Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3)

Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3) Page 24

“You’ve got a great house,” I say, remembering the beautiful manor home on Charleston’s battery. “So what do you want with me?” I ask bluntly. With all the hell going on in Savannah, the last thing I want to do is linger in Drac’s castle when I could be on a plane heading home.

“’Tis I who want to meet you,” another man with a similar accent says. He approaches and without warning, grasps my hand in a shake. Unlike Eli’s lukewarm skin, this man’s is warm. “My name is Darius.”

And the moment his hand envelops mine, I experience firsthand the powers given to me by Julian Arcos.

My equilibrium tilts, my body goes rigid, and everyone around me fades into shadows…

When my vision clears, I’m not alone. I’m not at Castle Arcos. I’m not even me…

“Darius? What have we done?”

Gasping for air, Darius fixed his stare on the bloodstained earth he knelt upon. Resting his forearm against the hilt of his sword, he wiped his sweating brow and glanced about. Eleven Celtae druids lay dead, their bodies entangled within their black robes.

“What we had to do,” Darius answered. He rose and met the questioning eyes of the younger Druthan. “The dark magick within the Dubh Seiagh is unimaginable. The Celtae used it, Ronan. To allow them to live would mean destruction for us all.”

Ronan nodded and wiped a streak of blood from his cheek.

Just then, a sharp gust of wind swept over the moor, stirring the robes of the dead, and a blanket of mist settled over the browned and bloodstained heather. The twilight’s dim glow made the desolate moor hazy, and thunder crackled in the distance. Darius glanced up. “We havena much time.”

As the wind grew fiercer, the other Druthan warriors gathered, making their way through the fallen Celtae to stand at Darius’s side.

Darius met each of his brethren’s gazes. “You know what must be done. Four of our future kinsmen will become the immortal Arbitrators. I sacrifice my own bloodline. Who else?”

Three more Druthans raised their hands without hesitation.

“Well done,” Darius said.

“What of the Archivist? Whose bloodline will he come from?” asked Ronan.

“None of ours.”

The wind screamed then, and Darius quickly muttered the ancient Pict verse that would name the Arbitrators twelve hundred years into the future. And, the Archivist, centuries beyond. By that time, the language of the Dubh Seiagh would be dead and forgotten. Only the Archivist would have the ability to read it. Thus, destroy it. Until then, it would stay forever hidden.

When the last word was spoken, a deathly silence fell over the moor.

It was done.

As the Drutha glanced around, gasps filled the still night air. Darius hurried to the first Celtae body and knelt down.

‘Twas as though every ounce of bone and muscle and matter had been sucked out of the Celtae’s skin, leaving it a flat and empty sack of cauterized flesh.

Just then a scream, high-pitched and chilling to the bone, ripped over the moor, followed by another, and another, over and over. The wind picked up once again and roared through the air with gale force.

“Darius!” Ronan yelled. “What is this?”

Darius closed his eyes.

They’d killed the Celtae.

But their souls had escaped…

Quickly, he mouthed another verse, unrehearsed, unplanned. Desperate.

And prayed with fervor that it worked.

As fast as it occurs, it stops. Only now do I realize the scene lasted only a few seconds—as long as it takes Darius to shake my hand. The second he releases me, the vision disappears. My head is spinning as vertigo grabs me. A small wave of nausea washes over me, and for a minute I think I’m going to barf all over the guy. Surprisingly, after a few deep breaths, it subsides.

I look at him wordlessly. He’s tall, muscular, with dark auburn hair pulled back much like Jake’s, and disturbing, ancient amber eyes. The vision I’d witnessed was from a long time ago. I’d been nothing more than a fly on the wall, watching.

“What did you see?” he asks quietly.

I look at him. “Everything. You, others, on a windy moor, blood,” I say. “You killed the others. You instructed them.”

“No, you don’t understand.” A woman I hadn’t noticed before moves closer to me. “There’s more to it,” she insists.

“Ms. Maspeth,” another big guy warns.

“I’m Sydney,” she says, looking at me with an almost desperate look. She’s blond, pretty, yet…harsh at the same time. Sort of like me, I guess. “Please.”

Then, she places her hand on my shoulder.

And the whole goddamn thing starts over again.

This time, though, it’s different.

I feel myself waver, as though I’m going to fall, but instead of falling straight onto the floor, I just keep falling, falling, until I suddenly stop. A faint light, starting as a pinpoint in the distance and growing larger as it moves toward me, makes my vision go from blurry to clear. When I blink, I’m still me. But I’m somewhere else. I feel…enclosed. Trapped. And I’m looking through eyes not my own…

Niddry’s in Old Town, Edinburgh, has always felt safe to me. Small, dark, and nondescript, it’s a pub very few tourists ever venture into. Low-lit alcoves line the ancient stone walls of the building, and Victorian-era lamps, emitting a soft glow, perch on tabletops. It allows me to blend in with the local working class of the city, drink a few pints, to feel somewhat normal for a short period of time.

It allows me, even for just a few moments, to forget.

The glass feels cool against my palms as I lift it to my mouth, and the dark lager slips smoothly down my throat. Draining the glass, I set it down on the chipped mahogany table and glance at the other Niddry’s patrons from my alcove. Most I recognize, like the three off-duty cops—two of them brothers— the owner of the chip shop just up the street, and a handful of students from the university. A cab driver—this one I recognize because I’ve used his service before—sits at the bar nursing his third whiskey. Two women who work at the Safeway up the street sit together at a table close to the bar, giggling and sharing some inside joke. Normal, everyday folk living their normal, everyday lives.

I stare down at my empty glass, at the impression my lips leave on the rim, and then out the window to the rain-dampened sidewalk. A streetlamp blinks and then turns on. It will be dark soon. The gray will become black.

And these people have no fucking clue what’s really out there…

“Another pint, miss?”

The bartender, Seth, stands there with a white cloth thrown over his shoulder, smiling. His grin is welcoming, friendly, the dimple in his left cheek giving him a boyish look. He wags his reddish brown brows and widens his smile.

I smile back. “One more, thanks.”

He gives a nod, makes his way back to the bar, retrieves another lager, and brings it back. “Here then, lass.”

As he makes his way back to his station behind the long, polished mahogany bar, I find myself thinking how lucky the guy is, how lucky they all are, to be so oblivious to what lies beyond the doors of the pub.

Sometimes, I wish I were oblivious, too.

Taking a long pull on the lager, I continue to stare through the window. Despite the cold October rain, passersby scurry up and down the sidewalk, their overcoats swishing around their legs, on their way home from work, probably, or headed to their favorite meeting place with friends to have a few drinks.

I remember similar carefree evenings, when I would meet with friends, or go to my parents’ house with my fiancé for dinner, or simply stop by the mall to shop for a new outfit. I never even thought for a second how my life could change so drastically. How I would never see my family again, rely on my mother’s comforting hug, fall into my fiancé’s easy embrace.

But that sounds selfish, doesn’t it? Selfish and childish. Me, me, me.

Strangely enough, I’m really not so bitter anymore. But in the beginning? When everything first happened? Jesus, I was a hateful bitch. I didn’t want to accept what had happened to me, or what I was to become.

What I am now.

With my fingertip, I wipe a streak through the moisture gathered on the glass, then I lift it up to drink. Over the rim I see one of the cops looking at me. He gives a smile and a brief nod. He’s cute, and there once was a time when I would have indulged in an innocent flirtation. Not anymore. So I meet his gaze for a moment, then look away, back to the outside. The constant drizzle is falling harder now. I think it rains every damn day here.

It’s been nearly a year since I came to Edinburgh. God, when I think of who I was before, such a short time ago, it nearly makes me laugh. I am so different now. Before, I was innocent, naïve. Sweet. Fun-loving. Carefree. I baked cakes, for Christ’s sake. I don’t bake anymore.

Not even a shadow of who I used to be is present now.

I drain my glass and wipe my mouth. It’s funny—I can sit here all night and drink as much as I want, and never get drunk. I can smoke two packs of cigarettes a day and I’ll never get cancer. I don’t gain weight, nor do I lose it. I don’t get wrinkles. My hair doesn’t grow. I can’t catch a cold, the flu, tuberculosis, Ebola—I’m immune to all of it.

Thanks to my destiny, I’m immune to death.

My fate is unchangeable. But mankind’s is—and it’s up to me to make it happen. So when I have moments of self-pity, like the one I’m having now, I slip over to Niddry’s and steal a few moments alone, before Gabriel, my mentor, seeks me out. I…reflect. I give myself a scant few moments to mourn my old life, to miss my mom and dad, my sisters, my granny and grandpa. It helps somewhat. Time, Gabriel says, will ease the pain.

I finally stopped crying over my fiancé. For some reason, his love was easier to let go of than it should have been. We were only two months shy of marriage, yet…I mourned him very little. I suppose that’s a good thing for me. I try not to dwell on that too much, though. I’ve come to realize that dwelling on the past serves absolutely no useful purpose anyway. I do what I have to do now so that my loved ones can survive. So everyone can survive. It’s up to me. Only me.