Riftkeepers: Prime

by Carrie Whitethorne

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Prime

  Book 1 of Riftkeepers

  Carrie Whitethorne

  Copyright (C) 2016 Carrie Whitethorne

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2017 by Creativia

  Published 2017 by Creativia

  Cover art by

  Bukovero (www.bukovero.com)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Prologue

  With shaking hands, he placed flat stones on the ground, forming a miniature of the ancient monoliths surrounding them. Clouds drifted, casting the moor into shadow. The sweet smell of gorse, the musty aroma of moss filled the damp air, he paused, breathing in the scents. Placing both hands beside the stones, he uttered a brief command.

  “Fosgailte.”

  As the moon slid out from behind a cloud there was rumble below. The stones began to tremble, shifting on the cold ground as the energy beneath pressed upward. He rose, arms outstretched and waited.

  The rumble grew to a roar as the earth opened with a loud crack. A perfect, circular hole appeared as a column of shattered rock and dirt shot skyward. He stood, motionless as the contents of the cavity rained down with heavy thuds. Lowering his rough and calloused hands to his sides he turned his face to the moon. After a few moments, his gaze returned to the ground. Within the gaping hole at his feet was a swirling pool of shadow. His lips tilted at one side. Eyes glowing in the moonlight, he crouched before the pool of raw energy. From his pocket, he drew another small, carved stone, held it over the pool and let it slide in. The carving glowed a vivid green before dissolving into mist. Stretching into long, thin tendrils the mist sought its maker. Coiling around his outstretched arm it settled into a glowing cuff before fading into the skin.

  He turned his hand over and examined the palm. Over again to examine the back. The whirling pool settled, he closed his eyes and muttered another command.

  “Dùin.”

  The shadows faded. A dark, empty hole remained where the turbulent portal had existed just moments before.

  The force of the new power was exhilarating. It surged and leapt through his veins. Holding out a hand, he summoned the power now held within. The crackle was audible in the silent night as the power surged. Thin, violet vapour crept from his aged fingertips, spreading around his hands and up his exposed arms. Everywhere the vapour touched the raw energy bent to his silent command.

  There was no-one to witness the transformation. No-one to share the wonder of time being reversed.

  Chapter 1

  Charlotte followed the throng up the dirty track to the field. Some were dressed like her, in floral prints, some wore crowns of spring flowers. Others dressed in bright reds and oranges. A group of people with instruments were ahead of her, all topless, wearing leather pants and were barefoot.

  She couldn't help but wonder how they could stand all the mud between their toes.

  The chatter from the building crowd buzzed in her ears. Ferne was grinning as she took in the atmosphere, she loved this sort of stuff. Charlotte admired her friend. She was as beautiful, her pretty face lightly made up, hair in a thick braid with flowers woven through it She wore short shorts, sandals, and a floral halter-neck top, a crochet cardigan draped over the satchel that hung by her side.

  The crowd spread around the ancient ruins as the Druids approached and started the ritual. She never paid much attention to this part.

  A load of rubbish.

  The crowd stilled, chatter subsided for the ritual. Once the words had been spoken the Druids moved over to the huge bonfire that had been prepared.

  Flames licked the sky as the main fire was lit. A cheer went up and the beating of the drums began, quickly joined by fiddles and the joyful melody of a flute. The dancers settled into their repertoire, the hollow clunk of wooden batons colliding and bells jingling mixing with the steady tempo of the drum beat. Red and white handkerchiefs waving as the dancers turned and skipped adding to the enchanting atmosphere the huge bonfire had already created. The fire and flaming torches cast a flickering, amber glow over the revellers.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. It just wasn't the same without mum.

  I shouldn't have come.

  Ferne bounced over in time with the music, took her hands and dragged her to her feet.

  “Dance.” She urged, dragging her friend into the throng that had merged with the original Morris group. Ferne was off in front.

  She really didn't feel like dancing. An arm found her waist and urged her into movement. Her movements gradually becoming more fluid, feet finding the tempo of the drums. She looked up and found a masked figure leading her. Before she could speak they spun her and let go, moving on to find another partner. Ferne found her and grasped her hand.

  They skipped and whirled. Charlotte felt her spirit's rise. This was how she used to dance with mum. All her life she'd loved Beltane. New life. New beginnings.

  Moving through the dancing crowd, switching partners, laughing as her floral dress flapped around her legs, she twisted and spun. The heat from the huge fire was making her sweat.

  Where's Ferne? I need a drink.

  Making her way back to where she had left her bag she dodged and wove through the crowd.

  Pulling a small blanket from the main compartment, a bottle of rum from another, she made herself comfortable. It wasn't too cold but she wrapped her shawl round her shoulders as a cool breeze came in from the sea. She took a drink from the bottle and winced.

  This really needed a mixer.

  The music, the flames, the motion of the people dancing mesmerized her and she sat for a while just watching.

  “Not joining the dance?” said a soft, deep voice from behind her. The accent was strange. There was a slight lilt that she couldn't place.

  She turned to see who had spoken. “Sorry?”

  Wow.

  “I asked if you were joining the dance.”

  As she met his gaze, he smiled. Returning the expression, she said, “I was dancing but I needed a break. Are you?”

  “Will you join me?” He flashed a smile, eyes dancing in the firelight, and held out a hand.

  Charlotte took it, rose to her feet, and skipped into the crowd.

  He placed his free hand on her waist and swept her off, her feet keeping time with the drum beat, her hand gripping his.

  “Charlotte,” she called over the music, grinning up at him.

  “Callan,” he replied, his voice low and husky. />
  That accent, it's familiar.

  They'd moved closer, their bodies touching as they continued the dance. Flushed, she realized her racing pulse had little to do with the dancing and peeked through her eyelashes at him.

  “Are you ready for a break?” he asked in her ear.

  She nodded and followed his lead as Callan led her out of the crowd to where they'd left her things. Tucking her dress beneath her she sat and took a drink from her bottle before offering it to Callan. “Drink?” Her brows rose with the question.

  Callan sat beside her, taking the bottle.

  Still out of breath, she took him in. He was tall, muscular. His skin was slightly tanned, blond hair sat in loose waves reaching his jawline, falling forward over his eyes. He rubbed a hand through and brushed it back from his face. She couldn't see the colour of his eyes, the flickering firelight cast shadows to obscure them. Wearing simple jeans and a plain grey t-shirt his well-toned chest was clearly outlined. Her gaze wandering, she could see the edge of a tattoo circling his upper left arm. He caught her studying him and raised an eyebrow as a small smile twitched the corner of his lips. She looked away quickly and took the bottle he offered back.

  “Here alone?” He spoke softly, looking back at the fire and revelry.

  “No, I was here with a friend but she seems to have disappeared. She must've bumped into someone.”

  “It is Beltane,” he mused with a playful smirk.

  “Oh, don't say that, I should find her,” she moaned.

  It is just like her though, cop off on Beltane and leave me stranded.

  As Charlotte began to rise, Ferne emerged from the crowd of dancers, staggering, and laughing, dragging someone behind her.

  “Ferne, I was coming to look for you.”

  “Calm down Lottie, I'm fine. In fact, I'm going home,” she winked and skipped off with her companion calling playfully over her shoulder, “If you can't be good, be careful.”

  Awesome. You take off and leave me here with a stranger.

  Callan looked up at her chuckling, a bright smile across his face.

  “Would you like to dance, sit or shall I walk you home?”

  It was a good half mile home and she didn't fancy the walk alone.

  He already knows you're alone, well done keeping yourself safe.

  She considered her options for a moment. Let him walk her home or make excuses and go back alone in the dark. “I think it's time to go.”

  Blanket rolled and stuffed into her bag, she shouldered the satchel, bottle in hand and set off walking.

  “Easier to cross the lines and walk up the beach,” she explained.

  Callan nodded and took her hand. Her skin tingled at his touch, her stomach fluttered.

  Oh, grow up, Charlotte.

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and she tightened her grip slightly, looking up at him. He didn't look back at her.

  “So, what brought you to the festival? Are you practicing or just there for the dancing?” he asked.

  Practicing? He thinks I'm a druid?

  “Umm, I used to go with my mum every year. I lost her a few months ago, and Ferne thought it would do me good to get out and do something we always enjoyed together. She was right. It's been a great night as always, just a bit different. I didn't expect her to ditch me,” she replied, taking another large drink from the rum.

  I can't believe she ditched me!

  “I'm sorry. About your mum,” he said solemnly. “But, you're right, it has been a great night,”

  “Thanks. Be careful on these lines. I know it's clear but still.”

  She didn't want to talk about her mum. It was still too raw. She certainly didn't want to discuss it with a stranger.

  They crossed the railway line and edged down onto the pebble beach. Clouds gathered, the moon obscured by the dark mass. She was cold now, away from the warmth of the fire and the dancing, she released his hand and pulled her shawl tighter round herself.

  How isn't he cold?

  The sound of the waves lapping up the beach broke the silence as they walked slowly up the shoreline. The lights from the town were growing stronger now, a beacon in the pitch dark.

  “Cold? he asked moving closer. She could feel the heat of his body and imagined leaning into it.

  Don't you dare. Just get off this beach.

  “Not far now, it's a bit dark up there but it beats the muddy tracks.” She gestured behind.

  “I love the sea. Even in the dark I like to listen to the sound of the waves. Time for a drink before we part ways?”

  Somehow, she wasn't ready to leave him just yet. She didn't try to reason it out.

  “Absolutely,” she grinned.

  The pub, warm and quiet, was traditionally decorated, exposed brick chimney breasts, tankards and brasses hung from beams on the ceiling. The sweet, sticky smell of stale beer hung in the air.

  Charlotte found a table in a corner and Callan went to order drinks. He returned with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. “Hope you don't mind.”

  “Not at all. So, where are you from? I can't place your accent. Obviously, you're from Scotland but your accent is slightly softer.” She flushed as he smiled at her. Yes, she really had paid that much attention to his silky voice.

  “I'm from Arran. It's a small island…”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Off the west coast of Scotland. I've been there a couple of times on holiday with mum when I was a girl. I loved it there, it's so beautiful.”

  Callan looked past her briefly. In the light, she could clearly see his eyes, a deep, sapphire blue. He was handsome.

  His eyes were framed by fair, well-shaped brows. His chiselled jaw was strong, brushed by the soft waves of blond hair.

  Beautiful.

  That was the only word she could come up with to describe him. As she quietly sipped her wine, Callan studied her in return. She felt colour rise in her cheeks.

  What is he doing sitting here with me? There were dozens of girls there tonight.

  “What about you? Do you live here or are you just here for the festival?”

  “I'm staying at a guest house but I don't live far from here. It was just easier to stay the night than try and negotiate a taxi home,” she shrugged. “Ferne had a room booked too but I've no idea where she's ended up. I hope she's okay.”

  Suddenly worried, Charlotte took out her mobile phone and tapped out a message. Callan turned his attention to the fire place on the adjacent wall and drank his wine. She sat turning the phone over in her hand, willing a reply to come swiftly. A beep.

  Callan glanced up as she let out a relieved breath. “Wow. well she's fine. At a nearby hotel.”

  That's just perfect.

  There was a loud ding on the bar bell. Last orders.

  Draining her glass, Charlotte gathered her shawl and bag.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Callan. I really should head home, its late. And thank you for walking me back. Do you have far to go?”

  Callan stood, taking her hand, and said, “Not far. I'm staying at the Fair Green.”

  Oh.

  “Oh, what a coincidence,” she choked, her cheeks flushed again.

  His eyes flicked over her, another smile twitching at his lips. “Shall we?”

  Heat spread through her as she noted his appraisal.

  Callan led her out of the pub and up the narrow street to the guest house. As his thumb brushed over her hand, her stomach was doing flips.

  Why? He's only held my hand and walked me home. We've only shared a bottle of wine. And a small bottle of rum.

  As she thought about it her head swam. She shouldn't have drunk so much.

  She picked at the fringe of her shawl as she walked silently beside him. He glanced at her and she felt a tingle run down her spine.

  Like a kid with a crush, Charlotte, sort it out.

  They entered the little guest house. The lounge, decorated with floral throws over the sofas, vases of spring flowers on the windows
ills, was typical of a country cottage. Callan took her hand again, smiled and said, “It's been a pleasure sharing Beltane with you Charlotte.” Lowering his head to brush a gentle kiss on her cheek.

  Charlotte tilted her chin and Callan redirected the kiss, his full lips meeting hers. Her back arched as she parted her lips slightly to invite him in. Her pulse quickened, breath caught in her throat as a quiet moan escaped her. He leaned back to look at her. Meeting his gaze, she blushed again. He smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes holding hers.

  She looked away and stepped back. “Goodnight, Callan.” She turned and went up the stairs to her room.

  Don't look back, keep walking, stop this now.

  She didn't hear him follow her up.

  He must be giving me time to get to my room. Sparing the embarrassment of another goodnight.

  Digging in her bag for her key she steadied her breathing.

  It was just a kiss. Nothing more.

  The churning in her stomach told her she was lying. It could have been much more.

  I wouldn't see him again after tonight anyway. I could go back down.

  She wanted to go back down. She wanted him.

  Unlocking her door, she threw her bag over her shoulder and pushed. The heavy door swung quietly inwards and she reached for the light switch, flooding the room with light. She let out a sigh.

  “Charlotte.”

  She jumped, turning to face him, and laughed, “Jees Callan! I didn't…”

  He cut her off, covering her mouth with his. His hands caught her around the waist as she pressed into him, snaking her arms up and around his neck. Lifting her, he kicked the door closed.

  Chapter 2

  “We're late. Again. Zander, shoes. Enya, Bags. Come on.” The first week back and they were already late.

  I hate mornings.

  Enya came skipping into the hallway, copper curls bouncing at her shoulders, bags in hand.

  “Sorry mummy, I'm ready,” she sang, running out to the car to throw the bags in the back.

  “Zander, come on mate.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered has he sloped past to the car.

  Faster. Move faster.

  Every morning was the same. By the time everyone was washed, dressed, and fed they were running late. Mad rush to get to school, bigger rush to get to work. The children sat quietly in the back, Charlotte willing herself to keep her composure. Stress got her nowhere.