Horn of Winter (Relic Hunters #5)

Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

I turned and ran. Thick slabs of ice shattered on the pavement behind me, sending dagger-like shards spearing through the air, pockmarking the police car and thudding into my back. Pain rippled down my spine, but my coat appeared to be protecting me from the worst of the barrage.

As I slid around the end of the car, a huge chunk of ice-wrapped brick hit its roof, collapsing it inward. The rumbling behind me grew louder, the sound of falling ice sharper. The entire building was going to come down before I could reach safety....

Movement caught my eye, coming in from the left. Sgott, barreling toward me. I didn’t slow down and neither did he; he simply swooped in, swept me up into his arms without breaking stride, and then ran on down the street, heading for the police car blocking the other end of the road from where we’d parked.

I looked over his shoulder, and shock hit. A strangely glowing vortex swept around what remained of the building, disintegrating some sections of ice while jettisoning others. The police car continued to take multiple hits and was now all but flattened. Though the buildings on either side of Kaitlyn’s—or indeed those opposite—basically remained unscathed, the portion of the street directly in front of the collapsing building was littered with rapidly melting chunks of ice, revealing a broken mass of bricks, timber, and metal, though which part of the building the latter had come from was hard to say, given how badly it had been twisted. By the time we’d reached the safety of the patrol car, the only thing that remained of the building or the ice was the debris covering the patrol car and the street.

What the vortex hadn’t taken out was the flooring at ground level, which meant either the person behind the attack hadn’t been aware of the existence of the basement, or the destruction of everything above it was all that he or she had intended. But it also meant there was at least a chance—a very slim chance, granted—we could rescue Kaitlyn before she died from exposure.

Sgott put me down, then held me still as he brushed the few remaining shards from the back of my coat. “Any of those things break your skin?”

“I think one sliced the back of my knee, but it doesn’t feel bad.”

“Hitch up your coat so I can check.” I did so and, after a moment, he grunted. “There’s a wee cut, but as you said, it’s not deep. You were lucky.”

“Again.” I dropped my coat then held out my hands, silently calling to my knives. Energy pulsed deep within me and, a heartbeat later, they came spinning through the air and thudded into my hands. Neither of them was damaged in any way, despite being trapped within the havoc they’d unleashed.

“That,” Sgott said, handing me back my purse and knife sheaths, “is a very neat trick, and not one I ever saw your mom use.”

“My connection to the knives is very different to Mom’s.”

“Obviously.” His gaze returned to Kaitlyn’s. “Is the building safe to approach?”

I sheathed my knives, then glanced over again. “I’m still not sensing anything, but that doesn’t really mean much given some sort of magic was very obviously used.”

“You’ll be needing to come with us, then, just in case.”

He didn’t sound happy about that, but then, he was probably still in fatherly mode rather than police chief. I nodded and followed him back down the road. The knives remained inert, and the storm that had raged overhead only a few minutes ago was already dissipating. I suspected that was not a coincidence. Suspected that the connection between me, the triune, and storms was strengthening—mutating—in as yet undefined ways.

And the only person I could ask about it tended not to be too forthcoming when it came to information. But maybe, given Beira’s liking for whiskey, I could ply her with a bottle or three of the top-shelf stuff and see if the alcohol loosened her tongue.

Was it even possible to get an old goddess tipsy, let alone drunk?

Sgott stopped in front of the building, where the door had once been. The floorboards were unscarred aside from the odd puddle of water, but the wood was silent, its song gone forever. The hush made my heart ache.

“I’ve called emergency services to come check the gas and electricity lines,” Harry said as he and Bec stopped either side of us. “That floor looks surprisingly solid.”

“Looks are often deceiving when it comes to the aftereffects of magic,” Sgott said. “Bec, the basement stairs are in the back corner—if they’re accessible, sweep down and check what the situation is with Kaitlyn and the joists. But be careful.”

She nodded, her gaze narrow and unfocused, an indication she was reaching for her alternate form. Energy flooded the air, prickling across my fingers and face, and her body rippled, becoming ghost-like as genetics and magic made the necessary adjustments.

Then, with a quick flick of brown-gold wings, she swept upward and arrowed toward the rear of the building. After briefly circling, she swooped down the stairs and disappeared. I waited tensely, but for several minutes there was little sound beyond the steady drip of water coming from the guttering of the building on the right side and the distant rumble of traffic and incoming sirens.

Then Sgott’s phone rang sharply, making me jump a little. He answered with a quick, “Anything?” After a few seconds, he added, “Stay with her. I’ll send in the medics now.”

“Kaitlyn’s alive?” I said once he’d hung up.

He nodded. “But unconscious, with a very slow heart rate and frostbite on her nose and cheeks. No guarantee she’ll fully recover.”

“But?” Because there was one. I could hear it in his voice.

“Someone left a message in the basement—it was written in ice across a wall.”

I raised my eyebrows. “A message or a threat? What did it say?”

“Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but mine rages beyond control. It will find all who deserve it.”

I stared at him for a second, a thick knot of fear clutching my stomach. The first part of that message was an echo of what the ghul had said to both me and the woman who’d questioned her a week ago. And while it might be nothing more than a coincidence that revenge was also the motive behind the destruction here, I seriously doubted it. The old gods did like their games and Fate was a dab hand at unleashing chaos in subtle ways.

“Why do you suddenly look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Sgott said, gaze sweeping me with concern.

“Maybe because I did?” I held up a hand to cut off the inevitable next question. “The ghul said something very similar to me last night and to a woman who’d been seeking her the week before.”

“Did the ghul mention anything else about this woman?”

“No, and she won’t, given how highly they prize such conversations.”

“That is unfortunate.” He paused. “I might attempt to talk to her tonight. Most ghuls are law abiding and tend to cooperate more often than not.”

“Fingers crossed our ghul is one of them.” I studied the empty expanse of flooring again. “Do you know if there’s any ice witches here in Deva?”

“I’d have to look at the council’s business register to find out, but it’s unlikely anyone registered would be responsible for this sort of destruction. All magic leaves a tell, and it’s a fairly easy process to track it back to a practitioner.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

He half smiled. “It’s not something we advertise, though I daresay it’s something most practitioners are aware of. It’s also the reason why so few witches working the black market accept contracts in their own backyard. Records are regional, not national.”

“That makes no sense.”

“No, but the spellcaster’s guild is extremely strong and has very deep pockets. I can’t see any national system being introduced as long as Marjorlaine Blackguard and her elk remain in control.” He looked around. “Ah good, the medics are here. Do you want to head back to the car to wait? Or do you want me to arrange a car to take you home?”

“I’ll just catch an Uber.”

He nodded then stepped through the nonexistent doorway and led the medics down into the basement.

I walked down to the café at the far end of the street, then dragged out my phone, first calling an Uber and then my brother.

He answered on the second ring. “I take it the commemoration is over and you survived emotionally unscathed?”

I smiled. “Only because we didn’t talk, but that’s not what I called for—you home?”

“Will be in about an hour. Darby’s there though—she’s got the day off. Why?”

“I’ve a couple of things I need to ask you about, one of them being an old archeological dig.”

“Has the dig got a name?”

“I haven’t got the article discussing it on me right now, but I am on the way home.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner, then? Darby usually cooks enough to feed an army, so one more at the table won’t make an impact.”

I smiled. Darby was currently working on the “the way to a man’s heart was via his stomach” theory with added spice in the bedroom... and wherever else they happened to be. “Just make sure you let her know. I’d hate to spoil things if she has something special planned.”

“I doubt she has, but I’ll send her a text.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

As I hung up, the Uber arrived. I jumped in the back and, as the driver took off, pulled the velvet box from my purse. I didn’t immediately open it, mainly because I was more than a little scared of what I might find. Which was ridiculous, really, but still...

I ran my finger lightly over the crest, then, after a steadying breath, pressed the small button on the side of the box. The lid sprang open, and a soft gasp escaped me. Sitting in a bed of black silk was a smooth stone bracelet the color of midnight and alive with tiny stars that shone like jewels. I hesitated, then carefully ran a finger across its surface. The stone was warm against my skin, and the stars pulsed as if in recognition of my touch. The urge to slide it over my wrist was so strong I’d lifted the bracelet from the silk before caution reasserted itself. There was magic in this thing. I was certain of that, even if my knives weren’t reacting and no awareness prickled my senses. Cynwrig’s note had implied the bracelet would somehow facilitate us meeting in a nonphysical manner, either telepathically or even on what some called the dreaming field, but until I knew for certain what accepting this gift meant, I really shouldn’t. At the very least, I owed it to myself and to Eljin to understand what it fully entailed before making any decision.

I placed the bracelet back in its bed of silk, snapped the lid closed, then returned it to my purse. While I had no true idea what a Bruadar bracelet might be, surely Darby would. And if she didn’t, then she’d probably be able to point me in the direction of someone who did.

It was just after five by the time I arrived back at the tavern, which was not a busy hour for us—in the off-peak seasons, that tended to be after six and generally consisted of locals enjoying the quieter times—so after checking in with Ingrid again, I bounded up the stairs and quickly changed into more sensible, warmer clothes—jeans, ankle boots, and a thick wooly sweater. After dragging the two pieces of paper out of the front pocket of the jeans I’d discarded last night, I made myself a cuppa, then sat down and read the newspaper article.

It was a story about an archeological site in Portugal and the unusual number of accidents that had occurred during the dig, which had eventually led to the site being closed and subsequent rumors that the area was cursed. There was a somewhat grainy picture of the dig team standing in the middle of what looked to be an Iron Age hill fort, but there were no names listed. It shouldn’t be all that hard for Lugh to track down who’d been involved given museums—or at the very least, all the fae museums—generally kept track of what the “competition” was doing.

I squinted at the picture for several seconds, trying to spot a familiar face without success, then dragged out my phone, took a photo, and did a reverse image search. Google came up with similar images, most of them from foreign reports, and none of them providing any additional information. Hopefully, Lugh might be able to shed some light on the matter, because right now, I was confused as to why Treasa thought this might be of interest. And, in fact, why she’d hesitated about giving it to me.

I picked up the other bit of paper and studied the drawing of the necklace for several seconds. It really was a glorious piece, but I wasn’t sure why Treasa expected me—or even Mom—to succeed where her family had not. Especially when, as I’d already said, I was not my mother.

I finished my tea, then, with a quick glance at the phone to check the time, grabbed my knives from my purse then walked down to the far end of the room. After pressing the button to release the loft ladder, I waited for it to unfold, then scooted up.

After Gran had handed over the tavern’s reins and moved out, Mom had converted this area into a chill-out zone where she and I could escape the noise of the lower floors and read our books or listen to music in peace. Lugh had found a place of his own by then, but even if he had still been living here, he wouldn’t have been able to use the area. Not without some serious modifications to both the hatch and the loft, and given the council still griped about Gran raising the roof height eons ago, they weren’t likely to grant us permission to lift it any further.

Though night was setting in, enough light filtered in through the three skylights to see. Down the far end of the long room, two bookcases stood on either side of a wood fire, their dusty shelves lined with a mix of old leatherbound classics, Mom’s romances, and the various trinkets and statuettes she’d picked up over the decades. Some of those had been destroyed in the break-in that had ultimately led to Vincentia’s death, but I’d cleaned all that up, along with her blood, which had stained the floorboards and briefly added a note of sadness to their song. Mom’s chair—which, like most of the furniture up here, was secondhand but gloriously comfortable—remained where it had always been, complete with the badly crocheted rug I’d made to warm her knees covering the back of her chair, and her to-be-read pile neatly stacked on the nearby coffee table. I didn’t intend to change that area anytime soon, if only because it somehow made me feel closer to her. Yes, there were still too many memories up here for me to linger too long, but on the other hand, the peace and contentment she’d always found up here also remained, and that was ultimately comforting.

I blinked back the threat of tears, placed the knives and the drawing on the small table beside the cushion-adorned sofa, then walked toward the wood heater. Gran had created a small storage pocket in the back of the mesh to hold her smaller valuables, but I’d needed somewhere larger to not only store the codex, but also the Eye and my knives when I wasn’t wearing them. Cynwrig had reworked the entire flue and its surrounding mesh for me, ensuring the hidden compartment remained unseen and inaccessible unless you knew where the catch was.

I hooked a finger into the small hole that served as a handle, opened the door, and reached down for the codex. As my fingers brushed its glassy surface, energy stirred, a sharp electricity that echoed deep within the stone sitting between my breasts.

The triune was eager to be used.

I drew out the codex and closed the door. When I’d first found this book, it had been nothing more than a worn and very plain-looking leatherbound notebook, but the blood ceremony that had bound me to all three items had changed that, turning the old leather a glassy black. The light that rolled across its surface at my touch echoed the light found deep in the heart of the Eye and the knives, but it held none of their dangerous electricity. Which was something of an illusion, given all godly items had a cost and stepping into the library’s godly realm was no different. If you lingered too long there, you could die, as its price for usage was strength.

I walked back to the old sofa, reorganized a couple of cushions to make myself more comfortable, then grabbed the knives and sat down. Once I’d unclipped the Eye from my neck, I placed it and the knives on top of the codex then pressed a hand against all three, ensuring they all touched, and said, “What can you tell me about Geitha’s Tears?”

Light erupted from the triune, surrounding me in a dizzying whirlpool that swept me up and then swept me away. But it wasn’t a physical departure so much as a mental—or perhaps even spiritual—one. I could still feel the cushions pressed against my spine, could still hear the building’s gentle song, though the latter was decidedly muffled against the sheer wall of noise being generated by the colorful maelstrom I now arrowed through.

I came to a halt in a bright, open space filled with a multitude of different shapes. Long and tall, thin, or thick, some round, but most square or rectangular. Not shelves. Books.

Books that hovered in orderly rows in the nothingness of this place and glowed with an unearthly energy.

It is such a pleasure to see you again so soon, young Aodhán. What do you wish to know about Geitha’s Tears?

The voice was neither male nor female and exuded not only wisdom and knowledge, but also a little more warmth than on previous occasions—though that could undoubtedly change in the blink of an eye. Gods—and the beings who bore no flesh and who served as their gatekeepers—had a long history of smiting first and asking questions later, so it paid to be cautious.

Anything you can tell me, really.

They are the tears of the goddess Geitha , it replied, who is beholden to destiny, happiness, and ruling.

Those last two don’t often go together , I commented.

Indeed, which is why the goddess often cries .

I suspected it was said in amusement, although there was no hint of it in the guardian’s voice. Why are the tears important to Myrkálfar accession to the throne?

The goddess gifted her tears to the Myrkálfar eons ago. More than that, I cannot say.

There’s no book on it in this library?

If those who attained her gift could not be bothered to record its meaning, why should such records be kept here?

I frowned. You keep plenty of records about artifacts humanity and fae have forgotten.

True, but Geitha was not the most verbose of goddesses and never acquiesced to giving this library information.

I blinked. That almost sounded like a criticism. Did that often happen? Gods not giving information, I mean.

No. It behooves those who play in humanity’s timeline to keep the information options open.

Meaning I’m not the only one with the means of accessing this library?

You are not, but you are the only one who has done so for eons.

I guess it wasn’t too surprising that there’d be others with access, given it made absolutely no sense to have a resource like this tied to one person or bloodline.

What about Borrhás’s Horn?

The librarian didn’t answer, but the books around me spun with dizzying speed for a couple of seconds before one popped out of rotation and floated toward me, hovering in the air while the pages flipped open.

As before, there were no words, only images. I suspected my godly librarian feared I wouldn’t understand anything written—and rightly so, given I couldn’t even read Latin, let alone a language as old as the gods themselves.

The images showed an old man in white with a fierce-looking mop of white hair holding what looked to be a fancy drinking horn to his lips. Ice spun out from the opposite end, coating the nearby trees and people. The page flipped over; the trees and the people were nothing more than blocks of ice.

I glanced up. Borrhás controls the cold north wind and is supposedly the bringer of winter—is his destruction via ice his only vice?

He has other gifts, but the horn is the caller of winds that destroy and ice that coats and fractures.

And can anyone use it? Or does one have to possess magic?

It was designed as a lover’s gift to a queen who wished to bring winter down on all her enemies. When she achieved her goal, she forsook Borrhás, to her endless regret.

Really? What happened?

The book flipped several more pages then stopped, revealing images of a castle wrapped in ice, and a woman asleep in a bed of ice. Only she wasn’t asleep. She was frozen. The final image was of the horn cleaved in two.

When did her kingdom fall?

It didn’t. It remains, forever locked under ice that will never melt until the earth itself no longer exists.

Under one of the ice caps, then, perhaps?

Did Borrhás only have the one horn? The one I’d been shown earlier didn’t really match what I’d heard, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the same one.

The gods rarely duplicate their artifacts.

Then he was the one who split it in two? And if that were the case, were we dealing with his horn rejoined or some sort of godly copy?

He was mortified that his weapon was used in such a manner, and determined it should not be so used again.

Then why didn’t he simply destroy it?

That is rarely the first choice of the gods.

And we were currently paying the price for that reluctance . Any idea how I might find it, then?

This is a library, not a lost and found , came the somewhat severe reply, though once again I detected the hint of amusement running through it. And surely the daughter of a storm god, however minor, could set the winds to such a task.

I suppose she could certainly try . I smiled, but it faded quickly under the sudden pulse of aching tiredness. Time to go. I hesitated, then said, Tell me , do you have a name?

Surprise shivered briefly through the expanse of endless books. Why would you wish to know such a thing?

Because a name would be better than simply calling you “the librarian” or even “it.”

There was a long pause, and the agitation in the books briefly increased, though it was more surprise than any form of discomfort or annoyance. I was... am Aasym.

And may I use your name?

That would be... pleasant.

Good. And you may call me Bethany, or Beth; whatever you’re comfortable with.

Thank you, Bethany.

I smiled, though in this space it was more a gentle song of joy. Thank you for your help, Aasym, and I’ll see you next time.

And with that, I stepped back into the maelstrom, and then into my body. My heart raced, my breathing was rapid and shallow, and my chest on fire. I released the triune and dropped my head into my hands, rocking back and forth for several minutes, trying to take deeper breaths in an effort to control the fierce ache in brain and body.

It took close to ten minutes before I approached anything close to normality. I carefully pushed upright, my knees shaking a little as weariness washed through my limbs. I glanced at my watch and saw that close to an hour had passed. Way past time for me to get moving.

I secured the codex behind the flue, then rang for an Uber as I headed back down the ladder. After shoving my knives into my purse—while I could basically auto-call them into my hands any time I wanted, it still felt safer to keep them close—I grabbed a coat and the two pieces of paper Treasa had handed me, then collected two bottles of Bordeaux to have with our meal before heading out to wait for my ride. Traffic was slow, so it took close to half an hour before I made it over to Lugh’s.

He lived in a decommissioned power substation that was the ugliest building on the street. It was a single story, constructed with brown bricks that were now black and grimy with age, and the black wooden door that sat at its midpoint still had all the rusty old electrical warning signs on it. Of course, it also had two things the surrounding buildings did not—plenty of ceiling height, which for a man of Lugh’s size was important, and a ton of floor space, which came in handy for a man with a ton of archeological “trinkets” to store.

I tapped the code into the lock to the left of the door, then turned the handle and cracked it open. “Hello? Anyone home? It’s me. I arrive with booze.”

“Is that a polite way of giving us a five-second warning in case we’re doing anything nasty?” Darby said as she all but bounced into the wide hallway. She was a typical light elf in looks—tall and slender, with long pale gold hair currently swept back into a ponytail that brushed her butt, and eyes the color of summer skies. Her features were sharp but ethereally beautiful, and she moved with lightness and grace I would never achieve, no matter how long I lived. “Because you should know better. Your brother never does the nasty on an empty stomach.”

I stepped inside, kissed her cheek, and handed her the Bordeaux. “Given no splutter of outrage comes from the living area, I take it he’s not home yet?”

“No. Caught in traffic.” Her cheeks dimpled. “Which is probably just as well, because the casserole is taking longer to cook than the recipe suggests.”

“It’s more likely that Lugh’s oven is not up to the task. He’s never used it, and it was secondhand when he installed it. You should replace it.”

“I should, but I can’t make too many alterations too soon without making him run to the hills in fear of domestication.”

I laughed and followed her into the kitchen, pulling out one of the stools in front of the counter and sitting down. The room was comfortably large, and combined a kitchen and living area. There were two good-sized bedrooms and a bathroom to the right, and on the other side of the hallway, Lugh’s large office and storage area. He’d recently completed a proper, climate-controlled basement for his more precious artifacts, but the entrance was hidden—and fingerprint coded—so wasn’t outwardly visible unless you knew where to look.

“How come you’ve got the day off?” I asked. “I thought you were doing a training course this week?”

She worked at the fae hospital as a poisons specialist, with a secondary specialization in wound repairs. The new course—which she was doing in monthly, week-long slots over the course of several years—would add pediatrics to her poisons and wound repair bows. Handy given how often she had to deal with kids in Emergency.

“The instructor got snowed in, so they’ve pushed it back a week. They asked if I wanted to pick up additional shifts, and I wisely said no. An unexpected week off is always to be enjoyed.”

“Won’t it cause problems for next week’s shifts?”

“We’re not in peak period, so they should be all right.” She opened one of the bottles of Bordeaux and poured two glasses, sliding one across to me. “How did the commemoration go? Did you speak to him?”

“No.” I slung my purse onto the next stool and dug out the velvet box. “He did, however, arrange to have this left in my coat pocket.”

She sucked in a soft breath. “That looks expensive. Too big to be a ring of any kind, though.”

I half smiled. “I think we can both be certain that the one thing I will never be getting from Cynwrig is a ring.”

“He’s Myrkálfar,” she said. “They oft times do the very unexpected. Can I look?”

“Well, I didn’t bring it over here for you to simply stare at the box.”

She grinned and slid the box closer. After a few moments of simply admiring the box, she pressed the button and opened it. Her gaze widened in surprise, and she sucked in a breath. “Holy fuck, a Bruadar bracelet.”

“Which answers my initial question—do you know what it is?” I said with a smile.

“I do, though I’ve never seen one. I’d actually thought them more myth than reality.”

I took a sip of the wine and raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because they’re Myrkálfar specific and rarely seen. As far as I’m aware, you can’t even find one in a museum.”

I frowned, an odd mix of uncertainty, trepidation, and delight running through me. I mean, to be given something so rare had to mean he cared, if only a little, didn’t it? “What were they used for?”

“They’re dreaming bracelets.”

I nodded. “Cynwrig said as much in the note he left with it.”

Her gaze jumped to mine. “What else did the note say?”

“Basically, he asked me to wait out the mourning period before I made any decision in regard to Eljin, and said I should wear the bracelet if I wished a continuation of what we share in a non-physical manner. Which I take it means the bracelet allows some form of telepathic communication.”

A smile twitched her lips. “Telepathic, and a whole lot more, by all accounts.”

My eyebrows shot up again. “Meaning? I mean, seriously, stop with the riddles and just spit it out.”

She laughed and pointed to the bracelet. “The Myrkálfar have a second, less than polite term for this thing.”

I gave her an impatient look, and she laughed again.

“Okay, fine. It’s a fucking bracelet.”

“I know it’s a fucking bracelet—” I stopped, my eyes widening in realization. “ Oh .”

“Yes, indeed,” she said, blue eyes shining with mirth. “It allows two people to actually fuck on the dreaming plane.”