The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love

by Nina Mason

  “Oh, aye, lass.” He squeezed her scalp. “Just like that.”

  She kept on “just like that” for several more minutes until her jaw began to ache. Letting go, she sat back on her haunches and regarded Angus like an opponent. She’d spit in his eye, she thought devilishly, if he wasn’t already glistening with her saliva.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. My jaw’s just a bit tired.”

  A clearing throat snapped her head around. There, to her horror, stood Branwen in an emerald charmeuse blouse and skinny jeans, her eyes slits of emerald ice.

  “If you need someone experienced,” Branwen told him with an imperial look, “you know where to find me.”

  At that, she turned and walked away.

  Burning with a blend of embarrassment and affront, she looked up at him. “I thought she wasn’t going to be here.”

  A deep frown etched his features. “Obviously, she decided to come back sooner than planned—probably for the twisted thrill of fucking with me.”

  * * *

  After the incident with Branwen, they moved back upstairs and, behind his locked bedroom door, spent the rest of the day and most of the night talking, cuddling, and shagging. She hadn’t eaten, both because she had no appetite and because she didn’t want to waste a single moment of their last precious hours together on something as trivial as food. It now was close to midnight and she was dressing to go home while he lay on the bed, eyes solemn and on her.

  Grief’s cold, gnarled hand squeezed her heart as she pulled on her jeans. The thought of losing him, of walking away, was suffocating. She sucked in a breath, filling her lungs with air and her heart with resolve. She refused to accept defeat. There was a way for them to be together. There just had to be. She simply needed more time to figure out what it might be.

  She’d forwarded every argument she could think of and he remained steadfastly opposed to turning her. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. She could not accept the goddess had brought them together time and again only to break their hearts. Because that would be cruel. And what about the Ten of Cups? The cards had promised a happy ending to their story and this sure as hell didn’t qualify. And he’d drawn The Fool. She mustn’t forget that wrinkle. She couldn’t mention it, of course, because she’d obtained that intelligence in an underhanded way, but still. The Fool was the first and last in the deck. The alpha and the omega. Zero and infinity. The Fool advised a leap of faith. And Graham yet stood on the edge of the precipice, heels dug in.

  She needed to come up with a way to push him over the edge. But how? Only minutes remained in the game. She’d promised to break the spell at midnight. The second she released him, he’d be off to Scotland never to be seen again. Should she maybe keep him spellbound a little longer?

  She crossed to the desk chair where she’d hung her blouse. As she pulled it on, her gaze skipped over his laptop and journals, guilt turning in her gut like a screw. She’d already betrayed his trust. He didn’t know it, but she did. And to keep him spellbound after she’d promised to free him...well, it was simply out of the question. She’d destroy his trust. And how could they be happy together without trust?

  So, she had to free him. Had to. But to break the spell, she needed her altar, so she'd have to go home. That would be that. He’d be out of her life forever. Plus, she’d have to deal with Avery. She was in no mood for a confrontation right now, but neither would she let that backstabber get away with what she’d done.

  Her thoughts darkened as she buttoned her blouse, keeping her back to him. Maybe she’d get lucky and Avery wouldn’t be home. It was a coward’s wish, but so be it. She could deal with that two-faced trollop another time; perhaps even put a hex on her. Boils, warts, or—even better—genital herpes. If he weren’t leaving, she’d be tempted to put a spell on him too—a fidelity spell to repel slags like Avery and Branwen.

  But he was leaving, wasn’t he? The thought impaled her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. Their situation seemed hopeless. If only she could share all she felt. How all her life she’d been searching for something—call it meaning or purpose or a sense of belonging she’d never found anywhere—not even inside her own family. And how, even as a kid, she knew someone would come for her, she just never dreamed it would be someone like him. And how there had always been this aching emptiness, this terrible yearning inside her nothing could fill. Until he came along. And letting him go would hurt more than any wickedness Gerard Fitzgerald could hope to dream up.

  But she couldn’t say those things. Because her throat was too tight for speech and because she knew nothing she could say would change his mind.

  She bit her trembling lower lip. “Won’t you at least walk me to my car?”

  “Of course I will.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Cat turned her MG into the alley behind Mayflower Cottage. When she saw Avery’s empty parking space, the knot in her gut loosened slightly. Graham was determined to break both their hearts and she could think of no non-magical way to stop him. He’d walked her to her car and kissed her like there was no tomorrow, which, of course, he believed to be true. No tomorrow for them, anyway. She just prayed he was mistaken.

  She pulled the car into her own space, killed the engine, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and climbed out. As she cut through the rear garden, she felt eyes on her. She looked around for the voyeur, but found only a large black bird. It was perched on one of the more substantial lower branches of the gnarled oak in the middle of the yard.

  The bird, head cocked, regarded her in an eerily human way. Was it a raven or a rook? She could never tell the difference. Either way, something about it gave her the creeps. Its bill was thick and dark, its claws sharp, its eyes, oddly enough, were like two fiery emeralds burning into her core. Something about those eyes seemed familiar in a way that gave her goose pimples.

  “Can I help you?”

  The raven, to her astonishment, opened its beak and spoke. “Stay away from him, witch. If you know what’s good for you.”

  Before Cat’s stunned brain could conjure a suitable response, the bird took wing and dove down, heading straight for her. Panic erupting, she dropped her satchel, spun toward the cottage, and broke into a run. The raven swooped past with a whoosh of cold air.

  Just as she reached the back door, the bird circled back and lunged again, this time with claws extended. She grabbed the locked handle and shook it frantically. Talons caught her hair and pulled. Shrieking in pain, she flung her keys at the bird. It let out an ear-piercing screech and flew off.

  Heart pounding, hands trembling, she retrieved her keys and satchel and, after a bit of fumbling, got the door unlocked. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her, threw the bolt, and dropped her bag on the kitchen table. Then she stood there, hand over her hammering heart, struggling to collect herself as her mind sought to fathom the inexplicable.

  When her heartbeat was close to normal, she looked around. The cottage was dark and quiet. She went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, and poured herself a glass, hands shaking. She carried the wine into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. The bedside clock told her it was nearing midnight. She had lectures tomorrow and could use a good night’s sleep—not that she expected to get one.

  Sucking in a bracing breath, she crossed to the altar and took down a white candle. She gathered all the sigils and talismans used to cast the spell, deposited them in her cauldron, and set them on fire. While they burned, she lit the candle and said in a tear-choked voice, “The spell is done, its object free. No longer will magic bind him to me. So mote it be.”

  Heart like molten lead, she took a long bath and tried to sleep, but couldn’t get him off her mind. After an hour of agitating, she gave up on the bed and decided to try the sofa. As she lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a storm of emotions blew through her. Anger, fear, grief, regret all took their turns. Mostly, though, she felt cheated.


  He was her soul mate, her one and only. How could he not see that?

  With a frustrated sigh, she rummaged through the stack of magazines on the coffee table. Most were Avery’s—fashion, celebrity gossip, and the like, none of which interested her in the least. She and Avery, who the university had paired as housemates, never had much in common. She liked vintage clothes, antiques, and historic dramas. Avery liked designer labels, minimalist modern, and slasher movies. She was pagan; Avery was Presbyterian. She liked dangerous rakes with long hair. Avery liked clean-cut Ken dolls. Cat would move out, but had nowhere to go. All the university housing was occupied and she couldn’t afford the rents anywhere else.

  Giving up on the magazines, she considered reading a book, but she had only Highlander romances and vampire novels. The goal was to distract her mind, not to pour salt on the wound. Out of other options, she turned on the telly and started surfing through the channels. Finding nothing worth watching, she clicked it off, returned to her altar, and took her tarot cards down from the shelf.

  Carrying them to the bed, she sat cross-legged and began to pull out the twenty cards of the Major Arcana. As she shuffled, she focused on her query: What should I do about the situation with Graham? She then laid out seven cards in a burning question spread—three over three and one on top.

  The first card symbolized the question. Overturning it, she was not surprised to see The Lovers. A love affair with a choice involved aptly signified the nature of her query.

  The second card revealed obstacles or supporting influences. She flipped The High Priestess, which depicted a woman in pale blue robes on a throne decorated with pomegranates. On either side stood two pillars—one black and marked with a “B”, the other white and marked with a “J”. There was a cross on the figure’s chest, a sphere on her crown, and a crescent moon at her feet. She held a scroll marked TORA.

  Each of these esoteric symbols denoted the woman as a cleric of Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, the moon, ghosts, and necromancy. Hecate assisted Demeter in the search for her daughter, Persephone—hence the pomegranates—after the girl’s abduction by Hades, lighting the night and the underworld with her twin torches.

  The High Priestess was the card of hunches, of intuition, of knowing without knowing. Generally, the card counseled trusting one’s gut and going with the flow, but Cat’s sixth sense told her that, in this case, the message was more literal. And there just happened to be a High Priestess in Wickenham. The head of the local coven. Her faculty colleague, Maud Edenfield.

  Goosebumps sprouted along her arms. Might Maud know more about his “curse” than she’d revealed? The idea percolated as she continued her reading. Cards three and four represented her hopes and fears in relation to the question. The Tower and The Magician. Those made sense. She feared the foundational destruction threatened by the first card and hoped for a magical solution promised by the second.

  The next two cards offered additional information to consider. The Hanged Man and The Moon. More nebulous in their meaning, these called for deeper consideration. Chewing her lip, she took a few moments to study the images. The Hanged Man dangled upside down by one foot. The peaceful expression on his face and nimbus around his head suggested the pose was one of ponderance rather than punishment. The card, she strongly sensed, represented Graham’s spiritual limbo.

  And he’d stay The Hanged Man until he changed his beliefs.

  The Moon was more puzzling. The card showed a radiant full moon, its face in profile, between two towers. In the foreground, a dog and wolf howled while a lobster crawled out of a pond. The symbolism strongly suggested light and dark embattled—the part of the spiritual journey known as “the dark night of the soul.” But did it signify Graham’s dark night or hers? Or, would they face the darkness together as twin souls?

  She heaved a sigh and shook her head. Only time would tell, she supposed.

  That brought her to the seventh and final card: the outcome. She reached for it with a trembling hand, overturning it quickly. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw what it was.

  Part II: The Chase

  

  And woman, lovely woman! thou,

  My hope, my comforter, my all!

  How cold must be my bosom now,

  When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!

  Without a sigh would I resign

  This busy scene of splendid woe,

  To make that calm contentment mine,

  Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

  —George Gordon, Lord Byron

  Chapter 13: Beautiful Dreamer

  Why had she come back? The question had plagued him for a bloody century. Suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore. He’d finally found the courage to do the right thing. To walk away, as he should have done the minute he drew the Queen of Swords.

  For a few heady days, he’d allowed himself to feel again, to hope again, and to love again. And it had been the most glorious feeling in the world. But, at the same time, unspeakably selfish. What right did he have to take up with her, to corrupt her virtue, to endanger her life? He should’ve stayed up on that bloody tightrope where nothing could touch his heart.

  Or break it.

  Sighing jaggedly, he crossed to the mirrored wardrobe and pulled down the suitcase he’d only just put away. He carried it to the bed, set it atop the bedcovers, and laid it open. He’d leave at first light and drive rather than travel etherically. That way, he could take the dogs and a few other items that mattered to him, like his tarot cards and the portrait of Caitriona he’d demanded Branwen return.

  Reaching to the nightstand, he picked up the miniature, marveling again at the uncanny resemblance. The thought of leaving, of losing her again, filled him with a harrowing emptiness. With a lump in his throat, he fingered her rosy cheeks and Mona-Lisa smile. Just as in life, she looked as if she kept a very good secret.

  He’d left the portrait behind when he fled to Edinburgh, having no other choice, and returned to find it stolen by looters. Somewhere along the line, it wound up at the National Portrait Gallery. He’d seen it there in 1972 during an exhibition of Raeburn’s miniatures. He hadn’t stolen it; he’d merely restored it to its rightful owner.

  After tucking the portrait into a pocket of the suitcase, he turned toward the desk. If he planned to work on his book while in Scotland, he’d better take along some of his diaries too. But which ones? And what to do to keep those he left behind safe from Branwen’s prying eyes? Picking up one in particular, he cracked the cover. The must of aging paper pricked his nose as his gaze fell on the date: 1815. He thumbed through it until he found the entry he sought.

  12th May. Visited Caitriona tonight for the first time since becoming a monster. She slept, unaware of my presence, & for a time, I was content simply to observe. As the hours passed, I began to wonder what might happen if she awoke to find me in her room. Would she think me a wraith? Would she think it a dream? Desiring to know, & to get closer, I sat down on the corner of the bed, alert for any stirrings. Seeing none, I crawled up the bed until I reached her side. Still she did not stir. Ever so carefully, I set my head upon the pillow next to hers. She slept on. Drinking in her scent, I felt contentment for the first time since fate & Fitzgerald tore us apart. I closed my eyes & must have drifted off, because next I knew, her arm fell across my chest. Startled awake, I found her blinking at me in disbelief.

  I lay there, still as death, waiting for her to react. Her hand moved up my chest to my face. She dragged her fingers across my jaw, pressed them against my lips, touched the end of my nose, my eyebrows, my forehead. As she combed back my hair, she whispered: “This must be a dream. But you feel so real, so alive. I don’t ken how such a thing is possible; nor do I care. I only pray I shall never awaken.”

  I kept still. I could hear her heartbeat, smell her blood, but her blood was not what I craved. She set her head on my chest & started to sob.

  “Am I dreaming?” she asked, soft & low.


  “Aye.”

  She raised herself up, came over me & pressed her mouth against mine.

  “Can we make love in my dream?”

  “Aye.”

  When it was over, I collapsed beside her, feeling so elated, so profoundly moved, I very nearly wept.

  She set her head against my chest. “Will you promise me something?”

  “Anything, m’aingael.”

  “Always come to me like this in my dreams.”

  With a woeful sigh, he set the diary in the suitcase and threw a glance toward the clock. It was after midnight. He’d best get some rest. He planned to leave just after sunrise and the drive to Druimdeurfait would be long and fatiguing. And then what? He shook his head, knowing the answer. He’d be alone again. Wandering the halls like a bloody wraith and missing her with every fiber of his being. Just like the last two times.

  A knock at the bedroom door jerked him back to his bedchamber and started the dogs barking. The knock came again, louder this time, followed by Branwen’s voice, “Graham, if you’re in there, please open the door.”

  “I’m tired, Branwen.” He raised his voice both in annoyance and to project past the lump in his throat. “And in no mood for company.”

  “Ben tells me you’re leaving tomorrow,” she said, ignoring his request to be left alone in typical fashion, “but he must be taking the piss for some reason. Because you’d never be that heartless.”

  “Your brother spoke the truth.” He hurriedly packed his clothes over the diary. “I’ll be leaving for Scotland first thing.”