1. Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
NEWQUAY, CORNWALL
J osten Hagan paused as he entered the taproom. Glancing around, he took a seat near the fire, surprised to find it available. He was shocked to find the place mostly empty, in fact, in spite of the cold wind blowing in from the sea. He ordered a pint from the enquiring barmaid, and when the tapster brought it over himself, Joss raised a brow in question. “Where is everyone?”
He cut a glance toward two men huddled in a corner. Skilled in reading magical auras, he could tell that both of those men were obviously of plain human ancestry. “Everyone else, I mean.”
He'd seen the signs that indicated the inn was owned and run by magical folk, and he’d expected to find a crowd of them inside, tucked away from the blustery weather.
The tapster raised a brow and cocked his head in question toward the empty chair at his table. Joss adjusted his focus. It took just a small shift in his perspective to see the man’s friendly ambiance. It was a welcoming peachy orange color and was threaded with veins that spoke of curiosity and sparks that gave off flavors of malt and hops. With a nod, he waved a hand, inviting him to sit.
“Name’s Hildich,” the barkeeper said agreeably as he straddled the seat. He waved at the barmaid. “Bring our new friend . . .” He paused and looked questionably over.
“Josten. But most call me Joss.”
“Our new friend Joss looks hungry. Bring him some of those candied walnuts from the kitchen.” Hildich raised a brow again. “Joss . . ?”
“Hagan.” Joss admitted on a sigh.
“Hagan!” The tapster straightened in surprise. “Not one of the Hoarding Hagans?” Hildich ran an assessing eye over him. “Not with that accent.”
“A distant relation,” Joss hedged.
“Aye, I believe it,” Hildich pronounced. “I’ve got a sense for these things.” He eyed Joss closely. “You don’t seem the sly or stingy type, either. Not like so many of those Hagans.”
“Thank you.” Joss took it for the compliment it was. The family was known for their siphoning talents—the ability to pull magic away from an individual or object. It was a skill that was sometimes necessary but generally reviled. Perhaps it was the distaste they met with that had affected their tempers over the years. Hagans were perhaps even more famous for their belligerent ways. After he’d been orphaned and come to live with his English cousins, he’d discovered quickly that his Hagan relatives lived up to their notoriety. They had a reputation for being mean, selfish and quick to anger, but most folks didn’t know the half of it.
“As to your question, well, then.” Hildich cocked his head again. “You must have just arrived in the village?”
“Yes. Only just.”
“What brings you to Newquay?”
“Colmund’s footprint. I wanted a look at it, and I hoped to ask around and talk to the locals about their experience with it.”
“You’ve come for Colmund’s print? Truly?”
“Indeed.”
“Interested in giants, are you?”
“Actually, I’m interested in unusual magic and magical objects.” Hagans, as a general rule, possessed only small amounts of magic themselves. As far as the family—and the world—was concerned, Joss held even less magical talent than usual. He meant to keep it that way. But perhaps because of his . . . challenges, he found magical objects to be both useful and fascinating. “I saw the stone. It does indeed resemble a giant’s boot print. But I’ve heard it retains some power. It offers some protection?”
“Oh, aye, and so it does. A bairn that sleeps a night in the giant’s footprint will be protected from many a childhood illness. It’s true, too. All the mums hereabouts spend a night out there with their new babes.” Hildich shrugged. “Spend a little time here, and you’ll notice we’ve got a passel of young ones underfoot. They just don’t sicken and die the way so many do.”
“How fortunate. Do you have any idea how that particular effect came about? From Colmund, perhaps? Was he a particularly powerful giant? Or was there an enchantment that came later?”
“I have no idea.” Hildich made a face. “Don’t know that anyone does. It’s just been that way for ages past.” He thought a moment. “They do say as Colmund was a protective sort. Kindly toward our villages. He kept the other, more fearsome giants from these shores. Perhaps that’s why?”
Joss took out his notebook and scribbled a little underneath the sketch he’d made of the stone.
“You did see it already, didn’t you?” Hildich craned his neck to catch a glimpse. “Well, then. You must have come in from the north. That’s why you don’t know where everyone’s gone.” He cast a glance at the men and leaned in, his face lit with excitement. “’Tis the Night Market! It showed up this morning on the cliffs south of the village.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? That’s all you’ve got to say, man? ’Tis the Night Market! Who knows how long it will stay or where it will pop up next? It could be years before we see it again. Everyone has rushed over there, although it won’t really get started until dusk falls.”
Joss shrugged. “I’ve seen it once. I was just a boy, but it seemed rather dull, even then.”
Hildich blinked at him. “Dull? You must have been still in leading strings. The Night Market has been anything but dull for these last dozen years or more! I saw it when I went to visit my cousin in York last summer. I swear, there’s more magic in a square foot of that place than I’ve seen in all of my days! Such wares! Heavy boots that feel like feathers on your feet. Cloaks that glow as warm as a fire. I saw a man painting portraits, and damned if the paintings didn’t watch you go by and call out to talk to folks! There’s smiths and glass blowers—and the food! Dainties as delicate as flowers, and pies that bubble when you bite into them, and?—”
“Hold a moment. Did you say they have a glass blower?”
“So they did, last summer.”
“A magical glass blower?”
“Aye. Amazing things he created out of?—”
But Joss was fumbling in his pocket. “Did you notice if he had anything like this?” Turning his back to the men in the corner, he pulled out his most prized possession, holding it cradled protectively in one hand.
“Ahh,” Hildich gave a sigh. “A bauble! I ain’t seen one of these in years.” Tentatively, he reached for it, the request writ plain on his face.
Joss nodded. “Shield yourself, though,” he cautioned. “If not, it will help itself to a bit of your magic.”
“A siphoning bauble?” The tapster sounded delighted. “Well, they are rarer than hen’s teeth, aren’t they? How’d you get one?”
“It’s a family heirloom.” There was more to the story, but none of it needed sharing.
“By Herne’s horns, it’s heavier than it looks, isn’t it?”
People always said that, but to Joss, the glass ball didn’t feel heavy at all. It was light and warmth and comfort. It was friendship, too. All contained in his grip. It had chosen him, quite literally and much to his relatives’ collective dismay. But the bauble would not be thwarted. If he did not carry it in his hand or pockets, it followed him, levitating along beside him. Sometimes it zipped about him in one direction or another, trying to lead him where it wished him to go.
He was always happy to follow. From the first moment it had drifted into his hands, he’d felt a kinship with it. He’d felt as if the magical ball understood him somehow. It often led him to the most interesting discoveries and unusual magics. None of his jealous cousins could object, for Joss’s Uncle Wilmot was convinced that the bauble would lead one of the Hagans to the thing they’d all been looking for, for so many years.
“Did you see anything like this at the glass blower’s?”
“I don’t recall it.” Hildich gave the bauble back with a sigh. “But it’s worth a look, ain’t it? There’s something about it, ain’t there? It just feels so . . . nice.”
“It does.” Joss tucked it away again. “I have the most powerful curiosity about it. Who made it? Why? What sort of spell drives it?” He didn’t say the most pressing question out loud. Whose golden, glowing magic lived at the center of that object, comforting and communing with him? He burned to know.
“Well, then. Perhaps the glass blower at the Night Market will know sommat of it? I’d say you are due for another visit. I think you’ll find it much changed.”
“Yes,” Joss agreed. Hope rose in his chest. “I think you might be right.”
The sign stood alone high on the cliffs above the sea, illuminated by large torches on either side.
The Night Market
Welcomes
One and All
Enter to Find Wonder
and Delight
Bartering is Welcome
Thieving and Harassment
Are Not Tolerated
The surf sounded loud in his ears. He lifted his head as the wind blew gently, ruffling his hair. It was cold but beautiful, with the sea crashing into the rocks below and the call of gulls sounding busy but also somehow forlorn. He might have been tempted to take the trail that led along the cliff edges, but beneath his skin he could feel the sizzle of something ahead, and in his pocket, the bauble vibrated with excitement. Joss stepped past the sign—and gasped.
The chill breeze disappeared, along with the scent of the sea. A maze of colorful tents appeared, brightly lit by lanterns strung through mature trees. People scurried to and fro between them. The trees gave him pause. The seaside cliffs hosted only gorse and sea pinks and rough grasses. The Night Market traveled with its own trees? Impressive. A path of thick, green grass beckoned him on.
Wonder and delight, indeed. This place bore little resemblance to the sad, sluggish market he’d seen as a child. It was filled with light and movement and the happy calls of shoppers as they moved among spacious stalls and tents made of rich, sumptuous fabrics. It felt warm and welcoming—and familiar.
He moved nearer, picking out the magical selections on display. One booth offered hundreds of different sorts of feathers, from baskets of fluffy down to strings of shining raven’s wings and variegated hawk’s feathers. Long, iridescent peacock’s feathers stood in a jar, and one corner was filled with the huge, orange plumage of some bird Joss could not even imagine.
A young lady sat in a cobbler’s tent, her skirts delicately raised as she tried on a set of dancing slippers. The cobbler snapped his fingers and the ribbons raced to wrap themselves smoothly around her ankles and up her legs.
The next booth was draped in gauzy shawls that looked like they’d been spun from moonbeams.
“Fancy a bit of dirt from a fairy’s bower?” an old man asked him. “Got the sparkle to prove it.”
“No, thank you,” Joss declined.
“Newt’s tongue? Moonbeam dust? All the best fixings fer yer spells.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you have a glass blower in the market?”
“Oh. Aye. Go on round the corner and you’ll find Jarby.”
“Thank you.” Joss wandered on, enjoying the crowd. Magical families must be pouring in from around the countryside. Children darted about while adults of all ages greeted each other and made recommendations for carts and stalls that must not be missed.
Rounding the corner, he nearly stopped in his tracks when he spotted the glass blower’s stall. Delicate glassware of every hue stood displayed on sturdy shelves. Bowls, candlesticks, platters, wineglasses and the most gloriously exquisite vases he’d ever seen, done in fantastic detail and a myriad of colors.
But it was the figure creating them that made him widen his eyes. Small, wide and craggy, the man was creating a vase right there, in front of an awestruck gathering. And his method of creation was startling and impressive. No fiery furnace, here. No red hot, molten glass to be seen. Instead, the crooked little man held a long pipe to his lips. He blew and from the bowl grew a graceful vase, as fragile and light as a soap bubble.
The weathered creature stopped blowing for a moment to eye his creation critically. It was clear, with stripes of variegated green. The colors put one in mind of sun-dappled leaves, seen from below. Jarby, as the weathered creature must be, gave a long puff on the pipe and the vase stretched taller, then slowly unrolled a fluted edge. He adjusted the pipe to one side of his mouth, then the other. His quick blows there popped out curved handles on either side of the vase, each shaped like a vine decorated with leaves.
The crowd let out sighs of admiration. But one young man stepped forward, his expression scornful. “Why don’t you blow something useful, like a pint glass?”
The heckler was on the verge of manhood and richly dressed. He wore cuffs and other adornments of red and orange, as Joss knew some of the more prominent Prometheans did—witch families gifted with fire magic. He was surrounded by other young men, who all cackled as if he’d uttered something of great wit.
Jarby only grunted. With a darting gaze, he gave an assistant a signal. The girl came to stand close. Jarby gave a final, strong puff that sounded almost musical. The soapy, filmy vase abruptly hardened into glass. Jarby pulled the pipe away, and the assistant deftly caught it with the ease of long practice. She held it high to the applause of the spectators.
“That pipe turns you into a cheat,” the obnoxious young man scoffed loudly. “Everyone knows that fire makes the best glass.” He held out a hand and tossed an orb of fire into the air.
His cronies cheered. Jarby only rolled his eyes. “Think it’s easy?” He offered the pipe. “Then give it a try.”
The young man eyed the pipe with derision. “Don’t need to. My magic serves a more useful purpose.”
“What’s more useful than a serviceable object, artfully crafted?” Jarby asked before turning away.
The youngling clearly did not enjoy being argued with—or dismissed. His complexion darkened. His hands tightened into fists. “Perhaps I’ll show you, you old troll.”
With a ping, Joss’s focus shifted, his magic opening like a third eye to warn him of the aura of menace and impending violence hovering about the young man. Alarmed, Joss stepped nearer, watching the leader closely. He well knew the signs of a bully slipping into a temper.
The young man’s friends clearly recognized the danger, as well. Several shuffled uneasily.
“Come, Egan, let’s explore the rest of the market.” One of the others tried to pull the young thug away, but he yanked free.
“I’m talking to you, troll!”
“And when you say something worth hearing, I’ll listen,” Jarby said over his shoulder.
With a decisive movement, the thug sent a blast of fire into the newly created vase. It shattered instantly.
Joss gasped in dismay. Nervous, the crowd began to disperse. Jarby only turned halfway around. “You’ll have to pay for that.”
“The hell I will!”
“The market will take the price. Either out of your wallet or out of your hide,” Jarby answered calmly.
“Are you threatening me?” the Promethean demanded.
“Come along.” His friend tried again to pull him away, but the boy’s temper was well and truly ignited.
“Do you know who you are talking to?” the young thug demanded.
“A hot head who now stands in debt to me,” Jarby replied, unfazed.
“Insolent!” the boy hissed. Flames flared from his fists. He was poised to throw them into the stall.
Joss couldn’t bear to think of all that beauty destroyed at a bullying brat’s whim, and that was exactly where this was headed.
The Promethean took a threatening step forward, his hands raised.
“Wait!” Joss pulled his bauble from his pocket. “Catch!” He tossed it right at the thug.
It was pure instinct. With a heavy sphere heading straight for him, the young man clapped his hands together and caught the bauble. It quickly drained the fire magic from his hands.
“What?” The boy looked shocked—and a bit panicked as the bauble continued to pull magic from him. “What the hell?” He tried to toss it away, but it stuck to him, drinking greedily. “Get it off me!”
Flame sprang from the hands of all of his mates.
“Here, now.” Joss beckoned, and the bauble obeyed, coming back to perch in his hand. The thug and all of his friends turned away from Jarby to stare menacingly at him.
“Who the hell do you think you are, interfering with me?” the youngling demanded.
Joss braced himself. He’d faced a hoard of his Hagan uncles and cousins wearing the same determined expression, more than once. He was about to take a beating, but he couldn’t regret it—and he had a few tricks of his own up his sleeve, despite his relative lack of magic. He rummaged in the pockets sewn inside his waistcoat. He had a ring that would give him a much-needed edge, should this come to a magical fight. He felt his fingers close on it as the bauble drifted to hover protectively over his head.
“Not to worry, lad,” Jarby said gruffly. “Help is on the way.”
Light flashed between him and the crowd of Prometheans. When it faded, Joss forgot the bullies, Jarby, the Market, and everything else, too. He stared into a slight frown on the most fascinating face he’d ever seen. It was a woman, young and lovely. He could feel the power emanating from her. Her magical aura was the strongest he’d ever encountered. Rich with jewel tones, it emanated power and was filled with golden sparks of nearly limitless potential.
She turned her head, glancing between him and the Prometheans, and her dark auburn curls bounced appealingly. “Good afternoon, gentleman,” she said softly. “We don’t have a problem here, do we?”
Clio let her gaze slide over a group of young Prometheans. They were roughly her own age, but they were running in a pack and clearly no threat, at least magically. Her own age, yes, but just looking at them made her feel old. Still, she should tread carefully. By the looks of them, they must be from wealthy, prominent witching families. It would not be good business to alienate them.
A silent shadow drifted over them all as Athena came to rest at the top of Jarby’s tallest shelf. The owl’s yellow gaze focused on the man standing in opposition against the firewielders. She rattled off a series of clipped whistles as Clio turned to look—and stilled.
Here was a man who appeared an entirely different species indeed. He looked . . . like a Viking . . . and it struck her in unexpected ways. Like he’d been torn from the past, yanked through time and deposited here specifically to wake her up, shake her up, and set her stuttering.
I’m just not interested . How many times had she told old Maret that she was far too young and too busy to look at men?
Well. She was looking now. Longish, tawny hair drifted over a square jaw. He stood so tall and broad, she looked up and up and had to catch her breath. A magnificent mountain range of a man, all wide shoulders, narrow waist and long, muscled legs.
She glanced away at the young Prometheans and then back again. Blessings. What a difference. Those boys were tragically common. At her gaze, they sheepishly extinguished their flames. But the other man . . . he felt somehow . . . elemental. Perhaps because he looked as if the cold north wind had conspired with surging seas to sculpt him. She almost could not look away.
Sudden alarm tripped through her. Had she fallen under some sort of spell? She searched, but oddly, she felt almost no magic emanating from him.
It was just her own foolishness, then.
“No. No problem at all,” the Viking said in answer to her question—and with an intriguing accent. “The young gentleman had an accident, but he was about to make it right with Mr. Jarby.”
His voice was deep, his tone easy. Clio felt warmed through. Again, she scanned for some low level of magic or charm but found nothing.
“Accident?” she asked. Glancing around, she frowned as she saw the shattered vase and felt the residue of Promethean fire on it. “Accident?” she repeated, her tone sharp.
“Just a minor misunderstanding,” Jarby said dryly. “The young gentlemen were about to rectify their mistake.” Her cragged friend glanced at the big man. “And it’s just Jarby, lad. I ain’t never been a Mister and don’t intend to start now.”
Jarby’s clear preference for the man eased her nerves a little. She turned back to the business at hand and faced the one Promethean who stood ahead of the others and still looked bullish. “Thank you,” she told him. “I commend you for acknowledging your mistake and making quick restitution. Very wise. The Night Market is quick to anger. It doesn’t always understand and can take umbrage against someone if it believes he is harassing or intimidating one of its own.”
The florid young man frowned. “You talk about the Market as if it is alive.”
“Oh, it’s alive,” she said, baring her teeth. “Alive and hungry. Only the very foolish tempt it with an excuse to slake its appetite.”
Most of the fight went out of the young man. Not all of it, however. As he sullenly tossed Jarby a gold coin, he nodded toward his opponent. “And what about that one? His little ornament stole my magic. Right out of my hands!”
She turned questioningly to the big man. His blue eyes were an odd, light color. She forced herself to meet his gaze directly. How could eyes that reminded one of cool, icy waters make her feel so . . . heated?
He shrugged. “It’s just a bauble. Scarcely more than a child’s toy. Nothing to be afraid of,” he said dismissively.
The Promethean bristled, but Clio froze in place. “Wait. A bauble, did you say?” It came out in a whisper.
“That’s all,” he agreed. He looked up and seemed surprised to see nothing there. He made a beckoning gesture.
And Clio’s heart began to trip as a small, golden orb peeked out from behind his shoulder.
Memories assaulted her. Half-formed but full of emotion, the images flowed. Her mother’s lap. Look what your papa has for you, my darling Clio . The bliss of safety and comfort she felt as she cradled an object just like that one, even as her mother cradled her. Her father’s grin as he juggled two of them, so pleased with his success at accomplishing a difficult and arduous task.
She turned away, unwilling to allow anyone to see how she was affected. Blindly, she reached for the shards of Jarby’s vase and restored it with a twitch of her finger.
“Just a moment, there!” the Promethean objected. “Why should I pay the troll for the vase if you are just going to fix it for him?”
“Egan, let’s just go.” One of the boy’s friends tried to pull him away.
Clio turned to face him, letting the rise of violent emotion color her tone. “Because the Night Market knows your heart, and it doesn’t tolerate cheats or bullies.” She put a bit of magical push behind her next words. “Go, now. Enjoy the Market and behave like the gentlemen you are meant to be.”
The bully tried to resist, but he stood not a chance. The group of them obediently shuffled off. Clio turned to the big man and the golden orb that still hovered uncertainly behind his shoulder. “Where did you get that?” she asked. It sounded harsh, even to her ears.
Above them, Athena hissed.
The Viking stiffened. “It’s a family heirloom.”
Family. The word sounded like a clap of thunder inside her. After she’d come to the Market, she’d asked Maret again and again about her family, but, of course, the older woman knew nothing about Clio’s background. She’d asked after the baubles, as well, as she’d grown, hoping they might lead her to more information about her past. As the Night Market took her to so many places, she’d searched everywhere but never caught a glimpse of one.
Until now.
Hard to find, she’d been told. A rarity. Difficult to create and only mastered by a few. Every time, she’d recalled her father’s face, flush with triumph.
And now, this tall, charismatic stranger said family , and she had to wonder. Her family? Or the family of the men who had invaded her small world and destroyed it?
Abruptly, she wasn’t prepared to know. With a last glance at his towering frame and unexpectedly gentle expression, she whirled on a heel and strode away.