All That Glows (32 page)

“Perfect. See if you can gather all of them. I might be able to try and spell them so that you’re not completely defenseless.”

“I’ll help.” Anabelle springs out of my peripheral vision. Her face is sharp and serious, showing none of the panic that threw her against the back of her chair. The Faes’ appearance seems to have sobered her up.

“No, Belle.” Richard looks at the door. The dining room is mostly empty now, a wake of chipped plates and disemboweled flower arrangements. “You go with the others.”

“Like hell I am,” she huffs. “You don’t just get to tell me I have a flipping Faery godmother and that we’re being attacked by some old thing and then go traipsing off into God-knows-where. I’m coming with you.”

“She can go,” I say. “It’s easier for us if you stick together.”

“Will you go with them? Or should I?” Breena steps around an overturned chair toward us.

“I’m going outside to get a feel for our situation.” I swallow hard, steal a glance at Richard. Though I trust Breena beyond anything, it’s hard to leave him, especially now. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“We’ll meet you at the cellars then.” Breena herds her new protégés together. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Wait in the cellars,” I tell Richard. “I’ll come for you.”

“I’ll see you soon.” He pulls me close for a quick tease of a kiss. The mark lingers—soft on my lips—long after he’s gone: a reminder that, whether in life or death, we’ll soon be together again.

Thirty-One

I
’ve seen many storms in my life, but none quite as menacing as this. The northern sky is black with night, the light of its stars leeched dry by some powerful, unyielding force. A magic different from Herne’s squalling tang rises in the air. It’s old, and in many ways familiar, like some irritably snatched memory. At some point in my existence, I met this magic, experienced it in the flesh. But the details of this encounter, the Old One’s name and face, don’t appear to me. I nearly bite my lip through trying to think of it. Was she one of the ancients I tried to hunt and exterminate after London’s electric lights first whirred to life? Or was she some force I whisked past when I myself was bodiless, unaware?

Wherever she is, she’s close. Accents of lesser magic punctuate my senses as her followers ring in. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands. It’s hard to tell in a sky so clouded with danger and dark.

These obsidian heavens stir, break open with the smallest movement. A bird—a magpie—wings its way to the castle walls, its few white feathers spearing through the unseeable. I hold out my arm and wait. The bird circles and finally lands, its claws dig without mercy into my forearm. I ignore the sparks of pain, dislodge the paper from its leg.

The Old One offers terms of surrender. First, all mortals of royal blood must be handed over to her. Second, all those participating in the Guard must go into exile on the Isle of Man. If these terms are met, the Old One promises to let you live.

“And the mortals, what will happen to them?” I grit my teeth, trying to keep a good grip on my bucking anger. I know the answer. It’s the same one I gave Richard in his drawing room the night we first officially met. The family would be sacrificed, all of them slaughtered like lambs for the magic in their veins.

The magpie cocks its head against the question. I toss the bird back into the air. It squawks, angry, and wings back over the wall.

I glance down at my arm and wipe away the six pinpricks of blood left by the bird’s talons. The piece of paper in my hand crumples under my grip. I look back at the southern sky, where the stars still fight against the inky black, and the moon’s fullness conjures shadows from every corner.

“Come on, Herne.” I try feeling for the woodlord’s magic, but the Old One’s aura is too overwhelming, taunting me with its familiarity. “Don’t fail us.”

“Lady Emrys?”

My gaze falls back down to earth to find Helene, hovering a few paces away. She’s a portrait of starkness; her dark hair melts into the air around us, edging sharp against creamy skin. The only grayness is under her eyes. I can tell that, despite the proximity of the woods, she’s tired. We all are.

“Yes?”

“We’ve set up the defenses along the perimeters, and the mortals are all safely in the cellar.”

I look skyward again, but this time my eyes don’t drift over the horizon. They scan the rooftops instead, picking out the tall, black shapes of tense sentinels. They line the untouched battlements like archers, peeking through gaps in the stone. Night air shivers, grows tense as they ready their young, supple magic.

It isn’t enough.

“Good. It’s good,” I say, trying to smooth the shakiness out of my voice. “Any word on Titania?”

“They’re still in the woods. That’s all I know.”

A terrible sound, like steel screaming apart, murders the sky. My mouth drops open, hands fly to stop up my ears. In the edges of my vision, I see Helene doubling over. It’s their war cry.

As soon as the noise dies, I glide up to the battlements. My sisters stand there, faces strangely blank. I feel the fear shredding through each and every one of them.

“Prepare your countermagic,” I call down the line, and gaze out into the darkness.

Treetops and shingled houses shudder in the strengthening wind. I feel the Old One, hanging just beyond the fringes of town. She must be fighting the sickness. It won’t hold her back for long. If a spirit wants something bad enough, the sickness becomes secondary. Herne’s presence in his wood and our long days in London are proof of that.

The second spell—a scathing white light—rushes in, consumes the castle whole. I throw together several defensive spells before it reaches me. Other Fae do the same, but a few aren’t quick enough. The rest of us watch, helpless behind our curtains of magic as the unshielded Frithemaeg thrash. Their movements grow sluggish; soon they stop moving altogether. The light vanishes, leaves us blinking wide against the dark. I stare at the nearest fallen youngling. She’s sprawled on the battlement stones, eyes open. Nothing enters or leaves their glazed surface.

“They’re using dark magic!” Helene hisses beside me. She too, is studying the strange, living corpse. “She’s gone.”

Is she?
I fight the temptation to reach out and feel the Fae’s aura. It could be a trap. I’ve never seen this spell before—whatever it is, the Old One means business.

“Set up a shield around the entire castle,” I shout to the survivors. “We can’t let them keep picking us off like this!”

Threads of defensive magic twist up from every Frithemaeg. These streams of light meet over our heads, weaving into one giant blanket of a spell. It stretches like liquid, dripping over battlements and coating Windsor’s walls of stone. Like the other defenses, this spell is patchy, but it’s strong enough to carry us through at least one more major assault.

We wait. First they’re like shadows flickering in the corner of my eye: there one moment, gone the next. Then, through the glow of our magic, I see them. Some are flying, leering carrion circling until there are enough bones to pick. Others race across the ground, leaping over houses and trees in their race to the castle.

The Black Dogs are the first to reach our shield. Their leader rushes headfirst into the overwhelming light, giving a terrible howl before it bursts into flame. Its followers slow to a halt, their noses almost touching their defensive spell. Their new leader, a dog much larger than the rest, paces along the light’s edge. His nose twitches as he sits on his haunches. The other dogs do the same.

They howl. The leader’s notes rise above the rest, his magic like a saw’s edge. Alone the dog’s rough music wouldn’t worry me. But the pack’s collective power makes our shield waver. Sweat sprouts on my hairline, pours down my face in beads. The strain of holding our defense shows on the other Fae as well. Faces flush, hands tremble.

Then I see the next wave, racing fast in shades of emerald and night toward our flaming shield. We won’t be able to hold back the Banshees and Green Women.

“Drop the shield!” I scream my sudden decision. “Focus on beating them back! Unmake everyone you can! Show no mercy!”

The Frithemaeg pull back their energies and the light above us vanishes, breaks open to hostile skies. I waste no time, showering spells over our attackers. The dogs keep howling and howling; my head throbs with their subtle magic. The beautiful heralds of death draw closer.

Magic hurtles by. The spell brushes so close it singes the ends of my hair. I duck closer to the battlement and peer through the gaps in the stone. The Green Women and Banshees are fast, riding the air like ragged witches. My spells whistle through the sky like tightly strung arrows. One strikes a Green Woman straight in the chest, knocking her to the ground several meters below. Three more soul feeders fill the space she emptied.

I pick them off, one by one, but my spells aren’t enough to hold them back. They fall from the sky, a swarm of vengeful locusts. I stop trying to aim my spells. My magic goes left and right, striking any creature unfortunate enough to stray into my path.

I feel the beast inside me tugging, begging for release. The battle’s heat and blood excites it, causes it to push harder. I look around at the unfolding destruction. At the awful, leering gray of the Green Women, the icy, still beauty of the Banshees as they pour over the battlements in numbers too overwhelming to count. And the Black Dogs, shadow-licked and howling, eroding us from below. I don’t have much of a choice.

If we want to survive, I have to let go.

Letting go is dangerous. It’s something we’re taught at a very early age not to do. As soon as Mab binds us in these bodies we learn not to go back to the essence. Our undiluted spirit form. Letting go means losing yourself, your memories. It means unleashing a power you can’t control, with no guarantee you’ll piece back together again. That’s why, even in the most desperate circumstances, the Frithemaeg hesitate to tap into the full extent of their power. You might not be able to return from it.

But I have everything to lose if this battle doesn’t turn.

Threads snap. I feel my body dissolving, blowing away piece by piece like a windswept dune. I become pure spirit, leaking into the air around me, feeling every spell cast in the breezy night. Freed from that frail, bipedal body, I could float into the stars or dig down into the deepest parts of the earth. I’m free.

I’m still wandering, slightly bewildered with this aged, yet new way of existence, when a Green Woman’s curse breaks into my territory. I start as the magic reacts with mine. The counterspell flows out of me: reflexive, natural. I look around. I see a battle, but my thoughts struggle to wrap around it. Was there a reason for the fight? I can’t even remember coming up to this tower. Strange, blurred fragments of memories bounce around in my head. None of it makes sense.

Another curse rushes past me, dragging my conscience back into the present. While the first spell might have been a mistake, the second definitely wasn’t. The Green Women and the Banshees are trying to extinguish the others. Me.

I rush for the nearest Green Woman, the one who cursed me. Sick, jaundiced eyes grow wide when I coil around her and squeeze. Her spirit slides out like seeds from a squished grape. I watch it flicker, fluttering like a fledgling before it goes out altogether.

But this single, silent death does nothing to calm my rage. My next victim is a spindly, screaming Banshee. She puts up more of a fight; her high, piercing yell is hot needles against my nonexistent skin. I absorb her, engulf her entire body. I feel the fragile length of her bones, so easy to snap.

The trail of bodies grows as I go down the wall. It takes twenty deaths before the other soul feeders focus their efforts on me. The Frithemaeg stand back, fear tainting their auras, their eyes. They see me for what I am, impartial and unstable, ready to destroy anything.

Spells surround me, many and ruthless. I’m a cornered tiger, thrashing, letting fury feed my strength. But it isn’t enough. Their magic is too overwhelming. I fall under the weight of it, onto cold, hard stones. Curses cram me back into my skin. Fine grains of sand—lodged in the battlement’s cracks and grooves—press into my palms. My attackers circle in, hovering like gargoyles in my dark, smudged vision. Ready to devour me to the bone.

I curl into myself, bracing for the deathblow. I think of Richard. I think of the Greater Spirit. I shut my eyes.

But it doesn’t come. A single, commanding sound fills the air. It’s a note: low but high at the same time, rising from the south. Every spirit, including my attackers, falls still. I push myself up from the stones, heart racing. I know the call of that ram’s horn. It’s the arrival of Herne the Hunter, the beginning of the Wild Hunt.

The southern stars have disappeared, blotted out by Herne and his fellow riders. They gallop at the head of heavy thunderclouds, their horses’ hooves wreathed in lightning and rain. Herne has gathered spirits from all across Britain—guardians of forests and woods long forgotten. Behind them, in full force, are the Dryads—thin, waiflike women, without clothes or color. They look strange outside their trees, as if they’re walking around without some essential limb. The sight stirs a sick kind of fear in me.

Herne’s horn sounds again, and the Hunt surges forward with the storm. The air quakes. My lungs rattle, my bones hum. The maelstrom swallows the castle whole, shaking its stones to their very foundations.

Herne rides in the front, eyes burning with a red ferocity that would haunt any mortal’s dreams. He’s a storm in himself, his horse treading the damp air with fixed determination. Every spirit beneath their shadow cringes, but the Lord of the Wood passes over Windsor without touching down. He rides into the other horizon, to the heart of the attack.

The rest of the Hunt hurtles to earth. Herne’s hounds leap for Black Dogs’ throats. Yelps and barks of pain puncture the air as the animals tangle together. The wind burns like sulfur from the clash of their magic.

The Dryads sweep down, vengeful phantoms. Their eyes burn almost as violently as Herne’s. The strength of the trees is surprising. Many of us forget, because they stay so silent and still. But their roots go deep in the earth, giving them secrets and spells the rest of us don’t remember.