Phoenix Contract: Part Three (Fallen Angel Watchers) by Melissa Thomas
Authors: Melissa Thomas
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wide grin. “You’d be surprised.”
“No, I wouldn't. We know it’s vulnerable to sunlight,” Matthew said, refusing to rise to the bait. “If we could get it into the open at dawn...”
“It’s also made of liquid darkness,” Magnus reminded him. “It’s only solid when it wants to be, so dragging it isn’t an option, and I doubt I could trick it again.”
“You wouldn’t survive a second brush with sunlight anyway,” Matthew said with a wave of his hand. “But what if we could find some way to force it to become corporeal?”
“It’s worth looking in to,” the Celt agreed.
“It means using magic. Unfortunately, I’m not in the best condition for spell casting at the moment,” Matthew said with a grimace. “And you’re hardly in top fighting shape.”
“Don't underestimate me. Do the research, and see what you turn up.”
“Fine, I’ll start going through the Grimoires tonight,” Matthew said, referring to the potent manuals of black magic which were used for invoking spirits and demons. Study of the dark arts was forbidden to all but the most experienced Nephilim elders, so the priest kept his small contraband collection of tomes under lock and key.
“Why did you want to see me, anyway?” The Celt moved closer to the hearth, perhaps seeking the heat of the fire.
Startled by the omission, Matthew blinked and snapped his fingers. “Ah, apparently you’re not the only one suffering minor memory lapses this evening.”
The priest rose and ambled to the portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson which concealed his wall safe. He removed the wrapped sword and laid it out on the table.
Magnus drifted closer.
“This was in Alastor Aston’s possession when he was killed,” Matthew explained. “It may be the reason he was murdered. It may be a coincidence.”
He unfolded the velvet wrapping to reveal the onyx blade, pulsating with power, shining in all its glory. “There are Celtic circles etched on one side of the blade, and the hilt is distinctly Celtic in origin. There are runes on the opposite side of the blade which are angelic script, and—”
Magnus reached for the hilt, drawing a strangled squawk from the priest.
“Don’t touch it!” he urged, because even a gloved hand might not afford the wielder enough protection from the weapon’s enchanting aura.
The second the Celt snatched up the weapon, a tremor passed through the blade, and it burned crimson. An angry hiss, a sharp sibilant warning, rose up from the sword as if it didn’t want Magnus touching it.
Apparently unfazed by the weapon’s reaction, Magnus brandished the sword and stepped back three paces. He took several passes through empty air, wielding it with grace and mastery.
“It’s a fine sword,” the Celt declared with a grunt and returned the hissing weapon to its resting spot on the table.
Bending over, Matthew pressed his palms against the tabletop and leaned heavily forward. He wondered if Magnus had only picked up the weapon to prove that he could or if his friend had an ulterior motive.
“Is that your expert opinion?” Matthew asked, biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from a more venomous comment.
“These circles are decorative, and the carved blade is much older than the hilt. I reckon that the tang has been re-wrapped multiple times.” Ignoring the sibilant cry of protest from the indignant weapon, Magnus flipped the sword over to display the pommel which bore the mark of the weapon smith, an ancient signature. “This is the stamp of Greagoir of Ulster, two hundred and twelve Anno Domini.”
The very neutrality of the Celt’s tone made the priest wonder just what was not being said. “The blade was carved, not forged?” Matthew asked, wanting to confirm what he already suspected.
The Celt gave a sharp nod, causing the cowl of his cloak to rustle. “The blade has been carved from a dragon’s tooth.” He turned it over so the angelic script faced up and released the hilt.
The
“No, I wouldn't. We know it’s vulnerable to sunlight,” Matthew said, refusing to rise to the bait. “If we could get it into the open at dawn...”
“It’s also made of liquid darkness,” Magnus reminded him. “It’s only solid when it wants to be, so dragging it isn’t an option, and I doubt I could trick it again.”
“You wouldn’t survive a second brush with sunlight anyway,” Matthew said with a wave of his hand. “But what if we could find some way to force it to become corporeal?”
“It’s worth looking in to,” the Celt agreed.
“It means using magic. Unfortunately, I’m not in the best condition for spell casting at the moment,” Matthew said with a grimace. “And you’re hardly in top fighting shape.”
“Don't underestimate me. Do the research, and see what you turn up.”
“Fine, I’ll start going through the Grimoires tonight,” Matthew said, referring to the potent manuals of black magic which were used for invoking spirits and demons. Study of the dark arts was forbidden to all but the most experienced Nephilim elders, so the priest kept his small contraband collection of tomes under lock and key.
“Why did you want to see me, anyway?” The Celt moved closer to the hearth, perhaps seeking the heat of the fire.
Startled by the omission, Matthew blinked and snapped his fingers. “Ah, apparently you’re not the only one suffering minor memory lapses this evening.”
The priest rose and ambled to the portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson which concealed his wall safe. He removed the wrapped sword and laid it out on the table.
Magnus drifted closer.
“This was in Alastor Aston’s possession when he was killed,” Matthew explained. “It may be the reason he was murdered. It may be a coincidence.”
He unfolded the velvet wrapping to reveal the onyx blade, pulsating with power, shining in all its glory. “There are Celtic circles etched on one side of the blade, and the hilt is distinctly Celtic in origin. There are runes on the opposite side of the blade which are angelic script, and—”
Magnus reached for the hilt, drawing a strangled squawk from the priest.
“Don’t touch it!” he urged, because even a gloved hand might not afford the wielder enough protection from the weapon’s enchanting aura.
The second the Celt snatched up the weapon, a tremor passed through the blade, and it burned crimson. An angry hiss, a sharp sibilant warning, rose up from the sword as if it didn’t want Magnus touching it.
Apparently unfazed by the weapon’s reaction, Magnus brandished the sword and stepped back three paces. He took several passes through empty air, wielding it with grace and mastery.
“It’s a fine sword,” the Celt declared with a grunt and returned the hissing weapon to its resting spot on the table.
Bending over, Matthew pressed his palms against the tabletop and leaned heavily forward. He wondered if Magnus had only picked up the weapon to prove that he could or if his friend had an ulterior motive.
“Is that your expert opinion?” Matthew asked, biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from a more venomous comment.
“These circles are decorative, and the carved blade is much older than the hilt. I reckon that the tang has been re-wrapped multiple times.” Ignoring the sibilant cry of protest from the indignant weapon, Magnus flipped the sword over to display the pommel which bore the mark of the weapon smith, an ancient signature. “This is the stamp of Greagoir of Ulster, two hundred and twelve Anno Domini.”
The very neutrality of the Celt’s tone made the priest wonder just what was not being said. “The blade was carved, not forged?” Matthew asked, wanting to confirm what he already suspected.
The Celt gave a sharp nod, causing the cowl of his cloak to rustle. “The blade has been carved from a dragon’s tooth.” He turned it over so the angelic script faced up and released the hilt.
The
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