THE SILVER ANGEL by Barbara M Hodges

In The Silver Angel (2004) by Barbara M. Hodges (Book 3 of the Daradawn series), the rift is again open. In six short years of life, half elf and half human Angel Silverthorne has grown to adulthood. She knows that to save her own life, she must go to live in Daradawn, but feels only fear and anger at being forced to travel into another world. In the elven lands of Vilsathor her royal grandparents wait, but there is more to face than family, for in Daradawn there also waits a renegade user of dark magic out to seduce her for his own ends, an unknown half-sister with an ambitious mother, and Angel’s own acceptance of a heritage she has fought to distance herself from since she was old enough to recognize her own elven blood. In Daradawn, Angel will make choices that will affect all, and even lead to danger for her. But is it her body she must protect, or her heart?

REVIEWS

Taken as a whole, the series is on a par with the best of the well-known fantasy works such as The Lord of the Rings. The Silver Angel is a worthy member of the group. —5 cups, Alegria, Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance

Ms. Hodges' skills as a writer and storyteller just get stronger with each volume, and I look forward to more adventures with Regan, Kelsey, Angel, and the rest of Daradawn's colorful inhabitants. —Robin Wayne Bailey, author of Dragonkin, iBooks, Inc.

I highly suggest reading The Blue Flame and The Emerald Dagger before reading the third book of this series. In fact, I suggest finding a comfy place and spending the weekend reading the entire series. —8 out of 10, Tami Brady

Ms. Hodges has done an outstanding job of writing a series that once you start reading you will not be able to stop until you have read all three books. This is a series that will go on the keeper shelf to be enjoyed again.— Tangela Williams for MyShelf.com

Barbara M. Hodges provides a fabulous tale that grips her audience from start to finish leaving a desire for more trips to Daradawn.—Harriet Klausner for The Best Reviews

A pleasant, quick read, this novel has a tidy ending that satisfies all the threads of the plot while leaving the reader wondering what happens next. —Natalie A. Luhrs--three stars from The Romantic Times Book Club Magazine.

THE MOON, SWOLLEN and bone white, striped the twin burial mounds with broad bands of gray.

”It is enough. Hurry before someone comes.“ The hoarse words came from the writhing shadow floating at Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick dropped the spade and moved the oil lantern closer. Yes, there looked to be enough room. He slipped into the opening.

Wedged between the wall of dirt and the simple hammered-metal casket, he pried at its lid with an iron bar. It gave way with the shriek of nails ripping free, and his breath caught in his throat as he scanned the darkness overhead. But no alarm came. Of course not, he thought with a harsh exhale, no one cared about the man who lay swathed inside. It was enough he was dead.

The cloying scents of lavender and sage flooded his nose as he pushed the casket’s top aside and looked down. The form was intact. The shroud covering it was stain-free, whole, and a startling white.

Patrick glanced at the demon beside him. “All is prepared.” Taking a deep breath, he reached in and lifted the body, then shoved it up toward the opening. Struggling, he got his feet on the edge of the casket and, using his legs for leverage, he used his shoulders and arms to propel the corpse onto the surface above. Panting, he placed his palms on the ground and lifted himself out of the hole.

Outside the grave, the demon hovered anxiously. Patrick glanced up as clouds scudded across the face of the moon and blanketed the small square of land once again in darkness.

He hoisted the body over his shoulder and carried it to the waiting cart. The mare sidestepped and snorted as he laid it inside. “Easy.”

The demon remained well back from the restive horse. “I will await you at the cottage.”

It took only a few hurried moments to replace the dirt of the grave and pat it down. He spared a minute to stand by the other unmarked mound and bid it’s inhabitant a sad, but final farewell.

ONLY THE SHUFFLE of the horse and the creaking of the cart’s wheels broke the silence of the still night.

Patrick spied the stunted tree and turned the cart from the path. Glancing back, he strengthened the shielding ward.

Dirkk would be surprised at how strong the magic was within him now and how easy it had been to summon the demon who’d led him to the hidden scrolls and tomes.

In stolen hours he’d pored over them, learning and obeying the words, gaining the knowledge to obtain the power he craved. And, with the finding of the blood scroll, he’d even gone beyond what his old master had dared.

Patrick halted the horse and cart before a small woodcutter’s cottage. Closing his eyes, he mentally traveled the circle of the red ward. Satisfied, he jumped from the cart. The door opened at his silent command. He carried the shrouded body inside, past the simple cottage’s large square table, and by the hearth taking up the entire space of one daub-and-wattle wall.

At a glance from Patrick, flames sprang to life inside the fireplace and fed upon the mounded wood. He skirted a black cooking pot, tipped on its side, a shroud of spider webs its only content. His hip bumped a haphazard stack of crates by the hearth, and his breath caught as a pile of scrolls and books inside trembled, then released when they did not fall. The books were old and fragile, their covers cracked and pitted. Ancient runes, parts of them faded into pale shadows, titled them.

He carried the body to a cot against a far wall and with care placed it down. Too impatient to free the sheathed blade strapped to his side, he ripped the cloth away with his hands. Dirkk’s pale face shone in the dimness. They’d removed the black leather mask before burial and, for the first time, he looked upon his master’s scarred flesh. His heart raced and his hands trembled as he ran his fingertip across a gray ridge of puckered skin. They would pay for this. All of them.

A cold wind gusted inside the cottage, raising chill bumps upon his arms. He turned and watched the air ripple. A loud crack sounded and the dank odor of rotting kelp and wet earth filled his nose. A writhing shape formed before him.

Patrick nodded and moved toward the door. As he passed the table, he picked up a lantern.

Around the side of the cottage, a hunched form lay staring upward, unseeing, into the darkness. The man wore tattered clothing, and a fetid stench of sweat and filth filled Patrick’s nose, causing him to grimace.

The man turned sunken eyes upon him. Then, as they went beyond Patrick’s shoulder, he screamed, and the stinging smell of urine filled the air. Patrick did not have to turn to know the demon floated behind him. The man’s form shook uncontrollably. Patrick murmured a few soft words, and the man jerked and scrambled onto his knees.

An earthenware bowl sat next to the man. He fumbled for it and held it up to Patrick, who took it. With a raspy sob, the man dropped his hand, tilted his head back, and bared his throat. The demon flowed to hover above them.

Patrick slipped his knife free and sliced it across the man’s throat. His eyes glittered as he watched the blood flow. When it reached the rim, he pulled the bowl away. The blood pooled and steamed upon the cold ground as the demon howled in protest. Its black liquid form spread across the widening pool, and a sound, like that of a thirsty dog lapping water, filled Patrick’s ears.

Sheathing his blade, Patrick grabbed the dead man by the heels and dragged him toward the back of the cottage. He heard a flurry of scrabbling feet and a chorus of angry growls. From the darkness, yellow eyes stared at him. He dropped the man next to a pile of bones, some gnawed clean, some still with dried, withered meat clinging to them. He turned back toward the cottage, the sound of snarling filling his ears before he’d taken ten paces.

PATRICK PLACED THE bowl on the table before the opened blood scroll. The fire flared high in the hearth now and warmth filled the cottage. He unbuckled his knife belt, pulled the blade free, and rested it beside the bowl. In slow, precise order, he removed his clothing. His softly voiced chant changed in rhythm as each article fell to the floor.

Naked, he dipped his fingers into the still warm blood and marked his face, hands and chest with runes, symbols whose meanings were last whispered into the ears of those of the ancient sect of dark mages known as the Cocidius.

Stilling himself, he picked up the knife and sliced across the end of his thumb. He tipped his hand and let his blood drip to mingle with that in the bowl, counting each drop as it fell. When the count reached seventeen, one for each eye of the demon goddess, Ea’Donia, he pressed his finger and thumb together and healed the cut with a few chosen words.

With the blade of the knife, Patrick blended the bloods inside the bowl, then, with a tembling hand he reached and pulled the scroll toward him. A shadow fell across the table, and he glanced up as the demon moved close. A dark stain coated the fangs at each corner of the demon’s mouth. Patrick hiked his shoulders in warning and the dark shape drew back.

The writings on the thin, brown-edged parchment were more sounds than words. As the first fell from his lips, he found himself cringing at the power ringing within them. His body hair rose and a fierce need to scratch crawled across his skin, but he did not take his gaze from the bowl as he spoke. As he uttered the last word, he leaned closer still. All remained unchanged. This was not right.

Ignoring the question, Patrick dipped his finger again into the blood, but before he could etch the runes again onto his naked body, they began to burn as if he was being branded. Scarlet smoke rose from each mark and drifted upward.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick picked up the bowl with shaking hands and moved to Dirkk’s body. With a piece of sun-bleached wool, he painted his right palm with blood and then placed it against Dirkk’s stilled heart. He refused to think of the heart as dead, pictured it instead just resting between beats. He drew his hand away, leaving behind a bloody print. He dipped a finger into the bowl, touched each of Dirkk’s eyelids and then traced the contours of the pale lips.

Breathing deep, he sought to calm the quaking within him as he cut the remaining stitches holding the shroud together. Trembling, he drew the same runes on the pale naked form that he had first drawn upon his own body. Taking a deep breath, Patrick chanted the final words of the spell. The whispered sounds rose in volume as they floated toward the beams of the cottage’s ceiling. The air above Dirkk began to shimmer, like rising heat from the King’s Road in the middle of a scorching summer.

Patrick stared at the bloody print on Dirkk’s chest, willing it to rise and fall. Chills formed on his naked body. Did he need to start over? It would take some time to begin again. He would need fresh blood. A grating groan filled his mind. At the same instant, the demon shrieked. Patrick jerked, and the bowl fell from his hands. He watched in angry silence as the blood spread across the stones and seeped into the daub cracks. He spun to find the demon, to shriek his own anger, but the room was empty.

The answer was long in coming, as if Dirkk took in his surroundings, but that was not possible, for the eyes of the corpse remained closed.

The whispered words made Patrick cringe. “You feared the demon...” He looked behind him again. “Where is the demon?”

A mocking laugh echoed in his mind. “No, pup, I did not fear the demon. I did not have the scroll’s twin.”

An overwhelming thirst struck Patrick and without thought he stumbled from the cottage to the well outside. In frenzied movement, he dropped the bucket and cranked it back up. He cupped his palm and gulped the frigid water.

Dirkk’s words rang in his ears as he stumbled toward the cottage door. ‘We don’t want to fall ill.’

Shivering, he tossed more wood on the fire, throwing quick glances at Dirkk’s still, prone body.

“I do not look bad for seven years in the grave,” Dirkk said. “Replace my mask, pup.”

“I have it.” Patrick rubbed his forearms. “But how is it that you are in my head?”

“You have but the one blood scroll,” Dirkk said, as if the answer was obvious. “You must have the other to bring my body back.”

“I retain all. Everything I remember. Tessa, the harlot queen. Regan who betrayed me and stole the emerald dagger. Tell me, where are my fenris’ena...my fire wolves.”

Patrick hesitated. “I’m not sure. The queen had them moved to a secret valley.”

“I will have it back. I will have it all back,” Dirkk said. “But first my body must be restored. You must obtain the twin blood scroll for me.”

“All apprentices must be given a power name. I’ve known yours from these many years. I had planned…” The words trailed away. “But enough. I give it to you now. You are — Gearoid — my brave spear. It must be known only to master and apprentice, and is now how the dark gods will know you. They will not respond to Patrick Bannion but, if supplicated right, all power will be offered to Gearoid.”

“You shiver. Clothe our body. We must not catch a chill. And then feed us. I crave a thick slice of rare beef and roasted tubers.”

Patrick had always preferred his beef well done, but now found his mouth watering at the thought of a slab of the meat still glistening with red. “Yes, master. It will be as you command.”

BEN HEARD THE shouting before he opened the Victorian’s front door. He frowned as he stomped the snow from his boots and thought briefly of slipping upstairs. Instead, he sighed and followed the angry voices into the kitchen.

His daughter Delilah and his granddaughter Angel faced each other across the kitchen table. Flushed cheeks, hands clenched at their sides, both so beautiful, both so passionate. What had set them off this time?

“I don’t give a damn if the rift is open,” Angel snapped. She stood, walked to the sink, and stared out the small kitchen window. “Going back to Daradawn is your dream, not mine.”

“You look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Delilah said. “I’m your mother and you will show me some respect.”

A frigid silence stretched as Angel filled a glass with water and sipped slowly from it before turning to face her mother. “Respect? It goes both ways. What about my dreams? Do you respect them?”

Delilah took a deep, shuddering breath. “You know what I want for you. You’ve known since you were old enough to understand. The rift is open. It’s time to go home …”

“This is my home.” Angel’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the glass. Ben crossed to her and pried it from her hand. She looked startled, then smiled weakly. “Pops. I didn’t see you.”

Delilah pointed out the window. “Dad, the rift’s open. I knew it was time and the crazy weather proves it.”

Angel swung away from him and stomped her foot. “The rift. The rift. I’m so tired of hearing about the stupid rift. Just what’s so wrong with this world?”

Ben lifted a warning eyebrow. It was times like this he was reminded that, although his granddaughter looked like an adult, in many ways she was still a child.

As he and Delilah had feared, Angel’s elven blood had played havoc with her in this world. For every year here, she’d aged three in appearance. They’d kept her secluded the first year. The second year, they’d taken an extended trip to Europe, returning with a precocious six-year-old.

His grandson, Joshua, healthy and cancer-free, lived with his father. Letting the boy go was heart-breaking, yet he and Delilah knew it had to be done. How could they explain a baby sister who matured at such a quick rate?

“When Angel’s an adult, we’ll bring him home,” Delilah had cried as they drove away from Joshua’s father’s home.

Angel knew about her father and Daradawn, and how she was different from the other children of this world and for the most part

she had been a happy child, content to be with only Ben and Delilah — until the terrible teens hit.

When she turned five—fifteen in this world—she’d demanded to go to a regular high school. No one would know her real age, she’d insisted. Her body was through changing.

After a torrent of tears from Angel, and sleepless nights of worry and talk for the both of them, he and Delilah had agreed.

While a sophomore in high school, Angel discovered ballet, and it became her obsession. All she dreamed of was being a prima ballerina, ignoring the fact that if she remained outside of Daradawn, she would be dead by the time she reached thirty.

“Grandpa, are you listening to me?” Angel’s angry demand focused him again on the ongoing argument.

Angel blinked eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Maybe you’re wrong. I’m grown now. The aging could stop.”

Ben’s gaze fell on two suitcases by the back door. “You going somewhere, little girl?”

Her pale blue eyes met his for a moment before looking away. “Chad’s offered me a spot in his ballet company…”

“Only to begin with. I’m good. You know I am.” Angel’s look begged for her grandfather’s backing.

Last year, Angel had performed in Swan Lake. Ben had a photo of her, all in white, her slender arms in a graceful arc above her head, her silvery-blonde hair pulled back in a head-hugging chignon to hide the tips of her elven ears.

The pale hair framing her café au lait face and her eyes, almond-shaped like her father’s, but a paler ice blue, had always drawn admiring attention. Yes, Darrian’s bloodline had given Angel her beauty, but he had also gifted her with his fierce pride and stubbornness.

Ben moved to the suitcases and picked them up. “You’re not going anywhere, except with us.”

“I love you, princess. You can’t stay in this world. You’re going to Daradawn. I will tie and carry you if I have to, but you are going.”Angel rushed by him and fled from the kitchen. “I hate both of you. I’ll never forgive you for this.”Ben’s hands trembled as he dropped the suitcases onto the floor.

“I know, Dad, I know.” Delilah stared after Angel. “But it’s for the best; we both know it.”

He looked into his own daughter’s eyes. They shone with suppressed tears and determination.

“Just a quick errand. There’s something I’ve gotta get before we leave.”

UPSTAIRS AT HIS granddaughter’s bedroom door, he set the suitcases down. “Angel?” he called, knocking, but without much hope for a response.

She stood at the window, staring down at the backyard below. “Will the snow hurt the roses?”

“It can’t be good for them.” He placed the suitcases in front of her closet door. “I’d skip these. Stick to the backpack. And take just your personal things...toothbrush, deodorant, stuff like that.”

“No, listen to me.” She moved to stand only inches from him. He noted with surprise that she’d grown another inch, her face now on the same level as his own. “I know what I’m doing. I understand the risks. I may die before I reach thirty…”

“You will die,” Ben said. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “And I’m not going to let you do it.”

Tears filled Angel’s eyes and a sob escaped her. Ben pulled her against his chest. “Angel, you’ll love Daradawn. It’s a beautiful place. You’ve heard me talk about your Aunt Margeaux, and Peter and Regan.” He gently pushed her back to arm’s length and brushed her hair behind her pointed ears. “You are half-elf, and nothing can change that.”

Angel wiped tears from her cheeks and stepped further away. “I’m a half-breed.”

“I know what Mom wants for me. God, I’ve heard her dreams since I was old enough to understand. Other kids heard tales of Sleeping Beauty and The Three Bears. Not me. I heard a different kind of fairy tale.”

She turned her back on Ben and walked to the dressing table. She stared silently at her reflection in the mirror, then touched the tips of her ears. “I hate them.” She looked up and met Ben’s eyes in the mirror. “I’m going to have them changed. I’ve already talked to a plastic surgeon. Then I’ll look like everyone else.”

“I’m a genetic freak.” She spun to face him. “And she reminds me of it everyday.”

Angel laughed. “No, there I’ll just be a bastard, a half-breed.” She pulled a sleeve back. “Look at me, Pops. I’m black. Are there any black elves?”

“Geez, Pops. I’m not like that.” She pointed at her faded jeans and tie-dyed peasant top. “This is what I wear. I don’t even like shoes.”

He smiled softly. “You move like a queen. Every head turns when you walk into a room.”

Angel went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “And me in a castle, with servants waiting on my every whim...” She paused and smiled wanly. “Well, maybe that wouldn’t be too bad.”

After she’d settled stiffly beside him, he cupped her chin and looked into her eyes. “I know you’re scared.” She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her. “Yet you have no choice. No, listen to me,” he said when she started to protest. “I won’t let you stay here to die. I love you, and as your grandfather, I promise you, Daradawn will enchant you as it does me.”

“They’ll love you. You’re their granddaughter. And what’s not to love about you?”

Ben closed his eyes. If he made the promise, he would keep it. He sighed before saying. “If you truly hate it, I’ll bring you back before the rift closes.”

The harsh, disbelieving question, came from the doorway. His eyes snapped open. He looked over Angel’s head to where Delilah stood. “I thought you were leaving.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Delilah said, balling her hands into fists at her sides.

Delilah came to stand in front of her daughter. “I’ll hogtie you if I have to.”

“Then it’s settled,” Ben said. He looked at Delilah. “Are you packed?”

“Then go.” He picked up the backpack and handed it to his granddaughter. “Use it,” he said. “And be downstairs in ten minutes.”

Ben stood. “Ten minutes.” Then he turned his back on both of them and strode from the room.

DELILAH WATCHED THE laughing students surge down the concrete steps. Twice she thought she saw him, and then — there he was, darker of skin than both she and Ben. She watched as he came toward the car. As he started to pass, she rolled down the window. “Joshua.”

“That’s right, baby. I’m picking you up today.” Her gaze moved hungrily over him. He’s almost as tall as I am. He’s grown so much.

Delilah took a deep breath. Here it was. Did she dare follow through? It had been easy when she’d sat at home making her plans. “He had a business crisis,” she lied. Just how much time did she have before the limo arrived to pick him up?

Joshua nodded, and she felt anger stir at his casual acceptance of her lie. It obviously wasn’t the first time his grandfather hadn’t put in an appearance.

“Jackson had to drive your grandfather,” Delilah said. “I’ve okayed it with your dad for you to have dinner with us.”

Doubt clouded Joshua’s features and she hurried on. “We had a long talk, your father and I. We decided it was important you get to know the other side of your family.”

Joshua glanced up and down the street. The other children were gone. A lone woman stood on the school steps. She looked at them, then started forward.

“No, Mrs. Kirk,” Joshua said. “This is my mother.” He opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.

Delilah saw instant alarm on the teacher’s face. “I don’t think your mother is on your list of people to leave with.”

Delilah reached across her son and pulled the door shut. “I’m sorry, but we really have to be going. They’re holding dinner reservations for us. You know how it is.”

Delilah smiled brightly as she put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

“It’s not as if I’m alone. Grandfather and Grandmother are just across the driveway.”

She saw a small park and pulled into it. She turned off the car and twisted to face him. “Joshua, there’s something I have to tell you.” And she told her son of Daradawn and Darrian, and how his little sister Angel wasn’t so little anymore. When she finished, he stared at her for a long moment.

“You’re going there, aren’t you?” He believed her. Simply accepted her words. When did adults become so cynical and close-minded to other possibilities?

“Today,” she said. “Angel has to go back to Daradawn. She’ll die in this world.”

Delilah looked away. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m telling you. I want you to come with me.”

“You don’t have to stay,” she went on in a rush of words. “I just want you to know your sister. You’d have seven days, and then I’ll return you to the rift.”

Delilah held her breath. “And it’s only a week? I’ll be back before dad gets home?”

“We can’t tell him. He won’t let you go. I sent him a letter. I told him you’re with me, and will be for the next week.”

“But he won’t find you,” Delilah said. She waited and watched her son’s face. If he said no, she’d take him home, but her heart prayed for a different answer.

Ben smiled at the question as he glanced into the rearview mirror. With a pale, set face, Angel chewed her bottom lip, while Joshua, his eyes wide with excitement, stared out the window. Ben shook his head. He still couldn’t believe Delilah had stolen her son.

“Almost,” he said. He saw the Orinda exit sign and switched to the right lane.

“Margeaux will be waiting for us there.” He felt his stomach take a dive at the words. Seven years. Had he changed much? He knew she wouldn’t have. He glanced at his face in the mirror. Age had found him again in this world. Fine lines, like tiny rivers, flowed from the corners of his eyes to become lost in his ocean of gray hair. How old was he now? Eighty-six. The number startled him. He was eighty-six years old.

Angel and Joshua cast uneasy looks at each other. It was hard on the boy. His sister had been a little girl of three when he saw her six years ago, and now she was a young woman.

At the top of the hill, he halted the car beneath an oak tree. Houses spread below, and in most backyards, lounge chairs wore a dusting of snow. What must their inhabitants think? Would any remember this had happened seven years before?

He sat there, unmoving, but not so Delilah. She opened her car door and grabbed Joshua’s arm. “Come on.” They climbed from the Toyota and circled to the back. “Pop the trunk.”

Ben stared at her for a moment before he pulled the lever to open the trunk and then climbed from the car.

“Come on, baby doll,” he said. He opened the back door and reached in to grasp his granddaughter’s right hand. It was cold. She grabbed his upper arm with her left like a drowning child.

Ben patted Angel’s hand. “Look at it as an adventure, like climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower. You liked that. Remember? And at first you didn’t want to get close to the edge and see the view.”

“And it’s only seven days?” Angel said in a low voice. “Then I can come home?”

“If that’s what you want.” Ben turned and looked toward the rise. Was Margeaux there waiting for him?

“Oh, Pops, I’m so sorry.” Angel pulled her hand from his and scrambled from the car. “You want to see her, and I’m sitting here acting like a scared little rabbit.” She moved to the back of the car and grabbed her backpack. “Come on. It’s time I met my great aunt.”

BEN COCKED HIS head. Had he heard it? And then it came again, a warbling howl of excitement. “Maggie.”

The tri-colored basset hound charged from behind three oak trees, head down and loping at full speed. She slid to a stop at Ben’s side and gave a full-voiced bay of delight. Laughing, Ben knelt and let her cover his face with sloppy kisses.

At the words, Maggie danced a circle around Angel and then flopped down and presented her belly.

Angel bent and rubbed the basset hound’s stomach. Watching them, Ben thought he’d choke on the love flooding through him.

He heard the soft voice and whipped around. She was here. Yes, he’d seen her in his dreams for seven long years, but here she really was.

She wore a flowing robe of sky blue silk. Her unbound silver hair trailed down her back and past her hips. A smile curved her lips. Her gray-eyed gaze trapped his, and he watched, unable to move as she neared. She stopped before him and raised a hand. He felt her fingers trace one of the new lines creasing his forehead.

“Pops.” Angel’s voice seemed to come from far away. “I’ll just go ahead and see what Mom and Joshua are doing.”

Ben watched Margeaux turn and follow his granddaughter with her gaze. “So that’s her.”

“I met your grandson. I am so happy you were able to heal his cancer. My great-niece has her father’s blue eyes. She is quite a beauty.”

In the blackness behind his closed eyes, he saw their two auras — hers the pale green of new grass, and his a shimmering gold. As he watched, the green flowed toward the gold, entwined around it, and where two had been now there was one. His eyes flew open and he stepped back from her.

Margeaux’s look searched his face. “We are joined. I’ve taken you as my Lifemate. You would call it married in this world.” A slight frown wrinkled her brow. “You do not want it to be so?”

“It is the elven way. It is inside the female to recognize her other half. Once known, the female chooses to act or not to act, and then takes.”

“But only if the male wishes the binding,” Margeaux said. “It is always mutual.”

“Of course. Elves mate for eternity.” She looked deep into Ben’s eyes. “Have I made a mistake? You are human. Am I wrong?”

Ben flushed, silently cursing his own ingrained chauvinistic codes. “No, you’re not wrong. It’s very much what I wanted.”

Fool. Don’t blow this. He closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. “It doesn’t make any difference. We’re together for good this time. Let’s go home to Daradawn.”

Margeaux nodded. “Yes, home, but we’ll be married by Queen Tessa also. It can only strengthen the bond between us.”

Hand in hand they climbed toward the trees. In the clearing behind the oaks, Ben felt the hair on his body rise. He watched Delilah and Angel absently rub their arms.

His granddaughter’s gaze drifted to Margeaux, and then darted away. “Angel, this is your Great Aunt Margeaux.”

Margeaux clasped the girl’s hand, held it briefly, and then let it go. “I am happy to meet you at last, Angel Silverthorne.”

“Oh? Of course,” Margeaux said. She turned toward Ben. “The word of passing is Vilsathor. Hold it in your mind as we enter the rift.”

Ben took her hand. “It only takes a moment. You’ll be fine,” he said as her pulled her forward.