“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Can’t you tell?”
“I know something’s wrong.”
“The Fae have attacked. Reliquary is a blood bath, so to speak. It won’t be the only one.”
The antique shop in Soho, Reliquary, was the haven of the vampires who followed Micah, including Sebastian whose alliance she often doubted. Sylvia guessed that Sebastian had left there in a hurry.
His lips tightened. “It’s brutal.” He shook his head. “There was no point in trying to help.” She wondered whether he was trying to justify his choice then he glared at her again. “Yes. I chose to defend you over them. Don’t shoot.”
Sylvia couldn’t deny that his decision pleased her. He glared at the door knob, a lock she knew he could pick or break, and she stepped across the room to open it and let him in. He swept into her apartment on a breath of cold air, moving with his usual grace and speed, then circled the apartment like a whirlwind. She wondered what he was looking for, but before she could ask, he stopped beside her pillow. He removed Maeve’s book with his fingertips and studied it with obvious distaste.
There was a faint tinkle, like bells, and Sylvia saw more red light emanate from the volume. She only had half of the book, since it had been torn in their escape from Fae, but in Sebastian’s grip, its remaining pages fluttered as if in a wind. There was no air moving in the apartment and Sylvia moved closer with suspicion. She could feel his agitation and distrust. Why did he hate magick so much? For all she knew, he’d told her before then made her forget his confession.
He was so annoying like that.
Pages separated themselves from the binding and took flight, twisting and turning as they rose in the air. Before they touched the ceiling, they disappeared, one at a time.
The book closed itself as one last page fluttered to the floor.
Even at a distance, Sylvia could see that it was the page documenting the Coven of Mercy, the thirteen vampires who had gathered in Manhattan. They had pledged to Micah’s scheme to choose victims only from the sick and the infirm.
As Sylvia watched, lines appeared through the names of Adrian, Petronella, Oliver, Aloysius and Ignatius. It was as if an invisible hand with an invisible pen stroked them out. The magickal ink was red. A heartbeat later, the year appeared beside each name.
“Five,” Sebastian whispered with quiet heat. “She accelerates the game.”
Almost half the coven was gone.
“The other pages,” Sylvia whispered.
“Yes, she’s distributing the inventories,” Sebastian said bitterly. “To taunt us all with her pending doom. This is the problem with her having her magick back again. I didn’t like that dragon prince, but at least he gave her some competition. At least someone else could summon the magick.” He paced the width of the room, simmering. “Now, we’re screwed.”
Sylvia ran a hand over the book cover, then tucked the loose page back inside. “Not quite,” she said with quiet conviction. She met Sebastian’s incredulous gaze. “Eithne said she was giving her magick to me. I should learn to use it.”
“It’s probably too late,” Sebastian countered.
“We’re still here. It’s not too late.” Sylvia picked up the book, aware that it seemed to weigh far more than it should. It was cold, too, as if she held a block of ice. “You could try to be a little more encouraging.”
“Pessimism is my learned response to several millenia on this spinning rock,” he countered, folding his arms across his chest to glare at her.
Sylvia hadn’t realized he was so old. His expression persuaded her to refrain from comment on that.
“You must like it well enough,” she said instead. “You chose immortality.”
“Did I?” Sebastian smiled, looking more like his usual wicked self. “Or did it choose me?”
Sylvia had no reply for that.
Sebastian looked at the book. “Okay, wannabe witch. What are you going to do first?”
Sylvia knew a challenge when she heard one. “You could help,” she challenged back.
“I know better than to mess with magick, but you suit yourself.” He threw himself into a chair, lounging there even as his eyes glittered. He looked ready to pounce despite his posture and Sylvia was wary of him.
He was volatile because he was afraid, as afraid as she was, and she knew it. She turned the book in her hands, choosing her words. “The magick won’t betray her. She has too much of it to command. It won’t tell me how she can be defeated. But Eithne said that Regalian magick is sentient and, if the Dark Queen holds all the magick, that part of it might be less securely in her grasp.” She looked up and met Sebastian’s gaze, seeing unexpected admiration there. “I’m going to invite it to play and see what happens.”
He gave a low whistle. “Not too daring.”
“The time has come to take a risk.”
“Stand back,” Sebastian said grimly.
Sylvia ignored him as she concentrated and composed her first spell. She was vaguely aware that it started to snow outside the windows and that the wind was chilly, but she had more important things on her mind than the weather.
She saw red light illuminate at her fingertips and dared to hope for success.
Murray was locking up his restaurant and bar, Bones, stifling a yawn when a flash of light woke him up in a hurry. A portal to Fae opened on the dance floor, which had to make the short list of his worst nightmares. He didn’t even have time to react. Someone or something was shoved through the portal, then it was closed, leaving the bar in darkness once again. How could that be? He’d had the wall faced in steel where the portal to Fae had been, and even buttressed it with a wizard’s charm.
But the portal had opened in the middle of the dance floor. That meant it had been sliced open by a Fae weapon.
It also meant that there wasn’t a safe place in all the world.
Murray made his way cautiously across the bar, then realized it was his bartender, Mel, unconscious on the floor. She’d been lost in Fae for over a month and relief flooded through him at the sight of her.
Unless, of course, she was dead.
Unless, her return was a trick.
“Mel?” Murray fell to his knees beside her and checked her pulse. She was alive, but she still had a red string on her wrist. Cursed but breathing. Murray would take it over the alternatives. He felt the air move around him, as if a maelstrom surrounded her, but focused on helping her. “Mel! Are you okay?”
“No,” she murmured, her voice more husky than usual, then tried to sit up.
“Are you cursed?”
“No more than I was before,” she said grimly, meeting his gaze.
He believed her. Mel had never lied to him and he didn’t think she was starting now.
Murray helped her as best he could and finally got her to her feet. She was weak and she had some injuries, though he wasn’t sure how serious any of them were. The greater issue was probably that it was Saturday night, late enough to be early Sunday morning. He knew she had to retreat to her sanctuary by the dawn for her weekly isolation.
It was her curse, and the red string on her wrist showed that it was still in force.
He got her into a seat at the bar, and poured her a shot of brandy. Mel knocked it back, then shook her head. She looked exhausted and had lost some weight, even though she’d always been tiny.