But despite the amount of time she was going to lose on this journey, it appeared she would have to wait until she reached the castle before she could talk to someone who had the power to release her.

After sorting through her pebbles, she discarded the ones she didn’t like and slipped twenty-one small, smooth stones into her pocket. The second day of travel was hot and boring. Focusing on her pebbles, she counted and recounted them, and lined them up in rows on one palm, according to size.

Then according to shape. Then color.

Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one.

Toward the end of the day, the wagon train climbed a long, winding incline in the deepening gold of evening light. Sid had made a few more attempts to talk to her young companions without any luck. Resting her head on drawn-up knees, she kept her mouth and nose covered to avoid breathing in the dust kicked up by the horses and wagons ahead of them.

Even as she thought for the dozenth time that surely they had to be stopping soon, a shout sounded ahead, and the wagon lumbered to a halt. Excitedly, the others in the wagon jumped to their feet. As they craned their necks, stood on tiptoe, and exclaimed, Sid stood too, more slowly. Shading her eyes, she looked in the direction everyone else was staring.

The ground fell away from the road in a massive rolling sweep. In the distance, across a rich emerald green land, a huge castle sprawled like a great tawny dragon. Wealth, age, and power were stamped into the stones.

A city crouched supplicant at its feet, and beyond both stretched a sparkling blue body of water.

Unwillingly impressed and intimidated at once, Sid wrapped her arms around her middle. It looked like they were nearing the end of their journey, and she should be talking to someone in power soon enough.

Chapter Four

The long silver knife slid home in Morgan’s side, slicing through the still healing flesh of the original wound. A spear of pain lanced him. Sucking in a harsh breath, he hunched over as he slammed the other man’s hand aside to grab the hilt and yank the blade out. It came free with a gush of fresh, red blood.

The pain made it difficult for him to control his lycanthrope instincts, and the silver from the weapon had not yet hit his system enough to dampen his abilities. He felt his teeth elongate and his face change.

He snarled, “Back off!”

The ghoul who had stabbed him leaped back as if scalded, and his gray face twisted. In an injured Cockney accent, he accused, “’Ey now, that ain’t very friendly-like, and after I done you a favor too.”

“You didn’t do me any favors,” Morgan snapped. “I paid you quite handsomely to stick a knife in me.”

He could feel the silver’s poison beginning to burn through his veins, and his features eased back to normal. He’d kept his Beretta close, in case the ghoul decided to betray him, but the creature looked spooked and ready to bolt out of the alley.

“You is one crazy motherfucker,” the ghoul declared. “You didn’t say nuthin ’bout bein’ no lycanthrope! What if you ’ad taken off me hand for sticking you like we ’ad agreed?”

“I didn’t, did I?” He pressed hard to staunch the bleeding. Elation threaded through the pain. The geas hadn’t kicked in to force him to protect himself. He had just gained weeks more of freedom. “Let me know if you want to make the same amount next month too.”

Greed warred with caution on the ghoul’s long, mournful features, and for a moment he looked remarkably like Giles had when Morgan had last seen the doctor.

“I dunno,” the ghoul muttered. “What if next time you doesn’t manage to control that beast of yourn?”

“Up to you,” Morgan said, losing interest in the creature. Having bought himself more time, he could always find someone else to hire for the deed.

“’Ey now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Calculation glittered in the ghoul’s eyes. “But I’m thinkin’ there may be a price hike for me services. I could use a little danger money as a bit o’ insurance.”

Morgan coughed out an unamused laugh and didn’t bother to reply. He had already paid the ghoul more than enough. Limping out of the alley, he took a careful look around. It was the early hours of the morning, and the London street was deserted.

Walking carefully to his parked Audi, he eased behind the wheel and drove to the rooms he had rented. The small furnished flat was quiet and private, tucked at the end of a mews in a comfortable neighborhood.

When he had initially walked the streets of the neighborhood, he had found no hint of any major Power nearby, and the scents he picked up were mostly human. The location was perfect for his purposes, unremarkable in every way.

As his magical abilities had gradually returned, he had cast subtle cloaking spells around the area that would repel all but the most intelligent and determined eyes from noticing the red front door that led to the flat.

Then he began to gather any texts that were reputed to make mention of Azrael’s Athame, even if only in passing. Late one night, he drove to Oxford to slip into the Bodleian Library. One of the oldest libraries in Europe, the Bodleian had an extensive wing devoted to the history, politics, folklore, religions, and magic systems of the Elder Races.

The library was guarded by gargoyles and shrouded in magical protections, but none of the protections were a match for Morgan’s skills. He took everything related to Azrael, Lord Death, along with the books that focused on the most ancient magic items.

Between long hours of research, he built an arsenal for himself—casting spells of blindness, creating shields strong enough to hold against a dragon’s fire, death curses, flesh corrosion, deadly fireballs called morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that could make armies lose control and fight each other.

He had set them all into magic-quality jewels so when the new injury dampened his magic ability, he would still have ways to defend himself. When he was finished, he had a wealth of weapons at hand, and they all fit into a velvet pouch spelled to conceal the deadly Power it contained.

He had created healing potions too, pouring the precious liquid into small stoppered vials. The healing potions wouldn’t work on wounds made of silver, but in his experience, it was always handy to have a healing potion on hand. One never knew when one would need it.

He had also stocked the kitchen with high-protein foods and alcohol, and plenty of medicinal supplies—more antibiotics, bandages, a variety of pain medications, IV supplies, and a metal stand, a double-sided makeup mirror with magnification, and a suturing kit. This time he’d had the luxury to plan ahead to deal properly with this latest injury.