Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  Bethany’s cheeks burned with fury as she shook him off and yanked back her rain–soaked hood. “What was I thinking? Did you not read Mr. Winterbottom’s letter to the Dundee Advertiser?” Her legs clenched so tight, she was in danger of rupturing a good pair of stockings. “Winterbottom wrote: ‘These women who fight for the vote are a blight on this great country of ours!’ Those are fighting words, Colm. Make no mistake.”

  “So Winterbottom accuses you gentle women of violence and destruction, and you prove him right? Where’s the logic in that, Bethany? Will you next be setting fire to our own church?”

  “So you did read it.” She lifted her chin and stiffened her back. “I did not support those women who set fire to Whitekirk, and you know it.”

  “Aye, but how can you abide such desecration? You know the government will not give in to violence. You are women. Fight your battle with words.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. Her own husband implying that being a woman was some sort of handicap. “How dare you accuse me of violence? We were provoked!” She quickly eyed the hallway for something to throw. Damn him. That would only prove his point. Jerking up the hood of her cloak, she headed for the door.

  Colm left his overcoat swinging on the coat rack, crossed the floor, and gripped her elbow. His sky blue eyes were about as soothing as a bellyache. “You’re not going back out in that weather. We both could use a hot bath.”

  She tugged her arm free. “Find yourself a placid wife to warm your bath, Colm.” Snapping the latch back, she ran out into the gloaming, knowing full well he’d follow her.

  “I’ll not have you keeping company with Moira any longer,” he called from the doorway. “That lass is nothing but trouble.”

  “Oh!” She was too mad for words. Colm had carried her over his shoulder all the way through town. Arrogant, barbaric throwback of a man! The wind slapped her face with a gust of rain as she hurried out the gate and across the cow trail. “And pissy weather too.” Embedded in the earth ahead of her was the sickle–shaped stone, slick and glistening, that marked the bottom of the footpath up the Argyll Mountain. She skirted it and hit the trail. If she hurried, she might lose him. If not, she’d say things she might regret later.

  Colm should know better than to blame Moira as if Bethany didn’t have the mind to fight the cause on her own. The toe of her shoe caught in her gown. She stumbled, but caught her balance in time. One of the border collies, Dickens, beat the ground past her and kept on up the trail. Oh, to run like Dickens.

  It hadn’t been Moira’s idea to throw stones at the Dundee building. It had been Bethany’s. And a few broken windows were hardly violent. They had to do something after that newspaper printed Winterbottom’s letter.

  “When women demand equality with men let us laugh at their madness! Let us inform them that equality is impossible — men are emotionally stronger and intellectually more capable.”

  Oh, how her blood boiled at the arrogance. Bethany had recruited Moira, and together they’d climbed onto the roof of an adjacent factory to launch their assault. She’d never intended to hurt anyone and had been truly horrified when her pebble pinged off the head of a policeman. When the constable turned the fire hose on them, she and Moira hid behind a chimney refusing to come down.

  As she climbed the mountain trail, the crack of their front door slamming shut cut through the howling wind. She jumped just a little then carried on. Colm must have gotten his boots back on.

  “Bethany, stop your running!” Her husband’s voice boomed like thunder over the mountain.

  So he thinks to chase me down again. The police had not been able to dislodge the two women from the rooftop, but Colm had. He’d climbed the fire escape and taken his wife down over his shoulder. Oh, the humiliation. She hoped she’d bruised him well.

  He was afraid she’d get hurt. Bethany glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining on her. By the look of violence on his face right now, he was the only threat she need fear. Not that she’d give him the satisfaction of fearing him.

  The rain had made the trail slick, and she knew she should move slowly, but she wanted to reach level ground before their next shouting match. The sounds of 300 bleating ewes just ahead meant she was close.

  “I told the chief constable I’d keep you out of it, and I meant it.” He pressed on at alarming speed. She picked up her gown and ran up the steepening trail.

  “Damn it, Bethany, have a care. I’d no time to feed the sheep. For the love of God, lass, stop your running now!”

  If he ceased his chasing, she’d have no need to run now, would she? Reaching the plateau, she skidded to a stop and stood panting while her heart galloped in her chest. She was vaguely aware of the sheep turning their collective heads. Colm had stopped twenty feet down on the trail, his face burning with anger not exertion.

  She faced him with hands planted on her hips. “I am not afraid of prison,” she yelled through the wind.

  “You damn well should be,” he yelled back.

  “I will gladly go to prison before I abandon the fight for women’s enfranchisement.” She took a second to gulp a deep breath. “If you think to force me to cease this cause,” one more deep breath, “then you are no husband of mine.”

  “No husband? What sort of husband doesn’t protect his wife? Do you wish to cut my balls off too, so you can be married to a eunuch?”

  It was just like him to overlook her point. “This isn’t about your balls, you bloody man!” The sound of bleating sheep grew closer. Glancing over her shoulder, she flinched to see them moving toward her at a quick advance. Dear God, they looked agitated. She took a step toward her insufferable husband.

  “Bloody hell, woman, get down here now!” Colm roared.

  And succumb to his command? Why couldn’t she have married a more agreeable man like Moira had? She dug in her heels and spoke through gritted teeth. “Stop using that tone with me. I am not your chattel to command as you wish.”

  A sheep’s nose butted the back of her knee. Her leg gave way as a famished ewe knocked her in the hip. Dickens barked incessantly at her heels. Her arm reached, sought, grasped — nothing.

  Colm sprinted up the incline like a blur.

  All the anger of her day fused with terror as she plunged over the cliff. Oddly, as she tumbled, she hoped to land on her padded behind. Foolish thought.

  She hit the ground with a sickening crack and ferocious pain.

  Colm’s cold cry cut across the mountains.

  Her protector. Her sweet Colm.

  He needn’t bother sounding so distressed. She wasn’t hurt. She thought about that a moment. Why was she no longer in pain?

  Oh! She didn’t look good, not good at all. So much blood. From her head? Why could she see herself so clearly?

  “Bethany, my heart, my love. Can you hear me? Can you speak?” Colm was by her side, his shirt ripped from his body, pressed against her head, and quickly becoming saturated in her blood. Rain pelted down around them gathering into red rivulets that bled out from under her body.

  No pain. No cold. No wet. The gruesome scene unfolded below her.

  Below her? She watched it all from the treetops which made no sense at all. Unless …

  Dear God. This was death.

  Chapter 1

  Life-Between-Lives

  100 years later

  In Seraphina, the high city of the Upper World where souls dwelt in tranquility and the Old Ones ruled with wisdom, Calum was seriously pissed off.

  “Bloody woman.” Could Bethia not live one life on her own without trouble snapping at her like a flesh-hungry piranha? His words echoed in the vast room as he rushed through the Akashic Library where the records of every soul were stored.

  He’d just left the Old Ones in the great hall where they’d questioned the certainty of his vision into Bethi
a’s future and proclaimed, with indifference, she was the scriptwriter of her life on Earth, not him. As if he didn’t know that. But how could he call himself her spirit guide if he allowed her to suffer a lifetime of misery when a mere nudge in the right direction would save her?

  Calum charged down the long side hallway to the east wing where a modest room housed a collection of books on immortal worlds. As usual, this section of the library was unoccupied. Shutting the door behind him, he headed directly to the ancient stone book cases against the far wall.

  To stop Bethia from making a reckless error was no longer a matter that required the permission of the Old Ones. No one understood her as he did. He couldn’t bear to watch her suffer, wouldn’t bear it.

  Calum unclenched his teeth and pulled the seventh volume of Studies of Supernatural Worlds off the shelf. He might lack the power necessary to bring about a change from spirit to human, but that fact was nothing more than a speed bump. He knew where to get it.

  He thumbed the pages to the section on the Alfar. Although these Alfarian elves shared the Upper World, they lived in Alfheim, an immortal realm, and were not considered divine. His interest was in a particular Alfarian named Finn, a potent immortal who’d suffered a fall from grace for his propensity to indulge humans. Finn possessed the alfatofrar powers Calum needed to shift into the human dimension on Earth.

  One hour later, he had memorized the information he required. A strongly worded notice warned against summoning Finn, but Calum had no time to seek an alternative. His intervention was without doubt. His motivation selfless. After their last life together, he’d not fail her again, even if success meant his own fall from grace. A chill of foreboding snaked up his spine. He’d best not fail.

  It was twilight when Calum reached the meadowlands at the base of Mount Michaelmas far outside the city of Seraphina. Timing was key since the veil between worlds grew thinnest at dawn and dusk.

  He found the blackthorn tree standing like a steadfast sentry to the Alfarian’s world. Following the prescribed ritual, he picked a clump of ever–blooming magenta berries. With their bitter taste on his tongue, he sang the required song to open the doorway between worlds and draw the Alfar’s magic to him. He sat still and fine–tuned his thoughts to concentrate on one being. Calling out with his mind, he felt the energy of his request grow more powerful as each second passed.

  A quiet wind blew down from the mountain, split a path through the wavering meadow, and rustled the leaves of the blackthorn tree. The breeze blew lightly across Calum’s shoulders and skimmed his neck like tiny fish fins rousing him instantly to his feet. When a footfall sounded behind him, he spun around to find an Alfarian Elf ducking under a blackthorn branch. He rose to his full height eye–to–eye with Calum. A mane of white hair fell in waves over the shoulders of his black waistcoat down to his golden belt. Finn of the Alfar lifted his chin regally and pressed his lips together under iridescent, upswept eyes that scanned Calum from head to toe.

  The corners of Finn’s mouth lifted slightly with acknowledgement of the mortal who had summoned him. “So the Old Ones have driven another soul to seek my expedient assistance. Will they ever learn, Calum?”

  He calls me by name. Calum said nothing. He didn’t agree with the excruciatingly slow process with which the Old Ones trained novices, but he refused to criticize them behind their backs.

  Finn’s gaze fell on the crimson–streaked sky. “I heard you’ve been dabbling in the supernatural, practicing geomancy to catch a glimpse of your true love’s future. I doubt the Old Ones praised you for that.”

  Most definitely not, but his love for one woman was all that mattered. “I do admire your expedience, Finn, and more so your benevolence.” Calum glanced guardedly around the meadow. “I’ve a request to make of you.”

  Finn reached over and caressed a clump of luscious blackthorn berries with his long, elegant fingers. “I’m well aware of what you seek, mortal, and of the woman you wish to save from her miserable life.”

  Ah, perhaps Finn knew more than Calum did. “I only managed to scry a wee portion of Bethia’s future.” Her heartbreaking despair and regret had sliced through him worse than any broadsword. “She will suffer an unprecedented punishment for a crime she didn’t commit. Her regret was in her handling of a black satchel, but I’ve no knowledge of the villains who are set against her. No matter the distance between us, my job had always been to protect my mate, as her spirit guide, as her soul mate, as a mere man. Since you are abreast of Bethia’s plight, I would be eternally appreciative of any insight you could provide.”

  Finn regarded him for a long, silent moment. “I do love eternal appreciation, but any further assistance would spoil the opportunity for a satisfying diversion. I’d rather see how resourceful you are, Calum. If I grant your request, I expect you to win your woman’s devotion and arouse her passion before you return to Seraphina.”

  Fine with him. Safeguarding Bethia’s future would be his priority, but not his sole pleasure. “I must determine who plots against her. Send me to her, Finn, to her home where I will find a way to befriend her. Passion will come between us, I guarantee it.”

  “Be warned, mortal, as a spirit your guidance in Bethia’s mind was a mere whisper she could easily ignore — no more than the Old Ones allow. In human form, your whisper in her mind will be stronger, enough to bend her will. Not to be used to your advantage. You will keep your thoughts to yourself and stay out of her mind.” Finn’s high cheekbones rose in a chill warning that was no smile. “Do not think to disappoint me.”

  And it was done. Not that Calum was transformed painlessly in the blink of an eye. No, if pain was evidence of life, Calum’s transformation from spirit to human was a complete success. With his feet firm on God’s green earth, Calum suspected he’d not seen the last of the passion–obsessed Alfar, but he put the uneasy thought from his mind. All that mattered was reaching Bethia.

  Chapter 2

  Break-Up á La Carte

  If the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, then tiramisu may just be the best way out of a man’s heart, or so Beth Stewart hoped. She needed all the help she could get. Breaking up with Matthew required tact and diplomacy. Her financial security depended on them remaining friends.

  She stood at her kitchen counter, bent over a shopping list, considering the perfect break–up meal. He loved her sweet potato coconut soup, one of the few things about her he’d not tried to improve. Since it was vital they continued to work together amiably until their investment house in Belize sold, she would butter up his palate to ease the breakup.

  Matthew, you deserve a woman who is crazy over you … Or one who didn’t see his endless suggestions as a need to control. Was that a good way to start the break–up conversation? Should she wait till dessert?

  And what else to serve? Nothing that sparked romance, no chocolate–dipped strawberries tonight. Perhaps tiramisu was too decadent. Perhaps an old–fashioned apple pie to bring thoughts of support, community, the golden rule? Or was she reaching with that?

  The sun shone brilliantly through her French doors in a sudden burst. Those doors, the promise of a walk–out deck, and the open concept, had been the selling features of an Oakhaven Home. As she scanned her backyard, she had a great idea — fiddleheads, sautéed in butter and garlic.

  The Ashbury Conservation Area bordered her backyard to the south. Canadian maple and birch trees were just coming into leaf. A foot trail ran alongside a river where crisp, green fiddleheads would soon feather into sumptuous ferns to cover the rich soil like giant hands. She could easily pick enough for their dinner.

  The May morning was typical for Ontario, cool with the sun drying the morning dew and the promise of cherry blossoms perfuming the air. Just the sort of day for new beginnings. She should serve something to ensure Matthew left the house after dinner. Baked beans?

  She chu
ckled as she approached her garden shed. A heaping plate of Rocky Mountain oysters would have him running for the curb before dinner. How do you prefer your bull’s testicles, Matthew? Rare? Well done? Roasted in their sac?

  As she approached the shed, she noticed the door was unlatched and slightly ajar. Odd. She pulled it open to let the sun cast light inside. Her meager possessions included gardening gloves, trowel, a couple of plastic pots, and a bag of fertiliser. The row of hooks on the side wall sat empty except for her new spade.

  She took a closer look. The spade no longer looked unused but had dirt clinging to its tip. Had one of her neighbours borrowed it when she wasn’t home?

  She walked down the yard to her property line roughly butted by the edge of an old pine forest. Since her gaze was glued to the ground, she noticed the beautiful, pink–streaked granite rock at the corner of her property. It looked odd, not embedded in the soil like others in the woods, but sitting up on top.

  As she bent over to examine the rock, she noticed a footprint quite a bit larger than her size eight shoe. Dirt around the stone looked as though it had been stamped down. Footprints? Smoothed over earth? Had the stone been put there as a marker? With both hands, she shoved the rock aside.

  It only took a moment to retrieve her spade. She drove it into the soil with her foot. Sure enough, the spade slid easily into the ground, too easily for untilled soil.

  Putting her back into it, she shoveled out earth. On her tenth scoop, Beth snagged a canvas strap.

  After a quick scan of the woods, she dropped to her haunches and tugged the strap free. It belonged to a black Roots backpack. She brushed away the dirt and gave the bag a shake. Not as heavy as a backpack full of school books, but it was full of something. Leaning in, she gave it a cautious sniff — earth and something herbal? Nothing putrid though. The remains of a dead animal were a find she could do without.

  Nerves jittered to life in her hand as she tugged the zipper open. With the tips of her fingers, she peeled back the canvas flap and peered inside. Her jaw dropped. Buried treasure defined it perfectly. Inside the backpack was a stack of bills neatly wrapped and sealed in a Ziploc bag. With a quick glance around, she lifted it up and found another plastic bag underneath. The source of the herbal smell, she determined as she pulled it out. No need to open the bag to know it wasn’t oregano she held in her hands. She snapped her mouth closed as her eyes darted left and right.