Gargoyles, co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company.

Special thanks, as always, to Gryphinwrym7, Masterdramon, GregX and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta-reading and feedback.

Extra special thanks to Kordyne (kordyne . deviantart . com) for providing the truly gorgeous cover art for this saga.

"Their chief is Crom. He dwells on a great mountain. What use to call on him? Little he cares if men live or die. Better to be silent than to call his attention to you; he will send you dooms, not fortune!"

~Robert E. Howard.


Magh Slécht, Co. Cavan

October 27th, 1997 A.D.

The camera slowly panned across the grim landscape. A light but pervasive mist cast a grey haze across the green hills that seemed to stretch into infinity. Eventually the camera came to rest on an equally grim looking blond woman in an olive raincoat, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"'Let's go on a romantic getaway to Ireland' you said," the woman drawled in an American accent. "'Friendly locals and beautiful countryside' you said!"

Brendan lowered the camcorder. "Give it a rest, Margot."

"Have I mentioned you dragged me all the way across the Atlantic in the middle of an important homicide case?"

"Not in the past twenty minutes," Brendan muttered to himself. His wife rarely missed an opportunity to rub her big-shot Gargoyle Task-force job in his face. "Anyway, I thought you said Bluestone didn't want anything to do with it?"

"That's not the point-" Margot was cut off by a droning ring coming from somewhere beneath her coat.

She fished out a satellite phone that looked like an over-sized black Lego brick. "Yes… Sam?" Her eyebrows arched. "What do you mean 'the body's missing'?! Well, it didn't just get up and walk away!" she bellowed into the mouthpiece. "Sam… Sam? Damn it!"

Margot's eyes surveyed the landscape in distain. "I'm going to try to pick up the signal up there." She pointed to a nearby hill that seemed to loom over the rest. "Try not to wander off."

Brendan grunted something unintelligible as he fiddled with the camcorder's controls. He'd just figured out how to replay the recorder footage when clear wet droplets began splattering upon the tiny video screen.

"Terrific," he sighed as the cold drizzle began soaking into his overcoat. "Margot! I think we should head back to the car!"

No answer.

"Margot!" he called again, trudging gingerly up the great hill.

There was no sign of Margot upon its summit. Instead, there stood a circle of twelve crudely carved stone figures. They were vaguely humanoid but curiously malformed, as though the sculptor had only had humans described to them second or third hand. For the life of him, Brendan could not recall seeing them there a moment ago.


Brendan hovered at the edge of the stone circle as though some instinct was warning him not to go any further. Then he thought of what Margot would say if she could see him now and shook, stepping into the circle.

The soft turf yielded beneath Brendan's feet. The circle appeared empty of Margot or any other sign of life. He sighed and turned to leave, only to find himself confronted by a pair of hollow stone eye sockets.

Brendan screamed as the stone creature's thick granite fingers clamped down on his wrist with vice-like strength. He screamed and beat impotently with his free hand upon the thing's slab-like chest. He screamed as they both began slowly sinking into the soft turf.

Soon he stopped screaming altogether.


Liscoo, Co. Donegal

October 31st

The poison burned like fire as it coursed through his veins. Already his charioteer and steed had fallen. For years, both had been his constant companions. As he gazed upon the heaped bodies of fallen southern dogs that surrounded him, he took grim comfort in the knowledge that his friends would not journey to the House of Donn alone this day.

He found himself backing up against the ancient standing stone as the remaining southerners began to surround him. Their blades thirsted for his blood, their fear keeping them from claiming it. He loosed his leather belt, using it to tie himself upright to the standing stone. If Death came, he would meet her upon his feet.

From a nearby hilltop, a figure glared down with disdain. She was clad rich purple robes, a silver pendent in the shape of an eight-pointed star hanging about her neck. Her hair was the colour of dark wine save for a single bone-white streak, her eyes green as a serpent's. She wielded a grim iron spear. She was the Queen of the South, the woman who had plunged all Éire into bloody war with a word.

She Who Intoxicates.

As the few last drops of life bled from him, he looked up to see a grey crow perched upon his shoulder. Its black eyes stared into his. They glinted with something between triumph and pity, as though it wanted him to know that all this could have been avoided.

"You getting up?" it cawed.

"Whu… Whut?" Rory Dugan slurred as he sat up on the sofa.

"I said 'you getting up?'" Sean Dugan grumbled, looming over his son.

Rory rubbed the rime from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost three in the afternoon," the elder Dugan grunted. "Rough night?"

"I don't want to talk 'bout it."

"Fair 'nuff." Rory's father shrugged before sitting back in his armchair and loosing himself in the morning paper. They both sat in absolute silence for at least ten minutes.

"Alright, you beat it outta me," Rory finally relented. "So, I noticed for the last couple of weeks' people have been mysteriously leaving the village in the dead o' night. Sneaking out into the woods and coming back just before dawn. I thought maybe some sorta evil forest spirit has been luring folks out in a trance to have its wicked way with 'em. So, last night, I decide to follow one of them."

"And?" Sean asked.

Rory sighed. "Turns out Jimmy Maguire from school's been running a cock-fighting ring out in the woods. I broke it up but-"

Sean suddenly dropped his paper, breaking into uproarious laughter.

"What's so bloody funny?" Rory demanded.

"Cú Chulainn, the Hero of Ulster reborn!" Sean wiped away a tear. "Liberator of Roosters!"

"Thanks, da'," Rory drawled, sinking back into the sofa. "Appreciate the support."

"Well, if it's a challenge yer looking…" Sean laid the paper out on the coffee table. Rory craned his neck to examine the article his father had pointed out.

Aᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ᴛᴏᴜʀɪsᴛs ᴠᴀɴɪsʜ ɪɴ ʜɪsᴛᴏʀɪᴄ ᴘʟᴀɪɴ ᴏғ Mᴀɢʜ Sʟéᴄʜᴛ, Cᴏ. Cᴀᴠᴀɴ.


Magh Slécht

"Come on, old girl…" Rory pleaded.

That night found him driving his father's old Lada through the countryside of Co. Cavan, just south of the Northern border. Twilight had already fallen as he eyed the fuel gauge fretfully, the glowing red needle hovering menacingly over a luminescent E. Still, all he had to do was make it just as far as the next town.

He had been crossing an old stone bridge when the engine began sputtering.

"Oh, you've got to be bloody kidding me!" Rory sighed as the engine fell silent and his vehicle coasted to a stop. "Well, guess I'm hoofing it from here."

He removed what appeared to be a long staff of yew-wood and a flashlight from the back seat, locked the car door behind him and began the long trek down the cold and deserted country road.

The landscape was lit only the twinkling of a thousand dim stars. On either side of the road, barren hills stretched off into the darkness. The softly undulating plain was broken only be the occasional standing stone or somber burial mounds.

Memories forgotten since early childhood bubbled up to the surface of his consciousness. In his mind's eye, he saw his mother sitting by his bedside, her face clouded and dimmed by time. He could almost hear her voice as she told him stories of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Children of the Goddess.

The Tuatha had ruled the whole Island for countless generations, before the coming of the Sons of Scota. They eventually fled before the iron blades of their mortal conquerors, withdrawing to their strongholds in the deep places of the earth. There they took a new name… Aes Sídhe.

The People of the Mounds.

Rory had never given those old stories much thought. That was before his ex-girlfriend had turned out the be a two-thousand-year-old evil fairy who tried to kill him, only to be saved by a giant monster dog who sailed off on a magic boat afterwards.

That sort of thing tended to make a person rethink their world view.

He'd been walking for about half an hour in the darkness before he noticed a cold grim edifice looming ahead of him. It was a grey stone church, standing vigil atop a particularly high hill.

Rory trudged up the gravel path to the darkly stained oaken doors. He knocked upon the heavy portal only for it to swing inwards under his hand.

"Well…" he mused. "I suppose that's as good an invitation as any."

Rory felt for the Holy Water font near the door, blessing himself with wetted fingers. The church interior was dark save for the glow of his own torch, which was caught by the many stained-glass windows

It was the one above the altar that drew his eye. It depicted a snow-bearded man in emerald bishop's robes, holding what looked like a fancy shepherd's crook. The bishop's foot was planted upon the head of a golden statue cast in the image of a serpent or dragon. A dozen vaguely human-like grey figures watched silently in the background.

"Fine workmanship, isn't it?"

Rory spun around, gripping his staff in a defensive stance, only to be greeted by the sight of an aged priest holding aloft a dimly flickering devotional candle. The priest was grey of hair and beard, his skin richly lined and care worn.

He chuckled warmly, "Sorry I frightened you, lad. I'm afraid we blew a fuse earlier."

"No, I'm sorry, Father…"

"Conn." The aged priest extended a gnarled hand.

"Rory." The Ulsterman took the hand gratefully before nodding back at the stained glass. "Is that St. Patrick?"

"Aye," the priest confirmed. "This very church was built upon the site of a golden devil-idol worshiped by the pagans since the time of High King Eremon, watched over by twelve lesser stone images. The pagans believed their Golden God would bless them with bounty in milk and grain."

"What did the god get out of it?"

"The blood of their first born," the priest whispered. "To be offered every Samhain. So it was for century upon century, until the day when an escaped slave willingly returned to the land of his oppressors to spread the Word of a new god."


The priest nodded. "Patrick came to Magh Slécht, he was so enraged by the atrocities committed in the Golden God's name that he cast down the great idol with his bare hands. The demon that dwelt within was cast out and its twelve stone watchers sank back into the earth from whence they came. At least… that's one version of the story."

"Ya sound skeptical, Father," said Rory. "Didn't think there was much call for that in yer line o' work?"

The Priest barked a laugh. "I have a hard-enough time believing in just the one deity sometimes, lad. Oh, I'm sure this church was built upon a site of pre-Christian worship but so were half the churches in Europe. I doubt they ever sacrificed anything more interesting than the odd sheep. As for Patrick, maybe he founded this church, or perhaps it was some poor missionary who's name only God remembers. Either way, I doubt it was as dramatic as all that."

The priest let out a heavy, weary. "If there's one thing I've learned in my long life, it's that history is a grim grey affair. There are no heroes and villains, only poor lost souls slowly ground beneath the cold millstone of time."

They were both silent for a long moment after that.

"I almost forgot," Rory finally piped up. "Can I use your phone? My car ran out of fuel."

"Really? Where?"

"By the old bridge, 'bout two miles up the road."

"I'm afraid my phone is out of service at the moment," The priest stroked his grey beard thoughtfully. "But I do keep a spare can of petrol in the shed out back, for emergencies you understand?"

Rory watched as the ancient priest made his way to the church doors. Something had nagged at him all throughout the old tale, something… familiar.

"Father?" he called out.

"Yes?" the old priest called back.

"This devil-god-idol-thingie, did it have a name?"

"Why yes," the priest answered. "They called it Crom-Cruach."


Rory hurriedly thanked Father Conn before rushing back into the night, a fresh can of petrol in hand and mind racing. Crom-Cruach, the Death Worm, the Crooked One; it couldn't be a coincidence. He been lucky to survive his last battle with that monstrosity and even then, he had not faced alone. Now he only had his wits and an old stick to rely upon.

Rory didn't have much fear of death. Well, no more than the next fella at least. No, if he was honest with himself, what Rory feared was failure. He was afraid of not measuring up, of reaching for the stars only to fall flat on his face. Maybe that's why he'd never tried to make much of himself before the night he met the Great Beast.

But he'd made his decision the night he first challenged Crom, and there was no turning back now.

A thin mist had begun to coat the landscape, diffusing the already dim starlight. Rory wondered if it might be safer to turn back and ask if Father Conn if he could kip in the church overnight.

He'd been on the verge of turning back, when he spotted the shape of his dad's old Lada looming out of the fog. That wasn't all he saw.

A slim figure clad in a black hoodie leaned over the bonnet, seemingly tampering with the windshield.

"Oi!" Rory cried. "What are ya doing to me bloody car?"

The hooded figure turned in surprise, allowing Rory to catch just a glimpse of the red scarf that concealed the lower of half of their face, before running for the bridge and leaping over the edge.

Rory attempted to give chase but a look over the edge of the bridge revealed no sign of his quarry in the shallow brook below. Going after them in the rapidly thickening fog didn't seem like a promising prospect.

He returned to his car, finding a folded note pinned under the windshield wiper. He unfolded the paper to reveal a messaged written in a vaguely familiar hand…

Don't trust the priest.

Rory was still puzzling this when he heard a soft crackling sound, like crumbling stone, coming from behind him. He had no time to turn before a rocky fist slammed into the side of his skull. Rory's flashlight and staff slipped from his hands as he fell to his knees, vision blurring as blood from a head wound trickled into his eyes. He tried to reach for the fallen staff, but the strength was rapidly seeping from his arms.

The last thing Rory Dugan saw before oblivion claimed him was a misshapen stone figure staring down at him, its face blank save for two hollow eye sockets.


Rory groaned as he hit the hard-packed dirt floor, consciousness just starting to return to him. He looked up to see the silent form of the stone watcher melting into a rocky cave wall as though it was made of seafoam.

Rory lurched after the thing, only to slam against the hard rock. Looking up revealed himself to be trapped at the bottom of a dark circular pit, a disk of dim light hovering far above. He began slowly feeling his way about the stone wall in search of an opening or a secret passage or... anything really.

"It's no use," an American accented voice whispered from the darkness. "There's no way out."

"Quiet, Brendan!" another hissed. "He's probably working for that lunatic!"

"That makes no sense!"

"He's a lunatic! It doesn't have to make sense!"

"I take it you two are the missing tourists?" Rory interjected, squinting to make out twin figures in the darkness.

"And you are?" the second voice drawled.

"I'm… a friend," Rory answered. "I came to rescue the two of you."

"And a marvelous job you're doing!"

"It's a work in progress," Rory quipped as he continued feeling his way around the wall of the pit. He soon found himself stumbling over a thick bedding of straw piled up to one side of the pit. Upon it sat a large smooth stone oval, almost like an…

A winged figure, crowned with great stag-like antlers, stood before him. The Antlered One held out the egg, a gift and sacred trust.

Rory shook his head as the memory faded. "Where did this come from?" he asked.

"Wuh… we don't know," the first voice answered. "It was just there the last time we woke up."

"'Twas a gift," a new yet familiar voice spoke from above. "From Crom."

Rory stared up in shock at the grim figure leaning over the edge of the pit. "Father Conn?"

"It's him!" the second voice bellowed. "He's the lunatic who sent those stone… things after us!"

"Is that true?" Rory demanded, glaring at the priest.

"I am sorry, lad," the old priest spoke with mock sympathy. "But my Lord is a rapacious deity."

"Why are you even doing this?" Rory yelled in frustration.

The priest's eye seemed to drift off, as though staring back through the years.

"I remember when the Great Hunger first came to this parish. The crops rotting in the very earth before they were even harvested, children starving in ditches, families torn apart and condemned to the work houses."

"The Great Hunger?" Rory mused aloud, recalling old history lessons. "You mean the Famine of 1842? But… that was almost a hundred and fifty years ago?"

"I prayed to God and his Holy Mother, to every Saint I could name, only to be met with damning silence. Until the night an answer to my prayers finally came, not from Heaven above but from beneath the mounds... where the Old Folk dwelt."

"Crom?" Rory whispered.

"We made the ancient pact; a blood-sacrifice every Samhain in exchange for prosperity for the parish and eternal life for His High-Priest." Conn chuckled darkly as he rubbed his withered face. "I suppose I should held out for eternal youth?"

"And you have the gall to parade around in that collar?" Rory snapped.

"All gods demand sacrifice, lad. Mine and yours are hardly any different in that regard." The old priest checked his watch. "Speaking of which, I advise making your peace with him within the next hour or so."

And without another word, the old man took his leave of Crom's "offerings".

"Oh my God…" the first voice whimpered. "He's gonna kill us! HE'S GONNA-"

Something made a sharp smacking sound in the darkness. "Get a hold of yourself, Brendan! You're being hysterical!"


"BOTH of ye, just calm down while I-OOWH!" Something struck Rory's still aching head from above before clattering to the floor. He looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of a dark hooded figure hastily withdrawing from the edge of opening above.

"Whu… what was that that?" the first voice asked.

"I'm not sure but…" Rory felt around the cave floor til his fingers came upon the familiar feel of smooth ancient yew-wood. "Ya might want to stand back."

Rory struck the yew staff against the floor and instantly the entire pit was filled with blinding light. A light which dimmed only slightly to reveal a hulking warrior standing in place of Rory Dugan, clad in golden helm and crimson cloak. In one hand, he held a golden rectangular shield. The other wielding a radiant spear forged of what looked like solidified sunlight.

Cú Chulainn, Hero of Ulster, surveyed the small pit now lit by Gáe Bolga's radiance. A brunet man in a brown raincoat and a blond woman in an olive-green one huddled to one side, both their mouths hanging agape. On the other side, lay what Cú now knew with certainty to be a gargoyle egg.

Cú unhooked his cloak, wrapping in gently around the egg as he fashioned it into a makeshift sling to carry the precious cargo upon his back.

"Gather your things," Cú said, turning to the two tourists. "We're going."

"Going where?" the woman asked.

Cú just smiled as he eyed the patch of rock where the stone watcher had disappeared, smiled and cracked his knuckles.


"Father" Conn stood chanting before a vast underground pool. Fragments of bone crumbled beneath his feet. Some were thousands of years old. Others were far more recent. Twelve stone watchers stood at attention along the edge of the vast stone cavern. Within the pool itself, black oily waters churned as though agitated by some immense mass moving far below the surface.

"Bring the sacrifices," the old priest commanded the nearest pair of watchers. "Crom hungers."

The two watchers had barely begun to melt to the cavern wall when it suddenly exploded outward in a burst of searing light, sending shattered chunks of both stone figures flying across the room.

A figure clad in crimson cloak and golden helm strode through the dust into the chamber, carrying a shimmering beam of light in his hand and Crom's "gift" slung over his back. The two American "offerings" cowered behind him. The warrior surveyed the chamber at a glance, spotting the weathered stone stairs leading up to the false church above.

"That way!" the warrior bellowed at his cowering charges. "I'll cover you!"

The pair nodded meekly before dashing for their escape.

"Who dares disturb the sacred rites of Crom!?" the old priest snarled.

"The Hound of Culann!" the warrior bellowed. "And tonight, I hound you, false priest!"

The priest's mouth hung agape for a moment before twisting into a crooked leer. "We'll catch up with the yanks later. This one will make a more than ample tribute to Crom."

The stone watchers lurched towards their prey. Cú Chulainn hurled his shining spear, shattering at least two of the watchers. He held his hand aloft as the spear flew back into his grip of its own power. One of the remaining watchers flanking him chose this moment to strike, leaping upon the Hero of Ulster to rake his chest with jagged rocky talons.

Cú recoiled as the thing's talons tore through flesh, and the crimson sling holding the rescued egg. He watched in horror as the egg swiftly rolled towards the lip of the dark pool. It balanced precariously on the very edge for just a moment, before falling into the ebon waters below.

"NOOO!" Cú screamed as his fist shattered the blank face of the stone watcher pinning him. He hurled its inert weight aside before fastening his shining spear to his back by his thick leather belt and dashing for the pool.

Within moments, Cú had dived beneath the oily surface.

Conn stood by the edge of the pool, watching its dark surface churn like liquid obsidian. "Well… I suppose that will do."


The oily water stung Cú's eyes and nostrils as continued to swim ever downwards, his mouth screwed tight. He'd already made the mistake of swallowing a mouthful of dark liquid that tasted more like cold blood and forgotten tears than any natural waters.

Even with Gáe Bolga's piercing light, Cú could barely see more than a few feet ahead of his own nose as his hands sifted through the slime and silt at the bottom of the watery pit. Had he not been underwater, he would have breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the smooth stony surface of the egg beneath his fingers.

It was then that two immense eyes, burning with green eldritch light, opened in the darkness before Cú. And the darkness itself seemed to move in the waters about him, like the coils of some vast unseen serpent. He drew Gáe Bolga with one hand as he cradled the egg close with the other. The Spear of Light flared and he finally saw it.

Perhaps it was the distorting effect of the murky water that mad the thing seem even larger than more grotesque than Cú remembered. It was like some nightmare amalgamation of eel, serpent and gigantic maggot. A strange spiked golden grill was welded over the thing's slavering maw, making Cú think of the cow-catcher of an old-fashioned locomotive. It was the Lord of the Mound, the God of Sacrifice and Slaughter, Death Incarnate...


Cú only had a split second to register all this before the monster struck.


"Father" Conn watched as the churning waters slowly stilled until the black surface was as smooth as glass.

"Find the Americans," he spoke to the nearest intact watcher. "They cannot be allowed to-"

The old priest covered his eyes as the black pool suddenly erupted like a geyser, spraying oily fluid across the entire cavern. He lowered his arm to reveal the sight of his god trashing wildly in the water. Upon the Lord of the Mound's insectile head, rode the Hound of Culann. The warrior's thighs wrapped about great Crom's armoured neck like a vice.

"BLASPHEMER!" the old priest howled.

The Cú's spear stabbed again and again at the beast's armor-plated neck, desperate to find any chink in its defenses. So, absorbed in the struggle was he, that he didn't seem notice the Death-Worm's tail rising out of the water or the scimitar like barb upon its end.

The priest smiled wickedly as the barb struck. Then he gasped as it only barely grazed the warrior. Cú turned to see the barb draw back again. He gripped the egg closer, never taking his eye off the deadly stinger. Then it struck a final time.

Cú waited until the last minute before leaping once more into the dark waters.

"NOOO!" the priest screamed as the barb sunk deep into the Death Worm's own neck. Emerald flames burst forth from the chinks of the monsters armour, before engulfing the entire chamber in an explosion of eldritch energy.

Cú weakly dragged himself ashore, still clutching the egg tightly. He wiped the bilge from his eyes. The old priest and at least a dozen watchers surrounded him. He staggered to his feet, legs numb, knees aching.

"Kill him!" the priest cried as he pointed a bony finger that trembled in rage.

The watchers made no response.

"KILL HIM!" he shrieked again.

The watchers made no move against Cú, but instead began to sink slowly into the earth below.

"No… NO!" the priest whispered in horror. His looked down at his still shaking hands, flesh now turning grey and powdery. "You… YOU DID THIS!" the priest practically howled.

Cú watched in horror as the thing that had once been a man of God lurched towards him, flesh crumbling with every step. The Hero of Ulster braced himself for battle but by the time his foe had closed the gap, all that was left was a moldering skeleton clad in tattered black vestment. The thing collapsed at his feet.

One last set of bones for the millennia old pile.


November 1st

Rory swathed the grey stone egg in an old blanket before carefully nestling it within the Lada's trunk.

"Well, little fella, looks like yer coming with me," he cooed, affectionately patting the precious bundle. "At least until I figure out where ye came from."

He closed the trunk slowly and gently before taking one last moment to survey the landscape. The cold pale light of dawn had begun to cut through the grey mists, allowing Rory his first clear view of the rolling green hills and grim standing stones that dotted the landscape.

He couldn't deny that the land was beautiful. Just as he could not deny that hardly an inch of it had not been soaked in blood at some point in the island's long history.

Something caught his eye. A lone figure stood by a large stone dolmen, watching him. She weas clad in a black hoodie, the lower half of her face covered by a scarlet scarf. From beneath the black hood crept a single lock of pink dyed hair.

"It can't be…" Rory whispered before dashing after her. "HEY! Hey, you!"

She stepped out of sight behind the dolmen. By the time Rory reached it, there was no sign of her.

"Molly?" he whispered.


Oberon's Palace, Avalon

November 10th

A hastily dressed Princess Katharine raced through the palace corridors, the Guardian Tom at her side, rushing to the castle's cellar where the doors leading down the clan's rookery hung open on their hinges. Below, they found a single male gargoyle with dusky red skin, thin-beaked and bald. He knelt upon the cold dirt floor, eyes closed in meditation. In one hand, he held an old gnarled staff that had once belonged to Avalon's Magus. The other hand was splayed out on damp earth floor.

"Azrael," Katharine spoke. "What in God's name happened here?"

"Princess," the grey gargoyle spoke softly. "Shorty after awakening, we heard Gathelus and Scota howling from the Rookery. We found the chamber empty and both frantically sniffing and clawing at every nook and cranny."

"The egg?" Katharine asked.

"No trace, I'm afraid," Azrael answered.

Tom's fist impacted the stone wall.

"Gabriel took the beasts and the rest of the Clan to search the island," Azrael continued. "I offered to remain here to see what I could find."


Azrael stroked his beak thoughtfully. "It is difficult to discern from the ambient magics of the Island, especially since the Gathering but…"

"But…" Katharine spoke, a dangerous edge in her voice.

"One of the Children was in this chamber… very recently."

Katharine's eyes hardened as she turned to stride out of the chamber.

"Where are you goin'?" Tom asked.

"I would have words with Lord Oberon," she answered coldly.

To be Continued...