance Okoro this morning. I think we need to place that bible into safe keeping.”

  Lance wasn’t one of Ginny’s relations—he was the patriarch of the London Okoro line. “Why do you think Tris—or whoever is employing him—is after it? From what I saw of Jackie’s research, the Okoros aren’t recently linked to the Witch King’s line.”

  “That may not matter. There are only seven witch lines, remember, and there’s been a lot of intermingling over the years. It’s possible the true heir could come from any bloodline.”

  “And yet Luc said there’re only thirteen direct heirs and seven indirect.”

  “That they know of.”

  “It is their job to know.”

  She shrugged. “There’s one point everyone seems to have forgotten—if it was just a matter of claiming the crown and drawing the sword, someone would have done so by now.”

  “Aside from the fact the real crown is lost, is there more to it than that?”

  “Most likely.” She motioned to the food that remained on the table. “Eat up, before it all gets cold.”

  We did so. As the last drop of tea was all but squeezed out of the pot, Mo cocked her head sideways and said, “Luc is almost here—you might want to put on more toast.”

  “Seriously,” Mia said. “How?”

  Mo’s grin flashed. “I have ears, and he rides a motorcycle.”

  “Meaning he’ll be in leathers? Fabulous.”

  I rolled my eyes and then rose to make more toast. Luc came up the stairs a few minutes later, looking suitably dark and dangerous in black leather. Mia’s eyes briefly widened, then she shot me a grin.

  “I totally agree with Ginny’s assessment.” She rose and offered him her hand. “Mia Lancaster, at your service.”

  “Lucas Durant—a pleasure to meet you.” He accepted her hand briefly but his gaze was on mine. “Your brother finally rang me.”

  “That’s because I threatened to fly over and beat him up if he didn’t. Did you get the answers you needed?”

  “Yes. Believing them is another matter entirely.”

  “Why are you so certain he’s lying?” Mo leaned back in her chair and studied him critically. “There must be a reason, Lucas.”

  He hesitated. “In truth, there isn’t. All we have is circumstantial evidence and a gut feeling.”

  “The gut being yours?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He glanced my way again. “I cannot ignore instinct any more than you can.”

  “As long as instinct is not based on dislike, we should be good,” Mo commented. “Though I’d be interested in knowing why you’ve such a fierce aversion to someone you’ve never actually met.”

  Luc shrugged, a casual movement at odds with the tension radiating from him. “When you spend time in London, you hear the stories. Perhaps I’m not being fair, but I can only react to what I’m told by people I trust.”

  “What sort of stories?” I put his toast on a plate and handed it over.

  Once again I felt the impact of his gaze. His fury was deep and dangerous, and it was definitely based on something more than rumors.

  He shrugged again. “Nothing significant.”

  Mo snorted. “You still can’t lie for shit, but we all know Max is no angel, so we’ll let it pass for now.”

  Luc didn’t comment. He simply placed the remaining bacon onto his toast and ate it.

  I pushed to my feet. “I’ll head upstairs and get changed—do I need to bring my helmet?”

  “No; mine are Bluetooth paired. Makes it easier.”

  “Take Nex and Vita,” Mo said. “Just in case.”

  I nodded and bounded up the stairs. After climbing into my gear—which consisted of leather boots and jacket, teamed with Kevlar-reinforced jeans—I grabbed the daggers, shoved them into the backpack, and headed back down. Luc was once again nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s waiting for you outside.”

  Mo handed me a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid. I frowned at it. “Holy water?”

  “Of sorts. It’ll turn to mist once you smash the vial, and forms a protective vapor barrier that darkness won’t immediately get through. It’ll give you an escape route.”

  I swung the pack around and tucked the vial into a padded inner pocket. “I’m not liking the fact you feel I’ll need one.”

  “It’s precautionary, nothing more. After what the dark elf said and the attack on Jackie, I think it better we don’t take any risks.”

  “Agreed, as long you also heed that advice.”

  She smiled. “I haven’t survived this long to fall at the final fence. Trust me on that.”

  “Another odd statement you won’t explain.” I kissed her cheek. “Once we finish at the factory, I’ll give you a call to find out where Tris is.”

  She nodded. “You might as well search his room when you’re in there getting his hair.”

  “I intended to.”

  And a part of me—a very small part of me—hoped like hell that we wouldn’t find anything incriminating, that he was involved only as far as attempting to grab the Okoro family’s bible, even if that very obviously wasn’t the case anymore.

  I clattered down the stairs. Mia’s grin flashed. “The hot man has a hot bike.”

  “I expected nothing less. I’ll update you on the journey later.”

  “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

  I snorted and headed out. Luc’s motorcycle wasn’t, as I’d half expected, something fierce, black, and sporty, but rather all gleaming red-and-silver comfort. It was an Indian Roadmaster Elite, a top-of-the-line, full of every gadget imaginable, touring motorcycle—something I knew only because Tris has spent many a teenage year drooling over the damn things.

  “I didn’t expect you to be a man who prefers comfort over excitement.”

  He shrugged and handed me the helmet. “I’m often traveling long distances, so it makes sense. Ready?”

  I climbed on. Once we were both settled, he moved off, cautiously at first but then gathering more speed once he realized I was indeed an experienced passenger. And the bike, it had to be said, was glorious.

  I was almost disappointed when we reached Bolton and began to wind our way through the streets. Once we neared the address, Luc found street parking and then stopped. “The factory should be just around the corner.”

  I nodded and, once I’d climbed off, handed him the helmet. He stored both and then glanced casually around. Old brick warehouses lined either side of the street, but only the plastics factory down th
e road and the small pub further up looked to be in use. There were very few people about and few cars on the street.

  Luc held out a gloved hand. I eyed it somewhat suspiciously. “What?”

  “I won’t bite.”

  That’s a shame. “And?”

  “I’m going to manipulate the light so we disappear. It’s easier to do so if we’re in contact.”

  “Huh.” I gripped his hand. With both of us wearing gloves, it should have felt impersonal, even with hormones aroused by the closeness of our ride.

  It didn’t.

  He tugged me toward the corner of the street. Energy stirred around us and the air sparkled, gently at first and then with increased ferocity. Glimmers of gold flared across his body, down his arm, and then up mine; it felt as if thousands of gnats were gently biting. It wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable. It continued to spread until both of us were covered and then, rather weirdly, he stepped away so that there was a good six inches or so of space between us.

  He was still very visible, and so was I.

  I frowned. “Isn’t the sparkle a dead giveaway?”

  “No, because its only visible from the inside. It’s a means of ensuring whoever I’m sheltering doesn’t move beyond it.”

  “Clever.”

  “And necessary, especially when you’re dealing with someone incapable of seeing magic.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think Blackbirds bothered with ordinary folk?”

  “We don’t, but not all witch-born are capable of magic. There are some outliers—some family lines where the link to witch ancestors is so tenuous that they do not possess the ability.”

  “A statement that suggests one of the heirs might be from such a line, and yet I wouldn’t have thought he’d be capable of even drawing the sword.”

  “He was, yes, but there’s a line of thought that the ability to perform magic is not a prerequisite for claiming the sword, simply because the sword itself is a means of drawing the power of all four elements together.”

  “Yes, but surely he’d have to have some understanding of magic, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to control it.”

  “That is also true, and why many discount the theory.”

  I studied the street ahead for a second. “You said ‘was.’ I take it he’s now dead?”

  “He was one of the three killed.” Luc grimaced. “We got him to a safe house but unfortunately, he broke protocol and contacted his friends. They were followed.”

  “He wasn’t under protection?”

  “Not directly. There are only ever twelve Blackbirds active at a time, so our resources are limited.”

  “You can’t put more on?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  A smile touched his lips. “Because that is the way it has always been, and that is all the table fits.”

  “Bigger tables can be built, you know.”

  My voice was dry, and his smile grew. It did good things to his already divine features. “But none could never replace this. It’s original, from the time well before the last Witch King, when the sword was first drawn.”

  “That is seriously old. Like, before medieval type old.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What about my cousins, then? Jackie was investigating a possibility that the Okoro line could be traced back to Luis Valeriun.”

  “That is the rumor, but one that’s never been confirmed.”

  “Why not? The bible might be missing, but surely there’d be other records—I mean, weren’t all births recorded in parish registers back in the day?”

  “If the parents were churchgoers. Many witches at the time weren’t.”

  “Well, that’s inconvenient.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “Do you go to church?”

  “No, but times have changed. The church was considered the heart of any village back then, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t alter the fact that many witches were not comfortable or indeed welcome in many places of worship.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we have distant heirs on a watch list, but not under full protection due to the fact that, like your brother, the bloodline connection is severely diluted.”

  He stopped at the corner, forcing me to do the same. The side street wasn’t very long—the brick wall of the factory to our left ran down to the gates of a timber yard. The warehouse was over the road, sitting between the pub and the yard. It was a single-story brick building that had a two-tone paint job—candy pink on the bottom and around the trims, and gray everywhere else. The roof sheeting was dark with dirt and moss, and the windows had been boarded up. There was a thick padlock on the double wooden doors that sat in the middle of the structure.

  “It doesn’t look as if there’s an easy way in.”

  “No.” He tugged me across the road and down to the end of the pub, where he rose on his toes and looked over the fence. “There’s a couple of windows on the side, but they’re boarded up. Wait here while I check things out.”

  Before I could protest, he released my hand and disappeared over the fence. The surrounding shimmer winked out of existence, no doubt meaning I was visible again.

  I walked back up the street and peered into the pub’s windows. No one appeared to be inside, which wasn’t surprising given the early hour. I stepped back and studied the first-floor windows. The curtains were closed but music played softly somewhere up there, suggesting someone was home—maybe even Tris’s first date.

  I walked down to the far end of the old warehouse. A sheet of metal divided the back of the building from the timber yard’s wall, but the bottom edge of it had been bent up to provide a crawl space. I looked around again, then quickly went down onto all fours. Getting through the gap was a tight fit, but after a bit of shoving and swearing, I was in. The strip of ground beyond was littered with old booze bottles and take-out containers, suggesting either teenagers or the homeless had been responsible for the fence break.

  I climbed to my feet, dusted the muck off my jeans, and then walked forward. There were no windows on this side of the building, but there was a door down the far end—and the lock had already been smashed.

  I peered around the long edge of the building and saw Luc approaching. “Found a way in.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Good teamwork generally means one partner following the orders and actions of the other, more-experienced partner.”

  “We’re hardly a team, and I got bored.” I gripped the handle and carefully opened the door. The room beyond was dark, and the air filled with damp moldiness … and something else. Something that hinted at ash and anger.

  “On second thought—” I stepped back and waved him on. “The senior partner may now precede me.”

  He reached back and drew his sword—a process that seemed extraordinarily easy considering how many experts declared it impossible—and then stepped through the doorway. Just for a heartbeat, the darkness seemed to consume him. Then light flared—light that was a dark and dangerous red. Hecate burned.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” I asked softly.

  “Yes. There were demons or dark elves here.”

  “‘Were’ is certainly far better than ‘are.’” I drew my daggers and followed him in. Light dribbled down both blades, but it was a somewhat muted reaction that confirmed evil was currently absent. “I was really hoping Tris wasn’t neck-deep in all this shit.”

  “I doubt he is the brains behind said shit, if that’s any comfort.”

  “It’s really not.”

  Under Hecate’s glow, the factory looked long and eerie. Cobwebs hung in strings from metal roof rafters, and bits of old machinery and what looked to be hoists lay scattered all around. There was no indication that anyone used this place on a regular basis—the rubbish that lined the strip of land behind us was absent here, which was rather odd if homeless people had been responsible for the mess. The factory would have provided them with protection against the elements, and give
n the lock had been broken and there was no evidence of magic being employed within the factory to deter—

  I stopped abruptly, my nose twitching as the air stirred with a brand-new scent. One that vaguely smelled of decay and rot. “Is that—?”

  “Death,” Luc finished for me. “Yes.”

  “It smells rotten.”

  I crossed mental fingers even as I said that. I really hoped it was both rotten and old. That it was dead vermin or some other poor animal rather than a woman in a red-and-green striped sweater. Common sense said it couldn’t be, that her body wouldn’t have decayed that swiftly, and yet instinct was stirring again.

  Instinct, I thought savagely, needed to shut the hell up unless it could provide a damn basis for its guesswork.

  Luc glanced over his shoulder, his jade eyes burning with the same deep fire as Hecate. “Would you prefer to wait here?”

  “I think you can guess the answer to that question.”

  “And impolite it is, too.” His smile briefly flashed. “The scent comes from the far corner.”

  My gaze jumped past him; the corner held a broken jumble of machine parts and railings. Maybe the death we could smell lay beyond it, tucked in the corner … I swallowed heavily, torn between needing to see and not. Between needing confirmation that the worst of my fears about Tris were true, and hoping like hell that I was wrong, that Luc was wrong, and Tris was doing nothing more than searching for a damn book.

  Even if the mounting evidence suggested otherwise.

  The closer we got to the jumble, the stronger the smell became. My stomach churned, but I forced my feet on. It wasn’t like I’d never come across death before—I’d seen it in both demon and animal guise many a time. But this … this was human. Every inch of me was certain of that, even if I couldn’t yet see the body.

  In Hecate’s bloody light, the stone floor near the mess of metal glistened black; the dark pool stretched from the broken edge of a machine to the dirt-splattered rear wall. Oil, not blood, I thought, even as my pulse rate jumped.

  “There’re stairs behind the mess.” Luc’s voice was even, at odds with the tension that radiated from him. “I think it’s safe to say the stench is about to get a whole lot worse.”