Conspiracies (Mercedes Lackey) - By Mercedes Lackey Page 0,25

standing in a challenging pose in the middle of the sidewalk, as if daring her to pass. A black blot that seemed to absorb all the sunlight, staring at her—he didn’t wear the black-washed armor and helm of her dreams, but she knew him, knew what he was, as he stared at her from beneath the brim of a black hat, black trench coat down to his ankles, open to the breeze, and showing black jeans and a tight black tee.

She froze like a scared baby bunny.

Then a little mob of grade school kids came around the corner, laughing and shrieking, and she turned involuntarily. And when she looked back, he was gone.

He—they—were something she remembered from her dreams, the menacing Knights of the Shadow.

But he, or more like him, kept popping up, and soon they appeared whether she was alone or not. Staring at her out of a crowd of spectators at a game. Lurking outside the school, right where she would see him when she looked out the window. Cruising by in a black SUV. And nobody else seemed to see him—or them, if there was more than one.

At that point, she wanted to think she really was finally going crazy. Because being crazy would have been better than what her dreams were telling her, what her instinct and everything she’d experienced was telling her.

Her dreams weren’t fantasy. They were truth. She’d been Yseult of Ireland, wife of Mark, lover of Tristan. Sorceress, healer. She was back—and so, somewhere, were Mark and Tristan. And so were … others. How many others, she didn’t know for sure, but she knew of one, whose name she shuddered even to think about. The one the Shadow Knights served. The one who meant the Shadow Knights to claim her and make her kneel at his feet, surrendering her power to him.

Of course, her family stood between her and him and not even the Shadow Knights could do anything about that. This was the twenty-first century after all. Not even he could just waltz in and take her from her parents. So even if the dreams and all were true, she was safe—

Until he killed her family.

And now she was here.

Doctor Ambrosius was no protection; if he wasn’t senile—which she was half convinced he was—he still had no idea what he was really up against. She knew Oakhurst was part of his plots—or she wouldn’t be here—but was Doctor Ambrosius an unwitting dupe … or one of his henchmen? Without knowing, she couldn’t warn him outright. He hadn’t listened to her hints—and worse, she’d already heard some of the kids had already gone missing from this place, no matter what Doctor Ambrosius said. It wasn’t nearly as safe here at Oakhurst as he claimed it was. It wasn’t safe from him.

So here she was, in the middle of nowhere, no idea who to trust, and not a familiar face in sight. Except for Mark—who she did not want to meet again—and Tristan, she’d never known any of the other ones likely to come back. She wouldn’t recognize them, so how could she find someone it was safe to trust her warnings to?

And even if she did figure out who they were—would they even listen?

* * *

“Tell me I’m brilliant,” Addie begged with a grin.

“You’re brilliant,” Spirit replied, going along with it. “You got the sketch?”

Addie nodded, and pulled a couple of sketch pads out of the bag she had slung over one shoulder. The others gathered around their usual “study” table in the lounge as Addie flipped the pads open and started passing them around as cover for the one they really wanted to see.

They all made appreciative or critical noises as she cast a cautious look around to see if anyone was watching them. She must have been satisfied that no one was, because she pulled a piece of onionskin from the back pages of the pad and laid it over the sketch of the oak tree. Spirit and the rest bent over it.

“You were dead right, Spirit,” Addie told her, a little grimly, as they all studied the marks now made plain on the tree. “I could feel something kind of pushing my eyes away while I was working. There is some very powerful magic on that tree. What do you think, people?”

“These aren’t natural,” Burke agreed, his finger starting to trace one of the signs, then pulling away, reluctantly.

“They look familiar, but I can’t place from where,” Muirin observed, then