If his powers could turn back time, he would give them up, abjure them, to have that one night to relive that single moment when he’d chosen work over his brother’s company.
“What good do they do me? What good are they now? To have been given magic and not be able to use it to save what matters most? Damn to them all then.” He flung his cup across the little room. “Damn to them all, gods and faeries. He was the light of us, and you’ve cast him into the dark.”
All of his life Hoyt had done what he was meant to do, what was expected of him. He had turned away from a hundred small pleasures to devote himself to his art. Now those who had given him this gift, this power, had stood back
while his own brother was taken?
Not in battle, not even with the clean blade of magic, but through evil beyond imagination. This was his payment, this was his reward for all he had done?
He waved a hand toward the fire, and in the hearth flames leaped and roared. He threw up his arms, and overhead the storm doubled in power so that the wind screamed like a tortured woman. The cottage trembled under its might, and the skins pulled tight over the windows split. Cold gusts spilled into the room, toppling bottles, flapping the pages of his books. And in it he heard the throaty chuckle of the black.
Not once in all of his life had he turned from his purpose. Not once had he used his gift for ill, or touched upon the black arts.
Perhaps now, he thought, he would find the answers in them. Find his brother again. Fight the beast, evil against evil.
He shoved to his feet, ignoring the scream in his side. He whirled toward his cot and flung out both hands toward the trunk he’d locked by magic. When it flew open, he strode to it, reached in for the book he’d shut away years before.
In it were spells, dark and dangerous magicks. Spells that used human blood, human pain. Spells of vengeance and greed that spoke to a power that ignored all oaths, all vows.
It was hot and heavy in his hands, and he felt the seduction of it, those curling fingers that brushed the soul. Have all, have any. Are we not more than the rest? Living gods who take whatever is desired?
We have the right! We are beyond rules and reasons.
His breath came short for he knew what could be his if he accepted it, if he took in both hands what he’d sworn never to touch. Unnamed wealth, women, unspeakable powers, life eternal. Revenge.
He had only to say the words, to rebuke the white and embrace the black. Clammy snakes of sweat slithered down his back as he heard the whispers of voices from a thousand ages: Take. Take. Take.
His vision shimmered, and through it he saw his brother as he’d found him in the muck on the side of the road. Blood pooled from the wounds in his throat, and more smeared his lips. Pale, Hoyt thought dimly. So very pale was his face against that wet, red blood.
Now Cian’s eyes—vivid and blue—opened. There was such pain in them, such horror. They pleaded as they met Hoyt’s.
“Save me. Only you can save me. It’s not death I’m damned to. ’Tis beyond hell, beyond torment. Bring me back. For once don’t count the cost. Would you have me burn for all eternity? For the sake of your own blood, Hoyt, help me.”
He shook. It wasn’t from the cold that blew through the split skins, or the damp that whirled in the air, but from the icy edge on which he stood.
“I would give my life for yours. I swear it on all I am, on all we were. I would take your fate, Cian, if that were the choice before me. But I can’t do this. Not even for you.”
The vision on the bed erupted in flames, and its screams were past human. On a howl of grief, Hoyt heaved the book back in the trunk. He used the strength left to him to charm the lock before he collapsed on the floor. There he curled up like a child beyond all comfort.
Perhaps he slept. Perhaps he dreamed. But when he came to, the storm had passed. Light seeped into the room and grew, bold and bright and white, to sear his eyes. He blinked against it, hissing as his ribs protested when he tried to sit up.
There were streams of pink and gold shimmering in the white, warmth radiating from it. He smelled earth, he realized, rich and loamy, and the smoke from the turf fire that was still shimmering in the hearth.
He could see the shape of her, female, and sensed a staggering beauty.
This was no demon come for blood.
Gritting his teeth, he got to his knees. Though there was still grief and anger in his voice, he bowed his head.
“My lady.”
“Child.”
The light seemed to part for her. Her hair was the fiery red of a warrior, and flowed over her shoulders in silky waves. Her eyes were green as the moss in the forest, and soft now with what might have been pity. She wore white robes trimmed in gold as was her right by rank. Though she was the goddess of battle, she wore no armor, and carried no sword.
She was called Morrigan.
“You have fought well.”