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After all these years…he’d gotten so close. The ashen smell that hung in the air settled into his lungs like a bitter coating, reminding him of his failure. Aldor was tempted to plunge his sword into the scout’s heart just to assuage his fury. Not that it would. He would be blamed for this entitled brat’s lapse in judgment. There was no hiding their presence now. There was no way to undo the damage now done. He’d arrived too late. Just like all those years ago.
“There was a dragon. Who was the other?” he pressed on, reminding himself that killing the scout wouldn’t fix this mess.
“A vetala,” the scout mumbled with venom in his voice.
Aldor raised a brow. “A vampire?”
The scout grunted in pain and confirmation.
The blood in Aldor’s veins grew hot. He wasn’t completely surprised to discover that others were hunting the Star. As the years had stretched on, he’d grown more and more wary that someone else would catch the trail. He was astonished—and beyond furious—that they’d managed to find it first. Snatched from under his nose—by a vampire and a dragon, it would seem. An odd pairing.
Aldor glanced over at the scout with utter disgust. “You’re lucky your father is in Court,” he seethed. “Otherwise I’d kill you myself.”
The scout glared back with mirrored loathing. Aldor was used to being looked at in such a way. With hatred. Especially by his mistress’s paladins. They all despised him. What he was. A half-breed. Cursed. Not worthy of breathing their same air, let alone walking the sacred halls of the Temple of Strye.
Hated or not, they still answered to him. “Withdraw from the city,” he ordered the paladins. “Return to the Temple. Tell the others. And make sure,” he added, motioning to the scout, “this one reports to the High Priestess directly.”
The scout’s face went white as a sheet. He knew what would come when he returned home to deliver the news of their failure to his High Priestess. Aldor could not punish a highborn, but his mistress was another tale. Nestra was going to be displeased. Greatly displeased. Their plan to capture the Star was not only unsuccessful, it was now also public. Word would soon spread to King Thurin and the whole of the island that zephyrs had been seen in the outside world. Aldor was far from a coward, but he did not want to be the first to take on his mistress’s ire. The scout would do well enough.
The moment the paladins were gone and he was alone, Aldor picked up the woman’s purse from underneath a bit of rubble and dumped it onto a table. He pushed several bars of chocolate out of the way and found her wallet.
Seeing her face so clearly gave him pause. She had the same chestnut brown hair, chin, and lips of a woman he’d hunted nearly three decades ago now. A woman he’d thought had possessed the Star. When he’d finally found her, he’d been surprised to discover not only that she’d been a mere human, but that she was also dead. A car accident.
This woman was younger but similarly unremarkable in features. Only her eyes were anything of note. A vibrant green that would be burned into his memory forever. The same green as the eyes of the mage who’d stolen the Star out from under him all those years ago.
She will bring the world to its knees, Jacard had told him.
She is perfect.
This is only the beginning.
It was the last thing the mage had said before he’d burst a vial of scarab powder, condemning them both to die—or so the mage had thought. Aldor had managed to survive. The mage had not been so lucky.
Those moss-colored eyes seemed to glare up at him from that little plastic card. Taunting him. Gwendolyn Moore.
Jacard was already dying when Aldor had managed to track him down all those years ago. The mage had touched the magick of the Star, but he’d not been strong enough to wield it. He had, apparently, been strong enough to hide it.
Aldor recalled the agonizing breath he’d sucked in on the floor of that dingy hotel next to the disintegrating bones of Jacard. The lifeless form of a single, vibrant, gold-and-teal arcane moth at the bottom of the jar in his pocket. A rare creature only found in the wilds of the sacred dryad forest. If not for that tiny moth and its ability to revive the dying just before they became the dead, Aldor would have been on his way to the gates of oblivion alongside the mage.
Jacard had taken Aldor by surprise, but, like most, the mage had underestimated him. He’d managed to live and track down the mysterious woman whom he’d discovered the mage had been secretly meeting. Only she was also dead, and apparently no one of significance. The trail had run cold. The Star lost again.
Never was there record of a child. Not even a whisper. Aldor didn’t know how she’d managed to remain hidden, but it didn’t matter now.
He plucked the ID out and slid it into his jacket pocket.
“Still poking around?” a woman said behind him. He spun around. She stood amongst the mess in the hall in a billowing purple dress, her hair a wild, frizzled shock of silver.
“Witch,” he growled.
The same witch the scout had been ordered to watch. The same witch he assumed had helped his enemies escape with his prize. The witch had let the woman flee, or he might have had a chance at capturing her.
He could feel the tendrils of her magicks floating around them, but it would do her little good. Aldor’s curse kept him well-protected against the craft. Unlike most creatures, the witch didn’t bat an eye at his appearance. He’d left his dark glasses off to search the apartment.
“Indeed,” she replied, flashing a small smile. “The coven will be here any second. You’re pressing your luck a little, don’t you think?”
He was out of time.
The witch squinted an appraising eye at him. “It’s been some moons since I’ve run into anyone who’s bathed in the Pool of Mirrors. It’s a heavy burden for someone so young.”
