Blackbird Rising (The Witch King's Crown Book 1) Read online

  “Ours and, to some extent, the Aquitaine, although the latter doesn’t really count because it’s prophesized to rise again when darkness does.”

  It would be hard to rise if the bloodline no longer existed, but I didn’t bother pointing that out. She’d only get sidetracked telling me why the impossible was possible and, right now, I needed to know more about who or what my rescuer was.

  “There are only six witch lines in all if we include the Aquitaines, and nothing I’ve read about the Chens, Valeriuns, or Okoros suggest they’ve ever used swords that screamed.”

  And given the sheer force those three houses often channeled through their blades—the elements of earth, water, and air respectively—if ever weapons were going to scream, it would surely be theirs. Of course, controlling those elements for the benefit of mankind—or not, depending on who might have hired them—was also the reason those three had garnered great wealth. More so than the Lancasters—whose magic was of the personal kind and therefore dependent on the strength of the mage—and the De Montforts ever had, at any rate. Mankind continued to be fascinated with magic, but it had never been a path to great wealth for the Lancasters. And the huge leaps in the study, development, and practice of medicine over the last few hundred years had lessened humanity’s need for our help.

  Mo grabbed the teapot and poured us both a cup—hers in fine china, mine in an old Disney mug. “If you search far enough back into history, you’ll see mention of the seventh line, but they’ve long been absent from the witch council and witch records.”

  “And they’re the ones who used the screaming swords?”

  She nodded. “They were known as spirit blades, and they contained the souls of those witches whose penance on death was to destroy the dark forces whose power they’d coveted in life.”

  “Nasty.” I spooned some sugar into my mug and then took a sip. “What house controlled them, and why did you think they’d died out?”

  “Their surname was Durant, but most knew them simply as the Blackbirds.”

  I blinked. “I thought we were the only shape-shifting witches?”

  “We are.”

  “Then why were they handed that nickname and not us?” Especially given it wasn’t unusual for De Montfort males—just like our avian counterparts—to have a much darker skin tone than females, who were usually brown. Hell, that was the very reason why few realized Max and I were twins—he was a true De Montfort in looks while I’d inherited Mom’s Eurasian coloring—white skin, blonde hair, and black eyes. Even in bird form, I was pale.

  “It wasn’t a nickname, as such. The Blackbirds were an order of warriors who could manipulate both darkness and light, and they were longtime protectors of king and crown.”

  Meaning my stranger hadn’t actually disappeared—he’d simply orchestrated the sunrise to make it appear that he had. “When did they disappear?”

  “Not long after Uhtric sheathed the sword in stone.”

  “So the guy today could just be someone who had the good fortune to find one of their blades?”

  “Only Blackbirds can control the blades—if he had one, then he is of that line.”

  “Huh.” I leaned back in the chair and finished the last bit of my butty. “Why would he come to my rescue?”

  “Anyone with any drop of decency would have done the same.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that.” Not in this day and age.

  “So young, and yet so cynical.”

  I smiled. “With some reason.”

  “Perhaps.” She took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I think we need to talk to our Blackbird and uncover why they’ve suddenly become active.”

  “And how are we going to do that when the man can manipulate light and disappear at will?”

  “I dare say he’ll find us. In the meantime, we should head over to the King’s Tower after breakfast.”

  The King’s Tower was the only intact remnant of Uhtric’s castle and, these days, was little more than a tourist attraction and museum.

  “Aside from the fact it’s closed—”

  “Since when has a damn padlock ever stopped me getting into a place?”

  “Well, never, but there’s also the cameras and alarms to deal with.”

  She waved a hand. “Only on the upper levels. The vaults aren’t monitored.”

  “Which doesn’t help when you get to said vaults via the alarmed ground floor.”

  “Actually, no, you don’t. Like any wise king, Uhtric had escape tunnels.”

  “If you know about them, the heritage council surely does.”

  “If there were any witches on it, they might. But that’s never been the case, and for this very reason.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying some ancient Chen witch figured out we’d need access into the place so we could trace a warrior long thought dead, and set about disguising the tunnel?”

  She tsked and slapped my right arm. “No, idiot. And it wasn’t the Chens who hid the tunnel—it was the Lancasters.”

  Meaning the protections were based on personal rather than earth magic. “Then how are you getting through them? Or are you going to call in Barney to help?”

  Barney Lancaster was the latest in a long line of lovers and, at fifty-five, was probably one of her oldest. I really wished I had half her luck when it came to attracting the opposite sex.

  “I don’t need the help of any damn man, young lady, and you well know that.”

  It was snootily said and made me grin. “Yes, but if it’s Lancaster magic—”

  “It won’t make a jot of difference. I’ve been getting in and out of the place for years undetected.”

  “How, when personal magic is supposedly not our thing?”

  She waved the point away. “Ask no questions, be told no lies.”

  I rolled my eyes and picked up my tea to wash down the last bit of toast. “So, why do we need to go to the vaults?”

  “Because they’re one of five repositories of witch history. The disguised tunnel allows us to come and go at will.”

  “I take it, then, that the repository portion of the vaults isn’t accessible to the heritage council or those who run the museum?”

  “Of course not. They use it as a storeroom and regularly swap out pieces. Uhtric’s throne is currently on display in the old hall, so we will have to go back when the museum is open to check that out.”

  I made myself another butty. “And why would we need to do that? I’ve seen the throne—there’s really nothing remarkable about it.”

  In fact, Uhtric’s throne was the total opposite of his sword—basic and plain, except for the slight embellishment of gold adorning the roses lining the throne’s crest rail.

  “Be that as it may,” Mo said. “I think it might still be useful.”

  I didn’t bother asking why, because she wouldn’t damn well tell me. She had that “don’t bother me with inane questions” look in her eyes—which generally meant she was running on a gut feeling rather than any logical reasoning.

  “Where’s the entrance to the tunnel?”

  “At St. Mary’s Abbey.”

  Which was just outside the old wall, between the river and the Hanging Gate precinct. “They’re ruins.”

  “Well, they are now, but they weren’t back then. The tunnel entrance is hidden within one of the remaining wall sections.”

  And had no doubt been protected magically, which was probably why it still stood after the vast majority of the structure had been destroyed during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries.

  I glanced at my watch; it was just past eight o’clock. “What time do you want to head over?”

  “I’ll finish my tea and then we’ll go. Given the early hour and the fact it’s New Year’s Day, there aren’t going to be many out on the street as yet.”

  And those that were probably weren’t going to be paying attention to what was happening at the ruins of an old abbey. I drained my cup and rose. “We
driving or flying?”

  She hesitated. “Flying would probably be quicker.”

  I nodded and headed upstairs to get ready. After doing my teeth, I changed into warmer clothing, grabbed a small flashlight, and then walked into Max’s room to open his window. For someone who was generally a neat freak, his room was a goddamn mess. Drawers were open and clothes were everywhere. It almost looked as if someone had searched it—but that was impossible given the protections placed around this building. Besides, why on earth would anyone want to search my brother’s room?

  Mo fluttered in, her brown plumage streaked with gold in the light filtering in through the open window. She squawked loudly—no doubt a demand I immediately follow—and then flew out.

  I smiled and reached for the inner magic that allowed me to shift. It flared immediately, a thick wave of heat that rolled through muscle, sinew, and bone, altering and miniaturizing all that I was in human form and shifting it across to my bird persona. Thankfully, the magic that allowed us to shift also took care of whatever we were wearing, though it couldn’t alter silver-based jewelry or weapons such as my daggers. I could carry them, even though they were a damn heavy burden for a blackbird, but I didn’t really think I’d need them today.

  And crossed mental fingers that I hadn’t just tempted fate.

  The rush of power reached its peak and there was a moment of nothingness—a moment where I was neither human nor blackbird, but held in unfeeling suspension somewhere between the two—and then I was winged, and the freedom and the glory of the skies was mine.

  I flew out of the window and soared upward, following the brown speck that was Mo. It didn’t take us long to get to the Museum Gardens, where the abbey’s ruins were. Though some fog still blanketed the area, it was nowhere near as thick as it had been on the island, and even from up high, visibility was reasonable. There were a few people on Dame’s Walk—the promenade that followed the banks of the Ainslyn River from the old port to the new—but the only thing to be seen in the gardens was the rubbish people had left behind after last night’s celebrations.

  I circled down, calling to my human shape when I was close to the ground, and then flexed my shoulders to rid my muscles of the last vestiges of the changing magic.

  St. Mary’s Abbey had once been amongst the richest in England, but there was little enough left of it now—just a long sidewall and a solitary corner edge that was disconnected from the rest.

  Mo stood in front of the latter, and it dwarfed her. She wasn’t short by any means, but the crumbling ruins towered above her by a good twenty feet. I jogged over, each breath stirring the thin veil of gray that still clung stubbornly to the stones.

  “The entrance should be right about here somewhere …” She ran her fingers across the thick curve of a column, golden sparks following her touch like a comet’s tail.

  I frowned. “Is that fireshow part of the protection? Or is it something you’re doing?”

  “Bit of both.” Her reply was absent, her gaze narrowed.

  “But De Montforts—”

  “Are many things, most of them unexpected. It’s your certainty of what can’t be done that’s hampering what can, my girl.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Care to explain that?”

  “Of course not.” There was a soft click, followed by a distant rumble. Then the air shimmered, revealing a slowly opening and very narrow stone door.

  “You’ve raised me and Max since we were three years old and, in all that time, I’ve never seen you perform personal magic.”

  She glanced at me, clearly amused. “What do you think the stuff I put in the soaps is?”

  “Healing magic, not personal.”

  She waved her free hand. “Same, same. And I do have a speck of Lancaster blood in me—my grandfather was one of them. Ready?”

  My gaze went from her to the doorway. The stone stairs that descended down into deeper darkness were wet and somewhat slimy-looking. “Are you going to be able to handle the stairs and the tunnel?”

  “I’ve got my moonboot on—I’ll be fine.”

  I glanced down. “That boot is bigger than the damn stair treads. Why don’t you shift shape? I’ve got a flashlight—”

  “Stop fussing and just get a move on before someone notices us and comes to investigate.”

  “There’s no one currently here in the park to investigate,” I retorted, but nevertheless flicked on the flashlight and then squeezed sideways through the door and into the tunnel.

  The walls were every bit as damp and wet as the steps, and the air drifting up from the deeper bowels of the place was rank and musty. “For something that’s supposedly the repository of all witch knowledge, this place doesn’t appear to have been used much.”

  “That’s because youngsters today think they know it all.” She poked me in the side with a stiffened finger. “Get a move on—we haven’t all day.”

  Actually, we did, because the store was closed and neither of us had anything else on today. This evening was a different matter entirely. It was the first night of the year, and that was the traditional party time for witches—a time where we could let off steam in witch-only venues, freeing us from the worry of upsetting human sensibilities. I was meeting my two best friends—Ginny, who was also a cousin, and Mia—this evening at The Marquis, one of the many old pubs owned by Mia’s parents and one of two traditional party venues for Ainslyn witches. Drinking, dancing, and, if we were lucky, sex were all on the cards. Although if past pub exploits were anything to go by, we’d probably end up just plotting our next holiday abroad. The men overseas seemed to appreciate us more.

  With a smile twitching my lips, I started down the steps, taking it slow and keeping half an eye on Mo to make sure she was okay and didn’t slip. Thankfully, we both made it to the base of the stairs without a problem. The minute Mo stepped off the last step, the door above us shut and darkness closed in. My tiny flashlight wasn’t doing a whole lot to lift it.

  I moved forward cautiously. The moisture trickling down the walls collected in a central gutter that ushered it into the deeper shadows ahead. The smell of disuse and age grew stronger the further we moved into the tunnel, but underneath ran three vague but very familiar scents—cardamom, bergamot, and lavender. The same scents I’d smelled over on the island this morning.

  Tension rippled through me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if fate was about to teach me a lesson. “We may have a problem.”

  It was softly said but echoed as loudly as any shout. Up ahead, something stirred in response. Something that felt unnaturally dark and powerful.

  Magic.

  “It would appear so,” Mo murmured. “I’m not recognizing the tells, though.”

  All magic, personal or otherwise, had tells—magical indicators that were unique to every witch. I could pick the tells of all those I’d grown up with as well as most of Mo’s friends. I could also track the tells of strangers—something Mo had insisted I learn, though I had no idea why. She certainly hadn’t forced Max to learn the skill, although that might have been due to the fact the Okoros had undertaken his schooling from a very early age.

  “Suggesting it’s an outsider?”

  “Possibly.” Her energy slithered through the shadows, testing and tasting what lay ahead. “It’s some sort of concealing spell. Whoever it is doesn’t want anyone to see them.”

  “Wonder why?”

  “I’m thinking there could be no good reason behind it. Get a move on, my girl, before whoever it is completes whatever mischief he or she is up to.”

  I increased my pace, and the sound of our steps echoed ever more loudly, a drumbeat even the dead couldn’t miss. The cologne-based scent grew no stronger, making me wonder if this was the only tunnel in and out of the old vaults. A canny king would probably have had more than one escape route.

  Then, from up ahead, came a soft glimmer, one that spread a flickering, pale yellow glow across the old stone wall that curved to the right up ahead.


  I frowned, unease stirring, as that yellow glow became brighter, fiercer, and a wave of heat rolled over us.

  My gut clenched.

  That glow wasn’t magic.

  It was fire.

  There was a goddamn fire in the heart of the vaults.

  Three

  “Gwen, fly!”

  I obeyed without thought, shifting shape between one step and another, then rocketing toward the fire rather than away. Mo was only a few wing sweeps behind me but her anger was a sharp wave that all but smothered my senses.

  Though I wondered why, it was impossible to ask in this form. While there were some who could communicate telepathically when in either human or bird form, our particular branch of the De Montfort tree was not amongst their number.

  I swept around the corner and was confronted by a wall of stone. I shifted the angle of my wings to slow down and then realized the light of the flames shone through the stone. The wall was an illusion.

  Mo swept past me and arrowed into it. I swore—which came out a harsh squawk—and quickly followed. The illusion’s magic briefly caressed my feathers and then I was on the other side, surrounded by heat, thick smoke, and the sharp crackle of the fire.

  Why on earth weren’t the alarms going off?

  Surely if this area was used to store artifacts, both alarms and sprinklers would have been installed. Unless, of course, the person behind the fire had disabled them.

  My gaze went to the flames that billowed past a secondary wall illusion and threatened the nearby furniture items. The fire was fierce, but I had no sense of magic being used to enhance it. Whatever fuel fed these flames was natural.

  Mo shifted shape and then raised her hands. “Grab the extinguisher, Gwen.”

  Magic poured from her fingertips, a force as strong as a wave. I had no idea what she was attempting or even what type of magic it was. It certainly wasn’t personal—it was far more elemental in feel.

  I spotted the fire extinguisher near an exit sign and flew across. Once I’d shifted to human form, I tugged the extinguisher free from its holder and then pulled the pin to break the tamper seal.