I frowned, brought a hand up, and scratched my arm. “Do we have time for this? I mean, I know you said the dump is one of the most secure places in Bane City, but he will find me.” My voice dropped low, ringing with an ominous note of certainty that shook through my belly.
“Yes, he will find you,” Sarah agreed in that same ominous tone. “But we do have time. Enough to try this rite.”
“What exactly will this entail?”
“We still need a few things. We’re setting them up now. But, using your powers, we’ll try to take you back to the point in time when the contract manifested.”
I made a face. Because, hello, I was sick of being dragged back into Scotland’s past. I didn’t mind the sun and grass, but I had a really big problem with Max the asshole.
“It’ll be okay. It’ll just be a vision. It should help you – give you some clues. Give you a plan.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
With my hands curled into tight fists and my fingernails grating across my palms, I nodded. “Okay, let’s do this. What do you need from me?”
She pressed a small smile over her face that told me this wouldn’t be pretty.
I winced.
“Your blood,” she revealed.
I made a sour face – just the kind of sour face a girl would give after having already lost most of her blood to sorcerer kings today. “How much?”
“Just a thimbleful. Not much. You’re a McLane, and somehow this contract binds you – all the McLanes – through time and space.”
I nodded. Even in my muddled head, that made good magical sense.
“One word of warning, though – don’t allow yourself to become too attached to the past.”
“Why not?” I couldn’t shift the frown from my face as it dug hard into my chin.
She stared at me for several seconds before opening her lips. And those several seconds of silence were some of the worst in my life. “Because you can become trapped,” she answered.
“Oh,” I said in a falsely calm tone.
“Don’t worry. Just keep your wits about you. Search for clues. You can do this.” As she said that, she leaned forward, clapped a hand on my shoulder, and looked right into my eyes.
Maybe she saw something, because she didn’t linger. She pulled away, a calm smile on her face. I imagined Sarah had seen a lot in her long life, and I imagined this end-of-the-world stuff was old hat to her. So if she wasn’t lingering over me with fear, maybe… maybe… maybe I had a chance?
I went with that feeling, held onto it with both hands as I ground my teeth together and waited for the final elements of the rite to come together.
Soon, I found myself standing roughly in the center of a metal scrapheap, a truly strange assortment of things arranged in a circle by my feet.
There was a plastic bottle full of grass clippings that had been mashed up with chalk. There were three kinds of metals stacked precariously on top of each other. There was my thimble full of blood, there was the book, and there was something that looked like a sacred knife.
I’d expected the other witches to assemble around me, maybe hold hands, maybe start to chant.
They didn’t.
I was on my own.
Sarah had muttered something about the contract not being able to tolerate anyone else. When I pressed, she explained that the presence of other witches may cause the contract to defend itself. In other words, there could be a magical explosion. And we really didn’t need any more of those.
I kept sucking in shallow breaths. I tried to make them deep. God, did I try to make them deep. I opened my mouth all the way and attempted to suck air down into my lungs, but it didn’t matter. My throat felt constricted to the point of a pin.
Still, somehow, I managed to stand.
Sarah’s warning kept playing in my head. If I became too engrossed in the past, I could trap myself there.
And while I didn’t mind that sunny grassy moor, I knew full well what McCain would do.
I clenched my teeth and grated them together as I watched the contract.
The rite, apparently, was simple. Or relatively simple compared to some of the seriously complicated magical spells Sarah and her witches usually cast.
All I had to do was pluck up the sacred knife, dip it in the thimble of blood, and write a single word over the torn, battered-leather cover of the contract.
And what was that word?
Unimaginatively, it was open.
Why did it feel like that one word would open more than the book? Why did it kind of feel like giving the command to open Pandora’s box? Or maybe a prison full of the worst fiends in history?
I knew full well that I didn’t have time. Hello, every second I stood here, shaking and panting for breath, was a second McCain was only getting closer.
And yet, it still took me several more seconds to pluck up the courage to lean down to one knee and grasp the knife, let alone try to dip it in the blood.
I was shaking so badly that I had to support the hand that held the knife, grasping the wrist with an iron grip. “Come on,” I commanded myself. “You’re a McLane, remember. You can do this.”
With those words of self-encouragement, I tipped the knife into the blood, brought it forward, hesitated, then wrote the word open on the book.
I kind of expected something to happen immediately. You know, some kind of explosion, definitely sparks, maybe even magical flames.
And yet, nothing happened.
With the sacred knife dripping in blood, I kept the tip hovering over the book, a frown pressing over my lips as the seconds ticked by.
I even leaned down and checked I’d spelled open right. Yep. I wasn’t an idiot yet.
And then?
Then I started to feel something. It was subtle at first. Almost imperceptible.
It began under my feet. This faint shifting, almost as if the gravel was trying to dance.
It started to grow. Grow until the ground began to quake.
“Oh my god,” I managed as I pitched to the side, the knife still in my hand.
Sarah had told me not to let go of the contract, and as the ground continued to quake so badly I was certain it was going to split apart and I was going to fall down to Hell, I managed to pitch forward. I threw myself at the book, body crunching over it just as magic began to rush from the ground. Now there were sparks, flame too. It was a display the likes of which I’d never seen. The sheer power rippling from the earth was unmistakable. It caught the ends of my hair, sent them billowing around my face, and made my skin tingle and prickle like I’d rolled in pins.
I didn’t have a hand free to brush the sensation away, and I certainly didn’t have the coordination as I continued to shudder on the ground.
The flames now sparked so high around me, I thought I would soon be burned to death.
Just before a scream could split from my lips, it happened – the world fell sideways.
I lost hold of the book. No, that wasn’t quite right – the book wrenched itself from my grip. It spun around, shot behind me, and opened.
And me? I was sucked into the pages. Let me tell you, it was one of the strangest experiences of my life. The sensation of falling backward into an open book and having your constituent molecules squished until you fell between the twisted, cursive writing on the parchment? Yeah, I don’t recommend it on a full stomach.
Magic continued to rush around me, overpowering every sensation until I felt like I was nothing more than sparking electricity.
The sensation quickly ended. And, with a thwack, I landed on some thankfully soft grass.
I was now in the past, and it was time to end this.
Chapter 7
There it was – my sunshine, my pastureland.
I was back in the visions that had taunted me ever since I’d met Max.
I heard a thump behind me and turned to see the book fall onto the grass. The pages were fluttering, still sparking with magic.
Sarah had told me that
when I wanted to leave the vision – when I finally had the information I required – all I would have to do was use more of my blood to write the word close on the front cover of the book.
So it was imperative that I didn’t lose it.
Pressure. Yeah, I wasn’t one of those kinds of people who ate pressure for breakfast.
With a shake to dislodge the last of those crazy sensations from the time spell, I pushed forward.
It was such an odd experience to feel the sunshine on my face and the soft grass beneath my feet.
I indulged in tipping my head back and letting the rays warm my flesh. The wind tugged through my hair, played along my face and the bare skin of my hands.
I let it fill me up.
Then?
I pressed on.
Sarah’s orders had been kind of imprecise. Just go into the past, she’d said, and find out how to use the contract against McCain. Yeah, it wouldn’t be that easy. I knew from experience that McCain was seriously powerful, and if pushed, could figure out I wasn’t Mary.
I began walking forward.
I heard the thump of footfall from over the hill. I stiffened. My wildly beating heart told me it had to be McCain. I could remember in one vision when he’d come charging over this very hill and he’d pulled me onto his horse.
It wasn’t him.
The footfall was too light.
I spun my head around in time to see a woman.
It took me awhile to realize who she was. I had to squint my eyes as she came into view. Then I recognized her. With a frigging bang. My whole body suddenly zipped with the knowledge that not only did I know this woman, but I’d also been her.
Mary.
I had time to wonder if she’d be able to see me.
It didn’t take long to get my answer.
As she threw herself forward, she suddenly stopped, her simple boots skidding on the grass and leaving two long tracks of mud. Her eyes pulsed wide with fear. It didn’t last. “Chi?” She sprang toward me, her hand opening in a snap.
I blanched and backed away. “Wait, what? You can see me? You know who I am?”
“Chi, it’s me – Mary McLane. And yes, I can see you, child. For you’re right there in front of my very eyes. Now come, we don’t have much time.”
Maybe I should have ground my feet into the grass and not moved until she told me what was going on. I didn’t. You didn’t need to be an emotional genius to see her fear, nor the sweat slicking her brow, nor how disheveled her clothes were.
Mary McLane was running from something, and I knew who.
I whirled on my foot just as she leaned in and caught my wrist in her soft hand. “Come on. We don’t have any time left. No time.” Her voice lilted in her thick Scottish accent. It would have been pleasant if it weren’t for the strident fear shaking her words.
I ran with Mary, desperate to ask her what was happening but unable to spare the breath.
It didn’t take much longer until I started to hear the hoofbeats. They drummed behind me, shaking the very earth until it sounded like a giant was after us.
“God, he’s catching up,” I screamed.
“I’ll get us out of here, child. Don’t you worry.” Mary twisted her head over her shoulder, her long, crinkly red hair flying around her like a fan. As it did, it brought attention to her face. Specifically, to the mark in the center of her forehead.
A mark my gut remembered. With a flood of nerves, my body took me back to the horrible moment when McCain had slammed his magical palm against my forehead and sealed his curse.
I shook, eyes springing wide as I stared at the mark.
Somehow, she realized what I was looking at. “Chi, it’ll be fine. You’ll remove it.”
“I will?”
“Aye. I’ll show you how.”
What ensued was categorically the most awful experience of my life. Even being captured by Fagan hadn’t been as bad. Because this was a chase, and it just dragged on and on, my body becoming progressively weaker until every second I questioned whether I could take another step.
Mary was made of strong stuff, because she never flagged. And when I dropped behind, she just dragged me harder.
I had no idea where she was taking me. Because, hello, I had no idea where I was. I vaguely knew this moor had to be close to the village. And I imagined somewhere around here was Mary’s hut.
I hadn’t appreciated how close. As we mounted a hill, I saw her hut with its sweet hatched roof.
Mary put on a burst of speed. I caught a flash of her gaze, and it was the fiercest thing I’d ever seen. Seriously, it could put McCain’s burning stare to shame any day.
“Come on, child. Come on,” she called.
I didn’t have the heart to point out to her that we looked about the same age. And though, technically, she was much, much, much older than me, to the tune of about 400 years, I wasn’t exactly a child.
We reached the door. Rather than push a hand into the folds of her skirt and pull a key from her pocket, she simply rounded her shoulder and slammed it into the wood.
Damn, this woman was Scottish Rambo.
As soon as she pulled me into the house, she whirled around, her skirts brushing against my legs as she closed the door with a bang.
She took a step back, her eyes wildly flicking left and right as she appeared to search for something.
I shifted around, spied the table, jerked over to it, and started to push the freaking heavy solid slab of wood toward the door. “Give me a hand,” I managed through a heave.
“No, child. That won’t do. Let me…” she trailed off as she appeared to concentrate.
She shifted toward me, and I caught sight of her eyes. God, there were sparks in them – these tiny flecks of light like dying cinders from a fire.
Fireflies. They looked exactly like fireflies.
Just as the fireflies coalesced and took over the whites of her eyes, Mary shook her head, and they disappeared.
She jolted forward, appearing to know what to do.
She grabbed up a jug of what I thought was water and placed it on the ground. Then she jumped up, twisted, pushed toward the fire, and plucked out a burning log, protecting the bare flesh of her palm with her sleeve.
She set the burning log down just before the jug.
From outside, I heard a roar. It was an unmistakable sound. One that had buried itself within my head. Even if I lived to a ripe old age, my body would always remember that sound.
The sound of impending horror.
My heart pounded in my chest, and I jerked back from the table. “Mary, we’ve got to defend ourselves.”
She turned to me, her ginger hair bunching over her shoulder and accentuating her pale, freckled skin. “Don’t worry, child. We are.”
With that, McCain reached the door. He gave one last rib-splitting roar then kicked the door in.
The door, though it was made out of a massive, inch-thick chunk of hardwood, splintered. It split apart with the ease of a twig being slashed by an ax.
Mary stood her ground, drawing up her arms to protect her face as shards of wood dashed against her and scattered at her feet.
I screamed.
Mary didn’t make a sound.
McCain strode forward, arms stiff at his sides, accentuating just how powerful his body was.
His sword jostled at his hip, and as a wild rage flared in his eyes, so too did a wild flame rage across the sheathed blade.
Mary made no move.
When McCain had literally kicked the door down, shards of wood had dislodged the jug of water. Except it wasn’t water – it was too viscous. It looked more like oil.
And oil it was.
Mary, tipping her head back in defiance, her jaw hardening as her eyes half closed, kicked the burning branch of wood into the oil.
With a crackle and a spit, the oil caught fire.
Max had been striding forward through the oil, and as it ignited, it rushed up his legs.
He bellow
ed and jumped backward.
Mary moved. A few more sparks collected in her eyes, making her look as if she was literally starstruck.
She pushed into Max, knocking him flat as he batted at the flames climbing his legs.
The small, low-ceilinged room started to fill with smoke. I slammed a shaking hand over my mouth, trying to breathe through my sleeve.
The flames began to push through the room, catching hold of anything that would burn.
Really, this had been Mary’s plan to escape? At this rate, we’d all be burnt to death in this thatch grave.
Mary, it appeared, had other plans.
As Max fell to his side, his arm splashing into the burning flame, she whirled around and pushed toward me. “Pass me the book.”
When I didn’t move, frozen there in shock as the smoke filled my lungs and the fire filled my eyes, Mary pushed forward. She held a hand out to me, the most entreating look I’d ever seen filling her deep blue eyes.
It snapped through the fear holding me in place.
I threw her the book. Fortunately, my aim held, and the book didn’t fall into the flame.
Mary caught it, twisted the book around, opened it, and placed a hand flat on the page.
Max was bucking by her feet, the flame still riding his body, climbing him like a spider climbs a wall.
I instinctively knew it wouldn’t last. McCain was more powerful than this. Sure enough, with a rattling word echoing from his throat, the flames began to subside. I’d never seen anything like it. It looked as if someone was recalling them, like a fisherman drawing in his line.
Slowly, ominously, he planted one charred hand on the smoldering floor. With a look of absolute hatred igniting in his gaze, he pushed to his feet.
Mary still had her hand flat on the contract. She whirled, faced McCain, and took a step backward, her skirts pushing through the smoke and sending it billowing toward McCain.
“Don’t,” she warned.
He snarled, but he didn’t stop moving.
“I said don’t,” Mary bellowed, her voice echoing through this small room.
It had such power, even I shook back.
For the first time, McCain cut his gaze down to the book. He paled. It was obvious as all the blood drained from his cheeks, forehead, and neck. It looked like someone had taken a knife to his throat.
A Lying Witch Book Four Page 8