A Stroke Of Midnight   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

Niceven’s voice hissed, “Evil sidhe, evil, evil sidhe. You have bespelled them.”

“Interesting,” Doyle said, “very interesting.”

“Most impressive,” Hawthorne said, “but whose work is it?”

“Galen’s,” Nicca said.

Galen’s body had begun to relax above me. He opened his eyes, and I watched his puzzlement as he looked at the plants that had filled the hallway. “I did not do this.”

“Yes,” Nicca said again, in a voice that was very certain, “yes, you did.”

Galen raised up on one arm, so that he was half sitting above me. He turned and looked behind us, and whatever he saw covered his face in astonishment. I sat up and looked, too.

Flowers filled a small space of hallway. The winged demi-fey were cuddled into those flowers, rolling in the petals, covering themselves with pollen. They were reacting like cats to catnip.

Queen Niceven hovered above them untouched by the call of the flowers. Less than a handful of her winged warriors were at her side. All the others had fallen to Galen’s flowers. It was an enchantment, that much I understood, but beyond that I was as lost as the look on Galen’s face.

“He’s the only one who has not had new power manifest.” Frost poked at one of the nodding blossoms with the tip of his sword.

“Well,” Doyle said, gazing at the flowers and the drugged demi-fey, “this is certainly manifested.” He grinned, a quick flash of teeth in his dark face. “If his power continues to grow he could do this to human, or even other sidhe, armies. I had almost forgotten that we ever had such nice ways to win battles.”

“Well,” a voice said from behind us, “I leave for a few minutes and you’ve planted a garden.” It was Rhys, back from escorting the police outside the sithen. Nicca told him what had happened. Rhys grinned at Galen. “What is this, the hand of flowers?”

“It’s not a hand of power,” Nicca said. “It’s a skill, a magical skill.”

“You mean like baking or doing needlepoint?” Rhys asked.

“No,” Nicca said, not rising to the joke, “I mean it is like Mistral’s manifesting a storm. It is a manifestation, a bringing into being.”

Rhys gave a low whistle. “Creating something out of nothing. The Unseelie haven’t been able to do that in a very long time.”

Galen touched one of the largest cupped blossoms, and it spilled a tiny demi-fey out into his hand. He jerked as if he’d been bitten, but he didn’t drop the delicate figure.