Warrior's Rise

By LJ DeLeon

For Fae-human half-breed Deva Morgan life as she knows it changes on her thirtieth birthday. One moment she’s a barkeep, the next she is a warrior fated to save Earth from the Dark Lord and his demon hoard. Shunned by both her races, she faces a danger-filled quest with few allies. Too bad her powers haven’t fully emerged or stabilized.

For Deva it is life or death, on-the-job training with her companion, Padraig O’Neal, a Fae warrior with a shadowed past. Can he quiet the storm raging inside her, help her harness the growing power within her, and provide a barrier between Deva and a fatal outcome? Will their love be enough to save Deva and stop the Dark Lord’s demons from entering Earth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Hallows Publishing
• Release date: Mar 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452437231

LJ DeLeon

LJ DeLeon is an Army brat and a world-traveled former CIA Intelligence Analyst who has seen enough of this world to appreciate other worlds. Working for the CIA was great training for writing fantasy, paranormal, and futuristic romance--and understanding the warrior mentality. Amazing how real life and fiction overlap.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Padraig ignored the snarling werewolf in front of him, the throbbing beat of ‘70’s rock, the whirling of the ceiling fan, and scanned the near-empty bar. No human norms present. Good, it made his job easier, cleaner.

His gaze locked onto the woman behind the aged mahogany counter. She was beautiful, almost ethereal. Strange, considering she was about six feet and all angles. Even her face was a series of planes. Yet it all fit together in a unique, mesmerizing image.

Inhaling, he filtered out the residual odor of norms and their stale cigarette smoke. Her scent of summer with just a hint of wisteria, drew him, enveloped him, singed him with the heat of her presence.

Her bored expression didn’t hide the quick assessing look in her cool hazel eyes, then dismissal.

Damn it to the Abyss. Her icy disdain combined with the unfamiliar pull of her sensuality were complications he did not need.

Not now. Not ever.

The werewolf moved and blocked further entry. I said we’re closed.

Padraig looked down at the Alpha and jerked his head toward the man at the bar. I’m here for him. From the blond hair, brown pants, dull green shirt and sockless feet in boat shoes, his target fit in with all the tourists who docked near the bar. But he wasn’t a tourist. He was a Fomorii Demon here to kill the lovely bartender, the budding Cáidh Arm, Holy Weapon of the Goddess.

Not on his watch.

Make it quick, the Alpha growled low in his throat.

He arched a brow and held the steely stare of the brindle-haired werewolf. Right. Seconds later, he eased onto the seat to the left of the Fomorii.

What’ll you have? the bartender asked, her neutral tone not quite matching her quick look of speculation.

An iced longneck.

She waited a half second before turning to grab the bottle from the cooler behind the bar. Padraig bit back a groan as she moved with the fluid motion he’d seen only in dancers and warriors. His eyes lingered on strands of strawberry blond hair that had broken free of the single braid brushing the top of her waist.

Definitely a complication—one he couldn’t afford.

From his warrior’s In-between Space, he commanded his twenty-six-inch-long Katana-style sword to solid form in his right hand and rested it against his chest, hidden beneath his coat.

The cap chinged into the tiny waste drum as she plunked his beer in front of him.

He slapped five dollars on the bar, lifted the bottle to his lips, took a long pull and opened his senses, letting them spread throughout the room, touching everything and everyone. The Alpha had joined his second by the pool tables, from the looks of it his littermate. The presence of a witch somewhere in the building tickled his nerve endings.

Padraig lowered the bottle with his left hand as his right lashed out, backhanded with the Katana. The blade cleaved the Fomorii’s neck. The head bounced along the floor, leaving an ash trail behind it. He lifted his beer and drained it, biting back a sigh as the cold, tart liquid flowed down his throat, then slammed the empty bottle on the scarred mahogany top.

Sword still raised, he spun toward the two advancing werewolves. I am Padraig O’Neill, emissary of Queen Graciela of Otherworld, sent to protect her. He angled his head toward the bartender. The Cáidh Arm, until her newly emerging powers stabilize. I’ve searched a month for her. Until an hour ago, I couldn’t get a fix on her.

Steve said you were due. Better late than never, the Alpha growled. And what the hell’s a Kah-dith Arm? he and the bartender demanded simultaneously.

As I said, you are the Goddess’ Holy Weapon.

I’m what?

Padraig arched a brow. The. Goddess’. Holy. Weapon. He turned and pointed to the still rolling, but disintegrating, head. That one has a partner. He might have looked like a tourist but he was a Fomorii and the first wave of the Dark Lord’s shock troops.

Shit, the Cáidh Arm said. Think we can sucker the other inside and off him without any norms being the wiser?

Shouldn’t be a problem. The wolf thrust out his hand. Mark Morrison. He nodded to the wolf at his right. "My younger twin, Jamie. Your charge’s name is Deva Morgan."

Padraig paused, and then accepted the man’s hand, careful not to maintain eye contact overlong and have it seen as a challenge to the Alpha’s position.

Deva, contact Steve. Let him know what’s gone down, and find out why the hell he’s late. Mark turned back his second. Jamie, get rid of the body and don’t forget the head. It rolled under a table.

You’ll need a broom and pail. Padraig pointed to the small pile of ash under the table and the larger one forming by the stool. Fomorii ash gets everywhere.

Makes body disposal easier. Marissa, we’ve got some garbage to sweep up, Mark bellowed.

Padraig’s eyes narrowed on the petite brunette witch entering from the kitchen, her apron brushing mid-calf. From her size and delicate features, she was at least a quarter Fae mage. He couldn’t help but wonder if she still had slightly pointed ears hidden beneath her long hair or had they vanished with time.

Why me? Marissa asked.

‘It’s woman’s work," Mark said, his voice trying for angelic, but not succeeding.

Say that again and you’ll become a pig. Marissa flicked her fingers at him.

The Cáidh Arm leaned forward and smacked his head. Be nice.

Nice? I’m always nice, Mark said, ignoring Jamie’s laughter as he furtively checked his reflection in the bar mirror.

I’m glad one of us is, Padraig muttered. I need your touch, my lady.

Her arms folded across her chest, she stared at him, a frown between her eyes. Why?

He bit back a curse. What had the queen been thinking saddling him with this half-breed? Fae-human or not, she was the Goddess’ Holy Weapon and his to train and protect. If you are the one I seek, when I fully drop my shields, your touch will tell me. My energy is keyed to the Cáidh Arm. Please lower your shield, but not fully.

He leaned forward. The fire of her energy licked his skin and tasted his heart. A tremor of unease wrapped around his gut like a viper curling for a strike. Without thought, his fingers curled into a fist.

She raised an eyebrow and smirked at his hesitation. Afraid?

Should I be?

The Cáidh Arm shrugged. How the hell do I know?

Maintaining eye contact, Padraig unclenched his upturned fist one finger at a time. Please place two fingers on the heart of my palm.

She touched him.

Energy detonated within him.

He flew across the room and slammed into the wall.

Shaken, he lay dazed. The two Weres and Cáidh Arm rushed to his side with tiny Marissa on their heels.

What did you do to me? Padraig asked.

Her lips moved. He heard nothing, not even ringing in his ears. Deaf, he sniffed, examining the Cáidh Arm, the werewolves and Marissa’s scents for any change. Then the faintest hint of seaweed registered.

His fingers and body refused to move. Worse, she and her friends were so focused on him they had not noticed the second Fomorii enter the bar, a clone of the first down to his sockless Docksiders.

Desperate, he canted his head toward the door and mouthed danger—Fomorii. The Cáidh Arm nodded, one short jerk. Relief flooded him at her comprehension.

Her fingers made more of those nonsensical movements that only her team understood.

Horror washed away his relief as she and the werewolves stood and sauntered toward the waiting Fomorii. Halfway, Jamie veered off and returned to the pool table while Mark accompanied the Cáidh Arm to the bar.

Impotent fury roared through Padraig’s paralyzed body. How could he protect her like this? He never should have touched her. Now, this naïve, untrained innocent, the hope of both their worlds, was about to get herself killed and he couldn’t prevent her death anymore than he had his twin Bevin’s.

Marissa shoved his useless carcass flat onto the floor. As he struggled to rise, she balled up a fist, plowed it into his stomach and mouthed, Stay down.

Gradually his hearing cleared. A few words filtered through the fog. Aggressive…drunk…pawed…what happens to strangers…trouble with our sister, Mark said.

Once seated at the bar, the Fomorii scanned the room. I was supposed to meet my brother here. Have you seen him?

No. The Cáidh Arm leaned forward, wiping the polished top with a towel. What’ll you have? she asked as Mark drifted over to join his brother.

Anything on tap will be fine. The Fomorii scanned the room again. His gaze lingered on the ash still scattered beneath the table. Yes, your brother is right. One should always protect one’s family. Where injury has occurred, retribution should be swift.

Too true, the Cáidh Arm said with smile.

Padraig’s eyes widened as she swung a matte black pump-action shotgun from behind the counter. As she aimed at the Fomorii’s head, he heard the unmistakable sha-shing of the pump.

Bye.

Boom. Sha-shing. Boom.

The head disintegrated. Ash spewed.

Damn, it took two, she muttered.

That’s why you needed to be down, Marissa whispered to him. The shot could’ve scattered.

He was an incompetent fool who had arrived too late and through arrogance risked the safety of this reckless fledgling. Feeling as weak as a newborn foal, Padraig staggered to his feet and lurched to the bar. What did you do to me?

Nothing. I lowered my shield as you told me, touched your palm and, zap, you flew across the room.

The bloody woman acted as if he hadn’t been injured.

No, not just injured, Goddess above, for a moment, he worried he had been blasted to the Abyss.

This siren would be a nightmare to train, much less protect.

Protect? He was the one who needed protection.

* * *

For the past hour, Deva had watched Padraig. Everything about him telegraphed, Come near me at your own risk. Yet his swirling silver eyes hypnotized and captivated her, and she couldn’t keep from tracking his movements.

His intimidating six-foot-six muscled swimmer’s build warned he could take on all comers. A long black leather duster covered his matching vest, pants and black boots that came almost to his knees. They looked like shit-kickers, but she knew they weren’t. Something about them triggered a memory. Silver-blond hair, pulled back in a queue that fell halfway down his back, displayed his regal features in sharp relief.

The man moved around her bar, silent, like a wraith. Not a whisper from his clothing or footfalls. Her dad moved the same way in Fae-made clothing. As beautiful as Padraig’s movements were, this man was more deadly than a Black Mamba.

Just a few hours ago, her biggest problem was reining in Mark and Jamie when she’d shouted at them over the music that the table was for pool only! Chastened, they had backed away and raised beer bottles in her direction. In contrast, the co-ed beside them had flipped her off.

Dressed in jeans, wife-beater t-shirts and scuffed boots, they looked like they’d just come in from a ride on their hogs. Their leather jackets hung on the coat hooks by the door. To norm females, they were attractive bad boys you wanted to reform. Just by walking into a room, they drew every unattached woman. Their brindle hair set off ice blue eyes that danced in delight when looking at any woman.

Gorgeous werewolves and Steve, her missing wereleopard. A witch, Druid and two mages, or magicks as they like to be called, and a gargoyle. Monsters, if one believed human norm fiction. Warriors For Light to the Tuatha de Danaan. But Deva simply called them Family.

Now her biggest problem was safeguarding them all. Unfortunately, she suspected that task was bigger than she could handle.

Sighing, she forced a smile as Padraig slid onto the stool facing her. Thank the Goddess for the plank of wood between them. Otherwise, she’d embarrass herself by yanking free that leather tie and running her fingers through that long, silky hair.

Well done. I was surprised at your ease using the shotgun.

As his tongue moistened perfectly sculpted lips, she gripped the counter to keep upright and clinched her teeth to keep from mimicking his action. The weakness in her knees she couldn’t control. His voice flowed over her like warm honey begging to be licked off.

My drink?

She jerked herself back from her fantasy, reached into the cooler, retrieved another longneck and smacked it onto the bar in front of him. I’ve been training for this moment since I was twelve. After eighteen years, I hope I’d be able to take on a demon.

Practice is different from ending an actual life, even that of a Fomorii, especially when it wears a human face.

Frowning, she rubbed her shaking hand against the side of her leg. Until the moment she’d pulled the trigger, she hadn’t been sure she could do it. He was right. Killing someone, even a demon, was different than lopping the head off a pumpkin scarecrow.

She’d always been a healer and a seer at witch level, but three months ago she began changing. Mutating. Now her ability exceeded that of an Earth seer, maybe even one from Otherworld, and that scared the crap out of her. Something caged inside her clawed toward freedom, savage in its demand for release. A tsunami of power was building, waiting, biding its time to break free and erase everything in its path.

Her eyes lifted and met Padraig’s glacial stare. His words, while comforting, hadn’t touched those frigid silver-gray eyes that broadcasted danger, stay away. He seemed to understand the conflict she’d experienced with her first kill. Perhaps he would be useful after all.

Damn! What was it about this bad boy that drew her?

* * *

Swallowing hard, Padraig watched the Cáidh Arm slide her apron over her head. Riveted by the sleek, sinuous play of muscle beneath her shirt, he quelled the urged to touch her skin, or her hair, or—

Frowning, he rubbed his forehead. What was wrong with him? There was nothing exciting about watching a woman remove a drink-stained garment and toss it over the bar’s cooler.

Yet the play of her body had rocked him.

She stood, arms akimbo, sculpted jeans and, accenting her small, tight breasts, a snug shirt that said: I am a virgin. (This is a very old t-shirt.) All he could think of was how much he wanted his mouth covering those tempting treats instead of that silly t-shirt. Jaw clinched, lips thinned, he forced himself to admit acting on those thoughts would get them both killed.

By the way, if you don’t want to sound like a prig and to fit in, use contractions.

He struggled not to wince. Her tone would have made the angels cringe. Then he watched as a smile twitched the temptress’ lips. Damn it to the blackness and back, she was correct. He did sound like an old man and he knew better. Always speak as the natives around you. Blend in to survive. Before he could answer, she faced toward the door.

"Glad you could finally join us, Steve. That’s my protector, Padraig O’Neill. The Cáidh Arm waved a hand in his direction then the newcomer’s. Major Steve Taylor, classified division of Special Forces. The guys with him are Eric, Nathan and Lucan, but we call them Nate and Luc."

Steve gave her a quick hug and kissed her cheek. Pulling back, his arm stayed draped over her shoulder.

Padraig nodded to the wereleopard she’d called Steve, acknowledging him as this group’s leader and fighting the urge to rip his arm from its socket. Yes, my people worked with the supe unit before. He studied the magicks. He wasn’t sure what kind they were yet, or how diluted their power was from years of living on Earth.

Another wave of erratic energy rolled through the bar. Padraig glared at the Cáidh Arm. For Goddess’ sake, shield yourself. You’re attracting every demon within five hundred kilometers. Assuming your earlier release hasn’t already done so.

Speaking of power surges, what the hell happened two hours ago, Deva? Steve asked. You shorted out everything within several hundred klicks. You even knocked out some of Bragg.

I damaged Fort Bragg? she asked, nonplused.

Nothing irreparable. Steve met his team’s gaze. Don’t worry. Our stuff’s okay. Magick protected. Someone give me a SITREP, he ordered.

You want a situation report? You got one, Deva snapped.

The rest of the team moved down the bar, putting space between themselves and the scowling Cáidh Arm.

Padraig flinched as she coldly explained what had gone down, punctuated with frequent finger jabs at the man’s chest. He felt a surge of pity for these grown men, all warriors, who cowered at this woman’s anger. She and his mother shared the same distant wintry tone when expressing their displeasure.

Now, Deva. Steve held up his hands, palms out. We’ve had a touch of a problem. Demons are appearing all over the state.

Padraig jerked his thumb at her. Looking for her; she is ‘The Cáidh Arm,’ the first one in over ten millennia.

A half-breed? Steve asked.

Yes.

Not likely. The first Cáidh Arm was a purist, Steve spit out. When she created Otherworld, half-breeds and Weres weren’t welcome. She tore families apart. Those who stayed here weren’t welcome in Otherworld.

Steve’s words put a bitter taste in Padraig’s mouth. After all they’d given for the Light, they were left with the burden of betrayal by their leader. The Tuatha de Danaan never deserted family or friends and never will, as General Adams will attest.

I’m not allowing your kind to hurt Deva or use any of us as cannon fodder like you did in the last Great War. Not going to happen this time around.

Padraig paused. He’d never given much thought to the damage and the pain the separation had caused. Unlike others, his family on both sides of the veil had remained strong and close and friends, no matter where they lived, were cherished. I consider all life valuable, but the Cáidh Arm’s above all others. My life is forfeit in defense of hers.

Padraig watched as Deva clutch Steve’s hand. Did you know about this? Is this why you and Daddy trained me? Did Mom know?

Steve slid an arm around her, hugged her and then stepped back. I think Nyle suspected a war was in the offing and he shared everything with your mom. He left very specific instructions for me in case he died.

And?

"As a kid I heard him tell my dad you were special, a gift from the Goddess, the Cáidh Arm. But he never explained what that was, just that you needed to be trained as a warrior. He was adamant if anything happened to him that Dad, as The Felix, finish the job he’d started."

But you fulfilled the promise.

I was here. I knew you. Of course, I did.

Thank you. So what do we do now? From what he said, she jerked her thumb at Padraig, I’m the Goddess’ Holy Weapon. You know as well as I do, Steve, you can’t run or hide from fate. She dropped his hands and faced Padraig. What kind of weapon am I?

The kind that will save Earth and Otherworld from the Abyss.

And?

He struggled to maintain a neutral expression under her murderous glare. Yet beneath her harsh attitude, he sensed a tremor of anxiety. Not that it mattered. Between his mother and two sisters, he had learned never to allow female responses to get an emotional reaction. If they knew he could read them, understand them, there would be no peace.

Best he demonstrated who wielded the power. As her protector and mentor, he would not speak until she averted her eyes, showing proper deference.

I hope you aren’t trying to stare her down. Steve folded his arms across his chest. It won’t work. She outlasts all of us.

With a resigned sigh, Padraig said, We aren’t sure what powers the Cáidh Arm controls. Much has been lost to time. Legends still exist, but very few. They say Grace, the first Cáidh Arm, enabled us to win The Great War against the Dark Lord and his minions. Afterwards, she left us and now resides with the Goddess.

What else do you know? Deva asked.

Legend says Grace carried within her all the powers of the Tuatha D’ Danaan, Fae. He ignored the grim-faced Deva, it was time she faced her future. What powers have shown themselves?

Seer and healer—but until a week ago only at Earth mage levels.

She hadn’t told the entire truth. Padraig doubted she fully trusted anyone, including her team. A wise move on her part, considering he’d neglected to enlighten her that the surge of energy she’d shot into him had joined them at an elemental level. For how long, he wasn’t sure.

But he was positive about one thing, it never should have occurred.

He inclined his head, studying her, and spotted a flash of fear quickly buried beneath bravado. In time, other powers will come. However, until they evolve and your energy is stable and controlled, you can’t pass through the veil. If you try, you’ll tear it apart, allowing all the demons now trapped on Earth to enter and ravage Otherworld.

He suppressed the everpresent rage at the possibility of ogres once again invading his land. They had spent eons ridding themselves of that plague. The war had cost his people much, and him his twin, a savage loss due to his failure, and the guilt his alone to bear. Never again would anyone touch his heart as Bevan had.

Even the Dark Lord?

Padraig heard the tremor in her voice as her pupils shrank to pinpricks. Everyone feared the Dark Lord and his wrath. No. When the Goddess created Otherworld, the Dark Lord and his offspring were banned. The team was so focused on his words, they reminded him of young Fae listening in rapt fascination to tales told by Cynyr the Bard. It’s said that, after the Great War more than ten millennia ago, Grace joined with the Goddess and separated us. Until then, we were part of Earth and known simply as Aoibhinn Tir nan Og, Land of eternal youth.

No, shit, Steve said. You mean Deva’s gonna develop that kind of power? ‘Cause she sure doesn’t have it now.

Padraig nodded. Yes.

Even if I had it, I don’t have the control. Deva shrugged, her eyes rolling up and away from him.

Control comes with time and practice. He took in her disbelief and that of the seven Earth supernormals also rolling their eyes. You’ll learn. You have no choice.

Don’t bank on it, she snorted. I’ve been working at this for months and haven’t improved.

Biting back an irritated remark at her narrow perspective, he reminded himself training a fledgling, especially this new Cáidh Arm, required calm understanding and infinite patience. He’d seen Colin train enough fledglings over the centuries to know. Sadly, he had always lacked those two virtues. We’ll need somewhere safe, protected, where I can train the Cáidh Arm—

My name is DEVA, not the Cáidh Arm or Holy Weapon!

He inclined his head at the scowling female. As you wish.

Chill, Steve murmured. Get back to the info. What demons are we dealing with on Earth?

Padraig frowned as the wereleopard massaged Deva’s neck. The ease with which she leaned into the man spoke of trust and…more. Unclenching his jaw, he said, The Fomorii…once they devour someone, they own their memories and can alter themselves so they pass for that individual. His brows lowered as he stared at the two werewolves. I’m surprised you didn’t catch their scent. Even in the norm skin they assume, there’s a faint odor of rot.

Steve turned to Mark and Jamie. You catch anything?

They looked at each other and shrugged. Maybe. What I smelled was faint, briny like a distant kelp field. Didn’t think anything about it. Wilmington’s on the coast, so it isn’t unusual to get that odor drifting into here from the sea, Mark said.

The Fomorii were once considered sea gods, Padraig nodded. During the Great War against the Dark Lord, we D’ Danaan sealed them beneath the deepest part of the sea.

Must not have done a very good job. Deva stared at him. They got loose.

Disrespectful neophyte. He returned her heated glare with one of his own. They had help, he growled through clenched teeth. Darkness below, what was wrong with him? He had not lost his temper in centuries. I suspect the Dark Lord or his daughter Sabina released them.

A likely story, Deva muttered.

What else are we facing? Steve asked.

Padraig exhaled sharply. He had faced worse censure than hers. His own. He lived daily with his unrelenting guilt and condemnation over Bevan’s death. He needed to regain control of this situation, get this female focused and redirect this conversation.

This rude, unprepared Cáidh Arm would not destroy five centuries of calm, calculated, emotionless behavior. Logic ruled him, not the fiery, egoistical temperament of his Fae nature. He was a renowned warrior, the spymaster of the Ogre Wars. Not to mention, the crown prince of Aoibhinn Tir nan Og.

So why did her disdain bother him when she infuriated and exasperated him? That smile, he thought with a mixture of regret and longing. Her smile, scorn, and loyalty sent warmth rippling through him, warmth he’d long thought dead, touching his core as no other in all these centuries. This was not to be borne.

Demons. Which kind, I don’t know. It depends upon what’s come through a gate or never returned to the Abyss after the last war. Also, here on Earth supernormals and human norms have been co-opted. Padraig watched in quiet resignation at the anger and dawning disbelief on their faces as his last comment registered. You seem shocked at the thought that one of your kind would help Sabina. Why?

No Supe would help Evil Incarnate.

Padraig shot Steve and his team a look of pity. Do you really think norms and Supes are incorruptible? That any being’s exempt? Just look at this world and you’ll discover the truth. Evil easily taints. Dishonor comes effortlessly to many here, especially if the reward is the promise of wealth and power. Sabina’s had centuries to perfect her recruitment techniques.

You’re right about norms, but not our Supes. Not the warriors on the line. FYI, wereleopards never change their spots. Same goes for the others in their own ways. We have our own legends. Under the Dark Lord we were slaves, rounding up norms as cattle for his minions, Steve said. Don’t judge us by your standards. We’ve fought too long and hard to be accepted.

Padraig stood, his arms folded across his chest. Really? Since when do ‘norms’ accept you? He snorted. Or even know you Supes exist?

No, and given the chaos we’re dealing with, now isn’t the time. But if you Otherworlders hadn’t hidden your existence from norms, it’d have been a helluva lot easier for us to come out. You’re safe and exotic. We’re their neighbors and worst nightmares, Steve said.

Padraig snorted. The entire team, along with Deva, glared at him as if he were responsible for the current situation. Another great war’s beginning. That’s why the Goddess has bestowed the Cáidh Arm upon us. Why do you avoid the truth? You’d best face it squarely, or you’re lost before this war begins. Sabina’s almost nine hundred years old. She’s had centuries to perfect the art of corruption and seduction. She’s had moles strategically placed for decades, if not centuries.

Steve’s lids lowered, shielding his green cat-like eyes. What do you propose?

Earth’s generals must alert the norm population to your existence before Sabina does. Padraig nodded toward Deva. "However, I must train the Cá—Deva. Where do you suggest?" He stifled the urge to roll his eyes as her triumphant smile replaced her hazel, steel-melting glare.

Fort Bragg. We can protect her on base. Steve nodded to his team. Let’s roll.

Your gargoyle? At Steve’s arched eyebrow and Deva’s gasp, Padraig said, I spotted him flying overhead as I arrived in town. We D’ Danaan have always maintained good relations with Earth’s ten gargoyles.

Fritz’ll be watching our flank from the sky. Don’t worry, we know all about Harpies.

Steve’s comment did not surprise Padraig. His spies had told him of the skirmishes, testing for Earth’s weaknesses. Time had run out. The precursors of war had begun. However, Deva’s reaction caught him off-guard. Her face had taken on