The Danger of Destiny (38 page)

Trowbridge's expression turned hard and stubborn. “I have to be wearing him when I'm brought into the pens.”

“Well, to quote you, ‘bullshit'! And where the hell do you think I'll be when you're creating your big distraction?”

His tone was ice. “You'll be with your brother, destroying the book, like you said you would.” When I sucked in a shocked breath, his eyes softened. “We both have our jobs, sweetheart. Neither one's going to be easy.”

“We're supposed to do things together.”

“But this time, we can't.”

“Your mate will indeed survive.” Head bent, my twin had gone back to tracing patterns on the glass case. The gold followed the sweep of his finger. “He must. Because our fates are all connected, and it is the wish of our mage that we all live.”

“Does he have to talk?” asked Lily.

Lexi lifted his head to coolly stare at my mate for a long beat. “You'll have to be convincing. The king of the court must believe you beaten; else he won't be tempted to personally inflict further punishment.”

“Do you hear yourself, Lexi?”

While my twin considered my question, he allowed his palm to rest on the display cabinet. The small moving mountain of gold within it pooled against the inside of the case, seeking contact with his touch and being denied it by a thin layer of glass. “Yes,” he replied. “I hear myself speak.” Then he continued, “The king's presence at the Spectacle grounds is crucial. He and his court have the most magic; they represent your biggest peril. Thus your mate must be facing the king when the spell is broken. Not just facing him, but in close contact. The king and his court must be blinded.” He raised both brows at my mate in an unspoken challenge. “You must lure him very close.”

“I can do that,” Trowbridge replied grimly.

My gut plummeted, and I opened my mouth to register my alarm. But the words—the usual chorus of “no-no-no”—froze in my tight throat. I'd had my big aha moment, hadn't I? Back at Daniel's Rock, where I'd embraced the wisdom of bearing the awful for the greater good. Two people's problems don't amount to a hill of beans, right?

Trowbridge's scent bloomed, so pungent it bordered on foul.

Instead of talking, I swallowed.

Danen held up the dead guard's jerkin, testing it for fit. “How will we know it's time to cover our faces against the blast? We can't all stand there, crouched over, our hands covering our eyes, and expect that no one will notice.”

Lexi's attention returned to the display case and the gold that ceaselessly moved inside its glass prison. “Once the book is in flames, she'll give you a sign from the window of the mage's room. It is in the northwest tower, and has a fine vantage of the Spectacle grounds.”

Sweet heavens, from that window I was going to witness Trowbridge being dragged into the Spectacle semi-conscious. His head lolling, his feet leaving drag marks in the dirt. I'd have to watch Trowbridge being abused.

My hand went to Merry. She curled a tendril tightly around my thumb and gave it a squeeze.

I couldn't do it.

You have to.

*   *   *

Arms braced on the cabinet, Lexi looked up to Trowbridge. His eyes shone, and underneath the bristle of hair above his right ear the dark shadow of his tattoo could be seen. “Prolong your capture, Son of Lukynae. Give them a hell of a fight. Hedi and my mage will need time to get to the tower.”

Then Lexi seemed to droop, his back bowing, and to my ears his next words seemed forced out. “I'm counting on you to get her to the Safe Passage.”

With that, whatever worry I'd had about Lexi's health status faded.
Oh shit.
In all the dying and running and arrows and strange and nasty clouds I'd forgotten one very pertinent piece of information. “I still don't know how to open the Safe Passage,” I said, appalled at my own carelessness to detail.

“T'ahara,” whispered my brother.

So much for it being a long string of magical words, impossible to remember. “Like ‘Sahara,' except with a
T
?”

He jerked his chin down in a curt nod. “Use the coin; say the word. Then go home.”

“I—”

“You'll need to deal with my mage from here on,” he said.

I started forward, intent on touching him, perhaps holding him here with me, in this room filled with jewels, but he lifted a hand and showed me his palm.

It was pale, like he was pale, and it was firm, like he was firm.

Stay back,
it said.

“I hate good-byes, so let's not do it, okay?” His eyes studied me, their expression pained and haunted. “Just be who you are. All the way. I'm counting on you to do what you normally do.”

Before I could ask what he meant by that, Lexi formed a fist and brought it down hard on the glass. The case shattered, the gold skittering away from the broken shards. “My contribution to the anarchy that will follow. If I were you, I'd set fire to this room. That will attract attention, and give you and your Raha'ells a chance to pick your places.”

He pushed the long sheet of his hair over his shoulder.

“I'm going to go now,” he said simply.

Then he closed his eyes.

*   *   *

The moment the Old Mage stepped forward, my brother's body language changed. It gave me no comfort to spot the difference between the two souls, because it was still my brother's lips that moved into a superior curl and his voice that drawled, “You have a boon to ask of me, Hedi of Creemore?”

I've lost him and I may never see him again.

Lexi.

Trowbridge moved closer until I could feel the heat of him warming my back. That and the acute hate I felt for the man who wore my brother's face made my mouth curl. “I ask you for no favor. We're brokering a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Then speak.” The Old Mage fussed with Lexi's sleeves. “Let me hear the conditions.”

“Here's the deal: I will release you from your sacred vow if you break the spells holding the Prince of Asrais
and
Merry on my command, and open the Safe Passage on my request.”

“On your command?”

“Yes.”

“And in return, you will not harm my cyreath.”

“I didn't say that.” My Fae was on alert; I could feel her press against my throat.

He considered me, then smiled. “Do you think to test your meager magic against mine in Threall? Think carefully, nalera. You are but an ant to me. If you travel to that realm, I will trap you, like the insect you are, and you will spend the rest of eternity sitting under your tree, talking to your brother.”

“You can try.”

He chuckled, and I clenched my jaw. And I was glad I did, because that's when my twin's face began to shimmer just like the space between the two birch trees had before the magic doorway had materialized.

Trowbridge's arm curled around me, bracing me for what followed.

The shimmer was just the warm-up—a watch-this-bitch alert. For right after that Lexi's expression slackened and the challenging light in his eyes faded to black. And then that ugly shimmer turned to a frightening ripple of skin and bone and tendon.

I've seen Were transformations. I've seen bones elongate and fur grow.

But this …

I stood there, in that small room, smelling Were and magic and fear, and knew that I could do nothing to stop my brother's features from reshaping into something ugly and worn—his firm skin turning into thin crepe, the line of his strong jaw blurring under pouches of hanging flesh.

Don't weep.

I bit down harder, clenching my jaw until it hurt, forcing the gasp of pain and horror inside my chest to remain trapped behind the enamel of my teeth as I watched all remaining traces of Lexi's physical presence—from his Regency-hero boots to that long spill of blond hair—be wiped out as effortlessly as a dry eraser on white board.

There's gone and there's
gone
.

I thought it was bad when the old man stepped forward and used my brother's tongue to form his words, but … fuck … this was worse. Standing near the shattered glass cabinet was an old man whose white-cropped hair hadn't seen a brush in a millennium or two.

The Raha'ells drew their bows.
Goddess, I'm getting used to the sound of that
. Then Gwennie moaned and slid to the ground in a dead faint.
Wimp.
Trowbridge drew me tighter against his strong, steady heat.

“Steady,” he said.

“I
am
steady,” I replied.

The illusion was solid. Lexi's physical presence in this realm had been replaced by an old man who wore a wizard's robes and a pitiless expression.

Brutus gaped at the old man. “Who is he?”

Mouse lowered the ornate shield he'd grabbed from the wall. “It's him.”

Brutus nodded, arrow pointed at Lexi's chest. “And who's him?”

Don't think—do.

“Brutus,” I said, “allow me to introduce you to the Old Mage. He's the prick squatting inside my brother. Don't get too close to him. Because I'm going to kill him later today.”

 

Now…

 

Chapter Twenty-four

My lover dozed, head resting on my lap. I wanted to sink down to curl into his embrace, but I was doing my bit. Watching the door, and the twisted old geezer, as my Trowbridge shook off the effects of the swig of sun potion he'd taken.

The Son of Lukynae and I had decided, following the obligatory who's-the-Old-Mage conversation (the Raha'ells had been of the opinion that Lexi was a whacked-out druggie, not a pitifully possessed soul), that I'd be the last person to sip from the bottle of sun potion. Other than Trowbridge, none of the assembled pure-blooded wolves had ever taken it, and the first hit of the juice was guaranteed to be the most potent. I'd taken two doses over the last week and was half-blooded Were: it was a given that my recovery time would be swifter. Proof: Gwennie and Mouse had hardly blinked after swallowing their dose.

But the Raha'ells … Ah, they were neophytes to the potion. As feared, they'd slumped into varying degrees of slack-jawed inebriation after taking their first sip. Quite the anti-climax. Here we were supposed to be storming the castle and they were snoozing on the tile.

I carefully folded the letter I'd composed to Cordelia and lifted a hip slightly to slide the letter into my jeans pocket. For all my stealth, the movement jostled my lover. He roused from his deep sleep enough to mutter something indistinguishable under his breath.

I hummed, lightly using my nails on the bristles of his shorn hair.

His expression calmed at my touch.

It was a small thing, but it made me happy.

Plan B's details had been fixed before the bottle of juice had been tapped. Mud would be removed, hair shorn, and disguises donned. Mouse, Danen, and the others would gain entry to the grounds through the kitchen and the warren of passages that led from it to the prison yard. They'd be carrying water buckets and wearing the dead guards' uniforms. While they passed liquid refreshments among those unfortunates in the pens, word would be spread. Meanwhile, Trowbridge would be busy creating his disruption.

But before this happened, I would accompany the Old Mage to the tower and the rooms that he once called his own. Where I'd watch from a window as the old buzzard put a match to his book—my greatest contribution to my new pack's liberation being to give the cover-your-eyes-and-tuck signal and say the single word that would break the enchantments holding Merry and Ralph prisoner.

Yes. After this, it would be all action.

Though perhaps—Goddess willing—my heroic part would be played later in Threall. If not … I checked my pocket superstitiously and felt minutely better when I heard the crackle of paper.

In the meantime?

I might never get another opportunity to watch Trowbridge sleep.
He's so freakin' beautiful.
Watching his chest lift was more soothing than listening to a cat purr, more peaceful than watching leaves sway. Up. Down. Up. Down. A slow rise and fall.

My eyes burned and I looked away, wondering for the sixteenth time what was with the old man and his sleeves. He kept fidgeting with them. If their length bugged him so much why didn't he make a minute adjustment to his illusion? After all, what I was seeing amounted to mage-glamour, right? The long cowl-like sleeves, the white, disordered hair, the rope belt that cinched his tunic—all those items were no more real than his slightly yellow teeth.

My twin's still there. Submerged beneath this piece of visual trickery.

Though the glamour was a telling thing about the old wizard's personality, wasn't it? He must have a very sentimental attachment to his former body. Why else would he reproduce a wrinkle-for-wrinkle replication of it? Seriously, had he ever looked at himself in the mirror? He's ancient. Given that he could have produced a highly fictionalized version of himself, he should have gone for a few minimal upgrades. A sorely needed face-lift. Some muscle definition. A few very necessary vertical inches.

And what's with the wizard robes?

Dumbass. How can anyone run in long skirts?

Guess running away wasn't his response, was it? Come to think of it, the Old Mage's go-to reaction seemed to be magic and treachery.

Remember that. He's not physical: he doesn't jab with the fist or kick out with his legs.

Whereas I am.

Perhaps my relatively new acceptance of violence would work for me in Threall. If I moved fast and got in a few strikes to his throat and nose, maybe I could incapacitate him before he nailed me with a firebolt or one of his curses.

Sweet heavens. To be imprisoned like Merry. Not being able to run free, not being able to break loose. Not knowing how long the misery would last.
The horror of those thoughts sent a ripple of claustrophobia right through me.