A Heart of Ice and Shadow (Shadows Eternal #2)

Chapter 1

Volkov Castle

Gwendolyn’s emerald eyes were wide with panic. A trickle of blood ran down her forehead and was smeared across the crescent scar that split her right brow. Her breathing was shallow. The blade of her kidnapper’s sword pressed against her pale throat.

In battle, Sirus was always calm. Level-headed. Calculated. Only when the time was right would he let the monster, the hunger, free.

As Sirus stared into the mirrored eyes of Gwendolyn’s attacker, the monster within him clawed to be unleashed. Fueled by rage. By vengeance.

“Nestra may want her whole, but she will settle for alive—and alive is all I need to get what I want,” the cursed man declared with a wince of pain from the damage Sirus had already inflicted. The kidnapper dug his blade deeper into Gwendolyn’s smooth skin.

She whimpered as fresh blood formed beneath the edge the fae silver.

Sirus tightened the grip on his swords. Despite his growing hunger, he resolved not to drink a drop of his enemy’s blood. The taste of Gwendolyn’s salty sweet skin still lingered on his tongue after their embrace in Abigail’s garden, and he would not sully it with the filth that stood before him.

Sirus would make the wretch pay for what he’d done to Gwendolyn. In pain and blood, until the stone floor was washed and slick with it. Until?—

A soft knock came at the door.

Sirus opened his eyes and took in the familiar surroundings of his study. With a focused breath, he calmed the tension the memory had brought on. He inhaled the familiar scent of woodsmoke, worn leather, and polish; replacing the phantom scent of her kidnapper’s blood. He closed his eyes again and summoned a different memory. One of Gwendolyn smirking at him amongst the roses back in Abigail’s garden. A heaviness settled in his chest, and another knock came at the door.

He opened his eyes once more and beckoned Levian to enter.

The mage slid into his study quietly and took the worn leather chair by the fire across from him, adjusting her layers of green silken skirts around her. “You look…well-recovered,” she said with slight yet clear surprise, her sharp violet eyes taking him in.

He was well-recovered. Even Sirus couldn’t believe how quickly he’d healed.

It had been two days since he and Gwendolyn had escaped the magick mirror. He’d carved into the cursed attacker with precision, but not before the bastard had gotten a chance to plunge a poisoned D?kk blade into Sirus’s gut.

Gwendolyn’s magick had managed to purge the dark poison from his blood. Not only that, but it had rebuilt him stronger. Better than before. All that remained of his nearly fatal injuries was a quickly healing wound left by the D?kk blade. Sirus’s fingers tensed around his nearly empty tumbler of scotch, the dull pain in his torso a welcome reminder of why they were here. Why he was here.

Gwendolyn still slept, her mortal body drained by her sacrifice. By what he’d taken from her. Sirus felt the firm grip of guilt in his chest as he met Levian’s gaze. Only Rath, his mentor and the keeper of Volkov, had seen him since that night he and Gwendolyn came hurtling through the mirror. Since he’d slipped through the clutches of Death like black sand through her fingers.

He’d summoned Levian for a purpose, one beyond proving his quick recovery. “How did you come to be here?” he asked the mage.

Levian took in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. “After you and Gwen fell into the magick mirror, I tried to open it—we tried to follow you. I even tried to return to Abigail, but she’d already closed her side.” Her voice was pained with memory. Sirus was unmoved. “I couldn’t think of what to do, where to look.”

She tilted her head to look into the fire. “Niah suggested Rath. We used my mother’s traveling stones and arrived somewhere beyond your clan’s shielding spells. Niah led us through the barrier and into the forest. By the time we’d found Rath and started to explain, you’d come through the mirror.”

Levian confirmed what Sirus had assumed: only those of his vampire clan could pass through the warding spells that surrounded the forest of Volkov Castle. His sister, Niah, had to have escorted them in to find Rath.

The memory was still vivid. As if it all had happened only hours ago. He, Levian, and Gwendolyn had gone to visit the witch, Abigail, at her country estate in France, hoping her scrying bowl could uncover truths of Gwendolyn’s past and provide guidance on her mysterious magicks. The witch hadn’t given them answers, but he’d discovered other things during that visit. Things that weighed heavily on him now.

Sirus rested his ankle over his knee. He’d pondered heavily on what must be done. Now it was time to execute his plan. “What I tell you is to remain between the two of us,” he told the mage before downing the rest of his scotch.

He began with Marcus, how the zephyr had invoked a blood debt to contract Sirus to protect Gwendolyn and her magicks from their High Priestess, Nestra. He then recounted all that had occurred in the magick mirror. He told her everything he could recall of Aldor, the labyrinth of mirrored halls, the strange essence of magick that lingered in the cursed place. Levian listened in silence, devouring each morsel of information and processing them as they came. When he was through, she leaned back in her seat, her face slack. For several minutes, the mage stared at the small table between them, the gears behind her violet half-fae eyes toiling to piece it all together. Eventually, she stood, the skirt of her silken dress flowing behind her as she stalked over to the small bar at the edge of the room, poured herself a large brandy, and shot it back. She poured another, then came back to her seat.

“The Hall of Reflections,” she declared, her usually velvet-smooth voice scratchy from spirit. “That’s where he took you.” Sirus was not familiar with the place, which she seemed to anticipate, as she continued, “It’s written of rarely, and with little detail. I thought it a myth, but you must have been there. It is said that when the magick mirrors were first forged, their makers connected them by creating a place not in the world, but between it—a place beyond the touch of time. It’s where the magick that tethers the mirrors together lives. A network that binds them all.” Her eyes drifted into the void of the fire. “I’ve also read of people cursed by the Pool of Mirrors,” she said. “It was supposedly destroyed by the fae long ago. I cannot fathom how it would have come to be, but if Gwen’s kidnapper is such a creature, it would explain why he would be able to enter the Hall of Reflections.” Levian’s expression grew grim. “You said he’s soulless?”

“Yes.” Sirus had known Gwendolyn’s attacker was one such creature the moment those eyes of mirror met his own. All creatures afflicted with curses carried a mark, but they were not all soulless. Sirus had felt it. Whether you wanted to call it a soul or the essence of life, as a vampire he was particularly attuned to recognizing it—in particular, to recognizing when it was absent. There had been an unmistakable hollowness to Nestra’s lapdog. He lived, but not wholly.

Levian raised her glass to take a sip, but stopped short. “The Pool of Mirrors is a place only the desperate seek, in order to undo what cannot be undone. It is said to provide a single gift, but at a high cost. The price is only vaguely mentioned in old texts, but a sacrifice was required to forge the magick mirrors themselves. The bastard’s soul is not lost; his life force is simply bound to the Pool and, in turn, the mirrors. It’s why he couldn’t die in the Hall after…after what you did to him.” She sipped her drink and grimaced as she swallowed. “You could have torn his head from his shoulders, and he would have lain there for eternity. Unable to die. Unable to live.”

It was a bleak reality, but Sirus couldn’t be stirred to compassion. A flash of Gwendolyn afraid and bleeding under her captor’s grip caused him to tense, sending a jolt of pain through his middle. Sirus had torn into the cursed man with ferocity, but he regretted he’d not gone so far as to do just as Levian said.

“I left the mirror,” she confessed, a touch of guilt laced into her voice. “Back in London. If he can use mirrors, it would do him no good here. The magick of this place would make it impossible. And there are no other magick mirrors in the castle; I confirmed with Rath. I suspect you were only able to use the mirror you came through because it was yours.”

His? Hardly. The magick mirror had belonged to his predecessor, Kane. When Sirus had taken over as leader of the Clan of Wolves after Kane’s death, he left several of his mentor’s more cherished belongings just as they were, including the mirror. If he’d known its true nature, he would have cast it out of Volkov long ago. He felt like a fool for not suspecting it, but he was eased knowing it was that mirror that had saved Gwendolyn.

Levian stood and began to pace before the wide hearth. “I’ve heard whispers that the zephyr’s High Priestess had a pet ghost,” she said. “I believe this ghost and the creature you encountered are one and the same. Even as a half-blood he won’t be welcome on Strye—the zephyrs loathe the mixing of blood with lesser Folk. Nestra must keep her ghost well-hidden if I’ve heard so little of him.” She stopped her pacing. “I’ll find out what I can of him, and of Marcus. I have a few friends on the island.”

Sirus trusted she would do as she pledged.

Levian perched on the edge of her seat and looked at him as if she had something else to say but wasn’t sure if she should. Sirus knew she would. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked a moment later.

He cocked a brow, not sure to what she was referring. He’d told her everything he’d thought relevant.

“Something happened between you and Gwendolyn in Abigail’s garden,” she reminded him.

Only decades of well-schooled, cool composure kept him from displaying any outward unease. He supposed he’d not told Levian everything.

It haunted him still. Their embrace. The kiss that had set fire to his frigid blood. In his recovery, Sirus had even dreamed of it, of her. The feel of Gwendolyn’s soft feminine curves pressed against his rigid muscle. The sweet taste of her lips. The faint scent of lilies blended with the roses. Despite his remorse over all he had done to Gwendolyn, all the pain he’d caused her, Sirus’s blood quickened at the very mention of the garden. What a monster he was.

“Nothing of importance now,” he replied with no hint of emotion at all. Sirus had told the mage plenty, but that particular detail was none of her business.

Levian looked skeptical but didn’t push the subject. She shifted in her seat, leaning back to prop an elbow on the armrest while she tossed one of her long, thick white braids over her shoulder. “Abigail told me something before we left her,” she admitted, her tone guarded. “She uncovered little in her scrying, but there were a few things she was leery to say in front of Gwen.”

A tinge of foreboding slithered through Sirus. He’d suspected as much when the witch had sent Gwendolyn out into the garden to fetch him that night. It was also why he’d suggested they tarry a while longer in the roses. That, and because he’d desired her company.

“Witches have a strange sense of magick, and Abigail has been known to be wrong,” Levian prefaced. All things he already knew. The fact she felt it necessary to remind him only set him on edge that much more. “She mentioned a mage, and though she wouldn’t say it for certain, I think she believes one of Gwen’s progenitors must have been one.”

“Directly?”

Levian made an unsure face. “Abigail wouldn’t aim to guess, but I think it’s probable it was one of her parents. It’s rare, you know, for a mage to sire another.”

Sirus had only known two mages born to another, Levian being one of them herself. They were often powerful. It would make sense if Gwendolyn were such a creature, given the powers she’d displayed, though he’d been sure she wasn’t a mage. Her magicks didn’t harbor the same feel. Mages were conduits that syphoned the chaotic forces of magick, twisting and molding it into order. Gwendolyn was powerful, but her magicks were unique. Different from anything he’d ever seen or felt from any mage. He assumed Levian harbored similar opinions, and her clear skepticism only proved it.

She tapped a long, sparkly purple fingernail against her glass. “If one of Gwen’s parents was a mage,” she theorized, “it’s possible she was bound in some way to keep her magicks hidden. It’s even possible they hid a part of their own magick in her.” Her expression grew dark. “There are spells for such things in old texts. Rare spells. Horrible spells. Blood magick is powerful. The magick between bloodlines can be even more potent.”

All these things were true. None of them boded well. If Gwendolyn was bound, that meant they’d probably only experienced a glimmer of what she was capable of. As an immortal she could weather such demands of strength, but as a mortal her body was weaker to such taxation. Sirus remembered the blood that had run from Gwendolyn’s nose after her unintended explosion of power back in London. The smear of blood over her lips when they’d escaped from the Hall of Mirrors thanks to her magick. It tore at her mortal form every time she used it, demanding its pound of flesh. Magick always came at a cost.

“She cannot be mortal and a mage,” Sirus pointed out.

Levian sipped her drink and glanced aimlessly back into the fire. “True. But that is what makes it all so curious and concerning,” she replied. “I have never known any creature of the Folk to possess magick like hers and not transition into immortality. As before, I find myself with more questions than answers. One thing I do know though.” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose. “Using her magick is taking a toll, and I think the price will only grow steeper.”

Silence lingered then. Guilt slithered through Sirus anew. Gwendolyn had used her magick to get them through the mirror but the cost had been worth her sacrifice. As death had consumed him that night he lay on the floor with Gwendolyn watching over him, he’d been comforted knowing she was safe. That Rath would watch over her. But Gwendolyn had given even more of herself. Too much. She had used her magick to save Sirus from death, risking her own life.

He could still feel the presence of her magick in his bones. Like a euphoric hum of energy. He felt disgusted by how much he savored it.

“Abigail also made mention of the Celestial Stars,” Levian continued, drawing Sirus back to the present. “She said if I truly wished to uncover more of Gwen’s magicks, I should speak to my father.”

The unease within him blossomed into concern at mention of Levian’s father. “The Stars are hidden or lost. Why would they be of interest?” he asked.

Levian eyed him. “So it is said,” she retorted with little hint of belief. “But we both know tale is not always fact.”

That rattled him even more. If Gwendolyn or her magick were in any way connected to one of the three Celestial Stars of magick, it would be beyond significant. If it was true and word ever spread, Nestra would be the least of their worries. Every faction, kingdom, order, council, court, and underground mercenary of the Folk would hunt her.

“And your father?” Sirus pressed. “What would he have to offer?”

Levian pulled a face and let out a heavy breath. “Knowledge, I suppose. He’s rather well-versed in such things. Probably even more so than the Keeper of Truths for the Council of Mages. Even more so than many of the ancients of the fae kingdoms. It helps when one lacks the limitation of bigotry and boundaries in one’s hunger for knowledge and power.”

Levian would know. She was much like her father in her bookishness. To her, there was no tome or opinion beyond the worth of educating herself. It was the whole of all the pieces that helped her create a true understanding of the mysteries of magick she attempted to unravel. Except where the shadow fae were concerned, the D?kk. Their dark works had tempted her father into his own destruction. Had driven him to abandon his family in pursuit of absolute power. They were also why he would now rot for eternity alone in the darkness of The Prison.

Sirus didn’t care for the idea of Merlin knowing anything about Gwendolyn. He didn’t care for the idea of Levian having to go to him for such knowledge. There had to be someone else.

Levian scowled, her distaste over the prospect of going to her father palpable. “I’ve not decided whether that’s the best course of action, despite Abigail’s unsubtle encouragement,” she clarified. “I will seek an audience with the Council though.”

He lifted a brow in surprise. Levian loathed the Wizen Council of Mages just as much, if not more, than they loathed her.

“They may be tedious,” she sneered, “but even those old toads can prove useful from time to time. Perhaps one of them might shed a bit of insight into Nestra’s interest in Gwendolyn. I’m not wholly confident, but they always seem to know more than anyone else about things no one should.”

The Council’s reach had only grown over the centuries as the power of the fae had started to slip thanks to their withdrawal from the mortal world. If the zephyr High Priestess was plotting something sinister to overthrow her king and assume his role, they would be eager to confirm it. Plus, Levian had ways of getting what she wanted out of them, even if she was a black sheep.

“When?” he asked, far more eager for her to explore this path than the alternative of her father.

She shrugged. “When they deign to see me. I doubt it will take long.”

He nodded.

Levian stared into the fire, her mind somewhere else entirely. Eventually, she let out a huff of air. “I didn’t think it could be done,” she said quietly. “All those years of close calls and swords driven through you—you never flinched. I honestly started to think you’d never die. That nothing could kill you.”

The one thing Sirus had always known was that he would die. He was immortal, but to vampires, death was the cost of living. He was surprised he’d survived as long as he had. He should have died so many times. That day he’d faced Marcus, he’d been prepared to take his last breath. The zephyr had spared him for reasons he did not know, only to claim the blood debt in order to keep Gwendolyn out of Nestra’s hands.

“I’ve been lucky,” he replied in earnest.

A sad little smile touched the corners of Levian’s lips. Sirus felt her growing anxious. It was unlike Levian to be so unsettled. “Are you very mad?” she asked him, not looking up to meet his eye. “For what we did?”

It was against his code of honor to take blood freely given. In a desperate attempt to save him, they had let Gwendolyn give hers that night of the mirrors. He could still remember her whimper of pain that had drawn him out of his feral state and back into himself. How disgusted and furious he’d been as realization had dawned.

Sirus dragged in a slow breath and held it. He had been angry. Very angry. But he saw little use in being angry now. What was done was done. All that was left was to move forward. “It is in the past,” he said, hoping that would be enough. Levian’s gaze darted up to his with a touch of disbelief.

Something in him had shifted after that night in the mirrors. Sirus was still angry, but only with himself. He’d been racked over how callous he’d been toward Gwendolyn.

She’d done nothing wrong. He’d done everything wrong.

Speaking with Levian had been the first step in his plan. Setting out to uncover more about Gwendolyn’s true nature and the risks she faced was the second. The mage had satisfied both rather painlessly. Which left him with the third step: to make amends. He was determined to do so in any way possible.

Sirus had known he was going to die well before he and Gwendolyn escaped the Hall of Reflections through his mirror. It was his desperation to save Gwendolyn that had pushed him to keep going even when he knew there was no hope of finding a way out. He still wasn’t sure how she’d managed to figure it out. In truth, he’d done little. She’d saved herself.

The memory stirred something within him, an emotion far beyond what he’d ever thought himself capable. He’d faced the prospect of death many times before, as Levian had said, but the call had never come. The moment he fell through that mirror and into the cold embrace of the shadows with Gwendolyn in his arms, he’d felt a calm like he’d never known. On the other side, he knew Gwendolyn would be safe. It had given him peace. Something in his chest tightened as he remembered her tears as she’d knelt over him. Trying to save him. Promising that he would be okay.

He’d not deserved her tears. He’d not deserved her fear. Her care. But he’d savored it all the same.

There had been something primal about his draw to Gwendolyn that night in Abigail’s garden. There had been lust, to be sure. Desire unlike anything he’d ever known. But there’d also been something else. A rawness that tempted him. A fire within her that drew him in and threatened to thaw the iciest parts of his being.

Sirus had not deserved what Gwendolyn had given him, but he was not sorry he’d taken it. He was not sorry he lived. If only she would wake so he could begin to make amends for all he had done.

“I’ve written to Iathana,” Levian said, drawing Sirus sharply out of his head again.

His attention snapped to the mage. “The dryad?” he clarified. She nodded.

Iathana was the leader of the dryads, a race of wood fae who, like the other fae kingdoms, kept themselves closed off from the mortal world. Only unlike the other fae, the dryads rarely invited outsiders into their Eden, the Veil of the White Wood. They were also notoriously difficult to communicate with.

“To what end?”

“Gwendolyn is quite young and still untarnished by our world,” the mage said. “If she is somehow touched by the magick of a Star, I think Iathana would give her sanctuary in the Veil.” Sirus’s body tensed, causing his wound to sear with pain again. “But that doesn’t mean she will act swiftly,” Levian continued, not noticing his tension. “It could be hours, days, or years before she responds—if she ever does. You know how the dryads can be.”

Sirus had to concede that if Iathana accepted her, Gwendolyn would be safest in the Veil. Unlike other creatures of the Folk, the dryads did not crave power nor seek to extend their abilities. They were as close to purely virtuous and altruistic as magickal Folk could be. But they were strange in their customs. Swayed more by the breeze and shake of trees than by sense and logic. The idea of sending Gwendolyn away gave him pause, but he would not stand in the way if Iathana were to agree. She would be safe in the Veil. In such an Eden, Gwendolyn would, without a doubt, find peace and happiness.

“For now, I wish you all to stay here,” he told her.

Levian’s eyes went a touch wide, then narrowed. “Are you sure?” she asked, clearly not expecting the offer. It was no secret that those outside of his vampire clan were unwelcome within the walls of Volkov Castle. It was their private sanctuary, hence the intricate warding spells that engulfed it and the hundreds of acres that surrounded it. No one could find it, let alone enter. Entry was not unprecedented though. Outsiders had been allowed under rare circumstances.

Sirus nodded. “Volkov is protected well. Gwendolyn will need your guidance. Stay, if you will.”

The mage was blatantly taken aback. It was clear that Levian intended to continue to help find answers for Gwendolyn, and for that he wanted her close. To stay. For all of them to remain and help Gwendolyn. She would need them.

“I will,” she said, relaxing slightly. “And so will Barith.” She half snorted. “In fact, I think he’s made himself rather at home already.”

Sirus had no doubt of that. The dragon made himself at home wherever he went, whether his host was hospitable to the idea or not.

The mage shifted to the edge of her seat to take her leave, but then she paused. Her eyes lingered on the large stone mantel, on the wolves carved into each side.

“You should have seen her face, Sirus,” Levian said with heaviness. “I’ve known you a long time—Barith as well. Niah is your kin, and Rath might as well be. We have all known you. I tried, but—we all knew you were going to die.” She let out a slow breath as she fiddled with her glass. “You’re alive because she willed it.”

That foreign emotion inside him stirred at her words. During his time in reflection, he’d thought on this more than anything. Gwendolyn had willed him to live, but he’d wanted it. At the fringes of death, he’d been drawn back to life. He told himself it was because she remained in danger. His work wasn’t yet complete. But even he recognized the lie that it was. Even if he wasn’t yet willing to acknowledge exactly what it meant.

“You have a strange bond, the two of you,” she went on, watching him closely. “I thought so the moment you arrived in London. Your paths are intertwined. Now even more than before.” She searched his eyes for something. Her face softened when she didn’t find it. “All those years together,” Levian continued, softness seeping into her voice. “All those times you saved Barith and me from catastrophe. From ourselves.” She huffed a little laugh. “I truly expected to never see you again after you left. Perhaps the Fates have delivered Gwen to intertwine our paths again.”

Sirus bristled at the suggestion that Fate had anything to do with it. “Or it is coincidence,” he countered, harkening back to their conversation at Ember Hall in London.

She smirked at that. “Yes. Perhaps.” Levian stood then. “I know you don’t think of Barith and me as your friends,” she told him. “To be fair, I didn’t think of you as one either, even after all our years of working together. But watching you nearly die made me realize I was wrong. For whatever it’s worth, and whether you wish it or not, I am your friend, Sirus. And so is Barith, despite his current foul mood.”

He was not entirely sure what to say to that. Before Gwendolyn, he might have said nothing. “A new beginning,” he offered.

The mage gave a little nod, a weight evaporating from her face as she smiled softly. “A new beginning,” she agreed before downing what remained in her glass.

Sirus thought of Gwendolyn, and a heaviness settled over him. He’d felt at peace slipping into death knowing she was safe. Then he’d felt her. Her essence. Her magick. Calling to him in the darkness. Levian was right. Their paths had been intertwined. Now even more than before. He felt the bond of blood. Felt Gwendolyn’s essence pulse through his veins. He was bound to her now. He always would be. But he would also do his best not to burden her. He owed her that. Owed her more.

He lived, but he was still a vampire. Still a creature of death and shadow. Gwendolyn was life and light. No matter what distant emotions stirred deep within his icy heart, he would do well to remember that.