by Ann Gimpel
How long should she wait?
It had been more than half an hour. Maybe as much as forty-five minutes. Part of her—a pretty goddamned big part—was within a hairsbreadth of packing up and leaving. They’d have to try something else.
The eagle’s talons tightened on her shoulder. Was it reacting to her thoughts—and telling her leaving was a bad idea? Or had it felt something?
She unclasped her hands and stood at the end of the crypt waiting. Not using magic was tough. She was used to augmenting her senses with her paranormal ability.
With almost zero warning, a tsunami of dark power steamrolled down the stairs, filling the crypt’s lowest level with fiery smoke. It seared her lungs and made her eyes water. She stared through the murk, searching for Rhea’s long silver-black hair and aquamarine eyes.
If the old witch was present, she was concealing herself.
The eagle squawked, hanging on for dear life, about the time her owl shot through flames and landed on her other shoulder chittering at the eagle in little, high-pitched hoots. Liliana didn’t require her familiar to spell things out. She shucked the glamor and threw her magic wide-open, intent on teleporting out of the crypt. Whatever was happening down here was bad. Somehow, Rhea had figured out she’d been duped, and was on the warpath.
The smoke thickened, eating up what little oxygen remained. She needed to breathe to work magic. Before the thick murk totally obscured everything, she groped her way toward where she remembered the stairs were.
“I don’t think so, Liliana,” was followed by a pitiful shriek from the eagle. It let go of her shoulder and vanished.
“If you hurt Kat’s familiar,” she rasped, throat raw from inhaling smoke.
“Ye’re scarcely in a bargaining position. Lying, conniving bitch.”
“Like you’re any better,” Liliana shot back. “You killed my husband.”
“Ye’re who married a mortal. What did ye expect? They’re weak. Although”—another cackle—“he was delightful while he lasted. Sweet. Succulent.”
Fury battered Liliana, but she couldn’t do anything about it. Lungs seizing, she dropped to the ground. If any air remained, it would be here. Her head spun as she dragged herself forward using her flagging power to concentrate the air into something breathable. She’d just reached the steps, clawing at them for purchase, when everything went totally dark.
She fell backward, spinning and flopping, as her body plunged through blackness. The owl was still with her, its magic encased deep within. Her last thoughts before consciousness fled were she hoped to hell Sean would give her at least some time to find her own way back.
If he galloped after her in a misplaced Sir Galahad move, Rhea would kill him, laughing all the while. Thank all the blessed gods and goddesses it was her and not Kat shooting through time to goddess only knew where.
The last thought jolted through her, and she forced herself to remain awake. She had one chance to push her own magic into the spell carrying her away. That chance was now. If she didn’t jump on it, it would be too late.
For all she knew, Rhea was pissed enough to send her back to the Pleistocene. With the owl helping, she dissected the spell that had trapped her, traced the location vector, and pushed late 1800s Inverness into its place. She considered California but wasn’t certain her magical reserves could pervert the spell to that extent.
Panting and gasping, she wrapped her arms around herself and introduced more power into Rhea’s casting a little bit at a time. Finally certain she’d done all she could, she waited, breath wheezing from her damaged lungs. Smoke still coated her nose and mouth and made her cough.
Doesn’t matter. I’m alive. And I’ll find my way back to Sean.
Whatever she did, she’d have to be quick about it. Rhea could find her, track her by her blood, but at least she’d bought herself a respite. Assuming she didn’t fall into some churchman’s arms the second she dropped out of the time spell. Not one to repeat her errors, she took care and shrouded herself in invisibility. It would give her an edge, conceal her from anyone who’d turn her in to another iteration of Father Abernathy.
She kept expecting gray to streak the black surrounding her, but it didn’t happen. Too much time had passed. Far too much. Where the hell was Rhea’s spell taking her? Why hadn’t her attempt to alter it worked the way it should have?
“Can you break us out of this?” the owl asked.
She didn’t waste breath inquiring what it knew. She’d already determined the enchantment wasn’t what she’d thought. Encased in a lightless void, spinning, tumbling, she feared Rhea had consigned her to a perpetually moving prison.
One with no easy way out.
Worse, a place no one could find her, either.
If she stepped back a few paces, moved away from the horror and dread filling her, she had to offer her grandmother credit for what could easily be the final solution to rid herself of a witch she considered a traitor.
She couldn’t do anything flopping from side to side. She’d curled into a ball with her arms around her bent legs, but it didn’t keep her in a stable position. Absent stability, the spell ingredients she had with her would fall out of reach as soon as she extracted them.
Never mind being able to mix anything or hit the side of a barn door with the amount of power needed to ignite everything into a mixture powerful enough to blast her and the owl out of their predicament.
Liliana released her clasped hands and reached her arms outward, legs too, but they didn’t contact anything solid. Determined, she mimicked a swimmer’s motions, trying for a straight line. It was almost impossible. The rolling, pitching movement of whatever held her captive tossed her from front to back and side to side.
Teeth gritted, breath tight in her chest, she made another attempt. And another.
“No!” The owl’s voice was sharp. “To your right. You keep missing it.”
“Of course, I keep missing anything useful. I can’t see.”
“I can’t either,” her familiar retorted, “but something feels different on that side.”
Right turned to left and then to above her before her fingertips grazed something solid. With a determined heave, she threw her body after her extended arm until she connected with a rough, curved surface. Panting from effort, throat dry and raw from smoke, she ran her hands over the barrier. Solid in places, squishy in others, it reminded her of the way bodies rotted.
The image was so disquieting, she quashed it. If her cage was made of the decomposing bodies of Rhea’s enemies, she didn’t need to think about it. The soft spots gave her purchase. She jammed a boot toe into one, kicking with the other foot until she found a second notch just at the limit of her spread legs.
Her hand crunched through something that gave off a noxious smell, but she had three points of attachment. Clinging like a limpet, she lay against the curvature of the wall. She hadn’t realized until then how disorienting it was to not know which way she’d be tossed next.
Once she’d caught her breath, she understood that while she may have solved one problem—the perpetual motion one—she wasn’t much closer to the static position she needed to cast a counterspell. For that, she needed her hands. And she needed to be facing outward, back against the wall.
Rope was the answer, except she hadn’t brought any.
Careful not to drop anything, she transferred the linen square with her spell ingredients from her cloak to a skirt pocket. Next came the bit of timber from Sean’s castle—and the vial of his blood.
Was that what had given her away?
It didn’t matter. What did was getting out of here before she grew weak from no water or food. With her free hand, she removed her cloak from her shoulders and wedged it between her body and the wall, wrapping one end around a thigh for good measure. If the garment dropped into the whirling abyss beneath her, she’d never find it.
She tugged a dirk from its sheath around one thigh. She didn’t usually carry weapons, but Sean had ins
isted. A slow, sad tide moved through her as she thought of him. He would have gone after her by now, and his magic probably wasn’t working any better than her attempt to pervert Rhea’s spell had gone.
Panic gripped her that they’d played right into Rhea’s hands.
Christ! I have to get out of here. Have to warn everyone.
Her vision hazed with reddish-gray, but the relentless black surrounding her didn’t budge. She turned her attention to the cloak and her knife and cut two wide strips on a bias to keep the finely woven wool from unraveling and becoming useless.
Once she had them, she secured the strips around her waist and what remained of the cloak around her neck. That done, she sheathed the knife and searched for something to tie herself to.
Everything took forever. She was clumsy, mostly because hanging onto the wall was her top priority—for now. She had to move her stance twice before she located what she’d been looking for: a place where the solid portion of wall was only a few inches across with squishy places on both sides.
Ungainly, like a beached whale, she threaded one end of the torn cloak from her waist through the soft spots. Her fingers slimed with goo that stank of death and rot. So did the wool once she dragged it around. She repeated the process with the second length of her cloak until both dangled, ends hanging loose.
Still facing the wall, she reached behind herself and tied a loose knot in first one strip, and then the next.
Careful not to dislodge anything, she turned until her back was flat against the wall. Then she tightened one length of wool, knotting it over her belly. She wanted to screech her success, but she knew better. She may have accomplished step one, but she was a very long way from victory.
She wanted to take a break, but it was a bad idea. Something about the spinning prison held a hypnotic aspect. If she gave in to it, she might never regain the determination burning through her. She snugged the second piece of cloak around her hips. Between the two, they held her firmly to the wall.
As secure as she was likely to get, she turned her attention inward. “I’ll need your help.”
“I will make my magic available, but you must hurry.”
A sense of something imminent and deadly hurtling toward them pricked at the edges of her mind. Still far away, it was moving closer. She’d been so intent on stabilizing herself, she hadn’t noticed it until now.
She reached into a pocket and closed her hand around the square of linen. What spell should she employ? She wouldn’t get a second chance if she chose wrong. Liliana cursed herself for her almost total inattention to her magical side. She may have owned her power, but it didn’t mean she was competent wielding it.
“Should I try a time-travel spell?” she asked her familiar.
“No. Those only work if you know where you are.”
“If not that, then what?” She held her breath. Would her familiar be able to bail them out? Make up for her shortcomings in the magical realm?
“Two choices. Use Sean’s blood to shape a seeking spell. It will take you to him—even if he’s dead.”
“What’s the other?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“Use the wood from his home to shape the same seeking spell. It’s far safer.”
The bird stopped there. Regardless of what happened to her, the owl could return to its realm. “Thank you.” Her tone was formal. “I will create my spell with Sean’s blood. If Rhea captured him, I owe it to him to do everything I can to free him.”
“I respect your choice.” The owl’s response was equally formal.
“I release you if you choose to leave.”
“Do you want me to go?” The owl punctuated its question with a soft hoot.
“No, but it’s not fair for me to select a risky path and drag you along.”
More hoots. “I accept the challenge.” The owl emerged, talons digging into her shoulder.
Liliana stroked its feathers. Emotion rocked her, narrowing her throat, but she refocused fast. Malevolence was closing in on them. It wasn’t in a rush. Why should it be? It figured they were sitting ducks. And they would have been if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to bring a few witchy trappings along.
Thank the goddess for small favors.
The seeking spell was one of the simplest castings. She began to chant softly as she instructed one end of the torn cloak to form a bowl. Tipping ingredients into it, she let the spell build around her. Her magic wasn’t as strong as she would have liked, but she didn’t want to tip off whatever was hovering in the wings that she was trying to bolt.
The last ingredient was Sean’s blood. Liliana took a deep, steadying breath. She’d empty the vial and throw her magic wide open all in one fell swoop, igniting her escape hatch. Would it be enough?
It has to be.
Believe, she instructed herself in the same strict tones she used when she lectured medical students to never lose their compassion.
Liliana stabilized her makeshift container with one hand. She pulled the stopper from the vial with her teeth, poured Sean’s blood over the bubbling mass, and shouted the final Gaelic words to kindle her casting.
The owl’s power spilled through her like warm honey. She wove it in with her own, working fast. A distant roar filled her ears. Was it her casting taking hold? Or was it the bad thing ready to rain disaster on her head?
“Focus!” The owl screeched and vanished inside her.
She did. Visualized her spell taking her to Sean. Pictured her prison walls breaking apart and her arrowing directly to Sean’s side, wherever he’d ended up. After a heart-stopping moment when the oily taint of evil came so close she could feel fire licking at her heels, she dug deep.
Gave it everything she had and then some.
With an ear-splitting crack, the black fell away, and she hurtled through gray mist. The haze thinned, and she shaped magic into a barrier to both cushion her fall and confer invisibility. Just in time because moments later she bounced into an open courtyard surrounded by high walls. Gallows and stocks lined one side. Latin filled her ears.
Fuck. Another goddess-be-damned church.
She stumbled to her feet, trying not to raise dust or make any noise that would alert the clergy milling about to her presence. She couldn’t see through the black-robed men, so she worked her way to a better vantage point. Sean had to be here. Her spell had run true, so why couldn’t she see him?
The tall, tonsured monk blocking her vision moved aside, dragged his cock out, and pissed into the dirt.
Liliana stifled a gasp. Arlen, Morgan, and Gloria stood immobile, wrapped in lengths of heavy chain. Sean lay on the ground, equally hobbled. Despair threatened to swamp her. Was he dead? She had to find out, so she sent a jolt of magic forward. Not a lot, but enough to determine if he was still breathing.
“What was that?” a priest asked in fractured English. English with a definite Scottish burr. A heavy gold cross set with glowing gems hung from his neck.
Liliana ducked behind a row of clerics, peering between two of them. She’d been stupid to deploy power. A fucking fool. That priest was a Hunter, and the jewels in his cross were keyed to witch power.
“Och, damn if the wee holy man dinna catch me out,” Gloria crooned in a bitch of a Scottish accent.
“No more!” The priest shook his cross at her, but she laughed in his face.
Did she know Liliana was here? She’d almost have to. Gloria had always had power to burn, plenty to run rings around everyone else.
“Get on with the hangings,” another priest cried.
A susurrus of anticipation swelled through the crowd, reminding her how bloody and unprincipled the church had been. The unprincipled part hadn’t changed much, but at least they’d stopped murdering those they considered anathema to Christian principles.
Only because they can’t get away with it anymore.
On that cheerful note, she stepped away from the clerics sheltering her from the Hunter and his glowing stones. He’d assume Gl
oria was the element kicking off his early-warning witch radar.
It might give Liliana the edge she needed, but whether she could defeat four sets of chains before the clerics milling about the courtyard reacted remained to be seen. The biggest element in her favor was fear. Churchmen—along with everyone else from what she presumed was the middle of the eighteenth century or thereabouts—were deathly afraid of magic.
She got as close as she dared, so near she could have touched Gloria, and began the subtle threads of an unmaking spell. Latin droned around her as she worked. She wanted to check on Sean again, but the rise and fall of his chest was reassuring.
Damn Rhea. She’d consigned Liliana to what she assumed would be certain death, while sending Sean and the others on a wild goose chase that landed them squarely in mortal danger.
If she got out of the current mess, she wouldn’t rest until Rhea was deader than dead. The owl hooted agreement from the spot inside her where it had taken refuge after her seeking spell took off.
Another hoot came from the top of the courtyard’s spiked gates. Her familiar settled in plain view, fluffing its feathers around it.
Arlen glanced its way. His eyes widened. Morgan smiled.
Gloria cackled, sounding like the witch she was.
It provided a diversion, and Liliana fed magic into her fledgling spell.
The Hunter cut the flow of Latin spewing from his mouth long enough to shout, “I told ye. No more, witch.”
“Ye’re about to hang me. I’ll do what I want.”
Pride rolled through Liliana. Her bitchy, always-had-to-be-right mother had steel balls. The least she could do was free her. Amid clanging and clattering, Gloria’s shackles fell to the ground.
The Hunter’s eyes widened until white showed all around the dark irises. “How did ye do that?”
“Wouldn’t ye like to know?”
On the heels of Gloria’s challenge, a wave of Druidic magic rolled through the stockade walls. A section crashed inward, and a dozen mounted Druids galloped through, swords swinging.