Darkness Rising: The Dark Angel Series: Book Two (25 page)

“Were
being the operative word. The process that makes them vampire is an unnatural creation. As are the creatures from hell—who may or may not have also once been human.”

“What about Aedh and reapers? Is the wood dangerous to them?”

A grin teased her lips. “No creature, flesh or energy, would be too pleased about being staked. But I don’t know if it will affect them magically or not. I certainly didn’t read anything about it during my time at the Brindle.”

I glanced at Azriel. He merely shrugged and said, “The only way to know is to try it, and you’ll have to forgive my reluctance to volunteer. I do prefer my flesh as it currently is.”

So did I, I thought, and felt heat touch my cheeks as he glanced my way.
Damn my recalcitrant thoughts to hell
. I cleared my throat and glanced at the three amber vials. “And these?”

“Holy water. Use it sparingly—you don’t need a lot for it to be effective.”

“Okay.” I shoved the stake in my belt, then carefully placed the little vials in various pockets. “I’m not sure how long this is going to take, but if you don’t hear from me by midnight, contact the Brindle
for directions, then call Aunt Riley and let her know what’s happening.”

Ilianna nodded and gave me a quick hug. “Be careful, okay?”

I nodded, although it wasn’t like I deliberately threw myself into danger. It just happened. Sort of like night following day, I suppose.

I gave Mirri a quick kiss on the cheek, then added, “Sorry for the interruption. Next time I’ll call ahead.”

She snorted. “I’ve been a part of this little family for long enough to know that you
never
phone ahead. There is an imp inside you, Risa Jones, that occasionally loves to upset the apple cart.”

I grinned, but I couldn’t deny the fact that I sometimes did take great delight in doing the unexpected.

“And that,” Azriel said, his voice clear and bemused as we headed down the stairs, “might be more than a little frustrating, but it could also be your one saving grace.”

I glanced at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that doing the unexpected has so far kept us one step ahead of the Raziq. Here’s hoping it continues to work.”

“Amen to that,” I muttered. But even as I said it, I couldn’t help thinking that, sooner or later, our luck would run out.

Mount Macedon was about forty miles outside Melbourne, so it took me a little under an hour to get up there. Dusk was settling in by the time I turned onto the rough-looking dirt road that apparently led to the sacred site—although to call it a
road
was something of a misnomer.
Goat track
was more apt.

I slowed considerably, avoiding the worst of the ruts and gunning through the ones I couldn’t, splashing muddy water all over the bike and myself. The steep, tree-lined mountainside seemed to close in around me, filled with shadows and an odd sense of watchfulness, almost as if the trees were sentient.

I suppressed a shiver and rode on, the Ducati’s lights coming on automatically as the dusk and shadows gave way to darkness. It wasn’t the best time to be going hunting, especially in unfamiliar territory. I might have the keen nose of a wolf, but that wouldn’t help me against the sort of traps a witch might conjure. And Selwin had had plenty of time to do just that.

A set of old wrought-iron gates came into view. I stopped, kicking out the bike stand but leaving the motor running and the lights on as I walked over to the gates—which, unsurprisingly, were padlocked. The lock was ancient and heavy, the chain as thick as my arm. It wasn’t something I had any hope of breaking.

“Azriel, are you here?”

“Always,” he said from behind me. He stepped forward, his arm brushing mine, sending little tremors of electricity scampering across my skin.

“Can you break the lock?” I said, oddly torn between wanting to press closer to him and needing to create space. In the end, I did neither.

“I can, but the lock is wrapped in magic. If I smash it, there is no telling how this place will react.” He paused, his gaze on the heavy darkness beyond the gates. “There is much power here, and some of it is
very old. And it is not quite as benign as you might presume.”

“Great,” I muttered, stepping back to first study the gates, then the old chain fence that disappeared into the darkness to either side of the main gate. I could jump over it no problem, but that would leave me without a fast getaway option should things go bad.

“You could always become Aedh.”

“If the magic inside that place can stop both you and the Raziq from entering, what chance have I got?”

He shrugged. “You are part wolf—a flesh-and-blood being as well as an energy one. It could be a vital difference.”

Could be. Could not be, too.

I returned to my bike and switched her off, then picked up my phone, checking to see whether I had service up here. I didn’t, so I shoved it and my wallet into the under-seat storage before walking to the fence. I leapt up, grabbed the top of the fence, and hauled my ass—rather inelegantly—over.

Once I’d dropped down on the other side, I turned and glanced at Azriel. “Well?”

He shook his head. “I can go no farther.”

“Naturally,”
I muttered. Then I mentally smacked myself for being annoyed. It wasn’t his fault, after all.

But as I resolutely turned and followed the faint path through the trees and the darkness, I couldn’t help my trepidation. There were some things that even I—trained as I was by two of the best guardians the Directorate had ever produced—couldn’t fight
alone. And I had a bad feeling that I was walking toward one of them now.

As my eyes became adjusted to the darkness, I became aware of shapes looming through the trees. Small buildings that smelled of incense, smoke, and ancient magic, as well as various silent, unmoving figures who hunched in the shadows—concrete monoliths hung with moss and lichens.

It wasn’t really what I’d imagined a witch’s ritual site would look like, but then this place was supposedly far older than even the coven that no longer used it.

The path meandered its way through the trees, sometimes widening into broader clearings but generally remaining little more than a goat track.

The wind was cool and fresh, smelling faintly of decomposing forest matter, eucalyptus, and the musky hint of animal. Probably kangaroo, given they were considered a pest in the Macedon region.

But the farther I walked into the mountain’s heart, the stronger another scent became—humanity, accompanied by the faint hint of roses. The scent of a woman rather than a man.

I slowed my steps and proceeded more cautiously. Ahead, through the trees, the darkness was lifted by a fierce orange glow that sent sparks cascading into the air and filled the night with the raw aroma of burning greenwood.

My fingers twitched with the need to reach for the stake, but as yet nothing and no one had threatened me. To walk in there expecting trouble might just encourage it.

The light of the fire grew stronger, until the shadows and the night were banished and the air rode with warmth and electricity.

It wasn’t a normal fire. Not completely. The flames moved and danced in a manner that seemed almost controlled—as if there was a being inside them that stirred them to life.

And yet I could feel no life other than myself and the woman who stood so close to the fire.

Fear tripped lightly down my spine, but I ignored it, pausing in the cover of the trees to study the clearing beyond.

The fire dominated the center of the rough circle, the wood piled high and burning fiercely. The witch stood so close to the flames that her skin had an orange glow and her hair seemed to flicker. There was no one else in the clearing. My gaze swept the grass. I couldn’t even see a protection circle, which seemed unusual.

“I know you’re there,” she said, her voice clear and untroubled. “The magic of this place warned me the minute you breached its boundaries.”

I walked into the lighted clearing but stopped halfway to the fire. The heat of the blaze scalded my skin, and I had no idea how she was managing to stand so close.

Her clear blue gaze swept me before rising again. “You’re not what I expected.”

“I daresay I’m not
who
you were expecting, either.”

“I daresay,” she agreed. “What is it you want?”

“Answers.”

She smiled. It was a real smile, a warm smile—the sort of smile that would have normally tugged a response
from my lips. But there was something off-kilter about her, about the look in her eyes. Not to mention the edge of wariness that swirled across the clearing, mingling with the wood sparks and stirring the leaves of the nearby trees.

“The vampire council sent you?”

I hesitated. “In a sense. But I am not an assassin.”

“If I thought you were, you would already be dead.” She cocked her head and studied me for a moment. “I must admit, you intrigue me. I cannot determine exactly what you are.”

“I’m a half-breed, but that’s neither here nor there. And its not what I’m here to discuss.”

“Obviously,” she said. “I suppose you want to know whether I am responsible for the rise of the Maniae?”

“I do.”

She nodded and returned her gaze to the flames again. “I did not expect the Brindle to help the council, I must admit.”

“They’re not helping the council. They’re helping me.”

“A minor difference when you are here as a representative of the council.”

She might have considered it minor, but I doubted the Brindle would. “So you did raise the Maniae?”

“Of course.” She glanced at me. “Why else would I access the spell?”

She was, I thought uneasily, extremely chatty about her deeds. And that was never a good thing when it came to bad guys—or so Aunt Riley claimed—because it usually meant they had something devious planned. “Then my next question has to be, why?”

“Ah, that is far more complex.”

“I have all night.”

She smiled again—and this time there was nothing real or warm about it. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

I resisted the urge to rub my arms and said, “Why did you raise the Maniae?”

“Because they killed my master.”

It took a moment for her words to hit.
Shit, she was one of Whitfield’s fledglings!
One they’d obviously missed during the cull.

“Which master are we talking about?”

She gave me a long look. “You know which master. You are not stupid, young woman.”

“Then we
are
talking about Robert Whitfield?”

“Of course! How many others has the council allowed to be drained and killed recently?”

“To be honest, who the fuck knows? It’s not like the council actually advertises their business.”

“That’s true.” She crossed her arms and studied the fire for a moment.

As the silence stretched on, I said, “Why wait so long for your revenge, then?”

“Because while I have merely undergone the blood ceremony and not the conversion, Robert’s death was almost my death. It took a toll on my strength and my will.” She looked at me again, her face bitter and suddenly gaunt. “But I could have survived that. I could have survived his death and moved on with my life, had it not been for one discovery.”

I raised an eyebrow, and she continued almost savagely. “By killing Robert and declaring that his entire nest be erased, they have sentenced me to madness
when my death finally comes and the conversion takes place.”

I frowned. “Why? I mean, it’s not like another vampire couldn’t help you.”

“But they won’t. Robert’s line has been sentenced to death—each and every one of us. I am the last of his fledglings-in-waiting, and no vampire would dare take me into his care for fear that going against the council’s edict would doom their own nest.”

My frown deepened. “Fair enough, but I still don’t see why you’d be sentenced to madness when you’re converted. I mean, you seem sane enough now.” Or as sane as anyone hell-bent on revenge could get. “Why would that change when you die and become a vampire?”

“Because the step from life to unlife is a traumatic one—not just because you die and are reborn, but because every new vampire is hit with a veritable sensory overload. It takes years for
any
newborn to learn to eat, walk, and talk, and it is no different for a newly turned vampire. That is why a fledgling’s master is so important. They keep us safe, keep us in line, and—most important—teach us.”

That being the case, I could understand her bitterness and need for revenge—and it didn’t make my task here today any easier. I might sympathize, but I still had a job to do. One I had to finish if I didn’t want to end up a victim of the high council.

“Look, the council’s full of bastards, we both know that, but murdering them isn’t going to solve your problem. You’ve killed two already. Why not call off the Maniae—or, at least, offer the council a trade?”

“And why would I do that?”

“Well, it’s not so much Whitfield’s death that has pissed you off, but the fact that you’ll be left in isolation thanks to their ban on helping his fledglings, right?”