Shadows Before the Sun

I found him not far from me on his back. He groaned and let out a soft curse.

Leander knelt down and slid the lid into place. As soon as he did, a vacuum of . . . normalcy fell over the henge.

Done.

Sachâth was gone. A disbelieving laugh bubbled out of me.

Leander hefted the box, which had to weigh a couple hundred pounds, onto his shoulder, balancing it with one hand. He approached, stopping at my feet. “Nice work, Detective. You and your friends have done what the Archons could not.”

“How?” How was it even possible that we had done it, and they—some of the most powerful beings ever created—hadn’t?

“Because they never had that kind of backup before. There were no Druid Kings, no henges, no powerful sirens back then who could wound Sachâth or hold it off long enough to allow a Disciple to strike a suicide blow. You don’t think they tried?” He shrugged and said simply, “We had to wait until such a time came . . .”

“We?”

He waved the question away. “We. The world. All of us with a stake in the future. But this day, this day we won, and my brother had his revenge.”

“Your brother. He was your brother.”

Leander paused. “Brother. Son. Father. Don’t seek to know my world, Charlie Madigan. You won’t like what you find.”

“His revenge cost him his life.”

“His revenge set Asaria free.”

“He loved her.”

Leander shrugged. “That, too. You woke him by reading the tablet. Your power led him here to take his revenge. It was his to take, not mine.”

“What are you, Leander? Disciple or First One?”

His mouth dipped down. “We’ll have to work on your listening skills.”

“You touched the sword.”

“I did. Try not to let it keep you up at night.”

Hank’s groan drew our attention as he pulled himself to a sitting position, plowed his fingers through his hair, and then surveyed the scene. “We actually pulled it off,” he said, amazed.

“You and your siren will be seeing more of me,” Leander said to me. “Plenty of time to beat your brains out over who and what I am. Remember what I told you in Fiallan, Charlie? The shit storm is coming. And suddenly here I am with a divine being and the only siren in existence who can wield two of the most powerful Source Words ever created. The question is, what I am going to do with you?” He regarded us with cunning in his golden eyes. “I’ll be in touch.”

He walked away.

“I’m not the only divine being around, you know,” I called after him. “And Sachâth is gone . . .”

Leander spun around, his face dark. “You’d better pray Ahkneri never rises, for if she does I will end her once and for all.”

With that he turned and strode out of the fallen henge.

Too exhausted to think about Leander’s words, I let my head fall against the rock behind me and closed my eyes. After a time had passed, I rolled from a sitting position to my front and belly crawled slowly over the grass to where Hank sat, one leg out, one drawn up with his arms resting over his knee. His head hung low. His side was bleeding badly and his thigh was drenched in blood.

I collapsed next to him, struggling to catch my breath before rolling onto my back and scooting up to sit. Several nymphs stood outside the henge, all with pale, stunned faces. And that’s when it registered. “Holy cow.” The henge was down. Every stone but one had fallen outward, blown out by the force of Sachâth’s death.

The only stone that remained standing was the middle trilithon. And it still glowed a faint, strange gray . . . For a moment it seemed to brighten and then dim as a shadow filled it and Pen stepped out.

He strode over until his foot was inches from mine and glared down at us. “I thought you were wounded,” I said.

He rolled his eyes, then one eyebrow arched. “Druid King.”

I laughed through the pain. Arrogant bastard. “Sorry about your henge,” I said, glancing around.

“They can be raised.” He stared at the broken altar stone, then at me. He held out his hand, and for a moment I thought he was offering to help me up, but he said, “My amulet.”

Hank reached over, lifted it from my neck, and tossed it to Pen. “I’m keeping the tome,” Pen told us. “You have one more week to figure out who murdered Killian. I’m tired of waiting.” With that he strode out of the circle and the nymphs turned and followed him.

Hank looked at the trilithon in envy, and I knew he was thinking about how easily Pen had healed. “Guess it’s good to be king, huh?” he said, gruffly.

“Yeah. No doubt.” I stared up at what little darkness remained. Powerful stuff, that. “You going to crash like you did last time?” I asked Hank. Using power words sapped sirens of strength and energy, causing them to fall into sleep, a deep sleep while their bodies recuperated from the intensive drain.

The limp hand hanging over his knee turned, so that the brand on his palm was visible. He stared at it a long time.

“Probably,” he answered. “Last time I used one of the Source Words, Panopé gave me back all the energy it took to use it, or at least I think she did. But using it feels different than the normal words we use.”

“Different how?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face, and then stared off into nothing. “I don’t know. More natural, easier in some ways . . . It’s part of me like my regular power never was.”

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “Source Words are supposed to be innate to specific sirens, so maybe that’s why. It’s part of your makeup, your niche. Destruction and Creation are your things. Which”—I slid him a pained smile —“is hot, by the way. I think you should create me a vacation.”

Hank chuckled. “I’ll work on it. That whole divine being thing is pretty hot, too. And you with a sword?” He rubbed his chest and grinned. “Sexy as hell.”

I rolled my eyes. But talking like this helped distract from the pain, made it bearable.

“You gonna be okay while I’m out?” he asked.

I was about to answer him, but then it struck me and struck me hard. What we’d done . . . “We did it, Hank. It’s over.”

He smiled down at me, the crooked smile of his that made my chest feel light, yet tight at the same time. Then he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “We sure did, angel face.”

I laughed, wincing as the movement jarred my side. “Ha. I draw the line at any and all divinity jokes.”

“Aw, c’mon. I was just getting started.”

“You know what else?” I said, filled with happiness.

“What?”

“I can bring back the sun.”

22

THREE DAYS LATER . . .

“If you want to live long enough to see the light of day, then you’d better unhand the snickerdoodles.” Rex glared at me.

I grinned with my mouth full, chewing—and savoring every bite of—the snickerdoodles Rex had made for our picnic at Stone Mountain. I swallowed. “Since I happen to be the one bringing the light, I think I’ll live.”

The happiness and sense of wholeness I felt was still a bit of a novelty. Hank was back. Sachâth was dead. The darkness overhead was about to be lifted. And I’d come into my divine powers. They weren’t exactly the