CHAPTER3
Aodhan had just settled down with a new book, a steaming cup of his favorite dragonmint tea at his elbow and the purring crow-cat curled up on his lap, when—between one heartbeat and the next—everything went completely and irrevocably to hell.
You’ll know, the herd elders had told him when he’d been a young colt, barely fledged. If you feel the call, you’ll know. You can’t mistake it. One day, if you’re lucky, the other half of your soul will summon you. You’ll go to them, and finally be complete.
Aodhan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh no. Goddesses, if you have any mercy, no.”
If any goddess was listening, she was a stone-cold bitch, because the crushing grip on his heart tightened even further. It wasn’t so much a call as a physical force.
Without conscious intent, he shot to his feet, yanked forward by that insistent pressure. The crow-cat let out an affronted caw, sinking needle-sharp claws into his thighs before fluttering away to perch on the nearest bookcase. She clacked her beak at him, tail lashing in feline indignation.
Aodhan barely felt the scratches. The physical pain was nothing compared to the urgency beating through his blood. It was all he could do not to shift to four hooves on the spot and launch himself out the nearest window.
He gritted his teeth, holding onto human form with sheer bloody-mindedness. He was Aodhan of the Oak, master mage, not some pathetic beast. He’d spent decades accumulating power—plus an enormous number of books, which amounted to the same thing—so that people would have to leave him alone. Even the high sidhe of both the unseelie and seelie courts had learned to respect his independence. He didn’t have to answer to anyone.
Except… except he wanted to answer.
That was the worst thing. Deep down, some locked-away part of him pawed at the ground, wings stretching. The space between his shoulder blades felt hollow, empty.
To have warmth and weight on his back, and a pulse beating in time with his own… to give all his strength into another’s hands, and rejoice in shared triumphs… to share a wordless language of touch, two bodies moving in perfect unison, and know that he was not alone…
Aodhan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to squeeze the unwanted visions out of his brain. This was a disaster. At this rate, he might as well shove a bit into his mouth and start practicing a parade trot.
“Right.” He straightened his robes, flicking a stray crow-cat feather off the thick brown fabric. “This cannot be allowed to continue. Workshop!”
A tremor went through the floorboards under his feet at the command. His teacup rattled against its saucer as the branches holding up the room flexed, shifting ever so slightly through arcane spaces. Braced for the movement, Aodhan kept his balance, but the crow-cat squawked and took flight again in a clatter of black wings. She landed on his shoulder, all four sets of claws digging in.
Aodhan winced, but let the beast cling to him. The pain was a welcome distraction from the insistent tugging under his breastbone, and anyway, the last thing he needed was to have the cursed pest careening around his bedroom in a panic. Nervous griffins tended to forget that they were meant to be house-trained.
With a last creak, the oak settled into a new configuration. A split opened in the trunk, bark pulling back to reveal inky blackness. Aodhan strode through the newly formed door, clicking his fingers to summon a wisp-light.
Familiar scents of herbs and earth surrounded him. Aodhan flicked his wrist, sending the magical ball of light soaring up to nestle in a crystal globe set into the vaulted ceiling of the underground chamber. Racks of glass jars glittered in the sudden radiance. The crow-cat cocked her head, eying the nearest shelf speculatively.
“Oh no you don’t.” Aodhan caught the small griffin before she could steal any of his spell components. He dropped her onto his desk. “Behave, or I’ll turn you into a lungfish.”
The crow-cat clacked her beak again, but folded her wings. Curling her tail over her front claws, she settled down—naturally, on top of the one book that Aodhan needed at that precise moment.
Repressing a sigh, he shooed her off the enormous leather-bound tome. With an air of affronted dignity, the griffin stalked off and began to preen her fur, ostentatiously ignoring him.
That suited Aodhan just fine. Keeping one eye on the crow-cat just in case she started sharpening her claws on anything rare, explosive, or both, he opened the book.
“Disaster, utter,” he murmured to himself, running his finger down the index. “It’s in here somewhere, I know I—aha!”
Disaster, utter, in case of, read his own neat handwriting, in faded ink. See: Wards, major.
“Thank you, past me, it’s not like I’m in a hurry here.” With an exasperated sigh, Aodhan flipped to the indicated cross-reference. “Right, yes, Wards, major. Fire, no, flood, no—frogs? Why the hell did I come up with a ward for that? Ah, here we go. Major ward, fate. Shelf one, book one. Of course it is.”
Dust drifted down onto his robe as he pulled the oldest journal from the top shelf. It had been a long time since he’d needed to look up anything from his first faltering forays into ritual magic. He flipped past the first few pages—that spell was as familiar as breathing by now—and there it was. The second spell he’d ever created, and the one he’d prayed to never need.
Now, he could only pray that it worked.
The crow-cat’s bright, curious gaze followed him as he rapidly gathered the few items he needed from his well-stocked shelves. When he took down one particular casket—holly heartwood, lined with lead and bound with silver chains—the small griffin hissed, fur and feathers rising along her back. She took flight as he put the box on his desk, retreating to the rafters overhead.
Aodhan couldn’t blame her. Even through layers of muffling enchantments, the contents of the box made his palms itch. No fae enjoyed the proximity of iron—not even in impure form.
Grimacing, he opened the lid to reveal a brassy, angular gemstone. Iron pyrite; fool’s gold, in the common tongue. Close enough to true iron to share some of its disruptive properties, without nullifying magic entirely. It was a bitch and a half to work with, and any traditional mage would have had heart palpitations at the prospect of using it as the focus of a ritual—but Aodhan was not at all a traditional mage.
He quickly glanced over his notes one last time, just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then he took a deep breath, centering his energy.