A bolt of lightning flashed close to the nose of the plane as though they’d read his thoughts and confirmed his suspicions.
Rowan swore under his breath, bracing for the thunder and the next gust of wind he knew was coming. “Hold on,” he shouted to the passengers. He’d flown in worse weather in the Middle East while being shot at, but this was still no picnic. While the Air Wizards could conjure a mean storm, they were no match for Mother Nature.
He’d not wanted to take anyone along, but somehow, they’d found out where he was going and offered him an insane amount of money. Everyone outside the magical community believed Wizards were rich, with the ability to conjure vast sumsof money. Rowan wished. Consulting for Seattle’s police barely covered the cost of magic wands.
The sky opened and hail the size of ping-pong balls pelted the windows. “Bloody hell!” The plane shuddered, and the right wing dipped. The clouds parted for a split second, exposing a narrow landing strip illuminated by running lights. Rowan released the landing gear and shouted above the storm, “We’re going down.” One of the passengers let out a shrill scream. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
In the next instant, the plane touched the runway, rose slightly, and then touched down again. Not his smoothest landing, but he was on the ground. He taxied to a stop and turned off the engine. He thought about cracking a plane-crash joke to his passengers as he moved through the plane to open the hatch, but he doubted they had a sense of humor.
The first to disembark the plane was a six-foot-tall Earth Wizard, built like a rock wall—probably the one who’d screamed. The second was a Troll, tall for his kind, at a height of just under five feet eight inches and looking more human than most humans. Judging from how the Troll moved when he came on board and the steel-like expression in his eyes, he probably had the skills of a black belt and could shoot the stem off an apple. Trolls hadn’t shapeshifted into their hairy-creature form in centuries.
Trolls were considered low on the magical food chain. There was a time when Trolls and Wizards fought side by side against common enemies. A centuries-old feud had changed the alliance. Rowan felt it was a loss for both sides. Trolls were deceptively powerful for their small stature, had short tempers, were fiercely protective of their females, and when they gave their loyalty, it was not just for life. Their loyalty spanned generations.
As Rowan peered out the hatch, two cars waited on the runway. Based on the signs the drivers held, the BMW was for the Earth Wizard. What didn’t add up was that the white stretch limo was for him. Constantine was trying to impress him. Usually, he got a car headed for the junkyard. There was neither sign nor car for the Troll.
Rowan debated the impulse to fly the plane back to Seattle. There was only one way this day could go and that was downhill. He didn’t like being summoned to the site of a fracking Fertility Festival like a common garden-variety Wizard. But he’d given his word and that still meant something.
He also didn’t like Irish music, people who were cheery when they first woke up in the morning, and flying over water. The order to come to this remote rock to investigate death threats and murder as though he were the last great hope of the magical community was suspect. Although he liked solving a good mystery as much as the next guy, he wasn’t the only Fire Wizard turned detective. But it must really rankle the Talons and Grey Council to know that he was the best.
“Get out of the way, creature,” The Earth Wizard shouted, pushing past the Troll with typical chip-on-shoulder attitude. “Let your betters go first. Where’s my luggage, pilot?”
Sensing trouble, Rowan stepped between the Troll and the rockhead, reaching for a duffle bag. If Rowan were a betting man, he’d bet everything he had on the Troll kicking the living shit out of the Earth Wizard, but it wouldn’t end well for the Troll. Vlad, head of the Grey Council, and who insisted on being called “The Grand Vizier,” was also an Earth Wizard. Vlad wouldn’t take kindly to having a fellow Earth Wizard being bested by a Troll. And since the island literally overflowed with Wizards, all pledged to do Vlad’s bidding, the Troll would be dead before nightfall.
Rowan caught a glint of rage as old as time in the Troll’s expression and recognized the signs. The “creature” was poised to attack. Rowan picked sides. He tossed the Earth Wizard’s duffle through the open hatch. As Rowan had hoped, when it hit the ground something inside broke. Earth Wizards were notorious for carrying breakable keepsakes with them as their good luck charms.
The Earth Wizard forgot his beef with the Troll and scrambled after his bag, examining its contents. A figurine of a turtle, the symbol for fertility and luck, had lost its head. Rowan would have gone with another symbol for the Fertility Festival, but that was him.
As the Earth Wizard tried to reattach the turtle’s head, Rowan put a restraining hand on the Troll’s shoulder. “Rockhead is not worth your trouble.”
The Troll’s gaze lost some of its heat. “Disagree, but it can wait. War is coming. Choose the right side, Fire Wizard. The Troll took off on a dead run with speed that might make a cheetah jealous.
While the driver of the BMW had the good sense to distract the Earth Wizard with the promise they’d find him another turtle, Rowan grabbed his jacket and tried not to overthink what the Troll had said.
Rowan had had more experience in battle than most, and not the pretty, orderly kind where you knew your enemy by the uniform they wore. His battles involved the kind where comrade turned against comrade, an ambush could come at any time, and survival meant knowing your enemies as well as you knew your friends. One thing about Trolls, you knew where you stood with them. If they said they’d guard your back, they did. So what the hell was the Troll talking about?
Shouldn’t be his problem. He should worry about why the Talons had asked him to the island. Rowan had built asolid reputation investigating crime and solving the unsolvable. Solving the pentagram murders with his friend Detective Lyons was the latest example. Rowan had the ability to walk in both the human and the magical world without dying.
The sky darkened again. The day looked more like deep winter than springtime, as though the seasons had turned upside down. Wizards were taking sides.
The limo driver held the door open for Rowan. The broad-shouldered young man was dressed like a young Merlin in a B fantasy movie, wearing a blue tunic and matching cape.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Rowan shoved on his sunglasses. He’d forgotten about the Talons’ obsession with anything medieval.
When he ducked into the back seat of the limo, Rowan declined both the offer of Champagne and a soak in the hot tub on wheels. He wasn’t in a celebratory mood, nor in the mood to wear a costume. Thankfully, no one had asked Rowan to bring his motheaten Wizard’s cape.
For fifty-one weeks of the year, Rowan convinced himself he’d evolved. He’d worked to dispel the archaic image of how Wizards should dress and had adopted something more practical and less theatrical for his detective work.
It had taken years to perfect his appearance to blend in. Six feet-four in height, with an athlete’s body and a day-old beard, he’d dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and a travel-worn leather jacket he thought had been brown once. His only connection to his alter ego was the dark glasses he wore to cover his unusual eyes. Normally, they ranged from dark brown to black. When he was about to torch something, or someone, they went flame-red.
He’d wanted to change his name to something more vanilla sounding, like Tom, Dick or Malcolm. Rowan was a Fire Wizard with a tree name. His mother had had a twisted sense of humor,but she was a powerful Wizard in her own right, and the Talons and Grey Council refused his request to override the name she had given him at birth.
Rowan glanced out the window, wondering where the Troll had headed and why, for the life of dragons, was he here. The Troll had told him war was coming and to choose the right side. Rowan remembered something his mother had told him before she disappeared. She’d told them that Trolls could predict the future.
“Shit.”
Chapter Three
A short distance away, behind the walls of the replica of an eighteenth-century castle, were the headquarters of Vlad, an Earth Wizard and the Grand Vizier of the Grey Council and the magical community. He sat at his desk and held a framed picture of a young woman in her early twenties. Her smile lit up his heart even after all these years. Her shoulder-length hair was a thick cascade of gold and her eyes summer-sky blue. She was the first woman he’d loved, and the last.
