Blackbird Broken (The Witch King's Crown #2) - Keri Arthur Page 0,26

Leeds.” I glanced at the nearby street sign. “Primrose Lane, just near the park there.”

“And the Aranea?”

“He’s sitting in the car outside a small terrace.” I paused. “I know there’s a kid inside, but I’m not sure who else is.”

“The kid can’t be his—halflings are usually sterile.”

“Usually means there is some leeway.”

“Well, yes, because we haven’t examined all halflings.” Her voice sounded a little exasperated, though I suspected it wasn’t aimed at me.

“Have you and Barney sealed the gateway under the funeral place?”

“Yes, and a damn hard task it was too.”

I frowned. “None of them are particularly easy to seal, so what made this one different?”

“There was a spell woven into the fabric of its construction that repelled other magics. It had to be unpicked first.”

“Was it dark elf in origin?”

“Yes, and from a hierarchical level. If the nobility is now getting involved, they must be very certain the main gate will soon be opened.”

My frown deepened. “If they know how to create gates, why would they need the main gate opened? Why wouldn’t they just create another big one and attack en masse?”

“Because the existing gateways weren’t created by either their magic or ours, but rather a major force of some kind that briefly had the two planes intersecting. As a result, multiple coplanar points—or gateways—formed.”

Which was the first time I’d actually heard it fully explained like that. For the most part these days, the gateways were simply shrugged off and accepted.

“Which doesn’t address the point of them simply creating new ones.”

“If they’d been able to create gateways in any sort of numbers, they would have done so by now. Remember, the coplanar points have existed for almost as long as recorded history.”

“Yes, but—”

“The gateway under the funeral director’s was sourced from the magic of at least three high-ranking elves,” she continued. “The threads of said magic were entwined in a way I’ve not seen before, and contained the stink of death. I suspect the elves responsible for it may have died.”

“The elves wouldn’t care—not from the little we know of them, anyway.”

“That may be true of the warriors, but the hierarchy is a different matter. They are more dangerous than the warriors and yet far fewer in number.”

“Do you think the gateway I found under the drain is another fresh one? Its construction is certainly different to the one we found in Ainslyn.”

“Possibly, although it could also be a previously unknown entrance that’s been rebuilt in recent times. The existence of gateways has been known to fluctuate over the centuries—it’s almost as if the connection between our worlds stretches and snaps, and then is slowly mended again.”

“Huh.” I glanced toward the house as the curtains twitched again. The pale face that appeared this time was a woman’s. That the kid wasn’t alone didn’t in any way ease the tension within. “What do you want me to do?”

“Keep an eye on the place and see what the Aranea does. I might ask Luc to head over to help you out.”

“The Aranea could move again before he’s even halfway here, and we both know it. Stop meddling, Mo.”

She chuckled. “I’ve spent my entire life meddling—why on earth would I stop it now?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll give you a call if the situation changes.”

“If you do happen to lose him, I’ll meet you back home.”

“Okay.”

I shoved my phone away and then crossed my arms and leaned against the tree. The Aranea hadn’t moved; if not for the faint glow of his phone’s screen highlighting his thin features, it would have been easy to believe he’d fallen asleep.

The rain swept in again and big fat drops fell around me. I shivered. My coat was waterproof, but it wasn’t exactly warm, and the day was getting colder. Or maybe it just seemed that way thanks to the fact the lower part of my body was utterly drenched.

Once again, time ticked slowly by. I couldn’t help but wonder if the unmoving presence in the driveway at all worried the woman inside the house. If it’d been me, I’d have called the cops … or grabbed my knives and gone out there to confront him.

My fingers twitched, and I couldn’t help wishing I’d brought them with me. Something odd was happening, and I really hated not having their comforting weight strapped to my thighs or feeling the inner pulse of their power.

As if in response to that thought, my fingers tingled and burned—a ghostly echo of the force that usually ran through the daggers.