The rats were closing in.
“Peckering!” she yelled.
“I think I have evolved beyond immortal,” the Peckering said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe the rats can hurt me.”
“Great. I am very glad for you, but if I’m mortal they sure can hurt me—do something!”
“We shall go inside,” the Peckering said, and suddenly Royce felt herself transported within the building, Peckering-style—very different than Fae shifting. It was like being dissembled and then reassembled again. Horrible, thought Royce, but at least the rats were on the outside, and she was safely inside.
Sorta safely—because inside she was assaulted with a cloud of black magic, hostile and pervasive.
The chamber she found herself in was cold, damp, and sparsely furnished. Spider webs were everywhere, and something about the enormous size of the webs made her uneasy. She realized she didn’t like spiders anymore than she liked rats!
Aside from the feeling that black magic was attempting to stroke her, she was relatively safe—from the rats at least.
“You know where we are, don’t you, Peckering? Fess up, and tell me where are we, and why are we here?”
“I did not know this would happen. I would have tried to prevent it had I known.” The Peckering’s voice was filled with sadness. “Apparently, Princess, I was spelled, spelled without my knowledge … forgive me.” The Peckering sounded ashamed.
“You were spelled?” Royce felt stupid repeating this, but it was the only thing her mind could zero in on at that moment.
“Yes, my Princess, and I am terribly sorry …”
“How could you not know?”
“It was done in my absence … probably using my housing … the box that led you to me. You can’t think I would have known and not warned you?”
“I see …” Royce was thinking hard and fast.
“I was spelled, and I am deeply ashamed,” Peckering said on a low note. “The black magic spell was the last thing the Fallen Druid must have enacted before he buried me in the wall …”
“Doona blame the Peckering,” a de
ep male voice said as a man, or what appeared to be a man, emerged from the depth of the dark corridor at Royce’s back.
She spun around and opened her eyes wide when the torches flickered violently as he approached. She braced herself as she took his measure—here was the Fallen Druid, presumed dead. He didn’t look dead—not at all.
He was a giant of a man, and once upon a time, she thought, women might have considered him attractive. Now, no one could. His face was lined with the ravages of time and dissipation. His eyes were black stones that depicted emptiness; at least, she thought, they showed no soul. His movements were primal as he stalked towards her, like a wild animal on the hunt—hungry.
Something about the leather and furs he wore increased the savage appearance he presented when he moved through the dim light of the torches.
Royce took a step backwards.
A feral movement of his lips as he looked her up and down made her take yet another step back. She was momentarily struck by his stone-cold black eyes. She was definitely in trouble.
She could appeal to him on absolutely no level.
She whispered his name as much to herself as to him. “Well then, you are the Fallen Druid—MacBathe.”
He inclined his head. “So I am, and who did my Peckering bring me?”
“I am not your Peckering—at least, no longer your Peckering,” the dagger said defiantly.
That appeared to anger him; he growled low in his throat, threatening both Royce and the dagger she held tightly fisted at her side. An idea popped into her head, and she steadied her nerves with the hope that it might work.
Something in the heavy air played games with her Fae senses and made her feel unwell. Fae didn’t suffer illness, but here, although still Seelie Fae, she was no longer immortal. The realization came in a flurry: he was doing something with the atmosphere—using black magic.
She focused and saw the waves of darkness surrounding her. She put up a shield of white magic and sighed with relief that she still had that power. At least her stomach would stop turning!