by J. Kowallis
My brow furrows deep and I think back on my last interaction with the Donovan girls. The day Coll and I retrieved Craniarann and he lost his memory. Sera had said something that hadn’t really registered with me until now.
Feckin’ stories about our da . . .
And when I told her Adrian, her dad, and Garrit followed us to Bryden, she looked so confused.
No wonder. If someone murdered the Donovans when the kids were young, that means Frec never possessed Michael, Ruhmactír never possessed Adrian, and Michael never tortured Coll.
I run a hand through my loosely curled hair and lean over the table, breathing in the scent of warm citrus tea.
Everything changed. Everything I know about my life is out of place and rewritten.
“Taran,” Alaric pulls at my attention and I look up at him. “How do you know Coll?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. I only know what I know, and this new reality makes no sense to me.”
“Then, start with what you know.”
I nod before opening my mouth. When I do, my voice is detached, my mind whirling. “Coll and I met at a bar through a mutual friend in London. I told you in the email that I found out where Craniarann was and Coll and I both went after it. While we were in Bryden, things went wrong. In the confusion, Craniarann yanked us back three thousand years, and in that time period, everything changed. I mean, things are similar in ways, but turned around. You see, you died when I was little. I watched as Radolf murdered you with the tás, and for years I had no idea what the prophecy was or that it even existed. Then Michael Donovan, the Michael Donovan from my timeline, arrived at my office with a rune stone engraved with the hand cross on it—the incomplete cross of Woden with the two interlocked hands. Only, it wasn’t really Michael. It was Frec.”
Alaric’s eyes widen. “Frec? Frec as in . . .”
I nod sharply. “Frec ‘as in.’ Anyway, Coll and I initially met unceremoniously in Heathrow Airport, then, like I said, later that night at a club with friends. Long story short, your spells, your guidance, and the steps that you laid out for me, helped me. But when Craniarann dragged us back in time, Frec and Ruhmactír must have been killed, and Coll was hit with a memory hex, and I lost him.”
“He’s dead?”
I shake my head. “No, not like that.”
“You still have the staff?”
I feel the pulse of the staff resting within the skin of my palm and I reach forward with my unmarked hand to pick up the cup of tea in front of me, taking a sip. “Mm hm,” I murmur.
“Is it safe?”
“Yes.” I set the cup down.
Alaric sighs with relief and grins, leaning back in his chair. His hands grip the wood armrests of his chair. “Good.” Then, he leans forward, his eyes shining with excitement as he reaches for his own teacup.
“Aren’t you going to ask where it is? The staff?”
Alaric’s eyes sharpen. “I trust you have it somewhere safe. I’d rather you trust me, so I don’t need to know where you put it. However,” he leans closer, “tell me. What was it like?”
“What was what like?” I ask, my own tension dissolving under the surprise that he doesn’t want to know more. After all those years searching for Craniarann.
“Bryden. When you and Donovan broke through the wall.”
I spent the last three months avoiding any thoughts of that moment—and so many others. Coll taking my hands in his, the rush of his pulse, the warmth of his skin. Then when the earth began to shake, the sky brightened, and the grass responded to our spell, we held each other even tighter.
“Everything was as we left it. And I mean ‘we’ our ancestors. It hadn’t changed at all in three thousand years.”
And then everything did change. I shake my head and drink some of my tea. The lingering bergamot, blood orange, jasmine, and hint of ginger—not vanilla—rushes across my tongue, sliding down my throat. The cup clinks with the saucer below it when I set it down and push it away.
“And now I’m here,” I push away the thoughts of Coll and sit straight. “Alaric, Dad,” I overcorrect myself again, “overnight, I went from hardly knowing magic to apparently becoming the expert Móraí always wanted me to be. At least . . . maybe. I don’t know. I have books and grimoires all over my house. Grimoires. As in plural. Not only that, I have family charts in my home I’ve never seen before. I mean, the room I used as an office where I worked from home and graded papers is now a spell room of sorts. Star charts litter the walls, ancestors’ artifacts and relics and journals line my shelves. I don’t remember owning them. I don’t know how I learned them, how I came to possess all these things. I mean, I have access to spells . . .” my voice drops, and I lean back in my chair, “spells I shouldn’t even dabble with. Why? What happened in my life that made me embrace my hexen side?”
The excitement on Alaric’s face flickers and falls. “When Craniarann took you back to Woden, it set things in motion that . . . may need to be rectified. You see, the day you went back, Woden killed Ruhmactír, not the other way around,” he motions to me, “the way you say things happened. Woden’s triumph over the Geri clan is the only story I’ve ever known. When you emailed me and told me everything, I almost didn’t believe you. It took some pretty powerful spells for me to be able to sort out the timeline and see if you were telling the truth. I should have trusted you, but I had to know for myself.”
Alaric purses his lips and then holds up a finger, motioning for me to stay for a minute. He stands up and leaves the room. His shoes pad through the sitting area and into another room of the house. Minutes later, he returns with a leather-bound book that looks as if it once fell apart at the seams and someone magically reassembled it. He opens it to a specific page and then drops the book in front of me.
The hand-painted decorative page reminds me of the intricate work inside the Book of Kells at Trinity Library. The only difference is that spells, not latex gloves and technology, allow this book to be handled. Dad points to the page. It details the historical account of one particular family.
“One thing you may not know is that while Woden killed Ruhmactír that day, many of the Geri clan over the years were recorded in history as having . . . odd dreams. Almost as if they were recalling second lives. Most of them felt their ancestors guiding them in some way. And when they remembered certain people or doing certain things, they usually followed through with it, believing that these déjà vu-like experiences were spiritual paths. Marriages happened according to their dreams, children, etc. It must be why the Donovans and the rest of the Geri or Wolf lines haven’t altered over the years. Why Coll was still born to Michael despite Frec and Ruhmactír not living their descendants’ lives.”
“If that’s the case,” I push the book away from me, “who killed the Donovans?”
His eyebrows lift. “That, I can’t say. After I left you and your mom, I was practically a nomad for years. Spent a few months in Australia, some years in Prague, others in Rio, and about two years ago I moved here. About six months ago, you reached out to me. Which, is probably why you’d been learning lots of ‘off limits’ spells in your spare time.”
“What do you mean?”
Alaric smiles. “Think.”
“Alar—Dad—”
He leans forward. “Just call me Alaric. Don’t stand on ceremony. I haven’t been in your life for over twenty years. In either reality.”
“Okay. If you’re all right with that, I guess.” I nod and pause. “Alaric, I really don’t know anything about this life. And I don’t exactly know what kind of magic I was practicing.”
He nods and I lean forward, drawn to the answer he’s debating on giving me. “I think you threw yourself into your hexen studies with my mom mostly out of a desire to find me and kill me. Or, at the very least . . . make me pay. I blocked myself with some pretty potent spells. It takes a great deal of power to break through those. Power that doesn’t come naturally to most hexens. It’s a power that’s dangerous
if not controlled. I’ll say, I was just as scared to see you that first time as I think you were to see me today. If not more.”
I nod. Dangerous spells. Powerful magic. It doesn’t sound like me at all.
“I remember it too well,” he says. “You drove up here, and the protection spells I had on the house practically vibrated. The moment you stepped through, it negated your powers. And, when you met me, you were angry.”
“I didn’t attack you, though?”
“You couldn’t. Not with your magic anyway. I pulled a ‘Hail Mary’ and took a risk. Told you about the prophecy. With your knowledge of the craft, your interest in the history of our people, and your professorial career, you were curious enough to hear me out.”
“That’s it?” My eyebrow crooks upward. “You just told me about some prophecy I’ve been destined to participate in, and I stopped hating you?”
“Oh, no.” He smiles. “You still hated me. In fact, you said my life was in your hands. I just had to promise to continue to stay away from your mom. Never contact her.”
I frown. “But you did. When I came back from England, Mom told me you called her wondering where I was.”
For the first time since I arrived, Alaric looks shaken, defensive. “Right.” He swallows. “You never told me you were leaving. You never told me anything. You just left. I worried about you and wanted to make sure you were okay, so I took a risk. Tell me,” he pauses. “What happened? Do you know what happened according to this current timeline?”
I bite my lip and glance down at the tabletop. “No. Not even in the slightest. At least,” I cut in when I notice the disappointment that falls on his face, “I don’t think so.”
Alaric narrows his eyes and leans back. There’s a studious look in his face, part skeptical, part excited. “What if you had help?”
Unease rolls through me. “Alaric, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
They are, after all, the only ones with power over thought and memory.
The only thing he does is nod. His chair creaks beneath him. He leans to the side and folds his arms, squinting at me. “Angelica Crowther is the only Ravn I know of who’s still living. At least as far as my contacts go.”
Shock travels through me. “Angelica Crowther? The woman who raised the Donovan children?”
“The very same.”
“Where is she now?” I swear I lean forward even more.
Alaric’s head tilts and he studies me. “She lives in an old home out near Lady’s Island Lake. Ireland.”
“So,” I think about Coll and I can’t put my finger on the reason why, “I need to go back?”
This time, Alaric leans in. “We both go back.”
Two
“Before we do that, we need to find a way to guard your mind,” Alaric says, standing up from the table. “Temporarily, at least.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You mentioned that Hellia Morrigan tapped into your subconscious mind and overrode your conscious focus. Correct?”
“Yeah?” I prod, watching him leave the room for a second time.
“There are,” he shouts through the house, “some ancient spells the Grims concocted over the years that help to guard our minds against Ravn spells. They offer an impermanent hold, but at least,” I hear him move up the stairs and begin shouting louder from the second floor. I walk slowly through the foyer until I can hear him a little more clearly.
“At least what?” I shout up at him.
“At least we’ll be able to keep you safe until we meet with Angie and can somehow convince her to place her own block over you.”
“Angie?” I grip the banister leading up the stairs.
Alaric steps out of one of the upstairs rooms and he turns the corner at the top of the staircase. In his arms he holds a larger book than the thick one he brought into the parlor. It’s got to be about the height of a tire belonging to a mid-sized car. Just about as old as the parlor book, and from what I see—someone stitched the cross of Woden into the leather cover.
“Yes,” he says, descending the stairs. “Angie and I spoke once or twice over the years. Because of what happened to the Donovans, I reached out to her to warn her about the danger to the children. We’ve stayed in sporadic contact over the years.”
He stops at the bottom of the stairs and offers a pressed smile. “Shall we go into the library? It’s a bit darker in there.”
I nod and curiously follow him, looking over his shoulder at the large book. By my estimates with the age of the leather, the wear on the edges, and the parchment discoloration, it has to be at least a thousand years old. My historian brain shifts into hyperdrive thinking about all the books he must have in this house. The knowledge, the spells, the ancient handwriting and the stories. Things my colleagues would kill to get their hands on. Hell, I’d kill to flip through all the pages here.
Alaric leads me into a room down the hallway through a large wooden cross-and-bible door—a fact that makes me snicker a bit on the inside—and once I step inside, my jaw drops. The walls are completely covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A few shelves are actually dedicated to fiction, but the rest are collections of history and hexen craft. There must be at least a few centuries’ worth of every published book of hexen knowledge in here. While my dad pulls the curtains closed and snaps his fingers to light the varied candles in the room, I step up to the nearest shelf and slowly drag my fingers across the book spines. They’re organized by subject and chronological date. These are—I peer closer—all records from the 1600s. Early American events. Detailed accounts of the Salem Witch Trials.
“Rebecca Nurse, Susannah Martin,” I whisper to myself reading the spines.
“Taran,” Alaric calls my attention, his voice calm and still.
I pull myself away from the cascade of books and look at him. He’s already arranged the candles in a circular pattern on the floor. The familiar cross of Woden. He finishes studying the single page of the large book, whispering words to himself as if to memorize them, and then steps inside one of the four quadrants of the circle motioning for me to join him.
“Where do you want me?”
He points to the quadrant opposite him. I carefully step over the candles and plant my feet. Alaric reaches forward. The smell of eucalyptus and peppermint invade my senses. Eucalyptus for healing regrets and worries, and peppermint—I’m sure—to protect and cleanse negative energies. For a man who had to leave his family and hide away from the world, I’m not entirely surprised.
He places his hands on the sides of my face, the thumbs resting on either side of my nose, the pinkies closest to my ears, and his pointer fingers in the divots of my temples. Exactly how Coll did the first time we tried to share my vision of Rheda’s prophecy.
“Now, all you have to do is stand here. I’ll do the rest.” He smiles, and then it fades, and he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.
Immediately, the air stills and I sense a charge of power rippling through like an energy current. It makes the small hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Arate leigu o rúndhei. Coso o cosyttet. Bloci agsen seist. Ófra geanhacht magintui.”
I feel a fuzzy sensation at the back of my skull, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
“Arate leigu o rúndhei. Coso o cosyttet. Bloci agsen seist. Ófra geanhacht magintui.”
Like a web, the sensation rolls across my brain, traveling toward my forehead.
“Arate leigu o rúndhei. Coso o cosyttet. Bloci agsen seist. Ófra geanhacht magintui.” His voice is more commanding this time, forcing the magic deeper. This final time, the fuzzy blanket over my consciousness—or maybe subconsciousness—feels more like a wall. Comforting and protective. Slowly, the energy in the room dissipates while Alaric’s grip along my face and head remains firm and immovable. Almost as if he’s locking the spell into place.
Lifting my eyelids, I see a few strands around my hairline tremble against the lingering energy in the air.
Then, like a switch, the natural movement of the air returns and Alaric removes his hands.
He looks deep into my eyes, like the caring and devoted man I remember from my childhood, and asks, “How do you feel, Bug?”
“Weird. But okay. It’s like there’s this fuzzy blanket over my thoughts. It’s just a little bit . . . claustrophobic.”
Alaric smiles. “Like I said, it’s a temporary fix, but that’s how it’s supposed to feel.”
“So, now what?” I ask. “We travel to see Angelica?”
My father motions with his hand. A command. The candles, flames burned out, float back to their previous locations. “That’s the plan.”
“For how long? I have classes starting on Monday.”
He turns around. “You’re not planning on continuing with your job, are you?”
I widen my eyes and rear back. “Of course, I am. I could lose my position if I don’t.”
My dad scoffs as he moves to pick up the grimoire. “So, you get a new job. You published one book already, and you’ve completed a guest lecture at Harvard.”
“But Alar—”
“Not to mention,” he interrupts me, “the interview you did for that PBS documentary on the Druids.”
“Alaric!”
He rounds on me, hugging the book close to his chest. The tone of his voice ringing with an angry edge. “University positions come and go. Taran, we’re hexens. You can easily remedy that.”
I frown at him while he walks past me and opens the door of the library. “Are you suggesting I use magic to protect or further my career?”
“Why not?” he shrugs, his voice tight. “I did.”
“I’m sorry, but I have a real problem with that.” I step away from the center of the room and approach him just as he turns to leave.