Chapter Thirty-Four
Callen
The roar of the crowd fades as Lochan and I slip away from the Harrowing after-celebration. My heart’s still racing from Brigid’s performance—that girl never ceases to amaze me.
“Damn, man. Did you see her take down that hydra?” I whisper to Lochan as we duck behind a corner. “Thought she was toast for a second there.” The entire event had been projected up in the sky for all of us to watch.
Lochan grunts, eyes scanning the hallway. “Focus, Callen. We’ve got work to do.”
He’s right. I push thoughts of Brigid aside, though it’s harder than I’d like to admit.
As we near Charling’s—no, Fiona’s office now—I feel myself get uncharacteristically nervous. We’re dealing with so much more than we knew. I haven’t spoken to my father since his sudden appearance in our suite, but I was well aware of his presence on the dais, and his interest in Brigid as she undertook the challenges of the Harrowing. We’re at the door to the office now. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. With a nod to Lochan, I ease it open.
We slip inside, and I’m hit by the musty scent of old books and—is that patchouli? Figures Fiona would funk up the joint.
My eyes dart around, taking in the changes. Gone are Charling’s stuffy portraits—except for the regulation portrait of King Cillian with his glittering crown—replaced by dreamcatchers and paintings of Celtic symbols. Crystals of all shapes and sizes are scattered on the shelves and desk, some catching the light and casting rainbows around the room. A lava lamp bubbles on the desk.
“Sweet Cernunnos,” I breathe. “It’s like a New Age shop threw up in here.” It’s a stark contrast to the previous owner’s staid decor.
Lochan elbows me, scowling. “We don’t have much time.”
Right again. I look around, scanning for anything useful. The weight of what we’re doing hits me suddenly. If we’re caught—well, best not to think about that.
“Keep watch,” I mutter, already running my hands along the smooth surface of the dean’s desk, the polished wood cold and smooth under my fingers.
Lochan takes up a position by the door.
I close my eyes, letting my fae magic flow through my fingertips. It’s like a sixth sense, probing for hidden catches or magical wards. There’s gotta be something here, some clue to what really went down with Charling.
Nothing.
Figures though. A desk is a little obvious. If anything was hidden here by the dean, it would be concealed by magic, and in a place where the Council wouldn’t look.
Like somewhere that already uses very obvious magic, so a concealment spell wouldn’t be detected.
Such as my father’s portrait…which is spelled to reflect the king’s age and appearance as it changes—be it ever so slowly.
“Hurry up,” Lochan hisses, his eyes darting to the corridor outside.
I remove the portrait from the wall. There. A faint pulse of a different magic, almost imperceptible. My breath catches as I trace its outline. “Gotcha, you genius bastard.”
With a flick of my wrist and a whispered word, the concealed compartment behind the portrait springs open. Inside lies a thin journal. My hands shake as I lift it out, the weight of it suddenly feeling like the heaviest thing in the world.
I look up, meeting Lochan’s intense gaze. The gravity of what we’ve found hangs between us, unspoken but palpable. This could change everything—or get us both killed.
I flip through the journal, my eyes widening with each page. Holy shit. This is way worse than we thought. The Council’s corruption runs deep, their manipulation of shadow magic more sinister than even our darkest suspicions.
“Lochan,” I whisper, my voice tight. “It’s all here. The dean knew about the Council framing shadow magic users for years. He knew they were extracting it from those that had it, and using it for their own purposes. They’re have to be the ones behind his death. There’s something about Brigid—”
I break off as Lochan snatches the journal from my hands, his face a mask of barely controlled rage as he scans the pages. His jaw clenches, muscles working beneath his skin.
“This confirms it. They want to use her as a vessel for the Morrigan.”
The emotion in his voice catches me off guard. I know he has feelings he won’t allow himself to feel for Brigid. I know he feels a mate bond with her, too. I see my old friend cracking under the weight of this revelation.
“We can’t let that happen,” I say, watching him closely.
Lochan’s eyes snap to mine, fierce and burning with a protective fire I didn’t know he possessed. “No,” he snarls. “We fucking can’t.”
The magnitude of his reaction throws me. This is more than just duty or honor—this is personal for him. Despite everything, despite his hatred of shadow magic, Lochan cares for Brigid. Deeply.
Before I can respond, footsteps echo down the hallway, getting closer by the second. My heart rate spikes, adrenaline flooding my system.
“Shit,” I hiss, locking eyes with Lochan. His face mirrors my own panic.
We’ve gotta move, now.
Lochan shoves the journal into my hands, positioning himself between me and the door. His warrior instincts kick in, ready to fight if necessary.
“Portal,” he growls, barely audible.
I concentrate, willing my magic to cooperate under pressure. A shimmering portal starts to form, but it’s slow—too slow.
The footsteps are right outside now. Any second, we’ll be caught red-handed.
“Hurry up,” Lochan snaps.
The door handle starts to turn. Lochan’s muscles tense, ready to spring.
Come on, come on...
The portal finally snaps into existence, a swirl of gold, silver, and light. We step through just as the door starts to open, tumbling out into the corridor around the corner from the office.
“That was too fucking close,” I whisper, running a shaky hand through my hair.
Lochan doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on something further down the hallway. I follow his gaze and freeze.
King Cillian—my father—is standing with a Council member, their heads bent close in hushed conversation. My stomach drops. What the hell is he doing here?
“... ensure the shadow magic users take the fall,” my father’s voice drifts towards us. “The dean’s death must be pinned on them if we’re to move forward with our plans.”
The Council member nods. “And what of the girl? The vessel?” “She passed the Harrowing,” my father says, his voice cold and calculating. “We proceed as planned. The Morrigan will rise, and we’ll finally have the power we need to—”
Lochan’s hand clamps down on my arm, his grip painfully tight. I glance at him, seeing my own horror reflected in his eyes.
It’s true. It’s all fucking true.
The Council, my own father—they’re behind everything. Dean Charling’s death, the frame job, Brigid...
I feel sick. Betrayed. Used.
But mostly, I feel pissed.
Because now? Now it’s personal.
Dad’s always been a Grade-A asshole, but this? This is next-level evil. Part of me wants to storm over, confront him, demand answers. But the smarter part—the part that’s kept me alive this long—knows that’d be suicide.
Lochan tugs me back further into the shadows. We creep away, silent as ghosts, until we’re far enough to breathe again.
“Fuck,” I hiss, leaning against the cold stone wall. “We’re so screwed.”
Lochan’s face is a mask of barely contained rage.
“Brigid. We have to warn her.”
“And the others,” Lochan adds, his voice tight. “If the Council’s willing to kill a dean—”
“—they won’t hesitate to take us out,” I finish. The horror of our situation hits me. “Gods, Loch. What are we going to do?” He meets my eyes, and I see a familiar fire there.
“We fight,” he says simply. “We protect our own.”
I take a deep breath, pushing down the desperation, the betrayal. There’s no time for that shit now. “Alright,” I say, straightening up. “Let’s go save our girl.”
As we move, a grim smile tugs at my lips. Dad always said I was useless and would never do anything with my life. Time to prove the old bastard wrong.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing Lochan’s arm.
He tries to shake me off. “What the fuck, Callen? We need to move.”
“You need to hear this. We know the Council has been using shadow magic and framing the rebels. There’s no denying that now.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you getting at?”
I swallow, knowing this could change everything. “What if... what if that includes—”
“Don’t,” Lochan growls, but I push on.
“—your family.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and dangerous. Lochan’s face goes through a rapid-fire of emotions: shock, disbelief, anger, and then... something that looks a lot like fear.
“That’s not possible,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Isn’t it?” I press. “Think about it. The Council’s been playing us all along. What better way to turn everyone against shadow magic than to use it to kill innocents?”
Lochan’s breathing gets ragged, his fists clenching at his sides. I can almost see the gears turning in his head, reevaluating everything he’s believed for years.
“Lochan, there’s something I’ve never told you.”
He looks at me warily. “Spit it the fuck out, prince.”
“Your father was a good man.”
He really was. When we were boys, I used to envy Lochan, that he got to go home to a family who loved him, and to a father who looked at his son with pride instead of calculated cruelty. “He was loyal. But he was also honest.” To be fair, that’s a rare trait in us fae.
“Yeah. He was.”
“If he found out about the King’s plans—if he overheard him like I did—he wouldn’t keep silent.” I take a deep breath. “And it was your family’s murders that finally tipped the balance for the elites and my father. The public outrage allowed them to declare war on the shadow rebels.”
It all finally makes sense.
“If you’re right,” he says slowly, “then the shadow rebels, then Brigid—”
“Isn’t the enemy,” I finish. “And neither is her magic.”
The implications hit us both like a ton of bricks. Lochan’s whole worldview is crumbling, and I can see the conflict raging behind his eyes. His hatred of shadow magic has been his driving force for so long. Now, it might be the very thing that saves us all.
“We need to go,” Lochan says abruptly, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “Brigid’s in more danger than we thought.”