Remnants of Magic (35 page)

Uprising

Chapter One

The music was dying.

Way far away, so far that Malcolm shouldn’t even hear it, the music just barely, barely played on. Just a whisper. Just a melody that his ears strained to catch. Even cupping his hands behind his pointed elven ears didn’t help. Nor trying to hum along.

But it was out there. Playing for him.

So very far away.

Dying… bit by bit.

And very soon, it would be gone forever.

Malcolm opened his eyes when Donovan’s deep voice covered the music. “Bloodhounds are trackers. It’s what you do best.”

Even though the breeze tugged at Donovan’s night-black hair, the movement of the rock dust in Donovan’s magic only stirred to that Sidhe’s will. Malcolm could see Donovan’s strength of focus through the tight, slow coil of power. You might not know it to look at Donovan, who seemed pretty controlled most of the time, that he commanded such devastating magic. He could tear a gash open in the world big enough to swallow this whole town and not even tense a muscle. Donovan was that kind of badass. Sometimes, when he was close, Malcolm could even smell the earthy scent of his magic and hear the crushing grind of rocks. And as impressive as all that magic was— and it was truly brilliant stuff— that wasn’t even the most amazing thing about Donovan. Not by a long shot.

Malcolm shook out his hands, like that could cast off some of his nerves. Getting ready for business, he shoved up the long sleeves of his t-shirt, showing off the leather bands around his wrists that Donovan had given him to cover the scars. “I’m ready. It’s just… It’s real faint.”

“We’ll find this Sidhe. Just point the way.” Donovan bound a blindfold over Malcolm’s eyes, and then lifted the headphones slung around Malcolm’s neck and settled them into place. The cushions completely encased his ears, so that if Donovan said anything else, Malcolm couldn’t hear it.

With the world closed out, all that Malcolm sensed came from magic. Even from the rooftop of his apartment building, he still caught glimpses of the lights whizzing and flickering out of the Glamour Club across the street. The magic noise from the club wasn’t too bad, though. Not so much that he couldn’t still hear the music. Straining to catch the tune again, Malcolm gripped the headphones with his hands, like that might help pick it up somehow.

Once before, he’d tracked magic; his own magic that still lingered on one of the humans that he’d Touched. And he’d found a fragment of his magic and followed it back to the person attached to it, only it wasn’t the exact human he’d been looking for. Magic was tricky. Slippery. Constantly moving and flexing. And very weirdly, it reached into the fabric of everything. Like little bitty threads. It moved through the sky. It moved through the ground. It went all over the place. Picking out just the thread that he wanted from the current flowing around them was extra tricky. Especially this faint little tune.

But he’d studied it real good. When he’d found the human whose body still held traces of his own magic, Malcolm had found this music, too. The human stole the magic; Malcolm was straight-up positive about that. That human witch, Flora, was all about stealing people’s magic. And this music belonged to a Sidhe, no doubt about that either. It was Touch magic, and only the Sidhe could make that.

A little less sure, Malcolm figured this Sidhe was a lass. The tune had a girly sound to it, he thought. Kinda higher pitched. Like violins or flutes. Kinda… well… pretty. Dainty, even.

He didn’t know. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Lass or bloke, Malcolm meant to find her. Him. Whatever.

Reaching out toward the fibers of magic flowing all about him like neon gossamer strands of ghostly pixie hair, Malcolm stretched out his hand. Shifting his fingers through the energy like caressing the soft whispers of a stream, Malcolm listened for the music he knew by heart.

And the thread he sought curled about his fingertips. A fine thread so fragile it might snap if he tugged on it. Rather than pull on it, Malcolm tilted his head to follow it with his blindfolded eyes as far as he could see before it was lost in the ocean of magic. “That way.”

The solid warmth of Donovan’s hand gripped Malcolm’s shoulder. And in the next second…

Slip!

The stretching, sliding sensation of teleportation startled him. The lurching movement nearly upset his stomach. Just like in a dream where the ground suddenly drops out so you jump to catch yourself, Malcolm jolted. Only Donovan’s hand kept him steady-ish on his feet. Malcolm widened his stance, hoping to overcome the sense of tilting. If he could open his eyes maybe he could orient himself better, but he didn’t want to mess with the magic. Not now that he had a grip on the thread he wanted.

Donovan’s hand stayed tight and when the wooziness settled down, Malcolm whispered, “I’m alright.” But he couldn’t hear himself outside his own head, which was weird and only made him feel even more disconnected from the ‘real’ and more immersed in the magic.

Malcolm lifted his hand. The thread still interlaced about his fingers. The slack lessened. Turning with it, Malcolm faced the wind. The scent of grass and trees brushed over his face. Other magic sounds reached him through the silence of the headphones, but Malcolm ignored them. Only the music mattered. The fragile, fading song that tugged at him. He pointed toward it. And…

Slip!

The ground seemed to slide beneath him, stretching to someplace new, and then snapping into place again. Malcolm pitched backward, losing his balance in the massive sense of moving. They’d teleported a lot farther this time. A lot farther. The slip lasted like forever… or about five seconds really… which was forever in teleportation time. He’d always thought of it before as instant. Only it totally wasn’t.

Donovan gripped Malcolm tighter, jerking him back to his feet before he fell on his bum. The ground beneath him really did move under his feet this time, as Malcolm worked at getting his footing. It was soft, like sand. The smell of the sea filled his lungs as he caught his breath.

Taking a moment to orient himself, Malcolm glanced out and then up. Out a ways, maybe a kilometer or so, although he couldn’t be at all sure about that, a massive curtain of magic rose from the ground and arched overhead. “What
is
that?” The colors flexed and shimmered with a rainbow of hues. He’d seen the curtain of magic in the sky before. For a long time, he’d thought the sky was like a ceiling way, way overhead, but his parents told him ‘no,’ that it just seemed that way. But they couldn’t see like he could see. They couldn’t see magic like him at all. Malcolm had been right. There was a ceiling over them, just made of magic, and it curved into the ground right out there a ways, like they were inside a giant bowl turned upside down.

The squeeze on his shoulder woke Malcolm out of his pondering. “Right, right. Find the music first. I’m on it.” He sucked in a breath and then blew it out. They’d gone so far, he didn’t keep hold of the thread this time. Malcolm lifted his face toward the sky. Ignoring the bowl thingy, he watched for the current of magic. The thread he wanted drifted along with the others, close to the surface. Malcolm reached for it, and like it had come to anticipate his caress, it floated out of the mass and stroked over his outstretched hand. The music played for him. So familiar now, but no less beautiful for it. “Getting closer now. Just there.” He pointed.

Donovan’s hand disappeared from his shoulder, and Malcolm turned to see if he’d left him. But he could still see the man, even with the blindfold on. Now he saw the magic of him only. The way it moved and twisted inside him like watching a neon rendering of the circulatory system. The dust moved about him, defining the shape of him. And like always, the magic reached down into the earth below Donovan like a pipeline of power.

Looking at this magical version of Donovan, Malcolm pointed again. “Just… Right that way a piece. We’re not far now. Just a bit past the curtain-bowl thingy.”

He felt the headphones being lifted from his head and the blindfold removed. Malcolm blinked against the setting sunlight still sparkling off the water. “I don’t understand.” He frowned, accepting the headphones Donovan handed off to him that he needed to give back to Emma, the Glamour Club DJ. “What’s with the curtain? Why can’t we go past it?”

“I think you are seeing the Great Veil. It covers Ireland and keeps out the wizards.” He nodded out to sea where Malcolm had pointed. “I know what’s out there, and you’re not ready for it. You’ve done your part, Malcolm. This is as far as you go. I’ll take it from here.”

Chapter Two

It didn’t matter the day or the hour, the party never stopped at Tiernan’s place. Donovan appeared in the space beside the pool house designated for incoming teleportation. Popping in unannounced anywhere else on the property was a fine way to get oneself shot numerous times, no questions asked. The evening party lights around the pool provided enough illumination for the armed guards to identify Donovan and acknowledge him. Most of the mansion’s windows were dark, but the grand room opening out onto the patio blazed with light and music. Inside, a dozen or so guests enjoyed the many and varied intoxicating hospitalities of the Unseelie ‘kingpin.’

Tiernan himself didn’t miss Donovan’s arrival. Leaning against the bar, he surveyed his guests with casual interest, but didn’t partake in any of the delights himself. The drink in his hand was watered down and he’d nurse it all night. His innate charisma usually convinced most that he was as buzzed as his guests. Donovan had known him too long to believe that. Those pale, almost colorless eyes of Tiernan’s missed nothing.

Subtly, Tiernan made eye contact with Monique, the vampire that he trusted with his back and many of his business concerns. She extricated herself from her donor for the evening, disentangling her long, shapely legs from the groping hands of the man on whose lap she’d reclined and upon whose wrist she’d been feeding. With a confidently sensual sway in her hips, the blonde carried her empty glass to the bar. Only when she’d taken over the watch did Tiernan slide away from the gathering and join Donovan just outside. Tiernan asked no questions, knowing Donovan too well to bother.

If the Sidhe Donovan meant to find had been anywhere in Ireland, or the threat had been anything other than wizards, he’d have brought the earthborns on this mission. Daily, they improved their skills, both magical and combat, but they weren’t the replacement for his Elite yet. As young as they were, they wouldn’t have been candidates for Elite for another couple hundred years, back when the Mounds existed and the Elites served the Unseelie queen. Now his pack of half-trained Unseelie teenagers were the only Sidhe willing to defend the fey. With the exception of Tiernan, when it served his purposes, and Tiernan was hardly more than a youngling himself, at several years shy of his first century.

“Ready to handle your wizard problem?”

Tiernan cocked an eyebrow. “What’s changed?”

“They have a Sidhe somewhere on the Isle of Man.”

Tiernan abandoned his drink on a glass-top table before twisting around and getting the attention of one of his men. “Joe.”

The human straightened from where he leaned against the patio railing. Uncrossing his arms revealed a glimpse of the holstered weapon under his jacket. Wordlessly, he reported to Tiernan.

“The safe houses on the Isle of Man,” Tiernan murmured to him.

Joe found what he needed on his phone and then handed it over. “The yellow markers are wizard-owned properties. The red one is the only one with armed guards.”

The wizards wouldn’t risk imprisoning a Sidhe in anything less than the tightest security. Donovan studied the topographical map and the positions of the markers before handing the device back to the human.

As Donovan clamped a hand onto Tiernan’s shoulder, the younger Sidhe said, “Let’s do this.”

Far older and stronger than Tiernan, Donovan handled the task of teleporting them. The pair of Sidhe vanished from the mansion and reappeared almost instantaneously on a hilltop overlooking the port town of Douglas. Donovan turned inland, focused on the farthest hill, and teleported to it. They teleported twice more before arriving close enough to the wizard stronghold to clap eyes on it.

The building itself appeared no more spectacular than any other modern, two-story home in the country. A den of horror hidden in plain sight. If the wizards used this unassuming place for the atrocities that Donovan suspected, the inside would reek of the carnage.

Lacking any trees or convenient shrubbery, the open countryside provided no cover. The Sidhe crouched down, making themselves less of a silhouette against the night sky. Donovan’s fingers burrowed through the long grass until his fingertips touched the soil. His awareness flowed through the earth as if it was an extension of himself. Which it was, when his magic merged with it.

Donovan monitored the percussion of footsteps. “Two guards pacing the perimeter. Two more on the ground floor.” Possibly more upstairs, but his earth sense couldn’t track them.

With a hunter’s patience, they timed their assault for when the guards crossed paths before them. From his pocket, Tiernan produced two throwing knives, which he flicked carelessly into the air. His dominion over metal caught the blades in mid-tumble and sent them flying.

Both guards dropped, clutching mutely at their sliced throats.

By Donovan’s magic, the ground beneath the guards turned as liquid as quicksand, swallowing them before they even ceased their death struggles. Only when he felt the thumping of their hearts silence did Donovan break contact with the soil.

Tiernan snatched his blades from the air as they returned to him,flicking off the blood with a snap of his wrist.

Creating a Glamour around himself so watchful eyes, both physical and electronic, would not spy him, Donovan appeared to fade to nearly invisible. Tiernan did the same, and as faint ghostly figures, they jogged across the open field to the building and leapt up onto the porch. Donovan extended a hand toward the door, but felt nothing pushing him back or suppressing his power. “No wards against magic.”