Sample Chapters

When Magic Wakes

#5 in the Darkly Fae series

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CHAPTER ONE

Damp. Wherever he was, it was damp. And dark. And cold.

So very cold.

A biting, icy cold that chilled him through to his bones until he thought he could never get warm again.

It came from behind him, through the rough stones of the wall at his back. He lurched away from it, desperate to escape the cold, only to be jerked back by the magical shackles that secured him to the wall.

He was helpless.

He shivered from both the cold and the fear.

Mostly the fear.

Digging deep within himself, he hunted for the any traces of power. He had exhausted his magic during the capture, but he had to believe that some remained. Even a tiny spark would be enough to give him hope.

He found none.

Panic reared its ugly head, threatening to push him into madness. He could not succumb. He would not. He did not.

Until he heard the footsteps.

They echoed down the stairwell that led to his prison. He felt each footfall like a thunderclap, shaking new fear into his heart.

His eyes strained in the direction of the sound. Through the inky black he could just make out the outline of a man as he emerged from the stairwell.

The man was as dark as the dungeon around them. He blended with the shadows as he crossed the cavernous space.

Looming over him, violet eyes glowing with more magic than the prisoner could ever hope to possess, the man laughed. And then the man reached for him.

Aedan O Cuana woke to the sound of his own screaming.

Sweat had soaked through his pajamas and dampened the bedding around him. Every inch of his skin felt clammy. He shivered with an uncontrollable chill, despite the roaring fire in his bedchamber's hearth.

I am in the Moraine Palace, he told himself. I am in my bed, in my room. I am in control.

The affirmations did little to abate the sheer panic coursing through his bloodstream. His heart pounded at twice the speed of its usual pace and his hands shook so hard he didn't think he could manage to bring a sip of water to his lips without spilling it all over himself.

Not that additional moisture would be noticeable.

He swung his legs out of the bed and strode to the fire. Held out his hands to the warmth. Slowly, the shivers abated.

They would return. He knew that as certainly as he knew that if he got anywhere near as close to the flame as he wished, he would set himself afire.

He had been home more than a week, eight nights in the comfort of his own bed, and yet the nightmares persisted.

He wondered, not for the first time, if the traitor Ultan had cursed him with this nightly replay of his captivity. The unscrupulous fae was powerful beyond anything Aedan had ever seen, save for the daughter of the fae god Belemus. Ultan had tried to kill her as part of a ritual to raise the Dark Clan, but she had defeated him. What Aedan wouldn't give for that kind of magic.

Then perhaps he could rid himself of the never-ending nightmares.

In some ways, Aedan welcomed them. So long as the nightly reminders persisted, there was no chance he would forget even the smallest detail of what happened. And he wanted to keep every last moment crisp and clear in the front of his mind. That was, after all, the only way to prevent a recurrence.

His mind began to wander to the night he was taken, but he stopped it cold. He had started down that spiral only once, and had barely made it back out.

He stared down at his arms. There should have been scars. There should have been countless scars. Ultan had taken great pleasure in inflicting the most damage with the most pain.

But the traitor had also taken great care to use magic to heal over the wounds so that the damage and pain could start again the next day.

Every day for how many days, Aedan could not remember.

"There should be scars," Aedan whispered to the empty room.

He knew, though, that there were. Just not where others could see.

A noise in the hall beyond his room startled him, made him jump like a rabbit at the first sign of a coyote. He braced himself for the attack that never came. It wasn't Ultan. Only a member of the palace staff going about their early morning duties.

Nothing that should send his heart racing.

He hated the part of himself that reacted on instinct, that urged him to flee and save himself. Hated it because the fear was foreign to him. He had a reputation among his clan as the fearless one, the one who would try anything, would do anything, even at great risk to his person.

His friends would laugh to see him sent into a panic at a mere noise.

He had Ultan to thank for that.

That helpless feeling, the one that haunted his nightmares, was the root of his fear. The realization that he had been utterly powerless to stop the torture, to stop the daily surprise of what new form of punishment Ultan would try on him.

One thought kept him sane throughout his captivity. One tiny spark of hope for the future that kept him from doing whatever it took to give in to the torture, to give up and let Ultan go ahead and kill him. One thought.

Never again.

He had been caught unawares once and paid dearly for the mistake. He had been too weak to fight off the older and more experienced fae. He had not taken his magical training seriously.

He should have been able to defeat the traitor with sheer physical force, but in the face of such great magic, Aedan's strength had been negligible.

Never again.

If it took every waking hour of every day, he would make himself powerful enough to prevent a recurrence. He would never be helpless again.

He crossed to his wardrobe and drew open the doors. Changing quickly out of his sweat-soaked pajamas, he pulled on breeches and a shirt loose enough for training. He was just securing his hair in a knot at the back of his skull when there was a tentative knock on his door.

When he did not reply, the door creaked open.

"Forgive me, your highness," the young man—barely more than a boy—said, "but the High Prince wishes to see you."

Aedan studied the boy for a long moment, considering. Finally, he said, "No."

"No?" The boy's eyes widened. "B-b-but—"

Pushing past the boy, Aedan strode into the hall. He had no time for his brother. Not when he could have nothing to say that Aedan needed to hear again. Not when the training room awaited.

For once, Aedan had his priorities in order.

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