As she settled in the backseat, she paused, then let out a little laugh. “You two have chosen to become a mated pair, then?”
I blinked. “How did you know?”
“The energy around you is thick as thieves. Thick as my grandmother’s gravy was. And believe me, that was a gravy you could stand your spoon up in.” She settled back in the seat.
I decided it was time to address my concerns. I couldn’t have the question lingering over us, or I would never be able to work with her at the level of trust required for our interaction. “Ellia, I need to know this, and I need the truth. Your mother—Magda. What’s her story? Why would she be part of a club that is dedicated to an enemy of the Morrígan?”
She let out a sharp breath. “You know, then . . .”
“I know she belongs to Cú Chulainn’s Hounds. I know they consider themselves enemies of the Morrígan, and therefore of me. I know my grandfather belonged to it, and so did—do—the men he hung out with. And your mother belongs to it, as well.” I suddenly realized that my voice had risen. I was angry. I wanted to know who had killed my mother and father. And I wanted to know why Ellia’s mother was aligned with the enemy. As I heard my thoughts, I cringed. I had enemies now. Scary, murderous enemies.
Ellia cleared her throat. “All right, I’ll tell you what I know. I would have tomorrow night at the meeting, anyway. You’ll learn a lot more there.”
Feeling slightly mollified, I let my breath out slowly. “All right. I’m ready.”
She deflated then, and I could hear the pain enter her voice, like when you rip open a scab you thought you’d finally forgotten and been able to tuck into the past. “Magda—my mother—joined the group many years ago. So many that I lost count. While she’s not devoted to their particular cause, she is devoted to their general nature. I told you that there are spirit shamans worldwide, by different names, serving different gods?”
“Right.”
“In Russia—I’m no more Irish than I am a potato—they are called дух мастер . . . spirit masters, roughly translated. The goddess who rules over them is Morena. She’s very much like the Morrígan. One of her nemeses is Baba Volkov—Mother Wolf Witch, a dark crone from the forest who possesses great power over the shadows. She can summon the dead and make them do her bidding, but not like you. She doesn’t drive them back to the grave. She enslaves them. She can create form out of shadow. She is a dangerous enemy, and all the women in our family have been pledged to her service and that’s where we got our last name. My mother is a powerful witch, dedicated to Baba Volkov.”
I caught my breath. “So . . . she would befriend an enemy of the Morrígan because the Morrígan is much like her own deity’s enemy. But, how then did you become a lament singer?”
Ellia paused, then nodded. “I don’t really know how it happened, but I was born with the ability. I was also born with the dark magic of Baba Volkov. My mother was furious when she found out that I wanted to sing the dead to sleep instead of learn how to use them. By the time I was thirteen, I had become a prodigy on the violin. Mother said it was time for me to set that aside and begin learning the craft of my ancestors.”
Oh, this couldn’t have a happy ending.
“I refused. I insisted I was going to become a lament singer—I told her my hands were filled with music. She . . . she said that if I insisted on cavorting with the dead instead of using their powers, my hands would be filled with madness, as well. She grabbed my hands and there was a searing pain. To this day I can still remember the agony. And after that, any time I touched anybody, it sent them into a dark pit of aching madness. The day after she cursed me, I put on my first pair of gloves. I found out what happened when I touched my dog.”
Her voice filled with pain and I wished I’d never asked her; even though we needed to know, it wasn’t worth putting someone through this kind of memory.
I sighed. “I thought maybe it was a power that went with that of lament singing.”
“No. My mother cursed me to drive anyone to madness if I touched them with my hands. I can touch them with my lips, with any part of my body except my fingers, and nothing happens. But if I shake hands, stroke a face . . . pet a dog . . . without my gloves? They are consigned to agony. And I cannot live with myself if I were to do that, so that’s why I always wear gloves. Except . . . I cannot wear them when I play, so I never get near enough to touch someone during those times. The only thing I’ve felt under my fingers since I was thirteen is the feel of a bow, and of material.” Tears trailed down her cheeks. “Magda killed Penelope, my sister. I barely knew who she was before she was found dead, and a horrendous death it was, too. But Magda didn’t count on Penelope becoming a Gatekeeper.”
“Why did she kill your sister?”
“Because she, too, refused to learn the art of Baba Volkov. We both failed our mother’s wishes . . . and so she set out to destroy us.”
As I took a right onto Hydrangea Way, and then another right onto Whipwillow Lane, I thought over what she had told us. Magda had chosen to focus her anger where she could do the most damage and get back at her wayward daughters at the same time. Morena, Morrígan, I doubted whether the names made a difference. It was the energy behind the name that counted.
“In your mother’s eyes, you both betrayed her and went over to the enemy, then.”
“That’s about right.”
“How old is your mother?”
“How old is Magda?” Ellia paused. “She was born in 1900, so she’s almost one hundred and fifteen years old.”
“That’s what the records say. But she’s human, isn’t she? Aren’t you? Not a shapeshifter like Bryan?”
Ellia shrugged, leaning forward to peer over my shoulder. “Not all humans are of the same stock. My lineage goes back for hundreds of years and is steeped in magic and sorcery. The legends I grew up on were gruesome and dark, and Baba Volkov a harsh taskmistress. The spells her followers—including my family—work with are dangerous and incredibly powerful.”
“That would answer where some of the magic is coming from, like the toxic mist in my garden.” I told Ellia what had happened the night before.
“Yes, that would be right up her alley. My mother could toss off a mist like that without even a moment’s notice. And she would have no compunction about doing so.”
Bryan cleared his throat. “Most people don’t realize that there are differing lineages of humanity, and nobody has clocked every single strand of DNA on this planet. And the life spans? Those born of magical blood tend to live longer and heal faster. Kerris, your grandmother Lila would have probably lived strong into her fifteenth decade, had she not been killed. Her mother . . . I’m not sure how your great-grandmother died, but chances are, it wasn’t natural.”
“Mae supposedly died of a heart attack, when she was in perfect health.” I blinked. I was heading into uncharted territory here.
“My mother could engineer a heart attack, as well.”
“Or my grandfather could have colluded with Doc Benson to take her out. I wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.” I let out a long sigh. “But I no more believe Mae died a natural death than I believe Whisper Hollow is the sunshine capital of the world.”
As I veered onto Snowstar Avenue, we were nearing the place where Tawny was seen going off the road. She had plunged into the water right before the bridge that ran over Juniper Creek, which flowed into the lake. The road was very, very close to the lakeshore there, and it was easy to swerve too close to the guardrails. And if the Lady was calling? Through them.
“So, Magda saw hooking up with Cú Chulainn’s Hounds as a way to get back at you and your sister. At all of us who walk this path. She’s on a vendetta.”
Ellia pointed to a turnout ahead. “Park there.” As I pulled over, she continued. “Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Whisper Hollow never really welcomed her in. She
fits the energy of this place, of these woods. Baba Volkov would be as much at home up on Timber Peak as she was in the forests of Russia, but there, people respect her as well as fear her. Here? In town, Magda was laughed at for her folkish ways, and while there are a few other Slavic and Russian families here, the Irish tend to rule Whisper Hollow.” A faint laughter filled her voice. “But you’re right on one thing. The use of the word vendetta? Most appropriate for Magda’s nature. She never gives up a grudge. Our family still holds blood feuds against others from the old country that have been waged for centuries. Magda hated this town when I was young, and so I wouldn’t limit her designs on revenge to just the spirit shamans.”
I glanced over at her. “You said a force was coming out of the woods, aimed at the town. You were referring to her, weren’t you?”
“Yes. My mother and her followers. I have no doubt that she’s made Cú Chulainn’s Hounds reliant on her by now.
Another thought crossed my mind. “You said she can work with shadows? Create beings out of them?”
“If you’re thinking she’s responsible for the Shadow Man in your house, you may be right.” Ellia shrugged. “She’s capable of that and so much more. Now I wish I had learned about some of my heritage, because I might be better suited to help us against her. But I have no Shadow Journals to read up on, unfortunately.”
“Magda can probably perform the rites to summon the Ankou. I’m sure the Hounds have provided her with plenty of options. I wonder, though, if Cú Chulainn’s Hounds know how she feels about the town itself? If not, they might see her as a power supply without realizing they are also in danger. Which means she could manipulate them into actions that were far beyond what they originally planned.”
Ellia readied her violin and then climbed out of the backseat as we slipped out of the front. “Magda is a master of manipulation. I know they have no clue of just what she’s up to. If so, she’d be off their rolls and quite possibly dead, if they could manage it.”
“Do you know how she got involved with them in the first place?”
Ellia remained silent. “You’ll find out that at the meeting. I’d rather not go over it twice. Come now, we have to prepare the ritual.”
By the tone of her voice, I realized I would get no further until the meeting, so I opened my bag and pulled out my wand. I also had prepared a packet of Follow Me powder, which I found in the secret room. “I’m ready. I memorized what I’m supposed to do, but this is the first time I’ll have tried out one of her rituals, so be . . . prepared, I guess. I have no idea what’s supposed to happen.”
Ellia laughed. “Well, I know this much: After we perform the ritual, we should see a fog rise from the lake—a glowing fog—where Tawny’s car was last seen. It will shimmer and then head for the graveyard. We drive back to the cemetery then, and finish binding the spirit within the confines. Then, when they perform the memorial service, regardless of whether the body has been recovered, we will ease Tawny into the Veil. Penelope will take over then.”
“Right. Force her out of the water here, then bind her in the graveyard.” The thought made me sad. It felt almost like we were jailers, which was technically the truth.
We got down to business, with Bryan keeping watch. The edge leading down to the water was too steep to descend, and there was no good trail nearby, so we’d have to do all of this from above. Which was just as well. I didn’t fancy trying to navigate my way through the brush down to the lakeside in the dark, especially with the Lady so active. I had the feeling we hadn’t seen the last of her trolling for victims for this year.
Bryan guarded against oncoming cars, using a flare to warn people around the area where we had parked. It was dark enough that an oncoming car might not see us and pull into the turnoff, shoving my own SUV into the drink. And I really, really didn’t want to be explaining that one to the insurance company.
Ellia took off her gloves, pocketing them. I stared at her hands. They were creamy white in the night, and I suddenly wanted to take them in mine, to squeeze them and let her fingers know that something other than the bow and the cloth existed. But I held myself back.
She caught my gaze and I swear, she knew what I was thinking, because she gave me a sad, soft smile before lifting her violin to fit it under her chin. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and began to play—softly at first, coaxing a haunting trill of notes out of the instrument, a melancholy hymn to the lost. The music cascaded up and overflowed the edge of the cliff, fluttering down, tumbling like autumn leaves toward the dark surface of the lake below.
I raised my wand, instinct taking over and putting into place the steps I had so painstakingly memorized. Holding the wand aloft, I stared at the silver shaft, and a brilliant light began to sparkle within the crystal atop the end—it was like a beacon, a calling card.
“Tawny Marple, I call you forth from the arms of the Lady. Come to me, come out of the depths, away from your body. The Lady may claim your remains, but I claim your soul and waken you with the kiss of music and magic, with the call of the Morrígan! Come and follow me, back to the valley of the dead, where you will rest even if your body should never be found.”
As my voice fell away, the light from the crystal shot down, turning into the shape of a sparkling crow made up of a thousand pinpoints of light. The brilliant bird landed on the wind-churned waves of the lake. The energy of Ellia’s music rolled in behind it to circle an area on the water’s surface, the notes creating a web to catch the fog that began to rise from the spot. The mist glowed, sparkling and beautiful, a pale violet, and the notes of Ellia’s song forced it to follow the crow into the air, where both hovered, glimmering in the night sky. Mesmerized, I watched, catching my breath as I realized Tawny’s spirit was in that fog—I could see her, a vague form, confused and searching.
“Follow me, Tawny Marple. Follow me.” I whispered the last, and Ellia let loose with one final sweep of her bow. The crow vanished as the fog rose to the level of the road and began heading west, toward the cemetery. “And now, we get a move on.”
Bryan put out the flare as we stowed our gear and returned to the car. He drove so I could focus. None of us spoke on the way, Ellia and I keeping hold of the ritual, of the energy that surrounded us and reached out to control Tawny’s spirit that floated on ahead of us.
Once we reached the cemetery, Ellia and I tumbled out, and without a word, she took up her violin again. The crow reappeared and landed on the roof of Penelope’s tomb. Together Ellia and I swept the spirit toward the mausoleum with our magic. Penelope was waiting for us at the edge of the doorstep. She opened her arms and the mist, with Tawny’s spirit in it, surrounded her. Penelope closed her eyes, laughing low and soft, and as she brought her hands together in front, the mist vanished and she let out a long, slow sigh.
“She is locked here, within the graveyard. I will watch after her until the service is performed and you sing her into the Veil. You have done well, Kerris.” But then—as she was beginning to turn, to go back into the mausoleum—a noise startled us all. Penelope froze, her back stiffening. She seemed taller, more regal than she had before as she called out, “What are you doing in my realm? You know that I do not tolerate your kind.”
I whirled, just in time to see a figure on the outskirts of the graveyard. It was dark and shadowed. One of the Ankou.
Instinctively, I reached for my dagger, but the blade was back in the car.
“I imagine that he’s after you.” Penelope’s voice was calm, emotionless, but she leaned forward. “There is dark magic afloat through the Veil lately, magic that knows neither balance nor respect.”
Ellia inhaled sharply. “Mother. She’s messing with the dead.”
“Yes, it’s from Magda. The Ankou stinks of her meddling.” Penelope moved forward, between us, and it felt like a rush of wind roared past. She held up her hand and a dark crow suddenly swooped down, low over her shoulder.
But it was no ordinary crow, nor did it belong to the Crow Man. No, this bird was skeletal in nature, flying on bone wings. It swooped toward the Ankou, shrieking, and the Shadow Person fell back, moving away as the bird swiftly pursued it.
“Then you agree that Magda has the power to summon them?” I turned to Penelope, a ripple of fear racing down my spine. We had to find her and put a stop to her attacks before they grew worse. But she wasn’t dead—I couldn’t just drive her into the Veil for Penelope to deal with. And you couldn’t put someone in jail for disrupting the spirit world.
“Oh, she’s behind this, no doubt. And I can do nothing to her, even though she’s the one who stripped away my life.” She turned. “You should talk to Veronica, but let me contact her first. She has been in a mood lately, and I will summon you when it is safe to meet with her. It may take some time, so be patient.” Penelope sighed, the sound of the wind rustling through dried corn husks and old papers flowing out with her breath. And with that, she ducked into her tomb again.
* * *
When we arrived back at the house, it was ten minutes till eleven. Peggin was sprawled out on the sofa, watching A Letter to Three Wives, an old movie from 1949. She had always been a sucker for the glamour girls like Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe, and the dapper stars like Cary Grant and Laurence Olivier.
“Has Aidan arrived yet?”
She shook her head. “No, but he called the house and left a message that he’ll be here soon. So, how did it go?” She set the bowl of popcorn aside but didn’t stand up, as she was playing cushion to Daphne and Agent H, who were snoring on her lap and across her legs. Gabby was sprawled on the floor playing with a catnip mouse.
“We were able to guide Tawny into the cemetery. Once the service is performed, we’ll guide her into the Veil and Penelope can take over from there.” I rubbed my head, tired. “Bryan convinced me we should take the ledger and binders with us to the meeting tomorrow night. I guess I should leave them hidden till then.”
Autumn Thorns Page 26