I literally tripped over it—the object of our search, our temporary holy grail.
It was a jar a little larger than my hand made of enameled silver. It was decorated in Celtic knotwork, the irony of which I suspected Phelan might have appreciated if he hadn’t been stuck inside of it like a genie trapped in its bottle. I found it tucked into a hollow between slabs of concrete near the center of the building, settled on the cracked and dirty gray and white linoleum titles, barely visible in the dim.
The world was quiet—too quiet—in the slowly growing light of impending dawn, a cold, still winter morning without even a breeze. Even years later, thinking about it is enough to make me shiver and there have been a lot of winter mornings between then and now.
For a moment, it was like someone had punched in me in the chest—my heart refused to beat, my lungs refused to function. I must have made some kind of sound because Thom and Seamus were there a few seconds later, Leinth trailing not too far behind.
To this day, I don’t know what I said. I just pointed.
“Is that it?” Thom asked.
Seamus, grim-faced, nodded slowly. “If I’m any judge. Leinth?”
“Without a doubt.” She knelt down next to it, tentatively reaching to touch it.
Lightning crackled from its surface into her hand and she jerked back with a yelp.
“Hell,” I whispered. “What was that?”
“A trap,” Lienth said, rubbing at her singed fingers. “Either it will do that to everyone, or she’s keyed it.”
“You can do that?” Thom murmured.
“Just like setting your wards,” she said, straightening. “Now what do we do?”
“Maybe she’s only keyed it to you or your bloodline,” Thom said slowly. He crouched down and reached for it.
I opened my mouth to tell him not to, but it was too late. His hands closed around the urn and the world exploded in a flash of bright silver-white light.
The silence of the morning shattered with the sound of our screams.
