The light ahead abruptly disappeared, and the still-dawning day seemed colder for it. I hurried forward, even though part of me wanted to do nothing more than turn and run in the opposite direction. But I’d yet to make the blessing that would protect the sword for another year and until I did, there could be no retreat. Mo certainly wouldn’t have.
I hit the stone platform that surrounded the monument, and the curtain of gray melted away, revealing the evenly spaced monoliths that ran around the perimeter. In the center of this circle stood the knob and the hump of stone that held the Witch King’s sword. There was no immediate evidence it had been tampered with, and nothing to indicate a spell had been cast. If the activity I’d glimpsed had involved demons, their acidic stench would still stain the air. The only things I could actually smell were vague hints of cardamom, fresh bergamot, and lavender—all of which had a synthetic undertone that suggested it was cologne-based rather than natural. That basically confirmed my instincts. Someone had been here.
But doing what?
And what on earth had caused those blue pulses?
I warily approached the outcrop of rock. The cologne’s scent grew stronger, suggesting whatever had been going on involved the monument. I skirted the knob but once again couldn’t see or feel anything that suggested magic—no lingering wisps of power, no discarded spell strings.
I frowned and returned to the rear of the rock. The hump that held the sword loomed above me, though the hilt wasn’t visible from where I stood. Again, there was nothing here to suggest anything untoward had been going on.
And yet my fear continued to build.
I shivered and shoved a hand into the hollow smoothed by countless others doing the exact same thing, and stepped up onto the rock. The teasing scents got stronger and I hesitated, once again scanning the stone that held the sword. There wasn’t even the usual scrawl of graffiti that often happened as the blessing wore off and the kids moved in.
I scrambled upward, and the visible portion of the Witch King’s sword came into view, gleaming in the soft light of the dawning day. It was a rather ornate sword for a weapon that had been used in war—intricate runes ran the visible length of the silver blade, and the cross guard and hilt were heavily etched and decorated with silver and gold. The pommel had been shaped into a rose whose petals were made with gold.
It was all that gold that made the blessing a necessity.
I swung the backpack off, but as I bent to open it, I noticed something odd—far more of the blade was visible than usual.
Had someone moved it? Or had the sword become loose and somehow worked its way up?
I reached out and tentatively wrapped my fingers around the grip. Blue light pulsed, and energy caressed my hand, a sharp but electric force that made my fingers burn and my heart race. A gasp escaped and I instinctively let go and stepped back, teetering briefly on the edge of the knob before I caught my balance.
The damn sword was the source of light and magic I’d felt earlier.
I stared at it, more than a little unwilling to believe it was possible, despite the evidence of my own eyes. In all the years I’d been coming up here with Mo, the sword had been utterly inert. As far as I knew, that had been the case ever since the Witch King had declared, with his dying breath, that only the next true king would draw the sword from the stone.
Ainslyn’s royal line had since merged with human monarchs, who ruled from their palace in London, and the world in general had all but forgotten the Witch King’s existence. Even history books had relegated his presence, his victories—which included saving human and witch alike from the dark elf sorcerer who sought to claim this realm as his own—and his sword to the ranks of myth and legend.
But Uhtric Aquitaine was no myth and neither was the power of his sword.
Which begged the question, why had it come to life now?
And why had it reacted to my touch, however faintly? The De Montforts had no links to the Aquitaine kings as far as I was aware, and there were few enough true descendants left these days anyway. My gaze dropped to the stone that held the sword; the inscription was as unreadable now as it always had been. Why I expected anything else I couldn’t say, but I had a bad feeling the sooner we uncovered what it said, the better.
I hesitated, then stepped forward and gripped the hilt a second time. Once again, that otherworldly force rose, pulsing through my body, a wave that rushed through limb, muscle, and bone, as if it were seeking something.
Or accessing something.
I frowned at the thought and tightened my grip, trying to pull the sword from the stone. It didn’t budge, which was no real surprise given the fact I was female and also lacked the prerequisite Aquitaine blood. It did mean, however, that someone from that line had been here, testing his link to the sword. It wouldn’t be the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last.
But it was, as far as I knew, the first time the sword had actually responded.
I scanned the emptiness around me. The awareness of being watched remained, but there was something else moving through the distant fog now. Something that spoke of darkness.
I released the sword and quickly emptied the backpack of its contents. After carefully placing the short white candles in a circle around the hump of stone, I lit them one by one. Then I grabbed the twin bottles of sanctified water, took a deep breath that did little to calm my nerves, and waited for the sun to crest the horizon.
It seemed to take an eternity for the first rays of the new day to spear the sky. I waited, tension running through me, as the light grew stronger and the sky was painted orange and gold. Then the sun crested the horizon, the sword began to glow, and the golden rose on the pommel gently unfurled.
Now, an inner voice whispered.
I raised the vials of sanctified water and slowly moved around the sword’s base, calling on the power of the sun and the moon to protect the blade through the upcoming year, to keep it safe from darkness and all else who might wish it harm. As the words ran across the silence, a force sharper and more ethereal than any mere spell rose. The sanctified water hit the base of the sword’s stony sheath, and the air shimmered in response; the power of the blessing took hold, becoming a visible force that crept upward toward the blade. When the rays of the sun combined with the blessing’s shimmer, a shaft of golden light shot from the unfurled center of the rose. As that light dissipated, the blessing’s shimmer melded into the rock and the sword stopped glowing. I closed my eyes and sighed in relief. The sword was safe for another year.
I knelt to place the now empty vials back into the pack. A soft noise ran across the stillness, one that sounded an awful lot like the scratch of a claw against stone. I froze, goose bumps racing across my skin and my heart seeming to lodge somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
For several seconds, there was only silence. Then that one scratch became two, and two became three …
I swallowed heavily and clamped down on the thick wave of fear. This wasn’t the first time I’d come across demons. I might do nothing more than help run a book and healing store, but I was still a De Montfort. Juvenile demons seeking to boost their standing amongst their brethren routinely went after the low- or no-powered members of the various witch clans.
I tied the vials safely into the pack, my skin twitching with awareness. Then I took a deep breath in a vague attempt to calm my nerves, drew Nex and Vita, and rose. White light flickered down the edges of the blades, and a hiss rose from the demons gathering below the knob.