Witching Bones: A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 8

by Yasmine Galenorn

  The doorbell rang and I sighed, heaving myself to my feet. Sure enough, it was Kipa and Gunnar. I gave Kipa a long but tired kiss and led them into the living room. Raj glanced at them, then meandered down the hall toward my bedroom.

  “Hey,” I said, resuming my cross-legged stance on the sofa.

  Kipa gave me a worried look. “Are you all right?”

  I shook my head. “Today’s been the day from hell. Actually, yesterday was the day from hell and today is just a continuation of it. The whole mess with the land wight went south, Llew was hurt, and now Jordan blames me. I can’t even begin to tell you how guilty I feel, even though I know it’s not my fault. I didn’t force Llew to go with me,” I said, looking up at him. I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince Kipa or myself.

  “How badly was he hurt?” Kipa sat down next to me, motioning for Gunnar to take a seat.

  “The wight got its barbs into him and poisoned him. I ended up having to call Herne, and he brought Ferosyn over. Ferosyn saved Llew’s life, but it was touch-and-go for a bit. Herne and Viktor ended up going out to finish off the eggs that we found in the nest. All in all, we could have handled the situation so much better.”

  “Hindsight is always easiest. Sometimes you don’t know which route is the best to take until you reach the end. I’m sorry your friend was hurt. And I’m sorry that his husband blames you. You know you’re not to blame, right?” Kipa gave me a long look, his expression more somber than I had seen in a long time.

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Logically, I know that. But I was already feeling guilty when Jordan lashed out at me. I’m afraid he may try to break up my friendship with Llew.”

  Gunnar cleared his throat. “If Llew is truly your friend, you should have nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, but Jordan is his husband. And family always takes precedence over friendships. I learned that years ago.” I had lost a couple friends because their families didn’t approve of me. It had hurt, especially when I realized they didn’t even bother fighting for the friendship. “Thing is, I’ve always thought Jordan was my friend, too.”

  “I thought my wife’s family were my friends,” Gunnar said. “But they blame me for her death. I learned the hard way that sometimes no matter how good of a person you are, some people will think the worst of you.” He looked so forlorn that I wanted to cheer him up, except I couldn’t even bring myself to smile.

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it right now. So what did you find out? I’ve tried to do some research on the fylgismadi but it’s slow going when few of the grimoires have indexes in them.” I tried to push away my gloom, and focus on the matter at hand.

  “Unfortunately, the news is worse than we hoped. I made some discreet inquiries, and it’s come to our attention that Solveig’s father is the one who attached the fylgismadi to Gunnar. I can’t force him to remove it, even though he’s part of the SuVahta. I may rule over their sphere, and they follow my direction, but because Solveig’s father believes in his heart that Gunnar is responsible for his daughter’s death, he has the right to demand blood vengeance. It’s an honor code among the SuVahta that even I don’t always understand. And while I am their leader, I cannot be a dictator.”

  Kipa looked over at Gunnar, who was staring at his feet. “It doesn’t help that Gunnar accepted the blame in the beginning. They could claim that, if I were to try to force his father to call off the fylgismadi. That doesn’t mean we can’t take steps to break the curse. It just means that I can’t order his father-in-law to stand down.”

  “All right then, how do we make the fylgismadi go away? How do we counter the curse?”

  “Unfortunately, the easiest way is to find the fylgismadi’s bones and salt them. And that’s not possible because we don’t know where Kristian hid them.” Kipa frowned, leaning back against the sofa.

  I turned to Gunnar, but he just shook his head, a hopeless look on his face. We sat for a moment in silence, each wrapped within our own thoughts. Then it occurred to me: the fylgismadi was a spirit, and therefore subject to Arawn’s rule. Perhaps Annwn could possibly give me some ideas on how to cope with this.

  “Arawn,” I said out loud. “Here, come into my ritual room with me. Both of you.” I leaned down and took off my shoes, setting them to the side. Then, pointing to both of the men’s feet, I said, “Shoes off. Socks too.”

  “Are you sure? My feet probably stink to high hell.” Gunnar grimaced.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Hurry up. I’m tired and it’s barely afternoon.”

  “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, trying to smile.

  Kipa and Gunnar removed their socks and shoes, setting them to the side. Then, both men barefoot, they followed me into my ritual room. I motioned for them to take a seat on the floor, one on either side of the bench in front of my altar.

  As I lowered myself onto the bench, Kipa cleared his throat.

  “Is there anything we need to do in order to help? Anything we shouldn’t do? Herne has dealt with Arawn before, but where I come from we deal with Tuoni and Tuonetar, who rule over Tuonela, our name for the Netherworld. I’m not sure if there are different protocols.”

  “Unless I ask you to say something, remain silent. If I ask you for information, give me exactly what I ask you for. If you don’t know, say ‘I don’t know.’ Do you understand?”

  They both nodded, silent. Gunnar looked a little green around the gills. Kipa actually looked like he was taking the situation seriously for once.

  I turned back to the altar. My altar was a large credenza, buttressed against the windowsill. Walnut, the wood was polished to a high sheen, and over it I had draped a black and silver cloth. In the very center was a large smoky quartz sphere, the size of a large muskmelon. It sat on a silver stand, and to either side were candleholders shaped like skulls. One held a black taper and the other, a white taper. In front of the sphere was a votive candleholder, holding a red votive.

  A brass pentacle, my ritual dagger, and my copper wand sat in front of the smoky quartz and the tapers. To the left, near the end of the altar, stood a statue of Arawn, the Lord of the Dead. And to the right end of the altar stood a statue of Cerridwen, the Lady of the Cauldron of Rebirth.

  I picked up my handpan, Laralea, and settled on the bench in front of the altar. Holding the instrument on my lap, I began to tap out a slow rhythm. As the music echoed through the room, I felt myself slide into the trance that the rhythms always invoked. I didn’t look at Gunnar or Kipa. I trusted them to do as I had asked.

  When the energy reached a peak, I set Laralea aside, and held out my hands, palms up.

  “Blessed Arawn, Lord of the Dead, guide and guard me in my journeys. Blessed Cerridwen, keeper of the sacred Cauldron of Rebirth, guard and guide me in my journeys. Teach me to walk in the shadows without fear, for I am the Daughter of Bones, Speaker for the Dead. Guide me through the Aether as I perform my duties. Strengthen me, swallow my fear, let me walk with confidence and surety. Blessed be the Guardians of the Underworld. So Mote It Be.”

  As my voice faded, I could feel the energy spiraling through the room, surrounding us like a whirlwind, rustling leaves blowing in the autumn wind, the chill night descending as winter kissed the earth. From a drawer in the console table, I took out a small dish carved from garnet. It was my offering dish, and I did this every time I came to talk with Arawn and Cerridwen. I picked up my ritual dagger and gently pressed my finger against the tip, piercing the flesh. I squeezed three drops of blood into the dish. Then, whispering Spark, I conjured fire to sizzle against the blood, evaporating it into smoke.

  “Blessed Arawn, I need your guidance. We need your guidance. A fylgismadi has attached itself to Gunnar, and we do not know where its bones are, therefore we cannot salt them and lay the spirit to rest. Please, if you find my request worthy, tell me what I must do in order to detach the fylgismadi from Gunnar’s soul.”

  I placed my hands palms down on the altar table, waiting. My e
yes were closed, but I heard Arawn whisper, Look into the orb.

  I pulled the orb to me, the heavy smoky quartz flashing from the rainbows caught in the fractures within the sphere. They acted like prisms, shimmering under the light of the candles. I studied the orb, letting my mind drift as I waited to see what Arawn had to show me.

  A figure appeared within the orb. She was ancient, a crone beyond all crones. Her face was so deeply wrinkled it was difficult to see her mouth or her nose. But her eyes shimmered with a powerful light, glowing golden and rich. She frightened me, even though I didn’t know who she was. I shivered as she turned her face to mine, and a crafty smile broke through the ridges of time that formed her countenance.

  “Go to Arachana and ask for help. She is the only one who can unweave the threads that bind the fylgismadi to your friend. She will require a price and you must decide whether you can afford to pay. Do not attempt to outwit her. You will not win.”

  A flash of fear stabbed through me, though I didn’t know why.

  “Where do I find her?”

  “Stand with a bloody heart in hand and call her name three times. She will come to you. But once you have clasped a deal with her, do not break your word, for she will come looking for you.”

  A sudden gust of wind shot through the room, blowing out the candles. I jolted, my eyes flying open as I looked around. Daylight flooded through the window, but it had seemed as dark as night, as dark as pitch during the ritual. My stomach lurched, and I felt queasy, nauseated by the energy that still flowed through my body.

  I swallowed, forcing a steadiness into my voice that I did not feel.

  “Blessed Arawn, blessed Cerridwen, thank you for your help. I am yours, and yours alone. So Mote It Be.”

  Shaking, I pushed the bench back from the altar, and glanced at Kipa, who was staring at me with a worried look on his face.

  “May we talk now?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, but not in here. Meet me in the living room. I need to splash some water on my face.”

  I stopped in the bathroom, holding the edge of the sink as I breathed deeply, trying to ease the dizziness that I felt. The ritual had left me feeling like spiderwebs were clinging to my body, like I was reeling from a ride at the carnival. My stomach lurched again, and I barely made it over to the toilet before I threw up, losing everything I’d eaten in the past couple of hours.

  Clammy and shaking, I eased myself onto my vanity bench, filling a paper cup with water as I rinsed out my mouth. Then I brushed my teeth and cleaned up the toilet. Finally, feeling somewhat settled and grounded, I opened the door, heading back to the living room to talk to Gunnar and Kipa.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gunnar and I settled in at the table while Kipa popped into the kitchen to heat up some soup. I needed something to settle my stomach, a light broth with some noodles, so he heated up some soup and made toast and set the table for us. Neither Gunnar nor Kipa tried to push me into talking before I was ready.

  When I had eaten half a bowl of soup and a piece of toast, I leaned back in my chair, letting out a long breath. I had tried to avoid thinking about everything that had happened and what Arawn had said while I regrouped and grounded myself. The energy had been so overwhelming that it left me reeling. But finally, with all the lights on and some soup and toast in my belly, I felt capable of talking.

  I looked over at Kipa. “Have you ever heard of someone named Arachana?”

  Puzzled, he thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Male or female?”

  “Female. I wondered if it was a goddess.”

  He frowned. “If it is, I’ve never heard of her. Why?”

  “Because she’s apparently the one who can help me dislodge the fylgismadi from Gunnar. Unless there’s any chance you can get Kristian to do it.” I knew even as I spoke that the answer would be no.

  Gunnar cleared his throat. “Kristian would like nothing better than to see me waste away. He’s not going to help. And as Kipa said, I made the mistake of blaming myself in his presence. That gives him the right of blood vengeance. I could appeal to the elders of the SuVahta, but most of them are Kristian’s friends. And I’m fairly low in the ranks. I’m quite expendable, whereas Kristian’s goodwill isn’t.” He sounded so fatalistic it made my heart ache.

  “Try to hold on. Rest as much as you can, eat what you can, and try to keep your weight up. I’ll do some research this evening and try to find out who Arachana is. I know how to contact her, but I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into before I knock on her door.” I thought about telling them what Arawn had told me—how to contact her—but it occurred to me that Gunnar might take it on himself to do so and I had the feeling he wouldn’t come out of the interaction alive. Not from the energy I had felt coming from her.

  Kipa reached out and took my hand, squeezing it tightly. “And I want to know what you’re getting into before you do it. Promise me you’ll tell me?”

  I glanced at his face. There was a concern in his eyes that I wasn’t used to seeing from people. Ulstair had pretty much kept himself separate from my business, and whether he simply assumed that I was more capable than any of the creatures I had taken on, or whether he didn’t care, I wasn’t sure. I had the feeling it was the former rather than the latter.

  “All right. I’ll tell you before I do anything.” I turned to Gunnar. “I’ll do my best to help you. I’m sorry I don’t have any better news this point. But I’ll contact you as soon as I know what I’m dealing with, and as soon as I know how to go about this.”

  He nodded. “I have no right to expect anything from you, and I’m grateful for the work you’ve already done. I don’t expect you to put yourself in danger for me, please know that.”

  He sounded desperate, in that way people have when they are facing a frightening and uncertain future. I knew that Gunnar was true to his word. He didn’t expect anything from me, and that almost made me sadder than if he had been yammering at me to get busy and save him. It told me he felt hopeless, and I still had the feeling he blamed himself for his wife’s death. And that only gave Kristian more ammunition.

  I glanced at Kipa. “Are you coming back tonight?”

  He reluctantly shook his head. “I’m afraid that I can’t. I promised to help Herne again tonight. I wish I could, though.”

  As I showed them out, I had the sinking feeling that Gunnar didn’t have much time left. Which meant I needed to get my ass in gear and find out who Arachana was, so I’d know what I was dealing with. I turned, leaning against the door after they left, wondering who to call. If Arachana wasn’t a goddess—and I had the feeling she wasn’t—then who was she? Heading toward my bookcase, I stopped at the table to grab another piece of toast. Raj peeked around the corner, a look of concern on his face.

  “Is Raven okay? Raj feels something strange going on.”

  I flashed him a smile that I didn’t feel. “Raven’s fine, Raj. She’s just worried about a friend right now.” As I pulled several books off the shelf and carried them over to the table, he came over and curled up beside my feet. I reached down and scratched him behind the ears, stopping as my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID. Great. It was Phasmoria, my mother. Just what I needed right now.

  My mother’s voice, when she wasn’t shrieking out her death knells, was throaty and sensuous, a lot like mine. It also happened to be one of the most authoritarian voices I had ever heard. Nobody ignored Phasmoria and got away with it.

  “Raven, how are you?”

  With my mother, no question was ever a throwaway. She wasn’t one for small talk, and when she asked a question, she expected an answer. And not just a polite brushoff. If I tried to tell her everything was fine right now, she’d pick up on it and grill me.

  “I have some serious problems to deal with right now, or rather, I’m helping friends with problems. So I’m a little worried at this point. Father said that you were going to visit me?” That was another thing a
bout my mother, she didn’t mind that I was blunt and direct.

  “Your father’s correct. I’ve been planning to come visit you for a while, but I couldn’t get away until now. The Morrígan has been running us ragged, and she promoted me to the head of the Bean Sidhe.”

  I could hear the tinge of pride in her voice, although Phasmoria, being who she was, would never gloat.

  “What happened to old Urseala?” I had met the former head of the Bean Sidhe exactly one time, and that was one time too many. She was a terrifying creature, one of the Ante-Fae that I would go to my grave hoping never to meet again.

  “She grew too chaotic. Age has not been kind to her. The Morrígan retired her, setting her up in a little house by herself in Annwn, and she created a barrier around Urseala’s place so the crone can’t escape and hurt anybody.”

  I shuddered. The thought of Urseala out on her own, without her wits about her, was a thought I could do without.

  “Well, I’m grateful that the Morrígan recognized what was going on. Congratulations on taking Urseala’s place. I know that’s a great trust.”

  “Yes, well, I hope I’ve proved my loyalty over the years. Anyway, I’ll be there by the end of the week, if not sooner. I trust that won’t be a problem?” It wasn’t really a question, but more of a statement.

  “Of course not. I have a question for you, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you ever heard of a creature or goddess called Arachana? And if so, can you tell me about her?”

  Phasmoria paused, and I almost thought I heard her catch her breath. “Why do you want to know?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted my mother to know why I was asking, but caution told me to tread carefully. I was still young enough that if she ordered me to either do something or not do something, there would be hell to pay if I went ahead and went against her.