Page 11 of Shield of Fire

“I’ll liaise with Sgott’s people when they get here?—”

“His people?” I cut in, surprised. “Where is he? What else has happened?”

“He’s on his way home from Scotland. Apparently, he took the weekend off to walk one of his granddaughters down the aisle.”

“Oh yeah, forgot that was this weekend.”

He’d mentioned some time ago that one of his granddaughters had decided to get married, which was an unusual step for brown bear shifters. Sgott never had; like their animal counterparts, males were serially monogamous. They lived with the same mate from several days to several weeks—generally until pregnancy was confirmed—then moved on in search of another. The more successful males often had two or three mates in a year. Sgott had five offspring he’d fully supported from birth and seven grandchildren. His youngest daughter, who’d been born just before he’d entered his relationship with Mom, was approaching breeding age—which, given bear shifters lived nearly six times longer than their animal counterparts, was around sixty years of age—and apparently already had several suitors.

“I also said it was pointless trying to ring you, as your phone had been destroyed in the blast,” Cynwrig continued. “He said to tell you he hoped this wasn’t the start of another wave of injuries unleashed on your person, because he wasn’t sure he could handle the stress.”

I grinned. It was easy enough to imagine him saying that—his Scottish brogue would be heavier than normal and filled with the weary acceptance of inevitability. It made me wish he was here, just so I could hug him.

“Well, that’s certainly something I’m also hoping.” As we neared the ambulance, I caught his shirt, dragged him down toward me, and kissed him. “Be careful tonight. Just because my captive said you weren’t the target doesn’t mean he’d been told the truth, and that elf is still out there.”

“Yes, but unleashing that sort of force would have taken its toll, no matter how strong he might be magically. We should all be safe tonight, at the very least.”

“Should be” and “would be” were often two very different things, especially where bad guys were concerned. “I’ll call you when I get a new phone.”

He gave me a nod and stepped back as they loaded me into the back of the ambulance. In no time at all, they whisked me across to the fae hospital, where they repaired the various injuries and kept me overnight for observation. Which was annoying, given I smelled of smoke and destruction and the hospital gown they handed me to change into revealed entirely too much of my butt.

They cleared me to leave the next morning. I shoved my feet into my boots, tugged on my coat to cover the butt’s nakedness, then, after grabbing a transport voucher from reception because I had no money or credit cards on me, headed outside to catch a cab.

Home was a heritage-listed tavern in the historic heart of Deva’s famous Rows area. Ye Old Pixie Boots—the name Mom had given it when she’d taken over from Gran—comprised of a street-level undercroft, one floor at “row” level, and our living quarters above that. Aside from a few layout changes upstairs and the necessary modernizations, it was basically the same building that had stood on this spot since it had undergone minor remodeling in the late 1400s.

My key to the front door was gods knew where in the remains of Cynwrig’s building, right along with the rest of my belongings, so I entered via the rear door, which was key-coded.

The back of the tavern was a warren of rooms—a furniture store, fridges, stock stores, staff changing rooms, and toilets. Beyond the door dividing the rear section from the main tavern area lay the kitchen. The remaining space was unsurprisingly intimate, with the bar and four small tables on this side of the stairs and five larger tables in the front half. Bright pixie boots of various sizes hung from the exposed floor joists and beams, some of them real, some of them not, but all of them a nod to tourist expectations that a tavern bearing the name “Pixie Boots” would actually have said boots displayed.

I clattered up the stairs, my hand on the railing so I could feel the wood’s warm pulse. It was a habit I’d gotten into after several break-in attempts—some successful, some not—in recent weeks. Thankfully, the only weight altering the timbre of that pulse was mine.

The next floor was larger, as there was no kitchen up here to take up space, and contained a mix of booths of varying sizes, a few tables, and the doors leading out onto the covered row area. The narrow stairs up to my living quarters were tucked away behind the bar. I’d recently had another key-coded lock installed alongside the alarm Sgott had fitted after one of the break-ins. Neither would stop a determined thief or thug for very long, of course, but the more difficult I made it for them, the better.

I deactivated the alarm, then opened the door and headed up the stairs worn down by centuries of foot traffic. As a pixie, I could have restored them, but their song was rich and warm, and I really didn’t want to alter it. Mom and Gran had obviously agreed with me.

Even though the roof had been raised, it was still very confined up here. There was a combined kitchen-living area and two bedrooms—one had been Mom’s and was now mine, while Lugh and I had shared the other as kids. It was now a spare. The bathroom was the second-biggest room in the flat and with good reason—it’d had to cope with four oversized pixies using it for decades. Gran had moved out of the tavern when she’d handed the reins over to Mom, but before then, she’d slept in the loft, which was only accessible through a hatch and a loft ladder—something that had never worried her, as she’d been remarkably spritely until the day she’d passed.

I stripped off, tossing the gown, the coat, and the bag holding my other clothes into the bin, then headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. Feeling—and smelling—a whole lot better, I made myself a big cup of tea. Then I headed down to the other end of the living room, released the loft ladder, and clambered up—all without spilling the tea, of course.

When Gran had moved out, Mom had converted this area into a chill-out zone so she could read her books in peace. There was little evidence here now of the destruction Vincentia’s murderers had wrought in their efforts to find the Codex—the second relic within the triune and a book that supposedly contained all the knowledge of the gods—but traces of my cousin’s blood still stained the old floorboards. I’d covered the area with a mix of baking soda and vinegar in the hope it would draw out the stains, but I hadn’t yet checked if it had worked.

The badly crocheted rug I’d made to warm Mom’s knees was once again covering the back of her chair, and her to-be-read pile was once again neatly stacked on the coffee table. Maybe it was stupid, but restoring everything to where it had been on that fateful night when she’d left to hunt relics and had never come home made me feel closer to her. Her soul might not be haunting this place, but the echoes of her presence nevertheless lingered. It helped me cope, if only a little.

I blinked back the threat of tears, placed my cup of tea on the small table beside the cushion-adorned sofa, then walked toward the wood heater at the back of the room.

Gran had created a small storage pocket in the back of the mesh that surrounded the flue by slicing it open and then bending it in to form a small shelf. She’d used it to hide her smaller valuables, but it had also been large enough to hold the Codex and the Eye. My knives—the third relic within the triune—were too big, but Cynwrig had solved that problem by replacing the entire length of decorative mesh for me. Not only had he widened the gap between the mesh and the flue to provide more storage space, he’d also made the inner “pocket” big enough to hold all three items. Then he’d added a door that, unless you knew it existed, wasn’t visible.

I hooked a finger into the hole that served as a handle, opened the door, and reached down for the triune. My fingers brushed the Eye, and energy stirred, a sharp electricity that echoed deep within.

There were visions to be had.

I blew out a breath, not really sure I was up to a vision quest right now, especially when accessing the library would likely take a good chunk of physical strength. While both the Codex and the Eye were good resources of information about the relics I was now expected to find, there was never a “free” ride when it came to godly items. Using them always came at a cost. My knives differed, but they’d been designed to protect and seemed to have a life of their own rather than drawing on mine.

I collected all three items, then walked back to the old leather couch and sat down, tucking several cushions behind me to support my back. After placing the Codex and the knives on my lap, I held up the Eye by its chain and studied the stone now caged by metal. Lugh had designed it specifically to protect my skin against constant contact—and its continuous wash of energy—while allowing skin-to-stone contact via grip when necessary.

Though I wasn’t currently touching it, purple lightning cut through the Eye’s dark heart and, in the back of my mind, ghostly figures stirred.

I did my best to ignore them. Which probably wasn’t a good move, but we needed information about the shield more right now.

---