Shifters Gone Wild; Collection

by Skye MacKinnon

  It might be harder than he thought to cut through her stubbornness.

  She might never want to admit what truly ailed her.

  Chapter 6

  Celeste stirred awake in the guesthouse bed in the dark, just at the edge of dawn.

  Trying not to wake Sinclair, she slipped out of the warm comfort of the sheets. She slid on her glasses, then grabbed her sweats and tank top from the floor.

  Her heart thumping, she silently put them on, keeping her gaze fixed on Sin, his powerful body still impressive at rest, his muscular bare thighs tangled in the printed quilt, one muscular arm casually dangling over a frilly pillow.

  She shook her head with grief. Again she knew she wouldn’t ask him for help. She couldn’t. He shouldn’t know about the darkness in her.

  And for what she was about to do, a warlock may actually hinder her ritual.

  She grabbed her peacoat and her leather backpack which contained the tools she’d need, stepped out of the room, and, within minutes, was in her car heading for the small coastal town’s center.

  Early morning fog coming in from the bay shone in her headlights as her car hugged the country road. The air was so cold that she’d found her car covered in frost and her fingers were freezing on the steering wheel.

  She had noticed the peaked tower of a church behind the quaint inn and hoped its cemetery would be near.

  Burton toyed with dark forces to continue feeding his strength and Celeste would have to counteract with dark energies of her own. The essence of the departed in the burial grounds would help her summon.

  She needed answers now. Answers as to how she could rid of herself of Morgius.

  She found the church at the bottom of the hill, near the waterfront, shrouded in fog.

  After parking at the back, away from the road, she got out of her car. The cold saline air hit her nostrils and she shrugged into her coat, digging her nose in her thick wool scarf.

  Huge oak trees bordered the stone wall leading to the final resting ground. This was an old cemetery, dating back to the mid-seventeenth century, like many found on the Northeast coast. She lit the flashlight of her cell phone to guide herself.

  This was such a small place, no one had seen fit to lock the chain which dangled at the stately entrance. She trekked through both decrepit pillars of stone, one marked with the church’s name of St. Thomas.

  Her heart thumped but there was nothing here she was afraid of. The dead were not to be feared. It was what she now knew was inside her that petrified her.

  Teisthys assist me. Give me courage.

  She stepped along the path of crushed pebbles, her steps echoing too loudly in the silent dawn. She passed the modern tombstones—sizeable white monuments covered in wilted flowers, faded satin pillows, and stuffed animals brought here by the living.

  Celeste reached the ancient section of the cemetery where willow trees hung over small crooked slabs of gray stone, the names and dates faded, a melancholic scene in the foggy darkness which the modern light of her cell phone disturbed.

  She found a neglected mausoleum at the edge of the wall enclosing the cemetery and headed for it. A large family of deceased would be helpful. Subtle energy of the departed to tap into.

  After sitting her bag on the ground in front of the crypt, she fetched her athame, and walked the circle on the frozen grown while calling upon the elemental guardians. She settled herself at the center and arranged candles in a makeshift altar. The gold and the silver. Then a center red votive, laid on the pentacle given to her on her eighteenth birthday by her grandmother Madeleine Stanford, née St-Amand, for the questions she was to ask.

  With a swish of the hand she lit her candles. “Ihmploxe Ehael. I call upon you. Guide me to all that is known. Ancestors below me, ancestors around me, help me find my way beyond darkness.”

  At her words, the winds picked up in the frosty dawn. Her heart settled into her trance and she saw.

  She saw the place where nothing was. The place where all was. And where time stopped. White and hazy. Shadows and light.

  She no longer sensed the New England cold, the damp cemetery ground below her.

  “What do you seek?”

  The figure advanced. A woman as ancient as the earth, yet as young as the fresh air. Her long hair floated with each of her step. Her features showed nothing but past and future. An ageless face neither old nor young, Ehael, Guardian of Secrets, of What Was and What Would Be.

  “A dark being has taken place within my soul.” Celeste broke into a cold sweat expressing what ailed her. “How do I be rid of it? How do I free myself?”

  The lady’s head titled to the side. “And this being, do you know the name?”

  “Morgius.”

  The guardian flinched at the name, but recomposed herself. Ehael kneeled before Celeste, her timeless clear eyes contemplated her “My poor child.”

  Her words brought a surge of panic into Celeste’s chest. A heaviness settled over her shoulders. “There is a way. Please, my lady. Tell me there is a way.”

  Ehael slumped with a pain look. “You are a Stanford, are you not? Of the Warlock of the Black Oak? Of the Three who received The Craft in the Samhain eve of sixteen hundred and ninety under a wide black oak in a forest of Kingston County? From the one who fled the persecutions of Ipswitch and Salem Town?”

  Celeste nodded. “The very one,” she said, having heard their family history many time. How the Three, Stanford, Clarke, and Morgan had snuck out in the middle of the night to the deep forest as teens and had encountered a mysterious female dressed in rags, but powerful in ways they couldn’t comprehend. Their escapade had changed the fate of those families forever.

  “Then, you have but one choice.” Ehael stared down at Celeste “Morgius is a Prince of the Daeva realm. Much too strong for you to tackle alone. Go to your family. Stay united. Together you can vanquish him from your consciousness.”

  “But I can’t.” Her whole being revolted against the idea of going back to them, weak and needy. “No. They cannot be tainted by this.”

  “It is your only chance, child. You have gotten stronger. But at times, strength is recognizing we need help from others. Go home.”

  She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”

  “Then there is nothing more I can tell you.” Ehael expression hardened. Her silver hair blew in the frigid wind. “This is my advice to you. Nothing more, nothing else. Do as you wish.”

  She watched Celeste with a sorrowful countenance as her shape receded, the early morning mist rising from the ground.

  The sky had turned grey. A faint light piercing the horizon.

  Thoughtfully, Celeste regarded the candles still lit at her feet.

  Go home. The command from Ehael resonated in her head. Could she go back again? Resolve settled over her and she tightened her fist.

  No. Not yet.

  Not before she saw Burton.

  * * *

  Sinclair had easily found where Burton had settled in Hemingford. The century-old rogue sorcerer carried such dark energy, that his trace, once one knew what to look for, was simple to locate at the edge of town, in a lone beach cottage closed up for the winter by its owners.

  Sin parked the Jag by the dunes covered in reeds behind the small house, grabbed his short sorcerer blasting staff from the passenger’s seat and silently got out of the car.

  His heartbeat eased. Celeste wasn’t here.

  When he’d awaken to the hotel room empty, her glasses and backpack gone, he’d feared the worse. She could be stubborn enough to take Burton on her own and that would not do. If the Huntsman dagger had not been enough to kill him, how would she fare better at ending him now?

  No, that was for him to figure out.

  The sudden pumping of his blood roared in his ears. His body full of epinephrine, ready to finish the rogue mage once and for all. Diesel should have decapitated the bastard’s head before flinging him into the ocean.

  But Sin had no such qualm with ma
ssacring the wretch. Burton had killed his mother. Had kept his girlfriend captive on the brink of madness for days.

  Sin thanked his dual nature. The panther in him screamed for blood, for revenge.

  Sure, the bastard may not die from Sinclair assault. He’d been said to be immortal. But Sin was willing to take his chance. Anything to prevent the mage from going near Celeste again.

  He stepped onto the thick sand, the bitter wind blasting his coat behind him. The sun on the edge of the horizon created a rose-colored sky spreading over the vast and stormy Atlantic Ocean.

  Well chosen, Burton. So isolated. I could kill you and no one would ever know.

  Now all that was left was to make a choice. Which part of him would eliminate Burton?

  Sinclair Clarke, warlock of the Black Oak, or the predator hailing from his mother’s ancestry he carried inside.

  He owed it to his mom to rip out the bastard’s throat with his bare teeth. Memory of the dying panther that had been his mother, covered in blood, the Huntsman Dagger planted within her flank, assaulted him.

  He owed it to her. And to Celeste. To make Burton suffer countless agonies that would barely pay for the suffering he enacted onto those he loved.

  A bit of both persona might be needed.

  Cold determination flowed through his veins as he reached inside his coat for his father’s Warden’s Cuff. Carved of thick silver and titanium, the thing was so potent he could not wear it constantly.

  He snapped the enchanted bracelet onto his left wrist and held his staff steady in his right hand, ready for whatever Burton chose to throw at him.

  As he crept up the wooden stair, the wards around the house assaulted him in a powerful, heated pressure under his skin that caught his breath short.

  He thrust his staff toward the door. “Vahrasth igyrat.” The protective spell Burton had cast on his dwelling vanished in a small blue haze.

  Sin smirked. So little protection, Burton. Are your growing weak?

  The door looked benign, like the door of any other summer residence, with a small wreath made of seashells and starfishes. But what was to be expected on the other side? Did Burton, so old now, easily over three hundred years, still need sleep?

  Or did he use the night’s energy to connect with his dark masters?

  There was only one way to get this done.

  Walk in, maim him.

  Sin was ready. He took a deep breath, his hand dead still on the door knob, his mind clear, he pried the door open and waited outside, out of the way, listening.

  All was silent, except for the constant crashing of the waves beyond and a lone squawking seagull in the distance.

  Sin took a few steps inside, cuff extended to his left, blasting staff in front of him.

  “Well, well, Mr. Clarke, welcome.” Burton stood barefoot in his kitchen, wearing nothing but dress black trouser and a leather belt. He poured himself some coffee from a state of the art espresso machine. His movements were careful, deliberate.

  “Would you care to join me?” the dark mage said, his tone haughty. “I can assure you those beans are freshly roasted, organic, and flown in directly from Italy.”

  Sin treated in closer. Let out a slow breath trying to decipher the mage’s true intentions, then shot Burton a half smile.

  “Why not?” He shrugged, intentionally casual. While half of him wanted to shred Burton’s elderly flesh from his bones, the other half reasoned that he could perhaps learn more about Celeste’s coma.

  “Please.” He motioned Sin to the table in front of a large bay window facing the ocean and brought a tray with two tiny cups of black coffee and a bowl of sugar cubes.

  “You and I are men of the world, Mister Clarke. I see the luxury car, the cashmere coat. And the hairstyle. You do use the best stylist, do you not?”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss barbers, Burton,” Sinclair drawled, forcing himself to hide the strain in his voice. The man had killed his mother. Sin didn’t know how long he could play civil with him.

  “Of course not, but we both love the best in life. And I was just like you once. Without the beast that you hide so well, of course.” He waved aside the subject of Sin’s shifting nature. “But I wanted the very best. Just as all those warlock friends of mine back in the days. Your ancestors. They wanted it all, but I wanted even more.”

  Burton sipped his coffee, his gaze wandering to the ocean horizon through the glass. “We could have been so much. Cross to Asia, buy islands and small kingdoms. But they had misgivings about my methods. I had to leave.” He turned to Sin. “Such complicated affairs.”

  “You used forbidden magic and they banished you. Not that complicated.”

  “Oh, but my dear Mister Clarke, we all tether at the edge of darkness. You with your killer instinct, and now your sweet girlfriend having spent so much time in my company.”

  Sinclair took a sip of bitter coffee. He was calm on the surface but each of his muscles were bound tight as hormones rushed through his blood. He kept his gaze on Burton, lowered the cup in its saucer with care. “Where was she? When you had her under your trance, where was her mind?”

  Burton smiled devilishly. “Is that why you are here? To find out how you can get your obedient little girl back?” He opened his palms out as if the matter was out of his control. “She is lost to you now. To you all. She can never return. Soon to turn completely dark.”

  “Tell me where she was.” Impatience boiled in Sin’s veins..

  “There is nothing I can do. She is doomed.” Burton nodded. “Just as I am apparently. You did come with the intention to kill me, didn’t you?”

  “I may not if you tell me what hold you still have on her.”

  “That,” he said sadly, “I will not do. You see, I spent my life enjoying myself. Look at this body, so frail now. Two hundred years is too long. Yes, I shall die. By you, or the magic that is increasingly killing me. And I confess, the second option is not pretty. Morgius will painfully drain every speck on my soul in the process, now that I am useless to him.”

  Burton pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for an instant before adding, “And perhaps, it is appropriate that you, Sinclair Clarke, must be the one to do it. Payback, I suppose. For your mother. I had no intention of ever killing such a superb specimen. A perfectly beautiful shifter from India, the lovely Soraya Varma Clarke. The first of her kind on this continent. Sadly, I had no choice but to kill her. She would have maimed me beyond recognition.”

  Sin frowned, speechless to see what looked like remorse on Burton’s expression.

  “But while I grieve for your mother, Sinclair, I must leave my legacy behind. To live, to love, to leave a legacy, they say. I have lived for centuries. And love, well, in my own ways perhaps I did. But now, Celeste Stanford is my legacy. My essence is in her.”

  “No.” Disgust and fury mounted in Sinclair’s chest. How could such a vile creature taint someone as innocent as Celeste.

  “There is nothing you can do,” Burton said wistfully. “It is too late.”

  Rage swallowed Sin at the mage’s words. Unlike his sister, he could usually control his shifting and was not overcome easily by his DNA. But this time, he let it all rush through him unbound.

  Let the beast’s white and raw anger take over his mind.

  His blood quickened.

  Teeth sharpened in his mouth. Bones clashed and remolded themselves under the taut and stretched muscles. Perception of his surrounding shifted, everything so precise and clear.

  “It is time, I gather.” Burton drawled faintly.

  The smell of fresh kill invaded Sin’s senses and he barely heard the words of the mage who calmly looked at his impending death.

  The panther attacked.

  The beast Sinclair had turned into saw nothing but flesh and pumping blood. The feline had to taste the killer’s blood. Under his tongue, in his throat.

  He ripped flesh, oblivious to the useless twisting and wails of his victim under his tee
th. Toyed with him as the dark mage trashed desperately in his clutch. His blood curling shrieks piercing the stifling air.

  With glee, the panther was pinning his flailing prey to the floor, razor teeth poised at the frail neck, when a female scream echoed behind him, urging him to stop.

  But the feline ignored it.

  And ripped through its quarry’s throat.

  Chapter 7

  “Sin. Stop!”

  But it was too late. The huge panther tore once more into the rogue sorcerer’s flesh, before turning to Celeste, his eyes full of bloodlust.

  “Sinclair, no,” she agonized, near tears. Burton was obviously dead, the body bloody and immobile under the huge beast.

  She sunk with anguish to a nearby chair as she took in the scene before her. Burton’s body lay crooked on the cabin’s floor at the panther’s feet, his bare chest marred with deep vicious cuts, his dark blood splattered on the hard wood, rivulets seeping through the gaps between the boards.

  His eyes remained eerily opened, testifying to the horror at seeing his death up close. The face with the faint old scar still intact, above the pulsing blend of flesh, tendons and arteries that was now his throat, gushing the last of the mage’s blood.

  Celeste brought her hand to her mouth, ready to heave, then focused her sight on the jeweled-tone pupils of the beast who’d kill Burton.

  Sin gave a short roar and transformed before her. Cruel teeth retracted, sleek fur made way for golden skin.

  “I had to do it,” he said, his expression hazy, his naked body covered in blood. “For you. For my mother.”

  He mindlessly stepped into the galley kitchen to wash the blood from him, leaving his clothes, ripped on the floor, behind him.

  She bolted and followed him, anger and despair mixed in her mind.

  “I needed to talk with him,” she told Sin with anguish. How could she explain to Sinclair that Burton had possessed the key to free her from the darkness within her?