Undeniable (The Druids Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter Four

Riley’s back pressed against Joe’s, as they faced opposite directions. He spun the knives before him with the twist of his wrists as a sign that he was more than capable of using them. He could feel Joe’s back muscles flexing as his straight arms shifted from the sides to before him. And Riley knew that the aim of his guns shifted from one of the beasts to the next.

They were completely surrounded by the pack of werewolves. In their hybrid shifter forms, they stood a good two and a half meters tall, even when bent and snarling at them. Their snouts extended farther than the span of his hand from their heads. Their canine fangs must’ve been a good ten centimeters at least, and glistening with their saliva. The beasts moved around the pair of druids like the wolves they were, looking for a chance to breach their defenses, and slice them with claws as deadly and sharp as Riley’s knives.

“I wouldn’t say this was a dead-end lead, would you?” Riley was trying for humor, or sarcasm, or anything other than sheer panic.

“Run your mouth after we survive this,” Joe growled. “Not a dead-end, but a trap. Good job, leading us right into it.”

“My bad,” Riley replied, then reacted to the clawed hand that reached for him. His blade sliced upward, across the inside of the werewolf’s forearm, painting the air with an arc of blood that seemed almost to move in slow motion.

That first strike sparked the counterplay. All the wolves burst into attack. Riley dropped down as one attacker flung himself to tackle him and he twisted his arm back to catch Joe’s neck and jerk him down with him. It might have made Joe miss the target of his gunfire, but it saved his head from getting ripped off as the werewolf launched himself over top of them. Riley twisted away and dove into the brawl.

As one werewolf swiped where he’d stood just a second before, Riley swung under his torso and jammed his knife into the creature’s thigh. Rotating around so that his back was wedged between its legs, he jerked back his head to impact it in the gut and knock the wind from it, even as the creature bent over him. His second knife impaled its throat between the jaw joints all the way to the hilt. The blade must have completely plunged into its brain at this angle. As Riley jerked back both of his knives, he threw himself under the beast as it fell, so he came up behind it.

Joe had fallen to the ground on his back, after Riley had thrown him down, but that had not slowed his gunfire. The werewolves pouncing at him were driven back but the impact of the bullets that ripped away flesh, and bone, and scattered them in a spray of blood as the corpses dropped from the air.

Tae Kwon Do had prepared Riley to defend against multiple attackers. He knew where the remaining werewolves were by just spatial memory and the physics of motion. All lovely terms to mean that he was about to get tackled.

From his low, crouched position Riley sprung straight upward and twisted to pull his feet up into the air so his body spun horizontal to the ground. As he twisted, his foot impacted the face of one of the werewolves, snapping its head around. But that was not the focus of his assault. It was the werewolf now propelling across the space beneath him.

Riley stabbed his blade into its back, right between its massive shoulder blades. The knife stuck between the ribs and hooked in so that the momentum of the werewolf’s lunge pulled at the grip of the knife, and jerked Riley along behind it. Hanging onto the knife handle, Riley rotated to straddle the werewolf’s back like a horse. His other arm hooked around the werewolf’s neck. With a jerk, he sliced across the neck until a heated spray of blood coated his arm. The beast beneath him crashed.

Riley threw himself free and rolled. He lost the knife embedded in the animal’s back, but still had the one in his left hand. As he recovered into a crouch, the werewolf that he’d kicked lunged for him once more. Riley threw his blade and it drove itself to the center of his chest. But the creature did not stop.

“Crap!” Riley jerked back his fists, having no weapon left to him now and this monster was not slowing down.

The sound of gunfire exploded the werewolf’s head. The gore sprayed over Riley, as the monster crashed to his feet.

He jolted to the side and twisted about quickly, seeing nothing but werewolf corpses and Joe, still in a crouch, with his gun aimed at the final animal. The werewolves slowly changed back into human form and the slaughter was even more disturbing that way.

He counteracted the horror with humor. “Well, that went better than expected.” Riley pushed the corpse onto its back with his foot and dislodged his blade. Reclaiming the knife from the back of the other former-werewolf was more difficult and it took a hard yank, and the sound of breaking bones, to get it free.

Joe was slow in returning his weapons to their holsters, as he walked the perimeter of the clearing, which barely resembled the garden it used to be. Joe’s black fatigues clashed with the artistry of the architecture, where it showed through the climbing ivy that was in the process of consuming it. “Well, I would say that this Temple of Manannan’s is no longer in use by the fey.”

Riley looked at the statue, that had once gurgled a water fountain, when he’d first met Manannan. “I’d looked for the temple after the Collapse of the Mounds, and found no one here. I had hoped that with the creation of the new realm perhaps some had wandered back.” Riley shook his head. “You can still see the beauty, even with the overgrowth of plants.” And the bodies strewn about. And the blood splattering his t-shirt and jeans.

“They probably went their separate ways after Manannan’s betrayal.” Joe glanced at the bodies once more. “I don’t think anybody will find the corpses here. Clearly the fey have moved on.”

“But that website still panned out. It was still a lead to a threat to the fey.” He bent to wipe the blood off his knives, before returning them to the sheathes he wore at his hips. Later, he’d give them a good cleaning. “When we get back, I am going to try and decipher some of the other messages. If parahumans are posting about hunting other fey, we could head them off at the pass.”

“That’s for sure. Next time, we’ll need to bring more backup. These guys might have been looking for fey, not druids, but our blood is fey magic enough for these beasts to want to feast on it.” Joe indicated with the tilt of his head for Riley to come with him. “We should head back, now. Nothing more to do here.”

“But they’re all naked.” Riley glanced at the bodies. “They might have clothes stashed somewhere close by. They might have clues or something on them.”

“What kind of clues do you think you’ll find? They were werewolves. They eat fey. It’s not a conspiracy; it’s just the nature of things.”

“If you say so.” Riley backed away from the bodies and followed Joe towards the entrance of the temple. Truth be told, this had been more dangerous than he’d expected. The threat to themselves was bad enough, but if there had been fey here, they would have come across a slaughter, rather than a trap. How many other raids of fey villages had been chatted about in that forum for parahumans that no one stopped? How many were in the works, even now? And if he didn’t stop them, then who would?

Chapter Five

In the age of digital forensics, Granger found himself spending more time scrubbing through video feed from security cameras and cell phone uploads to Facebook than anything else. While his supervisors fed the media on a diet of misinformation and terrorist speculation, the Special Branch of Interpol checked for occult connections, evidence of magic, and demonic residue. So far they’d pretty much scratched the demonic off the list. None of the activator charms were picking up the least flicker of the residue demons shed, which sucked because demons were usually the prime suspect on any large scale, showy display of destruction.

On the investigation board, palm-sized images of the employees of the Brightner Corporation were grouped into three categories; the confirmed dead, the ones whose whereabouts were unknown, and the ones they’d tracked down and found alive. So far, only London Eyer fit that last category, her picture conspicuously held apart from the others by the green push pin fixing it to the board.

Of the bodies they’d discovered in the wreckage, most were killed when the building crushed down on top of them, but a few were taken out by gunfire.

As devastating as the building’s collapse had been, and the death toll it caused, it was interesting that of the collection of non-human body parts they’d recovered, not one resulted from the events of that day. Rather, they’d all been surgically removed anywhere from days to weeks prior. And, interestingly enough, even though no preserving method appeared to have been used on the gruesome collection, not one appeared to show the first signs of decay.

Granger stared at the board, with its unaccounted potential victims and suspects, as if it might start forming connections in his mind, if he just studied it long enough. Only his gaze drifted back to London Eyer, all alone to the side. The background check wasn’t in yet, but he was betting there would be something. Some clue as to why she was different.

With his head propped on his palm, the arm of the office chair being the only thing keeping him from flopping wearily to the floor, Granger diverted just his gaze from the board to his left, back to the computer before him. With an economy of movement, he shifted the mouse pointer down one, to the next video file, and double clicked.

The weather cam aimed monotonously up the road captured the Brightner Building, among several others, in its field of vision. The time frame for the camera went back as far as a week before the building fell. Using the trackball on the mouse, Granger scrolled quickly along the video, tagging the segments where someone came or left the building. Then he marked the period just before the building dropped. For that, he let it play at regular speed.

The building gave a shiver, which suggested a massive explosion, only there wasn’t any residue in the rubble pointing to an explosive device. Then the whole thing lurched forward, doubling over at the middle. The upper floors pitched hard, well over forty-five degrees. Windows shattered as the contents were spilled out, just before the base imploded and the upper stories chased its lost possessions down onto the street below.

It was just a miracle that no bystander had been in that section of road to get crushed by the falling debris.

What had been under the building when it came down?

Granger scrolled it back, and ran it at slow motion. A couple of empty cars were all that was on the road. They got dumped on with the chairs, and flood from the sprinklers, and whatnot before the building hit.

Except…

He rolled it back and played it again, before opening the IM window to Ray in Cyber Forensics. He typed,
File Weather_cam_673.mp4, during the collapse, can you enhance the falling debris? I’m seeing a weird flicker.

On it.
The IM responded back.

Rolling his fingers over the track ball, Granger backed to earlier in the day. Back to when London Eyer walked into the building. So he knew she went in that day, but no evidence revealed how London had managed to escape. No vehicles had left after her arrival, and she wasn’t seen leaving on foot by any of the cameras.

You’re gonna love this
. Ray’s IM popped that window to the front, with a file ready to download. Granger double-clicked on it and waited the second and a half it took to start playing.

Now the video wasn’t fixed in position, but rather zoomed in on a particular set of windows. There was a flash from inside the room that the tinted windows didn’t completely obscure. That flash looked a heck of a lot like the kind you can get from a high powered weapon.

The zoomed in video began a slow pan, tracking the path of that window as the building bowed in half. The window shattered out and debris slid out on a current of water. Then two figures followed the rest, free falling away from the building. As they fell, clutching together and spiraling in slow motion towards the ground, their faces turned towards the camera. One was a young male that didn’t appear on their roster board at all. The other was London.

Granger’s stunned gaze fixed upon the screen, witnessing what should have been a fatal trip to the ground ending with a building smashing down onto her. But then, they were gone. There one second. Gone the next.

Teleportation.

Granger banged his fist down on his desk. “Gotcha!”

“No grown man should get that excited about something that isn’t rugby.” Patterson crossed the investigation room carrying a medical tray in his hands.

“Teleportation! I got it on video!” He clicked to move the time indicator back to the beginning of the clip. “Let’s see that cocky bird try and play this one off. We got her!”

“I got you one better.” Granger’s partner set the tray down in front of him. A severed ear, pointed at the apex, rested in the bottom of it. That alone wasn’t significant. Supernaturals were more likely to have pointed ears than not. Apparently not seeing the impressed expression he was looking for yet, Patterson reached into his suit jacket pocket. “This is the best part.”

He unscrewed a small glass jar and tapped out a sprinkling of a glittering metallic powder. It coated the ear, which began to fade right before their eyes, becoming transparent and then finally vanishing, leaving the metal flakes to litter the bottom of the empty tray.

Granger stared a moment longer, to see if some other trick was going to happen, then glanced back up at Patterson, who grinned with his discovery. “That was silver, which means that the ear belonged to—”

Granger finished the thought, “a fey.”

Chapter Six

Waking brought the pain, but not as deeply as Peyton expected. Shifting even the slightest bit elicited an unconscious groan. Every muscle ached as if he’d hit the gym mercilessly, and now could barely convince his rebellious body to move. At least the surface beneath him had some give, and didn’t jab into his back, like the stone floor had. With effort, his eyelids managed to slit open. The glare from the sun pierced his brain, but he blinked and fought to focus despite that.

“Returning to the land of the living?” A woman’s voice asked.

Turning his head, slow because his body protested endlessly, he mumbled, “Doesn’t feel like it.”

The dark elf woman didn’t look older than twenty, but she would look exactly that way for the endless centuries of her life, as long as a bounty hunter like Peyton didn’t catch hold of her. Like what he had been, he corrected, until his old bosses got crushed in the Brightner Building that day. Her black hair sported blue and amber streaks in the long pixie cut, and given the fey, it was hard to know if that was dyed or natural. The wooden chair supporting her was rocked onto the back legs, and propped against the wall next to him. Her crossed ankles rested by the foot of the small cot where Peyton reclined. She gave him an overly bright smile that proved that she delighted a bit too much in his personal agony.

“Water?” He asked, his parched tongue wanting to stick to the roof of his mouth. More than a small part of him expected her to just laugh at him. Not that he deserved anything different. Not from the fey.

She handed him a half emptied bottle of water. Peyton didn’t care who’d been drinking on it. He downed the rest of it anyway.

Bringing the chair down onto all four feet, she asked, “How do you feel?”

“Like stir fried crap.” Bottle emptied, he let his arm flop limply at his side.

“Good.” She grinned brightly. “I had hoped I didn’t heal you too much.”

His eyes closed. A masochist healer. How was he not surprised? “No worries there.” His hand responded to his bidding and rubbed at his face. The lingering tingling wasn’t from the healing, and he groaned in recollection. “I’m cursed.” The words whispered, testing the reality of the nightmare.

“That you are, handsome.” The dark elf healer patted his cheek, and grinned wickedly.

Even the light impact sent pained flares firing across his nerves. Peyton drew aside, wanting away from her merciless amusement. An uncoordinated arm brushed her away. Diverting her from the torment, he asked, “You’re Selandra?”

“That, I am.” She rose from the chair and, with her arms crossed, she moved to stand at the foot of the hospital cot. “I’m sure we’ll be getting well acquainted in the future. I’ve no doubt Deacon isn’t done beating the hell out of you.”

“Good to know you’ll have my back,” he groaned with sarcasm, forcing himself to sit up on the side of the cot. The infirmary consisted of six identical hospital cots, but the others were empty. “What happens now?” He wouldn’t necessarily buy into whatever the plan was, but he wanted to know what they had in store for him, since death wasn’t it.

“Now you get to work.” Deacon’s voice was the last thing Peyton wanted to hear, but he wasn’t surprised by it in the least. The Changeling emerged from the doorway at the end of the long room. “On your feet, slave. The boss has a job for you.”

Not arguing the ‘slave’ part just yet, he pushed himself up, and was moderately surprised that his legs supported him. No one had been concerned enough with his comfort to have even taken off his shoes. “What job?”

“Lying, cheating, stealing, possibly a kidnapping or two.” Deacon slapped a not-so-friendly hand to Peyton’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to make him wince. “Something perfect for your skill set.”

There didn’t seem to be much benefit in fighting Deacon’s insistent push that ushered him out of the modern environment of the infirmary into the more medieval flavor of the small hamlet outside. Dozens of fey milled about, living their lives in this hidden away place. Peyton glanced around, taking it in. The entire village appeared to consist of a couple of handfuls of small buildings backing against a city wall of stone. A modest castle, with a footprint smaller than most mansions, rose to his right. It didn’t surprise Peyton that Deacon prodded him in that direction.

The throne room opened before him with onyx and obsidian accents to compliment the gray marble with its black veins. The throne itself seemed fashioned out of some black lacquered wood and deep purple satin. The Sidhe lounged upon his throne, long, sleek black hair falling to his waist. The gunmetal gray and purple of his cloak and centuries-out-of-date finery matched the throne room. Probably had them commissioned at the same time. This was Credne, and his chosen domain proved his superior opinion of himself.

With Credne’s cold glare on them, Deacon planted a foot in the back of Peyton’s knee, forcing him down on the marble floor. Jerking his elbow back, Peyton slammed it into Deacon’s thigh in retaliation, earning himself a punch in the back of the ribs.

“Enough.” Credne’s voice reflected his boredom.

Kneeling on the cold, unforgiving stone, Peyton understood his place in this Sidhe’s scheme of things. It wasn’t the place Peyton was willing to accept, but when he tried to rise, Deacon snatched his hair and forced him to raise his face towards the Sidhe. Peyton hissed, “I won’t serve you.”

“Of course, you will.” Credne rose with a slow grace. “Where else would you go? The magic of the enchantment will only last a brief time, dissipating like the mist, leaving the terrible torment of emptiness in its stead. Only the renewal of the enchantment can save you from madness and death, and whom among the Sidhe can you count as friend enough to aid you in your time of need?”

A sobering thought, indeed. Given all he’d done, the most mercy he could expect was a bullet to the brain. Or maybe a swift beheading with a sword. But Peyton knew he didn’t deserve that much, and couldn’t bring himself to even contemplate the idea deeply. He stopped struggling against Deacon and just fixed his attention on Credne, his doom and, apparently, his only hope. If one believed the rules and couldn’t finesse a way around them. “What do you want from me?”

“You will serve me, and the fey you have harmed, to balance the scales of your debt.” The Sidhe’s long, tapered finger stroked from the curve of Peyton’s jaw down to the tip of his chin. This time the trail of magic that he left behind tingled with an ache that echoed a longing deeper into his soul. As much as Peyton wanted to pull away from it, to twist his head away and deny Credne’s influence upon him, he knew there was no escape while the magic latched onto him. Credne’s voice was cool, utterly without compassion, as he murmured, “You will be redeemed, even if it takes the remainder of your life to do it.”

With the barest nod from Credne, Deacon reached around and tore open the front of Peyton’s shirt. When he started to protest and struggle the Changeling hooked his arms under Peyton’s and then locked his hands behind Peyton’s head in a full nelson, forcing him to keep his arms outstretched. Peyton could do nothing as Credne violated him again with magic; this time painting with a burning finger across his chest in some scrolling mark that reached the caps of each shoulder and coiled down his sternum. With his face forced down like it was, he watched the black magic penetrating his skin, branding him like a tattoo, in a pattern that could have been a mixture of Celtic knotwork and thorn-like tribal markings. It smelled like seared flesh, and hurt like it, even if the skin showed no damage beyond the discoloring.

When Credne finished, and Deacon released him, Peyton gripped at the marks still burning into his flesh, unable to dig it out of himself. He hissed, with equal parts pain and fury, “What did you do to me?”

“I’ve marked you as mine. You will be my agent in the human realm and deal with the matters that a fey could not. Deacon will aid you and be your liaison.” With the upturning of his palm, the Glamoured illusion of a bowl appeared in his hand. Fine gold filigree wove in Celtic knotwork to create the designs that reflected the images of the four seasons as the bowl slowly rotated before him. “This is the first of the Treasures of the Tuatha de Dannan. It is Cerridwen’s cauldron. Lost to the Sidhe it has been since ages past, when the Great Veil was woven and the wizards driven out of Ireland. We know it still exists, but it eludes discovery. I believe the wizards made off with it during that dark time.” The illusion faded from the Sidhe’s hand, and, empty once more, it closed. “Now, you will discover its location and return it unto me.”

“That shouldn’t be an impossible task,” Peyton said, more to himself than anyone around him. The pain in the markings faded back into just the insult of it. “But more than a little tricky and hell of a lot of dangerous.”

“Then you, my very capable agent, are the right man for the job.” Credne dismissed him, with the turning of his back, one hand sweeping the cloak aside as he spun and walked away without looking back.

It was a job he’d do, for now, but this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Credne wouldn’t own him. No one would.

There had to be a way out of this.

And he would find it.

The game wasn’t over.