Billy the Kid & the Vampyres of Vegas (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #5.5) by Michael Scott Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Scott
languages no longer spoken on the Earth Shadowrealm. The creatures were worried; some even sounded frightened. They knew the Shadow was coming. Scathach grinned, showing her own vampire teeth: it was nice to know that she still inspired fear in the blood drinkers.
Catching the rail of the final floor, she heaved herself up onto the penthouse balcony. She stood outside the glass door and peered in to assess the situation. In the center of the huge space was a wooden kitchen chair, and tied to the chair, facing the door, with his back to her, was the man she had come to rescue.
Scathach’s instincts were to charge in and untie him, but over the centuries she had learned to temper her first reactions with caution. Tilting her head to one side, she closed her eyes and allowed her other senses to expand.
Blocking out the acrid, sickly smells of the city, the blood and copper of the vampyre and the paint and plaster of the room, she smelled the man. It was an odor she had not smelled in millennia, strong and heady: honey and wet grass, a hint of sea salt, the muskiness of wet bog land, the tang of peat smoke.
Scathach breathed in deeply, indulging herself for the last time, remembering the man, remembering the time when she had been in love. She had been happy then.
There was only his scent. He was alone in the room. And that was wrong. If he was a prisoner—then where were his guards?
Scathach breathed deeply again, and there, right at the edge of her consciousness, was a second odor. Faint and bitter: the chalkiness of crushed eggshells, the musty ammonia of a fouled nest: the Morrigan. The Crow Goddess had been here.
All this had to be a trap.
Scathach turned and scanned the lightening skies, but there was no sign of the Morrigan. She unsheathed her two short swords, caught the edge of the door, flung it open and launched herself into the room. Rolling across the floor, she came up behind the figure tied to the chair and her left-hand sword flashed, slicing through the thick ropes in one smooth movement.
The man surged out of the chair and spun to face her.
And even though she knew who it was, Scathach felt as if she had been struck a hammer blow.
He was as she remembered him: short, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with eyes the color of wet stone and fine golden hair hanging to his shoulders. He had been born with seven fingers on each hand.
“I knew you would come for me,” he said in the language of ancient Ireland.
“Cuchulain,” she breathed. The only man she had ever loved.
18.
“I’ve gone back to my original name. I’m called Setanta.” He rubbed his wrists, smiling broadly at her. “You’ve not changed in the slightest.” His eyes sparkled. “Except for the hair. Short. I like it.”
“The—the last time I saw you …,” Scathach stammered.
“I was dead.”
The Shadow nodded. Her lips moved before she could find the breath to say the words. “Dead. Aoife and I came for you, but the Morrigan was already carrying your body away.”
“You should have come sooner,” Setanta said quietly. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped past her to look at the rising sun. A thin bar of amber was creeping across the ceiling. “I needed you, Shadow. But you were not there.”
“We came … Aoife and I …” There were bloodred tears on her face now. “We put aside our differences and came for you.”
“Do you know how long it took for me to die on that hillside?” His voice had changed; there was a streak of anger running through it. He walked slowly around the stricken Shadow. “Behind me, my entire army lay ensorcelled and asleep, and before me lay the horde of the Witch Queen. I was left to stand alone against the Queen’s army.”
“And you got what you always wanted: that day you became a legend,” Scathach said quietly. “The stories say that you tied yourself to a stone and that none of the Queen’s army dared approach you until a raven landed on your
Catching the rail of the final floor, she heaved herself up onto the penthouse balcony. She stood outside the glass door and peered in to assess the situation. In the center of the huge space was a wooden kitchen chair, and tied to the chair, facing the door, with his back to her, was the man she had come to rescue.
Scathach’s instincts were to charge in and untie him, but over the centuries she had learned to temper her first reactions with caution. Tilting her head to one side, she closed her eyes and allowed her other senses to expand.
Blocking out the acrid, sickly smells of the city, the blood and copper of the vampyre and the paint and plaster of the room, she smelled the man. It was an odor she had not smelled in millennia, strong and heady: honey and wet grass, a hint of sea salt, the muskiness of wet bog land, the tang of peat smoke.
Scathach breathed in deeply, indulging herself for the last time, remembering the man, remembering the time when she had been in love. She had been happy then.
There was only his scent. He was alone in the room. And that was wrong. If he was a prisoner—then where were his guards?
Scathach breathed deeply again, and there, right at the edge of her consciousness, was a second odor. Faint and bitter: the chalkiness of crushed eggshells, the musty ammonia of a fouled nest: the Morrigan. The Crow Goddess had been here.
All this had to be a trap.
Scathach turned and scanned the lightening skies, but there was no sign of the Morrigan. She unsheathed her two short swords, caught the edge of the door, flung it open and launched herself into the room. Rolling across the floor, she came up behind the figure tied to the chair and her left-hand sword flashed, slicing through the thick ropes in one smooth movement.
The man surged out of the chair and spun to face her.
And even though she knew who it was, Scathach felt as if she had been struck a hammer blow.
He was as she remembered him: short, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with eyes the color of wet stone and fine golden hair hanging to his shoulders. He had been born with seven fingers on each hand.
“I knew you would come for me,” he said in the language of ancient Ireland.
“Cuchulain,” she breathed. The only man she had ever loved.
18.
“I’ve gone back to my original name. I’m called Setanta.” He rubbed his wrists, smiling broadly at her. “You’ve not changed in the slightest.” His eyes sparkled. “Except for the hair. Short. I like it.”
“The—the last time I saw you …,” Scathach stammered.
“I was dead.”
The Shadow nodded. Her lips moved before she could find the breath to say the words. “Dead. Aoife and I came for you, but the Morrigan was already carrying your body away.”
“You should have come sooner,” Setanta said quietly. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped past her to look at the rising sun. A thin bar of amber was creeping across the ceiling. “I needed you, Shadow. But you were not there.”
“We came … Aoife and I …” There were bloodred tears on her face now. “We put aside our differences and came for you.”
“Do you know how long it took for me to die on that hillside?” His voice had changed; there was a streak of anger running through it. He walked slowly around the stricken Shadow. “Behind me, my entire army lay ensorcelled and asleep, and before me lay the horde of the Witch Queen. I was left to stand alone against the Queen’s army.”
“And you got what you always wanted: that day you became a legend,” Scathach said quietly. “The stories say that you tied yourself to a stone and that none of the Queen’s army dared approach you until a raven landed on your
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