“Yes.”
He swore. “I gave her that for Christmas last year.”
“I’m sorry, Luc.” Which seemed a totally inadequate statement, but I knew he’d understand the intent behind it.
“So am I.” Footsteps echoed down the phone line—he was on the move. “Look, I don’t care how, keep her at the shop. I’ve a friend with a helicopter who owes me a favor, so it won’t take me much longer than the preternatural boys to get there.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
The line went dead. I took another of those deep breaths that didn’t do much to ease the churning in my gut, and pushed open the shop’s door.
Mo was behind the service counter making a pot of tea. She’d obviously swept up the broken glass but Noelle remained where she’d fallen, though a rolled-up coat now lay under her head and a blanket had been draped over her body. Obviously, Mo had decided she wasn’t going to wake any time soon.
Mo briefly glanced at me as she poured tea into her cup and my mug. “Anything?”
I leaned against the counter and tugged off my sodden boots and socks. The flagstones under my feet were unexpectedly warm. It was almost as if heat was rising up from the earth. “Her name’s Noelle. She’s Luc’s sister.”
Mo’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “He’s currently on his way here via helicopter. He wants us to hold her until he arrives, even if the preternatural team want to whisk her away.”
“And you’ve rung them?”
“Not yet. I figured he had the right to talk to her first.”
“I’m not sure Jason and his crew would agree with that. Biscuit?”
She held out the opened packet of Chocolate Hobnobs, and I plucked out a couple. Given it was unlikely we’d get back to sleep anytime soon, the crunchy, oaty goodness at least made a vague pass at being breakfast food.
“I’ll call them in half an hour. That way, they should arrive the same time as Luc, depending on where exactly they are at the moment.” I accepted the mug she pushed my way with a nod of thanks.
Mo leaned back against the counter. “I’m thinking once this particular mess is sorted out, we should make an effort to find the king’s sword.”
I wrinkled my nose. “And how exactly are we going to do that? Fly around England with the ring in our claws, waiting for it to spotlight where it lies?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Not a bad idea but one that will take altogether too long.”
“We could go ask Vivienne for clarification. I mean, she’s the Lady of the Lake and she made the goddamn sword. She has to know where it is.”
“If Vivienne had been inclined to tell us, she most certainly would have already.”
“Old goddesses,” I noted, “are very annoying.”
Mo laughed. “Always. But I was thinking there might be a more ready reference to hand.”
I frowned. “Like what?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you forgetting the old book of fables you bought back from Jackie’s after she was attacked?”
Jackie was a longtime friend of Mo’s, and a witch who’d been studying and documenting the Witch King’s line for almost as long as she’d been alive. She was also one of the two people guarding Max’s twins.
“Yes, but it didn’t give any indication of where the sword was. It’s just lots of lovely pictures of three witch kings and multiple others.”
“And what of the backgrounds? There’s a reason your instincts centered on that book—you need to trust them more.”
“I do trust them. I’m standing here right now because I trusted the damn things. But when it comes to information, they’re often as recalcitrant as old goddesses.”
She laughed again. “Go get the book.”
I put my mug down, snagged another Hobnob, and munched on it as I ran upstairs. The book of fables was still sitting on the coffee table, hidden in the middle of a number of other tomes, all of which smelled older than Methuselah. I pulled it out and lifted it. The title on the front was written in Latin, which I couldn’t read, but the handwritten transcription on the inside cover said its full title was The Fables of Kings from the Time of Swords. It was an absolute work of art—even the leather cover was an intricately carved and beautiful piece of work.
I headed back downstairs and placed it on the counter. Mo carefully opened it up and began to look through the vellum pages. Each one was exquisitely and lavishly decorated, the colorful illustrations still vibrant, beautiful, and in many cases, inked with gold.
The three witch kings were all in there, along with many others whose names I didn’t recognize. Interestingly, on second viewing, I realized the sword the three witch kings carried was far plainer than the ones held aloft by the others.
I mentioned it to Mo, and she smiled. “Because when a sword holds true power, there is no need for ornamentation.”
“We’re talking about kings here.” My voice was dry. “And have you ever met a man who wasn’t into the whole ‘mine is bigger and better than yours’ thing? Even Uhtric wasn’t immune to that propensity, if the somewhat elaborate design of the sword he left in the stone was anything to go by.”
A smile twitched her lips. “There were two who didn’t care for ostentatious displays of wealth, but for the most part, you’re right.”
She stopped at Uhtric’s image, which also happened to be the final one in the book, even though he wasn’t the last of the witch kings. Like many of the other illustrations, he sat astride a warhorse with his sword raised. Unlike the others, lightning burned from the sword’s tip and raced across storm-clad skies that answered in kind.
“Did Uhtric call down lightning to kill the demons?” I asked.
“Many times. But as you’ve discovered with the blades, it’s neither easy nor without risk.”
“At least he lived to tell the tale. Cedric didn’t.” The second king to bear the sword to war had apparently been vaporized by the forces that had run through him—though thankfully not before he’d managed to contain Darkside and relock the main gateway.
“Cedric was a moron who was warned multiple times not to raise Elysian’s full power when he wasn’t in the gray.” She tapped the page lightly with one finger. “The background in this is rather odd—it’s not a battleground or victory procession like most of the others.”
I leaned forward and studied the image. I hadn’t really noticed it the last time I’d looked, but Mo was right—the gently rolling hills were a rather odd choice for a king not only portrayed in full battle armor but who’d won a major battle and saved all of England.
“What background have Cedric’s and Aldred’s pictures got?”
She carefully turned the pages back until she found Cedric’s. “Different angle but that’s definitely the same hill.”
The hill in question vaguely resembled a man lying down, with a stony, beak-like nose. “And Aldred’s?”
His image was close to the beginning of the tome, and the odd-looking hill made another appearance, albeit from yet another different angle.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” I said. “Not given all the other images have very different backgrounds.”