Chapter 18: Negotiations and Resolutions: Part Two

  Lancelot sank into the bed with a sigh of relief. It was a simple thing, a mattress of springs and moulded foam, but in that moment it felt as restful as with the softest goose down feathers. The water that had been serving as a replacement leg was gone for now, and as he lay on the bed, he could feel all the exhaustion of the battle finally settle upon him.

  His whole body still hurt, but his leg eas especially painful. Still, it had faded from a sharp burn to a dull ache, the magic he had learned from the Lady of the Lake already having sealed the wound. He knew, from experience, that by tomorrow a mild but incessant itch as his body slowly regrew his lost limb, would be all he had to worry about.

  The clash with the Hunt had been . . . eventful, chaotic. Adam’s opening gambit had worked, but their foes had been no easy marks. The Knight of the Lake had fought hard, had pushed himself against every foe he had faced, and had paid with his injuries.

  The final outcome had been something of a surprise. He had not been expecting Adam to choose diplomacy as his final path, certainly not after gaining that six-winged form of his. Lancelot had little personal experience with angels, but he did know of their power. As an angel with six wings, he suspected that the winged demigod would have had all the power he needed to crush the Hunt.

  But Adam had been able to see beyond the short term, beyond the desire to win the fight in front of him. The Wild Hunt might have been defeated, but it would not have been gone, and could have returned as a vicious thorn in his side in the future. Better to parley than face an uncertain future with that thorn waiting to stab.

  Lancelot was brought out of his thoughts by a faint pressure on the side of his mind. Not an intrusion, rather it was the equivalent of someone knocking on a door politely, a knock that he recognised. With an act of will, the Knight of the Round Table opened a tiny portal in his defences, allowing the foreign presence in.

  *Hello, Lancelot.*

  The greeting was soft, barely more than a whisper. It was a voice that Lancelot recognised, the one that had raised him, taught him, and sent him to serve in Arthur’s court.

  *Nimue, it is good to hear you.*

  Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, the immortal sorceress who had raised him, who had guarded Excalibur, and who had lent it to King Arthur at the request of the wizard Merlin. One of the nobility of fabled Avalon and one of the few beings to be loved and respected by all the courts of Faerie. Her reply came quickly, the whisper firmer now, and tinged with affection.

  *I only recently returned to the mortal realm. Now that I have established a new lake for myself, of course I would reach out to my beloved charge.*

  *You have found a new lake? Where?*

  As her title stated, Nimue was the Lady of the Lake, her power was tied to that role, and as such, she could not exist without a lake to call her home. That she was not returning to her old lake was a surprise.

  *My old loci is gone,* Her mental voice was tinged with sadness, and not a small amount of anger. *Time has not been kind to the land. A diversion of a river caused it to dry out, and over the centuries, it has been built over and become part of some mortal town.*

  That was unexpected. The knight knew that with the passage of centuries, the land could change, but the thought of such landmarks as lakes and rivers changing still felt strange to him.

  *The very lake from which you gifted Excalibur is gone? A loss for this world.*

  His mental voice was tinged with sadness, and he felt a touch of it in his adopted mother’s voice when she replied, as well as a thread of anger.

  *Truly. I admit, when I first learnt of my lake’s fate, I was most wrothful. Had it not been for the edicts of your king, I might well have reclaimed the land, uncaring of those who drowned as my lake returned.*

  That was hardly a surprise. For all that the Lady of the Lake was an ally of Camelot and the forces of righteousness, she was also closer to being a fay than she was to mortal, and so possessed a morality that was more than a touch distorted. It was fortunate her respect for Arthur had held her back, or she really might have drowned a whole town.

  *Let me thank you for your mercy on the part of the mortals you have spared. Though they may never know it, I am certain they would be most grateful for your forbearance.*

  *Indeed, I am most deserving of such gratitude.*

  There was a pause there. Oh yes, he recalled why the enchantress was normally difficult for most people to handle.

  *So then, if you have not returned to your original lake, where have you made your new demesne?*

  He asked, curious as where his adopted mother would now make her home.

  *I have chosen to live within the most storied of lakes in this new kingdom* She paused for a moment, and through their link, he had the impression of deep waters, long banks, the distant taste of ocean waters, and green hills all about. *Loch Ness is now my new home.*

  *A loch? Have you chosen to reside in the lands of the Scots? Is that not very far afield?*

  He had not thought that she would choose somewhere so far from her former location. Her last home had been near the Dozmary Pool in Cornwall; it had been in fair and southern lands, bright and as beautiful as any that old Briton had to offer. The lands where she now chose to live had been cold and hard in his time, the sky almost always a steel grey, the inhabitants hardy and fearsome. He wondered how they were in this modern day.

  What Lancelot was concerned about was how far from his King this new lake of Nimue’s would be. During his reign, Arthur had sometimes returned to the lake where he had received his famous blade. Though he had never spoken with Nimue himself, he had been known to derive wisdom and inspiration simply from visiting the shores of that lake. What would it mean for Lancelot’s adopted mother’s lake to be so far away, to no longer even be in the lands that Arthur had once ruled?

  *What is distance in this new world? In the contraptions that the mortals have developed and on the roads they have built, journeys that would once have taken weeks can be completed in but a day. All who would seek me can find me with ease and reach me with minimal difficulties.*

  As though she could read his innermost thoughts, she addressed his concerns with casual ease. Still, curiosity stirred as his concerns faded.

  *You say that your new home is a storied lake. What stories would they be? Ballads of love? Tales of terror? Fables of excitement. Yarns of tragedy?*

  How else would a lake gain fame? Any what could have sparked songs and tales that would spread the lake’s name far and wide.

  *You were not so verbose when you left my care; your time away seems to have served you well.* Her ethereal voice was tinged with amusement before she paused for a moment, before continuing like some bard revealing a twist in their story. *No, my lake is famed for having been the home of some fantastical beast during the ages without magic. Mortals flock to this lake, drawn by the tales of some lake creature, the Loch Ness Monster.*

  That was not what he had been expecting. Still, if this Loch had some famed beast, he did not doubt that his adopted mother could easily tame the creature and use it as some protector or steed if she so chose.

  *It must be a formidable creature to have so great a reputation. Did aspiring warriors seek to slay it to gain fame and glory? And how did it survive in the world after magic retreated from this plane?*

  *In truth, it was nought but a tale,* Once more, amusement hung on her words like jewels upon a maiden. *The mortals wished for something strange and marvellous, dreamed of it, even made fake appearances of it to lend the legend more weight. It became so famed that people would travel from all corners of the world to gaze upon the loch, dreaming of the beast that swam in its depths.*

  Well, that was unexpected. He supposed he understood it to a degree, mortals would ever create their own legends, even when those legends had no more substance than stories or wishes. Also . . .

  *I am surprised that you would remain in a lake with such a past. I would have thought the unrealised dream would have been . . . distasteful to you.*

  *Oh, my dearest child, you know me so well, and yet I still manage to surprise you.* An image formed in his mind, of an indistinct mass of insubstantial power growing within the depths of the lake, fed for years by mortals, as real as a reflection on water, but only one tiny step away from being something more. *For so many years, those dreams have flowed into this lake, gathering, accumulating, growing, yet without magic, they were never able to take that last step. But now . . . I am here.*

  For a moment, Lancelot was confused, unsure of what she meant. Then inspiration struck, and he understood.

  *Ah . . . I think I see what you intend. You plan to be the midwife?*

  There was a certain smug satisfaction to her reply. She was pleased with him for understanding, and herself for the opportunity she had seized.

  *Indeed. Many beasts of legend have returned to the lands of the world, but none have been born to them yet. I shall be here, the aid and the witness to the youngest legend of this new world. The Loch Ness Monster, Nessie, whatever it shall be called, I shall see it born in my lake.*

  Lancelot needed no deep thoughts to understand why she would do such a thing. Mankind would always enshrine their hopes and fears in myth and legend. Gods had been born from less than this creature of the loch, and the title and mantle of being the Firstborn of this new age would be no small thing either.

  The knight’s brow creased as he realised that even if this was his beloved Nimue, he would have to speak to his king about this matter. It was entirely possible the Lady of the Lake would be able to tame the young monster, adding it to her own legend and tying its power to her own. It was entirely possible that his adoptive mother was taking steps to take advantage of this new era to increase her power.

  And he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. She had already been peer to the likes of Merlin and Morgan le Fay by the time Camelot fell. With even greater power what would she do? She might be able to create an entirely new faeries court, disrupting the fragile balance of the Fair Folk and unleashing even more chaos into he world.

  How would that affect this new world? How would that trouble or aid Arthur?

  *Still, enough of my diversions. Tell me, child, what has become of your quest? When last I heard, you sought to return your king’s lost scabbard. Has fortune favoured you, or has the past been tragically repeated?*

  Her words brought him out of his grim thoughts of the future and back to the present. Yes, he would need to inform Arthur of a potential future worry, but that was all.

  *I had good fortune,* Lancelot replied. *I encountered a powerful demigod and his allies, who helped me retrieve the scabbard. There were complications along the way, but the scabbard is now in our custody, and those who held it shall no longer contest our claim upon it.*

  Pride and interest touched his mind as her words came to him.

  *You shall be returning it to your King in glory?*

  *Not I. Adam, the demigod, led our efforts to reclaim it, and without him and his allies, I would not have been able to retrieve it on my own.*

  He felt some amusement of his own as he answered her, knowing that his reply would be unexpected and intriguing.

  *Oh? Who had taken it, that my dear child would not have been enough to wrest it from their hands?*

  *It was the Wild Hunt. The original thieves lost it, and the scabbard then fell into the hands of the Hunt. Alone, I would not have been enough. It would have required Arthur himself, along with the entire Round Table, to defeat them. They were powerful.*

  There was a pause, then she replied, the earlier amusement replaced with a graver note.

  *Formidable foes indeed. I can understand why you would not have faced them alone, even with all your skills and Arondight in hand. But this Adam, how powerful were he and his allies if they managed to overcome the Wild Hunt?*

  *Powerful indeed,* Lancelot confirmed, allowing some of his growing regard for the demigod to tinge his mental words. *Adam is a nephilim of great power, enough to daunt even the Wild Hunt, and his allies are mighty as well. Kali of the Hindu pantheon acts as his bodyguard, and Athena of the Olympians is his teacher. A warrior angel fights at his side, and a resurrected saint follows him. Another young demigod fights with him, and he is served by the strongest golem I have ever laid eyes upon. His group is quite the gathering of power, enough so that I do not believe Adam himself fully understands the power he has gathered.*

  *My dear child, ever you find yourself in the heart of the legends of your time.*

  Her tone was warm and pleased, that of a mother whose child had shown they could stand on their own.

  *At least I need not fear boredom.*

  His reply brought forth a tinkling laughter, a sound more sweet that the finest bells crafted of gold or silver.

  *Never that. Now, tell me more of these new allies of yours. There is no need to reveal their secrets; merely tell me what you are comfortable sharing.*

  The rest of the evening was spent recounting his recent adventures. All in all, it was a pleasant time. Tomorrow, he might have to worry about future problems, but for the time being, he could just enjoy speaking to one of the few people in the world he truly cared for.

  --------------------------------------------------------

  “Was he not magnificent?”

  Joan’s question broke the silence on the rooftop as she and Hadriel watched the sun slowly rise from the horizon. They had a good view as they stood on tallest building in the small town. Beyond the town’s edges there was mainly farmland, with only some woodland to break the distant skyline.

  The French saint had removed her armour and now stood in her leather leggings and cotton undershirt. The sleeve of her right arm flapped in the wind, her arm still missing, but she seemed unbothered. Instead, she stared out at the sun as it slowly shifted from red to orange and then yellow as it grew brighter.

  To her side, Hadriel gazed out at the horizon, but it was clear that her focus was not upon the sight before her. After a moment, the angelic soldier slowly blinked and then delivered a belated reply to the saint’s question.

  “Magnificent? I had not thought that he would possess such power.” She admitted.

  “Is it truly such a surprise?” Joan asked. “Other Nephilim have possessed the power to become full angels for a short time. Do not I myself possess the ability to become an angel? Why is it such a surprise that Adam can do likewise? We have always known he was destined to be powerful; this is merely further confirmation.”

  She spoke confidently, but her brow soon furrowed as Hadriel shook her head.

  “Adam has shown himself to be powerful, but this is a different matter,” she explained. “Adam did not become an angel as though he had been divested of his mortality and become purely of the High Heavens. He became a seraphim, one of the highest choirs, the fists of our Creator.”

  The angel paused, slowly turning to face the resurrected saint, her face grave.

  “When you become an angel, it is a temporary transition of states; you become what you could have been had you not been born a mortal. It is the same with others that possess this gift; you become what you could have been had your soul found a different existences. What Adam has done . . . it is different, impossible even.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Joan did not like to admit it, but it was the truth. Matters of the soul, or the spiritual make-up of angels, or even her own transformation, those were all subjects she had only a passing knowledge of. Her studies in the High Heavens had been broad rather than deep, making her knowledgeable in many subjects, but less familiar with the deep intricacies of the more obscure ones. Well, that and her combat training. She had devoted a great deal of energy to that.

  Hadriel began to float, moving from one side of the roof to the other in a manner very similar to a mortal pacing. Her face was slightly pinched with uncharacteristic frustration.

  “To be an angel is one matter, but seraphim are different. Angels do not have mortality, but we possess something similar in that we can die. Mortals die, it is their defining aspect, but unless an angel is slain, then they will never die.

  “Perhaps mortality is a reflection of what angels possess, or perhaps our Lord created mortality by using it as inspiration, I know not. What matters is that seraphim, the guards of the Throne, the burning weapons of He on High, lack it. Do you understand? Adam became one, and then he returned to being himself. That should not have been possible. If he could make the transformation, then it should have been a permanent one. He should have become a seraph and remained one; ascension is not a path you can walk back from.”

  As she spoke, she gestured with large sweeping waves of her hands as though trying to paint a picture in the air.

  “But Adam did return to his former state.”

  Joan’s words were calm, measured, as she sought to understand what the angel was telling her.

  “Agreed. Which makes me believe that there must be something at work that I do not understand.”

  Silence descended upon the roof once more as the shadows slowly moved. Joan watched as the crimson-winged angel floated from one side of the roof to the other again and again. Her hands were clenched into fists at her side, and her head was bowed, glaring down at the gravel on the roof as though it had somehow personally offended the angelic warrior.

  The resurrected saint waited patiently and calmly noted that the Golem had taken up a guarding position outside the main entrance to the hotel building, which their group was currently using to rest. Their arrival had caused some stir, but after Adam booked every room in the place for a night, the owner had been willing to let them stay. It was rather hard to argue that their presence was negatively affecting business when they were getting paid for a full house while only using a handful of rooms.

  Eventually, Hadriel came to a stop, staring out at the rising sun, her eyes unbothered by the growing brightness. Deciding that the angel was waiting for a prompt, Joan broke her silence.

  “You seem pensive. Do you have some thoughts on what may be at work here?”

  “Adam’s Awakening was . . . difficult,” the warrior angel spoke carefully, as though she were sounding out her ideas, rather than replying to Joan’s question. “He has faced challenges that other demigods would normally not need to face. But . . . what if that is not due to the interference in his Awakening? Or maybe not completely due to it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The resurrected saint was genuinely curious as to what her ally might have thought of.

  “His mortality . . . it seems too . . . strong, for want of a better word. It continues to persist where it should have been purged, or at least reduced.”

  Hadriel paused, then looked up to meet Joan’s eyes. The angel’s aquamarine eyes were troubled.

  “During his Awakening, he obviously became strong. His magic, his body, even his soul, all of them seem to have been enhanced in some way, and yet his mortality also persists. Now, he has ascended into the form of a seraph, a being that should possess no mortality at all, and yet here he is, returned to his former self. Once is unusual, but twice is concerning.”

  Her hand waved through the air, an almost angry motion that denoted agitation at what she was saying.

  “Mortality and divinity are . . . incompatible. Where one waxes, the other wanes. But that does not seem to be the case with Adam. His mortality persists, remaining when it should have been burnt away!”

  There was another pause as Hadriel quietened, unable or unwilling to speculate further. The resurrected saint waited for a moment, then spoke, her voice calm and collected.

  “Is this a bad thing? A danger? I confess, you speak of a subject I know little about, but is it a danger to our charge?”

  “I . . . I do not know,” The hesitation in the angel’s voice ill-suited her, sounding foreign and unsettled. “I am a soldier, Lady Joan. This is a matter for scholars and researchers, not for a warrior.”

  “Then what do you propose to do?”

  The question was asked with all the calm of a lake in summer, but the angel only seemed to grow more agitated, spreading her arms as though throwing something away.

  “I do not know, that is why I am speaking to you! What do you propose?”

  Joan paused, weighing what she had been told, as well as the surprising tension in her angelic ally. As she tried to organise her possible response, a thought struck her. Was this why she had been assigned to be Adam’s ally?

  Angels were powerful, but despite their vast lifetimes, they possessed comparatively little life experience. An angel might be millennia old, having outlived entire civilisations, but if almost all of that time was spent fighting the foes of the High Heavens, then what experience would they have in looking after children or comforting the bereaved? Hadriel was unquestionably a mighty warrior, and she was also making some keen observations, but in the face of the unfamiliar, she was visibly floundering.

  Joan might not be a scholar intimately versed in the mysteries of souls and divinity, but she was a mortal accustomed to facing ignorance. She knew how to deal with it, how to cope with an inability, and how to overcome it. She knew how to adapt, where an angel might flounder.

  Or were such thoughts simply hubris on her part? Regardless, she needed to take the lead here. First, she needed some clarification.

  “Well . . . Adam has shown himself to be powerful. He had had some issues to begin with, but I think we can both agree that he has overcome them, correct?”

  Hadriel nodded as she replied.

  “Agreed. Perhaps he is not as strong as he could have been had he Awakened with full knowledge of all his powers, especially his magic. However, he has still grown strong, enough so to outmatch any demigod who is not a Champion.”

  Joan nodded as well. Champions were demigods granted the full backing of their divine progenitor, thus gaining even more divinity than what was simply conferred by bloodline inheritance. Their power was the point where demigods met full divinity, and there were only a handful of such in the world. Adam’s power was considerable, but not yet quite in that tier, even with his strange transformation ability.

  “Exactly.” The resurrected saint stated. “He is strong, so for now we shall continue as we have been until now. We shall continue to aid, guard and teach him. We shall also observe this strangeness you have noticed. If action is needed, if he is being held back or harmed, then we shall intervene, or, should we be unable to help, we shall seek aid. Until then . . . there is little more we can do.”

  Hadriel nodded slowly, but then frowned.

  “Should we speak to Adam? Let him know of our concerns?”

  Joan paused for a moment, then shook her head.

  “No. Adam has enough to deal with; let us not lay further burdens upon him.”

  The angel, who had once more been looking at the rising sun, turned back to her fellow heavenly agent, a frown once more on her face.

  “I am . . . uncomfortable hiding our thoughts from him.”

  Her tone was . . . slightly brittle, as though she was unsure of how she felt. In response, Joan was quick to explain her line of thinking.

  “No, we are not hiding anything from him. As of yet, we are unsure of how accurate our information is. We are simply waiting until we can be certain that what we bring to him is accurate, rather than speculation.”

  “You edge close to sophistry,” Hadriel noted, though she was no longer frowning as deeply as she had been before.

  “I am being sincere.” The French saint assured her. “I see no reason to weigh him down with a worry we do not even know to be true. Though we have triumphed in our latest endeavour, he still has many concerns to preoccupy himself with.”

  There was a pause, then the red-winged angel slowly nodded.

  “Very well.”

  It was spoken grudgingly, but with sincerity, and a tiny knot of tension that had been forming in Joan’s stomach loosened.

  “Good. Then we shall both continue to observe Adam. It would also be best if we both addressed our ignorance in regard to the nature of mortality. I can contact some of my allies in the church and see if they can find any credible information in the archives they have access to. Will you be able to do the same with your fellow angels?”

  Hadriel’s face was calm once more, even if there was a slight tightening to her jaw.

  “My fellows are warriors, one and all,” She admitted. “I have had little contact with scholars, though I might be able to ask some of my fellow soldiers if they know any. Still, I do not expect I shall be receiving much from them any time soon.”

  “Then we shall simply have to show patience and ingenuity,” Joan stated. “All problems have solutions, and a lack of knowledge can always be corrected.

  --------------------------------------------------------

  My wings curled around me, a warm and soft covering as I lay in bed and hugged King Arthur’s scabbard to my chest like a teddy bear.

  It was ridiculous, but I found myself unable to let go of the artefact. After all the effort I’d put into getting it back and making sure the Wild Hunt wouldn’t be coming after it again, I just didn’t feel right letting it out of my sight. So, when I’d decided to lie down on the hotel bed and get some sleep, I couldn’t just leave it on a shelf or in a drawer, could I? So, I clutched onto it as I tried to get comfortable and drift away.

  It just wasn’t working.

  Exhaustion was hitting me. My body ached. The kind of ache that came from having been pushing yourself for way too long, way too hard. I was tired, I was out of gas, and I really wanted to get some sleep, to just close my eyes and slip into darkness as my mind just turned off for a bit, but it just wasn’t happening.

  It wasn’t that I was too keyed up . . . or, at least, I didn’t think so. My mind wasn’t racing, and my heart wasn’t pounding. I was worried, but it wasn’t swamping me. I was excited, but it wasn’t overwhelming me. There was absolutely no reason I shouldn’t be able to get some well-deserved shut-eye!

  And yet, I could not fall asleep.

  I rolled over, the king-sized bed I was on giving me enough room, my wings still wrapped around me like a protective sleeping bag. The change in position did nothing, though, and I felt an annoying restlessness start to build. Abruptly, I parted my wings and wriggled off the bed, my bare feet sinking into the carpet as I carefully got off the sheets. Looking behind me, I was pleased to see not a single rip or tear, a clear sign I was getting better at controlling my sharper feathers. Getting up, I started to shrug into one of my modified shirts, using some telekinesis to get it on.

  “Emma? You aren’t there, are you?”

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting as I asked the question to my seemingly empty room in a low voice, but all I got in response was silence. I felt my face twitch into a frown for a moment before I let my frustration wash away. If she had been there . . . I wasn’t sure. Maybe I’d have gotten some answers, maybe I’d have been left with more questions. Regardless, it would at least have been something to do, something to spend my attention on. Instead, I was left with a frustrating combination of too much energy and too much tiredness.

  Turning back to the bed, I picked up the scabbard once more, and then turned to the curtains that took up one wall of my room. A gesture from me and a little magic was all that was needed for them to open, showing me the view of the nighttime countryside the hotel faced.

  It was about four o’clock in the morning, the sunrise only a couple of hours or so away, given how deep into summer the year was. If it weren’t for my newly enhanced endurance, it would probably have been uncomfortably hot, but as things stood, I barely noticed the heat as I gazed out at the horizon.

  Okay, time for a little introspection. What was bothering me?

  Almost clinically, I poked at my feelings, seeing if I could get a reaction as though I was trying to see if I had any broken bones. Was I afraid? Angry? Depressed? Excited? Again and again, I tried to elicit some sort of reaction, but nothing came. So, maybe it wasn’t emotional?

  I thought back to the night, the fight, the negotiations, and the final agreement. Was I entirely satisfied with the ending?

  Well, no, but that was hardly a surprise. The ideal outcome would have been the Wild Hunt surrendering completely, swearing to give up their wicked ways and declaring me their unquestioned ruler for life, and then serving as my private army as I stormed across the land, righting wrongs and bringing about utopia. Sure, that would have been nice, but it was about as likely as Zeus, Odin and Vishnu all showing up to invite me to join the ‘Big Boy’s Club’ of divinities.

  The thought brought a smile to my face, which then turned pensive as a thought occurred to me.

  Could I qualify?

  This new transformation of mine . . . it was powerful, I was sure about that. The dragon, Loraxis, had been strong, and Herne had been a heavy hitter in his own right, but both of them had . . . not backed down, but at least backed up when faced with my six-winged form. I was pretty sure that put me in the top ten per cent of demigods in terms of raw power, maybe even the top five per cent. I’d known that I had plenty of power, but until now I’d always regarded my strength to be broad rather than towering. I had access to loads of different types of magic, as well as strength, toughness, and whatever else I had yet to pull out. Compared to most demigods, that was a lot. I hadn’t picked a power out of the bag; I’d grabbed the bag and run off with it.

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  This, being able to turn into a seraph, was on a different level, and what it had let me do . . .

  Fire, ice, lightning, those were all elements that were pretty basic. Not weak, more like uncomplicated. Gravity had been more . . . more complicated, more multi-layered, more difficult to use. It had been ever-present, one of the foundations of existence, and I’d been able to use it. What did that say about me?

  Actually . . .

  Glancing to the side, I noted that there was a small table in the corner of my room. Not really a desk, more like somewhere maybe two people could sit down and have a drink, or where one person could set up a laptop and get some work done. There was a plain dish and cup on it, something to use to eat some biscuits and drink some tea. It was as simple and replaceable.

  I reached out to the little ceramic cup and concentrated. For a moment, there was nothing, then, slowly, the cup floated up out of the dish and started to lethargically tumble through the air. It was a small thing, a simple thing, which I had done, something I had accomplished literally hundreds of times with my telekinesis.

  Only . . . I wasn’t using telekinesis.

  What I’d done had the same effect, but had been accomplished through different means. I hadn’t used my Arcana to lift and move the cup. Instead, I’d felt its gravity, and then I’d removed it. I could feel the world pressing back against me. Not unhappy, not resentful, that wasn’t the way to describe it. There were no emotions, no motivation; the world simply pressed back because what I made happen was not the way the world should be. It was like water being held back when it should have been flowing downhill. I could feel it there, a slight pressure, but I could hold it back easily. So easily.

  Just a couple of days ago, I hadn’t been able to do this, well, not without giving myself a splitting headache anyway. Gravity was too intrinsic to the world, tied to too many things, layered too heavily. I could use it, all the colours were there for me to use after all, but just trying was more than I could handle. I could poke at it, make it respond to my will, but I was like a child poking at a power tool on a table just barely in reach. I was as likely to cut myself open as I was to do anything useful.

  Well, that didn’t seem to be the case anymore.

  It didn’t feel as strong as when I used it against the Hunt, but the fact that I could use it at all . . . I was suddenly fighting the urge to go outside and use the transformation again, to see what else might shake loose if I powered up again. I bit it back, though. Yeah, I could see what would happen, but the change was about as subtle as a wagon full of monkeys that had gotten hold of a brass band's instruments. I didn’t want to light up the night and send the locals into a panic. I needed to show some patience and self-control.

  Releasing my hold on the cup, I let gravity regain its hold on the plastic beaker and watched as it fell to the carpet. As I watched it roll a few inches and then settle, I found myself wondering if this increase in power was what was unsettling me.

  I’d started to accept my position in the group. I wasn’t exactly comfortable with being given the leadership. I mean, what right did I have to be ordering around a Greek goddess or an angel from Heaven? The fact that none of them had too many objections had made it a bit easier, but I still felt out of my depth. Still, I hadn’t screwed up too much, and that had to count for something, right?

  I’d sort of started to get used to it. Not settled or anything, but not terrified by the idea either. I’d made some decent calls, saved Mato, and come up with a workable plan that had performed decently well against the Hunt. I wasn’t going to be leading armies across the world in a brilliant conquest without equal any time soon, but everyone had to start somewhere.

  The point was that I felt I’d found my feet as far as my role went. Leading, with plenty of advice from Joan and Athena, and fighting with my broad array of powers, maybe covering for weaknesses and providing some utility as my skills improved. I wasn’t expecting to be a big gun. That was for Hadriel and Kali, one had an insane level of combat experience, the other had truckloads of raw power and plenty of viciousness. Now . . . that form had been filled with so much power, and I knew I hadn’t used even half of what it was capable of.

  Maybe that was what was throwing me? I’d spent weeks getting used to this new body and the powers that came with it, getting my head around the whole new world that magic had opened up to me. I’d finally managed to solidify my self-image, accept this new demigod version of me, and then something came along to throw it all out of whack again.

  Or . . . maybe I was just overthinking this.

  Okay, this was getting ridiculous! I was getting lost inside my own head, going round and round and not doing anything about this restlessness. Maybe another approach was called for.

  My room led out onto a decently sized balcony, and the French windows opening onto it were nice and wide, probably to let the air in on hot summer days. It was also wide enough for me to get out without too many issues; my wings folded in nice and tight behind me. Once I was out, I levitated up into the air, spreading my wings wide once I had enough room.

  I definitely felt a bit better. Moving, doing something was the right move, certainly better than sitting in my room and brooding. I slowly drifted higher, then noticed two familiar figures on the roof of the hotel. Drifting closer, I waved as they turned towards me.

  “Hey, Joan, Hadriel. Not sleeping either?”

  The resurrected saint shook her head.

  “I am somewhat tired, but I had too much energy left in me to sleep.”

  The red-winged angel simply folded her arms, a gesture that would have looked belligerent on anyone else, but for her it was just casual.

  “I do not sleep.”

  “Really?”

  I asked as I drifted closer to them, until I was almost at the edge of the building. Now that I thought about it, I don’t think I had ever seen her sleep, or even get that tired. Huh, I wondered what she did with her nights. Did angels get bored?

  “I sometimes need to rest. But I have never needed to lose consciousness as you mortals do. It seems like a waste of time.”

  As always, there was that little bit of condescension. It wasn’t malicious, not cruel, it just came from her absolute rock-solid knowledge that she was superior to normal mortals. It was just a bit annoying. Mostly because it was hard to say she was wrong.

  “Well, I can’t argue that we couldn’t get more done if we didn’t need to snooze for seven or eight hours a night,” I admitted, before smiling. “That said, it’s almost worth it for dreams, though.”

  I meant it mostly as a joke, but Hadriel nodded gravely.

  “Dreams are old. Older than mortality itself. The first dreams were dreamt by the Forgotten Gods, and they were terrible things of majesty and horror. I fought some of their wild offspring when they sought to invade Eden. I always wondered why the Almighty chose to let mortals have their own dreams, and why they were such gossamer things of silk and crystal when compared to the fire and darkness of the Forgotten. They are beautiful, though, a form of art that one cannot find even in the halls of the High Heavens.”

  For a moment, all I could do was stare at her, my mind trying to process everything she had just casually told me. Given that Joan also had her eyes fixed on the angel, I was guessing that I wasn’t the only one a bit shaken by her words.

  “Okay . . . part of me really wants to ask a whole bunch of questions about that,” I admitted, before floating a bit closer. “But you know what? I’m going to stuff my curiosity into a box this time. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Oh? And what brought you here then?” Joan asked, turning to face me.

  “Want to play tag?”

  I took some pleasure in the look of bemused incomprehension I managed to get from the French saint.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I just want to burn off some energy, and I’m not in the mood for sparring,” I explained, waving my hand towards the open night sky. “So, let's just fly about, have some fun, what d’you say?”

  Joan stared at me for a moment, then looked back to Hadriel, then up at the sky. Then she turned back to me, a smile on her face.

  “A game would not be so unthinkable. Very well, let us entertain ourselves.”

  I grinned back at her reply, but then the angel spoke up, her tone disapproving.

  “Is there need for such a . . . frivolous waste of time?” Hadriel floated forward, facing me. “We can find some more productive means to use this excess of energy, if you so wish.”

  “I’ve got one reply to that,” before darting forward, slapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then retreating back into the air. “You’re It, now catch me if you can!”

  “What!?”

  The disapproval was gone, replaced by confusion. For a moment, I thought I’d need to explain, but then Joan stepped forward.

  “If it helps, then please think of this as practice with aerial manoeuvring and chasing,” her tone was reasonable, and she held out open palms at her side. “We have had something of a victory; there are formalities to come, let us help him have some harmless fun while he can.”

  “C’mon, let’s see what you’ve got!”

  My challenge seemed to be the last nudge she needed, because the angelic soldier nodded, looking up at me, her gaze now measuring.

  “Very well . . . how is this game played?”

  “It is simple enough,” Joan stated, apparently eager to explain the rules. “As It you must simply touch another player, then they become It and must chase someone else. Aside from that . . . I think the only other rule is to not immediately tag back the person who has touched you. Oh, and no violence, of course, this is just a game after all.”

  “I see,” Hadriel stated, nodding gravely.

  Then her hand snapped out, lightly tapping Joan on her forehead.

  “Then I believe that you are now It.”

  There was a startled pause as both I and the saint stared at the angel, caught off guard by her action, then Joan burst out laughing as she shifted into her own angelic form.

  “You seem to be grasping the idea of the game most swiftly, honoured Hadriel.”

  Then she was up in the air, coming at me, and I was throwing myself to the side to dodge. I felt the grin on my face grow as I soared higher, as Joan chased me.

  Yeah, this beat brooding in my room.

  --------------------------------------------------------

  “You look terrible.”

  As far as greetings went, it was harsh, though it was not inaccurate.

  Marcello slumped in the armchair, wanting to glare up at the robed acolyte, but lacking the energy. Like the rest of the furnishings in the entire castle, the chair he sat on was a precious antique, something with history and antiquity that made it valuable enough to sell for hideous amounts of money.

  That valuable antique furnishing was being stained with his sweat and blood, and he couldn’t care less if he tried.

  It had been just under three days since he had returned to the castle of his reluctant ally. Morgan le Fay’s portal had bypassed every protection the castle possessed and dumped him right in the private study of the Acolyte. It had been a casual demonstration of power that was effortless as well as terrifying. It showed that the Enchantress of Avalon knew where they were and could reach them at any time, regardless of what wards or protections had been prepared to keep the likes of her out.

  Not that the scarred magic user had been in much of a state to appreciate the subtle implications of the immortal sorceress's power move. As soon as he had recovered from the unpleasant experiences and the emotional rollercoaster he’d been forced to endure, he’d found that he had one last poisonous gift to deal with.

  The vines on his skin, the mark that Morgan le Fay had left upon him as a visible reminder of the geas forced on him, were faded. Not gone, just lacking the vibrancy they had once possessed. He had felt nothing but relief when it dulled, but once it did, a rather inconvenient fact had made itself apparent. Though his new reserve of mana was still fully functional, it had been integrated into the mark, rather than his own magical system. When the vines that marked his skin had faded, things had grown . . . complicated.

  The secondary mana pool had tried to integrate itself into his body, but then clashed with his already existing natural mana pool. He’d been forced to manually guide its integration, staying awake for nearly sixty hours straight, all whilst maintaining his focus to keep the clash from starting again. Every slip was punished by his body spontaneously burning or splitting as the mana within it went out of control and lashed out. It had kept him going, since the pain shocked him every time his concentration slipped, but it had been a miserable, exhausting, and nerve-wracking experience. He now had even more scars to add to his collection, a pounding headache, and thin streams of blood running from the corners of his eyes.

  And the worst part? He still wasn’t sure if this was a punishment from Morgan le Fay for screwing up, or a reward for helping her sow more chaos!

  Because harrowing and shattering though the whole mess had been, when he finished, when he finally got the second mana pool settled into his channels and was able to sit back and take a look at the final results, he’d found something shocking. Somehow, and he still had no idea how, the entire ordeal had managed to strengthen his entire mana system! The channels were a tiny bit wider, the mana a tiny bit more concentrated, his core a tiny bit more potent, each node in his system a little bit bigger. Many minor improvements, all of them adding up to something more. Marcello knew he was stronger now, certainly powerful enough to use magics he had previously felt beyond his grasp. It was not a vast increase, but any advancement in raw power was a precious gain.

  And he wasn’t sure if the increase was a side effect of surviving the Witch of Avalon’s punishment, or if the hell he’d gone through was the price of her reward.

  . . . maybe the answer was both? He wouldn’t put it past the immortal enchantress.

  Regardless, he had finally stumbled out of the small room he had locked himself away in while trying to wrestle his rebellious mana system into compliance, only to end up in the small lounge that his host used to relax. Truthfully, the only thing Marcello wanted to do was find a bed to collapse into and sleep for a week straight. Unfortunately, he had to get matters squared away before passing out. The Acolyte had been unexpectedly accommodating, leaving him undisturbed while dealing with his new mana pool, but Marcello had no desire to test how far that would go. Even with his improvements, he knew his host outclassed him as far as pure magical power went, and he had no desire to stir up any more ill will between them. Mostly because he was fairly certain that any sort of serious battle between them would not end in his favour.

  Looking back at the robed figure, the scarred mage felt every second of his past efforts bearing down on him, felt the exhaustion clawing at him. He looked terrible? Was that any sort of surprise? Biting back the venom he wanted to spew at his reluctant host, he offered a simple reply to their earlier comment.

  “I feel worse.”

  His voice was scratchy, almost horse, but it drew no reaction from the Acolyte as their shadowed hood stared down at him.

  “Perhaps. But if you have recovered enough to speak, then you are recovered enough to tell me what transpired. Do I need to worry about Morgan le Fay storming my castle to reclaim you?”

  Had he possessed more energy, he might have let his host stew, even if it was just for a few moments. As things were, though, he just wanted this done as soon as he could.

  “My debt has been discharged,” Marcello explained, slumping back further into the soft chair. “The Witch of Avalon has declared our transaction ended.”

  “And the reason you spent that last couple of days cursing and bleeding in what was once a maid’s apartment?”

  “Just dealing with her last ‘gift’.”

  The acid on the last word could have etched it into solid stone.

  “So there’s nothing else to worry about? Nothing further that she can call in?”

  The scarred mage grimaced as his robed ally continued to probe, irritated that the topic wouldn’t be dropped.

  “Yes! I helped her achieve her aims; she has called my debt fulfilled! There should be no more she can call upon me for, not unless I ask her for something once more.”

  He paused, then let himself relax slightly.

  “It is over.”

  His relieved declaration was replied to with a derisive snort.

  “We may not need to worry about your contractor, but we have other matters to concern us.”

  No, no, no, no! He didn’t want to deal with something else! He just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up until his head didn’t feel as though it was full of cotton wool and barbed wire, and his limbs didn’t feel like they were slowly being pumped full of lead, and his eyelids didn’t feel like they had small anvils attached to them!

  “What now?!”

  He did his best not to whine, to show no weakness, but he was just so tired. He could tell by the slight shift of the acolyte’s stance that they had caught on, that they knew he was at a disadvantage. Internally, Marcello cursed himself! He had to remember that they weren’t true allies; the only thing that ensured their alliance was shared circumstances, nothing more. Their benefactor had needed them to work together, and in the wake of their failed attempt to capture the new demigod, they had been forced to work together to ensure they were not discarded by their patron. His deal with Morgan le Fay had allowed them to buy their way back into their patron’s good graces, but once the status quo was restored, there had been no real loyalty between them.

  As far as he knew, there was no reason for immediate treachery, but by the same reasoning, there was no motivation for goodwill. From a purely pragmatic point of view, if he were to have an ‘accident’ that could in no way be pinned on the acolyte, then it would be to their benefit. One less rival for their patron’s regard and attention, making it that much easier to secure resources for their own plans.

  No weakness! He couldn’t afford it!

  Damn it! Was this what he’d fallen to? A year ago, he’d been a feared mercenary, a couple of months ago, he’d been on track to becoming a powerful magic user; had the last couple of weeks been enough to drag him down to this level?

  Digging deep, he straightened his spine and faced the acolyte.

  “The demigod. The one that we tried to kidnap. The one who’s Awakening, we managed to complicate. The one who lit up half the world when he completed that Awakening.”

  “Him, I encountered him while doing Morgan’s work,” the scarred magic user commented. “He has grown in power, and he keeps powerful company. It would seem the saint was only the first of his allies to gather about him.”

  “Yes. A powerful demigod with reason to hate us in particular.”

  The reply from the robed figure was dry and flat, yet there was weight to it, enough to make Marcello feel a pit start to open up in his stomach.

  “Maybe, but he has other concerns than us.”

  The acolyte pressed a button on a TV controller, and the screen on one wall blinked into life, showing some shaky images. Though a bit unsteady, the picture was clear, the winged demigod, then the image skipped ahead to show a familiar hulking figure made from stone and metal. The robed figure waved at the screen, the very movement denoting anger and frustration.

  “And he is gaining power. As you said, when we tried to capture him, he was protected by a single resurrected soul. Now, goddesses follow his lead! My own golem now serves him!”

  “I thought that thing was destroyed,” Marcello commented, genuinely confused. That night had been one mess after another, but he had received several impressions through his magic before the portal was destroyed. The saint hurt, the demigod frantic, the golem being melted by the uncontrolled eruption of power as the Awakening went awry. He’d felt it, the metal melting, the stone deforming, the magic dying. It had been as dead as a construct could get without being smashed to pieces.

  “As did I,” the acolyte stated. “And not only has it been repaired, but he has somehow usurped control over it; it fought at his side in his latest battle against the Wild Hunt!”

  The robed figure let the images on the screen run for a few moments, showing the demigod being hurt, but continuing to fight. The golem was crashing into the dragon like the fist of an angry god, then matching the creature even though the massive golem was itself vastly outmassed.

  “How?! How did he do it?! That golem was bonded to me, my magic was what gave it life, what ran through the word that was its soul! It should have been no more able to forget my commands than a manticore could graze on grass! But there it is, fighting for him, where it should be beating that demigod into a bloody pulp and dragging his unconscious carcass to my door!”

  The acolyte was all but snarling by the time they finished speaking, one gloved hand stabbing out at the screen as though the images upon it were some personal affront.

  “Can he use the golem to track us down?”

  Marcello’s concern was a bit more grounded. Most of his confidence where the demigod was concerned came from the fact that chasing after the two magic users who had interfered in his Awakening was more trouble than it was worth. The winged demigod might be powerful, but without leads and without clues, it would take an enormous amount of power and resources to find his would-be kidnappers. If the golem could still find its previous owner, though . . . then things changed.

  “It should not be be possible. The link it would have used to return to me is severed. But . . . what else can he do? If he could take the Golem, then . . . could he recreate the link? No, that should not . . . but then . . .”

  The scarred mage could only watch as his ally, one of the most powerful mortal magic users he knew of, descended into sporadic muttering. What was this? What-

  “Are you . . . afraid of him?”

  The question came out before he could think to shut his mouth. And the way the robed acolyte froze in place only served to make him more certain of his mistake. The acolyte was powerful, and powerful people did not like their weaknesses being pointed out. Especially fear, fear was not an easily accepted emotion.

  Still, rather than lash out at him, the robed magic user grabbed the controller and once more gestured at the screen. The image began to run again, and for a moment Marcello was unsure of what he should be looking at. He watched the demigod being saved by the golem, he watched it clash with the dragon, then . . .

  Marcello sat bolt upright in his chair, adrenaline surged through his veins, momentarily burning away his fatigue as his eyes fixed on the image before him.

  Six wings, a greater halo, a presence that poured through the screen even though it was just a recording shot by an opportunist at a great distance.

  A demigod that had become something more, one of the Seraphim!

  For a moment, all he could do was stare.

  “This . . . this is what we have made our enemy. One of the seraphim, born of mortality! Do you know what that means? Because I do not, but it cannot be anything simple!”

  He barely heard the acolyte’s words, his own thoughts lost in the churn of growing fear and horror that was swamping his mind. This . . . this was a disaster! He’d known the demigod was meant to be powerful when they moved to kidnap him; it was part of his value, but this went beyond that. He might as well have tried to steal a tank, only to learn it contained a nuclear weapon!

  Except . . . they hadn’t stolen it. If you wanted to follow the metaphor, they had tried to steal the keys to the tank by mugging the driver, but they’d only beaten him up, not gotten the keys or the tank. And now there was a pissed off driver out there with a nuke and plenty of reason to want to see his attackers vapourised in a nuclear fireball!

  Okay, he could see why his erstwhile ally was concerned, but . . .

  “Very well,” he admitted. “Your concerns are valid, but what can we do? That . . . is not a level of power we can face. The best we can do is to stay out of his way and ensure that his gaze does not turn toward us.”

  “There is something.” The robed acolyte’s voice was almost a hiss as they spoke. “Our patron has his blood, and so does the Witch of Avalon. We need not strike against him, not when there are others who stand on par or above him who could see to his end.”

  For a moment, Marcello felt as though the world was wrong, as though he had heard something that just didn’t make sense! Had he fallen asleep without realising it? Was this all some twisted dream?

  “Are you . . . ?” He bit off the final word, knowing that calling the acolyte mad would not be a sensible opening question. “. . . serious? You would draw more of his attention?”

  “Not to us!” There was an edge to their voice, something sharp, but also . . . brittle, something that could crack into something broken, but dangerous. “Let giants fight each other, as long as I am left alone.”

  “Then just stay out of his eyes! Don’t give him a target! Fade from his memory! He already has gods and monsters to deal with. As long as we don’t remind him we exist, then we will remain at the bottom of his list of priorities. By the time he works his way to us, we’ll have had plenty of time to conceal ourselves.”

  Marcello didn’t like this, not one bit. When the hell did he, the former hired killer, become the prudent one?

  “You don’t think he will come for us?” The acolyte asked, derision staining her tone. “DO you think that he will just forgive and forget?”

  “No . . . I think he has more pressing matters to handle than us.” He tried to speak calmly, with no signs of frustration or anger. “Let him retrieve lost treasures or fight with rogue gods all he wants. Let's just stay under the radar”

  “And leave a threat to grow stronger?”

  “Better than bringing it down on our heads.”

  There was a pause as the two magic users stared at each other, Marcello meeting the eyes hiding in the darkness of that hood, feeling their pressure, but not giving an inch.

  “Cowardice.” The word was spat like bile.

  “Caution.” His reply was stone.

  Silence stretched between them again, and it was all Marcello could do not to just roll his eyes. It was as though their argument just kept going in circles, and now it had devolved to each of them stating a single word that encapsulated their argument.

  However, rather than repeating themselves, the acolyte turned away.

  “Very well, perhaps you are correct. Perhaps my time would be better spent shoring up my own defences, rather than trying to stir the pot in my favour.”

  Marcello barely managed to stifle a sigh of relief.

  “Our patron said that he would want to contact us soon. Maybe we shall soon have a new task to complete.”

  Hearing that, Marcello decided that he needed to get some sleep soon. It was a pity that he was in such an exhausted state, or he might have noticed something about the way the acolyte stood, how they moved, how they spoke.

  Had he been in better condition, then he might have realised that they had been lying to him.

  --------------------------------------------------------

  Emma stared at the image on her TV screen and bit back the urge to scream in triumph!

  YES!!! This was it, the final sign! This was confirmation! She’d always been sure that Adam was going to be something special, something that He had a hand in. But even so, there had always been that niggling little voice at the back of her head asking if maybe she was wrong. A doubt that she just couldn’t get rid of.

  Well, now that blasted voice was finally silent!

  A Seraph! One of the Seraphim! Adam might as well have been waving around a giant sign saying ‘Heavenly Intervention Ahoy!’. While under a floodlight. With fireworks going off in the background

  Quite aside from her own peace of mind, this also served as the last assurance she needed to know that she had been right. Adam was the demigod that she’d been told about, her chance, her shot at changing her life!

  She had to start making plans. Emma was pretty sure that Adam would at least give her time to explain herself, but his allies were another story. Joan and Hadriel, especially, had good reason to ram a sword into her chest the instant they worked out who she really was. And honestly, she couldn’t blame them; if she’d been in their position, she wouldn’t give herself the chance to speak more than a sentence or two before going for a decapitation strike.

  If Adam vouched for her, it might buy her some time, but she was going to have to do something with serious impact if she wanted his allies to give her a chance. Her past actions would help, would give weight to her words, but she’d need more.

  Sighing, she sat down on the bed of the cheap hotel room she was currently using as a base. The action was immediately followed by a wince of pain in the back of her thigh. It was a sharp pain, and an unfortunately familiar one now.

  Grimacing, she rolled up the sleeve on her right arm. It was here as well, another patch of inflamed skin, with a tiny cluster of snow-white scales at its centre. It was only one of several that had sprung up across her body, like the sores of some disease. She’d stopped plucking them off some time ago; there no longer seemed to be any point to it. They kept coming back, despite her best efforts, a symptom rather than something she could cure.

  How much power could she safely use? How much further could she push the limits of her restrictions and protections before they finally unravelled? Everything was a balancing act. Her helping Adam, balanced against her limitations, and all of it teetering on the edge of a blade, one that could all too easily cut her apart if she lost control of her tenuous equilibrium.

  She just needed to hold on a bit more. She repeated the thought to herself as she once more began working on the web of spells and protections that wrapped around her being like a defensive cocoon. Once she had Adam’s protection, once he was vouching for her, she could shed the vast majority of the restrictions upon her. She could use her real power, but until then . . .

  She felt it, the moment her outermost layer of defences was tripped. Those outer wards were fragile by design, little more than tripwires as delicate as spiderweb strands. Their function was to break at the slightest contact with any sort of magical power. They surrounded her, like some sort of invisible field more than a mile wide, undetectable to most, so pale and weak that they could be easily lost in the ambient mana that now saturated the world. Her first line of warning.

  A line had been broken, then another and another. Whatever was coming, it was moving fast. But . . . it didn’t seem to be coming at her directly. The angle of the passage would pass her by, and by more than a kilometre, if she was accurate in her assessment.

  That was something, but not enough. Who, or what, was this? The distant threads weren’t good for compiling data; they were just a simple on/off warning system, nothing more. If she wanted to know more, then Emma would have to weave probes, send them down her threads and wait for them to return. It was a laborious process, but it had the advantage of security.

  As gently as she could manage, she reached out, trying to sense through the closer and sturdier parts of her wards. As they drew closer, she could then sense them better. They were . . . strong. Not on par with the goddesses, Adam or Hadriel, but at least in terms of raw power, whoever this was, they stood on the same tier as Lancelot or Joan. Perhaps not as skilled or refined, but in terms of pure magical ‘muscle’ . . .

  So, not just some chump. This was someone with at least some backing, or who had lucked into a bloodline of decent power. But then what were they doing here?

  Maybe they weren’t hostile. She allowed herself the thought as she tried to glean more information. Could they be here looking for Adam? He and his allies were in the nearest town; maybe they were looking to meet up with him? His increased media presence would be drawing more attention, and that included people who might want to associate with him, for one reason or another.

  She suddenly felt a buildup of power, dark, violent, and strong. Whoever this was, they were making no effort to hide; anyone with any mystic awareness could have sensed this except . . . Her eyes widened with realisation! That wasn’t it!

  She’d thought that whoever this was didn’t care about being spotted, but it was just the opposite; they were actually hiding themselves expertly. Emma could sense them because they had stumbled into her wards, invisible, near impossible to detect wards that connected back to her. Without them, she wouldn’t have noticed a thing, but with them, she could sense this newcomer and what they were doing with ease.

  Their power was moving, but it wasn’t running wild; it was being concentrated, focused with decent skill. The mass of magic condensed, though she wasn’t sure what it was being prepared for. A ward? Some sort of defence? The energy was dark, so-

  Bloodthirst suddenly exploded from the magic, a malice that hadn’t been there before, but now all but dripped from it! It roiled like seething waters, then tightened, sharpened and found its target.

  Her! It was aimed at her!

  Whoever this was, they knew where she was! They had found her! Her enemies had found her!

  No. No, no, no, no!!!

  Despite her denials, the attack came, an invisible blade of power striking out from a fold in space, quick, unseen and all but impossible to detect. Emma was just barely able to see it coming in time to throw herself to the cheap carpet of her rented suite. Above her, the entire side of the hotel room exploded outward, bricks, wood and glass shards flying into the air as the attack she’d dodged hit and discharged the energy it had contained!

  She felt another ripple in the air and rolled to the side, a frantic and clumsy movement that only just let her avoid an invisible slash. This time, the attack was sharper, the force more concentrated. The floor didn’t explode where it hit, instead it split, as though hit by some impossibly huge and sharp sword.

  The third attack wasn’t quite as quick to come, giving Emma enough time to regain her footing, but when it did, the power was colossal. The first attack had been like a cannonball, the second a huge sword, but the third . . . the third came like a spear, stabbing straight down at her, both force and sharpness combined!

  She tried to throw herself back, but it wasn’t enough. She had avoided the tip of the spear, but the edge was going to strike true, and with enough force to make a dragon bleed!

  As she was, restrained and hiding, she was not sure she would survive. Maybe she would, but she would be wounded, hurt enough to be an easy target, and then what of the next strike?

  The decision was made in an instant, wards centuries old coming apart like nets of ropes under too heavy a load. Constructs of magic she had painstakingly crafted over the course of years, works that had consumed treasures and relics valuable enough that their sacrifice would have made emperors weep, snapped as she reached for power she had not dared to touch since before the Roman Empire fell.

  Pure white scales covered her exposed forearms like armour growing from her flesh. Each scale was smaller even than her little fingernail, but perfectly formed, flush against her skin, and interlocked with its neighbouring scales with an absolute precision that was almost mathematical. Still, the change in her appearance was nothing compared to the change in her magic!

  The massive invisible force ran into her, trying to cut into her flesh, her bones, her organs. It wanted her death, the intent of its creator infused into it, a vicious, spiteful hatred that permeated the unseen attack. It pressed in, eager for her blood . . . and then shattered before her!

  An aura of power extended out from her body, not far, and only for an instant, but it was more than enough. This wasn’t mana, or lifeforce, or even some sort of psychic pressure; this was a concept, an idea that was so intimately tied to her that it was given power simply by its being her that invoked it. There was no colour, no light, no sound, there was no need for such, and the results were instant.

  The invisible spear froze in place, trapped like a fly in amber as it was enveloped and overwhelmed in an instant. It tried to fight. Emma could feel the spell, how it was connected to its caster, and how that caster was reinforcing it, trying to push through. It felt . . . weak. So pathetically, contemptibly weak, and yet, only seconds ago, she would have feared them. Now . . . they were nothing, so trivial, so small, so-

  With a deliberate effort of will, she clamped down on those thoughts, choking them and murdering them in their cribs. They were arrogance! Arrogance, vainglory and stupidity! There was a reason she had hidden, even with all her power. There was a reason she hadn’t used her true might since before Caligula took his throne.

  Her mind cleared, and she focused back upon the attack, the connection, and the one that had sent it. First, to deal with the more immediate issue.

  ~I AM!~

  It wasn’t spoken, it wasn’t thought, it wasn’t written. It was simply a concept, manifested upon the world by a flex of her very identity. Who and what she was became imposed on the world, a simple, brutal and powerful method, one she had learnt before the first seeds of Eden had been planted.

  The attack that had once threatened to maim her was snuffed out, like a candleflame between fingers. There one moment, then gone the next. The connection remained, though, held in place and denied escape.

  She reached out, and it felt so good! It was as though she had spent years trapped in a box, constantly crouching, always hemmed in, and now she could finally stretch. Her power crossed the distance so easily. Where once she would have been forced to burn through a mound of valuable reagents to achieve half as much distance, now it was effortless. Once more, she had to master her thoughts and feelings, crush down the temptation to just . . . let things stay this way. She was so strong like this; what was the harm in remaining unbound for some more time? Couldn’t she fight off her threats if she stopped holding back? Those were dangerous thoughts, tempting, but stupid.

  She knew who hunted her, and it wasn’t the little assassin she could now feel in her distant grip. That one was little more than a hunting dog, a disposable arrow sent into the wind. If it hit a target, all well and good, but if it should flounder and break, no great loss. The actual hunter that sought her . . . they would be those she could not so easily dismiss, and those who followed them would be greater still.

  Her power tightened about the assassin, then crushed inward, snuffing them out as easily as she had their attack. There was no resistance, how could there be? For that instant, she was not crushing a supernatural assassin; she was crushing an ant!

  She let out a deep breath she hadn’t known she was holding, and pulled her power back in. It was uncomfortable, as though she were tensing up a deeply tired muscle. Releasing her power hadn’t been a matter of exerting herself, it had been relaxing her hold upon it for the first time in centuries.

  As her power returned, she could also feel the remnants of the assassin, the traces of their power clinging to her own like bloodstains upon a blade. Her lips curled as she tasted the distinctive flavour of sulphur and ash, the burnt power of the hells.

  She hadn’t been attacked by a demon, of that she was sure. Demons were powerful and immortal; destroying one would have needed real effort. What she had dealt with had been mortal in origin, she was certain. Maybe a corrupted soul picked out from the pits of one of the hells, repurposed as a disposable killer and weapon. Or perhaps it was a mortal, corrupted, educated, empowered and used as a catspaw, unaware of how little they were valued. Ultimately, it didn’t matter.

  She had been found again, only weeks after her last incident. Worse yet, she’d been forced to shed her wards in order to avoid being maimed,or worse.

  She was running out of time.

  The last of her power was carefully buried, and Emma grimaced as she began to pull the torn remnants of her wards back around herself. They were broken, torn by her own actions. She could collect the fragments, stitch them into something useful with what little of her magic she could afford to use, but they would be far less effective than they had been. Her wards had been like a suit of iron armour, sealing in all traces of her power, keeping her safe. This . . . what she now had was nothing more than thick cotton bandages wrapped about her. It might muffle her power, but by nothing like enough.

  There were her arms as well; she couldn’t forget about them.

  Her room was a ruin, and she doubted that the hotel itself would last too long. Already, she could hear wooden beams groaning and plaster cracking. She had some time, though; this place would hold together for at least a little longer. A quick spell on her door ensured that the frantic evacuation of the building she could hear going on would avoid her, ensuring she wouldn’t be disturbed while doing what needed to be done.

  Reaching into her battered rucksack, she pulled out a bottle she’d prepared weeks ago. As more and more scales had appeared, she’d known she’d have to use this eventually, but she had hoped she’d have more time. Gritting her teeth as hard as she could, Emma pulled out the cork and splashed her forearms liberally with the sticky, syrup-like liquid, quickly switching hands to do both arms, then carefully putting the bottle down as she waited for what was coming.

  At first, there was nothing, then her arms started to smoke as the scales frothed and bubbled! Emma gritted her teeth harder, then shoved the strap of her rucksack into her mouth and bit down as her arms BURNED!

  The concoction she doused her scales in was a mixture of holy water, ground gemstones, celestially charged water and several herbs, all empowered with purifying energies derived from a number of sources and then mixed with her own blood. The final result was potent, but would only work on her, nobody else. It might have made for a good weapon if it could have been used against others, but that wasn’t its purpose.

  All across her arms, the scales sizzled, crumbled and then melted, revealing bloody skin beneath covered in weeping sores with reddened and inflamed skin between them. Her teeth bit down so hard on the old strap that she was sure she felt something give, but she was too distracted by the pain to care or check.

  She stood there as minutes passed. Outside, she could hear the screaming and frantic rush of steps grow fainter and fainter until it was gone. Time was running out, her room had been the centre of the attack, and it would only be so long that her wards could keep people away.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, the pain dimmed. It went from her feeling as though her arms were in a furnace to the more familiar pain of fresh wounds. It still hurt, it hurt so much, but at least the agony was no longer blotting out everything else. Fumbling in her bag, her every move sending fresh pain shooting through her, Emma was able to pull out some cream and bandages. Her hands felt heavy and uncoordinated, her fingers like sausages, and her muscles like jelly, but she was able to spread the ointment on her arms and then loosely bind her arms with bandages. It was clumsy, sloppy work, but it was the best she would manage.

  Fumbling her way out of the ruined hotel room, barely holding back tears of pain, Emma trusted to her wards, weak as they were, to keep her from the sight of the mortals as she stumbled away. She had to find somewhere to hide, somewhere to take time to heal, to recover, to plan her next move.

  Time . . .

  She feared her time was running out. She no longer had the months she’d thought she’d have; she didn’t even have weeks. Days were the best she could hope for, and only a handful at most.

  Soon . . . soon she was going to have to tell Adam the truth. The truth about her, the truth about why she had sought him out, and the truth about what she wanted.

  And then she could only hope that he wouldn’t try to kill her on the spot.