I circled down, calling to my human shape when I was close to the ground, and then flexed my shoulders to rid my muscles of the last vestiges of the changing magic.
St. Mary’s Abbey had once been amongst the richest in England, but there was little enough left of it now—just a long sidewall and a solitary corner edge that was disconnected from the rest.
Mo stood in front of the latter, and it dwarfed her. She wasn’t short by any means, but the crumbling ruins towered above her by a good twenty feet. I jogged over, each breath stirring the thin veil of gray that still clung stubbornly to the stones.
“The entrance should be right about here somewhere …” She ran her fingers across the thick curve of a column, golden sparks following her touch like a comet’s tail.
I frowned. “Is that fireshow part of the protection? Or is it something you’re doing?”
“Bit of both.” Her reply was absent, her gaze narrowed.
“But De Montforts—”
“Are many things, most of them unexpected. It’s your certainty of what can’t be done that’s hampering what can, my girl.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Care to explain that?”
“Of course not.” There was a soft click, followed by a distant rumble. Then the air shimmered, revealing a slowly opening and very narrow stone door.
“You’ve raised me and Max since we were three years old and, in all that time, I’ve never seen you perform personal magic.”
She glanced at me, clearly amused. “What do you think the stuff I put in the soaps is?”
“Healing magic, not personal.”
She waved her free hand. “Same, same. And I do have a speck of Lancaster blood in me—my grandfather was one of them. Ready?”
My gaze went from her to the doorway. The stone stairs that descended down into deeper darkness were wet and somewhat slimy-looking. “Are you going to be able to handle the stairs and the tunnel?”
“I’ve got my moonboot on—I’ll be fine.”
I glanced down. “That boot is bigger than the damn stair treads. Why don’t you shift shape? I’ve got a flashlight—”
“Stop fussing and just get a move on before someone notices us and comes to investigate.”
“There’s no one currently here in the park to investigate,” I retorted, but nevertheless flicked on the flashlight and then squeezed sideways through the door and into the tunnel.
The walls were every bit as damp and wet as the steps, and the air drifting up from the deeper bowels of the place was rank and musty. “For something that’s supposedly the repository of all witch knowledge, this place doesn’t appear to have been used much.”
“That’s because youngsters today think they know it all.” She poked me in the side with a stiffened finger. “Get a move on—we haven’t all day.”
Actually, we did, because the store was closed and neither of us had anything else on today. This evening was a different matter entirely. It was the first night of the year, and that was the traditional party time for witches—a time where we could let off steam in witch-only venues, freeing us from the worry of upsetting human sensibilities. I was meeting my two best friends—Ginny, who was also a cousin, and Mia—this evening at The Marquis, one of the many old pubs owned by Mia’s parents and one of two traditional party venues for Ainslyn witches. Drinking, dancing, and, if we were lucky, sex were all on the cards. Although if past pub exploits were anything to go by, we’d probably end up just plotting our next holiday abroad. The men overseas seemed to appreciate us more.
With a smile twitching my lips, I started down the steps, taking it slow and keeping half an eye on Mo to make sure she was okay and didn’t slip. Thankfully, we both made it to the base of the stairs without a problem. The minute Mo stepped off the last step, the door above us shut and darkness closed in. My tiny flashlight wasn’t doing a whole lot to lift it.
I moved forward cautiously. The moisture trickling down the walls collected in a central gutter that ushered it into the deeper shadows ahead. The smell of disuse and age grew stronger the further we moved into the tunnel, but underneath ran three vague but very familiar scents—cardamom, bergamot, and lavender. The same scents I’d smelled over on the island this morning.
Tension rippled through me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if fate was about to teach me a lesson. “We may have a problem.”
It was softly said but echoed as loudly as any shout. Up ahead, something stirred in response. Something that felt unnaturally dark and powerful.
Magic.
“It would appear so,” Mo murmured. “I’m not recognizing the tells, though.”
All magic, personal or otherwise, had tells—magical indicators that were unique to every witch. I could pick the tells of all those I’d grown up with as well as most of Mo’s friends. I could also track the tells of strangers—something Mo had insisted I learn, though I had no idea why. She certainly hadn’t forced Max to learn the skill, although that might have been due to the fact the Okoros had undertaken his schooling from a very early age.
“Suggesting it’s an outsider?”
“Possibly.” Her energy slithered through the shadows, testing and tasting what lay ahead. “It’s some sort of concealing spell. Whoever it is doesn’t want anyone to see them.”
“Wonder why?”
“I’m thinking there could be no good reason behind it. Get a move on, my girl, before whoever it is completes whatever mischief he or she is up to.”
I increased my pace, and the sound of our steps echoed ever more loudly, a drumbeat even the dead couldn’t miss. The cologne-based scent grew no stronger, making me wonder if this was the only tunnel in and out of the old vaults. A canny king would probably have had more than one escape route.
Then, from up ahead, came a soft glimmer, one that spread a flickering, pale yellow glow across the old stone wall that curved to the right up ahead.
I frowned, unease stirring, as that yellow glow became brighter, fiercer, and a wave of heat rolled over us.
My gut clenched.
That glow wasn’t magic.
It was fire.
There was a goddamn fire in the heart of the vaults.
Three
“Gwen, fly!”
I obeyed without thought, shifting shape between one step and another, then rocketing toward the fire rather than away. Mo was only a few wing sweeps behind me but her anger was a sharp wave that all but smothered my senses.
Though I wondered why, it was impossible to ask in this form. While there were some who could communicate telepathically when in either human or bird form, our particular branch of the De Montfort tree was not amongst their number.
I swept around the corner and was confronted by a wall of stone. I shifted the angle of my wings to slow down and then realized the light of the flames shone through the stone. The wall was an illusion.
Mo swept past me and arrowed into it. I swore—which came out a harsh squawk—and quickly followed. The illusion’s magic briefly caressed my feathers and then I was on the other side, surrounded by heat, thick smoke, and the sharp crackle of the fire.
Why on earth weren’t the alarms going off?