“Have you thought of names, Appoloin?”
“I think that is your desire. Tell me what you would like to call them.”
“This little one,” she said, kissing the babe in her left arm, “is definitely Paul Xaphan.” Then, kissing the head of the babe in her right arm, she said, “And this little munchkin is Christopher Graeme.”
“I think they’re perfect names,” Appoloin answered, and took the boys from her arms.
An emotion unlike any other he had ever experienced in all the millennia of his existence flooded over him when he looked down upon the little bundles, his sons. An intense love that was as fearsome as it was protective left him in no doubt the course of action he had to take.
He made his vow to keep them safe forever.
*
When the boys were two weeks old, Appoloin took her outside the castle. She needed to breathe air that didn’t smell of baby milk, vomit, baby pee, and shit.
He carried her to the small glen not far from the castle, and they walked for a while, enjoying the fresh air.
Appoloin caught a fleeting movement to his right and became still.
“What is it, Appoloin? You’re scaring me—what is it you see?”
“Stay here, Mairi.” He pointed to the ground. “And I mean, here! Do not move from this spot. It has been blessed by the witches, so you are within the boundary lines of the protection spell they set around the castle, any farther out and you are in the dark lands. They were unable to cast protection spells further afield from the castle.”
Mairi searched for the boundary lines he could obviously see, but she saw nothing. She did as he said, there was too much at stake for her to be a hero, and so she watched him spread his wings and fly into the darkness of the forest.
A light, deep inside the forest shot through the sky, and seconds later, Appoloin landed by her side.
“It was as I thought.”
“What was the problem? I saw a light, was that an Angel?”
“Damn it to hell!” he cursed. “I thought I’d caught him.” He wiped the blood pouring from his shoulder. “It was Paschar. I thought I’d managed to end him, but if you saw a light shooting upwards, it means he has escaped.”
“Crap,” she whispered under her breath. “I’m sorry, but what does all this mean?”
“It means we have to leave Mingary and meet with the Council of Angels.”
“Why, for what reason? I know Paschar has found me, but doesn’t that mean we should just take the boys and move on?”
“We cannot travel through mistdream with them, Mairi. We cannot move through time with them, and it is Mother Earth we would have to ask permission of to allow us to alter our path. She is a powerful mistress, and we have disturbed her once. She will not allow it again.”
“What can the Council do that they haven’t done already, Appoloin?”
“I believe the time has come to make a stand, and they will agree we must go to war.”
“So you are going to do the very thing we Mistdreamers were put on this earth to prevent?”
“You have averted the wars taking place in the Heavens, that is what you have achieved. We have a better advantage here on Earth, but we will have to meet with them in Tír na nÔg. They cannot come here until all the decisions have been made.”
“We go to the land of Fae to discuss a war? It’s just so wrong. And if, in the end, we win, no doubt we’ll still have to hide. There is always going to be some demon or another wanting to kill one or all of us.
“How can you ask me to leave our boys, how can you do that to me, Appoloin?”
Mairi’s soft sobs broke his heart.
“Mairi, my love.” He raised his hands and caressed her cheeks, then trailed one hand down the back of her neck, a touch as light as a feather, causing her lips to part in a silent gasp.
She moved closer and sensed how deeply troubled he was, and ran her hand down the curves of his spine. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers. All she could do was respond. Fear was as much an aphrodisiac as love, and with an urgency they both felt, a desperation of the unknown, he deepened his kiss. He wanted to savour every moment they had left together.
Their lovemaking was free and unabandoned. The scent of the wild Scottish heather filled the air, and the stars strewn across the sixteenth-century sky twinkled and danced, giving them all the light necessary for them to see the love that shone from their eyes.
It was a hurried affair, because the air in Scotland, no matter what time of year it was, could turn cold when the night began to draw in, and tonight was no different. Except for the fact that they lay warm, gazing at the sky in each other’s arms, wondering what was going to happen next.
It was Mairi who broke the silence. “When do we have to meet with the council?”
He didn’t want to tell her. He just wanted the night to remain as it was just now, but she deserved to know the truth.
She painstakingly searched Appoloin’s face, waiting for his response, knowing how difficult this was for him, and, removing the decision from him, she began to transastralise. Her body turned into a million tiny stars, fusing with her blue mist.
“I will see you in Tír na nÔg, my love. Kiss my boys, and tell them I’ll be back in an Angel’s breath.”
And then she was gone. Appoloin was alone with thoughts of anger, desperation, and sadness.
He rose and took a step into the dewy heather, making his way towards the castle. The boys would be awake and waiting to be fed. Baglis would be rushing around them, fussing, as she had always done when Appoloin and Seere, were but babes.
With each thought, his steps grew faster. He had to hold them in his arms before he left for Tír na nÔg. He had to smell that sweet baby smell and kiss each finger and each toe.
He had to check they were real and that this life he lived, was true and that what they would do very soon, would at last be the end.
But until then…
Baglis raised an eyebrow in surprise when he walked into the nursery, and then she understood. Taking a step away from the cribs, he lifted both his sons into his strong arms and swore he saw them smile, telepathically whispering, “Da”.
“Soon, my boys. We will all be together soon.”
He kissed their powder puff hair, and breathed in their wonderful perfume. That glorious smell, from their small bodies lingered on his tunic. When he handed them to Baglis, he raised his wings, and the roof opened to reveal the same black velvet sky under which he had made love to his wife. A tear traced a line down his face when the boys silent giggle reached his mind, when his wings started to shake and flutter. The tinkling of bells became a tender harmony that crooned the boys into sleep.
Appoloin soared through the air, the pain of his breaking heart all too much for him to bear. He would be with his Mairi soon, and all would be right again. But oh, how he loved his boys, his life’s blood. With a steely determination, he decided long before they were born, that he would die for all of them so that they might live.
Chapter Seventeen
“I have found her, Master,” Paschar said softly into the Dark One’s ear as he lay fevered on the grand bed. “Come back to us, sire, and lead us. We require you to direct us. We are lost without you, and The Conjurer suspects something is amiss.”
“You’ll never get him back that way, imbecile!” screamed Angela as she stormed into her room. “He is beyond your help and needs a witch.”
“Madam,” Paschar said sourly, “you have a witch nearby who may aid him?”
“I did have one, but my son killed her.”
“That would answer why you resemble an old hag. For a moment, I thought you were a witch. It must be sometime since you drank a witch’s blood, in order to retain your looks.”
Angela threw herself at Paschar, her poisonous talons ready to scratch his eyes out. He manipulated the air around him, whipping it into a frenzy until it remained a solid force, a barrier to her attack.
She cl
awed and tried to break through the shield, but it was relentless, preventing her from getting anywhere near him. Eventually, she gave up her fight and settled on the floor beside the bed her son lay on.
“I am a witch, you fool, he must drink my blood. It is the only way this illness will leave him.”
“I think he would rather be sent to the furthest reaches in Hell before he would touch anything you cared to share with him.”
“So be it,” Angela shrieked. “Let him wither away with his sister and his father, in that Unknown Territory to which we cannot go. Not even The Conjurer has entry there.”
“It does not exist, that’s why nobody can enter it. It’s called ‘the end’ or ‘death’ ; nothing comes after it.”
“Then what are our lives about here? Are we dead? Angels are dead, but live in the Heavens. How can death be the end if we exist?”
“Because we are not dead. Our bodies have removed their existence from the plane they were once part of, and brought you to the next life.”
“I am real, Paschar. This body is real, it is not a vaporous soul that those holy men on Earth speak of. I am flesh and blood, and so are you. Do not talk in riddles. This cannot be death, when we are alive!”
“Will you shut the fuck up, Mother!” Lucias suddenly roared.
“What did I tell you, Paschar?” she said smugly. “He is not dead.”
Paschar twisted to face Angela, speaking sharply. “I would advise you, madam, to leave the room.”
“I will do no such thing,” she barked back. “These are my quarters, and he is my son—”
Lucias lifted a finger and, with a pushing motion, his magic landed on her mouth and a zip appeared. Using his finger, he dragged it in a line through the air, and the zip closed across her lips.
Angela grabbed the zipper, frantically trying to open it. She stamped her feet to get attention, but Paschar ignored her and turned back to Lucias.
“I should have done that hours ago,” he said, exhaustion taking hold of him again.
“What can I do to help, sire?” Paschar asked.
“I need the blood of a witch, if I am to recover any strength.”
Two sets of eyes turned to face Angela, who was still struggling with the zipper.
“Would she not do?” asked Paschar, in disgust.
“If she was the last thing left, then yes,” Lucias answered with equal disdain. “Are there none in the dungeons that we could use?”
“The last remaining witch was freed by Xaphan before you left for Tír na nÔg. If you wish, I could search for another, but I must be careful. Many eyes are searching for us, and my glamour is weak after being struck by the lightning force from Valerie.”
“Then use her,” he said, his eyes indicating his mother. “She will be happy to help her son regain the throne, won’t you, Mother?” he said evilly, lifting his finger he slashed in the air and removed the zipper.
Angela mumbled a response, her eyes wide with fear.
“How would you suggest we take her blood? Do you wish her dead?” It was a question said like the simplest of requests, a bit like asking what he wanted for his dinner. The death of his mother meant nothing.
“No,” Lucias answered and nearly laughed when his mother drew in the breath she had not been aware she was resisting. “No, I don’t want her dead, not yet anyway…”
Paschar’s evil grin spread across his face when he spied Angela attempting to leave the room.
“I think not, madam,” he said with sinister delight. “You wanted to help your son, and now is your chance.”
“But I don’t want to be used.”
“Mother,” Lucias said patiently, “you’ve been used for the past thirty years. What’s another forty-eight hours? Especially when it’s to bring about my recovery?”
Angela’s wary eyes searched for a way to escape, ignoring Lucias, who lay prostrate on his bed. She felt sick and grimaced when she looked upon his once beautiful face, now badly disfigured, thanks to the Dragon’s attack on him.
The skin was crumpled and burned away on one side, leaving scarred, immobile muscle, which made his face resemble a grotesque state of despair. The remainder of his face fell open, like a floppy, sanguine cut of butcher’s meat, exposing sinewy muscle and the skull beneath. His eye rolled around in its socket, constantly, winking and blinking, out of control, while the rest of his body was covered in deep gouges, oozing with green pus.
“I will alert The Conjurer to your presence,” she said fearfully. “He may be able to assist in repairing your body.”
Paschar flashed to her side. With slow, careful movements, he summoned his power. His hands raised, he placed them before her face, blocking her sight to the room. Angela stood spellbound, her eyes following his hands as they moved above her head. Sensually he made an outline of her body in the air around her, before returning them in front of her face.
She glanced to the door and made to run for it, but was stuck. She tried to move her legs, but they were locked together, bound by supernatural energy. Opening her mouth, she started to yell at him to free her, but she no longer had any voice.
Paschar made an upward motion with his hands, and Angela was lifted into the air. Her body shifted so that it lay flat and straight, and she tried once again to move, her toes managing to curl. Paschar noticed her toes twitching, and with a turn of his fingers, he flipped her over until she was facing the ground. He stood at her feet, and with a beckoning motion, using his little finger, he transported her until she lay, suspended in the air, beside the bed.
Lucias was weary, and with a glance at both his mother and Paschar, he closed his eyes, wishing for dreams to carry him away to a place he would find peace. A memory of somewhere, where was it? he thought. I was happy.
“My lord,” Paschar said urgently, “you must not sleep or go into mistdream. We have much to do. You must heal and prepare for the battle.”
Lucias was confused, shaking his head. He kept his eyes closed, wishing for sleep.
Paschar slapped his face. “I beg pardon, my lord,” he muttered, when Lucias jerked his head to face him, eyes filled with black. “I had to bring you forth. You cannot sleep.”
“I cannot return to battle. The Dragon have ended me. Let me rest,” he insisted.
Paschar frowned, considering Lucias’s words, until he realised their meaning. “No, my lord, that battle is over and lost – to the Fae. We made our mark, however. Xaphan no longer lives, and the last I was aware, Prince Seere was also dead.”
“And Mairi?” he asked with a tremor of hope in his voice.
“She was taken by Appoloin. That is what I have been trying to tell you.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Lucias said, disgusted that his half sister was still alive.
“Repeat what it is you were trying to tell me. I find myself overcome with a curious emotion, one that I am not used to as yet.”
“Emotion?” asked Paschar, curiously. “What emotion would that be?”
“I have experienced anger,” Lucias said quite calmly. “I know what jealousy is, and”—he glanced at his rigid mother, suspended in the air—“I know what hatred is, but, this… this… strange feeling. I know not if it is sadness, anger, jealousy and hatred rolled into one that accumulates into the pain I find myself enduring.”
“Perhaps, if I may be so bold,” the obsequious Paschar offered, “perhaps what you are truly suffering, is none of the emotions you describe but that you are unaccustomed to the sensation of pain?”
“I know what pain is!” he bellowed and thought he heard his mother squeak. Was that disdain he could hear in her tone?
“I am sure you do, my lord, but you have never been so cruelly hurt, as you are now. The Dragon made their mark upon your body and Conjurer forbid, you were nearly taken from us, to the land that is only dust.”
“You may have a point,” Lucias said tiredly. “I wish to sleep. Surely that would mend me?”
“On this occasion, no, my lord, it will not.
You require more than sleep. You need the blood of a witch to restore you to full health, and as I said earlier, we have a deficit of witches, thanks to your mother,” he said, revolted by her greed and selfishness.
“What was it you said earlier?” Lucias waved his hand in the air. “No, not that about my mother. Did you speak of Mairi?”
Paschar smiled, delighted to see a note of interest sparking in his master’s voice. “That I did, my lord. I said that I had found her. I know where she is hiding, and who is with her.”
Lucias sat up in bed, the motion making him feel giddy, but it was worthwhile. “Tell me she is with Appoloin,” he insisted.
“That she is, my lord.” Paschar’s grin widened as he waited for Lucias’s bellowing laugh to quiet, before continuing. “And he is so wrapped up in her body, he has forgotten the job he is supposed to do. It will make it all the easier for us to get to her.”
Paschar was taken aback, unsure his master was fully conscious of what he said, when Lucias began to frown. “You do not want to become close to her again?” he asked.
Blood drained into his eyes, and he stared back at Paschar. “I do not wish to become close to her again. The witch infected me with some disease. I know not what, but she has polluted me with her mistdreaming caring, and it eats away at my soul. Whatever it is, it’s killing me slowly. No, I do not want to touch Mairi—I want to kill her,” he said coldly.
Paschar refrained from clapping his hands in glee, like a mortal teenager when told she could go to the prom. He held on to them before turning his attention to Angela.
“If you are going to kill your half sister, then we had better get you healthy again.”
He took a step toward Angela, and even in her rigid state, Paschar knew she was terrified, aware that her insides trembled. How wonderful, he thought. I am going to enjoy every minute of this. Pulling a feather from his wings, he sliced into her wrists. Blood spurted out from her vein, but Paschar had been prepared, and, with a swishing motion of his hand, it poured as though in a funnel, directly into Lucias’s mouth, who drank greedily. His colour was beginning to return, but the marks to his body were not healing completely. The witch’s blood had not been pure enough. Neither had it mended his face. All it had done was knit together the melted ligaments, the skin not regenerating as yet. Lucias remained with one half of his face intact, whilst the other, scalded by the Dragon, was like looking at a depiction of the anatomy of facial structure, easily indentifying the veins, ligaments, and muscles.
The Park Family: Mairi: Retribution Page 28