Replacing it upon the rack, she sighed.
It would take her hours to search the attic for one misbehaving mutt.
“Killer,” she hissed. “Come out this instant.”
She checked under tables and behind boxes. Even opened a wardrobe’s doors, finding an abandoned mouse’s nest and a few hungry moths, but nothing else. Rising from an investigation of the space beneath the bed, she felt the back of her neck prickle. A queer trill of nerves up her spine as if she were being watched.
Spinning around, she froze. No one was there. The chamber remained empty. Yet the feeling persisted. A strange watching presence lifted the hairs on her arms, prickling the back of her neck. She was picking her way back toward the stairwell when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. A flicker of gold. A drift of gray. She paused, and the movement stopped. She started, and it began again.
There behind that highboy. She laughed, her voice sounding shrill in the quiet room. Of course. A mirror.
The cheval glass stood apart from the rest of the furniture. A piece of cloth draped across its speckled surface. An
old mirror, then, the silver backing coming away in spots. Woodland animals twined with flowers and leaves around the frame. Perfectly rendered in the dark, polished cherry.
Unable to help herself, she caressed each carved detail, drinking in the blunt, suspicious features of a badger, the long twitching nose of a fox, a kestrel’s wing outstretched as if it might catch the next updraft. Skimmed her fingers lightly over the curved petals and wide leaves of a king cup, the delicate grace of a wood anemone, a fern’s intricate fronds.
Her hand barely touched the glass when the mirror’s surface clouded, the light within dimming to obsidian, but for a slash of silver lightning.
She shouldn’t look. This was
Other
magic. Trouble in every sense of the word. Hadn’t it been proven to her over and over? But even as the thought burst in her, she pulled aside the cloth, letting it slither to the floor in a pile. The boil of storm-cloud black rippled over the mirror, the lightning charge off its surface prickling her skin.
“Elisabeth?”
A voice startled her heart into her throat.
Madame Arana stood wiping her hands upon a towel at the far end of the room, a door behind her open on some kind of storeroom or office. She wore a long snowy apron and a mobcap to cover her wispy white hair. “I thought I heard someone wandering about up here.”
Elisabeth fought to keep the giddiness from her voice. “I apologize, but Killer . . .”
The dog trotted around Madame Arana’s skirts to sit at her feet, his pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, wearing a wide doggie smile.
“He’s been keeping me company while I work.” She
threw a critical gaze around the clutter. “You must excuse my lack of order. When I moved my household, I could not bear to part with my things. So many memories, you see. Some pieces I brought all the way from my homeland in Provence when I fled the troubles. Helena, she lets me store them for when I am homesick for the old days.” Her smile vanished, her mouth folding into a deep frown, her eyes scalpel-sharp. “But you don’t want to hear an old woman’s stories. You worry over young Douglas.” She laid aside the towel. “Has he yet to return, then?”
Madame Arana’s otherworldly insight was unsettling yet comforting. It was almost a relief to Elisabeth not to have to explain herself to someone who seemed able to pull the thoughts right out of her head.
“No, Helena’s not seen him all day. I . . . he finally told me what happened. Everything.”
“Did he, now?” Madame Arana rubbed her chin in thought. “His mask crumbles more quickly than I thought.”
That was exactly what he wore. A charming, seductive disguise to keep everyone at arm’s length. Peel one away and there would be twenty more layers behind it. The man was virtually armor-plated.
Again, as if reading her mind, Madame Arana nodded sagely. “He’s locked much inside him. Unable and unwilling to face the things he did while under his father’s influence. Such denial can fester like an untreated wound. Cause great suffering. The spirits do not like to be ignored. They will find a way to be heard.”
She approached Elisabeth, the deep wells of her eyes an infinite spinning of the heavens. Her hands as they caressed the rim of the mirror like those of a tender lover. “You’ve
found my scrying glass. It shows me things when I ask. Not always, but when the mood strikes.”
“It’s alive?” For a moment, Elisabeth had forgotten the presence of the unnerving mirror, but now it seemed to crackle behind her as if acknowledging the compliment.
“Not as you and I are alive,” Helena’s grandmother replied, “but like all things born of
Fey
magic it bears a will. And it is aware. It is how I knew Douglas had returned to Ireland. It is how I know there can be no return of Arthur without great suffering.” Her gaze moved between Elisabeth and the mirror. “You have seen something.”
“I didn’t . . . that is, I felt someone watching me. Or thought I did, but that’s absurd.”
Madame Arana’s gaze narrowed. “The glass would not have spoken to you if the need were not great. You must accept the invitation and learn its secrets.”
“I don’t want to learn any more secrets. I know them all.”
“But you do not believe. Not completely. You think Helena lies or that Brendan exaggerates. That there must be a mistake somewhere.”
“Brendan wouldn’t do such awful things. He’s sarcastic and intense and arrogant and at times downright infuriating, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Perhaps you choose to see only the parts of him you want to see. The man who makes your heart flutter and your blood heat. To know the man for who he truly is, you must recognize the best he can be and the worst he is capable of. The mirror will reflect both if you are strong enough to face the truth.”
The challenge in Madame Arana’s stare set Elisabeth’s hands back upon the glass. Instead of the heat she
expected, an icy chill raced up her arm. Buried its frozen needles deep into her center. Gasping, she sought to break free, but the mirror held her. The contact between them unbreakable. A scene surfaced as if rising from the deep of an ocean’s tempest. A heavy drone like a hive of bees pounded in her ears.
As she watched, the cloudy glass focused upon nine figures becoming nine men. A tenth prostrate within the circle. The drone expanded to become words. Words chanted over and over. Words in a language she’d heard only once before in her life. In a clearing at Belfoyle. Spoken by a boy whose life had always seemed charmed and whose love she’d long ago given up on.
“Yn-mea esh a gwagvesh. A-dhiwask polth. Dreheveth hath omd-hiskwedhea.”
As she watched, a cloud formed over the man on the ground. Coalesced to become a monstrous creature. Teeth. Claws. A body squat and ungainly.
The chanting rose in pitch and excitement.
“Skeua hesh flamsk gwruth dea.”
The man on the ground shuddered.
“Drot peuth a galloea esh a dewik lya. Drot peuth a pystrot esh a dewik spyrysoa.”
The creature hovered for an instant above the man before the two seemed to merge. The process causing the gorge to rise in Elisabeth’s throat as the victim screamed and fought his transformation.
At the end, what had once been human now stood facing its creators.
Two men stepped into the circle. The elder, his bearing regal, solemn as a graven image. The younger, his face a mask of horror, but his gold eyes wild with excitement.
“Ana daraa ymesh’na igosk,”
he said. “The Nine welcome the Dark Court.”
The creature’s mouth drew back in a razored snarl, more grotesque as it bore the features of the victim it had possessed.
“Ana N’thashyl hyghtyesh, Erelth.”
With a cry, Elisabeth tore herself free. Heart thrashing against her ribs, throat sore as if she’d been screaming. She could barely breathe, as if the air within the room had thickened to smoke. Bitter. Acrid. It stuck to her throat. Stung her eyes. She trembled against the splash of icy awareness then the wash of heat that followed. Felt the lancing tightness of a headache clamp her skull.
What kind of man comes up with such madness and evil? What kind of monster would conjure such sickening malice?
Brendan. The Nine. The true son of his father.
She wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered, sickened by what she’d witnessed. “He’s as monstrous as Máelodor. This is his fault. All of it.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Can you tell me it’s not? Look what Brendan’s madness has unleashed. His father’s death. His family’s ruin. And if Máelodor ever captures the Sh’vad Tual, the atrocities could begin all over again. I knew I should never have asked. I didn’t want to know. The world of
Other
is cursed. Magic and the
Fey
and the rest of it. It’s nothing but misery and trouble.”
“Ah, but there is misery whether we live our lives as
Other
or
Duinedon
. And trouble will find us no matter whether we hide from it or meet it head-on. You have seen young Douglas’s past. His shame. His crimes as Helena might deem them. But have you not seen his bravery, his honor, and his love as well? He braved capture to return to
Dun Eyre for you, he has offered the honor of his name when his actions caused your ruination, and his love?”
“He doesn’t love me. He cares for me. He worries over me, but he doesn’t love. Not in the way I once hoped he might.”
“Does he not? I would say it is his love for you and again for his family that has caused Brendan to agree to Helena’s scheme. He is willing to risk all for love. Can you not see your way clear to do the same?”
Brendan walked. He couldn’t say how many miles he wandered nor what he saw. Lanes merged into one another, crowds jostled him, the sky opened, drenching him to the skin with a miserable cold rain.
He slept for a few hours in the shadow of Kilronan House, the ruin a fitting backdrop for his mood. Was prodded awake by a constable who found himself backed against a wall, a hand pressed across his throat until the dreams receded and Brendan realized where he was. The next hour he spent eluding capture, his street skills kicking in as he moved silently and expertly through the close, dirty alleys. Crossed the Liffey at Essex Bridge, the brackish brown river gliding beneath him.
He paused for a moment, dismissing the inspiration almost as soon as it entered his head. He’d never been desperate enough to contemplate that way out, even when he’d been numbed by opium and stupid with booze. If arrogant pride was his greatest sin, it was also his greatest strength. There was always an answer. Always a way. One simply needed to attack the problem from all angles. Use all available tools at hand. Persistence and a dogged unwillingness to surrender.
Still, Elisabeth’s face haunted him. Her expression as she fought to hold to an ideal he’d known from the start he could never live up to. Now she knew it too.
On impulse, he shoved his way toward Cutpurse Alley and Macklins in case Jack had arrived. Spent an hour or two crammed into a corner, watching the door. No luck and no message. What the hell had happened? Had the
Amhas-draoi
found Jack? Had Máelodor? Was his cousin lying dead in a ditch or had he merely lost track of time as he fleeced the last coins from some naive patsy?
Back out on the street, Brendan pulled his coat collar up around his neck against the renewal of this afternoon’s storms. With no destination in mind, he skirted Saint Patrick’s and the tangled alleys nearby. Turning off Lower Coombe, he sensed his first stalker.
Two streets later, a second joined the chase.
By the time Brendan reached the yards behind Elbow Lane, the hunt was on.
His body vibrated like a wire. His awareness expanding as he sank into a role he’d played across countries and continents. The rabbit running before the hounds.
Were these Máelodor’s men looking to capture their quarry or
Amhas-draoi
determined to assassinate the Nine’s last member?
His answer came all too soon. In a blind alley behind a tanner’s yard. Nowhere to step into the deeper shadows until danger passed. No way to double back and lead them on a false scent. The
Amhas-draoi
warrior straddled the roadway, his features granite-hard and inscrutable, mage energy scalding the surface of Brendan’s mind with a blast of numbing power.
Drawing his knife, Brendan lunged forward, hoping
to thread his way between the giant and the nearest house. Jinking sideways, he threw himself in the gap, rolling back to his feet with a yell of pure excitement, the knife still clutched in his hand.
And just as suddenly he dropped to his knees, his cry becoming a stifled scream as mage energy crushed him.
The man stood over him, victory in his impassive eyes as the battle magic knifed through Brendan, a horrible scything of joint and tendon. He curled into a ball, unable to breathe without a stabbing pain cutting into his lungs.
Spots and pinwheels burst across his vision, blood pounding in his ears, but he fought back. Raw instinct taking over as he unleashed his own powers upon Scathach’s gloating warrior.
The man reeled, his expression one of shock, then pain, as Brendan slammed his knife hilt-deep into the fighter’s gut.
The
Amhas-draoi
’s battle magic receded like an ebb tide, leaving Brendan shaky and sick but whole. He scrambled to his feet, heart thrashing in his chest. Ducked a wild blow. Lurched away from a second. Gauged his situation, trapped as he was between Scathach’s soldier boy and the mouth of the alley.
Without warning, the
Amhas-draoi
charged like a bull. “Filthy murderous pig,” he spat from a twisted, white-lipped mouth.
“Stubborn jackass,” Brendan shot back, dancing on the balls of his feet, keeping the man at arm’s length as he sought to steal along the wall. What the hell did it take to bring one of the brotherhood down? The man pressed a hand to his abdomen, his face going pale as a winding sheet, yet he continued to fight with amazing ferocity.
“You think this wise? Anyone could happen on us. Scathach won’t be happy with questions.”