Aftershock (Rise of the Unseelie urban fantasy series) (3 page)

Chapter Eight

Donovan leaned over the table created by propping a section of drywall across two sawhorses. Eircheard pointed to the construction plans with a screwdriver, belting out heavily accented orders in a mingle of Gaelic and Dwarven to his crew. No one appeared to be paying the foreman any mind, though the flow of work continued unabated, like a hill of worker ants.

“See here, Master Donovan, the lower chambers have been completed.” Eircheard tapped the screwdriver on the rooms designated to contain the full force of magic training.

“Your office and quarters in the back are furniture ready. The apartments on the skyward floor…” he scrunched his wrinkled face in thought, making the long braids of his mustache sway and bang against the barrel of his chest. “Dark to dusk, give or take a wink.”

“And the Glamour Club itself?” Donovan glanced around the wide expanse of the warehouse space, now clear of the former industrial waste and replaced with construction debris in its stead.

“Well, now, if you’d shoo, it’d be about a turn of the head. If you gander over our shoulders, a good two weeks at best.” The dwarf chuckled, then rolled up the plans and waddled off to swing the rolled-up papers at the first Brownie, dwarf, or banner who failed to hop to their duties in double time. The string of Dwarven profanity he tossed about apparently served just as much a motivation as the threat of getting whacked upside the head.

Light footfalls leading from the Glamour-shielded entrance drew his attention. A flutter of fairies in their tall form of just shy of five feet tall, rather than in the three-inch tall version, strode into the warehouse. Their gossamer clothing glittered with the same iridescence as their wings. Long, flowing blonde or silver hair trailed down their backs, even on the males. Of the lesser fey, the fairies tended to align themselves with the Shining Court, but the affiliation of any of the lesser fey truly fell where their interests lay.

“Sire,” the forefront fairy spoke with the musical voice of a flute. He bowed with an excess of flourish that would have pleased the Seelie. His companions followed with curtsies and bows of their own.

As a Sidhe, one of the nobility of the fey, such demonstrations conveyed respect. This Donovan could appreciate, even if lengthy pleasantries taxed his patience. He gestured for them to proceed with their business.

The fairy inclined his head again, obviously fighting against his instinct to further supplicate himself. Just how much prostration the Seelie Court encouraged truly annoyed Donovan; he fought the urge to roll his eyes, but failed. The fairy flustered as he rushed to his point. “Sire, we have heard of your glorious endeavor to create a place for the fey in this realm, most especially to restore the glory of the Sidhe in the wake of the disaster.” He covered his heart with his fine-boned hands to convey his feeling. “We, my people, have been honored to serve a Sidhe whose renowned powers of healing have saved many lives of fairies and other fey in our county.”

The fairy extended a grand sweep of his arm back toward the entrance and two more fairies escorted a young Sidhe woman before Donovan. Her caramel-colored hair was braided at the temples and drawn back behind her gently pointed ears. The glittered clothing cascaded down her tall frame, clearly fairy made. Silver strands of tinsel were woven into her hair. Though the fairies began an excess of bowing as if presenting a gift, the Sidhe merely smiled tolerantly. She extended a hand to Donovan. “I am Dawn. The fairies have spoken of little else since you decided to create this club.”

A slight smirk stole across his lips. Where she could have expounded with poetry and excess, as the fairies had, Dawn spoke plainly and directly. The fairies might have taken pains to dress up their healer in the height of Seelie fashion, but beneath all the glitter, the earthborn hadn’t lost her Unseelie sensibility. Donovan accepted her offered hand and lightly kissed the back of it.

“Then consider yourself at home, Dawn.” As the young woman walked past him and then wandered the workspace, Donovan turned to appreciate the view from behind.

A soft whistle of came from over his right shoulder. Under his breath, Tiernan said, “Now that is a nice piece of… craftsmanship.”

With a cocked eyebrow, Donovan glanced back at him. “You looking for your next piece?”

Tiernan’s wolfish grin answered that question. “Tried to recruit her to my services and she turned me down flat. Lucky mongrel.” Whether the services he referred to were healing or sexual in nature was left unspoken. “I want details if you tap that.”

“You don’t pay well enough for that kind of information.” Donovan turned at last toward the Unseelie that fancied himself a kingpin, rather than a prince, among the lesser beings.

Tiernan chuckled, an easy laugh that he shared liberally. He enjoyed himself and his life of questionable morals with full Unseelie relish. After the pretentious fairies, the unapologetically direct Sidhe was a welcome change. “I tell you what information I did pay well enough for.” He handed over a folded piece of paper, getting to the business of the meeting. “Apparently even the earthborns who manage to get a handful of decades under their belts can get themselves into trouble.”

“What flavor does this trouble come in?” Donovan unfolded the paper and examined the contents before crumpling it in his fist. “Bloody wizards.”

“Shadow weaver. Thought that to you, she might be worth the rescue.” He shrugged.

“She’s Sidhe. That is reason enough.”

Chapter Nine

Didn’t matter the time of the year, the Alps were always freezing. Donovan drew deep into the earth to catch a thread of magma and feed it up to the cliff where he perched. The heat from the pool of molten rock warmed him more effectively than a campfire, and without the telltale beacon of smoke giving away his position.

The tracks for the Artesia de Nuit train threaded through the mountains for a good six hours between Milan, Italy, and Dole, France. According to Tiernan, this was the route the wizards chose to transport their captive. The path carved into the rock passed fifty feet beneath him. Rock walls lined both sides of the track at this expanse, allowing only enough room for the train and a buffer for safety. The line ran nearly flat for a couple hundred feet before taking a downward curve.

Already Donovan sensed the vibration of the train pulsing through the ground. He crouched and gripped the edge of the crag.

Magic flowed from him. Merged with the earth. Felt the infinitesimal warping and up thrusting of the mountain range. His element. His magic. A perfect blending.

Donovan waited.

The train marched along at an even pace. Drawing nearer.

Focusing on the track beneath him, Donovan willed cracks to form around the railway spikes.

The train chugged into sight. To see Donovan, he appeared to idly watch the scene unfold before him. When the last car came into view, his magic flexed. His head turned to follow the train car. Timing its speed. Gauging when it would pass precisely below him.

The rock beneath the train suddenly sheared upward as if blasted by dynamite. The placement of the upheaval caught the joints between two lengths of track and lifted up at the exact moment to uncouple the last car from the train and pummel it into the far wall of the crevice.

The passenger car smashed sidelong, crumpling the metal sheeting. The crash tossed the occupants within the car, but should not have had enough force to kill. Only to stun.

The rest of the train curved the bend. Though the braking metal wheels squealed against the rails, it would take a while to bring the train to a halt, especially on the decline. Even still, Donovan lifted his gaze to the rock wall past where the single passenger car had crashed. The cliff surrendered, crumbling into a rockslide that barricaded this section of track from easy access by foot.

Physically, Donovan remained still. A tremor shivered the ground as rock formed from compressed sediment released its tension and flowed like a liquid instead. The sides of the crevice melted. The mudslide flooded over and around the train car, burying it fully. It continued to rise until the new surface leveled evenly with the cliff where Donovan knelt.

Nothing to see with physical eyes now. Donovan wasn’t seeing with them at the moment, anyway.

Tentacles of mud burst through the windows of the buried car. He felt the movement fighting the rising mud. People attempted to swim in the quicksand. Magic fluttered against the mud like the wings of moths, but nothing hindered the flow.

No wizard left alive. Donovan knew that directive. Believed it. A single wizard would slay hundreds of fey in their lifetime. Mercy shown a wizard was a death sentence to all the fey they would encounter. The reign of terror for at least these few magic-stealers ended today.

He ignored those who struggled against the soil. Only when the magic-laced mud twined against something cold and ceased to respond to his will did Donovan close his eyes. His focus wrapped around that spot. The sediment retreated, following the shape of the body attached to that coldness and forming a bubble around it. Donovan brought forth the body. The soft mud pillowed around the form and coaxed its unresponsive shape through a window and up to the surface, where the bubble rose like a bud of a flower and then burst open and disintegrated.

Donovan crossed the ground to the person lying there. The earth below them solidified into solid rock once more. No one else would escape the car. No one else below the surface now lived.

Donovan knelt next to the mud-caked young woman. The mud ran from her in streams until she was completely free of it. She was curled on her side. Wrists bound behind her back. Unconscious.

With a tender stroke of fingertips, he brushed her hair from her face. A beautiful face. A face with fine, sculpted features few but the fey possessed. His fingers drew her hair back further, tucking her brunette tresses behind her ear.

A rounded ear.

Like a human’s ear.

Donovan traced the shape of it. Very unlike the Sidhe’s slightly pointed ears. Feeling the smoothness of a scar, he bent for a closer examination.

“Is this what the Sidhe have come to? Self-mutilation? To pass for a human?”

Of course, the unconscious Sidhe didn’t answer. He examined the bonds on her wrists and ankles. Just heavy-gauge zip ties. Easy enough to cut loose.

The silver the wizards used to bind her magic took the form of a collar. Donovan cupped the woman’s head, careful not to brush the silver directly with his skin. He lifted her enough to examine the device. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to release the simple catch. The collar dropped from her. The beginning of a silver burn ringed her neck with an irritated redness. Two distinct points blistered beneath her jaw. Donovan turned the device, ever careful of not touching it. “Silver shock collar.”

Wrapping it completely in the handkerchief, he ensured no silver remained exposed, then tucked the end into his back pocket. He scooped the girl into his arms and stood. The humans from the rest of the train finally drew close. He could hear their startled shouts of horror at the bizarre landslide. Paying them no mind, Donovan teleported away with the unconscious Sidhe in his embrace.

Chapter Ten

The band of Dark Elves, calling themselves The Fury, started up another set of rock music. Not something Donovan was very familiar with, but he liked the heavy percussion and the determination in the voice of the lead singer as he roared at the crowd that he would not bow and he would not break. Very Unseelie in sentiment. Apparently, the band played popular music because most of the fey sang along during the chorus.

Kieran and Dawn danced among the crowd, undulating against each other with more than a casual familiarity. The view from Donovan’s private table situated against the simple but elegant guardrail overlooked the dance floor set a couple of steps down from the main bar area of the Glamour Club. Leaning back, he cast a proprietary glance around the rest of the club, not the least surprised to find it packed on opening night. They’d had trouble keeping the fey out until the construction was completed.

The sound of the pool balls cracking against each other echoed from the back alcove. Bryce managed the game without setting the table on fire. The training in concentration and focus was beginning to pay off.

Donovan set down his empty glass on the low table in the center of a circle of four easy chairs and leaned back. Beyond his own chair, the others remained unoccupied, a condition that did not appear to be long lasting, as Trip turned from the bar with two glasses and headed in Donovan’s direction. She handed one to Donovan, for which he nodded a simple thanks. The Sidhe had styled her hair to cover her altered ears, an interesting decision. She’d told him that she’d had plastic surgery so she would not feel out of place around the humans, and now that attempt to “fit in” made her feel out of place around her own kind. The life lessons among the earthborns certainly had a unique twist compared to what he’d grown up with in the Mounds. The lack of guidance showed in all of them.

Trip settled into the chair to Donovan’s right. She hadn’t thanked him for saving her, not that he expected that from an Unseelie. The last few days she’d permitted Dawn’s healing efforts and otherwise evaluated her new circumstances with uncertainty. They regarded each other with a causal acceptance as she toyed with the ice in her glass with the tip of her finger. Clearly she had something she wanted to say, but Donovan waited for the young woman to sort out the words in her head at her leisure.

“You know, the other Sidhe are real impressed by you,” she said and then waited for him to respond.

Donovan said nothing yet. That had not been what she wanted to say. Little more than stating the obvious. Lengthy discussions of the obvious may amuse the Seelie as a pastime, but Donovan didn’t waste effort on that pursuit.

Trip nodded to herself, switching her gaze from him to her drink and retreating deeper into the chair. Apparently, not yet done with her exploration of the obvious. Or perhaps working things out in her head as she went. Starting with what she knew first and then extrapolating. “So, you really are going to rebuild on Earth what you lost from the Mounds? Starting with us newbies?”

“You are including yourself in the number.” Donovan cracked a hint of a smile. “I thought you might, when you stuck around.”

Trip leaned forward and placed her drink down like it no longer interested her. “There’s a lot of bad out there in the world. As soon as they find out about this place, they’ll do everything they can to crush it.” Her dark eyes lifted to meet his. “But you know that already.”

“I do indeed.”

“And you are not afraid?”

He gave her an amused smirk. “Let them come.”

###

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Scars of Silver

Rise of the Unseelie #2

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Scars of Silver

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.

###

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Scars of Silver

The World of The Sidhe

Rise of the Unseelie series:

Foreshadow
(prequel)

Jhaer dedicated his life and his magic to protecting the freedom of the Unseelie Sidhe, the noble elves of the Dark Court. After centuries of war and politics, the Seelie are finally within striking distance of eradicating the Unseelie Court altogether. Out of time and out of options, Jhaer races through Ireland to rescue the one Sidhe who could stop the Seelie. If he can’t find her… and fast… there may not be a fey realm to go back to.

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Aftershock

Before becoming Donovan, the leader of what remains of the Unseelie, he was known as Jhaer, head of the Unseelie Elite, a secret order of powerful warriors.
The day the Mounds collapsed he sacrificed his strength, his magic, and his very life to save his world.

It wasn’t enough.

He thought that was the end of his story… Instead it is the beginning.

Scars of Silver

You’d think the fey would have each others' backs. That’s what you’d think… if you never met any.

Malcolm is Sidhe, the only race that possesses the coveted magic of the Touch. He’s also an untrained teenage runaway who only just discovered that he’s fey. He thought the fey would have each others' backs. That’s what he honestly thought…

Until he met a Changeling.

Eyes of Magic

He's defective. Damaged. Malcolm knows he is. How could he not be after a year of torture in the belly of a goblins' nest? The only magic he can do is the Touch, a perverted magic he despises and learned at the end of a whip. Everyone else in the Glamour Club has loads of magic, but not him. He doesn't fit it. But if he can't find his magic, and his place among the Sidhe, then where could he go? And what if those that enslaved him before came after him again?

Bloodhound

Donovan rescued the earthborns. Protected them. Gave them shelter from the predators who would feast on their blood and Sidhe magic.

That time is over.

Time for the earthborns to train. To fight back. To reclaim what is theirs.

Time to show the world what it means to be Unseelie.

Uprising (Coming Fall 2012)

Champion of the Sidhe series:

End of the World

The day Lugh, Champion of the Sidhe, has long fought for finally manifests; all Sidhe unified under one Court. No more Light versus Dark. No more wars. Brothers, one and all. But on the day that should be celebrated as their greatest triumph, treachery brings his world crashing down, literally. Now if he can’t find a way to stop it no fey will survive.

Champion of the Fey

The fey are Fading. Extinction is inevitable. Lugh, one of the few fey to survive the Collapse, is already beginning to suffer the effects. Only a long shot quest to recover the artifacts might be able to restore the source of fey magic. And the first artifact Lugh seeks is dead in the heart of wizard territory.