Chapter 21
Nigel’s leg jostled with tension, and his fingers drummed nervously against his knee as he watched the landscape outside the window zipping past. The Brotherhood probably expected him to transmatterport in, using a Dire Demon.
That way, he wouldn’t have to bother with such ordinary inconveniences as train tickets and automagic mobile rentals.
But the Brotherhood did not know about his poisoning.
Which was a good thing. A very good thing.
He could work with that ignorance. But it did make meeting their insane deadline a whole lot more difficult.
He comforted himself with the hope that they wouldn’t really hurt Luna.
That part of their message was likely nothing more than a bluff.
If they only saw her as leverage to get Garden, then maybe .
. . but if they knew her true identity, they wouldn’t dare touch her for fear of damaging their only viable vessel for Jastira’s soul.
Truth be told, Nigel couldn’t say which eventuality he feared more: that they knew or that they didn’t know.
Ward snorted, jerking in his seat across from Nigel’s.
His face twisted in an odd contortion before sinking back into a smiling dream.
Nigel glared at him. How could the man nod off like that when Luna’s life was in immediate peril?
And here he claimed to have feelings for her!
Still, Ward had agreed to come along on this hairbrained rescue mission. Nigel had to credit him for that.
The first several legs of their journey, Nigel had spent filling Ward in on all the details he could manage.
Details like what the Brotherhood was trying to accomplish and how they meant to go about it.
He hated the ease with which Officer Ward pried secrets from his lips, but .
. . he just didn’t care anymore. Whatever it took to get Luna back.
Did a small part of him feel a twinge of guilt, betraying the very Brotherhood to which he once belonged? Hells no.
“So let me see if I’ve got this right,” Ward had said even as they settled into their seats and waited for the train to leave the station.
“The Shadowbane Lady is dead-ish, but her soul is retrievable. She herself was working on the solution to immortality before she died and crafted a spell that would allow her soul to be relocated into the body of a viable female of her own bloodline. Am I getting it so far?”
Nigel grunted.
“Most of the Thorpewillow bloodline has been stamped out—first by rival sorcerer families, determined to stop Jastira in her tracks. Then, later on, the remainders were conveniently disappeared by the Authorities of Plym who, having scavenged Nocturnus Tower following Jastira’s fall, discovered the truth about her experiments.
They wanted to make certain she never returned, so they uprooted what remained of her family tree. ”
“Only they missed one,” Nigel had finished for him.
“Luna.” A shadow of dread fell across Ward’s brow. “Little Luna Talbot of the Crimble Mountains. The Great Sorceress of the Age.”
“Not at all,” Nigel protested at once. “She knows nothing of sorcery, you know. That heptagram was only to do with potential, not practice. She is, as she has always presented herself to be: simply a tea witch.”
Ward glared across at him. “You think I don’t know that? Geez, give me some credit, Grimm, why don’t you?”
At this, Nigel had huffed and settled back into his seat, arms crossed, allowing Ward time to digest all the information given.
Digestion had unexpectedly turned into a snooze, however.
Nigel couldn’t tell if he was more relieved or irritated.
It certainly must be an improvement, not having to continue exchanging barbs with the man who, only yesterday, had been kissing Luna right in front of him.
But it also galled a little. How could anyone who had enjoyed the honor and privilege of tasting Luna’s sweet lips be able to nod off like that? While she herself was in peril?
Nigel stared out the window, willing the landscape to pass more quickly.
Gods, but regular people lived such pedantic lives, didn’t they?
He’d almost forgotten just how slow everything moved without sorcery.
Yes, he’d technically spent the last few years following Jastira’s fall as a “regular person” himself.
And he’d chafed under the pedantry of such an existence.
But then Luna Talbot blew through his door .
. . and everything changed. Suddenly, each little aspect of day-to-day life took on new meaning and magic all its own.
The magic of ordinary things: cups of tea and apron strings and a gently murmured “please pass the pruning shears.” Meals by the nook stove, warm firelight on limp curls.
Laughs shared over mystery meat stew, tears shared over loss.
A pile of quilts and a mushroom-embroidered handkerchief and a woman who, by her very nature, transformed each moment into one of small enchantment.
She may not be the Sorceress of the Age. But Luna Talbot was by far the most magical being Nigel had ever encountered.
He leaned his burning forehead against the cool window glass, desperate for some relief from the heat in his veins.
Strange how, not long ago, he had dreamed of setting this whole world on fire with the brilliance of his mind, his mastery, his madness.
He had wanted to achieve his own form of immortality, different from Jastira’s, but no less profound.
Without a thought for anything or anyone else, he had poured himself into the creation of his great spell: the Infinite Dynamo.
It was supposed to see him established as the most formidable sorcerer of all time.
But now?
Gods, he scarcely recognized himself!
All notion of setting the world on fire had simply lost its appeal.
What did he care if all the world blazed for his glory?
His only desire was to light a spark in Luna Talbot’s heart.
To fan it into a full flame of passion, warm enough to keep them both burning to the end of their days.
Who gave a flying flip if future generations acclaimed his name or his brilliance?
If he could just be the man she loved, if he could just be the one to whom she came with her joys, her sorrows, her hurts, her dreams, her lusts.
If he could be the man to give her hearth and home and happiness from now until his dying breath. Nothing else mattered.
Only . . . now he knew for certain this could never be.
With a loud snort and a jolt of limbs, Ward’s eyes flew open, and he sat up straight on the bench. He blinked blearily, shook his head a few times, before turning an unfocused gaze Nigel’s way. “Feeling well-rested?” Nigel asked sourly.
“Oh, sure,” Ward said through a huge yawn and a huger stretch.
“Sorry about that, old man. It’s a wardsman thing, being able to nod off at the drop of a hat.
But no worries! I always wake up alert and ready for action.
” He belied these words with another yawn and a vigorous rub of both eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Where are we?” he asked, turning to the window.
“I saw a sign for Barton-in-the-Beans, about three miles back. And it’s two o’clock.”
“Good.” Ward nodded, stifling yet another yawn.
“We’ve got about two hours until we get there.
Now’s a good time to go over all the toys I brought along.
” So saying, he reached under his seat and dragged forth a large black bag, which he had stowed there at the beginning of their journey.
He cast a quick glance up and down the train carriage, but it was mostly empty, save for a dozing little old lady at the far end.
The long-stemmed pink flower jutting from her neat little hat bobbed in rhythm with her gentle snores.
She certainly had no interest in the two gentleman at the front of the car.
“All right, Grimm,” Ward said, opening the bag and reaching inside.
“You’re familiar with these, I know.” He held up three shiny, egg-sized balls.
They looked like glass, but Nigel knew they were actually made of very thin, carefully-synthesized and smoothed ordraena crystal. Purple gas swirled in their centers.
“Cytosulfur,” Ward said. “Otherwise known as severmist. An anti-sorcery agent that disintegrates Dire Matter on contact. Nasty stuff if breathed into a sorcerer’s lungs, as you know.
Not terribly effective against most Dark Sorcerers, I’m afraid, but should give ‘em a bit of a shock and disrupt some of the worst spells they might try to hurl your way.” He handed over the three crystal eggs in his hand then scooped out and handed over three more.
“Be sure to throw good and hard,” he cautioned.
“The crystal needs to shatter for the gas to be released. And be ready—they make a pretty big bang. Oh, and you’ll want one of these little nippers. ”
So saying, he pulled out a small, collapsible gas mask.
When stretched out, it covered the whole face, eyes, nose, and mouth, with a filter canister and an exhalation valve.
“Now, I’m warning you,” Ward added, “this has not been tested on severmist, so I don’t know how effective it’ll be.
If I were you, I’d try to stay out of the gas as much as possible. ”
“Noted,” Nigel said and tucked the gas mask into the inner front pocket of Yorik Balthazar’s dressing gown.
He was still wearing the star-spangled garment, which had definitely earned him more than one odd look at the Ballycastle station.
He didn’t care. Let total strangers think him an excentric if they liked; he wasn’t about to go to a meeting with Calista and her cronies without it.