Chapter Twenty-Two
Morgan stirred.
Instantly abandoning the violin, she leaped to his side. The boundless power in her muscles flowed effortlessly. That would take some getting used to as well.
Leaning over him, she stroked the hair back from his face, watching ravenously for every small shift in movement, every telltale sign of life.
His dark lashes lifted, and his eyes were cloudy with confusion. The Power his body contained… it almost made her reel. He carried a massive inferno of magic, and she had never been able to sense it before now. She had known he was skilled, but she had never suspected anything like this.
Frowning as his gaze fixed on her, he reached for the area of his chest where Isabeau had stabbed him.
“Yes,” she whispered, laying her hand to his cheek. “It happened.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice was gravelly, as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep. “I… died.”
“Yes,” she said again.
Leaning down, she nuzzled him. The last of the hunter’s spray had worn off, and his warm, masculine scent was intoxicating. This moment they shared was so fleeting. She concentrated on soaking up everything so she could remember.
When she pressed her lips to his, he kissed her, touching lightly at the skin beside her mouth, just as he always did when he awakened first thing in the morning.
Then he drew back sharply, nostrils flaring. As he stared at her in incredulity, she sat back on her heels. Letting him go felt like another kind of death.
“What happened?” he demanded, springing up to crouch before her. “You’re a lycanthrope!”
This time she didn’t bother to repeat an affirmative. The evidence of what she had become was clearly before him.
Whirling, he stared around the empty great hall. The two bodies sprawled on the cracked and ruined floor were their only witnesses. His breathing roughened. “I could have sworn I hurt Isabeau too badly for her to strike at you too.”
“You did,” she told him. Standing, she walked over to the violin case and slung it over her shoulder. “You also broke the castle’s foundation. The court is evacuating. Isabeau didn’t do this to me. Azrael did.”
At that, he spun to face her. “You spoke to… you saw Lord Azrael?”
“First I prayed to him. I told him we wanted to help him get his knife back, and I asked him to free you.” This was too hard to say face-to-face, when he was staring at her like that. Turning, she walked away at random, traversing the great hall aimlessly. “Then I heard him speaking to me, and… everything happened the way it happened. But Isabeau had cast the geas on you using Azrael’s knife, and the first blow from his blade is irreversible, so the only way to free you from the geas was through death. I didn’t know that when I asked for your freedom. By the time I learned, it was too late. You were already dead.”
“You’re saying I’m still under the geas.” A hollowness entered his voice, along with an edge of urgency. He followed her in pursuit across the hall. “And Isabeau didn’t die.”
“As far as I know, she didn’t.” She couldn’t run from what she had to say any longer. Turning, she dug the heels of both hands into her eyes as she said from the back of her throat, “I was so selfish. I’ve never done anything so selfish in my life. But you were dead, and I couldn’t bear it. So I begged and pleaded, and I offered Azrael a wager. I asked him to let me play for him, and he did. And then he gave you back.”
“He gave me back to a life of slavery?” Morgan snarled. Hard hands clamped on her shoulders. “You should have left me dead!”
Dropping her hands from her eyes, she exclaimed, “I know!”
He whispered, “This nightmare will never end. I’ll never be free of Isabeau. How could you do such a thing?”
“You’re no longer under a geas to obey Isabeau.” She had to force the words out. It was more difficult than anything she had ever said. Bearing the burden of what she had done was heavier than carrying Azrael’s knife. “Azrael gave control of the geas to me.”
Horror and betrayal etched his features. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before. “You’re saying I’m your slave now?”
Her face was wet. She whispered, “It was the only way I could get you back.”
“You don’t have me back!” he roared. “You took something that wasn’t supposed to be yours!”
The words echoed off the walls of the hall like bullets, each one striking at her where she was most vulnerable, underneath her skin.
He pivoted on his heel and stalked away.
She called after him, “Stop!”
Watching his powerful figure freeze broke what was left of her heart.
Walking to him, she came around to face him. Now the betrayal in his expression had turned to loathing.
Just as she had known it would.
She forced herself to concentrate on what she needed to do. Specifics matter. How you phrase things, what elements you choose to put in a spell or a bargain, or what you choose to leave out.
“Listen to me,” she said. “This is the last time you will ever have to see me.” Well, except for the Wild Hunt, but that was another issue entirely. “This is very last time you will ever have to hear me speak. Every order Isabeau ever gave you means nothing now. I order you to live a completely free and autonomous life. I order you to obey no one else’s commands, unless you wish it. I order you to go find joy wherever you may, with whomever you may—to find love, if you like, with someone clever, kind, and educated while you sightsee all the beauty in the world. I order you to follow your heart and your best impulses. I order you to rediscover what it is like to live a life of your own choosing. I order the geas to rest forever and never compel you to do anything again. These words I speak are paramount. Nothing I can possibly say at any point for the rest of my life will ever override the orders I give you right now. Anything else that may fall out of my mouth will be simple conversation, and will signify nothing.”
A muscle bunched in his jaw. He said through gritted teeth, “Are you finished?”
Wiping her face, she thought through what she had just said. It was as good as she could make it. “Yes.”
Stepping around her, he strode to one of the doorways. She turned to watch him go. As he neared it, he began to run. Clearly, he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Well, neither could she.
She left the great hall. Everything was in chaos. Servants were carting out treasures and artwork as fast as they could work. Kallah was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she was helping tend to Isabeau. Thankfully, Sid didn’t see Modred either, or anyone she wanted to say good-bye to. No one paused to talk to her. She was, after all, nobody of any importance to them.
Leaving the castle, she walked the crowded road that led out of town. Then she climbed the long, rolling hills to reach the vantage point where the caravan had once stopped and she had gotten her first glimpse of the castle.
Turning, she looked back one last time. How picturesque and romantic it all looked in the moonlight. As she looked over the scene, one of the main turrets tilted and collapsed with a rolling noise like thunder.
Sighing, she turned away. It was time to try out her new form. For the first time, she reached for the shapeshift, and when she had changed, she found the strap on the violin case fit perfectly around her neck. Azrael had planned well.
She began to run down the road. From various things she had overheard, several crossover passageways ran between Avalon and Earth, but she only knew of one. And this time she knew how to sense it.
She ran through the night and into the morning, reveling in the tirelessness of her lycanthrope body. When she came to the edge of the river where the caravan had once camped, she paused to take a long drink from the cool running water.
There, for the first time, she saw the reflection of what she had become, the monstrous visage, the wicked long teeth, and the powerful, hunched shoulders. It shocked her into changing back into her human form. Wrapping her arms around herself, she sobbed for everything she had lost.
Her humanity.
Morgan.
When she had finished, she wiped off her face and drank more water. Then she pulled out of her pocket the small handkerchief-tied bundle that contained the diminished contents from her performance hat.
Opening it, she fingered through the last of the coins and jewelry. Picking out the small, perfect diamond she had forgotten to give back to Morgan, she threw the rest into the river. She wrapped the diamond in the handkerchief, tucked it into the violin case, changed back into the lycanthrope and started to run again.
She could sense the magic of the crossover passageway as she drew closer, and she was confident none of the guards stationed there would know what had happened. There hadn’t been time for anyone back at the castle to send word. As she loped into the clearing, where she had once been held overnight, a guard strolled unhurriedly out of a nearby building.
As he walked to stand in front of the entrance to the passageway, she picked up speed. Drawing closer, she bared her teeth and growled telepathically, Get out of my way.
Fear flashed across his face. He hesitated only for a moment, but she was a Hound. For all he knew, she was acting on the Queen’s orders. He stepped aside quickly.
She bounded into the passageway and loped along the magical path. The forest around her changed, and then she burst out the other side, into England. The guards on the other end were as clueless as the first. They watched her race through the encampment and did nothing to try to stop her.
She didn’t pause from her breakneck speed until she had put a few miles between her and the passageway. Then she slowed to a stop and changed back into her human form. She might be free from Avalon at last, but she also had no idea where she was.
In any case, there was no need for further strain. Walking along the shadowed forest until she cooled down, she reached for one of the Djinn she had bargained with, calling out telepathically, Jamael?
Enough time passed that she began to wonder if calling him would work. As far as the Djinn knew, she had no telepathy, and Jamael would not know what her telepathic voice sounded like.
Then a swirling tornado of energy appeared. It coalesced into the form of a tall, elegantly spare male, with nut-brown skin and darker chestnut hair flecked with gray at the temples. Jamael was a first-generation Djinn, and the Power in his shining, diamond-like eyes rocked her back a step.
His usual smile of greeting was missing. Gazing at her gravely, Jamael said, “You have been sorely missed, Sidonie. I see you have also undergone a great change.”
She tightened her jaw. She had done her crying back on the riverbank. “I have. How long have I been missing?”
“Two months,” he told her gently.
She flinched at the news. Morgan had said the time slippage wasn’t much, and from his perspective, she supposed he was right, but two months was still a shock. Rubbing at dry, tired eyes, she muttered, “It could have been worse.”
Jamael replied, “Yet clearly, whatever happened, it still could have been so much better.”
His compassion touched areas that felt raw from unhealed wounds. Pressing her lips together, she straightened her spine. “I want to call in that favor you owe me.”
“I’m honored to be of service.” He bowed. “What can I do for you?”
As much as she had longed to go home to New York, she wasn’t ready to. She needed a halfway house, somewhere she could come to terms with everything that had happened.
“I need somewhere to go,” she said. “Somewhere wild and windswept, with a lot of room to run. Somewhere I can just be for a while, where I can recover from—” She cut that sentence off without finishing it. “And I need a cell phone, so I can call my people. Also, I-I don’t have any money with me. Jamael, I don’t know how to condense what I need into one favor. Should I call on the other Djinn who owe me favors too?”
At that, he strode to her with hands outstretched. “My dear Sidonie, be at ease. Do not concern yourself with counting favors and managing obligations. You may use my favor to acquire everything you need. I will gladly help out of pleasure in knowing you are still alive and we have not lost your beautiful music.”
The Djinn were not usually known for such generosity. After everything, the relief in hearing his offer was staggering. Taking hold of his hands, she let Jamael sweep her away.
* * *
When Morgan left Sidonie in the great hall, the sense of betrayal burned like acid in his belly. The orders she gave him might have been well-intentioned, but they meant nothing—she only had to change her mind and rescind those original orders, and she would have him back on a leash again.
But at least he was free from Isabeau and her orders. That one thing impelled him forward.
Servants and guards raced through the castle, pulling priceless tapestries from the walls and carrying out furniture. Morgan caught sight of Harrow and strode to catch him by the shoulder.
The other Hound turned swiftly. “Morgan! I heard you were dead!”
“I’m not,” he said. “And the Hounds no longer work for the Queen. Find Johan, gather the others together, and go to Earth. I want you to wait for me at our encampment outside Shrewsbury. I have some business to take care of, then I’ll join you.”
His expression filling with curiosity, Harrow said, “Yes, sir.”
Harrow was one of the decent Hounds. He had once been an officer in the British army, and Morgan had always felt bad for forcing the transformation on him.
Morgan added telepathically, Don’t say a word to the others, but when I get there, we’re going to cull the ranks. Isabeau no longer controls what we do, and we’re going to live the way we’re meant to. The way we want.
Harrow’s eyes shone with sudden wetness. Do you mean I might be able to go home to my family?
Morgan tightened his fingers on Harrow’s shoulder. I mean exactly that, but we need to clean up our mess first. I’m not going to loose Hounds on the world who’ll be a danger to others. I hope you’ll help me.
Gladly, sir!
He watched Harrow race off. Then, cloaking himself to avoid unwanted attention, he went to the stables, which were half-evacuated already. His gelding had not yet been taken. The horse was restless and uneasy in his stall, but he came readily enough to Morgan’s familiar voice and touch.
Saddling him, Morgan rode to his cottage to collect his velvet bag of weapon spells. Nothing in the supply bag he had left on the roof of the inn mattered anymore, but the spelled jewels were too deadly to leave behind. Besides, they would come in handy.
Then he left both castle and town behind.
Riding through the rest of the night, he didn’t stop until midmorning, when he reached a valley thick with long grasses and overgrown with wildflowers. As the wind blew from the west, it caused the grass to ripple like waves on a sea.
Hobbling the gelding so it could rest and graze, he walked through the valley for the first time in centuries.
There were the ruins of a great castle that had once sat facing the morning sun. There had once been a large, thriving metropolis too, but now the only things left were the foundations of stone walls covered in moss and lichen and whispers of long-ago enchantments.
He spent the afternoon in the ruins, listening to the ghosts of magic while the lonely wind played with his hair. Some of the spells had been his. He remembered the banners and pageantry of a prosperous long-ago kingdom that had been built on principles of rule of law, justice, chivalry, bravery in battle, generosity in victory, and courtesy to women. It had been a good, fine dream, and he’d been proud to be a part of it.
He had not been there for its ending, although he should have been. He should have died along with the others, fighting for their kingdom and their homes, but he had been held captive somewhere else and forbidden to return.
Only when the sun began to drop toward the horizon did Morgan rouse himself to leave. Collecting his gelding, he rode to his next destination, the placid, silvery bowl of a shining lake surrounded by a peaceful forest. Dismounting, he walked to the edge of the shore and knelt on one knee. The most ancient Powers of the world were due such courtesies.
The surface of the lake remained untroubled and serene, but the air around him acquired a listening attitude.
He had come as a supplicant, so he bowed his head. He said, “I would seek justice in his name. Will you let me borrow it for a short while, my lady? For his sake?”
Silence greeted his request for so long, he almost gave up and left. Then, as the gloaming twilight stole over the scene, a graceful, powerful woman’s arm rose out of the darkening water.
In her hand, she held a long sword sheathed in a scabbard worked with jewels and incantations.
Morgan’s heart rose to his throat. He stood as the woman’s arm flexed and threw the sword. It sailed end over end to him.
Plucking it out of the air, he bowed to the Lady of the Lake, and promised, “Thank you, my lady. I will return it very soon.”
The arm sank down below the water’s surface, and after the ripples died down, the surface was smooth and as placid as before.
Morgan watched and waited until the last of the ripples had died down, paying due tribute to the Lady of the Lake. When he turned away, his purpose settled like a dark mantle across his shoulders. Fastening the belt of the scabbard around his waist, he mounted his horse.
Revenge and justice.
It had taken far too long, but now he would have them both.
The summer palace of the Light Fae Queen was a lighter, more elegant affair than her castle, a place meant for dalliances, art and music festivals held along the seashore, and evening regattas with golden witchlights on sailboats shining on midnight blue water.
The city surrounding the palace was larger than the town by the castle. Morgan left the gelding in a safe location, in a nearby clearing by a stream. Then he strode to the city gates.
They were closed and barred. Frightened faces looked out of the peepholes on either side. The captain of the watch called out to him. “We heard rumors you may have survived the calamity that befell the castle, my lord.”
Calamity was as good a word as any, he supposed.
He pointed at the gates. “Open them.”
“I-I have orders to k-keep them closed at all costs,” the captain stammered. “Please forgive me, my lord!”
The captain’s name was Bruin, Morgan knew. He had a wife and a child.
Morgan told him softly, “Run. Spread the word. Tell everyone to run while they can. I will not leave a single stone standing in this place. It’s more warning than any of you gave my people, and more mercy. Eventually you might rebuild again, but on this day, I will kill anybody who opposes me. Go.”
The captain hesitated, then his face disappeared from the peephole, and a moment later, the guards threw both gates wide open, abandoned their post, and ran.
Morgan strode down the main street into the city. Reaching deep for the earth magic, he caused the ground to shake. Terrified people raced past him, clutching babies, children, and random household goods. Buildings began to collapse around him.
When he reached the outside steps of the palace, more guards appeared.
These were higher in seniority than the guards at the gate, and a few were proficient magic users. Looking doomed, they threw spells at him—fiery morningstars and other offensive spells.
But Morgan wore his hate like a carapace, and he had forged it with magic. Their spells sizzled harmlessly against his shield. Conserving his personal energy, he used his array of weaponized jewels in return, throwing them in swift succession.
Spells of blindness hit the palace guard, along with death curses, flesh corrosion, morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that made them fight each other, until they were soon overcome.
Catching sight of a palace captain, Morgan cast a whip of magic around the other man’s throat and forced him to his knees. He asked, “Where is she?”
The man’s eyes bulged as he clawed uselessly at his own throat. “My lord, I don’t know. I swear it.”
“Oh, let him go,” Modred said from the top of the palace steps. “You were never one to take your anger out on battle fodder, anyway.”
Morgan looked up. Modred descended the steps at a leisurely pace. He wore his ensorcelled battle armor that shone bright silver in the sun. He looked heroic, handsome, and he held his drawn sword relaxed at his side.
Morgan’s entire focus narrowed. He had waited centuries, hoping he might get the chance for this one moment.
Releasing his hold on the palace captain’s throat, he told the man, “I will give you the same chance I gave the others. Go tell the palace servants and guard to run while they can.”
Coughing, the captain scrambled to his feet and raced up the stairs past Modred, who never bothered to watch him go.
As Modred reached the bottom of the steps, Morgan turned to face him. “Where is she?”
“Gone to a hiding place you know nothing about,” Modred replied. “She used you like a tool, but she never trusted you. She always knew better than that. She left me behind just in case.”
“Foolish of you not to go with her.” Morgan began to circle around the other man, leisurely stalking his prey.
“Well, what can you do.” Modred looked ironic, while he turned to keep facing Morgan. “When we heard rumors circulating that people had seen you leave the castle alive, neither of us believed it. She was, after all, the one who had stuck the knife in your heart, and I had watched her do it. The Hounds had deserted, but that was no surprise, since you weren’t around to keep them in control. So here we are. It’s been a long road getting here, hasn’t it?”
“You killed my boy.” The raw words burned Morgan’s mouth. “My good, kind, just king.”
“Of course I did, you fool,” Modred said. “What else did you expect? For Isabeau to truly solidify her hold on her new kingdom, she had to eradicate the humans who lived here in Avalon. As short-lived as you were, you multiplied like vermin. Besides, he wasn’t good enough to vanquish me. I was the better swordsman.”
“You’re not better than me.” Morgan drew the sword from its scabbard.
Modred’s gaze fixed on the blade and widened. He whispered, “Now, that’s a sight I had not expected to see again in my life.”
“No?” He strode forward. “Come take a closer look. I promise you, it will be the last thing you see.”
Modred sprang to meet him, raising his sword to parry Morgan’s attack, and the clash of blades rang out over the empty square. The Light Fae noble was fast and lethally efficient.
With every blow Modred struck, and every maneuver, Morgan imagined him using the same tactics in that final battle centuries ago, the flawless footwork, the elegant pivot.
Morgan had watched him closely ever since and had learned it all.
When Modred effortlessly switched the sword from his right hand to the left, Morgan was ready and smoothly adapted to the change. With a quick lunge, Modred sought to drive him back, and he accommodated the attack, deflecting while he retreated.
Two things he had learned—how to hate, and how to wait. He didn’t have to rush to completion, or extend himself needlessly.
Instead, he let the other male work, until gradually, the sweat stood out on Modred’s forehead and he began to tire, and Morgan could see in the other man’s gaze that Modred was beginning to realize he had been playing with him all along.
“Gods damn you.” Modred’s handsome lips pulled into a snarl. He exploded in a furious attack, raining a rapid series of blows on Morgan’s guard. “Don’t fucking dance around. Fight me!”
Now it was Morgan’s turn to give him an ironic smile. “As you wish.”
He drove forward, smashing with the force of a sledgehammer at Modred’s defense. His attack had nothing to do with technique, elegance, or footwork. It was pure, murderous intent.
At long last, Modred faltered. His back foot slipped, the one bearing his weight, and when he staggered, Morgan found the slip in his guard and slid his sword through it.
While both men wore magical protections, Modred’s ensorcelled armor could not withstand a direct blow from the sword Morgan carried.
The tip of Morgan’s blade sliced through the metal like it was mere leather. He felt the sword grate against the bone of a rib, and then it went all the way through. Morgan stepped closer, pushing it farther in until the hilt grated against armor, and he stood face-to-face with Modred, looking into his eyes as the crisis in his body began to take over.
“When you struck him down, did you really believe you weren’t going to be mine?” Morgan whispered, watching unblinkingly as Modred’s gaze began to darken. “Did you relax over the years? Did you think I might have given in or broken? I never did. You killed my boy. I watched you every day. I resent every breath you’ve taken, begrudge you every meal you’ve eaten, every smile, every laugh. I wish I could kill you twice.”
A ghost of a laugh left Modred’s pale lips, along with a gush of crimson blood. He gasped, “Once will be quite sufficient.”
Modred’s knees buckled, and as he went down, Morgan pulled the sword out, making the rest of it go quicker. When Modred’s eyelids closed for the last time, Morgan laid his hand over the dead man’s face. It was the only area of his body unprotected by the armor.
Whispering a firespell, he released it quickly and stood over Modred’s body until it had burned to ash.
Finally it was done. Breathing evenly and flexing his shoulders back, Morgan sheathed the sword as he dug deeper and reached harder for more Earth magic.
He had never let his Power flow in such an ungoverned flood before. It poured out of him, as relentless as a tidal wave.
He didn’t rein it in again until the summer palace had broken apart completely and the very last of the ruins had slid into the foaming, turbulent sea.