Chapter Four
The long silver knife slid home in Morgan’s side, slicing through the still healing flesh of the original wound. A spear of pain lanced him. Sucking in a harsh breath, he hunched over as he slammed the other man’s hand aside to grab the hilt and yank the blade out. It came free with a gush of fresh, red blood.
The pain made it difficult for him to control his lycanthrope instincts, and the silver from the weapon had not yet hit his system enough to dampen his abilities. He felt his teeth elongate and his face change.
He snarled, “Back off!”
The ghoul who had stabbed him leaped back as if scalded, and his gray face twisted. In an injured Cockney accent, he accused, “’Ey now, that ain’t very friendly-like, and after I done you a favor too.”
“You didn’t do me any favors,” Morgan snapped. “I paid you quite handsomely to stick a knife in me.”
He could feel the silver’s poison beginning to burn through his veins, and his features eased back to normal. He’d kept his Beretta close, in case the ghoul decided to betray him, but the creature looked spooked and ready to bolt out of the alley.
“You is one crazy motherfucker,” the ghoul declared. “You didn’t say nuthin ’bout bein’ no lycanthrope! What if you ’ad taken off me hand for sticking you like we ’ad agreed?”
“I didn’t, did I?” He pressed hard to staunch the bleeding. Elation threaded through the pain. The geas hadn’t kicked in to force him to protect himself. He had just gained weeks more of freedom. “Let me know if you want to make the same amount next month too.”
Greed warred with caution on the ghoul’s long, mournful features, and for a moment he looked remarkably like Giles had when Morgan had last seen the doctor.
“I dunno,” the ghoul muttered. “What if next time you doesn’t manage to control that beast of yourn?”
“Up to you,” Morgan said, losing interest in the creature. Having bought himself more time, he could always find someone else to hire for the deed.
“’Ey now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Calculation glittered in the ghoul’s eyes. “But I’m thinkin’ there may be a price hike for me services. I could use a little danger money as a bit o’ insurance.”
Morgan coughed out an unamused laugh and didn’t bother to reply. He had already paid the ghoul more than enough. Limping out of the alley, he took a careful look around. It was the early hours of the morning, and the London street was deserted.
Walking carefully to his parked Audi, he eased behind the wheel and drove to the rooms he had rented. The small furnished flat was quiet and private, tucked at the end of a mews in a comfortable neighborhood.
When he had initially walked the streets of the neighborhood, he had found no hint of any major Power nearby, and the scents he picked up were mostly human. The location was perfect for his purposes, unremarkable in every way.
As his magical abilities had gradually returned, he had cast subtle cloaking spells around the area that would repel all but the most intelligent and determined eyes from noticing the red front door that led to the flat.
Then he began to gather any texts that were reputed to make mention of Azrael’s Athame, even if only in passing. Late one night, he drove to Oxford to slip into the Bodleian Library. One of the oldest libraries in Europe, the Bodleian had an extensive wing devoted to the history, politics, folklore, religions, and magic systems of the Elder Races.
The library was guarded by gargoyles and shrouded in magical protections, but none of the protections were a match for Morgan’s skills. He took everything related to Azrael, Lord Death, along with the books that focused on the most ancient magic items.
Between long hours of research, he built an arsenal for himself—casting spells of blindness, creating shields strong enough to hold against a dragon’s fire, death curses, flesh corrosion, deadly fireballs called morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that could make armies lose control and fight each other.
He had set them all into magic-quality jewels so when the new injury dampened his magic ability, he would still have ways to defend himself. When he was finished, he had a wealth of weapons at hand, and they all fit into a velvet pouch spelled to conceal the deadly Power it contained.
He had created healing potions too, pouring the precious liquid into small stoppered vials. The healing potions wouldn’t work on wounds made of silver, but in his experience, it was always handy to have a healing potion on hand. One never knew when one would need it.
He had also stocked the kitchen with high-protein foods and alcohol, and plenty of medicinal supplies—more antibiotics, bandages, a variety of pain medications, IV supplies, and a metal stand, a double-sided makeup mirror with magnification, and a suturing kit. This time he’d had the luxury to plan ahead to deal properly with this latest injury.
When he arrived back at the flat, he limped to the kitchen, where he had laid out on the table everything he would need after meeting with the ghoul. Easing into a chair, he opened the nearby bottle of scotch, took a stiff drink, then set to work.
The first step was to give himself a shot to numb the area of the wound. After that, things got easier.
With access to the right supplies, and having the ability to treat the wound immediately instead of suffering from blood loss, he could stitch himself up. He had done it before.
He detached from the chore, watching himself clinically as he tilted the makeup mirror so the magnified side reflected the point of entry where the knife had slid in.
Carefully he sutured himself, and when he was finished, he bandaged the wound. Even though he hated narcotics, he shook out a couple of the strongest pain pills from a bottle and swallowed them with another long pull from the scotch bottle.
Then he slid an IV needle into the vein at his wrist, attached a bag of saline solution, and carried it into the bedroom, where he hung it off the metal stand he’d placed by the bed. Carefully he eased onto the mattress.
As he rested his head back onto the pillow, he smiled in grim triumph.
He had just gained weeks more of freedom. Weeks more of not having to look into Isabeau’s eyes or look upon Modred’s handsome, hated face. Weeks more to search for possible ways to either break the geas’s hold or to find ways to act around it.
Not that long ago, he had longed for just such an opportunity, but he hadn’t dared hope for it. Now it was his.
One by one, his muscles relaxed as the medication kicked in.
In a few days, he could even go to Paris. There was an Elven tome on the seven Primal Powers in the Louvre that was reputed to explore in depth each of the Elder Races gods’ many aspects. He needed to examine the book to see if it mentioned Azrael’s Athame.
He could walk along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and breakfast in a café along the Seine. He could attend another one of Sidonie Martel’s concerts.
The memory of her impassioned music was like another knife to his middle, filling him with a sweet, piercing pain. With steady focus, he breathed through it.
Life was full of pain. He could handle it.
The narcotics and the scotch did their work. He didn’t fall asleep so much as slide into unconsciousness where dreams and memories twisted together like the dark, bare limbs of trees in winter.
“How’s this, Morgan? Is this right?” The boy’s voice cracked, a harbinger of the man he would become.
“Not like that. Here, let me show you.” He adjusted the boy’s grip on the sword. “Like this. You’re too kind. If you have to pull your sword, then grip it like you’re prepared to use it. You don’t want to slap your enemy with the flat of the blade. Not unless you want to make him laugh while he kills you.”
The boy’s grin was bright and abashed. When he smiled, he lit everything around him. “That’s what Kay and I do when we fight each other.”
“Kay is your brother.” Morgan smiled. “Of course you don’t want to really hurt each other.”
Then something had happened to interrupt their sparring lesson. Morgan could never remember what. Maybe someone had called the boy’s name, and he had sprinted off to handle yet another issue that had arisen with the mantle of new kingship that had settled on his too-young shoulders.
Even as Morgan tried to hold on to the conversation, it faded into the distant past, to be replaced by another dream of an event that had happened much later.
The day had started so auspiciously. The jangle of horse harnesses and the stamp of hooves mingled with dogs’ eager barking. The crisp, cold air bit the skin on his cheeks.
Morgan looked up just as the king rode by, laughing at something one of his men had said. Just like his smile, his laughter lit everything around him. Morgan smiled as he always did when he heard it.
He had not yet mounted his gelding and stood casually with the reins looped through his fingers. There was still time. The guests were assembling, and the hunt had not yet started.
“Good morning.” The woman’s voice came from behind him, and he turned to face a beautiful Light Fae noblewoman who smiled at him. Leading her own palfrey by the reins, she was dressed to ride in warm wool and furs. Jewels sparked at her wrists and graceful throat. “You must be Morgan. The king’s merlin, they call you. The famous falcon at his wrist.”
“Good morning, my lady.” Morgan bowed. “You are correct. I am Morgan. Are you ready for the king’s wild hunt?”
“Only Death may lead the true Wild Hunt,” she replied as she arched one perfect brow. “And when Lord Azrael rides, no one is ready.”
He inclined his head. “True. But in this human court, the king’s wild hunt is in honor of Azrael and part of his Yuletide celebration. As such, it should be much more pleasurable for most people than Lord Death’s Wild Hunt.”
“I love to hunt. I am Isabeau.” She extended one slender hand, and when he took it, he scanned her Power. She was a strong sorceress, but Morgan had a rare, fierce talent for magic, and she was no match for him.
If she had been wearing Azrael’s Athame, its presence would have burned in his mind’s eye, and he would never have dismissed her so casually. But she had been all too aware of that, and she had hidden the knife in anticipation of meeting him. Even then she had plotted her course with meticulous care.
Courteously, he bent to brush the air over her hand with his lips.
“Your majesty,” Morgan murmured. He had taken the Queen of the Light Court for one of her handmaidens.
As he straightened, a handsome Light Fae male strolled over. As he joined them, Isabeau gestured toward him. “This is Modred, my escort for this morn. We are much taken with your human court.”
“His majesty will be glad to hear it,” Morgan told her, his voice easy and untroubled. He had been so comfortable then, back when he first gazed upon their doom. “He was pleased when he heard that representatives of the Light Court would be visiting, and extremely honored when you chose to grace us with your own presence.”
Both Modred and Isabeau turned to regard the king. Something moved in Modred’s gaze, assessment perhaps, or calculation. Modred remarked, “He’s very young to be king, isn’t he? He must be grateful to have you by his side.”
Morgan did not reply. His gaze remained on Isabeau as she turned her attention back to him. She gave him a pretty, charming smile. “What I wouldn’t give to have a merlin like you on my own wrist.”
On the bed in the quiet London flat, Morgan stirred restlessly.
Kill them, he tried to say to the much younger man he had once been, a young man who had come to the height of his own Power just as his young king had come to the height of his. They are predators looking at the king’s courtiers like so many sheep. Kill them before they grow too strong. Kill them while you can.
But as much as he had tried to find a way over the centuries, he had never discovered how to conquer time so that his younger self could hear when he called out.
And Modred had become the Light Fae ambassador to the king’s court while Isabeau laid her plans for Morgan like a spider patiently spinning its web.
He woke in a sweat and lay looking at the shadowed ceiling until he could feel the early morning light grow outside, and the unquiet memories settled into the ancient past where they belonged.
Only then did he stir. To his own sensitive nose, he stank, smelling of chemicals and blood, so he eased himself carefully off the bed and took the metal stand with the IV into the bathroom, where he washed up.
Something, some small noise, made him turn off the faucets abruptly. Holding his breath, he tilted his head to one side and listened intently, but whatever he had heard was gone.
Still, he pulled out the IV needle from his wrist and moved to the bedside table where he had set his Beretta. Then he prowled through the empty flat, checking out windows and opening the front door to look down the length of the mews.
A newspaper lay on the front doorstep. Everything looked quiet and peaceful, just as an early morning should, but when he drew a breath, he recognized a familiar scent—the scent of a creature that had disappeared from Isabeau’s court weeks ago.
Someone she had wanted back badly enough that she had sent Morgan to hunt him down and bring back to her. That task had led Morgan to the confrontation with the knights from Oberon’s Dark Court, and it had resulted in the injuries that had ultimately set him free.
He had not been as successful as he had thought in hiding his trail. The puck Robin had found him.
The geas shifted uneasily, like the coils of a python sliding around a man’s body. Tensing, he waited to see what would happen. Would it force him to obey Isabeau’s earlier order to hunt Robin down and bring him back to her? Or would her latest words bear the greater weight?
When the geas subsided, he knew. Her last words to him were the ones that carried the most weight. He was still free, for now.
With a sharp gaze, he studied every detail of the scene—along the rooftop, the shadowed doorway of the shop across the street at the end of the mews—but there was no sign of the puck and no sign or scent of anyone else.
Then he noticed another thing. None of the other flats in the mews had received a folded newspaper. Bending with care, his gun held at the ready, he knocked the paper open. Despite what he had expected, there was nothing tucked inside.
Instead, a black-and-white photo of Sidonie Martel leaped out at him from the front page. Underneath her photo, the headline said FAMOUS MUSICIAN MISSING AFTER CAR CRASH.
A sprawling message had been written in black ink across the paper.
The Queen has her.
The words kicked him in the teeth. Morgan’s breathing stopped, then fury roared up in response.
The puck had not just found him. Robin had studied him carefully and struck a calculated blow.
Gathering up the newspaper, he carried it inside and flung it across the sitting room with such force it hit the opposite wall with a crack like a whip. He stalked through the small flat then back again.
No, he thought. By gods, no. I WILL NOT BE MANIPULATED LIKE THIS!
After centuries—centuries—he had just won a tenuous measure of freedom for himself, and he had no idea how long he might keep it. If he was going to have any hope of striking a blow against Isabeau and Modred, it was vitally important he continue to follow every avenue of research on the Athame’s geas that he could. He could not risk throwing all that away for a stranger.
Unbidden, an image of Sidonie Martel came to mind, along with her joyous, passionate music. She was so beautiful, so toweringly talented.
For those very two things alone, Isabeau would be cruel to her. Robin had known that.
Breathing hard, Morgan ran his fingers through his hair as conflicting impulses tore at him.
Sidonie Martel means nothing to me, he thought harshly. I enjoy her music, that’s all. I don’t owe her a thing. Not a blasted thing.
Silence was all the flat gave him in response. After tensely listening to the quiet emptiness for a long while, he strode to the bedroom, pulled out his knapsack, and began to pack.
* * *
Once the wagon train had made its way down the winding road to the castle, it disbanded like segments of a giant centipede falling apart, as various components went off in different directions.
Sid had jumped out of the wagon along with her fellow travelers, but when she would have followed them, a sharp whistle brought her up short.
They didn’t put her with the young Light Fae they had collected along the road. Instead, they put her with a large pile of barrels and wooden boxes they stacked in the stables, shackling one of her wrists with a chain to a metal ring that was bolted to a wooden beam.
She was there to be counted as part of the trolls’ tribute, she assumed.
Then they forgot to feed her.
As the light of day passed into darkness, then blossomed into the new morning, she drifted beyond fear and simple anger into a kind of incensed exhaustion.
She had enough room on the chain to reach a bucket that had been set nearby. It was partially full of water that was none too clean, and probably laced with horse spit, but after a certain point she became too thirsty to care. When the water was gone, she used the bucket to relieve herself.
The sound of voices roused her, and stiffly she uncurled from a thin layer of straw that had been her bed. There were three voices, all male, one sounding clearly in command, asking questions while the other two answered. They appeared to be tallying a long list of items.
“Hey,” Sid called out, her voice hoarse from disuse. She stood, yanking irritably at the chain attached to her wrist. “Hey! What is wrong with you people?!”
Silence greeted her shout. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps, and the nearby doors were pulled open. As bright sunlight spilled in she had to squint and turn her face away.
Three men strode in, led by one tall figure. He stopped in front of her and asked in a cultured, pleasant voice, “What is this?”
The two men behind him shuffled their feet. “Ah, my lord,” one of them said as he consulted the papers he held, “this is the trolls’ semiannual tribute.”
“The trolls gave the Queen a person?” The first male raised one eyebrow. He was richly dressed and handsome, with the characteristic blond hair of the Light Fae pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck, a sharp, angular face, and an ironical gaze.
“I’ve been kidnapped and unlawfully detained,” Sidonie said between her teeth. “I’m a Canadian citizen, and you have me chained up like an animal. No, that’s not true. Animals usually get treated much better than this. At least they get fed. I’ve been here like this since yesterday with no food and only stale horse water to drink.”
“Oh, dear,” said the man. He turned to look at his two companions. “How did this happen?”
Under his steady gaze, the other two attempted to stammer out an explanation. One forgot to tell the other of her presence. Or maybe she hadn’t been added to the inventory. She couldn’t have been added, or he would have noticed.
Oh… oh, yes, my lord, it did say so right there on the inventory list: one musician. No magic.
Listening to their excuses, Sid hung on to her patience by a thread. Finally she snapped, “At this point, does it matter?”
The well-dressed Light Fae angled his head back at her. “Why, no. I don’t suppose it does.”
She held up her wrist. “Will you please unchain me?”
The Light Fae nobleman gestured. “Harkin, if you would, free the lady from her confinement.”
One of the other men hurried to obey. As he unlocked the shackle and it fell from Sid’s wrist, relief washed over her, leaving her feeling light-headed. Finally she was talking to someone in charge, and what’s more, he was listening to her. It looked like this whole, long nightmare might be over with soon.
“Are you really a musician?” the nobleman asked with a smile. “Or did the trolls mess that up too?”
“Yes, I’m a musician,” she replied as she rubbed at her wrist. Should she tell him that the troll who had kidnapped her hadn’t really been a troll? Or should she heed her kidnapper’s warning and stay silent about his part in this debacle?
Watching her with interest, the nobleman asked, “Are you any good?”
She frowned at him. “As it happens, yes, I am, but the only thing that really matters is that I was taken and held against my will. I need to be escorted back to the nearest crossover passageway so I can go home again. If you need reimbursement for the costs of the journey, I can see that you get repaid.”
Although really you should take me back on your own dime, with a profuse apology. She managed, just barely, to bite back that acerbic comment.
“I see.” The nobleman looked at the other two men. “How close are we to completing a review of the inventory?”
The one named Harkin consulted his sheets. “We’re almost done, my lord. Actually, we only have the trolls’ tribute left to count.”
The nobleman turned to survey the pile of crates and barrels surrounding them. “Well, here it all is, so I’d say we’re finished.” He looked at Sid. “Come with me, musician.”
“Gladly,” Sid said.
She gave the other two men a look of pure loathing and followed the nobleman out of the stables. Surely, they would feed her something soon. The last thing she had eaten was the requisite bread and cheese at noon the day before. She felt dizzy and light-headed, unable to concentrate, and her empty stomach was gnawing at her insides.
She had questions she wanted to ask, starting with the nobleman’s name and where he was taking her, but he strode through the courtyard to an entrance to the castle, then down a series of passages, at a pace so swift she was hard put to keep up with him. After days filled with stress and an inadequate diet, soon she was too out of breath to speak.
The corridors on their route grew wider and more richly appointed, and they passed servants, uniformed guards, and various other personages who walked and talked together. Several paused to stare at them as they passed, their expressions filled with varying degrees of fascination and distaste, and Sid grew all too aware that she was carrying the filth of several days’ journey on her clothes and smelled like a barnyard.
Food first. Then a bath. Perhaps they would give her clean clothes, or at least wash the ones she had. She might even get a bed for the night then a trip back home. She didn’t even care if it was the same soldiers who took her back. She just wished very hard for all of it to come true.
At last, the nobleman paused at tall double wooden doors that had been ornately carved and bound with what appeared to be gold. Guards were stationed on either side.
Sid slowed to a stop beside the nobleman and caught her breath. Before she could ask any of her questions, he rapped on one door panel, then opened the door and strode inside without waiting for a reply.
Staring cautiously at the guards, she followed on his heels, stepping into a large, elegant room with high ceilings and tall windows that let in large bars of sunlight that fell across polished, golden oak floors.
Sid looked around, eyes wide, at the brilliant tapestries and paintings adorning the walls, the elegant sculptures, the velvet and mahogany furniture. While she had inwardly railed at the barely veiled prejudice the Light Fae had shown her on the road, the view of the castle in the distance, along with this walk through the interior of the castle, had shown her that she had her own preconceived notions that she needed to shed. This was no provincial demesne. There was serious wealth and culture here and a sense of great, sophisticated age.
A Light Fae woman sat at a large, ornately carved desk, her golden head bent over papers. She was richly dressed, in a yellow gown embroidered with green vines and white lilies, and her long curling hair had been dressed so that it flowed in a profuse mane down her slender back.
The woman barely glanced up at their entrance. She said in an impatient voice, “I’m not having a very good morning, Modred. I have a headache, and I don’t appreciate the interruption. What do you want?”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, my love,” the nobleman replied in a light tone. “Perhaps I can do something to make your day a little brighter. Here is part of the trolls’ tribute. A new musician. Apparently, she has no magic.”
At his words, Sid’s tired mind stumbled. Wait. His wording didn’t sound quite right. She wasn’t anybody’s tribute—she’d been kidnapped.
The woman set aside her pen and stood, looking at Sid for the first time. As she came around the corner of the desk and approached, her beautiful face pulled into an expression of distaste, much like the others Sid had seen throughout the castle.
“No magic?” The woman sounded incredulous. “At all?”
“She didn’t respond when I tried to telepathize with her earlier, so I would say none at all,” Modred replied.
“Why, she’s little better than an animal,” the woman remarked. “Also, she’s filthy and hideous. Look at the shape of her eyes, the pasty white skin, and that awful black hair.”
Sid’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. She had read that some of the Elder Races didn’t think much of those who were magicless, but she had never come face-to-face with such blatant bigotry. The fury that had been simmering over the course of several days began to boil over.
“Isabeau,” said Modred, sounding amused. “She’s human. She’s not going to look anything like a Light Fae, and they chained her up in the stables overnight, so of course she’s dirty.”
Isabeau was a name Sid was supposed to remember. Angrily she shoved that aside. She snapped, “I have never been spoken to like that before in my life.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, girl.” One of the Light Fae woman’s eyebrows rose. “And I didn’t give you permission to speak.”
“I am not a girl or an animal,” Sid snapped. “And your permission means nothing to me.”
“It should,” Isabeau said dryly. “It very much should.” She said to Modred, “Bring musical instruments. Let us see if the girl has any talent. Perhaps it might offset her ugly looks and poor manners.”
Even as the other woman spoke, the pieces came together in Sid’s mind. Isabeau. The ornate surroundings, the rich dress, the guards at the door. This was the Queen of the Light Court.
Then Isabeau took a lock of Sid’s hair and fingered it, one nostril curled, and all thought of caution or of trying to negotiate a passage home vanished in a surge of rage.
Breathing heavily, Sid knocked her hand away. She said between her teeth, “I don’t play music for kidnappers and bigots.”
The other woman’s expression iced over. “Then you are of no use to me whatsoever.” She looked at Modred. “If the bitch won’t play her music for me, then she won’t play it for anyone else. Break all her fingers. Perhaps that will teach her some manners.”
“Consider it done,” Modred said, smiling.
Shock jolted through Sid, followed by a surge of terror so powerful it turned her muscles watery.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait, please. This has all been a massive, nightmarish mistake—if you could just give me a moment to explain how I got here—there’ll be a large reward for my return…”
Suddenly the sound of her voice stopped. She put her hands to her throat and tried to shout, but nothing came out.
“The sound of your voice offends me. I’m done with you, ugly brown-haired girl.” Isabeau spared her one venomous glance then turned away. “Get her out of my sight.”
“Of course, my love.”
As Modred grabbed Sid’s arms, she began to fight, all the while screaming silently. Then the guards came into the room and took her away.
Away from the richly decorated corridors. Away from the sunlit windows.
They took her down a flight of worn stone stairs to a hot, windowless room lit with a fire in an iron grate. There were other things made of iron in the room—chairs, tools, manacles, a cage. A wooden table, along with the floor underneath it, was dark with stains.
No matter how she struggled, the guards who held her were too powerful. One male held her hands to the table, while Modred rummaged through the tools until he found a mallet. Strolling over to her, he smiled at her. “It’s nothing personal, pet.”
He broke all her fingers, and her thumbs too. When he was finished, they dragged her down into a cold place filled with stone. Unlocking one barred door, they threw her into a room, and the door clanged shut behind her.
Light faded as the guards walked away, leaving her behind in deep shadows and a silence so deep it seemed to be alive.
Shaking, in shock, she crumbled where she stood like a broken marionette and cradled her ruined hands against her chest. The pain was so intense it lit up her mind like reddened stars.
After a time, the spell dampening her voice wore off, and she could hear herself scream again until her vocal chords turned raw and she lost her voice. Then there was silence and she lay curled on her side on the uneven stone floor.
The guards hadn’t set the bones after Modred had broken them.
She would never hold a violin again with any kind of dexterity. She would never be able to play.
The result of all the years of constant devotion to her music was gone, her purpose for living destroyed. She would never again create her unique citadel of radiant vibration, which had been exactly what the Queen had intended.
After that, it didn’t matter how long her body managed to survive.
They’ve already killed me, she thought.