Bloodfire (Blood Destiny) Read online

  Answer me.

  I sighed inwardly. Everyone wanted answers and there were just none to be had. Or at least none that could be shared without more violence. Instead of feeling angry, I just felt tired. I should probably think of a way to reply to him before he used compulsion though.

  Are you trying to suggest that it was my fault that this happened, my Lord? If I hadn’t been there it would have been even worse. It wasn’t me who decided that only two guards were going to be a good idea.

  Silence. I didn’t feel proud of myself for trying to shift the blame onto someone else, but at least I’d managed to deflect him for the time being.

  Eventually he answered. That was a mistake. It won’t happen again. There was unmistakable regret in his Voice that gave me a twinge of guilt.

  So I guess none of us are completely infallible then, I sent back quietly.

  I don’t suppose we are. He sighed mentally. I’ll be at the keep in a few hours, so let me know if you need any help with damage control in the village.

  I wondered just how in the hell I was supposed to manage that when I couldn’t contact him by Voice and he wasn’t exactly on speed dial. He seemed to realize that, however, and rattled off a phone number that I could call him on. Fine. There was one more thing that I did need to know as well though.

  How is Lucy?

  Corrigan might not be at the keep yet, but I had no doubt that Staines was keeping him updated. Who else would have told him that I was going to Trevathorn to make sure that everything there was alright?

  Not good.

  Pain was reflected in his Voice and, for a moment, he seemed more human than shifter. He was silent for a moment longer and then broke off the contact. I kicked the log, hard, and cried out, feeling the sharp pain in my foot briefly overtake me. Then it faded and I was more alone on the beach than I’d ever been before.

  *

  I eventually entered Trevathorn via a small cobbled side street that led from the beach. There was a small crowd of people standing beside the square at the Hanging Bull. This didn’t look good.

  I strode up with purpose, figuring that if someone had seen or heard something, they’d be broadcasting it to the entire village. Secrets didn’t stay quiet for long in any small village, and Trevathorn was a shining example of how to put a rumour mill to perfect use. In fact, I’d heard the barman in the Bull quip once that if you were caught unaware in the woods and had to answer a call of nature, then everyone would know about it before you even managed to get home. Even though, as the local ‘cult’, the pack wasn’t exactly a real member of the community, there was still a part of me that appreciated that feeling of living somewhere where the neighbours cared enough to gossip about you. The only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about.

  As I got closer to the clump of humans, I realised that they seemed to have formed some kind of semi-circle around whoever was doing the talking. So perhaps there was just one witness then. That would make any reports of giant one eyed beasts with ugly toenails easier to discount at least. My money was on Mrs Arkbuckle, the local postmistress. If there was a story to be told, then she would be the person most likely to know it. She was the human version of Betsy. I’d heard a scandalous rumour last year that she’d been steaming open any interesting looking envelopes that came her way, in order to know as much as possible about what everyone was doing. I think most people had forgotten that in this day and age of email, most letters were confined to boring and official business matters. Smoke doesn’t always equal fire. And that was what I’d have to make sure that everyone thought now.

  Unfortunately my heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach when I saw that it wasn’t Mrs Arbuckle at all. In the centre of the circle was a cameraman, pointing a black video camera at a trim woman with perfect skin. She was holding a microphone and flashing a curved row of even white teeth. Shit, shit, shit. I stepped closer to hear what she was saying.

  “Are we ready?” She tapped her earpiece, and cocked her head quizzically.

  The cameraman began counting down from five, pointing at the woman dramatically as he said each number. I briefly considered rushing them both, tackling her like a rugby player, and taking her down before she could say anything to the world at large. I doubted that would help matters, however. Holding my breath, I pushed closer into the watching crowd, earning myself a few scowls in return.

  “Good afternoon, Martin.” Her voice had modulated itself into an almost perfect version of received pronunciation and she gazed into the camera lens with a happy concentration. I figured that the invisible Martin must be the anchor ‘back in the studio’. “I am here in Trevathorn in Cornwall, reporting on the recent wave of seismic activity that has sent the local villagers running for cover. There were several small earthquakes here on Tuesday evening, each measuring around 2 on the Richter scale, and large enough to send roof tiles crashing into the quiet cobbled streets and vases tumbling to the floor from atop mantelpieces.”

  I immediately relaxed. Oh, the drama of a little quake. It was hardly on a par with the San Andreas fault, but I supposed the tremors caused by the terrametus had been strong enough to warrant a mention in the remarkably unturbulent British Isles. And no doubt, the appearance of this minor celebrity in town, coupled with the vague promise that they might catch themselves on television, meant that both the locals and the tourists had stayed glued to the action here, instead of realising that the real drama had been unfolding just half a mile away. Every cloud had a silver lining, I supposed, and at least there was one less thing to worry about.

  The journalist turned to a woman at her side. So the ubiquitous Mrs Arbuckle was there after all, I noted. I turned away rather than listen to her take on what would no doubt be transformed even further into terrifying earthquakes of biblical proportions. That was when I noticed Nick across the street, watching the action with his arms crossed. He glared at me for a moment and then pointedly ignored my presence. It probably wasn’t worth my effort to try and appease him, and I was pretty certain that he would have no further details on the robbery at Perkins. Demi-gods were no doubt rather accomplished at staying hidden from any human investigations into their undertakings. And Cornwall’s finest weren’t exactly CSI. I felt bad about hurting his feelings but it was better for him in the long run.

  There was an old red telephone box by the other side of the little square. I was pretty sure I had some change in my pocket - should I call Corrigan and tell him everything was okay? Then I thought of Julia. This was her home and she’d be more concerned about the village than Lord Shifty. I was annoyed with myself for not thinking of her first. She was my alpha – sort of - she should always come first. I thrust my hands into my pockets and stalked over to the phone. Julia wasn’t the kind of technologically advanced person who possessed a mobile, although admittedly whilst I had one I was always forgetting to bring it with me which meant I might as well not own one at all either. I called the keep itself. No-one picked up so I left a message.

  I put the phone down and gazed unseeingly at the years old graffiti etched into the paint, trying to decide what to do next. It was ridiculously dangerous, but maybe I should try entering the portal. If all Iabartu was going to do was to send minions through who would wear us down bit by bit, then surely it was high time to go on the offensive instead. The problem was that I’d have no way of finding her, or my way around once I entered her demsenes. It could very well be a vast plane of existence, which I’d spend the next sixty years or so wandering around in a clueless fog before eventually dying of old age. I drummed my fingers against the glass and absently traced a small tag written in black that proclaimed that ‘Blake woz ere’. Inspired words. Truly.

  Then I paused and remembered the black piece of cloth that I’d found in the clearing and which had been shot through with silver. It was just possible that it had belonged to Iabartu. It seemed strange that she’d just have left it hanging there, and there hadn’t been any evidence of her prese
nce anywhere other than at the seven stones and tree runes at the beach. But who else could it have belonged to? Alex would be able to tell me if it was hers or not by scrying it. If it wasn’t hers, then it was at least likely that it belonged to another of her servants who might be able to lead me to her. And if it was…

  I was confident that Alex would be able to put a locator spell on the material to find its true owner. He had already said that one of his jobs was often to help owners find lost objects. It must be an easy process to reverse and help lost objects find their owners. I felt instantly invigorated. Let the Brethren and the pack take care of matters here. I’d get Alex to help, grab some of the silvered weapons, and sort the bitch out.

  Awesome.

  Chapter Twenty

  I ran through the woods towards the keep with a renewed sense of purpose. Now that I finally had a proper plan, both adrenaline and warmth trickled through me. I ducked under a couple of branches and leaped over a bush, avoiding the usual path so that I could take a shortcut and get back quicker. It was my sense of impending achievement, however, that made me so blinkered, and so dumb.

  Traces of the otherworld are evident everywhere, if you know where to look. I did know where to look but today I wasn’t seeing them. As I hopped over some roots without breaking my stride, I blundered straight into an invisible wall and was immediately thrown backwards. Slightly stunned, I staggered to my feet, daggers already pulled. But there was no physical enemy – I’d become trapped inside a sodding faerie ring.

  “Fuck!” I slammed my shoulder against the edge of it, even though I knew it was a useless gesture.

  Faerie rings are perfect circles of woodland mushrooms, left in random areas of countryside by the more irritating members of the Fae. Many older rings were now defunct; they didn’t tend to hold their power for long. However the ones with enough juice in them still to work were not only annoying, but also dangerous. Time, for the Fae, moves differently to what it does for almost everyone else. They survive for millennia in Earth terms; and once in the Fae demesne itself, you could spend one day and then return to find that decades in the ‘real’ world had passed. They’d set faerie rings to capture foolish humans, and would then force their hapless prisoners to dance themselves to death. It was said that just one beat of faerie bells was enough to set your toes tapping and your hands clapping, and that once you started you’d never be able to stop. Even worse is that with time lacking in any importance for the Fae, often years would go by before they’d check on their faerie traps. It would be impossible to force my way out of here on my own, and of course my mobile phone was back at the keep. After leaving that message on the answer machine that all was well, no-one, not Julia nor Corrigan, would be using their Voices to get in touch and see where I was. If I had some iron on me, then perhaps I’d manage to break through it, but even more stupidly I was pretty sure that my usual iron knife was currently sitting happily on my bedside cabinet waiting to be cleaned and sharpened after I’d used it to slit the throat of the terrametus.

  I emptied out the contents of my bag, anyway, just to be sure. I’d put the empty Coke cans that I’d shared with Alex on the beach back inside but they were made of aluminium, which was next to useless against anything other than a recycling plant. There was the half empty canister or hydrogen peroxide that reminded me painfully of John for a second, but which offered no help in terms of usable iron. There was a small first aid kit, a couple of energy bars, a tatty book that I’d been reading when routing out the rabbits had become just too unspeakably dull for words, but absolutely nothing that would help me get out of the ring. Even my daggers were made of an alloy that wouldn’t contain enough iron to work. Sometimes modern technology was a curse. I tried anyway, stabbing randomly at the invisible wall. Of course nothing happened.

  I flung the contents of my bag to the ground and moved around the entire circle, checking it for any vulnerable points. Nothing. I felt rage and frustration shivering all over me. It wasn’t fair! I knew that someone would find me long before I’d ever have to persuade any of the Fae to let me go, but I needed to get out now and get into the portal.

  I thumped myself down, cross-legged, in the centre and slammed my palms against the mossy ground, stirring up a fine dust as I did so. I kicked out uselessly at the edges of the ring. It was no good; I’d just have to wait till someone came and rescued me.

  *

  Several hours later, dusk was beginning to settle. I was curled up, dozing, and waiting.

  Where the fuck are you?

  Corrigan! I sat up with a snap. Finally. I didn’t think I’d ever be pleased to have his Voice inside my head. I was about to answer when Julia spoke to me, with a high note of panic.

  Mackenzie! We need you!

  Oh shit. What’s going on? What’s the matter? I had no idea whether both Julia and Corrigan could hear me at the same time, but it didn’t matter. Something thing was clearly very wrong.

  It was Julia who answered, and her words made the bottom drop out of my world. The keep is under attack. We need you. Now.

  I…Julia…I’m stuck. I’m in a faerie ring and I can’t get out.

  There was silence on the other end. Julia? JULIA? CORRIGAN?

  They’d gone. What did that mean? Who was attacking them? If it was Iabartu and I was stuck here, if the pack got hurt, or worse… I stood up and began flinging my clenched fists against the edge of the ring, over and over again, screaming at it to let me out. I pummelled the invisible wall with fury and felt my whole body on fire with an intense heat. I kicked and punched and threw myself at it with every iota of strength I had. Hot tears of frustration pricked at my eyes as images of the pack and the Brethren’s bodies lying broken inside the keep whilst faceless monsters prowled through the rooms attacked me.

  I hit the wall harder, and cried out in pain as my knuckles slammed against it. But I didn’t stop. My fists were red raw from the repeated impact. I kicked again and punched again. What was I going to do? My vision was blurry with tears as I continued to attack the ring’s outer edges. Come on, come on! I kept a furious battery of assault with my fists whilst my bloodfire screamed at me to continue.

  And then, all of a sudden, I was falling through the circle to the outside world and to the hard ground. The momentum carried me through till I banged into a tree and looked up, dazed. I’d actually punched my way through a faerie ring. Feeling a moment of utter befuddlement, I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were smeared with blood. I stared back at the ring in confusion then shook myself and got up, running in the direction of the keep. I was free, that was all that mattered. And now I had to go help my people.

  I flew through the woods, feeling branches whip at my face and thorns catch my trousers. This time I made sure I looked at where I was going so I didn’t foolishly fall into any other traps. I ran and ran, heart pounding in my ears praying to whatever was out there that my friends were okay. I couldn’t handle more bloodshed and death, not now. Not when I could have prevented it by looking where I was going and avoiding getting trapped by a stupid faerie ring.

  When I emerged from the woods and saw the keep, I was horrified. I couldn’t see anyone outside, friend or foe, but one of the great oak doors was hanging off its hinges. I stumbled for a second and then ran faster, clutching my daggers. No no no no no no no. Not my home and the rest of my family as well as John. I couldn’t let that happen.

  My feet crunched into the gravel as I reached the driveway, and I started to slow. I still couldn’t see any signs of life. I felt very hot, and very sick. Gripping the hilt of both daggers I stepped into the keep. The lighting was dim, and there were signs of utter devastation everywhere. The corpse of some kind of hideous creature lay face down on the shabby red carpet. Lamps had been overturned and, as I walked further into the hall, I could feel shards of glass snapping under my feet.

  I resisted the urge to call out, not knowing what might decide to answer. The door to the office was open, and I glanced in, seeing pap
er strewn all over the place as if a miniature hurricane had swept in, caused utter havoc, and then immediately faded away. I continued forward, holding my breath. Where the fuck were they all?

  I jogged to the gym and checked inside. Nothing. My chest felt tight and I was getting more and more panicked. Those fucking faeries! If I’d been here then I could have helped. A sound came from deeper in the bowels of the keep. I froze. It had sounded as if it was coming from the kitchen. A quick clatter of something falling to the ground. I tightened my jaw and tiptoed in that direction.

  Pressing my back against the wall, I pushed open the door with one hand then peered around. The table was on its side, but I couldn’t make out anything else. I was about to move into the doorway when something launched itself at me, biting and into my arm with sharp teeth and growling viciously. Despite the pain, I felt a wave of relief.

  “Tom! It’s me!” The growling continued and his fangs sank deeper into my flesh. It was as if he’d not heard me. “Tom! It’s Mack. Look at me!”

  The rumble in his throat died and a pair of pale yellow eyes gazed up at me balefully. He immediately released my arm. Blood was streaming down it, and I could see a smear of red on his teeth. His huge tongue lapped at his lips for a second and he looked briefly puzzled. Then, he turned back into the kitchen and I followed, grabbing a dish towel hanging on a hook and wrapping it around the wounds.

  “Tom, what the fuck is going on? Where is everyone?”

  He whined, but didn’t turn back to look at me. Instead he padded out of the kitchen and through the small door that led into Julia’s herb garden. I had no choice but to follow. What met my eyes when we emerged back into the cool night air was a scene of controlled chaos. Limp bodies lay around the space, with shifters in various stages of transformation tending to them. Part of me noted the squashed herbs underfoot and thought of how angry Julia would be when she saw what had happened to her precious plants. But then I saw Julia.