The Hour of Dust and Ashes

“Smart-ass,” he muttered, falling in step beside me.

I took it as the compliment it was.

It was a short drive to the 10th Street entrance of the Grove, formerly known as Piedmont Park, where the Kinfolk—the local nymph population—made their home. The nymphs had bought much of the park, put up a tall iron fence around their territory, and called it home. They’d built a Stonehenge on Oak Hill, and had somehow made the trees grow to incredible heights. Entering the Grove was like stepping back in time to the days when ancient forests blotted out the sun and tribes of Celtic gods and warriors ruled the land.

The iron fence loomed above us as we made our way to the massive gate. I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on me and kept looking over my shoulder and across the street to the buildings and cars and shadows. Nervous unease mixed with the energized tingle from the darkness above, fueling my tension and anxiety. I swallowed the manic feeling, trying to quell its rise and regulate my thoughts.

“Charlie,” Hank said. “Before we go in …” He paused at the gate, swiped a hand through his hair, and frowned, staring for a moment at the city skyline. “There’s something I want to tell you. About that name Llyran called me. Malakim.”

I blinked. Now? Now he was going to share, right before we went to see Pen, right when we were standing out in the open, being watched? Hank had insane timing, but at the same time, I really did want to know about him, his past, and the things he never talked about. Still … “Okay. You said it was a title, a form of greeting someone.”

“In a way … yes.”

A tingle of worry slipped down my spine as though he was about to drop a major bombshell that I couldn’t live with.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to know, didn’t want anything to mess with whatever was happening between us. “You want to go have coffee after this? Sit and talk?”

“No,” he began with a hint of frustration. “Look, ite was goi;s not exactly easy to get this out and tell you what I’ve—”

“You two going to stand out there forever?” came a voice through the gate.

The hinges whined. Killian stepped out in his usual dark clothing, taking one last drag on his cigarette before grinding it into the palm of his hand, and then flicking it into the trash can nearby.

Sadist.

He saw my thought and grinned.

11

Killian led us a few yards down the straight path toward the lake. With no light filtering from above, the thick woods on either side of us appeared impenetrable. Of course, it didn’t help that the nymphs’ motto to anyone visiting the Grove was Stay on the path. Don’t stray from the path. Could make anyone feel a bit anxious.

This time, however, our guide stepped off the stone path, between two burning torches, and led us into the dark woods. Our footsteps were muted by the soft ground. Sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the snap of a twig, an owl call—were louder than I’d expected. Nymphs populated these woods, running free, letting their animal selves out to play, maybe even to hunt …

The land rose as we progressed and finally the trees thinned to give way to Oak Hill, crowned by a ring of enormous stone monoliths at least eighteen feet high and capped with lintel stones. Inside of this massive ring were five trilithons arranged in a horseshoe pattern. The center trilithon was the highest stone in the ring, rising even above the height of the outer ring. From this, the next two on either side dropped in height, followed by the outer two, which dropped as well, but all were taller than the outer ring.

I’d only seen the site from the main path, but even from that distance, the power emitting from the stone ring had coursed through me like a pulsating subwoofer.

The closer we came to the top of the hill, the more the power intensified. The constant, deep whoosh, whoosh, whoosh had a slightly nauseating effect on me, and the drop in air pressure clouded my hearing.

Pendaran, the Druid King, stood in the center of the horseshoe, where a large gray stone slab rested on two fat stones. The altar stone. And even though the stone monoliths rose several feet above him, it didn’t do a damn thing to diminish his stature or his presence. In fact, he fit right in.

He wore dark drawstring pants and a plain black T-shirt. His feet were bare. One hand was out, palm down on the stone. His head was bowed and eyes were closed, but even from this distance I saw that his profile was grim. His left side faced us, giving me a glimpse of the winding tattoo that ran up his neck, over his jaw, ear, and temple, disappearing into thick black hair.

I knew from seeing him—all of him—on an earlier occasion that his entire left side was inked with Celtic-style, interlacing symbols that ran from his toes all the way up to his temple. The guy was huge, solid, and brutal-looking. He’d earned his place as king and his title as druid, not by birth or vote, but by having indisputable strength, size, and power. He hadn’t been given his role—he’d taken it.

There weren’t many nymphs out there who could challenge a dragon and win. I’d seen the Druid King in action in his animal form. I’d watched his black wings stretch to the size of jet wings and I’d seen how deadly he was with his teeth and talons.

Good thing he was an ally; and that was something I wanted to preserve.

Killian cleared his throat, way too softly for Pen to hear, but the druid apparently had extraordinary hearing; he glanced over his shoulder. An abalone shimmer filtered over his irises and disappeared. His hand slid off the stone and with it went the intense power being conducted through the stones. The energy dropped to a low pulse.

Relief washed through me. Much easier to manage now, thank goodness.

Killian gestured us into the circle. As I walked over the cushy grass and closer to Pendaran in the center, the lines of worry on his face began to take shape.

“I’m afraid”—his head tipped back, mouth twisting into a brooding line as he scowled at the dark, moving sky; a troubled sigh parted his lips—“this is only the beginning …” With a quick glance flicked our way, he strode past us. “Walk with me.”

Pendaran’s manner wasn’t at all what I expected. A sense of sadness and foreboding surrounded his big form as he passed me, his long strides eating up the ground. Whatever was bothering him seemed to have an instant effect on my frame of mind, as though his mood engulfed everything in its path.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, trailing the Druid King down the hill and through the dark woods. My mood and the quiet air of the place made it seem like the weight of the world had settled over the Grove.

The air was cool and clean here, the tall trees filtering out the scents of the city around the park. I breathed deeply in an attempt to release some of the heaviness I felt.

As soon as I started to relax, a familiar gentle whisper glided easily into my mind. I smiled. Soothing. Feminine. An instant calm. My tension dropped like a stone. I acknowledged the voice without words, but with a smile, a welcome.

Only occasionally did I understand Ahkneri’s voice, sometimes through words, sometimes through emotion. And here, of course, it would be loudest.

Pendaran led us into the temple complex, which surrounded Lake Clara Meer. The temple seemed to grow from the ground itself; made of colossal carved timber, every precaution taken to honor nature, to incorporate it into the complex instead of destroying it. It felt sacred here. A church beneath the sky. Blessed and sanctioned by Mother Nature.

It wasn’t until we were through the main temple and into the common courtyard area with a view of the lake that Pendaran stopped, ordering the three female nymphs sitting at one of the nearby tables to leave. Once they fled, he parked his rear end on a similar table and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I take it you’re here about the Old Lore.”

“Have you found anything yet?” I asked.