Changeling: An Appalachian Magic Novel Book 2 (Appalachian Magic Series)

by Debbie Herbert

  “Cards of insight, meaning and power

  Reveal to me this day, this hour Glimpses of knowledge and prophesy.”

  As I will, so mote it be. She flipped cards, first separating out a pile for the major arcana. All accounted for. She took the remaining cards of the minor arcana and made a pile for each of the suits: wands, cups, swords and pentacles. Only one card was unaccounted for: the Queen of Swords.

  An odd card to be missing. Not a particularly important one. Truthfully, if all the sword cards went AWOL from a deck, Skye wouldn’t complain. Swords represented conflict, challenges, and the winter season when death, hardship and struggle reigned. No one wanted cards like that. Unfortunately, Skye drew those quite a bit. Which is why she hardly ever did tarot spreads anymore. Life had enough conflicts and challenges without the reminder.

  Skye gathered the cards in a single file and shuffled the deck, trying to figure out the significance of the missing card. Court cards, like the queen, often represented real people in your life. The Queen of Swords was traditionally an assertive, commanding woman with bold ideals shown symbolically through the upraised sword in her firm grip. A woman who ruled with an iron fist . . . Skye drew in her breath sharply . . . Mom?

  She certainly fit the profile. She had high expectations of others, especially her children, and kept a vigilant eye for any perceived wrongs or slights. A woman with a strong sense of dignity and purpose. Not to mention highly critical.

  Why was it missing? Maybe it meant she was supposed to call Mom. Skye had been meaning to call her, really, but kept finding an excuse to put it off. The thought of Mom having a fairy fling . . . gross.

  Don’t be a wuss. Just call her. Skye took out her phone, started to dial, then stopped. She would do a reading first, sort of a preparation.

  She selected three cards and laid them face down on the counter. The first card she turned over represented her past.

  Four of Pentacles. Skye thought of it as the three ‘i’s card— isolation, insecurity and incompleteness. All fit. Being Rowena Watters’ child was no cakewalk. Skye knew she was a constant source of disappointment to Mom. There was nothing talented or special about her. The muscles in the back of her spine twitched and her wings beat in a futile attempt to escape the binding. Well, she did have one thing special about her now.

  Skye flipped the second card, which represented the present.

  Four of Swords in the reverse position. Damn those swords! Skye concentrated on the meaning. Reversed, it meant the need for immediate action and to break out of the death of isolation. Problem was, she wasn’t sure of her next move. Maybe the third card, the future card, could help. She placed her hand on the final card, held her breath, and closed her eyes. Her mind’s eye formed an image of a man in armor riding a black horse, eyes ahead, unwavering in his mission.

  Knight of Pentacles. She knew it before her fingers fully turned over the card. Kheelan, a man of action, a strategist working relentlessly to make a dream come true. Her future was bound to his but in what way she didn’t know. The only thing she knew with certainty was that she was the key for Kheelan to reach that dream of freedom.

  Time for some action of her own. Skye blew out the candles and put the tarot deck back in place. When she lifted her cell phone, she hesitated before stuffing it, unused, in her coat pocket. There was something she needed to do more important than calling Mom. She had to make sure Glenna hadn’t set a final trap for the pixies on this Samhain’s Eve.

  Best to get this next part over with quickly. Kheelan was probably waiting at her apartment now.

  Skye grabbed a flashlight from the counter and went downstairs to the basement.

  17

  The Smell Of Absinthe

  It was cold down there, almost as cold as the fall night outside.

  Skye reached the bottom stair and flipped on her flashlight. The existing light fixture in the basement barely illuminated anything but the center of the room where the bare bulb hung on flimsy wiring.

  Jiggling her keys and humming loudly, Skye strode to the back storeroom. The noise helped give her a false sense of bravado. Just a quick look in the storeroom to make sure the absinthe wasn’t set out to hurt the pixies, and she would be on her merry way home.

  The smell of licorice, strong as an opened, ton-sized barrel of crushed star anise, assaulted her senses before she pulled the light chain. More pungent than ever, the aroma alerted her to the presence of evil. Skye gripped the flashlight like a weapon.

  On the metal counter by the back wall, the absinthe fountain, carafe, and a set of crystal drinking glasses all sparkled with The Green Fairy. It fizzed and bubbled like just-poured ginger ale spiked with crushed emeralds.

  Skye licked her lips. Her throat and mouth were as parched as if they had suffered through a season-long drought. She stepped forward, imagining the cool, bittersweet liquid trickling down her throat in waves of refreshing pleasure.

  She had to have it. She would die of thirst if she didn’t.

  Another step forward. Her stomach tightened and ached with need. Only the absinthe could quench that gut-wrenching ache.

  Yet another step, and Skye’s fingers curled around the stem on one of the sparkling goblets. Not even the sight of tiny fairy remains, floating in the pool of absinthe like drowned flies, could stop her. She raised the goblet toward her mouth. The cool rim of the glass touched her lips. A stirring in the air, a brush of movement against her cheeks caused her numb fingers to loosen their hold on the goblet’s stem. It crashed onto the concrete floor sending glass shards everywhere. Something else fell too, the thing that had come out of nowhere and brushed by the front of her face. A tarot card landed face up in the splattered, green muck.

  The Queen of Swords. Skye lifted it out of the spilled gunk with trembling fingers and studied it in bewilderment, uncertain if it had materialized as a warning or a threat.

  Get out. Now.

  She dropped the card. It was the same voice that had told her to fly last night when she had awakened from a dream to find herself perched on a treetop sporting a pair of brand spanking new fairy wings. A whirring hum between her ears made her heart pump furiously, sending adrenaline spikes pounding through every vein in her body. Skye’s vision tunneled, the peripheral sight coated in blackness. The remaining pinpoint of light illuminated only the fallen Queen of Swords at her feet.

  Impossible to think. It took all her mental energy and physical strength to stand upright and remember to breathe. Skye frantically searched her coat pocket, then jeans pocket. She needed a grounding crystal and she usually kept one on her at all times. Her fingers explored her back-hip pocket and felt the smooth, hard surface of a stone. She pulled it out, placing it between her two palms, closed her eyes, and drew on its energy.

  The coolness of the crystal warmed under her hands, sending waves of calm in every vibrating cell of her body like an injection of peace. Skye took several deep breaths until steady enough to open her eyes again. Unfurling her closed palms, she focused her gaze on the silver hematite shining so bright it lit the skin of her hands, revealing the delicate spider web of veins.

  Now centered, she took in her surroundings. She doubted any fairies were still alive, but just in case any absinthe-addict pixies remained, she hurriedly dumped out the contents of all the open bottles and glasses. Even with the aid of the hematite, it was hard not to take a quick sip. Boxes of absinthe, unopened, were stacked floor-to-ceiling on two sides of the room. Tomorrow, she would confront Glenna and out her to Claribel and Mama D. They needed to know what was going on right under their noses.

  Skye picked up the flashlight from the counter and pulled the light switch in the tiny room, ready to get home.

  The entire basement suddenly plunged into total darkness, the black air thick with the smell of licorice, and something else – a scent vaguely familiar but too faint to identify.

  The light on in the main storage room went out.

  She stood alone in the darkness. Se
nsed the presence of pure evil. It was cold and absolute, a chilling menace that brooked no hope for mercy, an abyss that sucked out light and energy, pinning its victim on the sharp edge of vengeance. Her index finger tapped nervously on the flashlight switch, unsure whether or not to expose the menace.

  No, best to hide in the shadows and hope the evil presence passed over like a malignant cloud in the night wind, seeking out other prey.

  A stair creaked.

  Someone was coming down. Instinctively searching for cover, Skye raised a hand out to her side, shoulder-level, feeling for the solid surface of the wall. Her fingers wiggled at the empty air. Slowly, carefully she scooted a foot over, feeling the spilled absinthe soak the hem of her jeans. She kept one arm up, angling for the wall. The tinkling of broken crystal brushing along the concrete floor sounded like a crashing waterfall of glass.

  Keep moving. She had to keep moving, not stand in the middle of the room like an easy target.

  Another creak in the stairs, closer now.

  Her hand made contact with the wall and she cautiously pressed her back against it. She had to get out of this windowless room, or at least move behind the door and hope the intruder wasn’t coming this way.

  Skye flinched at the next creak. Whoever it was—probably Glenna—had come for the absinthe. Skye gathered her courage. She wasn’t going to just stand there and wait for Glenna to trap her. The element of surprise was on her side. No one expected her to be down here time of night. Skye eased out of the storage room, stumbling in the dark.

  She turned on her flashlight, ready to make a run for the stairs, knocking Glenna down if she had to. Skye directed its golden circle of light on the floor, a few yards ahead of her feet. Her body started toward the beam at the precise moment someone flipped a light switch. The sudden explosion of light made Skye stumble again and she raised her eyes to the staircase.

  Profound, utter relief made her body sag as the accumulated adrenaline bottomed out. She had never been so glad to see a familiar face.

  “Miss Claribel!” Skye laughed and quickly closed the distance between them. “Boy, am I ever glad to see you. You won’t believe what’s—”

  Skye’s voice faltered. Claribel’s head was down. Why wouldn’t she look up? Skye had expected her boss to shriek in astonishment at finding someone else in the basement.

  “Miss Claribel?” Skye took a few tentative steps forward until they stood only a couple of feet apart. The other scent she’d smelled earlier, the one that had been nibbling at the edge of her consciousness, burst forth. Violets. Claribel’s signature scent that had always seemed so old-fashioned and grandmotherly. Now it was cloyingly sweet and repulsive.

  Skye dropped her voice in concern, something must have happened to Claribel. She glanced up the stairs, half expecting Glenna to stomp down and reveal herself. But, no. It was only the two of them. Skye touched Claribel’s arm, felt the chill of icy skin seeping through the woman’s blouse.

  Skye stared at Claribel’s bent head, with its mass of gray curls haphazardly shaped into its customary bun and pierced with hair wands. As if awakening from a trance, Claribel slowly raised her head and pinned Skye with alien eyes of fury.

  “You are mine.” Claribel’s voice was deep and raspy. Nothing like her former singsong girlish voice.

  “Wha --?” Skye backed up, never taking her eyes off the stranger before her. “Is that you, Claribel?”

  A humorless laugh, like the sibilant hissing of a coiled snake, made Skye break out in goose bumps. Dread caused her feet to keep backing up until she crashed into a box and fell on her ass. Heavy bronze objects scattered everywhere. She tried to scurry, crab-like, to get far away from the source of evil.

  “Get up, you stupid girl!” Claribel walked toward her, pulling out the wands from her hair. A mass of crisp, gray ringlets fell to her waist like an armor of steel.

  “Who are you?”

  “Caoimhe is my true name. It means ‘kind and tender’ in Gaelic. Deliciously ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What have you done to Miss Claribel?” Skye despised the trembling fear in her voice. Weak, she was so stupid and weak that she couldn’t wrap her mind around the evidence in front of her.

  “There is no Claribel, never has been. What kind of half-witch, half-fairy are you? I expected more of Rowena Watters’ daughter.”

  Skye stiffened at the insult and came out of the horrified stupor.

  She grabbed one of the bronze objects lying on the ground from the spilled box, and flung it at Claribel’s face with all her strength.

  Claribel raised one of the wands in her hand, and a stream of blue light vaporized the object in mid-flight, as easy as if she were swatting at a fly. She smiled in a twisted grimace, shredding the mask of dreamy Claribel.

  “I’ve heard the rumors of how special you are. Show me what you’ve got.” The wand lifted again, this time aimed dead center at Skye’s chest.

  Skye reached in her coat pocket and found the charm bag of herbs Kyle had given her. This better work, it was all she had. She quickly scrambled to her feet and charged Claribel. She opened the bag and flung its contents in Claribel’s face.

  Claribel was overcome with a fit of coughing and sneezing.

  Bless Kyle, he knew his herbs.

  Skye ran for the stairs. She tried taking them two at a time and fell halfway to freedom. Claribel’s labored breathing came from behind, not coughing quite as much now. A quick glance showed Claribel at the foot of the stairs. Skye scrambled up, reached the top of the steps, grabbed the handle to the closed door, and yanked.

  It was locked. She pounded the door in frustration and screamed. “Help! Is anyone out there?” More pounding. Skye risked a look back.

  The smile on Claribel’s face terrified her more than being chased by the pack of phoukas.

  “Won’t you come down and join me, my dear? We can have us a nice long chat. I want to hear all about your so-called legendary abilities.”

  Skye looked around wildly for a weapon or a way out. A glance over the stair’s railing revealed a long drop to the concrete floor below.

  Trapped.

  Fly, you idiot. But her wings were bound. She flung off the coat, pulled the shirt over her head, and hastily started unraveling the miles of Ace bandaging she’d used to hide the wings.

  A maniacal, high-pitched laughter erupted. “Oh, this is too precious, darling. I’ll just wait right here for your unveiling. I want to see you in all your half-fairy glory.”

  Skye hesitated, then went back to unpeeling the binding. She was out of options. If this didn’t work…

  Free at last, she rippled her back muscles, praying her wings weren’t bent and damaged from their makeshift imprisonment.

  Wearing only a halter bra from the waist up, the air was frigid.

  Loud clapping from Claribel. “Go ahead; give me a demonstration of your flying.”

  Skye jumped.

  She plummeted straight down, the floor now only a few feet below. She uselessly flailed her arms and legs before muscle memory returned to her back muscles and her wings flapped. She landed awkwardly and fell to her knees.

  More laughter. “What fun.” Claribel ambled away from the stairs, smiling, taking her time. “We can do this all night. You run and try to hide, and then I’ll catch you.” She raised the wand again. “Like this.”

  A bolt of blue lightning struck, this time at the ground by Skye’s feet. She jumped and spun to avoid it. Another bolt fired. Again, she twisted and jumped in a humiliating, pain-avoidance dance.

  Cat and mouse.

  Skye took off, half-running, half-flying around the storeroom with Claribel laughing and walking behind, not even out of breath. Boxes, books and knick-knacks fell everywhere as Skye bumped into the metal shelves housing The Green Fairy stock. Even with her mincing little steps, Claribel was always only a few paces behind.

  Fly higher, that’s what she needed to do. Skye was so used to being grounded, dependent on two leg
s to move around, she forgot she had wings to soar.

  Skye flew to the lone window, high in the southwest corner of the basement, and peered through the narrow iron burglar bars, hoping someone or something would be out there. “Help!” she screamed.

  Hundreds of glowing green eyes mocked her cry. The Dark Fae creatures were lined up along the side of the next building, on top of trashcans, and covering the alley street, as if lined up in a theatre to watch a show.

  They had come to watch her die.

  Shock ripped through her brain and she hovered mid-flight. A blue bolt of energy singed her new-grown wings. She was on fire, the sharp pain knocked the breath out of her and she fell like dead weight to the ground.

  Splat. Her body made a sickening noise as it met the concrete.

  The sound of her own shallow, panicked breath rang in her ears. But she felt the vibration beneath her body as Claribel drew closer. A pair of feet appeared, not a yard from her head. Claribel wore a pair of pink fuzzy house slippers. Skye couldn’t stop staring at them. Claribel stepped out of one slipper, then another, exposing misshapen, hairy toes on what appeared to be an impossible size two foot.

  Fairy feet. Kheelan had tried to warn her. He’d been right all along. He said that when they shapeshifted to human form, the feet always gave them away. He’d even warned her that Claribel was the most logical suspect. And she’d insisted that Claribel only suffered from arthritis. What a blind fool she had been. Her eyes traveled up the pastel, printed skirt, the lacey peasant blouse, and into eyes that shone with grim malevolence.

  “Fun and games are over, it’s time for a little chat.”

  Skye sat up slowly. The pain ebbed to a manageable level.

  “Why are you killing the pixies?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “As a war strategist for the Unseelie Fae, I find the pixies a constant, irksome enemy. The silly little creatures are always fluttering about, carrying our gossip and battle plans back to the