by Ann Gimpel
As Sean had figured, Roger left a path anyone with a ten-year-old’s grasp of magic could have followed. The lower level of the building rose around him, silent and menacing, but he only saw it that way because of his hatred for anything linked to religion.
The Church had sealed the Druids’ fate by discrediting them. In truth, all the Church cared about were the offerings the townspeople left. Without followers or support, Druids had faded out of plain sight, become shadowy figures almost no one remembered.
A staircase rose ahead of him, steep and narrow. He thickened the magic around himself, intent on not having a squeaky step give him away. Roger’s heavy tread made the risers bounce and protest. It didn’t bode well for following him.
Except Roger was quite a way ahead. Sean willed the mage to remain focused on his upcoming confrontation with the witch and mounted the first step, keeping to the edges. The first half dozen risers went smoothly. Step number seven had a horizontal crack running from one side to the other. Skipping it was a long reach, but Sean risked a small magical boost, so he’d land silently.
Roger’s footsteps didn’t even slow down.
Sean grabbed his advantage with both hands and forged ahead. Still careful. Still quiet as he could manage, but he understood Roger’s attention lay elsewhere. The other man was gearing up for his skirmish with the witch.
Roger wasn’t a Hunter. He lacked both crucifix and gemstones. He had a family. How he’d ended up a pet lackey for Father Abernathy remained a mystery, but Sean had bigger fish to fry.
Like working surreptitiously from the sidelines to make sure justice was meted out. Once he was certain this was one witch who wouldn’t rise to ride another day, he’d skedaddle out of the cathedral and get himself back home.
Twists. Turns. Corridors. More stairs. Finally, he landed on what must be the uppermost floor. Roger vanished through a stout wooden door at the end of a long hallway,
Sean blew out a long breath to steady his nerves. Roger would have his awareness focused on the witch. It offered Sean a bit of latitude. Not a huge amount, but he wasn’t worried an errant breath would give him away. Whitewashed plaster walls rose around him, and a roughhewn wooden floor lay beneath his feet.
He walked to the door, intent on listening, but his luck—which had run fairly strong all day, if he didn’t count being shanghaied earlier—held. The door was a Dutch affair. The upper half wasn’t latched. As if trying to cooperate with his wishes, it swung slowly open, creaking on metal hinges.
“Do ye wish me to shut it?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
“Nay. She canna escape,” Roger replied.
Sean positioned himself so he could see most of the room beyond the door. He swallowed back distaste as the torture chamber spread before him. A small, windowless space, it held a breaking wheel, a rack, a skull crusher, an impalement device, a knee splitter, and a Judas chair. Hanging from one wall were a breast ripper, scavenger’s daughter, cat’s paw, Scold’s Bride, and crocodile shears. The latter a device for cutting off male genitals.
Dressed in spotless black vestments, a tall, thin old man with snow-white hair swung an incense ball back and forth. His dark eyes held cruelty. This churchman enjoyed meting out pain. Probably turned the old fucker on.
A woman was strapped to a chair by metal chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists. Long black hair spilled past her waist, and bruises covered one side of her face. A quick shot of magic told him all he needed to know. This woman was indeed a witch, and a Roskelly to boot.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t Rhea, but he’d still be delighted when they lowered her onto the Judas chair, splitting her from her woman’s parts upward. Well, maybe delighted was an overstatement. The woman was beautiful with a waiflike grace that tugged at his heart. Sean ripped his gaze away. Witches were tricky, and this one had no doubt spun what magic she could—given her iron manacles—to twist the outcome in a more favorable direction.
Roger kept his distance from the woman. Magic pulsed from him as he took her measure.
The churchman, presumably Father Abernathy, rolled his eyes. “Get on with it, Roger. I’ll miss noon prayers.”
Sean choked back an exclamation. How the hell did prayers and torture exist in the same universe?
“Witch!” Roger snapped his fingers.
A pair of emerald-green eyes snapped open before narrowing to slits. “You heard the man of God,” she sneered. “Get on with it.”
Shock ratcheted through Sean. The woman had spoken English. Modern English. American English. Where was she from? Certainly not 1890s Glasgow. Even if she was an expat from the States, her use of the mother tongue would sound different.
“Gaelic,” Roger snarled.
“Why?” She tried to lift her hands but couldn’t raise them more than a few inches before she ran up against the end of the chains.
“So I can hear your confession afore I burn you.”
“Oh please.” She pursed her mouth into a sour expression. “They quit burning witches at least thirty years back.”
“How could ye possibly know that?” Roger demanded, looking thunderstruck.
“Because, as I’ve explained to the Marquis de Sade here”—she jerked her head toward the priest—“I’m from the future.”
Roger darted forward and slapped the woman hard across her face. “Doona lie to me, witch.”
She muffled a yelp. An uneven red spot added still more color to the bruising covering much of her face. “For Christ’s fucking sake. I’m not lying. Test my words with your magic. I admit I’m a witch, but a pretty damned incompetent one. We have little use for magic where I live.”
“Why are ye here?” Roger sounded genuinely curious.
“I came in search of a relative.”
A cagey expression played over Roger’s features. “Can ye lure him here?”
“Already covered that ground,” the priest grunted. “She refused.”
“It’s a her, and why would I put anyone else at risk?” the woman demanded. “If you’re going to kill me, get on with it.”
Incredulity rocked Sean as he listened from the far side of the Dutch door. The witch had to be telling the truth about being from the future. Her clothing, shoes, speech, decent teeth that had obviously known modern dentistry, and even her haircut screamed she was a time-traveling refugee just like him.
Nay. Not exactly like me since she got here under her own power.
Roger cast a sidelong glance at the priest. “Why, precisely, did ye drag me from my verra pregnant wife’s side? What were ye hoping I could add to this?”
“Do not question me,” the priest shouted. “I do God’s work.” His face developed a blotchy aspect, and he paced faster, incense ball swinging like a mad thing.
“Naught for me to accomplish here.” Roger shrugged, sidestepping the issue of what constituted God’s work. “Aye, the woman is a witch, but she told you as much. Ye scarcely required my services. I’ll be on my way. No need to send the boy and cart. I’ll find my own way home.”
“I dinna dismiss you.”
“Ye dinna,” Roger agreed sounding almost affable. “I dismissed myself.” He spun on his heel and marched toward the door, dark hair falling around his shoulders.
Sean jumped to the side just in time to avoid Roger’s burly form hurtling through the door. Father Abernathy didn’t make any move to stop him.
Sean thought fast. His original plans to kill the witch himself, if it came down to it, had changed. A lot. This Roskelly was from America. From the future, but how far in the future? If she hailed from his time, it narrowed the field considerably. Insofar as he knew, the only living Roskelly witches were Katerina, her mother, and an aunt. Yet this witch had said she’d come to the 1890s to locate a relative. It had to mean more Roskellys remained on this side of the veil than he’d thought—if you dialed the clock back a hundred plus years.
Aye, but even if she hails from, say, the 1930s or 1940s, there’d be a far larger field of living w
itches to choose from. More than Katerina’s mother and her aunt.
Undecided on a course of action, Sean watched the woman closely and sent threads of power outward, testing for the taint of dark power. The same innocence that had drawn him before illuminated her features, making her beautiful despite the yellowish-purple marks spread across her face.
Determined not to be fooled by her striking face and lissome body, he dug deeper, hunting for evil.
The priest ambled closer, still swinging his incense ball as he circled the witch.
She skinned her lips back from her teeth. “I know your kind.”
“What does that mean?” he shot back in stilted English.
“You enjoy meting out pain, delight in chasing souls from suffering bodies.”
He looked down his nose at her and reverted to Gaelic. “How could ye possibly know a thing like that?”
“I’m a doctor. A healer. I work with the dying, and I shepherd souls to the other side.” She paused for emphasis. “Something about dabbling with souls leaves a mark. I see it carved into you, and you’d best fear your own death. The shades you tortured will make short work of you once you cross to the far side.”
“Tripe.” But the priest’s steps had quickened. Apparently, the witch struck a nerve. “There’s no such thing as doctors who only work with the dying.”
“Not in this era,” she agreed pleasantly. “But I’m from the twenty-first century. I agree, end of life care is a relatively new subspecialty, but it fits my magic and my compassion”—she emphasized that last word—“perfectly.”
“Pah. I do God’s work.”
“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Marquis,” she sneered.
The priest crooked two fingers into the sign against evil. “Ye willna call me that again.”
She rolled her shoulders amid clanking metal. “I’ll do as I please.”
Sean grinned. He was starting to like the witch. She might be cornered, but she wasn’t giving up. Even better, the taint from Black Magic was totally absent. This might be a Roskelly, but she hadn’t signed on with the fold.
Sean was certain of it. She couldn’t ward herself, not swathed in chains. And his examination had been thorough.
Sean inhaled sharply, playing possible scenarios to their predictable conclusions. Roger was long gone. No one else was anywhere near this floor of the cathedral. He could take the priest down easily, free the witch, and—
Aye, and then what?
Help her find her kinswoman, of course.
Pleased to have a plan in place, he edged to a slightly better position. He’d have to release his invisibility illusion, but if he played his cards right, he could do everything in the space of a few seconds. The priest had no magic, so it would be far easier than facing off against Roger.
He let magic build within him. The woman felt it. Her head snapped around looking right at where he stood on the far side of the door, but she kept silent. She’d recognize the feel of his Druidic power. Hopefully, she’d welcome it.
He was on the edge of loosing his invisibility casting when a different sort of magic oozed through the stone walls, growing exponentially stronger. The priest was oblivious to enchantment sharpening the air until it glowed with points of iridescent light.
The manacled woman sat as straight as she could. A knowing smile wreathed her features, highlighting her loveliness despite the damaged, swollen side of her face.
“Wipe that devilspawn grin off your face,” Father Abernathy sputtered about the time the air pulsed and formed a glittering gateway. The priest fell back a pace, clearly aiming for a bell pull chain to summon aid.
“Not so fast, Padre,” a woman said in a high, clear voice. The shimmery, glistening air fell away, and a tall, regal witch stepped through. This one’s hair was russet colored and arranged in an intricate corona of braids. Her eyes were the same blue-green as Katerina’s.
“Devil’s work.” The priest tried for harsh, but his voice was high and thin.
“Nay,” the manacled witch retorted. “We practice White Magic, not that I’d expect you to know the difference.”
The newly arrived witch pointed in her direction. Power blossomed, and the manacles broke apart, clattering to the floor. The freed woman staggered upright. “Thanks, Mom.”
The priest lunged toward the women. More power jetted from the redhead’s hands, and he froze in his tracks. Sean recognized the casting. It would render the man blind and deaf—in addition to being paralyzed. He silently urged her to add to her spell, so those impediments would become permanent.
The witch angled her head to one side, possibly assessing if she’d poured sufficient magic into her spell to ravage the man. Nodding once, sharply, she wheeled until she faced her daughter. “Oberon’s balls, child. What the hell are you about, coming here and flaunting magic?”
“Rhea’s on the rampage. She dragged Kat backward in time, and she’s not done.” The woman squared her shoulders. “I need help, and there’s no other way to reach you. Goddammit, Mother. Why couldn’t you have retired to Beijing or Dubai? No one knew you there, either.”
“Rhetorical questions, my dear.” Her nose crinkled. “Why do you smell like you’ve been rummaging in a dumpster?”
“Because I hid in a heap of garbage, not that it did me any good. Can we get out of here?”
Sean had heard enough to understand these witches were Katerina’s mother and grandmother, Liliana and Gloria if he recalled their names correctly. It was past time to reveal himself, so he let his invisibility illusion slip at the same time as he said, “Ladies. Forgive me for—”
“Who in the fuck are you?” Liliana screeched and swung to face him, hands extended and magic crackling from her fingertips.
He tucked his hands behind him, so they’d understand he meant them no harm. “Sean Weatherford, Druid. I’m second in command over the British Isles. I work with Arlen, your daughter’s intended.”
Liliana furled her dark eyebrows. “You speak true, but it doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Not by choice,” he growled. “I was on my way back from work earlier today. Witches jumped me, forced me back in time.” He took a deep breath and blew it out before continuing. “I inserted my own magic into the spell to knock it off kilter—lessen the odds of being set upon by the pack of witches who’d kidnapped me. It worked, and I came out in a field not far from Glasgow where I overheard two men discussing a witch. I was furious then, ready to make certain whoever the witch was swung from a gallows, so I made myself invisible and went along for the ride.”
“Why didn’t you kill me when you had a chance?” Liliana regarded him through slitted eyes.
“By then I’d determined you were a Roskelly, sure enough, but not of the Black Magic variety.” He looked away from her direct gaze; it wasn’t easy. He wanted to lose himself in her green eyes and never resurface. “I have a funny habit of not killing allies.”
“Pfft. We can all sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ later.” Gloria looked from one to the other of them. “For now, we have to get out of here. Sooner or later, someone will come looking for the good padre.”
“You mean the Gaelic version of the Marquis de Sade?” Liliana followed her words with a snort.
“Aye, he’s quite the nasty piece of work,” Gloria agreed. She focused her next words on Sean. “What are you going to do?”
It was a fair question. He should return to Inverness post haste, but an hour one way or the other wouldn’t make much difference. “Will you be traveling to modern Inverness soon?”
“I will,” Liliana said. “As soon as I’ve cleaned up. I’m hoping Mother agrees to accompany me. Since I managed to get myself captured almost immediately, it’s clear my time-travel skills aren’t in exactly tiptop shape.”
“You knew that before you came in search of me,” Gloria said dryly.
“Yup. Sure did, but I was desperate. Like I said, why the fuck couldn’t you have settled in some obscure geographic locati
on where I wouldn’t have had to—”
“Chiding me wastes both time and words.” Gloria made a chopping motion. Magic built around her as she summoned a teleport spell. “Are ye in or out?” she asked Sean in Gaelic.
He didn’t even have to consider before replying, “In.” So he wouldn’t sound too eager, or tip his hand that he’d have moved mountains to not leave Liliana’s side, he added, “We can blend our magic. ’Twill make the return jaunt easier.”
Gloria shot him a piercing look that made it clear she scarcely required his assistance. He was also pretty sure he wasn’t fooling her about his true motives. Her teleport spell snapped him up. Moments later, cottage walls formed around them, revealing a well-appointed stone lodging. One room had been separated into sections with curtains.
Before the spell had fully dissipated, she hooked a hand beneath his arm and tugged hard. “Outside. My daughter needs privacy to bathe.”
“Clothes?” Liliana called after them.
“In the oaken chest,” Gloria yelled back. “Hot water is on the stove.”
The cottage door slammed shut behind them. Sean hunkered beneath overhanging eaves to stay out of the rain. “You dragged me out here for a reason. What is it?” He eyed the elder Roskelly.
“Smart Druid. Tell me everything that has transpired with my granddaughter. Leave nothing out.”
Relieved she hadn’t hauled him out here to tell him to leave Liliana alone, Sean nodded and began at the beginning. “Katerina was in Scotland for a lecture tour. As you know, she’s quite the well-known cultural anthropologist…”
Chapter 5
Liliana skinned out of her cloak. It had sustained the worst of things from her roll in rotting food scraps and rodent poop. Even now, hours later, it reeked so bad, it made her eyes water. Undecided whether to bundle it up and bring it back with her, she walked through gauzy curtains to the kitchen end of the cabin. It was decidedly warmer on this side of the curtain, courtesy of a huge, cast-iron stove.
It probably burned peat or coal. Wood was scarce in the northern part of the UK. Kneeling, she unlaced her boots and toed them off, followed by her stockings and long skirt. She draped the skirt over a convenient chair and removed her light jacket and tunic. A cloth square sat near a sink with a pump handle. She wetted it, starting with cold water to ease the ache in her jaw. It wasn’t broken. Neither was her cheekbone.