Scattered Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 1) (20 page)

Chapter Sixty

The shower spray pelted Malcolm and for the longest time he just absorbed the sensation and the heat of it. He’d not taken a shower in like… He had to stop and think. Between living on the streets and time with the goblins, something like a year and a bit? Even though he wasn’t real dirty he still scrubbed himself all over three times. Trying to wash away everything. All the memories. All the stuff that happened. The taint from it. His fingers were completely pruney before he switched off the flow.

Only, even after he shut off the water he still heard the sound of it. Like the rush of wind over an open vent. In a creepy way, Malcolm didn’t feel alone in the bathroom. Like when you stand in the shower behind the curtain and you know, you just know, there is a ghost right on the other side ready to scare the bejesus out of you. So you don’t want to look. Only, you have to look, on accounta you can’t cower in the shower forever like a moron. Malcolm gripped the curtain, equally ready to feel like a moron or to completely freak out, depending. He snatched the curtain aside.

And completely freaked out.

Leastwise, he didn’t scream.

The thing in the bathroom with him was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It looked like a funnel, with its wide end pointing at him like a megaphone. Probably as wide across the opening as he was broad through the shoulders. The funnel narrowed into some kind of tube-like thing that went right through the bathroom door. It was like looking down the gullet of a tornado, ‘cause it kinda spiraled like that. He could see right down the middle and not see the bottom because it was all hollow inside.

Malcolm hauled back, ready to punch it if it attacked. He shoulda kept the knife with him, blast it! Though, maybe even a knife wouldn’t do any good against this thing.

Blindly, it weaved from side to side like a cobra, ready to strike. Only it didn’t. Like it couldn’t see him.

Holding his breath, Malcolm ducked past its mouth. Crouched down, he crept to the door. Turning the knob got its attention though. It swung around, fast! Malcolm dove out of the bathroom. He hit the ground rolling. When he came up, he jerked back his fist ready to wallop the thing.

Only it was gone. Just vanished.

“Hey, I thought you fell in or something,” Kieran called from the kitchen nook. He worked at the stove, frying something. “What do you want on your omelet?”

“What?” Malcolm, wet and naked, looked from Kieran to the bathroom and then all around. No sign of the funnel-tornado thing at all. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Kieran glanced around, ignoring Malcolm’s buck-naked state.

“That,” Malcolm drew the funnel shape in the air, “thing.”

“Mate, I don’t see anything.” He turned back to his cooking. “Want ham on your omelet?”

“Uh…” Malcolm checked behind the sofa real quick and then peeked inside the bathroom just to be sure. “Ok, I guess.”

“Better hurry up and get dressed. I’m just about done.”

Malcolm left the bedroom door ajar so he could keep an eye out for the freaky thing. In the dresser and wardrobe he found all kinds of clothes, pretty much in his size and all of it brand spanking new. The stiff denim of the jeans hadn’t gotten broken in yet. The tennis shoes had that springy, spongy feel of newness. After going without any clothes of any kind for so long, wearing them now felt weird, almost confining.

He picked a plain, tan T-shirt with long sleeves that he pushed up to his elbows. Most of his scars were on his back, but a few times the whips had cut across his upper arms. He didn’t want people to see them. Ever. Bad enough things had happened… didn’t want the whole world knowing about it. He didn’t want to think about it, and he didn’t want anybody else thinking about it either. Might get ideas about doing it again. Figure that’s what he was good for.

The bandages around his wrists got soaked in the shower, but he left them on anyway, even though the soggy gauze felt kinda icky. He really didn’t want to see how bad it looked under the bandages.

Malcolm finger combed his wet hair so it wouldn’t dry sticking out every which way. The back was so long that it soaked the neck of his shirt. After a bit, he went back out into the main room. “So you live here, too?”

“At the Glamour Club, you mean? Yeah. My flat’s next door.” Kieran slid two plates onto the island counter, each with an enormous omelet overflowing with cut veggies, strips of ham, and sprinkled with cheese. He’d already set out forks and two tall glasses of OJ that had the bits of the pulpy stuff in it, like homemade.

Malcolm leaned against the counter, poking at the eggs with a fork and all the while keeping a wary eye out for the tornado thing or other weirdness.

“Eat up! I can cook an omelet, you know.” Kieran speared a forkful. “Just ask anyone I’ve ever spent the night with. It’s my specialty.”

Malcolm prodded at the food a little before taking a taste. Mostly, he’d gotten used to going without food. Didn’t even really notice feeling hungry anymore. Just ate when scraps got tossed to him, and then didn’t think about it the rest of the time. He might’ve even noticed the flavors now, except he kept watching the hiding places around the room for threats. He’d not dreamed that tornado thing. Shouldn’t have been hallucinating, either. Unless that Dawn chick messed with his head even more than he knew about, making him see crap that wasn’t even there.

“So Donovan’s gonna figure out what your aspect of magic is. That’ll be cool, huh?”

Malcolm swallowed a swig of the juice and then asked, “What’s yours?”

“Sound. It comes easier than Glamour, which everyone can do. But look, I’ve been practicing.” While Malcolm watched, a million fine, pink threads sprouted all around Kieran. They snagged each other like cotton candy, fluffing up in a cloud that hovered a couple inches about his whole body, except his head. Within the pink haze, a fancy suit appeared. “What do you think? Not bad, huh?”

Malcolm scrunched his face at all that pink fluff. “Better keep practicing.”

“Hey, now. I look fine in a tux.” Kieran brushed his arms through the illusion, as if straightening the suit sleeves. “Think you can do better?”

Malcolm glanced down at himself. He thought about looking different. Something simple. Like a pair of gloves with cuffs high enough to hide the bandages around his wrists. He stared at his hands, thinking and wishing and willing the gloves to appear. Only, nothing happened. Not even a hazy fuzziness like Kieran.

He scowled at his hands. At the bandages that covered his wrists. At Dawn saying his magic was damaged. Defective, like him. Silver stopped magic, and he’d been made to wear silver almost all the time with the goblins. Maybe the silver got into his blood. Maybe it poisoned him like she said. Really and truly messed him up forever. Maybe he didn’t have magic that worked. If he ever had any. Except for the Touch, and they’d had to drug him to make that work.

Kieran didn’t say anything about Malcolm’s failure to make Glamour. He finished up his juice and then cleared away the dishes. “We better get your arse down to the Glamour Club before everyone thinks I’ve made you my newest conquest.”

That made Malcolm blink. “Say what?”

Kieran just laughed. “Come on, then.”

Chapter Sixty-One

As the sun crested in the skies above the Ring of Kerry, Jonathan Wyndracer wheeled in deliberate circles, scanning his territory like a bird of prey. In dragon form, his wingspan extended more than a hundred feet, but his magic shielded him completely from view. The magic didn’t conceal his shadow, though, which chased him along the rough landscape far below.

Using the angle of his wings to provide lift, Jonathan sailed south toward Sneem. As he patrolled, movement along a ridge below snared his attention. Even at this distance, his sharp eyesight easily distinguished human from any other creature, and this creature skirting the rocky outcrop between the trees was most definitely fey. His magic might prevent the creature from seeing him dive bomb toward him, but the leathery beat of his wings as he swooped down betrayed his attack. The fey bolted, scrambling to gain the constricted path between the trees.

Jonathan snatched the fey. His talons ripped gashes deep into the yielding flesh before he slammed the goblin bodily to the ground. Jonathan mercilessly stomped the small fey, feeling the last of his struggle before the still of death. As he shifted his weight, more fragile bones snapped. The fey, like this goblin, were delicate creatures. Easy to kill, but tricky to catch. Silently, Jonathan regarded the foliage and boulders about him. Sometimes the goblins traveled in packs, but if this one had companions, they either found cover or used their fey Glamour to camouflage themselves. Tendrils of smoke curled from his snout. Jonathan snarled a warning, not that the fey ever heeded his warnings.

Discarding the mutilated goblin, Jonathan rose once more into the air. Sneem awaited, only another few moments’ flight away. He continued his patrol until he reached the outskirts of the village.

As he descended his shape changed. Rather than the four taloned-feet of the dragon, it was a man’s booted feet that touched the ground. The wings shrunk as they retracted, reducing the wingspan to twelve feet. Those wings wrapped about his shoulders and, as his magic flexed to make him visible once more, the wings acquired the appearance of an ankle-length leather duster. His tail also reduced in length and girth so that when he wrapped it about his waist, it appeared as nothing more than a scarlet snakeskin belt. The clothing that reformed around his humanoid shape was real and no illusion. To the highly developed magicraft of the dragonkind, causing his clothing to disappear and reappear as he required for shapeshifting was a trifle thing. He smoothed back his thick black hair, the tips of his claws scratching lightly against his scalp. Magic disguised the claws, but he still had them, just as his irises still possessed the reptilian slit, though at the moment they appeared rounded like a human’s and the steely grey of gunmetal. The black dress shirt and slacks fit his muscular form. Though taller than most humans at seven feet high, Jonathan imagined that he passed well enough for one. The locals accepted him without an undue amount of staring, though much of that was the result of his frequent visits to the towns in his territory, to condition them to become accustomed to him.

To that end, he embarked upon his stroll through town, acknowledging those familiar to him with nods and the brief, meaningless greetings that humans favored in passing. As he approached the main street, along which the restaurants and shops were collected, he detected a distinctive scent.

Fey.

Picking out a fey from among the humans required no trick. He honestly had to wonder how humans failed to recognize the foreignness of the fey. This one in particular acted enough out of the ordinary that Jonathan had to chuckle. The fey was short, like a goblin, but the coloring and mannerisms were all wrong. Not even Glamour could have hidden a goblin’s skulking movements. From the looks of him, this fey wasn’t using any Glamour at all, just a cap and sunglasses to disguise his more distinctive features. In addition to his scent, the way the fey behaved sparked the dragon’s curiosity. As Jonathan approached, the unassuming fey patrolled around the truck a full three times, though he made a show of it being casual. Pretending to check the taillights. Then coming around to clean a side view mirror. Sitting for a couple seconds on the front bumper while he appeared to read the signs of the shops. Whistling to himself as he wandered around to the other side.

Jonathan sidled, unnoticed, next to the vehicle without even attempting stealth. He leaned back against the side of the delivery truck, just around the rear bumper. Arms crossed and long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he remained motionless, lying in wait.

When the fey strolled around the corner he was busy looking off down the road, watchful for danger at a distance and completely oblivious to the threat right in front of him. The fey tripped over Jonathan’s ankles.

The dragon snatched the little man by the upper arm, preventing him from stumbling or escaping. His voice dropped into the deep, gravelly timbre of the dragon, inhuman and dangerous. “You should be more careful, fey. Never know what might be lurking.”

The fey gaped up at him, utterly frozen with fright.

The snarl of his lips, as he smiled with predatory mirth, revealed his extremely long, extremely sharp fangs. Suddenly, Jonathan spun, switching positions with the fey. He knocked the little man back against the side of the truck with just enough force to drive the air from his lungs. The dragon loomed over him. “A long way from the Mounds, aren’t you?”

The fey managed to both nod and shake his head in a haphazard way, as if torn between agreeing and disagreeing and not at all sure what the right answer might be. If indeed any answer might save his life.

“Do you even know in whose territory you’re trespassing?”

The fey stammered, “Dr-drag-dragon.”

“Is that an observation, or an answer?” Jonathan leered hungrily. He curled his fingers around the fey’s lower jaw, his talons pressing into the skin, but not breaking it. “You will tell me who you are and why you are here, or I will eat you. If I don’t like what I hear, I will eat you. If you lie to me, I will know, and I will,” his grip tightened fractionally, “eat you.”

The fey opened his mouth and managed only a terrified squeak. At the threatening rumble of Jonathan’s growl, the fey began to blather as swiftly as he could articulate words. “I am Willem Phillip Brodie Mac ind Óclaich, former apprentice of Master Scribe Tiberius Laven Davort of the Illustrious Archives in Tír na nÓg. More recently, I was the Master Scribe to the All-Mother and Creatrix Danu, herself. The grand and magical realm of the fey, the Mounds, the Otherworld of legend and fact, home of the Tuatha de Dannan, has collapsed. I have pledged my loyalty and service to Lugh Samildanach, The Shining One of the Tuatha de Dannan, son of Cain, former and, most likely, future king of the Seelie Court, and Champion of the Sidhe. In him lies the fragile hope for the salvation of all the fey, and in following his command, I stand watch here until discharged of my duties or slain. For if I die today by the snap of your jaws or in six months by the agony of the Fade, I shall not fail in my oaths.” And with that, the Scribe jerked a pistol out of his jacket. He showed the dragon the profile of the gun, holding it out as if it were a talisman that should, by its very presence, drive him back.

Jonathan snatched it away before the fey could figure out the proper manner to hold it. The fey sucked in a desperate lungful of air. Jonathan covered his mouth with his palm before Willem could commence with hysterical screaming. “You’re a Scribe?”

Willem nodded.

“Where is The Shining One?”

Willem pointed toward the cliffs to the east.

“Are there valuables in the truck?”

The Scribe gave a pained look and then nodded again.

“Now, you will do as I say, Scribe. You will get in your truck and you will leave.” Jonathan pointed toward the shortest route out of town, so the fey would know exactly what was expected of him. “Now.” Jonathan released him. “I will not tell you twice.”

Willem slid along the side of the truck, keeping his back flat against the sheet metal until he climbed into the cab. Jonathan remained on the street, staring after the truck as it drove off in the direction he’d indicated. He waited a minute longer, then stepped between two of the shops that had just a narrow walkway between them. Once he was certain he was out of view, Jonathan became invisible once more. His wings flapped open and then with a mighty beat they carried him off the ground. As he flew after the truck, his form morphed back into the dragon.

After the truck crested a hill and headed back into a valley, where it was hidden from the line of sight from the village, Jonathan swooped down. He snatched up the truck, balancing it beneath him by one claw. His invisibility covered the vehicle as he hoisted it into the air. A deep chuckle rumbled through him as he heard the muffled, terrified screams of the Scribe.