A light tapping sound pulled me from the depths of sleep and I awoke, momentarily confused to find that I'd been transported from the library back to bed.
For a minute or so I lay still, staring up at the elaborate wood ceiling panels, and waiting for the fog in my brain to clear.
Rolling to the side, I sat up and leaned over with my elbows resting on my knees. A sick feeling lurked at the back of my throat, and cold sweat prickled over my skin. Low blood pressure, I concluded, as a dull ache drew my attention to my arm, where a red stain had seeped through the bandage over the cut.
I stared at it a moment and sighed. There had to be a less dramatic way of gathering blood. If Volkir could keep up on the latest trends in non-stick cookware, surely he could upgrade from the old 'knife and bowl' technique.
The tapping sound resumed, and when I looked towards the windows, my spirits lifted at the sight of Al on the other side, black feathers sparkling with mist from the falls as he strutted back and forth with something shiny in his beak. Mindful of the mild dizziness clouding my brain, I stood and made my way over to let him in.
"Hello, silly bird," I said, as he fluttered up to land on my shoulder. "What did you bring me now?"
I held up my hand and he dropped the shiny object onto my palm. It was a beautiful ring made of some light silver alloy with a delicate interwoven design set with a single larger stone. This I at first took to be a flawed diamond of some sort until, as it rested on my palm, I saw a tiny spark of light glimmering within and realized it must be the same strange quartz as the crystal orbs that lit Volkir's home.
It was then I realized I'd seen the ring before—many times. It was one Volkir himself always wore on the smallest finger of his left hand.
"Where did you get this, Al?" I asked.
Of course he didn't answer, other than to croak softly, ruffle his feathers, and gently nibble my ear with his beak.
"Oh well," I said, slipping it on the ring-finger of my right hand, "I'll just have to make your apologies for you when I give it back. Thief."
I stroked the soft feathers of his head and then yawned. It was past ten, meaning I'd slept nearly three hours, but I still felt drained.
Which, I supposed, was the literal truth.
Stepping out onto the wide stone balcony encircling the grotto below, I leaned against the balustrade and closed my eyes, taking a few deep breaths and letting the rush and whisper of the falls fill my ears.
Reaching within for the magick at my core, I gently drew it forth and then opened myself to the ambient energy surrounding me. It was there in the gentle warmth of the winter sun, and in the cooling breath of the air; in the endless stream of water cascading from above, and in the solid dark bones of the earth beneath my feet. I called to it, drew it to myself, and let it flow through me like a river of light.
In a surprisingly short time, I came back to myself, released my hold on the magick, and took a few more deep breaths. Unwrapping the bandage on my arm, I found the skin beneath unblemished except for a thin scar, which would fade in time. Feeling as refreshed and renewed as if I'd just had a good night's sleep, I stretched my arms wide, dislodging Al from my shoulder as I did, and then was startled by a flash of light. It was Volkir's ring, glowing like a little star on my hand.
"Huh," I wondered aloud, "so that's how that works."
As much as I didn't particularly appreciate the fact that Volkir's home was built over a system of caves, I'd become aware that there was great power resting in the land here. Whether it was in the strange crystals in the caves, or some quality of the place itself, I didn't know. All I knew was that there was an enormous store of magick here, and it was even easier than usual for me to access it.
It seemed that the crystal had absorbed some of the magick I'd called on, storing it like a strange natural battery of some kind. If the larger deposits of the stuff worked the same way, a skilled mage could accumulate an incredible amount of power here. Volkir must have known that, and built his stronghold over it to safeguard the place from misuse.
No wonder he'd been alarmed when Soren had first brought me here. Of course I'd had no clue at the time—had known nothing about magick or how to wield it—but from Volkir's perspective I'd have seemed like someone standing on a pile of touchy explosives with a lit cigarette.
"Well, I hope he doesn't mind I supercharged his ring," I said to Al. "Guess I better go find him and give it back."
Al croaked and cocked his head at me, and I got the feeling he was telling me something, but speaking to animals—even one as clever as Al—was not a talent I possessed.
I returned inside, Al perched on my shoulder, and went downstairs.
In the library, I found Soren seated alone in one of the comfortable reading chairs. He sat slouched back with his legs crossed at the knee and his chin resting on his hand, but the power and strength in his body was evident even in such an insouciant pose. My eyes traveled his form: lean, but well-built and long in the leg. He exuded the power and elegance of effortless wealth, and his face held a kind of rough beauty that made one stop and study him like a work of art.
I still found myself wondering, from time to time, how a man like him, who could have had anyone he pleased, had fallen for me.
He stared intently at an open box sitting on the coffee table before his chair, his midnight-blue eyes looking almost black beneath the shadowed ridge of his drawn brows, his lips pressed together in a slight frown. As I watched, he ran a hand through his blond hair, as he did when troubled by some problem he couldn't easily solve, leaving it in smooth disarray.
On my approach he looked up, but his expression hardly changed except for the light that entered his eyes and the almost-smile that touched his mouth.
"You've recovered?" he asked, sitting up and reaching for my hand as soon as I drew near enough. He turned it over in his own to inspect the underside of my wrist, and sighed with relief. "That is good news, at least."
Still grasping my hand, he pressed the back of my fingers to his lips a moment and then let me go. As he did, his eyes were drawn to the bright little star on the ring, and he glanced up at me in surprise.
"Is that...? Where did you get that?" he asked.
"Al," I said, as the bird himself pecked gently at my hair. "He must've stolen it, though I don't know how. I've never seen your father take it off."
Soren was silent a long beat, and I couldn't read the expression on his face.
"Al didn't steal it," he said at last, earning himself an approving croak from Al himself. "My father must have given it to him, to give to you. Fitting, I suppose," he added softly, looking at the ring on my hand.
"I don't understand. Why would your father give me his ring?"
"It isn't his," Soren answered. "It was my mother's, and it only shone like that when she wore it. She wasn't a witch, herself, but she had magick in her blood. Like you."
"Soren, is something wrong?" I asked, concerned as he lapsed once more into his unhappy state. "Where is Volkir, and what happened with the new-blood?"
"Sit down and I'll tell you," he said.
I obeyed, and after a pause he filled me in on what I'd missed.
"So, your father handed you a key to a mysterious box, which he gave you permission to open only if he didn't return by the end of a week. And you lasted, what, twenty minutes?" I teased when he finished.
"I'm worried," he said, not smiling. "I might not have disobeyed him so soon if not for Matt's vision. That..." He trailed off. "That was unexpected."
I frowned. Soren had explained that sharing visions of an absent mate—especially if one or the other was in severe distress—was not unusual for a bonded pair. That Matt should have experienced such a thing meant that he and Volkir were now linked in a similarly profound way.
It wasn't that I disapproved—Matt might be pathologically optimistic but he wasn't stupid. He knew what he wanted and didn't want, and what he liked and didn't like; if he liked and wanted Volkir, and no one got hurt, then it was no business of mine. It was only...
"I've never had a vision like that," I said. "Have you?"
Soren glanced up at me, surprised, and then gave me a slight, reassuring smile. "Thankfully no," he said. "You and I, my dear, are fortunate not to have been separated by any great length of time or distance since our lives were joined. If we were, or—gods forbid—ever are, I suspect our bond would manifest in some similar way."
"I see." It wasn't that I needed, or wanted, another strange ability, but somehow I felt relieved nonetheless. "So, what was in the box, anyway?"
"Just these," Soren said, leaning forward and pushing it towards me so I could see.
I leaned forward, too, and peered in. There were three items. One was a leatherbound notebook or journal, one was a letter written on a single piece of very old paper or parchment, and the last was a little bottle made of blue glass stoppered with a cork and sealed with wax. It had no label, but appeared to contain a clear liquid of some kind.
"May I?" I asked, looking up at him. I didn't doubt he'd let me, but I knew how unpleasant it was to have someone grab at important things without asking first.
He nodded.
I picked up the journal. It felt heavy and had the musky spice of old books and old leather. I opened it carefully and found it full of yellowed paper covered in neat, dense writing in a language I couldn't read.
"What is this? Icelandic?" I asked, studying it.
"No. A mix of Old Norse and Old English," Soren answered. "The letter's the same. A 'delaying tactic,' if I had to guess. My father must have suspected I wouldn't wait long."
"And the bottle?"
He shrugged. "No idea. Best not to open it though, until we know what the journal and the note say. I was hoping you might be able to read it, actually."
"No such luck, I'm afraid. If it was in Sumerian, maybe, or Greek. Dr. Chissaud might, though," I added, referring to my godmother and fellow scholar. "Her first love is African folk magics, but she likes Scandinavian stuff, too—the Poetic Eddas, Beowulf—that kind of thing."
Soren rose abruptly, almost startling me with the sudden motion. "Right. We need to get this to her then, and speak with Matt. The sooner we leave the better."
He took the journal and replaced it in the box, then closed the lid and locked it with the little silver key. As he did, movement in the doorway caught my eye, and I looked up as Soren continued to speak.
"Let's pack our things, find that dog-monster of yours, and then figure out what to do with the new-blood," he said. "I suppose we could just leave her here... She'd be alright for a month, at least—starving, of course, but—"
"Actually, Soren," I cut in, "I think we may have to deal with the new-blood first."
"What? Why?" he asked, distracted with his task.
"Because, unless Volkir had more than one secret house guest, I'm pretty sure she's gotten loose."
I pointed and, alarmed, he turned.
In the doorway stood a young woman with shoulder-length dark hair and light skin. From her wrists, a pair of chains trailed, chunks of rock still fastened to the end of each where she'd evidently torn them from the wall. Her eyes looked black, the iris surrounded by a ring of blood-red instead of white, and when they landed on me, they widened further still, going almost completely round. Then she let out a terrible scream, mouth wide and long fangs bared and, before either Soren or I had a chance to react, rushed towards me across the room.