Black wings unfurled to a majestic wingspan, then tucked swiftly to spiral behind the flying mammal through narrow, winding stone corridors, that’s rather what I look like.
I nearly nabbed it twice, but as it flaps circles above me in quarters too tight for my width, I concede, it’s outmaneuvered me. For the moment.
I drop down on a pile of the Unseelie king’s mammoth books, prop my chin on a fist, and stare irritably up at it, aware of the portrait I paint; a savage, winged Unseelie prince thwarted by a tiny flying rodent. One would think, as Fae royalty—notably the prince known as Death, for fuck’s sake—I might point a finger in a general upward direction and delete it from existence or, at the very least make it have a heart attack and topple to my feet.
One would be wrong.
I’ve spent most of my tenure as the lethal prince struggling to keep myself from inadvertently using the power I possess. I’ve no idea what I’m capable of until the dark magic erupts from me in some horrifying way.
The bat finally settles, clinging to a timber upside down, membranous forelimbs folded about its body, swaying gently. I’ve gone motionless. As long as I remain still, the creature may decide the malevolent god/demon has flown the coop and venture into the open so our ludicrous chase might begin anew: What does Death do all day? Chase bats. Christ. Hardly the life one envisions for such an entity.
As I wait, I glance about the ancient domed chapel. Like the rest of the castle, it’s stuffed to overflowing with goods purloined from the Unseelie king’s true library, and still we’ve barely made a dent in transporting the collection from within the White Mansion’s halls. Jars and chests, artifacts, tomes, and scrolls litter the pews of the long-unused oratory and are strewn haphazardly across the flagstone floor. Larger relics are propped against the walls. I’ve learned a great deal about the Fae, yet precious little about the part I play in it. I need a card catalog for the king’s eclectic collection. Not that it would help at this point. Assuming the library was ever arranged in some semblance of order upon those physics-defying shelves that careened vertically, horizontally, and diagonally, and soared to heights even I hadn’t reached with my wings, those items we’ve removed certainly aren’t now. It’s chaos.
The problem, I fume, is that I really don’t want to kill the bat. Each creature has its place in the balance of things. Bats pollinate, eat insects, consume roach dung; they’re a necessary part of the cycle.
I frown, realizing I may have been going about it wrong. Perhaps it’s not Death that needs to contend with the bat. I summoned the necessary elements to extinguish the ice-fire at the abbey without negative repercussions. Granted, that was before the Song of Making was sung and the Fae restored to our inimical, ancient power.
I tip my head back and stare up, open my senses, try to access the furry, winged life above me, sink into it, become it. Ah…there it is. Tiny heart hammering, a dangerously overworked drum accelerated by fear. And yes, it does think me a demon. I taste the fog of panic in its brain. It hovers on the verge of cardiac arrest from terror and frantic flight. I did that to it. It mortifies the Highlander-druid in me, raised to protect. It’s but a wee bat doing wee bat things. Having a fine life.
Until. Me.
I withdraw, sink into my heart, and waft a tendril of the love I hold for my land and kin upward, envision it cocooning the creature, soaking into its sleek body. The mammal’s heartbeat instantly slows, and the fog lifts from its alien, simple mind.
Relinquishing my constant, tiring grip on the Sidhba-jai—the lethal sexuality exuded by royals, both dark and light—I open my druid senses and tunnel down through the floor of the chapel, past the dungeon, sink beyond the stone slab foundation of the castle, to the fertile soil and deeper, penetrating layers of rock to touch the bountiful, magnificent energy of the—
Stop, my gut roars, there’s danger here!
I abort the connection and slam my walls back up.
What the bloody hell was I thinking? I know better. The last time I permitted myself to absorb the power of the earth as it seeped up through the soles of my boots, I walked into the Cock and Crown and killed every man, woman, and child within. One hundred forty-two people died that day, exploding into clouds of black dust. Had I gone home, I’d have murdered my entire clan instead.
I banished the druid part of myself that afternoon, locked him away and never reached outward with my Keltar senses again, concluding the druid part of me had absorbed the earth-power without realizing it, and the uncontrollable Unseelie part of me had seized it, using it to lash out with massive, destructive force. A grand “fuck you, can’t touch me” reminding me just who’s in control. And not.
Still…what if I’d concluded wrong?
I narrow my eyes, rolling the subtleties of what I just tasted in the earth over my tongue, forcing myself to analyze it void of emotion. I’d long tried to divine how Cruce managed to subdue the Sidhba-jai and glamour himself so effortlessly. How he’d done everything so easily. Having just felt the enormity of power available to me, I’m willing to bet he was never using his own will but siphoning the elemental energy of nature, which is boundless and eternally replenishing. Willing to bet it was the source of power for all he did.
Which means it’s the source of mine as well—and I cut myself off from it after one accidental misuse of power. Granted, one with terrible consequences, but there might never be a better time to try again.
The maids are absent.
Sean’s an unkillable prince.
If I summon power today and fail, only bats will suffer. I can’t continue living as a fractured entity, drenched in darkness, cut off from human contact, eternally at war with myself, searching books for mystical answers that may not even exist.
I quiet my mind and open my druid senses, warily at first then wider. Such a profusion of power blazes at the core of the planet; it’s staggering, dazzling, humbling, and I’m part of it! We all are, but few have such a direct connection.
As I invite the abundance to enter me, it slams into my body with such force I nearly go flying backward off the pile of books. Regaining my balance, I relish the sensation of being blazingly, intensely alive, intimately bound to the planet. I missed this, the boons of my druid heritage. I vibrate with energy, bristle electric with it. I fear I might explode from so much pent—
Bloody hell, I know what I did wrong that day in the pub. It’s so bloody simple I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
Pent. Meaning trapped. When I’d subconsciously drawn energy that day, I’d done nothing with it. I’d not even really understood that I’d absorbed it. Then I’d strolled into a pub, with every atom of my being saturated with volatile power.