Scars of Silver

by

S. Ravynheart and S. A. Archer

Ravynheart Publishing

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Scars of Silver

Copyright 2011 by S. Ravynheart and S. A. Archer

Cover Art Copyrighted 2011 by Ravynheart
Publishing

Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

http://www.sidhetouch.com

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by
the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of
America.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

The Sidhe series takes place in the modern world,
where most humans are unaware of the magical and paranormal beings
living among them. ‘The fey’ are all the races of beings that come
from the fey realm, known as ‘the Mounds’, and we base them loosely
on Celtic mythology. These include elves, fairies, dwarves,
Brownies, Changelings, goblins and many other races. Among the fey,
the most magical, and therefore the ruling class, are the noble
elves. They are also called ‘the Sidhe’, pronounced ‘shee’. Because
the Sidhe are so powerful, all other fey are known as ‘lesser fey’
by comparison.

To some degree, all fey have the ability to teleport
and use Glamour, which is a magical illusion usually used to
disguise oneself or to hide something. In addition to this, the
Sidhe as a race possess a common magic known as ‘the Touch’, which
is a form of sharing magic. The Touch is a bonding and beautiful
experience for the Sidhe, and is a gift when presented to lesser
fey. However, the Touch is dangerous to humans, who become forever
addicted to the magic. Touched humans will need to have that magic
replenished every few weeks, or they suffer the same withdrawal
symptoms as drug addicts, and they will eventually be driven insane
by the need. Besides teleportation, Glamour, and the Touch, each
Sidhe possesses a single ‘aspect of magic’ which dictates how their
personal magic will manifest. For example, Lugh’s aspect of magic
is the sun, so he can produce light and heat, encourage the growth
of plants, manipulate fire, and so forth.

The Sidhe have always been divided into two
philosophically opposed courts. The Seelie Court, also known as the
Light Court, values civilization, pageantry, beauty, and subtle
intrigues. They are all about the presentation of chivalry and
gallant performances, regardless of what truth may lie beneath the
lovely facade. The Unseelie Court, also known as the Dark Court,
doesn’t waste effort on pretending to be anything other than what
they are. They are blunt and to the point. They embrace freedom,
individuality, and are headstrong in their dislike of all that is
‘fake’ about the Seelie.

The predators hunting the fey include vampires and
werewolves, who find the magic-laced blood and flesh intoxicating.
There is also a sect of humans known as wizards who have discovered
ways to strip captive fey of magic, usually killing them in the
process, to power their own enchantments.

In the very back of the book is a
glossary
and
a
pronunciation guide
for the more unusual fey names.

We hope that this little introduction gives you a
framework for understanding, as we begin our tale…

Malcolm still smelled like industrial hand soap from
his sink bath at the gas station. He wiped the pocket fuzz from the
black plastic comb that was only missing a couple teeth and then
battled the knots in his too long hair. His reflection in the store
window winced back at him. The skater boy hair served a purpose
beyond just announcing to the world that he didn’t have the cash
for a haircut. The unruly waves covered the telltale point to his
ears.

Even after he beat the worst of the dirt off his
clothing, Malcolm still looked like what he was, a homeless
teen.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t go back. They’d take him
back. He knew they would. Only, if he went back home they’d never
let him leave again. “For his own protection.” That’s what they’d
say. That’s what they always said. Like house arrest was what it
was. Some kind of fey witness protection program or something.

Only, if they’d ever let him get out at least once in
a while, he probably would know something. Like how to get money.
Or food. Or a warm place to crash. Instead of having to figure a
way to steal what he needed.

Malcolm crouched down behind the lunch special sign,
waiting for customers to venture into the Fairy Circle shop.
Probably a waste of time, only Malcolm lacked for any better ideas.
Not like he could ask someone for directions to a fey hangout or
anything.

Mostly, Malcolm would’ve figured the place for a
joke, if not for the smell. The smell turned his head the first
time he walked past. The smell promised something. Proved
something.

Malcolm couldn’t put a finger on what, exactly. But
something.

Something
more.

Something not normal.

Something special.

Maybe even magical.

The moment a middle aged woman walked in the shop,
Malcolm hopped up. Not the best of distractions, but waiting made
him fidgety. The bell on the door clattered way too loudly as
Malcolm entered. He clenched it, silencing it, as he closed the
shop door.

A mishmash of curiosities crammed every available
wall shelf and island display. A short bookcase provided cover and
he crouched as he slipped along beside it. He peeked around the far
side to catch sight of the customer discussing crystals with the
shopkeeper.

Malcolm had seen the shopkeeper through the window
before. Probably early thirties, the woman decorated herself in a
flowery, gauzy hippy skirt and floppy, knit sweater that somehow
screamed both “new age” and “thrift shop” at the same time.

Ducking back, Malcolm scanned the titles. His
fingertips danced over the spines. Some had a feel to them, like
heat or static, but the titles didn’t jive with his search. His
sharp hearing kept tabs on the conversation, trying to note if it
was coming to an end or if the speakers moved closer or further
away.

Until he found the book.

Malcolm’s palm hovered over the spine. The gold
embossed title simply read, “The Secrets of the Fey.” What if it
contained garbage? Then why did his hand tingle? His excitement
bubbled through him. He had to have the book. Had to find the
answers to the questions that clawed at him mercilessly.

He slipped the book from the shelf and tucked it
under his shirt.

Only then did he notice the bell clanging at the
door. His head snapped up. Had someone come in? Or the customer
gone out? Distracted by the search, he’d forgotten to keep tabs on
his surroundings. Hugging the hidden book to his chest, Malcolm
crept to the edge of the bookcase.

The place was dead silent.

He peered around the bookshelf. Oh… so… slowly… No
one seemed about. The place had an abandoned stillness. Creepy.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Malcolm yelped. He spun about, eyes wide. Heart ready
to burst from his chest. The shopkeeper just smiled. “Who are we
hiding from?” she asked, and then peeked around the shelves herself
in a conspiratorial way. “I don’t see any scary monsters.”

He backed away, clutching his chest. The book made an
obvious bulge under his t-shirt.

“What are we reading about?” she asked, all
kindergarten teacherish.

Malcolm stammered, not making much of a coherent
answer as she reached beneath his shirt and plucked out the book.
He backed away, ready to bolt.

She simply turned it over and smiled at the cover.
“You have questions about the fey?” She flipped to the table of
contents. “How to find them perhaps?”

Malcolm gaped at her. After a long pause, he blinked.
“Uh... yeah.”

“The fey are real, you know,” she said. “But, of
course you do.” She gave him a knowing smile.

Malcolm trembled, the urge to run nearly
overwhelming.

She pretended not to notice his reaction, but instead
simply flipped through the book. “Ah, yes. So simple, really.” She
closed it with a thump. “Let me jot down the directions.”

Malcolm checked the hand drawn map, then the
surroundings. The little stone bridge spanned the stream there.
Check. Clumps of trees down the little hill to the left. Check. So
far so good. So where the hell was the circle of stones? He turned
the map upside down. Didn’t make sense that way, though. Was he
supposed to build the circle of stones? Hell, there were not even
any stones around.

According to Flora’s supposed expertise, some fey
fella named “Rand” hung out around here. Seemed a pretty unlikely
place to Malcolm. Not even any houses in sight. She’d said if he
followed the instructions it would call him out somehow. Maybe this
Rand guy fished the river or something.

“This is so stupid.” He jammed the paper back in his
pocket. “So bloody stupid.” Stupid or not, Malcolm hiked back to
the stream. He jerked his shirt off and used it to gather a load of
egg sized river stones. Back at the trees he spilled them out in
more or less of an oval. He kicked them around until the shape was
as close to a circle as he could manage.

Once satisfied, he fished out his lighter and the
pocketful of herbs Flora gave him. Malcolm thought her name sounded
phony, but who cared? She’d not given him the book, just the
instructions and a nickel’s worth of dried out weeds.

After a couple of failed attempts to set fire to the
fist sized pile in the middle of the circle, Malcolm scooped the
herbs back up and wrapped them up in the paper from his pocket. He
put the wad on the ground and set it alight. The flame died down to
a glow of smoldering ash, threatening to burn itself out, when with
a sudden whoosh the herbs ignited into a massive smoke bomb.

Coughing, Malcolm stumbled back. The sooty smoke
burned his eyes and he scrubbed at them. The smoke rose through the
trees, reaching like a beacon into the clear sky.

Flora instructed Malcolm to hum or sing to lure the
supposedly timid fey out of hiding. Seemed about the dumbest thing,
on top of all the other dumb stuff he’d done already. Malcolm gave
the ring of rocks and smoke signal about five minutes to kick in.
When no fey showed up he started humming “Danny Boy.”

“Is your head a Marley?”

Malcolm spun about. “Rand?” The guy glared at him.
Whoever he was, he was no farmer peeved at some punk trespasser.
Not in those pressed slacks and clean button-up shirt with the
purple sheen of silk. Realizing he was shirtless, Malcolm shook out
his wet and dirty t-shirt and yanked it back on. “I… Just…” He
scrubbed his dirty hands on his jeans.

“Put it out, fey boy.” The guy pointed to the
smoldering bundle.

Malcolm stomped out the ashes, choking on the smoke.
Fey boy? Without even asking, Malcolm could feel the difference in
the guy. Felt the vibe from him like prickling heat on his skin.
“You are fey, right?”

“Shut up and come here already.” Rand snatched
Malcolm by the back of the neck. Before Malcolm could squawk a
protest they vanished from the bright sunny wood.