A Gilded Cage (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Book 1)

by Auburn Tempest

  I focus on gran’s instruction, and after a long moment, nature’s lifeblood pulses freely in my veins.

  “That’s right. Now open yer eyes.”

  I’m half-afraid to see the mundane world and lose the radiant beauty I see with my mind’s eye. Seeing the world doesn’t ruin anything. The grass, the trees, even my hands are pulsing with a breathtaking aura.

  “Is this real?”

  “It is. Now, relax into the magic of it all and reach further. Don’t push. Simply let yer essence seep out like the tide ebbing away from the rocky shore toward the sea. Once ye free yerself, ye should be able to feel the wee creatures of the forest.”

  I focus on a little pigmy shrew rooting beneath a pithy log. Beyond that, a fox plays in the afternoon sun, and farther still, a deer forages for leaves.

  It freezes, wary of a snapping twig in the distance.

  I feel the interconnectedness of it all—the web of life and the interdependence each component has with another. “It’s incredible.”

  “It is at that. Now, I’ll leave ye to it. Spend as much time as ye like. Allow the Divine Lady to know ye, and she’ll do the same. Yer one of her custodians now. Ye’ll need to build a relationship.”

  The pressure of Gran’s hold on my hands releases and the drop in magic is jolting.

  Gran is powerful—far more powerful than she looks.

  I settle into the magic of the moment, memorizing how my body tingles, how the fragrant breeze crawls across the hairs on my arms, how nature’s magic warms a part of my insides I never realized was cold.

  Eventually, I sense it’s time to release my connection, and I end my first true commune with nature. Jazzed, I find Gran tending to the plants that line the side patio.

  “How was it, then?” Gran asks.

  “It was… I can’t even describe it.”

  “To be awed is a description in itself.”

  A little brown furball crawls up onto the stone half-wall near us, his tiny nose rooting around before him. Right before he gets into trouble with a vine of deadly-looking thorns, Gran lays her hand flat, and he crawls into her palm.

  “Druid power stems from seven different disciplines. It’s not all or nothin’ mind, there is a great deal of crossover, but most have an affinity for one over the others. My primary discipline is natural magic—zoology, herbology, and botany. My gift enhances my connection with flora and fauna.”

  She kisses the little shrew and places him back in the flowers. “Lugh’s primary is knowledge, past, present, and future—meta-composition, epistemology, ancient civilizations, prognostication. He’s the historian of the Ancient Order.”

  “And my da?”

  “Och, that’s the rub of it. Niall’s gifts fell squarely in physical magic—combat, weaponry, survival. From the time he took his first steps, he had a gift for archery and was wicked deadly with a staff. He would’ve gone far.”

  I fail to see a modern use for wicked stick-whacking skills other than Olympic piñata bashing, but I bite my tongue. “He did go far, Gran. He’s a great cop. Being a fighter in the middle of a rolling countryside wouldn’t have been enough for him. It makes sense that he ended up where he did.”

  “From yer viewpoint of not knowin’ what it means to be a Cumhaill, maybe. From yer granda’s point, Niall thumbed his nose at us and tossed our heritage like it meant nothing.”

  I disagree, but this is a forty-year feud I’m not about to weigh in on. “What do you think my primary discipline is?”

  “Good question,” Granda says as he joins us. “I asked a friend talented in such things to join us at the rings to help sort that out. Are ye set to go meet him?”

  Chapter Seven

  Granda laces his fingers to walk hand-in-hand with Gran as we cross the back lawn. It’s sweet. They’re sweet. It’s not long until our path ends at the top ridge of a sunken circle. As the land slopes away from us, I find what my grandfather must have meant when he said the “rings.”

  Like an ancient Greek amphitheater plucked from history, three cylindrical rings cut deep into the hillside. With each three-foot drop into the descending landscape, the rings tighten, and the valley narrows. At the bottom, a flat circle of manicured grass lays dotted with equipment and supplies.

  “Let the games begin.” I jump down the first three-foot drop.

  I leave my grandparents as they head for the stairs, jog across the three feet of grass, then jump down to the next level. I jog the plane of that tier and drop again. After hopping off the third ring, I arrive on what must be the training floor of this pagan arena. The tools Granda intends to use to test me lay in wait: weapons, seeds, a few tools I don’t recognize, some polished rocks—

  “Skunk!” I scramble up the stone wall to the next tier.

  The stocky rodent raises his white head, two distinct black strips running from his muzzle to his ears. “Skunk? Are ye daft? I’m not a feckin’ skunk.”

  I yelp and stumble back onto my ass. “Talking skunk!”

  Gran giggles and waves off my warning. “Don’t panic, luv. Animals talk, and many druids possess the ability to hear them. Except, Dax isn’t a skunk, he’s a badger. Come here to me, now, my girl, and rest easy. Dax is a dear friend. He’s my animal companion.”

  Seriously? How is it that my father was raised by Dr. Doolittle and we weren’t allowed anything larger than a Guinea pig growing up? And why are they looking at me like I’m the crazy one?

  Sticking close to Gran, I hop down to the training circle. “No worries. Hakuna Matata, right?”

  My grandfather smiles. “Well, ye seem to have inherited some of yer gran’s nature magic. That’s a start.”

  The badger snuffs. “Did she, though, Lugh? She doesn’t know the difference between a badger and a skunk.”

  “Och, give her a chance,” Granda says. “She was raised in the new world—in a city no less.”

  The badger shakes his long snout. “The poor thing.”

  I roll my eyes and step over to take a closer look at the weapons. I recognize some of them from Calum and Emmet playing Dungeons and Dragons when we were young—a club, dagger, quarterstaff, sling, spear.

  “Sorry I’m late. I—”

  The familiar male voice directly behind me triggers every defensive instinct I possess. I drop, sweep the guy’s feet, and sucker-punch him in the groin.

  “Arragh!” Gran shouts.

  “Fuuuuck,” the man wheezes. My back-alley mugger curls up like a shrimp and gasps for air. “Again, with my knackers. What is wrong with ye, woman?”

  Granda blinks at me, his bright blue eyes as wide as saucers. “Well, ye’ve got quick reaction time. There’s that, too.”

  It’s a good fifteen minutes before Sloan Mackenzie, a.k.a. my back-alley groper is sitting up on the tiered wall and ready for proper introductions. Although he’s upright, the twitch in his lip and tightness in his dark brow speaks to him not being one of my biggest fans.

  That’s fine. The feeling is mutual.

  “Sloan, ye’ve had the pleasure of meetin’ my granddaughter, Fiona,” Granda says, amusement thick in his voice. He gestures from the tall, dark, and stupidly handsome Sloan to me. “Fi, Sloan has a unique ability to assess latent druid abilities. I asked him to approach yer family in the city and see which of ye possess the most raw potential.”

  “Approach? Ha! Manhandle and molest me, you mean.”

  Sloan grunts and rakes rough fingers through his impossibly black hair. “Don’t flatter yerself, Cumhaill. I assessed ye inside the pub along with yer brothers. A pat on the arm here, a handshake there, a brush of yer back as ye sashayed yer ass across the dance floor. Ye came up the winner of the Cumhaill lottery, so I tested yer abilities out back.”

  “Except I didn’t have abilities until you branded me.”

  “Brand ye?” Granda says, his forehead creasing with violent speed.

  I untuck the knot of my t-shirt and give them my back. Reaching behind my head, I swipe my hair out of the way
and pull the cotton up my ribs until the summer breeze cools my shoulders.

  Gran gasps. Granda curses.

  Sloan sputters. “I did not do that.”

  “Bullshit.” I turn to Granda and appreciate the level of alarm on his face. “That beauty started burning the moment your boyo here did whatever he did. Now I’m tramp-stamped.”

  Sloan growls. “First off, I didn’t do that. Second, as tramp stamps go, yer about a foot too high.”

  I drop my shirt. “Whatever it is, it started wriggling to the surface the moment you touched me. Ergo, you did it. Why do you think I raced here? My da made like he had no idea what it is. I know damn well it’s the Cumhaill crest, so I came to learn what’s been done to me.”

  “Yer not quite right, mo chroi.” Granda looks pale. “It is the crest our family displays with pride, but it’s not a Cumhaill crest, it’s a Fianna crest.”

  “Okay, so what is that?”

  “The Fianna were the highest order in druid history—and somehow ye wear their mark.”

  I throw up my hands. “Awesome, so what the hell does that mean?”

  “Well now, that’s the rub of it, isn’t it?”

  Although I want to despise everything about Sloan Mackenzie, he’s somewhat helpful to Granda during my assessment session. Kinda. Sorta. I guess. He’s even more useful standing in as my opponent while testing my offensive abilities. Sadly, no matter how much energy I put into the staff, dagger, or sickle I’m swinging, I can’t land a solid blow.

  Granda does, however, appreciate my dedication.

  “All fight and no finesse,” Dax grumbles.

  “Says the mouthy skunk from the peanut gallery,” I drop to the manicured grass, sweating and gasping for breath. “When you can pick up a staff and fend him off better than I can, then you get a say, rodent.”

  “And no manners,” Dax adds.

  I snort and roll to my knees to swig back some water before I face Granda’s next feat of fancy. “Ha! Me? I have fuzzy slippers back home with more manners than you.”

  “Enough, you two.” Gran chuckles. “Fi, come here to me, luv. I want to test yer sensitivity to stones.”

  I take another swig of water and go to Gran.

  After tugging the silk tie free from the velvet bag I saw in Da’s box of keepsakes, she pours out six polished globes of different colors and sizes. “Do ye know what these are?”

  “Da’s marbles?”

  “In a fashion. These are druid spell stones. Every druid selects theirs when they begin to learn spells and casting. Since yer energies seem very similar to yer father’s, for now, I’m sure ye can use his.”

  “What?” Sloan says, his face screwed up. “You’re letting her use spell stones? Her gifts woke less than a week ago.”

  “And whose fault is that?” I say.

  He flips me a middle-fingered salute. “I understand there’s a time constraint here, but Lara—”

  “But nothing.” Gran looks cross. “Fiona shows unprecedented potential, and these stones hold the energy and alignment of her da. She’ll be fine.”

  “And what about the rest of us?”

  “Yer concern is noted, son,” Granda says, his voice firm. “Go ahead, Fi. Listen to yer gran.”

  “All right.” Gran settles onto the grass and runs a hand over the marbles. “Humans are composed of more energy than matter, more spirit than physical substance. Casting stones allow us to focus our energies and essences to mold them into a change of form or intention.”

  “Us humans or us druids?”

  “Both. People from all walks of life and many religions use stones fer strength. A chakra bracelet to ward off negativity or gemstones in yer pocket for the desired effect. Many carry a citrine in their pocket to draw wealth or amethyst to help with healing.”

  I nod. “A waitress friend from Shenanigans wears a chunk of unpolished emerald in a pendant. She’s convinced it will bring her true love.”

  “Exactly. Depending on the stone, its origin, the energy deposits, the veining of other minerals, and a hundred other factors, a stone’s power fluctuates. Cross that with a human’s physical and mental energies and the relationship between a person and their stones becomes specific. Add to that a druid’s connection with the natural world, and we can amplify that power to conform to our will.”

  “We can do magic spells—like witches?”

  Sloan and Granda both make a face.

  “From an uneducated point of view, it would seem similar.” She throws them a look. “Our magic is far more nature-specific. The point is that druid magic is enhanced by our casting ability, and because of that, amazing things are possible when we learn to harness our powers.”

  I study Da’s marbles and fight not to burst into a fit of giggles. I’m learning magic. Hermione Granger’s got nothing on me. Liam is right.

  I am Fiona-freaking-Cumhaill.

  When I look at the stones, the power emitted by those energy-giving globes calls to me. Excitement and adrenaline feed my cells, and I scoop them up.

  “NO!”

  A chorus of shouts rent the air.

  A surge of power shoots up my arms and into my chest. It bursts out of me in a sonic wave. It ripples the air with violent force and knocks everyone tumbling backward.

  I blink, stunned. Thankfully, no one looks injured. Man, my cells are thrumming with power.

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  Sitting cross-legged on the patio an hour later, I close my eyes and focus on the one casting stone I’m allowed to hold from Da’s bag of marbles. Apparently, I jumped the gun by grabbing them all at once. Novices can only focus the energy of one at a time. My bad.

  In my defense, they kinda buried the lead on that.

  So, here I sit. A malachite casting stone warms my palm. A little flowerpot sits patiently in front of me. And a pissed-off badger glares at me with his beady black eyes.

  “You don’t need to stay, you know?” I toss him a sideways stink eye.

  “And give ye the chance to cheat? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not going to cheat, zebra face. And the fact that your mind went there says more about you than me.”

  Dax rolls back against the stone wall. His hind leg arches up, and he scratches the underside of his chin with his claws while flashing me his furry male bits. “No place to be at the moment. Might as well keep an eye on the city girl.”

  I roll my eyes and check the binder for the words of the spell. Not that I need to, there are only a few.

  An inch and a half below you go

  Snug and fed, and time to grow

  I stare at one fat white bean lying on top of the black soil, the shot glass of water beside me, and the beam of sunlight about to move beyond the surface of the café table. In another fifteen minutes, it’ll be too late. My bean won’t get its time to sunbathe, and it won’t grow.

  C’mon, Fiona. You can do this.

  “Okay, it’s Jack and the Beanstalk time.”

  I close my eyes and let the malachite’s energy warm my palm while Gran’s teachings rerun in my head. Casting stones focus our intentions and amplify our power to influence. Set my intention. Ask the fae energy to comply. Project my casting energy to the object.

  In my mind’s eye, I envision the bean wriggling down beneath the soil. It’s rich and dark and full of nutrients needed to promote growth. Focused on my intention, I rub my thumb over the globe in my hand. Please sink into the soil little bean.

  I crack my eye open, then sigh. “Nothing?”

  “Yer as daft as it gets, girly. Yer a novice. Ye have to speak the words, ye feckin’ eejit.”

  Damn it. Okay, I envision the bean wriggling into the rich soil, and I rub the malachite in my palm and say…

  “An inch and a half below you go,

  snug and fed, and time to grow.”

  This time, when I open my eyes, my bean has nestled itself under the dirt. I fight the urge to jump up and happy-dance and read over the next two lines. “Oka
y, part two.”

  Staring at the glass of water, I swallow and focus on the malachite stone, and read the spell aloud.

  “Water, cleanser, quencher of thirst,

  Let what is dry be nourished to burst.”

  My heart races as the water level in my glass empties.

  “Okay, take it home.” I check that the sunlight is still over the pot, read the last two lines of the spell, and roll the marble between my palms.

  “Sunlight, warmth, bringer of drought,

  Bolster the seed, and make it sprout.”

  After a few moments, I squeal.

  Clutching the pot in both palms, I hurry toward the house, my green beansprout waving proudly in the air.

  “Suck it, skunk.”

  Chapter Eight

  I wake in the dead of night to the deafening crack of lightning striking close to the house. The impact shakes my bed, and the scent of burning ozone singes my nostrils. Gran shouts in the distance, and I jump out of bed. Maneuvering halls I’m not familiar with, in the void of light, means I move slower than the rush of adrenaline fueling me demands.

  Still, I find the handle of my bedroom door with only a brief groping in the shadowed darkness. Out the door, I see things more clearly, led by the glow of the phosphorescent fungus of the ceiling in the loo.

  Gran’s and Granda’s room is at the end of the hall. By the time I get halfway there, my grandfather is hushing his wife. “Don’t cry, mo chroi. I’m sorry the lightning gave ye a fright.”

  I stop. He doesn’t sound hurt or afraid so there’s no reason to intrude.

  “Ye need to tell her, Lugh,” Gran whispers, her voice thick with tears. “All of it.”

  “We mustn’t overwhelm her.”

  “Ye mustn’t wait. Ye’ll die, ye stubborn eejit.”

  His throaty chuckle drifts to me in the darkness. “There’s still time, mo chroi. She’s here. That’s what’s important.”