Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
It's nearly midnight by the time the Life and Death Brigade gang is gathered and ready to roll. After explaining what I felt during the breaking of the lockstones, Garrison agreed I should be on the ground with them, and not halfway around the world.
So, it’s road trip time.
We’re just waiting for our ride.
Rowan is sitting on the counter eating a piece of cinnamon-raisin toast.
Orion stands by the sliding glass doors with his arms crossed.
Wylder is checking his bag with the methodical patience of a man who doesn't want to be caught unprepared.
Asher is sitting on the floor, letting Nobuddy and Somebuddy say their goodbyes, which apparently requires extensive face licking.
And I'm still trying to figure out how big an area the warded array covers now that I know the first broken lockstone was in Ireland and the second was in Denmark.
"They like to listen to Pitbull while they eat," Asher tells Izzy. "Their favorite is On The Floor with JLO, but they like Fireball, too."
"They'll be fine," Izzy says. "I'll take good care of them, I promise."
"I know you will." He scoops Somebuddy up and holds her against his chest. "I just worry they'll think I've left them behind.”
"They know you love them."
Asher snuggles them in and gives them kisses. "I do. I love you, puppers."
Two Order envoys climb the steps of the back porch, and I give them a little wave. “Okay, guys, our ride’s here.”
I hug Izzy and thank her for dog-sitting for us, and then we’re all shuffling out the sliding glass doors.
One of Garrison’s guys stands at the far side of the porch and the other comes over to greet us. “Five of you, then?”
“Yeah, this is us.”
“Stand in a group between Derrick and me. We’ll get you there in a blink.”
We do as instructed, and huddle together on the back porch with the Order guys on either side of us. And yeah, we really are there in a blink.
Magic is amazing.
Ireland smells like rain and old earth and something green underneath everything, like the land itself is breathing.
We arrive in a scatter of displaced air, each of us adjusting our footing on a wide flagstone plaza.
The sky is hazy gray with light taking hold across the horizon. Wind cuts straight through my jacket, and I adjust my scarf to cover my neck.
"Dudes, that was incredible!" Asher is all smiles and boyish excitement. "You guys are smooth. I know I’m new to the whole teleporting thing, but I hope I grow up to be just like you.”
I chuckle and wave our thanks. Which they accept and are gone in the next instant.
Asher throws up his arms and takes in our surroundings while turning to get a full 360-degree view. “Welcome to the Emerald Isle, lasses and lads. Take it all in.”
Wylder holds up a hand. "Please stop spinning. You nearly took out my eye."
Asher makes a face and sighs. “Seriously, Howe, it wouldn’t kill you to loosen up a little.”
Wylder grunts. “And it wouldn’t kill you to tighten it up a little.”
I wave my hands. “Nope. You’re both perfect the way you are. Let’s enjoy our time across the pond, shall we?”
The Order headquarters sits ahead of us: a converted manor house, all gray stone and dark windows, wrapped in climbing ivy that looks like it has been there since the time of the Vikings.
A bronze plaque hangs beside the main entrance, and it strikes me as odd that a super-secret sect would have its logo and a dedication to the building right out in the open like this.
I turn to Asher, who is already wearing an expression that suggests he is planning something inadvisable.
"Behave."
"I always behave." Asher presses a hand to his chest. "I behave constantly. I am the picture of good—"
"Asher."
He rolls his eyes. "Behaving. Yes. Got it."
I smile and hitch the strap of my bag up, before following the two Order guys up the front walk. As we close the distance, the door opens from the inside.
The man who moves to stand in the open doorway is somewhere in his late forties. He has reading glasses pushed up into graying hair, a wool cardigan, and the disdainful expression of someone who has just swallowed a lump of sour milk in his coffee.
"Miss Hallowind-Forrester." His accent is clipped and precise, Connacht Irish. He doesn't offer his name. "We had word from the High Chancellor this morning. You’re to come with me to have a briefing."
He turns and walks back inside. Not quite an invitation. More like a direction.
"Lovely to meet you too," Rowan murmurs behind me.
We follow him into the building, down a corridor lined with framed maps and brass sconces, then through a narrower hallway, then down a half-flight of stairs.
The whole building feels like a hodgepodge of architecture, as if it’s been added to and rearranged for centuries, each generation's priorities visible in the transitions between stone and plaster and modern lighting.
He opens the door to a conference room and gestures for us to go in. It’s very corporate. It boasts a long teak table, eight high-back brown leather chairs, a whiteboard cabinet on one wall with the doors open and nothing written on the surface.
There is also a tired-looking dude with vibrant blue eyes, blinking up at me from the end of the table.
"Sit,” our host with the most says.
We drop our bags by the door and sit. He stays standing, hands folded behind his back, and surveys us the way a teacher surveys a class that has already disappointed him.
"I'll be direct with you five." He moves to the head of the table without sitting. "The Ireland Chapter of the Order of the Arcane is well able to investigate this site ourselves. We’ve researchers, magical specialists, and generations of history with this land that your group simply doesn’t have.”
Asher opens his mouth, but a cold glare shot in his direction ends the impulse to speak.
“Our findings would’ve been documented and circulated to every chapter inside a fortnight.
Every coven, every guild, every registered practitioner informed properly, without unnecessary excitement.
My point," he says, with the precision of someone closing a door, "is that there was no call for your presence.”
I straighten. “Garrison seems to disagree.”
He arches an imperious brow at me. “Aye, well. Given that you lot are directly responsible for letting the plundering demon onto the physical plane in the first place, you'll understand if I’m less than delighted to have you here."
Excuse me?
Asher shifts forward. "That's not fair. We did everything we could to—"
“I’m sure you did. And fair play to you for standing against a major demon and living to tell the tale. But your little band of Scooby-Doo adventurers—”
“Hey, now,” Asher stands.
"No, it’s fine." I hold out a hand and keep my eyes on the man across the table. "He’s not entirely wrong.”
He blinks, apparently unprepared for my response.
“But you’re not entirely right either. Yes, Tharuzel escaped on our watch, but we inherited a problem that had been all but ignored for over five years. And, I might add, we’re the only ones who got off our asses to even try to stop him.”
He recalibrates. "Maybe so. Nonetheless, the end result is the same. You’re in deeper water than you know.”
“No. Tharuzel is still free, true, but we know him and what he’s capable of better than you, and are the most motivated to send him back to where he came from.”
The guy looks thoroughly unimpressed. “We’ll leave that as a difference of opinion. Whatever the case, the High Chancellor has instructed that your party be given access to the site and any information we’ve gathered. That’s what you’ll have.”
“Thank you.”
He dips his chin. “We’ll see to your lodging while you’re here, if you need it. But you’ll not set foot inside that cave without one of our people alongside you. Am I understood?”
"Perfectly," I say.
He gives a single nod. "Grand. Then what we know of the cave and its markings comes chiefly from our staff historian, Ms. Freya Murphy. She will take charge of you and bring you through what we’ve learned.”
Mr. Personality waves toward the doorway, and a middle-aged woman appears.
“Thank you, Cormac. I’ll take it from here. I’m sure you have a million things waiting for your attention.”
Cormac straightens his cardigan and passes one last dismissive look over us. “Remember what I said. You’re not to go anywhere near those caves without a representative from our team.”
I nod. “Got it. Thanks.”
When he leaves, Freya pulls the door shut and joins us at the table. She sets her backpack on the floor and then takes in our group. She looks to be in her mid-forties, fit, and dressed for adventure more than the administrative style of Mr. Personality.
She’s also got the same vivid blue eyes as me and the guy awkwardly looming at the end of the table.
Her gaze meets mine, then travels to Sleepy Guy, then softens. “Ah, two more Descendants of the Nine. It’s grand to meet you both. And thank you for coming.”
I straighten and meet the confused gazes of my friends. “Descendants of the Nine?”
She gestures toward the guy at the end of the table. “We’ll get to that. How about we start with a round of introductions and what we offer to the situation? As Cormac mentioned, I’m Freya Murphy, Ireland chapter, and I’m a historian.”
“Henrik S?rensen.” The shaggy-haired blond at the end of the table smiles faintly, giving our group a lazy two-fingered wave. “Denmark chapter, archeologist and runes specialist."
Then the two of them look to me.
“Uh… Poppy Hallowind, New England chapter, and… I guess I’m here because I’m blood-bound to the demon breaking the lockstones, and can see his actions through our bond.”
Yeah, that’s the party-stopper I expect it to be.
Freya looks appalled.
Henrik looks like he might choke.
“And these are the other members of our Life and Death Brigade.” I gesture to each in turn. “We have Wylder for plant magic, Asher is my guardian angel, Rowan manipulates shadows, and Orion is an ice witch but also a shifter.”
Finished with the introductions, I fall quiet.