The Crossing (Immortals) (5 page)

But none of those villages had had an infant.

It hadn't even occurred to her to look for a baby in this
one. Faerie births were extremely rare. The youngest children she'd encountered so far had appeared eight or nine
years old; in reality, they were probably fifty human years
or more. Never in a million years had she expected this
village to have had so recent a birth.

She'd been wrong.

Gods. She'd made a ton of mistakes since she'd come to
Scotland, but this one? This one was off the charts.

She could fix it.

But if she did that, she'd need to siphon an equal amount
of life essence from another faerie village, very quickly.
There was so little time. Just over a day. And faerie settlements were notoriously difficult to find. Clueless American that she was, Artemis hadn't realized just how difficult
until she'd arrived in the Highlands four months ago and
started hunting. Sure, she'd been able to map out Scotland's major ley lines easily enough, but what she hadn't
realized was that faeries preferred to nestle their villages
on tributaries of the main power channels, on magical
paths as faint and delicate as spider's silk. Hard to see, easily broken. She'd had to execute some fiendishly complex
spell-work in order to reveal them.

It had taken three weeks to locate this last village. She
didn't have three weeks-or even three days-to find another. Tomorrow was Samhain. She had to be ready by sunset. If the next twenty-six precious hours passed and
she wasn't ready...

Her chest squeezed so tightly, she couldn't breathe. The
stone in her fingers burned. Stars danced before her eyes.
She stared through the streaked windshield of her rented
Vauxhall Corsa, fighting back tears of pure panic.

Would she do even this to attain her goal? Let a baby
die? What had she become?

She pried open her fingers. The moonstone glittered,
luminous with life. Artemis's hand began to shake. Breath
hissed painfully from her lungs, like air from a tire pierced
by a small, sharp blade.

Everything depended on the life essence contained in
the moonstone. Everything. But how could she sacrifice an
innocent life for her cause?

How could she not?

Mac abandoned the Norton by the side of the road and set
off across the meadow, wading through waist-high grass.
Gilraen flew grimly beside him, translucent wings buzzing,
his pointed-toe leaf shoes grazing the tops of drooping
seed-heads. His village wasn't visible to most eyes, though
it was not far away at all. A human on a country ramble
could easily come within inches of the faerie settlement
and have no idea at all that it was there. Unless that human
had very powerful magic and was looking very carefully.

The community was good-sized by faerie standardsfifty human paces across. Hidden behind multiple glamour
spells, the cluster of huts nestled on the meadow's upper
slope, round thatched roofs mingling in perfect harmony
with the carpet of yellow-gold grasses laid out before
them. Walls of twigs formed a perfect unity with the forest
behind. A low peat wall ringed the village and marked the
placement of the strongest perimeter wardings.

Mac, of course, had no trouble at all seeing past the
glamour. He steeled himself for the village's tears and grief, but as he crossed the field in Gilraen's wake, he became aware of... laughter?

He blinked. What the bloody hell-?

A buzz of elation filled the air. The entire population, it
seemed, circled and dove above the roofs like a flock of
happily crazed hummingbirds. Spotting their approach,
several of the faeries detached themselves from the group
and darted toward them, calling greetings as they flew.
Mac recognized the lead flyer as Gilraen's plump wife, Arianne. Her round, pretty face was flushed with joy. "Such
fine news! Such blessing! Oh, Mac Lit, 'tis too wonderful.
Thank ye, thank ye!

He stared at Arianne, nonplussed. "Thank you for
what?"

"Why, for healing our wee lass, of course. Tamika is
well!"

A cheer arose from the circling faeries. Several executed
graceful, midair tumbles in tribute. Mac smiled at them
briefly, struggling to make sense of this startling turnabout.

A half dozen faeries swarmed about his head, the females tossing him kisses. Arianne dove at him, arms open,
careening headfirst into his chest, nearly tipping him over.
Mac grasped her shoulders, holding her at arm's length,
wings buzzing.

"Arianne," Gilraen said, dazedly, buzzing in the air beside his wife. "Can it be true? Wee Tamika is truly well?"

"Aye, thanks to Mac Lir."

"I had nothing to do with it," Mac said.

Arianne beamed. "So modest. As a prince should be. I
knew ye would put things right. I told Gilraen as much.
`Mac Lir will save the young one,' I told him. And ye have!
Just as I said ye would."

"I intended to do just that, but I can't claim credit. I
haven't had a chance to do anything. Tamika's recovery
isn't my doing."

"Where is the lass?" Gilraen put in.

"There," his wife said, pointing behind her. "Laina,"
she called, "bring the wee one here!"

A dainty faerie swooped low, cradling a squirming, cooing bundle in her slender arms. The tiny child's cheeks
were rosy, her eyes bright. Gossamer wings-too young
yet for flight-fluttered with vibrant energy. She waved a
small fist in Mac's face. He touched her cheek. She responded with a wide, toothless grin. Clearly, she was in
perfect health.

Mac exchanged a perplexed glance with Gilraen, who
looked just as puzzled. "When did she recover?" he asked
Arianne.

"Why, just a few moments past, not long after Gilraen
went out to meet ye. 'Tis why I thought-"

"It wasn't me," Mac repeated. "Perhaps your healers...?"

Arianne shook her head. "'Twasn't any spell of ours.
We tried every spell we knew, and still the lass weakened."

"Are you sure Tamika was so close to death? Perhaps
you mistook the severity of her illness."

"Nay." Arianne's voice trembled. "I wouldna mistake
such a thing. Tamika's life essence was all but gone. If her
recovery was nay your doing, Mac Lit, 'twas a gift from
the gods. From your own father, perhaps."

"Perhaps," Mac murmured, but he knew it wasn't true.
The Council of Celtic Gods had strict procedures governing miracles. First, a formal petition for Divine Intervention had to be made by the hopeful party. Once the plea
arrived in Annwyn, debates were scheduled, which had to
be attended by a two-thirds quorum of the Celtic Gods
and Goddesses. Who did not have a long tradition of
agreeing on anything. More often than not, arguments
raged interminably, the opportunity for Intervention passing long before any Divine Action was recommended or
denied. Even in those rare instances when debates ended
quickly, Intervention was seldom approved. Such heavy handed divine action tended to upset the balance of
magic, to the detriment of both life - and death-magic
creatures.

Whatever had happened here, it had not been an act of
a god.

The faeries, however, didn't seem inclined to question
their unexpected good fortune. Like human children, they
lived in the moment. The entire clan had come out to the
meadow to spin circles in the air. Arianne executed a
graceful pirouette and held out her hand. "Dance with us,
Mac Lir!"

"Perhaps in a bit," he told her distractedly. "I'll just have
a look about first."

Arianne smiled and nodded. Gilraen flew to her side,
and together they joined the main dancing circle.

Troubled, Mac approached the village's peat wall. He
was as glad as anyone at Tamika's abrupt recovery, but it
made no bloody sense. Death magic just did not suddenly
reverse itself.

He turned to his right in front of the village gate and began a slow, thoughtful circuit of the settlement, casting
his senses-both magical and mundane-in all directions.
Searching for another trace of that odd, chiaroscuro magic.

Fifteen minutes later he was back where he'd started,
none the wiser. The impromptu ceilidh was still going
strong. Strains of music-bell flowers and reed flutesdrifted across the meadow. Straightening, Mac rubbed the
back of his neck and stared into the forest beyond the
village.

He'd found exactly nothing. Which meant he'd missed
something. Which in turn meant either his magic was
slipping-and he was certain it wasn't-or his quarry was
very, very clever.

Squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, he paced to
the edge of the forest. Casting his senses once again, he
reached deep into the earth and high into the air, touching the magical patterns that infused the forest with life. A
subtle disturbance, so faint as to be almost nonexistent,
scraped his awareness. Raising his hand, he spoke a single
word. A spark of light glimmered between the slender
white trunks of the birches.

Then it died, just as quickly.

His eyes narrowed. He stood stock-still, staring at the
place where the light had been. It didn't reappear. He
made his way to the site and, kneeling, extended a hand.
He spoke the revealing spell a second time.

A spark glowed bloodred against the dark loam. Death
magic. It took a moment for Mac to overcome his natural
Sidhe revulsion and actually touch the remnant. His palm
came down, depressing the spark on the springy earth.
Magic pulsed faintly against his skin. He braced himself
for a surge of wrenching nausea.

It didn't come.

Oh, there was a reaction, to be sure. A vibration that
quickly spread through his whole body. A lick of darkness.
Of death. But, surprisingly, it was not at all unpleasant.

On the contrary. It was... arousing?

He snatched his hand away, shocked to the very core of
his immortal soul.

Mac was half Sidhe, half divine. Neither race tolerated
death magic well. Touching the remains of that spell
should have left him disgusted. Repulsed.

Not horny as all hell.

He was hard and throbbing-no sense in denying the
blatantly obvious. He frowned down at his tingling palm,
as if he could find an explanation etched among the lines
there. Baffled, his senses still buzzing, his arousal slicing
through his gut like a sweet, sharp knife, he touched the
spot again.

This time he was ready for the raw jolt of carnal awareness. Shoving the sensation to the back of his mind-bloody
difficult, that, considering his current anticipatory state he probed deeper, seeking the essence of the spell. Death
magic, yes. But-and here the rest of his body went as rigid
as the part between his legs-he sensed life magic as well.

Death magic and life magic-joined in one spell? He
tore his hand away, utterly and completely gobsmacked.
Mind-boggled, in fact.

Most magical races practiced one form of magic or the
other, life or death, by virtue of which force gave birth to
their existence. Humans had a mix of magic in their souls
and could choose to practice either type-or both. Chief
among those who dealt in both life and death magic were
sorcerers, demonwhores, and vampire addicts. But such
spell-casters never mixed the two forces in one spell.
What would be the point? When death and life magic
were cast together, they canceled each other out.

They didn't merge into a force so strong it sent Mac's
mind-and senses-reeling.

What, exactly, was he dealing with here? Closing his
eyes, he delved deeper into the fading magical signature,
snatching at evaporating whispers. Secrets the unknown
spell-caster had tried very hard to erase.

Awareness of the villain's essence jolted through him.
Human, as he'd expected. Or mostly, anyway. And...

Female.

A new wave of desire coursed hotly through his veins. A
woman. A witch. With magic that was... unique, to say
the least. The spell she'd cast-death and life magic intertwined completely and seamlessly-should have been impossible.

And yet here it was, calling to him. Drawing him in.
Fascinating him.

Sending sweet, consuming fire straight to his cock.

Gods.

He tore his hand away. Cold beads of sweat chilled his
brow. He sat back on his heels, heart pounding.

This unknown witch was stunningly dangerous. Com pletely undetected, she'd approached a hidden faerie village and cast a life/death spell that had devoured the clan's
life essence like a starving wolf. She'd pushed an infant to
the brink of death.

And then she'd allowed her spell to... what? Evaporate? As if it had never been?

Why?

Mac shoved himself to his feet and paced a series of
ever-widening circles around the spark. It took a half hour
to find a second clue, a good fifty feet from the first. But
the third came easier, and the fourth easier still.

A trail.

One he would follow to its end.

"Mommy? Where are you? Please answer. I'm afraid....

Artemis's eyes snapped open on darkness, her heart
pounding like a herd of elephants on stampede. "Zander?
Oh gods, baby, is that you?"

Silence.

Tears burned her eyes. A dream? But Zander had
sounded so real. So alive. So frightened. Artemis didn't
count telepathy among her magical powers, but if she
were to have a mind connection with anyone, surely it
would be with her only child.

She held her breath, listening, but found only cold, dead
silence. Zander was gone now. If he'd ever been in her
mind at all.

She shoved herself into a sitting position, her spine
screaming in protest of the unnatural position in which it
had spent the last few hours. There wasn't much room in
the back of the Corsa. And it was damn cold.

She drew her knees up to her chest and huddled under
her tartan blanket. The thick wool, combined with her old
army jacket, did a decent job of repelling the night air. But
the chill in her heart? Nothing could reach that.

The starless night seemed to seep around the edges of her tightly closed windows. She'd chosen this road for its
remoteness. She hadn't wanted to sleep at all, but sheer exhaustion had given her no choice. Her magic was useless
unless she maintained her body's equilibrium.