Horn of Winter (Relic Hunters #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

The gentle rumble of traffic ran across the chilly night air, breathing a sense of life into an otherwise dead area. The night was clear but bitterly cold; frost danced across the neatly cut grass and gave the nearby gravestones a luster age otherwise denied them.

Cemeteries were not one of my favorite places to be. I simply couldn’t understand the human need to commemorate the dead by raising often elaborate tombs over their loved ones’ bones, especially when those same tombs were left to decay as the years went on and visiting the dead became less of a priority or even slipped from memory.

Pixies spread the ashes of our dead in the ancient forests of our homelands—although technically, we Aodhán pixies no longer had a homeland. We maintained a connection to the ancient Ysbryd forests, but most of us had lived in cities ever since we’d lost the job of guarding the relics of the old gods eons ago.

I was only here tonight because I’d learned this cemetery was inhabited by a ghul, and I was hoping it might be able to provide some much-needed information. While ghuls did like to feed on flesh, their preference was for decaying, not fresh. They were for the most part insubstantial but fearsome-looking beings who held a very deep fascination for the living. It wasn’t unknown for them to choose a “target” to follow through the night, listening to their conversations and watching their movements. Which, according to my mother, made them the ultimate gossip gathers with eons of information behind them. As far as I was aware, she’d never used this particular ghul, but she had regularly talked to one up in the Peak District. I have no idea why she’d travel that far, but if there was one thing I’d learned over the last few months, it was how much I didn’t know about my mother and what she did beyond the realms of running the family’s tavern.

And now she was dead—murdered.

I sucked in a deep breath and resolutely pushed away the grief that automatically rose. I hadn’t yet allowed myself to properly grieve for her—even after we’d found her body—and I remained utterly determined not to do so until I found her killers and brought them to justice.

Or killed them.

I frowned at the dark ferocity rumbling through that thought. Revenge never went well for us pixies. In fact, killing in general—unless in self-defense—was generally very bad news. Both the Aodhán and Tàileach pixies—who’d co-guarded the relics with us before a light-fingered ancestor of mine had spoiled the gig for everyone, and who were the only other human-sized pixies of the five branches here in the UK—were notoriously hard to kill, but like every gift a god gave, there was a flip side.

In this case, it was the blood curse.

Basically, if you shed blood without just cause, you doomed your offspring to a miserable existence or faced servitude to the dead person’s family until the debt was paid off—and the length of time spent in said servitude was decided by the old gods, not the relatives. Given the predilection of those gods for causing chaos in the lives of humans, and the likelihood of the punishment extending centuries rather than years, few of us ever dared put the curse to the test.

I certainly didn’t want to be the first in my family to do so, especially when there were already too many old gods interfering in my life.

The barely audible whisper of steps had me looking around. Mathi Dhār-Val—who was not only a former lover but also the liaison between me and Deva’s Fae Council, who I now worked for—strolled casually toward me, snappily dressed in a long blue trench, crisp black trousers, and shiny black boots. Like all Ljósálfar elves, he was lean in build but absolutely divine to look at—golden skin and hair, angelic features, and eyes the color of summer skies. We’d been together for nearly ten years before splitting eight or so months ago, and although I’d always known he was not my one true love—and could never be, in fact, given he was a highborn light elf, and they only married their own kind and rank—I’d always enjoyed his company. I still did, although we would never again be bed buddies.

I pointedly glanced at my watch and said, “And what time do you call this?”

“An inconvenient and ungodly time, that’s what.” Though his tone was cool, amusement danced through his eyes. “There are few people I’d get out of bed for at three in the morning, dear Bethany?—”

“But plenty you’d get in to bed with at three in the morning,” I cut in, amused.

“Well, yes, that goes without saying.” He stopped beside me and stared at the old wrought iron gates. “Why, exactly, are we here? I wasn’t really listening when you rang. I was in the midst of fornicating with a delicious prospect.”

Amusement twitched my lips. “A future-wife-type prospect?”

“Yes, although in all honesty, I doubt I’ll be making any sort of offer. She’s perfect in the bedroom but somewhat tedious outside of it.”

My amusement grew. “I can’t imagine she reacted all that well to proceedings being so rudely interrupted by a former lover.”

“I am not a man to leave things unfinished and that is, of course, the reason I am late.”

“Your dedication to satisfactory endings is something I always appreciated during our time together.” My voice was dry. “But why—given highborn marriages are considered little more than business and breeding transactions—does it matter if she’s boring beyond the bedroom? It’s not like you’ll be faithful to her. That’s not the Ljósálfar way.”

“We may not believe in love or indeed fidelity, but divorce is not usually an option thanks to the contracts signed. I find myself needing at least some degree of compatibility in all matters, not just sexual, with the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.” His glance was somewhat pointed. “We do have very long lives, remember.”

I laughed. “I have spoiled you for other women, haven’t I?”

“Quite possibly so.” He motioned to the gate. “What lies beyond them that is so important you drag me out of not only a warm bed, but the arms of an even warmer woman?”

“A ghul.”

“Of course.” There was an odd sort of resignation in his voice. “Why else does one come to a cemetery at three in the morning if not to talk to a ghul or a ghost?”

“This particular ghul has apparently been haunting the area for as long as there has been a cemetery here, and may or may not know what guards the old scrolls that were part of the éadrom Hoard.”

Though those scrolls remained safely tucked away in the Ljósálfar’s vaults, the hoard had been stolen the same day Mom had been killed. We now knew Mom had probably been trying to stop the theft and had been betrayed and murdered by someone she trusted. We had no idea who that person was.

Yet.

“And why am I here? It’s not like you need to be guarded, given you’re no doubt wearing your knives.” He paused, and his gaze skimmed my length. “By the way, that has to be the ugliest coat I have ever seen. It hides your luscious curves and makes you look like a pale green marshmallow.”

“But I’m a very warm marshmallow.”

“Who cannot easily access her knives.”

“You forget they’re not ordinary knives and I don’t actually have to physically draw them. I just have to imagine them in my hand, and voilà, there they are.”

In truth, I hadn’t actually done that very often, mainly because it tended to wreck whatever coat I was wearing, and that was a problem if said coat was expensive or a favorite. I was only wearing the knives tonight out of habit more than any real concern that we’d be in danger, but given how wrong even the simplest of tasks had gone of late, I wasn’t about to take any chances, either. These knives—which weren’t only goddess-blessed but also immune to magic—had saved my life more than once.

He pushed open the wrought iron gate and ushered me through. “That still does not explain why I am here.”

“This particular ghul apparently has a liking for gorgeous, golden-haired men, and if they’re elves, all the better.”

“I’m bait ?”

My grin broke free again. “And very natty-looking bait you are too.”

He shut the gate with a soft clang, and the noise echoed across a darkness inhabited by forgotten tombs, gorgeous old trees, and the occasional wisp of a ghost. The latter kept well away from us; as a general rule, the ghosts found in cemeteries tended to be rather elusive, even with those they’d called family. Gran had once told me it was because they feared acknowledging their death or even their kin would force them on to whatever fate awaited—and most of them feared that would be hell rather than heaven.

I’d never actually known how much of Gran’s stories to believe—I’m sure most of them had a large kernel of truth, but she’d had the gift of the gab and always tended to embellish a story.

“If she tries to nibble my neck,” he said, as we followed the path that swept gently to the right, “I will not react well.”

“She won’t nibble. She may run her fingers through your hair and demand a lock of it in payment for answering questions, however.”

He stared at me for a second. “Next time you want someone to play bait, invite your brother. Or better yet, Eljin.”

“Eljin definitely fits the sexy bill, but he’s a Tàileach pixie, not an elf.” As for Lugh, well, he was a six-foot-six giant of a man, and his sheer size tended to intimidate more fragile creatures such as ghosts or ghuls. Or so he claimed. In very many ways he took after Gran and definitely wasn’t above embellishing a story. “A lock of hair is a small price to pay if we get an answer.”

Mathi’s sniff was a disbelieving sound if ever I heard one. “Knowing what guards the scrolls isn’t likely to help, given no one on the council actually knows the location of them.”

“Someone on the council must know something.” I motioned him toward the smaller path that led down into a dell and the oldest part of the cemetery. “Carla apparently got the contact details of one of the bibliothecaries from someone there, remember.”

That bibliothecary was now dead, of course, so we couldn’t exactly get any answers out of him, and Carla Wilson had not been sighted since murdering some of her “clients” in jail. The woman behind the Carla Wilson identity remained very much alive, however. As a multi-shifter, she was able to assume the form of anyone she touched for a reasonable length of time, and we now suspected she had a swath of different personas she could slip into.

Unfortunately, none of us had any idea which one she was currently using. She had appeared in a number of my visions, but I’d only ever heard her Carla identity, and given different forms would have different speech patterns, that probably meant it was her original. Every time I’d visioned her, she’d been speaking to the man we suspected was the key behind the hoard’s theft and my mother’s murder, which made it doubly frustrating that they’d been voice only, rather than a mix of sight and sound like most of the others.

While that might be due to my inexperience with second sight—the gift did run through our family, but mine had only appeared very recently—it could also be due to the fact that the man appeared to not only be using a voice modulator, but also some type of invisibility shield. They were expensive, and illegal, but very readily available on the black market if you had the right contacts.

Or so Cynwrig had told me....

A swift stab of longing rose, and I grimly pushed it away. He and I were likely over, and there was nothing I could do about it, not even call or text. I knew better than to even try. His father—who was the king of the Myrkálfar elves—had died five days ago, leaving him and his twin sister to jointly rule. Three-month mourning period aside, he’d have no time for casual dalliances, no matter how incandescent the attraction between the two of us might be. I’d known going in that ours was a relationship destined to burn bright then flame out, and I’d willingly accepted it. I’d just never expected the deep and intense connection that had so quickly developed. It was something I’d never experienced with a man of my own race, let alone one outside of it. I didn’t even have that type of connection with Eljin, though I enjoyed his company immensely, and he was certainly the only real long-term prospect currently in my life. Granted, our relationship was still very new, and a deeper connection might well develop given time, but I rather suspected part of me would always yearn for the man I could never have.

“Even if you do manage to uncover what guards the scrolls,” Mathi was saying, “I can’t see how it’s going to help, given the council has already said you will not be able to view them.”

“No, they said they were dangerous to the mortal eye, but I’m the daughter of a minor god of storms. That might just give me a pass into places others cannot go.”

A smile tugged his lovely lips. “Be that as it may, it does not negate the fact the council will never give us the location. We’re better off trying to find the scrolls your mother took from Loudon. They, at least, might provide information on who is behind the Ninkilim.”

The Ninkilim were a secret society dedicated to bringing Ninkil—a god who reveled in destruction—back from his earthly banishment. Loudon Fitzgerald was an elven dealer of antiquities who’d at one point been Mom’s lover, but over the course of the last sixty years or so had become a trusted source of information. He also happened to be the secretary for the Ninkilim—the organization behind the theft of the hoard. Someone had recently tried to kill him—and almost taken me out in the process—so he obviously could name names. As far as I knew, he hadn’t yet, but he was being protected by the Interspecies Investigation Team, and I had no doubt they’d eventually get him talking. Mathi’s father—who ran the IIT’s daytime division—certainly had a reputation for cracking the most difficult nut.

“It’s on my to-do list,” I replied, “but there’s only so many things I can tackle at the one time.”

He gave me a shocked look, though mirth danced through his blue eyes. “What is this? Bethany Aodhán finally admitting she cannot do it all?” He lightly touched my forehead. “I’m not feeling a temperature....”

I laughed and knocked his hand away. “Idiot.”

Up ahead, a wisp of fog briefly stirred, though elsewhere the cold night remained free of its presence. No surprise there, given this wasn’t actually fog but rather our ghul giving notice that she’d seen us but hadn’t yet decided whether to reveal herself or not. We continued on down the sloping path, past tombstones that were no longer legible and graves so old only a few stone markers or rusted ironwork hinted at their location, eventually reaching the small bowl-shaped seating area. Grand old oaks ringed the area, their gentle song of contentment filling the air, and the golden rivers of energy that pulsed through their limbs and leaves were so bright it was almost blinding. Humans tended to believe it was only light elves who could manipulate trees, but both the Aodhán and Tàileach pixies had that skill. The difference between us and elves was our ability to manipulate all wood—not just trees, but anything made from them. Time, usage, and even the thickness of paint or stain could curtail that ability, but healing and rebuilding wooden structures remained a booming business for many in either line.

Just not mine or indeed Eljin’s. Like my brother, he was a relic hunter, and in fact now worked with Lugh at the Fae Museum.

I let myself drown in the beauty of the trees’ song for a couple of seconds, then sighed and said, “We wish to speak to she who is the mistress of this necropolis.”

The tendril of filmy gray stirred briefly to our left, then a surprisingly cultured, if whispery, voice said, “And what might you seek from said mistress?”

“Information.”

“Few know of my existence. Fewer still come here to ask questions.” She moved closer, remaining indistinct except for the long, clawed fingers forming at the very end of her incorporeal being. “I find it intriguing it’s a pixie whose line has fallen out of favor with the old gods and a golden elf belonging to a family with a reputation for brutality who do so.”

“Not all that was, is,” I replied. “The old gods are once again active, and they again seek the help of those who once served.”

“That is information I had not known, and I thank you for sharing.”

The ghul moved around us, her long claws gently brushing up Mathi’s right arm and across the back of his neck. He didn’t move or react, but the look he cast me was less than impressed. I somehow restrained my grin.

She appeared to my left and slid her fingers down my arm, her nails gently scraping the pale puffer sleeve. “You have an energy that is not of this world, young pixie. It tastes of storms and violence.”

“My father is a minor storm god. His energy?—”

“Is not the violence I sense. It is far more personal than that. Explain.”

I hesitated, though in truth, if I wanted answers I really had no choice but to comply. She felt even older than what I’d been told, and that meant it was entirely possible she had the capacity to interact with the living in an unpleasant manner. Just because we believed ghuls were harmless didn’t mean all of them were. There were always outliers, no matter what the race.

“My mother was murdered. I seek those who are responsible.”

“As I said in conversation with another seeker only a week ago, revenge is a dish best served cold. Remember that going forward.”

“It sounds as if you’ve some experience with revenge,” Mathi said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

A smile flashed—a brief reveal of sharp black teeth in a sea of gray. “Nowhere near as much as you, Mathi Dhār-Val.”

He raised a pale eyebrow. “You know who I am?”

“Oh, I know many things.” Her attention flicked to me, something I knew through the sudden shift in the weight of the air. “Is that not why you seek me, Bethany Aodhán?”

Instinct stirred uneasily. While I’d like to think it was nothing more than a coincidence that we weren’t the only ones who’d come here asking questions, it was odd that she knew both Mathi’s and my names. Perhaps Fate—who, like many other old gods and goddesses, liked tossing grenades humanity’s way occasionally—had decided our lives had been entirely too comfortable over the last forty-eight hours.

“Was the other person someone you’ve talked to before?” I asked. “Or someone new?”

Again, her gruesome smile flashed. “New.”

I scanned the deeper shadows, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. If this person had visited last week, it was unlikely they’d be back again so soon. Unless, of course, the information provided wasn’t adequate. “What did he or she want?”

“Such conversations are my business, not yours, though I will say your motive stems from the same source as hers.” She paused. “I will also note she was not as polite as you. In fact, I would go so far as saying that of the many unhinged minds I’ve come across in the eons I’ve spent on this land, hers might be one of the finest.”

Oh, great, another nutter wandering around Deva. Just what we needed. Hopefully, she wasn’t armed with a dangerous relic like the most recent ones had been. I shared a glance with Mathi, who said, “If you cannot tell us what your conversation was, can you at least give us some clue as to her identity?”

Her filmy presence briefly sharpened, revealing a hunched, skeletal figure with long bony arms attached to those murderous claws. “No, I don’t believe I can at this moment. Few are those who come here to talk directly, and I treat such moments as rare and precious jewels. I will not abuse their memory by sharing our conversation, even with those as delicious to the eye as you.”

“But will you share information gleaned from those you follow?” I asked, more to draw her attention away from Mathi than anything else.

“Of course. What is it you wish to know?”

I hesitated. “What knowledge have you of the scrolls the Ljósálfar hold in their vaults alongside the éadrom Hoard?”

“Little enough. They were created eons ago by the ancient ones, and this place did not exist at that time.”

“But you did?”

“I am old, but I am not ancient. They roamed the earth at a time when humanity was a bare glint in their eyes, and left when the old gods arrived to play their games.”

“Then who placed the scrolls in the vaults? And do you know what guards them?”

“What guards is beyond your understanding, young pixie. It is of a time that no longer exists.”

“Dangerous?”

“Perhaps. Its reaction would depend on intent and, for the most part, humanity’s intentions are rarely pure.”

Was that why the council believed no mortal beings could view the scrolls? Because those in the past had gone in with the wrong objectives and been punished for them?

Would it consider mine any different to theirs?

“What of the scrolls—have you any idea what information they hold?”

She studied me for a second, something I felt via a thickening in the weight of the air more than saw. Her eyes, like her form, remained shrouded in fog. “Why do you wish to know this?”

“Because Ninkil’s followers seek the Harpē to call him back into this world. The wind whispers of its malevolence but holds no answers as to where it lies. I’m hoping the ancient scrolls that remain in the vault might provide some clues as to where it was hidden.”

“His rising would indeed be unfortunate,” she agreed. “But as I have said, I have no knowledge of the scrolls.”

“Then I am sorry to have bothered?—”

“You give up too easily, young Aodhán, and ask the wrong question.”

My eyebrows rose. “What question should I have asked?”

“Would it by chance be the location of the vault?” Mathi said.

Her shroud shimmered as her gaze shifted from me to him. “Pretty and clever—a rare combination. Perhaps I should take a token to remember this event.”

Mathi gave me a deadpan look that was somehow filled with annoyance, and it was all I could do not to laugh.

“A lock of hair, I’m presuming?” he said in a flat tone.

“That would indeed be perfect.”

“Fine, but do try not to scalp me.”

Her laugh was a low, somewhat unpleasant scratch of sound. “Indeed, it would not do to in any way damage your divineness.”

He raised an eyebrow again but otherwise didn’t reply. She slipped between us, her filmy gowns brushing my hand. Energy prickled across my skin, and my second sight briefly flared, revealing in quick succession a woman cloaked in black, the hood pulled over features hidden by a ski mask. Pale hands that were almost skeletal offering a bag containing locks of reddish hair. Her strange, almost lurching gait as she walked away. Then the energy—and the images—faded as the ghul raised her hand and, with a quick snip of her claws, took a small lock of hair before retreating.

Was the woman in the images the one who’d come here last week? If so, why in the gods’ name was she so tightly wrapped up? Granted, it was winter, and the nights hellish cold, but that amount of coverage implied she didn’t want anyone to see who she was, not even a ghul.

It was tempting to question our ghul further, but given she’d said she wouldn’t share confidences, it would not only be pointless, but could also risk annoying her. The last thing I wanted to do right now was to cut off a useful line of future information.

I switched my gaze to Mathi and studied his hairline. “You can barely even see where she’s taken the lock from.”

“Good,” he murmured, then in a louder voice added, “Thank you for that, madam.”

She laughed again. “A thank you from a Dhār-Val? That, perhaps, is an even greater prize than a lock of golden hair.” Said hair quickly disappeared into the shrouds of gray. “As to your question—much has changed since I walked the lands beyond old Deva, but the entrance to the ancient vaults lay in a place I knew as Pwll Dwfn. I stayed awhile in the nearby encampment, but highborn Ljósálfar do not bury their dead in a manner conducive to the presence of one such as I.”

Because they buried the ashes of their loved ones under a newly planted tree, in a ritual that somehow transferred that person’s ability to enhance and strengthen the growth of trees to the sapling, ensuring a strong, vibrant, and living memorial.

I glanced at Mathi, eyebrows raised, silently asking if he knew that name. He shook his head and then asked, “The name suggests it’s located in Wales—is that true?”

Movement rippled across her form; I suspected she’d shrugged. “Back in my day, the area was known as Cymru. More than that, I cannot say.”

“It at least gives us somewhere to start.”

“Indeed.” She paused for a long moment, her gaze heavy on me once again. “Should you wish it, I am willing to listen for any information about Ninkil. He is a god who should never be allowed to walk this world again, and it behooves all of us who exist here to do what we can to prevent such happening.”

Surprise ran through me, but I covered it with a slight bow. “Any assistance you could give us in that regard would be greatly appreciated.”

“That is as it should be.” There was amusement in her tone. “The price, of course, will be a lock of hair.”

“If you keep shearing me, I won’t have much hair left to give,” Mathi commented.

Her scratchy laugh echoed again. “Indeed, which is why in future I will settle for the hair of a woman born of Ambisagrus’s loins.”

A comment had me suspecting the brief caress of her energy across my skin had not been accidental. While I’d been gathering snippets of her memories, she’d been gathering information about me. There was no other way she could have known my father’s name—not given the number of minor storm gods that abounded. Hell, Mom hadn’t even told me anything more than his name. And while ghuls could roam the streets at will, they could not enter buildings unbidden. Which, according to Gran, was where the human legend of vampires had come.

“That was very well played, madam,” I said, amused. “But I will be aware of your trick next time.”

“That, also, is as it should be.” Her form began to fade. “Be wary when you leave, young Aodhán. Ill intent roams this night, and I fear it has you in its sights.”

And with that, she disappeared.

“Well, that’s a cheery thought to leave us with,” Mathi said. “Perhaps we should depart before the aforementioned ill intent finds us?”

“Indeed.” I hooked my arm through his. “What time is the council meeting tomorrow?”

He gave me a sideways glance, something I felt rather than saw. “Nine. Did you not read the text I sent?”

“Read, yes. Remember what it said? Obviously not.” I paused. “That’s an indecently early hour for the council, is it not?”

“If it had been a full meeting called, yes, but this is little more than a brief for your next assignment. I doubt more than a half dozen representatives will be there.”

And Cynwrig wouldn’t be one of them.... I sucked in a breath and released it slowly. This instant stream of longing that rose every time I thought of the damn man was ridiculous. I hadn’t even known him for very long, for gods’ sake.

“I already know my next assignment.”

“Not officially. They’ll give you what information they have on Borrhás’s Horn tomorrow.”

“I’d rather they just give me access to their records so I can look these things up myself.”

He laughed softly. “You lie, Bethany Aodhán. You want access to hunt down your mother’s killer.”

“Well, yeah, that too, but it’s not like they need to know that.”

Movement stirred briefly to our left, and my gaze shot that way. It was only a ghost fleeing our presence, but my unease nevertheless ramped up. The night no longer felt right....

In that moment, Mathi cannoned into me, knocking me sideways, his arms slipping around my waist as he twisted in midair to take the brunt of our fall. We hit hard, and a grunt escaped both our lips, the sound sharp in the quiet night. Then something pinged past my ear and thudded into a nearby gravestone, sending stone splinters flying.

A bullet.

A goddamn bullet.

The ghul’s ill intent had found us.