Going down that road seemed dangerous considering her addled state, best to think of something else—ooh, pretty spider! The bright yellow and black spider stuck out against the dark backdrop of the aged rafters, busily finishing its enormous web anchored at several spots along the jagged walls of the corner, it stretched across two ceiling beams. The spider looked huge, as if Maggie reached out she could pluck it off its web. The color and pattern were extraordinary, and almost made her forget her revulsion for the arachnids in her desire to look closer at it.
A stray memory of her ex-boyfriend laughing as she stood in the hallway throwing shoes into her kitchen hoping to squash the spider on the floor. It seemed ridiculous now; how accurate did she think she was going to be throwing random shoes, rubber boots. She thought she even remembered a soft-soled slipper, from ten feet away? She wouldn’t even step into the kitchen. It was Tommy who had saved the day, or he would have if he hadn’t dropped it down her shirt afterwards. He swore that it was dead, but who does that regardless? He was always a little shit. She felt itchy. She located her yellow nemesis in the same spot it had been; her skin crawled just from the memory. And to think, she wanted to touch this one. Euck!
Maggie woke again, this time to a deep ache in her leg and a throbbing from her forehead. The pain helped to sober her and allowed her to think straight. Her wounds had been seen to at least. Whatever Cormac had in mind surely he needed her at least for the time being, else why would he have her injuries seen to? People were in a cast from four to six weeks. The more time he needed her alive, the more time she had to think of a way to escape. She certainly couldn’t expect to get away quickly in her current state.
The chair back creaked at her back, “Maggie? Are you awake?”
Her heart leapt in her chest and she felt the anxiety rise; no, she needed more time to think. Andy seemed like he was a compassionate sort, and it was a good bet to take that he’d let her sleep some more. Although he was mixed up with Cormac, so he clearly couldn’t be trusted. She wished she had a better bead on what was happening. She lengthened her breathing, feigning sleep and banking on the fact that it would stave off the inevitable confrontation with Cormac himself.
Thinking back to when the blinders were peeled from her eyes just weeks ago with glowing orbs, resurrections, shape-shifting, not to mention time slowing, dirt monsters, force fields, and fucking gods! Her heart was beating fast and panic was surging. It was harder to concentrate to keep her breathing relaxed. It hardly seemed possible that she was still sane and alive, but magic was real.
Magic was real.
Nothing was going to be the same again.
She could use a little of that magic now to get out of her current predicament. Before Cormac showed up would be preferable, but it was unlikely to happen. She saw Leo and Brenawyn raise Alex from the dead, but here her captors had to call for a doctor to fix her broken leg. Healing must not be a common ability, or whatever they needed her for wasn’t pressing, or they didn’t want to expend the energy to heal her through magic—too many questions. Quite honestly, it was a path she didn’t want to go down, she had no family outside of Brenawyn and Leo, and she wasn’t sure where either of them were, if they were even still alive. If they were able they would call the police to report her abduction; but what would they tell them? Leaving out details would certainly make them look suspicious, but they couldn’t tell them what actually happened. That would result in a 72-hour stint in the psych ward.
What did the police tell families of abductees? The first twenty-four hours was crucial? She didn’t know how much time had passed but she was at least a couple of days in and that speculation was built on the time she was conscious enough to notice the light in the grimy cellar window.
She had angered him in the forest. She took a chance and it hadn’t worked out. He was clearly rattled by the turn of events in the clearing and the decision to take her was a rash one. She thought she could use that. Make herself hard to kidnap, and perhaps he’d think better of it. She tried to gouge his eyes, and stomp his instep, she managed to get away for a moment. It was a mad dash through the underbrush, but he was better equipped, with rugged boots and jeans, and he overtook her almost instantly. Crashing with her to the rough ground, crushing her, before both of them took a tumble down a short decline. She was winded but in one piece, but he was quicker. A sharp pain at her temple and she drifted off thinking this is where she was going to die.
Now that she was conscious, and the meds were wearing off she needed to compose herself. The time was coming when she would need her wits about her. It wouldn’t be good to further anger Cormac. He had no compunction about causing pain. The next time might be more grievous. She didn’t know how she came to be here, but she could be observant from here on out. There might be something that she’d recognize, not so much in landmarks, but towns and people. People were nosy; less apt to get involved in a situation they knew nothing about, but there might be an opportunity.
That brought her thoughts back to what she already knew about her situation. Maggie had seen the doctor, the girl, and Andy. The doctor wasn’t going to help. He’d made that clear enough, and the girl was too scared. That left Andy. She knew she could exploit his nature, manipulating him into helping her but she had to be sure that she was right about him. She had to establish a rapport with him. He had been sitting vigil in the room while she slept and had food and water, offered the latter to her already. That’s where she would start; ask for basic needs to be met. She was thirsty.
Chapter 2
Tir-Na-Nog
Alex wasn’t physically chained as he was led from the forest clearing by Cernunnos, God of the Wilderness, Lord Master of the Wild Hunt, but he was compelled to go nonetheless. He was bound to it as the hunted. He had never much minded until now, when it felt as if each step toward his destiny was a step away from the last chance of his happiness. He watched Brenawyn for as long as he could, walking backward through the veil surrounded by slaughs, the hounds of the Hunt. He had no faith, nor trust in the gods; he had been warned specifically by one of them, but he was forced to leave Brenawyn in their care. He was afraid that this would be the last time he’d see her, that she wouldn’t make it off the field, but have her heart’s blood drain into the earth, and never feel the weight of their child grow heavy within her. She should know happiness at least.
He wanted to rail against the forces that be, scream to the cosmos how unfair it all was, but they were uncaring as time itself. He had to muster hope though, at least until Samhain, the date she was to surrender herself to Cernunnos. Alex would rather die a thousand more deaths or become a gancanagh than subject her to whatever torments awaited her with the god. Cernunnos was the father of her soul, but the deity had no capacity for love beyond the hedonistic desires of the mortal realm. What he wanted with her, Alex couldn’t imagine.
The atmosphere changed as darkness fell over Tir-Na-Nog. The temperature dropped and the trees grew closer, with moss-laden entwined branches and thick bracken underneath. The slaughs drew closer together, but there was a tension in the group, a sense of heightened anticipation. They bumped his legs, and he could feel that tension in their muscles, a strained hesitation to leap at him, tearing with their teeth; they were waiting for the call to begin.
Their gait quickened, nipping and growling at each other; they were excited. Alex knew that sound. They sounded much like dogs before the bugle signaling the fox hunt. He had heard it too often, the sound of the slaughs gearing up for a chase. Only the slaughs wouldn’t retire at night in front of a fire or in a heated, cushioned bed nestled at their master’s feet. No, the slaughs were immense by comparison, large like a black bear, with two rows of canine teeth so large they couldn’t close their mouths, leaving them always slavering, yearning for something they would never get, no matter how many hunts they ran. They had been human once, foolish enough to strike a bargain with one god or another, but when payment came due, they couldn’t pay. This was their pun
ishment.
Even though Alex knew from whence they originated, he couldn’t spare an ounce of pity for them. Being ripped apart by those teeth and claws were reminders enough that they were so far gone it mattered naught that they were once men. They were demons now, and demons they would remain for the rest of eternity.
The long straight back of Cernunnos sitting on his steed, outdistanced them for most of the journey, but at last he stopped and turned to wait for Alex. When Alex gained on him, the slaughs were jumping and baying, eager for the commencement, but with a hand signal, the demons calmed.
“Reliquary, ye ken I made a promise ta the priestess, no’ ta let danger come ta ye ‘afore Samhain. I plan ta keep my word, but I need yers in return. For ye see, the Hunt has been awakened, and t’will be difficult ta stay their hand e’en temporarily.”
“Aye, what dae I need ta dae?”
He dismounted and approached. “Any show o’ dominance will be kent as aggression.” The slaughs melted from his path as he circled Alex. Cernunnos tapped his shoulders, “Slouch,” and kicked the back of his knee, “and kneel, eyes cast down a’ all times. Mumble minimally in response only when spoken ta. Make yerself as small as possible, the object is no’ ta look like a worthy adversary. These—they ken ye. They’ll be eager.”
“Aye. That I ken well.”
“This defiance o’ the Hunt has ne’er been attempted ‘afore. I must ponder the ramifications.”
“T’is no’ like I’ll be killed in the process. Let me run the course. T’will be done and o’er ‘afore the priestess is due, with her none the wiser.”
“A promise made is a promise kept. Ye will keep in the meantime. Another will be called up in yer stead. Jan Tregeagle, methinks, would make a good substitute. He is hated in equal measures with how yer prized.”
“Doonae flatter me, t’is just the same in the end, death then resurrection.”
“Reliquary, ye are unique ta this forum, distinctive due ta yer office—ye are the sole mortal that can lay claim ta being gifted from the gods each time.”
“Aye, I am just better prey.”
“Tregeagle cannae claim as much.”
Alex knew what Cernunnos was saying, but he still thought Tregeagle had the better deal. In his limited, albeit, wily ways, the magistrate should know that there was no hope of victory against the gods. He may have been a king among mortals, but he was a maggot in the midst of the gods, to be squashed without a thought.
It was true what Cernunnos said though, Tregeagle was hated, and the only other who was called up as much to run the Hunt. On occasion, Alex was paired with him for the gods’ amusement. He knew firsthand the conniving man couldn’t be trusted, he’d have sold his own mother to earn an advantage, but it was his ambition that incensed the gods, ambition that drove him to aspire to more than his mortal station.
Each took their pleasure in crushing the life from Tregeagle’s lungs and in the moment of death, resignation was the only thing reflected in his eyes. But in Alex’s case, every time he came back, it was to be stronger, faster, infused with magical abilities, and with it hope that one day he’d best the Hunters, even Cernunnos himself. That was Alex’s true punishment, because that hope was unfounded. To delay the inevitable was torture because the Hunt for him was his drug. He craved its high, the resurrection, the awakening to when all things were new again in the instant before ability was born.
Cernunnos motioned, “Och, here they come. Be ready.”
Alex assumed the position of captive as the group approached like mist settling over the hills. From his lowered graze he recognized Gwyn ap Nudd, with his red-eared white hounds, Wild Edric, the rebel Saxon, and the antlered helm announced Herne the Hunter. Arthur Pendragon was present as well as others who had earned their place in the company at great personal cost.
There was movement from the back and the company parted to reveal Ruadan, the Formorian spy. He was an arrogant bastard, a cruel and determined Hunter, one who wouldn’t accept defeat. A warrior from birth, a true Colossus in his time, now made impotent by the Covenant. He was relegated to the Hunt, a compromise that probably would have seemed fitting to those who drew up the contract to his history and honors. They might have seen it as befitting a warrior, but it was a death sentence to one so gifted. The Hunting Grounds were his golden cage.
Ruadan stopped in front of Alex, addressing Cernunnos. “Good, brother, ye ha’ brought a worthy opponent. T’is been some time. Shall we commence?”
“Nay brother, no’ this time. He is bound in the terms o’ parley that ha’ been granted.”
“Unacceptable. Those bound ta the Grounds cannae be bargained with. Ye ken this. The rules cannae be broken or amended. They were made ‘afore us and will remain e’er afterward.”
“I decree it.”
“Ye cannae defy fate, e’en if I were ta agree.”
“All the same. Ye will yield, and call another ta sate the desires o’ the Hunt.”
Ruadan’s nostrils flared and he moved so his feet were planted shoulder width apart, hands hung at his sides loosely but his knuckles flexed. He was a head shorter than Cernunnos, but wider in the shoulders and more stockily built with a blacksmith’s forearms and biceps knotted with muscle. “Perchance t’is time for a change in leadership?”
“Och, and yer the one ta dae it?” Cernunnos looked around at those assembled. “Does anyone else agree?”
Looking hesitant, they nervously looked away, Alex noticed. These were the wildly rash, deadliest predators who managed to make the cut to be in the most elite group of hunters, but they still thought it best to keep out of the power struggle unfolding before them.
Ruadan made up his mind as he exhaled, and ran at Cernunnos who braced for impact with his antlered head lowered. Ruadan was quick and swerved to avoid being skewered. He came away with a scratch to his cheek, but managed to get his hands around Cernunnos’ neck, relying solely on the strength of his hands to choke him into submission, for death was impossible even when god was pitted against god. All either could hope for was a tap out after exhaustion took hold at the end of a very long struggle.
It was clear from that moment though, that Cernunnos wasn’t interested in a drawn-out battle of wills; he employed a compression blow to Ruadan’ ears, unbalancing him, and followed with a head butt to break his nose. Ruadan’ hold broke as he cradled his injured face, allowing Cernunnos to spin him around and slip his arms underneath his armpits and lock his hands behind his head. Cernunnos applied pressure, pushing his head toward his chest and using the advantage of the height difference to lift Ruadan off the ground. With the restriction of air flow from the broken nose and the additional pressure from the submission hold, the fight left Ruadan quickly and he slumped in Cernunnos’ arms.
Cernunnos held on though, probably from experience with his opponent, Alex thought. This was for all ostensible purposes, a mutiny, and Cernunnos had to show strength or else have his authority tested at every turn here after. How many times had this happened, he wondered, if not from Ruadan, but others in the group? He looked about, all assembled were formidable, some former mortals like Pendragon who had gained admittance through improbable feats; others were lesser gods, not physically capable of overpowering Cernunnos. There might have been murmurs of discontent, but not many contenders beyond Ruadan in the group. A thought occurred to Alex at that moment. Was the entire group in attendance?
Cernunnos threw Ruadan’ body to the ground and sneered at his prone form before striding toward his horse to get the curved ram horn strung over the pommel of the saddle. He looked at Alex with a slight smile and then at Ruadan, “Come, ride with us. For tonight, ye are a Hunter.”
Chapter 3
I curse ye, priestess
In the name o’ Cernunnos, god o’ the hunt
May ye never find what ye seek.
September 1457
William Sinclair, the laird of the Keep, bowed and led Brenawyn to a seat on his right. “So my lady, what is
it that ye seek? And how may we help ye in yer quest?”
Before she could formulate an answer there was movement, and the crowd amiably parted. A tall, fair-haired man walked forward, his head down. The over-sized linen shirt and baggy pants couldn’t hide his lean muscular physique. Recognition dawned as Brenawyn registered him as the father of the little girl who had come to her room; she clung now to his knees. She smiled. The girl must be happy her father was home. The smile faded because something was off. The way he stood, his stance was peculiar: feet planted a shoulder-width apart, back poker straight, hands balled into fists. It reminded her of someone … he lifted his face to her.
The metallic taste of blood, a loose molar, I breathed in through my mouth—broken molar, an exposed nerve, but no pain there. The pain radiated lower, my back screamed, pressure on my stomach. That was me. I inhaled sharply to move, praying that I could still do it, dreading the wave of new explosions of agony once I did. A scream that hardly sounded like it came from within me escaped my lips. Sweating. Shaking. Assessing. Broken tooth and wrist. Hurt to breathe. Broken ribs? The baby! My hands went to my belly, hard as usual. Interminable seconds and … nothing. I pushed on my stomach expecting, praying for an answering pressure. None. I felt lower, my hand came back covered in blood.
The stairs creaked with his slow step. His face came into her field of vision. His strong brow and cheekbones, his dimpled chin, blue eyes she’d thought to be the color of the clear ocean, now the color of ice, devoid of all emotion.
Her mouth went dry, new beads of sweat formed on her brow, her heart felt like it would burst from her chest. “Liam!” Brenawyn hissed wrenching herself out from beneath Sinclair’s grasp and pivoted away. “You’re dead. I buried you, you son of a bitch!”
Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Page 2