Moonshadow (35 page)

Diana made to run but the creature swiftly turned her head and pointed at her. As she did so, Diana felt her muscles stiffen and become unresponsive as the burning tingles in her veins returned anew.

The Melkafir had command of her blood.

“Ah, ah, ah, I’m not finished with you yet, morsel,” she said playfully. “Stay put while I dispose of this rude little lordling.”

“You had best kill me abomination,” the Inquisitor said with resolve as the Melkafir lifted him up off the ground by the strength in her tail. “I am not apt to make a mistake twice, I
will
see you dead.”

“Well well—an Ardeqai Inquisitor,” she said, taunting. “I do so love ridding the world of your self-righteous ilk.”

“Keep your bile to yourself, apostate,” Turion replied while struggling to free himself from the grip of the creature’s tail.

“Why do all egomaniacal zealots speak the same blather?” the creature asked Diana as if chatting over tea. “Is there a guide book the fools read on how to prattle on like idiots?” The Melkafir sighed heavily and then returned her gaze to Turion with her head tilted slightly to the side. “You bore me.”

Without giving the Inquisitor a moment to reply, she flung his body across the room. It struck the wall behind Diana with a sickening crash and he fell to the floor with a slump. He’d been knocked unconscious by the force of the blow.

Diana looked behind, staring at her one chance of hope lying in a pile. The remainder of the blood in her face suddenly drained away.

She tried to fight the terror threatening to consume her.

There has to be some way out of this.
I’ve come too far, learned too much, just to die like this.

Then she saw it—possibly her last chance.

Diana swiftly knelt down beside Turion’s body and picked up a small knife that had fallen from his belt when he hit the floor. Holding it by the end of blade, Diana let her fear and instincts guide her as she picked the target and threw the knife, willing the blade to hit its mark.

The creature screamed in furious anger, with the blade lodged in between her eyes—Diana’s aim had been perfect.

Diana stared on in wonder. She’d always been somewhat of a natural when it came to darts and archery, but she never imagined she could be good at throwing knives—especially with death staring her in the face.

“I just healed that!” the Melkafir seethed through clenched teeth. With one quick motion, she simply pulled the knife out of her head like it was nothing and then tossed it onto the floor.

Diana fell hopelessly to her knees again, her will to fight all but spent.

“Now,” the creature said with a sigh. “Where were we, crumpet? Ah yes, I was about to feast.”

The Melkafir lifted her clawed hand into the air with intense satisfaction. The creature flicked her wrist and Diana could again feel the excruciating pain of the blood beginning to be pulled out of her veins.

With her death looming before her, Diana’s life didn’t flash before her eyes. She didn’t see visions of childhood Christmases or hear her grandmother’s soothing melodies. Instead, she saw Darien’s smile—the one that was hers and hers alone. In that smile, Diana knew that he valued her more than any other person he’d met in his long life. It was the smile that let Diana know he was proud to have her at his side, even among his Naphalei peers. In that smile, Diana knew Darien loved her.

She loved that smile, and the elven lord that gave it to her.

I love him, I truly do.

How tragic it was, that it would take her immediate mortality for Diana to realize her feelings.

She felt her resolve disappear. With no will to fight the pain, her wrists lifted into the air by the power of the Melkafir’s blood magic and Diana felt the intense ache of the blood being forced through her arteries.

It would all be over soon.

Diana’s lethargy was interrupted by the Melkafir’s scream of pain that held a mixed of terror and frustration.

She opened her eyes to see the arm that had been performing the magical blood draw falling, severed, to the ground.

The Melkafir immediately jumped to the other side of the pool, revealing the visage of an enraged Endymion Stoneheart. He stood just beyond the water, bare-chested and fuming, his sword
—Satelvir,
the Heartseeker—gripped in his hands with lethal intent. The magical runes on the blade were glowing a bright green, bathing the dark room in its power.

Diana’s hope returned.

Though wounded and stunned, the Melkafir scrambled into a fighting position, ready to do battle. She whipped her tail at Darien with tenacity.

“How dare you!” screamed the creature in a fury. “How dare you damage such beauty! You will pay for this transgression with your life.”

Darien remained silent, raising Satelvir
for a lethal strike. The force of the blow was met with a sudden clash of metal on metal as the Melkafir held Turion’s fallen sword, gripped in her strong tail, to defend against Darien’s blow.

Darien parried to the right, and with a simple, calculated, twist of his wrist, he severed the creature’s tail from her body.

She screamed in frustrated anguish, but it was soon extinguished as Darien—with the grace of a dancer—impaled the Melkafir through the chest with his Runeblade, knocking the wind out of her.

“You know
nothing
of beauty, you ugly monster,” Darien finally said to the creature as she looked into his eyes, stunned to have the length of Satelvir thrust through her back.

Shocked to be run though, and appalled by Darien’s words, the Melkafir’s burning green eyes flared with fury for a moment but suddenly began to flicker and dim.

Diana felt the creature’s intense fear and anxiety well up inside of her as she pulled herself from the blade and backed against the wall, her dimming eyes transfixed on Satelvir
and the green runes pulsing on the length of dark blade—they were glowing much brighter than before.

Diana smiled to herself, suddenly realizing that the Runeblade had just siphoned away some of the Melkafir’s life-force.

The situation dripped with irony.

The creature’s gaze shifted from the blade to Diana.

“This isn’t over my delectable little friend. I
will
feast on your blood if it’s the last thing I do before the darkness finally takes me.”

The Melkafir bolted past Darien and swiftly ran across the antechamber of the fresher. Only then did Diana notice the two large vertical scars on the creature’s back. If she once had wings, they would have been of use to her now. The Melkafir crashed through an observation window, her body falling with the debris through the dark clouds below.

With the immediate threat gone, Darien dropped Satelvir
to the ground and rushed to Diana, scooping her up off the ground and into his arms, holding her to his chest.

“Diana, are you alright?” he pleaded to know. “I heard—I
felt
your screams.”

“I—I think so,” she replied, still shaking from the trauma of it all.

Diana suddenly realized that she was wearing only a silk robe, barely tied together, and that her naked breasts were pressed tightly against Darien’s bare chest. As she became fully aware of every piece of her body that was touching his, she began to feel the heat welling up inside of her. Diana’s cheeks were no doubt flushed a deep red.

She hardly cared.

Diana let go of all feelings of embarrassment or anxiety and nuzzled herself closer, burying her face in Darien’s chest. After the events that had just transpired, there was no place in the world that she would rather be than in his arms. Diana had never felt more right in her entire life.

She pulled her head away from that tender place to look up into Darien’s intense, sparking, gray eyes. He looked at her with fear and relief, sorrow and longing—all of which shone in those pools of polished stone. She knew by looking into them that he had feared the worst, that he had expected to find her dead and drained of life. That fear now mingled with the relief that she was alive, rage at the creature for harming her, and resolve to never lose her in the future.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, their lips met with an indescribable passion.

They had kissed a few times before, each with a new level of intensity that was greater than the last. Pulling away from the intimate moment in Charlotte’s room had been painful; as their mouths parted and the kiss continued and intensified, Diana felt that this moment held so much more. There had been a burning in her chest that night—now, she felt the sun rising in her heart. The heat in Diana’s body gave way to an overall sensation of pleasure and her world felt like paradise.

She never wanted it to stop.

Diana brought her hands up and placed them on Darien’s chest, feeling the hardness of his toned muscles, and his heartbeat quicken beneath her palms. She felt her own heartbeat as well, drumming in unison along with his.

She forced herself to push away, severing the kiss, and looked into Darien’s eyes. She needed to say it before anything was to continue.

“Darien, I—” the words caught in her throat as Inquisitor Turion began to stir back into consciousness, bringing the two of them back to the reality of their situation.

Darien sat Diana down onto her feet and she quickly tightened her robe to make herself descent before Turion came to.

Walking to the other side of the pool, Darien picked Satelvir from up off of the floor where he’d dropped it and placed the Runeblade back into its scabbard. He then grabbed the luminary that Turion had lit upon his arrival and threw it to the ground, shattering it. Magical flames scattered all about the severed limbs of the Melkafir and they were ablaze in seconds.

The horrible stench of burning demon flesh began to rouse Turion back to full consciousness.

“Ah, Endymion,” the Inquisitor said groggily as he lifted himself up on his elbows. “It seems I am in your debt. I should have known better than to let my guard down around the creature.”

“Think nothing of it, Turion,” Darien replied with a wave of his hand. “I managed a sneak attack on the demon. It saw my Runeblade and took flight—quite literally in fact.” He gestured to the window.

“Indeed,” Turion said as he pulled himself to his feet. “The Forsaken’s only dedication is to the continual preservation of their lives.”

Darien turned to Diana and drastically changed his demeanor into one of self-righteous indignation.

“And
you
,” he said with a pointed finger. “What part of ‘stay in your cabin’ did you not understand? It serves you right—going off into the darkness knowing full well there was a Melkafir onboard. I should have you flogged.”

Diana shifted her feet a bit at Darien’s empty threats. She knew he was just putting on a show for Turion’s sake, but for some reason, the thought of Darien having her whipped made her feel strange.

“You are quite right, Endymion,” Turion said, looking Diana over. “Some discipline might serve this new thrall well.”

“Believe me, Turion, I’m certainly considering it. Thank you for coming to her aid, my friend.”

“Think nothing of it. I was simply doing my duty to the Temple by trying to rid the world of that apostate. Saving the life of your simpleton thrall was an unintended byproduct.”

Diana couldn’t help but note that the Inquisitor did little to save her life and that his ineptitude could have been the death of them both.

Turion Skywhisper bent down and picked his sword up off the floor, glancing at the burning severed limbs. The sound of sliding metal was followed by a clack as Turion re-sheathed his blade. It was then that he noticed his lone knife lying on the floor next to the Melkafir’s arm. He quickly picked it up and then studied Diana a moment, as if the notion of her using the weapon was ridiculous, and then placed it in his belt. Before he left, Turion gave Diana one last enquiring gaze that burned through to her core.

As Darien watched Turion leave, he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here before the security forces make an appearance.”

“Good idea,” she replied. “Turn around and let me get dressed.”

Darien complied and Diana put her nightgown back on.

“Madaera’s Mercy, Diana,” Darien exclaimed. When she turned around Diana found him holding the blood soaked towel in his hand. “You’re hurt.” His eyes filled with worry as he glanced to the wounds at her wrists. “Did the creature drink from you?”

“Only a little,” she replied, looking down at the burning remains of the Melkafir. “It looks a lot worse than it is.”

“Thank Elberon for that,” he said, pulling her close and embracing her once again.

For some reason, Diana hadn’t felt the need to tell Darien the rest. She continued to stare at the burning limbs of the creature, now a pair of charred lumps of flesh and bone.

What hadn’t the Melkafir tasted in over a thousand years?

Chapter 16

At long last I behold the blessed isle,

I stand on the shore of the glass kingdom.

But woe to you, treacherous Malegant,

For I will lay waste to the Crystal Throne

And take back what is mine by divine right.

Sitting in a dark corner of the cozy pub, happily sipping her pint of deliciously refreshing hard cider while taking in the Old World atmosphere of the quaint local tavern, Diana finally felt content and at ease. She’d had about enough of walking.

“Ah, Cider…where have you been all my life?” she said to her glass like it was a long-lost lover. Cider was crisp, tasty, and refreshing—
infinitely
better than nasty beer. When Diana found out she could buy a two-liter of it at the corner market, she about had a conniption.

Diana held the cold glass of golden, fizzy, beverage like it was the Holy Grail filled with the elixir of life that would bring rejuvenation to her journey-wearied body.

The remainder of the airship flight had been boring and uneventful, mainly due to Darien insisting that Diana stay in her cabin. Even though she didn’t immediately warm to the idea, Diana had no desire to bath in her newfound celebrity following the Melkafir attack, so she complied with the request. To her great relief, Emily had visited often to check on Diana’s emotional well-being and to continue her Vanicar studies. She’d also informed Diana each time Turion had subtly tried to interrogate her for more information. Apparently, the Inquisitor had developed an unsettling interest in who Diana was, where she came from, and how she came to be in Endymion’s service. It was unnerving, to say the least, but Darien told her not to worry and that it was simply just the nature of an Inquisitor to ask questions.

After two dreadfully long days of solitary confinement, the airship finally docked at another port-city in the middle of the Irish Sea called Lay’Dannan. From there they rode in a sharifon coach considerably larger—and fuller—than the last, to a secluded ranch located in a small woodland area just outside the village of Glastonbury, in Somerset, England.

When they arrived, Diana was surprised to find the ranch considerably livelier than the one in Ohio had been, with coaches constantly arriving, unloading passengers, and then swiftly departing. According to Darien, the ranch was the hub of the standard route for Zen’Naphalia pilgrims. Even though it was primarily the aristocrats, and other prominent figures, that were allowed to attend the feast among the ruins of Silvermoon Palace, many Naphalei made pilgrimages at the time of the Solstice to honor the Fallen and make offerings at the Temple.

Unfortunately for Darien and Diana, the influx of travelers meant that there had not been an adequate amount of ground transportation for everyone once they arrived; they were given the choice of either waiting several hours, or walking the rest of the way on foot. After having just spent a great deal of time confined to her cabin, Diana had absolutely no desire to wait around a crowded coach station, so she’d demanded the walking option. Darien happily complied with her request, deciding it would be the perfect time to investigate the human village of Glastonbury prior to Zen’Naphalia. After they changed into suitable human clothing, Darien made arrangements for their luggage to be sent to Qir’Aflonas and they began the long walk into town. It’d taken a while, but at least Diana had been able to wear sneakers.

Once they reached the quaint English village, Darien suggested they rest their feet at a local establishment before continuing on the rest of the way, and to Diana, it sounded like the best idea he’d ever had. Once they reached the historic village square to look for a pub, Diana immediately noticed the centuries-old stone building,
The Red Dragon Inn,
and the image painted on the aged wooden sign swinging in the wind just above the doorway—a red dragon encircling a golden apple. Once inside, Darien suggested that Diana continue on with the plan of resting her feet while he went to make some enquiries about Charlotte and Foxwell.

Diana took another long, refreshing, gulp of cold cider and then looked to the clock again.
What’s taking Darien so long?

She continued to sip her wonderful ambrosia, looking over the bar area for the fifth time. Laid out in a pseudo-historical fashion, the pub successfully harnessed the mystique of being in a medieval building—the placard outside the entrance claimed it had been built in the 14
th
century. Sitting in the midst of village locals, weary travelers, and tourists quenching their thirsts on stouts, ales, and ciders, Diana felt a bit out of place. Ironically, she’d been feeling odd ever since she put on jeans and a sweater and it had only gotten worse once she’d stepped out into the human population again. Who knew she’d grow so accustomed to Naphalei society on such a short trip?

Diana turned her attention to the pamphlet she’d grabbed on her way into the building, which contained a brief history of Glastonbury—the so-called “isle” of Avalon. Apparently, the village had remained a relatively small Iron Age community of Celts until the Saxon period, when it became the “Cradle of Christianity in Britain,” being home to one of the oldest Christian communities on the British Isles. Since then, various legends sprang up connecting the village to Joseph of Arimathea, the Holy Grail, and King Arthur himself.

Legends always have a kernel of truth in there, somewhere,
Diana thought as she downed the last bit of her cider.

Finished with her drink, Diana decided to move towards the stone fireplace. The English winter may not be as cold as Indiana or Ohio, but she was still freezing without a coat. Along the way she took her empty glass to the young barkeep girl.

As she warmed her hands, Diana looked over the aged, antique photographs that stood atop the mantle, intrigued by the men from days long past within them. The oldest portraits were on the left, appearing as old as photography itself, and moving towards the right, they gradually became more modern—some even with color. By the style of dress, the newest photo looked to be from the 1950s or 1960s and the man within the portrait appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. A small metal engraving at the bottom of the frame read,
Phineas Cartwright Jr., Owner 1963-Present.
The next photograph down the line read,
Phineas Cartwright Sr., Owner 1916-1963.
Immediately before him there was not a portrait, but rather, a snapshot of Phineas Sr. shaking hands with another young man, and both fellows looked rather happy.

The man’s face gave Diana pause.
I know him—but how?
She couldn’t quite recall why the man shaking hands with Phineas seemed so familiar, but he did.

The next photograph in the sequence was a portrait of the same familiar man, who couldn’t have been much older than Diana at the time the picture was taken. The engraving bellow read,
Emmitt W. Green, Owner 1910-1916
. 
Emmitt Green—could the man be related to Charlotte?

Diana’s memory sparked to life and she quickly realized the identity of the man—his picture had sat atop her grandmother’s piano until the day she died—he was Grandma Lily’s father, though she’d always said his name was Walter. He must have gone by his middle name.

Emmitt W. Green was my great-grandfather.

Diana just stared in wonder for a moment before looking to the date again.
1916 would have been about when he immigrated to America. He must have sold the inn during the War.
Continuing on down the left, each antique portrait to the last was of a man named Green.

Diana was standing in her family’s ancestral home.

Feeling dazed, Diana took a step back from the fire to catch her breath. Turning away from the roaring flames, she took in the sight of the old tavern once again, finding it incredibly hard to believe that it all had once belonged to her family.
Why did they sell this place and move to America? The War couldn’t have effected them that bad.
If they hadn’t, perhaps Diana would be the girl behind the bar wiping the pint glasses clean.

Diana was pulled from her visions of what might have been when she heard Darien call her name from across the room.

“Diana, there you are,” he said, pleased to have found her. “I have someone for you to meet—this is Mr. Cartwright.”

Taking her gaze from the bar, Diana turned around to see a cheerful elderly man—who had to be in his nineties—standing at Darien’s side, wearing high brown trousers and a thick green sweater that looked extremely comfortable. His white and wooly sideburns, and beardless face, made him look like a kind old fellow from a Dickens novel.

When his bespectacled gaze finally landed on Diana, his eyes went wide with pleasant surprise.

“My word…” Mr. Cartwright said, astounded. “You look the spitting image of Miss Charlotte, back from the dead.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” Diana replied with a smile. “Did you know my great-aunt?”

“I may be close to a hundred years old, little lady, but I still remember the most beautiful woman my young eyes ever knew.”

“Please,” Diana said, feeling a bit embarrassed that the old man had just indirectly called her beautiful. “Tell me about her.”

“There isn’t much to tell. I was a babe when my father bought the inn from Emmitt Green. It wasn’t until many years later that his sister, Miss Charlotte, finally returned to the village in the company of that eccentric fellow she called Fox. They only stopped by the inn for a day or so, but I still see her in my mind like I was that eleven-year-old boy again.”

“What year was this, may I ask?” Darien interjected.

The old man brought his hand to his chin and rubbed it a moment. “1926, I believe.”

“Do you remember why they came back to Glastonbury?” Diana asked.

“No, dear, I’m sorry,” Mr. Cartwright replied. “They did tell me stories of their adventures, though. Mostly things like being chased by bad folks and buggerin through dark caves—the kinda thing you’d hear on a radio program. I ate it up.”

“Sounds like the stories my grandma used to tell me,” Diana said softly.

“Which of Emmitt’s girls was your gram,” the old man asked, curious. “Rose or Ivy?”

“Neither sir,” Diana replied. “Lily was my grandma—the youngest. She was born shortly before her parents moved to America.” It still amazed Diana that her grandmother had been in her nineties when she died. She had looked comparatively young for her age and could have easily passed for a woman in her early seventies.
I guess I have good genes,
she’d often say.

“Aye, that must be it. My memory is a bit hazy at times. I only know Rose and Ivy from what my father told me of them, and from some pictures that were left. He must not have known the wee one long.”

Diana could only just shake her head. The situation had quickly become a bit too surreal for her—and perhaps a little too convenient. She was quickly starting to realize that something far greater was going on around her than she first thought. Not only had Charlotte and Flinders apparently stumbled upon the Naphalei and discovered the fabled Chalice of the Moon—and met a bitter fate because of it—but Diana’s family had lived a stone’s throw away from the sacred dominion of Qir’Aflonas, for
generations
. Diana’s mind reeled at the possibilities of it all.

“Are you sure you can’t tell us anything else about Charlotte and Fox, or why they came back?” Diana asked again, hoping to spark more memories.

The old man eased himself into a chair in front of the fireplace and continued to rub his chin.

“I know they spent a couple of nights here—in Miss Charlotte’s old room—and they walked the Abbey, Well, and Tor.”

“Thank you for your help, sir,” Diana said with a warm smile. “It was nice to spend some time with my family’s history.”

“You’re always welcome back, young Miss Diana,” he replied. “There will always be a place for you to rest your head, free of charge.”

Diana thanked the elderly gentleman again and then turned to Darien. “What now?”

“We have a few hours until we need to be on our way,” he replied. “It might be worth investigating the ruins of the abbey and the Chalice Well Gardens. We will save the Tor for last.”

They both said their goodbyes to old Mr. Cartwright and left
The Red Dragon Inn
to walk down the main street towards the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey.

Having read the pamphlet on Glastonbury’s history, Diana found it a bit odd—and rather ironic—that the streets were lined with various neo-pagan establishments, occult bookstores, and palm readers.

“What’s with all the pagan stuff?” Diana asked. “I thought this was supposed to be a Christian town.”

Darien chuckled, finding her confusion amusing. “Human beliefs change about as often as their musical tastes, Diana, but they can always sense the power of this place. Druids, Romans, Christians—no matter what gods are worshiped, Qir’Aflonas remains the Sacred Jewel. It seems the Druids have made something of a return in recent decades.”

“Nothing new under the sun,” Diana said.