What she’d known of power until then had given her little things, shown her the pretty and the fun. Butterflies that fluttered to her hand, birds landing on her shoulder to sing.

But this, this growing thing, was hard and sharp, like the knives she wasn’t allowed to touch.

And she, who had never known the ugly, screamed out her truth. “I hate you! My da will come and fight you! He’ll hurt you for hurting me.”

Not a pinch now but a slap, hard and sharp like the knives. No one had ever struck her, and the shock of it, the insult of it, carved through the fear and found the rage.

Cheek stinging, the raw red mark on it like a burn, Breen got to her feet. Her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes went dark, dark as night, as what had built inside her erupted.

“You’re not supposed to hit!” Screaming it, she threw out her hands—and what was in her.

Something howled, as if in pain, as the glass shattered.

Water rushed over her, sent her tumbling. She kicked, slapped out with her hands, but she couldn’t find the way out. She knew to hold her breath in the water—Da had taught her to swim—but she couldn’t, she couldn’t.

Hands gripped her, and panicked, she pushed, struggled, started to scream. She swallowed water, choked, then her head broke the surface.

“I’ve got you, mo stór. Nan’s got you. Hold on to me, hold on to Nan.”

She coughed up water, clung as Marg dragged them toward the bank of what was a curving river.

“Fi! Help me.”

Finola, pale pink wings spread, reached down, took Marg’s hand. She pulled them to the bank, swirled off a cloak to wrap a shivering Breen.

“There now, poor little mite. You’re safe now.”

“She’s not.” With sweeps of her hands, Marg dried and warmed her granddaughter. “Take her back, Finola, to where she will be. Take her to her mother. They need me here. Eian and the others need me with them.”

“I’ll come back.”

“No, please. Stay with Breen and Jennifer. Stay with them.”

Still drenched from the river, Marg crouched, held Breen to her. “Go with Finola now, my baby. Your mother’s waiting for you.”

“You come! And Da.”

“Soon. Take her, Fi. I’m needed.”

“I’ll keep her safe.” Gathering the child, Finola lifted into the air.

Wrapped in the cloak, held close in the faerie’s arms, Breen looked back. She saw her first glimpse of war, the terrible light and dark of it. And the screams rose up until she pressed her hands to her ears, and Finola swept her away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Looking into the fire, Breen saw what her grandmother had seen. The carnage, the brutality. Blood soaked the ground; it spilled into the river to run red.

She saw Finola fly toward a towering waterfall, carrying the child she’d been. And when the faerie flew through it, when Marg knew the child was away, she gathered herself.

The dragon came at her call, an emerald and sapphire flash through the haze. She mounted, took up her sword, her wand. Merging her mind with the dragon’s, she flew into battle.

A dozen gargoyles, black teeth snapping, charged through the thick woods and fog toward a line of Fey. She shot out with her wand, torching them even as she sliced and hacked with the sword at winged demons.

Shrieks and screams echoed; drumbeats boomed.

She knew some who fought in the air, on the ground, were enslaved or bewitched, taken from her world and others to build Odran’s army. With their minds trapped, they killed and died for him.

She broke spells and chains when she could, ended lives when she couldn’t.

The air thundered; the ground cracked. More dark poured out of it to meet sword, claw, power, and flame.

The thunder of war rolled its violence across the land.

She led a trio of dragon riders to the waterfall. “Hold the line! None get through but our own.”

She rode through the smoke-choked air, higher, higher still, until she found the fresh. There, she pulled Eian into her mind, her heart, her blood, until she saw him with his chosen forces waging fury on Odran’s guards.

She rode the wind, trusting those left behind to hold back the dark while she flew to its source.

Atop the stone island, across the Dark Sea from the high, raw cliffs, stood the fortress Odran’s greed and power had built.

Its black walls gleamed like glass, and glittering crystals crusted its turrets like spikes.

Eian and his dragon riders battled Odran’s bat-winged demons while below more soldiers of Talamh cut bloody swaths through gargoyles, demon dogs, the bewitched, and the damned.

Power stung the air, the clash of black to white burning it so that it smoked and trembled.

Wild with rage, she flew into it, spinning her dragon so its tail cut through knife-edged wings to send bodies tumbling into the fury of the sea below.

She fought side by side with her son, her hair streaming back, her power burning like a fever. She worked with him to draw those cursed guards away, lure them just enough away while Feys scaled the fortress.

With wing, with claw, with power, with rope, they climbed.

Her eyes met Eian’s. Together they threw power that whirled and spread blinding white, then coalesced into white fire that burst through the barred doors of the black castle.

The Fey flooded in.

“He’ll flee,” Marg called out.

“Aye. He’ll try.”

On his bloodred dragon, Eian flew toward the breach, and Marg after him.

Inside, they met the chaos of war among the ruins of jewels and treasures stolen or conjured in blood for Odran’s pleasures.

Slaves, collared like livestock, ran screaming or huddled in fear.

They fought their way to the keep, through the stench of smoke and blood and the ooze of slayed demons.

He knows where to find him, Marg thought. He can feel Odran while I cannot. It’s blood calling to blood.

“He wants you to find him.” Terrified for her son, she screamed it out. “It’s a trap.”

Eian, eyes storm gray, hair a flame, lifted his sword high. “It’s only a trap if you’re the prey.”

On his dragon, his bold hair streaming behind, Eian streaked over the smoldering bodies of demons and into the keep. The stench of death, burning flesh, boiling blood fouled the air.

Eyes stinging from the smoke, Marg guarded Eian’s flank, slashing, shooting fiery white light. Inside, gold columns, silver tiles glittered behind the haze of war. Wounded, facing death and defeat, Odran’s forces scattered on wing and scale and claw. Eian’s troops pursued, driving demons into the ground, sending them flaming over the high cliffs.

There would be, could be, no surrender, Marg knew. The evil spawned here must be crushed. Any who escaped, wormed their way back into other worlds, would carry the tale of Eian O’Ceallaigh and his soldiers of Talamh.

And would tremble as they spoke his name.

So it must be.

The keep, a maze of curves and plundered riches, echoed with the clash of swords, the shrieks and merciless spurts of flame. Desperate to keep her son in sight, Marg fought her way through even as the knife-edge of a black wing scored down her arm before she turned it to ash.

There, in the throne room, he sat, wildly handsome and still on a towering throne adorned with the skulls and bones of those he’d slain in his relentless search for power.

His golden hair fell shining to his shoulders under a crown of clear crystal and brilliant jewels. He wore gold, trews and tunic, belted with more jewels.

And sat smiling the smile that had seduced a young woman reaching for love to shine over her own powers.

Even now, she thought, even now he radiated sexuality and charm, almost irresistible through the stink of blood and death.

“Ah, my beloved and my son.” His voice, deep, drugging, dangerous, seemed to stroke like a lover’s fingers. “Come now, come. Sit by my right and left hands as has always been meant.”

“Stand,” Eian demanded, and leaped off his dragon, sword in hand. “Stand or meet your death on your arse.”

“Such harsh words, such a price already paid in the blood of your people. And all for a whining brat you chose to make with a weak, powerless woman from a world beneath your rank. And all because I wished a bit of private time with my granddaughter—such as she is.”

“She is more than you.” Marg stayed mounted, every sense tuned for the trap. “Stronger and brighter.”

“Do you think so, beloved?” Odran spoke mildly. “She is my blood. She is mine by right, and so is whatever pitiful power she holds.”

“She will never be yours.”

Odran spared Eian a glance. “The day will come when I drink every drop of what she is.”

“Stand,” Eian ordered again. His eyes, storm gray with power, stared from a face streaked with blood and soot.

“Your creatures bleed and burn as those who can slink back to their hells. Your palace of lies crumbles around you. The day has come for you to pay for what you did to my mother, to me, to my child. Draw your sword, Odran the Damned, and meet me like a man.”

Slowly, deliberately, Odran stood. “But I am not a man. I am a god.”

He threw out his arms. The gale he called blew Eian off his feet, nearly unseated Marg. For a moment, only a moment, she spun wild and without control.

“I am not the prey,” Eian told her. “Be ready.”

She saw the quick shock on Odran’s face as Eian lunged toward him. A moment was enough for demons, dozens of them, to crawl through the gold walls and silver floors.

As she cried out for her son to mount again, dozens more Talamh forces raged into the throne room.

Then a sword was in Odran’s hand, obsidian dark against Eian’s silver. The clash shook the columns, sent spiderwebs of cracks along the floor.

“Lead them out!” Eian shouted. “Get everyone out.” And, pushing a hand into the air, he sent the roof of the keep spiraling up with a thunderous roar.

Faeries poured through to slash at the demons and swoop up any Talamh forces that couldn’t take to the air on their own. Though her heart banged in her throat, Marg did as her son ordered.