Chapter 21
Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 20
Arthur slides a look at Dr Seward, who seems to be adjusting something at his sleeve when Darcy gives Llew her normal glare, as he walks closer to the middle of the library again, tries to make out what Darcy’s father makes of the sudden and clearly magical appearance of Llew.
Llew is ignoring everyone except Darcy, in any case.
“We’re under attack,” he informs her.
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Pushing her papa’s arm down from where he had put himself half between her and Llew, Darcy gets to her feet with a sigh and nod. Then she reassures Llew that she knows her duties, of course she will protect this place. What is the situation?
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Arthur’s not sure what to make of Dr Seward’s expression at Darcy’s answer. He seems… surprised? Well, Arthur supposes he wouldn’t be used to his daughter protecting castles… But then he seems to come to a decision, steps back to stand at Darcy’s side and pulls out a notebook. He fixes Llew with a look of intense, unblinking attention that Arthur is glad he’s not on the receiving end of.
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Llew doesn’t have much more information than that there’s an attack on the wards, a magical attack, out beyond the rose gardens- which is the point where the wards run the closest to the house itself, apparently, because of the angle of the road leading up to their driveway. He announces that he’s needed elsewhere, and vanishes as suddenly as he appeared, before Gregory can even finish announcing: “Leave it to us!”
Gregory would’ve run right out the door, but Darcy looks to Arthur for suggestions.
That means Dr Seward also looks in his direction, and Arthur swallows and hopes his voice doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels.
He suggests, of course, that they approach carefully and use the garden for cover- since they don’t know what they’re up against.
He doesn’t know why anyone would want to just run head-long into a dangerous situation, but he also knows Gregory and Darcy well enough to know that they just might.
Since they all also know that Darcy’s sneaking skills are non-existent even when she’s as small as a normal bat, Gregory grins and says: “I’ll carry you! Hop on!” and turns into Pretty.
Arthur slides a look at Dr Seward, but Darcy’s father doesn’t argue and actually agrees when Arthur suggests that they should bring up the rear.
He’s not sure whether he wishes Dr Seward had- he’s certainly not going to argue with Darcy’s father! But that also means that Dr Seward is only a few feet away from him when they leave through the salon’s French doors and head out into the garden, following Pretty and Darcy, and that is far closer than Arthur is comfortable with.
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Arthur can tell something is wrong before they ever reach the edge of the wards- the garden feels wrong, looks wrong. Leaves are drooping on hedges and bushes, petals falling from blossoms, but more than that… the light is off. Yes, it’s late and dark out (and why is it always dark when something happens?) but there is a… kind of diffuse glow. It’s not the clean silver of moon and stars, but somehow murky. Not foggy- more like they’re underwater.
Shadows are stretching in weird, liquid ways, and the air smells like stale water.
Up ahead, the wards, which have always been invisible to him, are glimmering with rainbow hues. It looks like one of the soap bubbles he remembers seeing at a toy store once, his and Gregory’s dirty hands and noses pressed against the windows to look at the wonders inside until the proprietor chased them away. Only this bubble is huge, arching up high over their heads and disappearing into the night. And there are spots in it, purplish-green like bruises.
They sneak closer, ducked behind rose bushes and hedges. Dr Seward is much better at sneaking than his daughter, it turns out. And not freaked out by weird shadows and glowing magic wards.
Arthur’s not sure whether he expected him to freak out- after all, he has a daughter who is a dhampir, maybe he’s used to this sort of thing?
At least his attention is on that translucent, shimmering wall ahead, and not on Arthur. Especially when they crouch behind the same bush, at a corner of the meandering garden paths, before them a stretch of grass and a last scatter of bushes before the end of the property.
Just beyond it, there are spell circles, three of them. They are glowing in the grass with a cold, purple light.
Arthur knows he should try and see the symbols and figure out how it all works, but his attention is arrested by what’s in the first circle, which butts up right against the wards. Lit with the purple glow from below, there’s a stag. A big one, with huge antlers full of many pointy ends. It’s standing frozen, and the angle of the light renders its form strange and otherworldly. But more than that, what locks Arthur’s breath in his throat and sparks queasy coldness in his gut, are the rings and splotches of purple light eating at fur and flesh- and the liquid dark eyes of the animal, staring white-rimmed.
It’s alive.
It’s still alive, even though the magic has eaten its legs away to the bone, and Arthur can see ribs and a shoulder blade appear under that silent, corrosive purple glow.
The magic is burning up the animal far too fast for Arthur to help it, to save it, it’s already too late for that- but not nearly fast enough to make it a fast and merciful death.
It makes tears sting in Arthur’s eyes, makes his lower lip quiver so he has to bite it. It makes his heart hurt.
It makes him want to stop what’s happening, desperately, and that means he needs to stop feeling and start doing.
He flicks his eyes around, tries to parse the gloom and shadows, take in the whole scene, understand what’s happening.
A fox is in the circle to the right of the stag, crouched and frozen and being eaten by the magic, and an owl in the circle on the left. It’s lying on its back, claws curled and wings splayed, white feathers turning to dust. Arthur remembers the owl that came sit on Darcy’s shoulder when they walked through the forest behind Newholm, and he hopes it’s not the same one.
He can’t make out the symbols on the circles from here, grass blades obscure them and his angle is bad, crouched down as he is. But he can see the form of a man, right in the centre of the triangle formed by the circles, his arms outstretched as if he’s bracing a great weight.
Arthur recognizes him, too.
It’s the apprentice from the forest in Newholm.
Which means… He swallows hard, feels fear clawing at the rationality he’s trying to impose.
It means they’re being attacked by the Shiver.
It means his father could be out there. Out there in the dark, beyond the glow, in the trees that separate the grounds from the road. Only that fragile soap bubble of the wards between Arthur and him.
The fragile soap bubble that has those bruise-like spots growing in it, eating away at it to form dark little pinpricks of no soap-bubble shimmer.
He doesn’t know enough about fey magic- not nearly enough. But that magic attacking the wards must be death magic- the sacrifices of the animals, and the apprentice to a necromancer, and… and that would make it even more likely that his father would be nearby.
Arthur kind of hopes it’s the apprentice’s master, instead.
Or just the apprentice by himself.
Anyway, there’s a ritual, and it’s death magic, and they have to interrupt it.
Except it’s beyond the wards, and so is, maybe, his father. Their attackers anyway.
Breaking the circles would probably work, although there’s a lot of power flowing through them, so who knows what that’d do.
Taking out the apprentice would probably be the better option- where he’s standing, it’s clear that he’s the one channelling the magic, connecting the circles, probably aiming the power they generate at the wards.
Rendering him unconscious would do, maybe even just distracting him… maybe.
Arthur remembers the feeling from when he did the ritual, the way it was like the power was sweeping him along- distracting the man might merely make the power spiral out of control.
It would be better if Arthur could figure out what exactly the circles were doing, how they were set up, whether there’s a weak spot in them.
But for that, he’d have to get a whole lot closer.
And even then- what could he do? He’s pretty sure he can’t cast through the wards- they’re wards, stopping things is what they’re there for.
But while his thoughts race, the animals in the circles are still dying- the stag is a skeleton from the neck down, still frozen, and still its eyes are liquid and alive.
Arthur isn’t sure where Pretty and Darcy are, but he knows exactly when she catches sight of the animals- there’s a snarl from ahead and to the side, and suddenly she’s charging across the grass at the wards.
Then there is a low thrum, and Darcy staggers as something thick and black streaks by her, hits the lawn behind her with a meaty sound- it’s stubby and there’s flat, pointy shapes sticking out… fletching, Arthur realizes, it’s a crossbow bolt. A very big and heavy crossbow bolt and he feels cold at the idea of being hit with something like that and casts his eyes around to see where it came from. The light from the spells and the wards and the weird shadows make it hard to see.
But then something moves, a shape in the bushes beyond the wards, next to the left circle with the owl. It’s a man, a solid-looking man with dark hair and a beard, his skin looking weirdly whitish-blue in the light, and he’s raising and pointing a very big crossbow with another very big bolt at Darcy.
Then there’s a roar, and suddenly Gregory’s demon form is there, charging past Darcy as she regains her balance, towards the man. The crossbow twangs, and Gregory stumbles- Arthur can’t tell if he’s hit, or where, or how serious it is.
The man with the crossbow crouches down- reloading, Arthur thinks. Not fast enough, he judges, because both Gregory and Darcy are back on their feet, rushing him.
Thick snakes lash out of the darkness at them- no, not snakes, ropes, each one the size of a man’s wrist- the kind you see on ships, in harbours.
They’re moving as if they have a mind of their own, wrap around Gregory’s limbs and send him, struggling, to the ground, while Darcy, being smaller, manages to dodge.
More magic, maybe, or an aberration.
In either case, it’s giving the man with the crossbow time to reload. Arthur considers the options, decides Gregory can handle it, after all, he always says how sturdy he is, and casts fire on the wiggling bundle in the grass- half strength, just to be safe.
The ropes do catch, and Arthur hopes he hasn’t just made things worse for Gregory.
In the foremost circle, the stag finally collapses, in eerie silence, nothing but a pile of bones and antlers, and the magic starts eating those, too. As it falls, and dies, Arthur hopes, the spots of corruption on the wards bloom like a stain in water.