Remnants of Magic (11 page)

Malcolm jerked out his knife. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out for myself.” He stabbed the blade into her arm, and then drew it down in a long slice.

Chapter Eight

“I heard about your lad getting roughed up.” Not surprising that Tiernan Kilgrave caught that bit of gossip. Not much slipped past the Unseelie purveyor of all things pleasurable and addictive, which was why he’d always been an invaluable informant. “The lassie nipped out of here easily enough, didn’t she?” He smirked, as cocky as ever.

“That’s not why I asked you here.” Donovan shifted through a thin sheaf of papers. “Of the exiles I know of, none of them have a particular aptitude for the darker strains of magic. Am I missing anyone?”

“Not among the exiles maybe, but at least one of the earthborns.” Tiernan leaned his bum against the table in the center of the War Room. “Your lovely shadow weaver has that distinction.”

“I’d prefer to find someone more skilled. Besides Trip, are you aware of any others? Perhaps one of the Sidhe on your crew?”

The grin on Tiernan’s face was at once playful and sly. “Are you asking for personal reasons? The earthborns in your stable a little too inexperienced for your more… sophisticated tastes?”

Donovan gave a crooked grin, at once telling the younger Sidhe he enjoyed the cheeky suggestion, but also showing he was off the mark. “Not for that. Just answer the question.”

“Pity, I was going to suggest swapping once in a while.” Though Tiernan questioned the combat readiness of Donovan’s Sidhe, it hadn’t impinged upon his appreciation of their finer physical attributes. He affected a long-suffering sigh as he considered the question. “Some of their sexual proclivities run toward the darker side, but as for their magic, unfortunately not. In the past I always relied on Crom to meet my need for dark magic. Unfortunately, he hasn’t made his presence known since the Collapse.”

That was the preferred way to state the matter. No one wanted to speculate on the actual casualties of the Collapse of the Mounds, though most fey surely perished, a great number of Sidhe among them.

Tiernan tilted his head as he continued to ponder the question. “How strong do you need the magic to be? A few among the dark elves can manage a bit of the dark stuff. Nothing spectacular, but usable in magicraft. Crom might have some items he personally infused laying about his stronghold. His servants might have some pieces they would part with for the right price. Though, my impression was that he didn’t keep much of the good stuff on the surface or I’d have dropped in over there myself for a look-see.”

The device in Donovan’s pocket buzzed softly. He drew it out and glanced at the name. Kieran. He answered the call. “What?”

“I just threw up.”

Donovan lifted a brow. “You did not call to tell me that.” By which he meant ‘you had better not have called
just
to tell me that.’

“That’s not why I called.” Kieran hesitated, his voice dropped to a whisper. “You better come see for yourself. Mal… He’s…”

“What’s Malcolm done?”

Tiernan placed his forefingers to his temples and closed his eyes. “Don’t tell me.” He affected psychic concentration. “I’m predicting your bloodhound has gone feral sooner than anticipated.” He winced as if struggling to get more clarity. “And I foresee myself telling you ‘I told you so.’ Am I right?” Chuckling, Tiernan’s nearly colorless eyes opened, glittering with mischief.

Donovan cut a sharp look at the younger Sidhe, which should have had him predicting his own future as a cheeky upstart coming to an abrupt and bloody end. From the snickering, Tiernan apparently wasn’t as psychic as he supposed.

“You just better get out here.” Kieran whispered into the phone. “He’s… He’s not right.”

Donovan clutched the phone harder. “Where are you?”

Chapter Nine

Back when Donovan led the Elite for the Unseelie queen, keeping a mental catalogue of teleportation landmarks allowed him to travel swiftly to most cities throughout Ireland. Though the queen, and indeed the Court, no longer existed, the usefulness of the landmarks remained. Mahon Castle, within the city of Cork, still looked very much as it had centuries before when he saw it built on the banks of the River Lee. Donovan appeared in the shadows of the castle, surrounded by Trip, Bryce, and Dawn, each with a hand upon him.

“Trip, no one sees us.” An order, not an observation. Shadows grew like a black fog around them and spread out through the city, thickening the twilight shade of the early evening.

That Kieran hadn’t been able to voice his concerns didn’t bode well. At least he’d managed to describe their location sufficiently for Donovan to find the apartment complex. Donovan teleported himself from the street up to the ledge three stories above and then dropped onto the rooftop, with the earthborns following close behind him.

Kicked back on a chaise lounge, Kieran raised a hand in acknowledgment. His back was to the flat beyond. Nothing about the rooftop patio appeared out of order, with the exception of the mess near the opened window. Kieran hadn’t exaggerated about getting sick. His hands folded on his stomach, as if the turmoil within hadn’t fully passed.

Donovan asked, “Where’s Malcolm?”

Kieran jerked a thumb toward the apartment behind him.

With more curiosity than caution, Bryce ran ahead. He peeked through the window and then jerked back. “Whoa! Nasty!”

“That’s not London, by the way. Not the human from the club.” Kieran called. “I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

Leaning against the window frame, Donovan gave the corpse just inside the flat a cursory glance. Hard to tell who it had been, with the skin of the face and much of the upper body flayed and peeled back. Malcolm didn’t even skirt the blood pool as he approached Donovan, a dark wine bottle in his hand. Blood soaked the sleeves of his sweatshirt almost to the shoulders. More blood smeared his stomach and down the legs of his jeans, as if he’d wiped the blood from his hands and his blade on his clothing. Donovan asked, “You want to talk?”

Wordlessly, the lad handed over the bottle.

Donovan uncorked it, only to catch a whiff of its contents and jam the cork back in firmly. As he tossed the poison away, he made sure the bottle landed on the bed where it wouldn’t break. It had been a long time since he had smelled wizard brew, but it wasn’t something he would ever forget. “Where’d you get that?”

“She made it.” Malcolm tilted his head back into the room. “There’s a whole case of it in here.”

Bryce had caught a whiff of the stuff and pressed the back of his hand under his nose as if that might staunch the odor. Blinking the stinging from his eyes, he choked. “What is it?”

When Malcolm turned away from the question, Donovan answered. “It’s a potion the wizards use to compel magic from a fey so they can harvest it.”

Malcolm nudged at the leg of the corpse with one of his trainers. Then he crouched down and looked at the partially skinned body. His forearms rested on his knees as he stared at her, no doubt seeing more, and different, than the rest of them.

Trip and Dawn hung back a little behind Bryce, but they could see into the flat well enough. It was Dawn that spoke. “Why’d you slice her up like that?”

“Magic.” He waved a hand haphazardly at the body. “Under the skin. Touch magic.” He glanced up at Donovan. “Not from one of us.”

“Tiernan?”

He shook his head. “No metallic taste.”

“Sick!” Bryce gave a nervous laugh. “You tasted her blood?”

Rolling his eyes, Malcolm muttered, “Don’t be stupid.”

“Fair warning, I might barf again.” Kieran moaned from his lounger.

“It’s just blood, Kie.” Malcolm climbed out of the window, carelessly smearing bloody handprints everywhere. Only once he settled onto the windowsill and glanced at the others did he notice their unsettled expressions. “What? Am I the only one who grew up on a farm?”

Ignoring the banter, Donovan asked, “Did you get a good feel for the magic?”

“The magic is like…” Malcolm moved his hand in little circles in the space in front of him, scribing some kind of pattern. “Like that.” He repeated the gesture. “Like… music.”

“Can you track it?”

The lad circled the rooftop slowly, searching the horizon. The other earthborns watched Malcolm, murmuring softly to each other. The sight of carnage still possessed shock value for them. They’d harden to it soon enough. Malcolm turned back to Donovan and shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll know it when I see it again. Maybe if we got nearer to it I could hear the music.”

“Keep alert for it. Are you done here?”

Malcolm nodded.

“Bryce, incinerate the body. Use a low, hot flame until she’s nothing but ash; then we’ll get back and burn the building down. Trip, no one sees us. Kieran, no one hears anything.”

“Already on it.” Kieran waved from the lounger with his eyes closed, unable to stomach seeing his friend smeared with carnage.

Once the others got to work, Malcolm spoke softly to Donovan. “I have a sister.”

Donovan glanced up at him, paused only a second, and then replied. “I know.”

That made him stop a second, but Malcolm didn’t ask how he knew so Donovan didn’t enlighten him.

“I want to bring her to the Glamour Club.” He frowned down at his wristbands. The leather would forever bear the stains of the blood of his first kill. Rather symbolic, though it was probably lost on the young bloodhound. “It coulda been her, you know? This could be my sister’s magic.” He shrugged, then looked away into the distance as he had when he’d searched for the magic he described as music. “I didn’t know to pay attention to stuff back then. Didn’t know no one else saw stuff, you know?” His jaw set. “If someone snatched her, I wouldn’t even be able to find her.”

“She’s welcome, if she’ll come.” Donovan curled his hand around the back of Malcolm’s neck and gave him an understanding squeeze. “And we’ll find this Sidhe with the music in their magic, whoever it may be. Rest assured.”

Malcolm nodded, silent and thoughtful.

Chapter Ten

After dispensing with the human and her stock of poisons, Donovan postponed the mission he’d intended and gave the earthborns the rest of the evening off. They needed to be sharp when they faced the sluagh. Not troubled, as he knew one of them most certainly was.

Anticipating the visit, he’d left his office door open. The music from the club reached him, but not so boldly as to disrupt his work. Monitoring footfalls along the private hallway to his office was just part of being aware of his surroundings, something he did almost without thinking. When he sensed the percussion of the approaching footsteps on the stone floor, he knew who sought him.

Kieran braced his hands against either side of the doorframe as he leaned into the office. “So this evening, that didn’t weird you out at all, did it? What Malcolm did.”

“I fought in the Sidhe-Goblin wars. Not much compares.” Closing the file he’d been perusing, Donovan considered the lad. “You’ve never gone hunting and had to clean your own kill?”

“No. But it’s more than just that.” Kieran shifted. Looked away. Stared at his hand as he picked at the paint on the doorframe. Struggled to come to terms. To find the words. Twice he started to say something and stopped. Finally, he hit his fist on the doorjamb and jolted himself out of the inner battle. “I just couldn’t, you know? Even after what happened, I couldn’t kill London. Even after you told us to, I still couldn’t.” His brows furrowed with pain and confusion. In a whisper, he admitted, “I don’t think I have it in me to take a life.”

So there it was. The burden of inexperience. A weakness that couldn’t be tolerated.

Donovan reached him in two strides. He clamped a hand on Kieran’s shoulder just long enough to teleport. As soon as Danu’s temple appeared around them, Donovan released the youth. Nothing had changed in the few days since he’d been there last. Since he’d discovered the carnage. The pile of burned and rotting humans still blocked the back of the main hall. Gruesome though the sight, it wasn’t what he’d brought Kieran here to witness.

“Do you know what this is?” Donovan nodded to clothing strewn on the floor before him. From the position of the sleeves and pant legs, it wasn’t hard to imagine the fey who’d worn them, sprawled there dead on the floor. The powdered metal sprinkled over the clothing twinkled as if reflecting the remnants of magic.

Even though Kieran shook his head, something in the hesitation proved that he at least suspected the truth.

“When a fey dies and there’s no time to dispose of the body in a civilized manor, a sprinkle of silver dust will dispel the magic within, disintegrating the corpse.” Donovan circled the room, pointing to the clothing and silver strewn about. “These fey were dispatched where they fell.”

Kieran struggled to speak. “Who did this?”

“London. The human you spared.”

Kieran’s dark eyes flashed up to meet Donovan’s. Shock and horror echoed in them.

“She and the human Malcolm eliminated were but two of those responsible for this massacre.” When Kieran closed his eyes, Donovan snapped at him. “Look at them!”

Donovan pointed to a gauzy, white dress curled under a table. “This fey girl cowered from the battle. Can’t you just see her? Hiding there. Huddling in fear. But they hadn’t spared her. Next time, that could be Dawn.”