Ritual Magic

small clearing, naked and perfectly shaped. And large, too large for a mortal man—he must have been twelve feet tall. His pale skin gleamed faintly. His ears were pointed, like an elf’s, and his face was elfin, too—narrow at the jaw, broad through the cheeks—and he had long, straight, silver hair. Literally silver. It gleamed, too. From the crown of his head to his bare feet, he was supernally beautiful.
    She didn’t trust that, either. She couldn’t remember much—not how she got here, not what had happened to her. Not—oh, God. Not even her name. Fear spiked impossibly high until she panted with it. But however much she’d forgotten, she knew she did not trust this beautiful being.
    “You’re silent. I don’t like silence. I get too much of that here.”
    “You’re . . . the god who murdered Miriam.” She remembered that suddenly, the way Miriam’s hands had plunged a knife into her chest. The way she’d cried
no
even as she did it.
    Sorrow flooded his perfect face. “My lovely Miriam. She wanted so much to be with me, and now . . .” Rage washed away sorrow. “Now she never will, and it’s your fault.” He took a single step toward her. “You will have a long time, a very long time, to apologize. To try to make it up to me for losing my lovely Miriam. And everything else.”
    A ghost stepped out from behind one of the too-tall black trees. He was dark haired with a receding hairline. He wore dark slacks and a white button-down shirt and he was familiar . . . but he looked solid, she thought, bewildered. Why did she think he was a ghost?
    “Lily,” he said, “that bastard is lying to you.”
    She knew his voice, she knew she did. “My name is Lily?”
    “Son of a
bitch
.” That came out with such vehemence she took a step back. “No, don’t move. It’s really important you stay where you are. You can get lost in this place way too easy.”
    “Lily,” that other one said. The god. He was off to her right now, only ten feet away. She hadn’t seen him move. “Why are you listening to him? He tried to kill you once. You don’t remember? You listen to bad counsel all too often, don’t you?” He smiled and whispered, “It’s all right to kill Santos. He deserves it.”
    A flash of memory shivered through her. A face, a man’s face. Her hand holding a gun to him, the barrel jammed in his throat. Had she shot him? What had she done?
    “You killed him at my suggestion,” the god said in his wonderful voice. “You’re mine, Lily. You made yourself mine the first time you listened to me. You’ve been mine all along.”
    “He’s lying to you,” the ghost said again, moving so he was in front of her. “He’s trying to persuade you, but all he’s got is lies.” He stretched out a hand beseechingly. “You have to listen to me.”
    A gold ring glowed on that hand. On the third finger, the one connected to the heart, according to the old tales. A glowing gold ring . . . memory cascaded in on her, so swiftly she gasped. Rule
.
Isen, her mother, Toby, Cullen, Cynna, her father and her sisters . . . and Rule. Oh, God. “Drummond. You’re Drummond.”
    “Part of him, anyway.” His grin was quick and feral. “That shiny bastard behind me sliced a bit of me away from the rest. Thought he was being clever, but we tricked him. The bit he cut out is the part you need. I’ve been waiting here for you.”
    “Do you remember him now, Lily?” The god was on her left now. He spoke mockingly. “He tried to kill you. You and so many others. And you trust him?”
    “I . . .” But she did remember. Drummond had done terrible things, but he’d redeemed himself. He
was
on her side—and the beautiful god most definitely wasn’t. She remembered the fight now. She remembered Friar and Toby and a hot, terrible pain and being sucked out, away . . . “He got me with the knife. Friar did. I’ve . . . been cut out of time.”
    The god chuckled. “That’s where we are. Out of time. You’ve worried about running out of time for so long, and now you’ll stay out of time. With me.”
    “No.” Drummond came closer. “He cheated. He’s sidhe. What do sidhe do best?”
    Her eyes widened. “Illusion.”
    “This”—he gestured widely—“this is real to him and me, because we died. But
you didn’t
.”
    That terrible, slicing pain—it had been in her thigh. Not her chest, not her head—
    “He had enough power to suck you here, but he can’t keep you.