Scattered Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 1) (24 page)

Chapter Seventy-One

As a line of Brownies carried bags of groceries through the club toward the storeroom like worker ants, Amon handed Donovan his supply list to review. The elder Brownie had yet to disappoint, taking quite seriously his duty to manage the Brownies who tended to the various domestic tasks with their famous talent for almost invisible efficiency. Just as they silently cleaned the flats and laundered and put away any clothing left out, the food they shifted into the storeroom this morning would filter into the pantries and refrigerators of the Sidhe and other fey who called the Glamour Club and the growing community around it their home. Although their role in the scheme of things might seem minor, each fey tended to their own chores as it was in their nature to perform, and the Brownies took well-deserved pride in their labors.

Kieran dodged between the Brownies, snagging a watermelon about the size of a rugby ball from the top of one of the shopping bags. He spun it on the tip of a finger before catching it again. “Hey, Donovan, I wanted to ask you about Malcolm before he pops down.”

“I didn’t notice him in the club last night.”

“He retired early. I tried to check on him a couple times, but he wouldn’t answer. That’s part of what I wanted to ask about.” Kieran passed the melon off from one hand to the other as he spoke. “He’s an odd bloke, always flinching away from people. He shied away from Bryce and then bolted from Trip when she tried to introduce herself. Can’t even mention Dawn without getting his back up.”

“Give him time to settle in.” Donovan handed the list back to Amon with a nod of approval.

Kieran persisted, “Does it have anything to do with what happened to his arms? Looks like he lost a brawl with some industrial equipment or something, but he won’t talk about it.”

“How much happened to you on the streets that you’d rather not talk about?”

Kieran glanced down at the melon, spinning it between his hands, and not answering that question, which was answer enough for both of them. “Oh, and something else. I kinda, sorta, just a smidge,” he measured ‘a smidge’ between his thumb and forefinger, “blacked his eye. Complete accident, I swear!”

As Donovan considered this confession with a brow raised, Tiernan Kilgrave appeared by the entrance in the cleared space set aside for teleportation. One of the few conventions from the Mounds to persist on the surface; you arrived to the right of the door and departed on the left. Even the free-spirited Unseelie respected the habit that reduced the number of teleportation-related crashes. “A word with ya, Donovan?”

“Whoa! Wait! Where’re you going?” Kieran jogged backwards, staying in front of them as they headed toward Donovan’s office. “Are you going on a mission? I want to come!”

“What for?” Tiernan raked a disparaging glance over the earthborn.

“I can help,” Kieran insisted. “I can back you up in case there’s trouble.”

Tiernan snorted, but Donovan tapped the melon between Kieran’s hands. “When you can explode that with your power alone, then we’ll talk about missions.”

“Are you serious?”

“Think of it not as a melon, but as a Changeling’s head.” Tiernan patted the fruit. “Ker-splode it with extreme prejudice.”

Dejected, Kieran finally sidestepped out of the way. Donovan didn’t worry that the earthborn might eavesdrop. The magicraft woven around his office prevented that.

Once they were in the privacy of Donovan’s office, Tiernan flopped into a deep leather chair and launched into his speech. “So here’s the skinny… I got all the dirt on your boy’s pimp. The Changeling’s name is Rand. He’s got a witch working for him. He’s been running potions and peddling the kid’s Touch out of some shop in Galway, which closed down after you snatched the boy. Probably figured the kid’d rat them out so they hightailed it out of there. Malcolm was the only Sidhe in his stable. They used to have two other Sidhe before him, but the goblins working with Rand weren’t the most reliable caretakers, if you take my meaning.”

Tiernan let that information sink in, but from the self-satisfied grin he still sported, he’d obviously not gotten to the real kicker yet. “But here’s what you’re truly going to blow a gasket over. Rand and his crew raided Danu’s temple. Bloody mess, too, according to my source.”

If the younger Unseelie sought to spurn a reaction, he got his reward. Donovan snatched him right up out of his chair by the front of his shirt. “Where’s this Changeling?”

Tiernan smirked, “It’s a good wager that he’s still there.”

Chapter Seventy-Two

“Do you trust him?” Willem embraced his knees to his chest and slouched against the wall like a youngling. From the simple wooden bench, he watched as Lugh inspected the equipment in the armory.

“I trusted Rehnquist.” Lugh checked the length on a pair of greaves. The shin armor appeared to be dragon scale, very durable and flexible. The cured leather cuffs on either end would cover his ankles and the backsides of his knees. Though the goblin that shot him perished within the dragon’s maw, each nest of goblins favored certain attacks. Lugh tossed the greaves onto the bench beside the Scribe. “I desire an alliance with Jonathan and the protection of the dragons for you and the artifacts.”

Willem contemplated one of Rhiannon’s combs and pouted almost as skillfully as a pixie. For such a learned Scribe, Willem could seem so very young sometimes. “What about a tribe of elves instead? Or dwarves? They are stout fighters.”

Schooling his expression so the grin that tugged at his lips wouldn’t show overly much, Lugh reassured him, “You needn’t fret. Jonathan wouldn’t actually eat you.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to stay here, unarmed and looking like a snack.” Willem turned the comb over and then tapped it lightly on his knee.

Lugh selected a sword from the wall display. Too heavy for the quick, close fighting he was anticipating. He exchanged it for a lighter one. Rolling his wrist, Lugh transcribed slicing circles in the air, first over his right side and then over his left. Good balance. Quick, sharp steel. He pivoted with the movements and though the bandages limited his mobility, he felt not a twinge of pain, thanks entirely to the ‘lubrication’ of the dragon’s liquor. He would have to inquire as to Jonathan’s source. Perhaps he could charm the dragon into procuring a few bottles for Lugh’s medicinal purposes. Not even the needling of the Fade troubled his fingertips at the moment. He sheathed the blade and set it aside on the bench.

Willem thoughtfully traced the figure on the comb, his full attention fixed upon it as he inquired, “Is it true that the goblins nearly slew you today?”

That brought a chuckle. “T’was hardly the first time fortune’s pardon spared my life.” Lugh bent close to the Scribe and rubbed the tip of his index finger over the younger fey’s forehead. “Have you not heard? Fretting causes wrinkles.”

Willem made an amusing yip of annoyance as he batted away Lugh’s teasing.

“Unless you’d rather bait the trap tomorrow with your scrawny rump.” Lugh made a playful attempt to pinch said rump, sending Willem darting out of reach.

“I wasn’t volunteering! Go forth and do your Champion thing. I’ll hold down the fort. Mansion. Cave. Whatever this is.” Willem rubbed his bottom even though Lugh hadn’t even managed to catch it. “No more dragon bourbon for you.”

Lugh chuckled, returning to peruse the selection of shields and feeling rather more like his old self than he had in quite some time.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Knife still in hand, Malcolm jogged down the steps to the main floor. The Glamour Club rocked with music and magic even this early in the day. A revving roar from the bar drowned out almost everything else. Kieran, of course, caused the racket. The air around him blurred with vibration. With his teeth clenching and eyes squinting, he glared at a watermelon between his hands like he wanted to kill it.

Malcolm shouted over the noise. “Hey, where’s Donovan?”

Kieran said something, but the noise completely wiped out the words.

“What?”

Kieran repeated it, but Malcolm still couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t even guess at what he said.

“Just forget it,” Malcolm pushed away from the bar and headed downstairs. Leastwise, he had the training room to himself, even if he could still hear the endless droning from Kieran. He dropped the knife on the workout mat over by the mirror where he could get at it easily.

Malcolm paced for a minute, thinking. He’d seen everyone else’s magic. Seen how it started in and around their bodies first and then moved out and became whatever. Fire with Bryce. Vibration from Kieran. Darkness out of Trip. Sparks twinkling around Dawn. Rock dust floated about Donovan. Malcolm had seen them all in action. It came from within and they brought it out. It looked so natural, like they really didn’t even have to try.

He had to have magic within him somewhere, somehow. Even if he didn’t know what it could do, he should still make something come out. Something he could see or hear or even smell.

Now how to do that?

He bounced on the balls of his feet and shook out his hands. Tried to feel his energy build inside him, like he was going to do something, exerting himself. Get the juices flowing. Malcolm stared at his reflection in the wall mirror, watching himself for any sign of magic. Willed it with all the force he could muster. Nothing.

Malcolm held up his hands toward the mirror. Made like he could shoot magic out of his palms. Pictured something, anything, bursting forth from him. “Come on,” he growled. “Come on!” Malcolm tried with all his might.

Nothing.

“Blast it!” He dragged his fingers through his short hair. He moved closer to his reflection to see if even a thin little shimmer of magic showed. Only there was no magic at all. His ears showed now, though. His ears never showed before. Made him nervous, having them exposed when he’d always, always been told to hide them. His black eye was bruising up real good now, too. It was a big one, too, covering his whole eye socket and halfway down his cheek.

The mirror wasn’t making him happy. He didn’t like anything it had to show him. Malcolm turned around and leaned his back against it. Across the room from him, all the weapons on display hung on the wall. Some of them had a glow or a pattern of light over them. How was it that even these things managed to have magic when he didn’t?

Malcolm crossed over to the wall and examined the ones with magic on them. The blades especially interested him. Having a knife had given him something to defend himself, and these blades were bunches of times better than that kitchen knife.

He picked out a dagger with a sheath that he hooked to his belt. The sheath hung the full length of his thigh and had a leather cord that he tied just above his knee to keep it in place. Something long and wicked that would make anybody think twice about messing with him.

Being armed made him feel better. Stronger.

Malcolm faced off with his reflection, hands out to his side like a gunfighter ready to draw. “Show me what you got,” he snarled at his reflection. “You think you belong here? You think you got magic? Prove it!”

Chapter Seventy-Four

Donovan knelt in the woods just within sight of Danu’s temple. His fingers raked through the soil, touching his element. Tiernan crouched behind him, slightly to his right, knowing that Donovan sensed the whispered percussion of his breathing and heartbeat through the ground. As his gaze lifted toward the temple, his communion with the ground and then the stones of the temple unfurled. Stillness. No breathing. No heartbeats. The remnants of the Glamour that once disguised the temple dangled in tatters, half Faded. The leaf litter and overgrowth of the underbrush were natural and not illusions. Nature was already beginning to reclaim the temple.

Donovan rose and brushed the soil from his hand. He didn’t speak, merely crossed in the open toward the temple. Tiernan followed a couple paces behind. They’d worked missions together before. Some partners blathered with the need to discuss every observation and question his decisions. Tiernan knew better.

The double doors of the temple entrance stood ajar. A hint of the scent of carrion and ash reached them on the portico. Donovan didn’t venture inside yet. Instead, he paused beside some clothing discarded to the side of the entrance, shifting them with the toe of his boot. Elbow length gauntlets and a hooded cloak. He crouched down to examine inside the hood without touching it, spotting a few short, blond hairs.

Tiernan watched over his shoulder and probably had the same thought as Donovan. The Unseelie tended to have dark features. It was the Seelie fey who were usually blond. Not surprising to find a Seelie had been in Danu’s temple, given that the All-Mother herself was Seelie. Based on the shortness of the hairs, he suspected the donor had been male. Probably an elf, judging by the length of the robes. Possibly even a Sidhe.

He left the clothing where he found them and entered the temple. In the back of the great hall, a pyre had burned itself out, though it failed to completely consume the bodies stacked for kindling. Other human bodies in early stages of decay or partially eaten by wildlife hadn’t reached the pyre. Tiernan murmured, “My source said that most of the enchanted humans helping the Changelings got whacked here in the initial assault. Guess that might be true.”

Donovan maneuvered between the bodies toward what appeared to be clothing spread on the floor and covered with powdered metal. A uniquely significant sight. At a glance, it appeared as if at least a dozen such piles were scattered about the great hall. Tiernan extended a hand over one of them, then withdrew and scrubbed his palm on his pants. “Silver powder. High grade. Very low in impurities.”

As Donovan’s aspect of magic was earth, Tiernan’s was metal. They both knew silver when they encountered it. For Donovan, silver within the ground felt like a dead spot. His magic awareness couldn’t penetrate it like it could other metal ores.

“This is creepy,” Tiernan murmured. “I expected a brawl. What did the Changelings mean by this? Silver dust and clothing strewn about?”

“The Changelings didn’t do this.” Donovan backed away from the silver, instinctually seeking distance from the poison. “This is the work of a Sidhe.”

“A Sidhe?” Tiernan trailed after Donovan as he explored down a side hall. “No Sidhe I know would do this.”

“I would,” Donovan glanced into bedchambers. More clothing and silver dust. “Sidhe of the Mounds would do this to dispatch the bodies of lesser fey.”

That shut Tiernan up. A Sidhe of the Mounds, with the blond hair of a Seelie male, survived the Collapse. A Seelie with skill enough to slaughter the Changeling raiders. While the possibilities were numerable, Donovan suspected one above all others. The one who’d gone to Danu’s aid as the Mounds crumbled around them. The Shining One himself. Lugh.

Tiernan continued past the last doorway to the end of the hall. His hand passed along the stone surface. “There’s metal within this wall. Gears.”

With the barest effort of Tiernan’s magic, the sound of metal squeaked and then clicked. The wall swung open into a passage leading downward. Fairy lights strewn along the wall still glowed, having not been dispelled. Their soft, ambient light illuminated the passage within and the chamber down below.

Donovan led the way, though the curved passage was wide enough to easily walk side by side. The chamber beneath the temple was little more than an expansive room. Murals were painted on the walls, and at a cursory glance, they appeared to have been made by Sidhe hands, though long ago and beginning to fade from time. In the center of the chamber, a carved platform of polished, white marble, like a table or a pedestal, gleamed. Donovan approached the empty platform with quiet reverence. He recognized the meaning of the symbols carved in the angular style of the dwarves. His fingertips traced the design, first the marking that represented the All-Mother, Danu, and then the symbols of grieving and remembrance for the slain.

Her body had lain here. Donovan knelt beside the platform, hand to his heart where he’d felt his connection to Danu nearly all the days of his life. He’d known the moment she’d perished. He’d felt their connection sever. Though her body no longer reposed here, he grieved as if he’d found her tomb, for this had been intended as her final resting place before the Changelings violated its sanctity.

Tiernan either didn’t know or didn’t care about the significance of the platform. He studied the murals instead. “What’s this?”

Donovan didn’t even glance up. “The depiction of the All-Mother creating the Mounds.” Grief strangled his voice, deepening it. “Such murals are common… were common in the Mounds.”

“Like the image of St. Patrick casting the snakes out of Ireland.” Tiernan examined the images carefully, having never seen their like before. “What’s this stuff?” He pointed to objects floating around the image of Danu.

Donovan rose to join the younger Sidhe. After a moment, he squinted to get a better look. “I’ve never seen this,” he murmured. “No other depiction shows such objects about her.”

Tiernan pointed to a torc that lay about the All-Mother’s delicate neck. “I’ve seen this before.” Then he tapped it excitedly. “I have this!”