Scattered Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter Seventy-Nine

The dragon’s outpost possessed a comprehensive stash of supplies, including clothing in most conceivable sizes. Though Lugh didn’t indulge in his curiosity as to the purpose of such a trove, he was truly grateful for the clothing allotted to himself and the Scribe. The denim of the jeans was a durable fabric for the hiking he anticipated. The jacket was denim, too, warm and thick, good for the chill of the night. The sleeveless shirt he wore underneath didn’t constrict his shoulders when he wanted freedom of movement. His pack, with its few essentials, was already propped by the door. “I’m heading east, following the Dublin lead.”

Willem huddled in a chair at the head of the long dining room table in one of the guest suites in Jonathan’s mansion. He sifted through the parchments, reorganizing them for the millionth time, as if the answers merely lay in the sorting of the pieces. Beside him was one of the combs they’d retrieved from Rhiannon’s temple. Of all the artifacts, those combs occupied some special interest for the Scribe.

All the while, Jonathan leaned over the documents, hands planted on the tabletop to give himself an overview. “You know the magicraft is incomplete.” He waved a hand over the mess. “This can’t be all you’re going on.”

“Danu didn’t leave comprehensive notes. Once we collect more artifacts, I trust that things shall fall into place.” Lugh resettled the shoulder straps for the scabbard beneath his jacket that kept the short sword sheathed against his spine.

“You’re counting on that? On things just falling into place?” Jonathan shook his head incredulously.

“What else have we, but hope and faith?”

Jonathan smirked. “You have a dragon with an extensive library and a talent in magicraft.” He gave Lugh’s back a slap of camaraderie, nearly toppling him with the gregariousness of the gesture.

After the dragon’s footsteps faded down the hallway, the Scribe cleared his throat, the sound more of a stall than an attempt to gain notice. He squirmed as Lugh’s attention focused upon him. Willem’s fingers worried over the comb. “May I inquire as to a matter that is clearly none of my business and yet has weighted heavily upon my conscious?”

Lugh raised an eyebrow. The phrasing of the request was rather formal, not the more casual tone to which they’d become accustomed. It only accentuated just how unsettled Willem felt in introducing the topic. Lugh encouraged him. “Please, speak freely.”

“Perhaps, it is time.” He lifted the comb, as though admiring its craftsmanship. “Since we are so few.”

“Time for what?”

Willem tucked the comb away. “I spoke out of turn. My apologies. I shan’t broach the subject again.”

The Scribe mistook Lugh’s lack of understanding as discouragement, for denial was oft used as a Seelie tactic when reprimanding. “Willem, will you not speak frankly and fully? For I meant not to deter your line of inquiry. Perhaps it is time for what?”

The Scribe paused, gaze still cast away. He sighed, finally verbalizing what tormented him, as though releasing the burden of it physically ached. “To bring Rhiannon home.”

The shock of comprehension so stunned Lugh that he could do nothing but blink. His body froze as if a lance struck right into his heart, pinning him.

“I have angered you.” Willem slipped to his feet in his haste to escape reproach.

Lugh’s longer strides overtook the Scribe. With a straight arm he slammed the door closed before the Scribe could fully open it. He snatched the Scribe’s elbow and spun him about. His heart failed to beat for fear he’d misheard. “Rhiannon wasn’t in the Mounds when it Collapsed? You know this?”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. The All-Mother’s motives and judgments aren’t for me to question. I only thought you knew or I wouldn’t have uttered a sound.”

Lugh fisted the lapel of Willem’s shirt, not to intimidate, but to capture this fleeting glimmer of hope before, like gossamer, it vanished before him. “Danu has perished. You have pledged your aid to recreate a fey realm. We can ill afford to bury secrets with the dead. Withhold nothing from me. Do you understand? Do you so affirm?”

“I swear it.” Willem’s hands covered Lugh’s.

“Then speak. Confide in me.” He barely constrained the hope that struggled to burst free of his caution.

“Danu favored Manannan greatly. I’ve never seen her so enamored of any of the Seelie kings before him. Periodically, a Sidhe threatened Manannan’s goal for the unification of the courts. Danu said they were confused. Sick. Poisoned by the lies of the Unseelie.”

Lugh’s grip tightened. “What did she do?”

“She sent them away. She forced them to retreat. To allow them time to heal.” He swallowed and then confessed, “To prevent them from interfering with the unification.”

“Where are they?” Lugh demanded.

“I don’t know, but not in the Mounds. They would’ve been too easily discovered there.”

“Which means that Danu detained these Sidhe somewhere on the surface. Trapped. Helpless and Fading as surely as we.”

Lugh released the Scribe. With a hand against Willem’s breastbone, Lugh wordlessly discouraged him from pursuing.

As he strode away from the Scribe’s suite his thoughts tumbled. Searching. Repositioning the facts as he knew them. Rearranging the assumptions. Turning things over and finding a new shape to the events of the past few centuries.

Lugh barged into the chamber where Danu’s body reposed. Still beautiful. Still perfect. Encased in a glass casket.

His hand stroked the glass over the All-Mother’s young features. “I trusted you,” he murmured. “Is what Willem says true?”

Lugh’s fingers glided over the silver dagger that had taken her life and now rested easily within Danu’s gloved hands, the blade gleaming on the white brocade between her breasts. So much he didn’t know. So many lies. Was this what culminated in her murder? This conspiracy? What had happened the day the Mounds collapsed?

Lugh studied Danu’s serene face. “After Rhiannon began campaigning against Manannan, you implored me to convey her to you, knowing she would venture, fully trusting me, anywhere I escorted. You reassured me that, with your council, she chose to take a sabbatical. Did you deceive me?”

His fingers brushed over the glass, as if trailing through her long, golden hair. “I loved you. As we all loved you.” His hand withdrew from the glass. “As we had no recourse but to love and obey you, Creatrix.”

Lugh backed away from her. “The Unseelie suspected that their prophetess hadn’t retreated of her own accord. Were they right? Are there more? How many others?”

“Where are they?” His voice deepened as he demanded, “Where is Rhiannon?”

Of course, she offered him no reassurance. No explanation. No denial.

It mattered not, for within his heart he comprehended the truth.

“I shall find them. I shall free them,” he pledged, “And once I have restored the realm of fey, I shall save them.”

Chapter Eighty

“Will this work?” Donovan asked, standing in the center of the large main room. Above him, the sun shone through the skylight set into the vaulted ceiling. The hardwood floor gleamed with a high polish. The fireplace in the back wall was real and made from a glossy, black marble. Fancy molding ran all along where the green walls and the ceiling met.

Malcolm scrubbed his palms on his jeans as he peeked into the massive bathroom and bedroom. Even walking softly, his footsteps echoed in the vacant space. “Is it real bad expensive?”

Donovan just chuckled. “There’s so much you have to learn about being Sidhe. I acquired the entire building. If it suits your purposes, you’ll be the only occupant, unless you want neighbors.”

“I’d be here all by myself?” Malcolm crossed to the large bay window with security bars he could unlatch from the inside if he needed to use the fire escape. He ran his fingers over the glass. The bars and glass wouldn’t stop someone from teleporting inside. Someone like Rand. Donovan had told him that Rand was a Changeling. Malcolm hadn’t known what he was before. Even though Donovan said Rand might have died, Malcolm knew otherwise. He could feel it, like a twitch of dread that soured his stomach.

This third floor flat overlooked the building that housed the Glamour Club right across the street. He could even see into the window of the flat where he’d been staying. Lights flickered all around the building. Now and then, a zing of power whizzed out or spiraled off like fireworks. It was a good thing no one else could see magic.

The lights didn’t reach him up here, though. No sound either. “It’s quiet and all.” Malcolm crossed his arms, tucking his bandana-covered wrists into the crooks of his elbows. Kinda hiding his wrists and kinda trying to squish down that icky feeling that bubbled up whenever he worried about Rand or his goblins snatching him away again. He didn’t doubt for a flat second that Rand wouldn’t try. And next time, he’d stuff Malcolm into an even deeper and darker pit. Someplace no one would ever find him.

Malcolm couldn’t even make a sound. He barely managed to breathe through his nose. His tongue suctioned to the roof of his mouth. A fist of anxiety choked him, closing his throat. Just thinking about talking tightened the grip. It made him feel stupid and weak when it happened. Even wearing the knife didn’t ward off the stranglehold, and the knife was supposed to make him feel less vulnerable. Less helpless. Why couldn’t he have a brilliantly massive power that could tear a stupid Changeling’s head right off his stupid body?

“Your shoulders are hunched up to your ears. What about this place is making you close down?” Donovan was very direct. Not mean, but strong. Insistent.

Malcolm massaged his throat, trying to loosen it up enough to let words come out. “Just…” He waved at the window. “And…” He waved into the center of the room. “Um…”

“You don’t feel safe here. You think someone can teleport inside.”

He glanced up at Donovan, watchful and uncertain.

“Easy enough to erect wards against teleportation. If you would prefer human neighbors—”

“No!” Malcolm cleared his throat. “No. No humans.”

Donovan opened his hands. “If not humans, then who? The fey all have magic, defeating the purpose of moving you over here.”

“Brownies are quiet, just little church mouse whispers and a bit of glow.” He patted his chest where they glowed. “Even dwarves and fairies don’t spread magic much further than this.” He measured a space around him about a foot away from his body.

“I doubt we’ll have difficulty finding suitable neighbors for you, then. This flat is just far enough away to make you comfortable when you need to rest. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t part of the team. Remember that.” Donovan placed his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders. Only then did Malcolm realize that his shoulders really were hunched way up by his ears and he relaxed them back down again.

Donovan said, “I want to give you these.” He brought out two leather bands from his back pocket. “Wristbands. The knotwork is an Unseelie design.”

They were cool, with a complicated, twisted pattern that had sharp edgings like thorns or blades. The snaps looked like he could work them easy one-handed. “They’re brilliant.”

“You’re one of us.” Donovan collected one of Malcolm’s wrists and untied the bandana. He didn’t flinch or anything at the nasty scar underneath. Malcolm didn’t pull away either, letting Donovan fasten the wristbands, first around one wrist and then the other. The leather felt good and completely hid the scars. “I know adjusting hasn’t been easy for you. It’ll take time and you’ll need your space, but don’t forget that you’re Sidhe. It’s not healthy for a Sidhe to be solitary.”

“What do you mean?”

“You shut out the others. You’ve not given them a chance. They need you like you need them. They’re reaching for you, Malcolm.” Donovan offered his hand, palm up.

“You mean the Touch, don’t you?” Malcolm whispered.

“The Touch isn’t what the goblins made you believe it is. It’s a sharing. A joining. A way the Sidhe bond. It’s healthy and natural and necessary.”

Malcolm hesitated.

“Don’t let the goblins steal more from you than they already have. Reclaim what is yours.”

Malcolm reached out and slipped his hand into Donovan’s. Right away, the soft flow of magic trickled into him. The magic from Donovan pulsed as bright as lava, but it didn’t hurt or burn or anything like that. It was steady and strong. Full of Donovan’s strength and conviction. So often the Touch had been about sex, but there was nothing sexual in what he felt from Donovan. Instead, he felt Donovan’s thoughts. That he saw a fighter in Malcolm. He saw Malcolm as young and full of possibilities. The scars on Malcolm’s flesh meant he was a survivor, not a victim. Not controllable or crushable, like others had tried to control and crush him. A determined Unseelie just beginning to open his eyes to what was around him and all that he could become. He really didn’t think Malcolm’s power sucked at all, either. Instead, one word came to mind. Bloodhound.

Malcolm had to close his eyes. Had to get his breathing under control. All on account of what he was going to do. His insides kinda ached, kinda quivered. The thought of the Touch did that to him. Made him hurt. All except one time, the Touch was forced out of him with drugs. Just doing it now, because he decided to, brought it all back to him. Those hazy, dizzy, perverted and violating drug-times. Always in a mash-up of naked and sticky bodies. Sometimes with vampires leaching off him. The magic and the drugs and the sex all making him fly even as it tore him to shreds. All except one time. The time he Touched the witch who sent him there. When he burned through her emptiness with his magic. He’d meant to hurt her. And he hoped he had. Hurt her real bad. Hurt her like she’d hurt him. All this Malcolm thought about as the Touch flowed out of him and into Donovan. Donovan didn’t flinch away from any of it. Just took it in. Just saw all of those memories and all of Malcolm’s brokenness.

And somehow, sharing it with Donovan made it hurt less. Somehow, the strength and confidence within Donovan became a part of Malcolm. Even if just for a little while. Somehow, for the first time, Malcolm wasn’t alone within himself. Wasn’t alone in the world. Didn’t have to shoulder the burden of his scars alone.

When their hands parted and the Touch ended, the feeling of it was still inside Malcolm. The look in Donovan’s eyes mirrored the feelings he’d given in the Touch. For real and for true, Donovan had Malcolm’s back. And there wasn’t a thing Malcolm wouldn’t do for him.