by Nina Mason
* * *
She was still at the library, still working on her dissertation, and making serious strides, a minor miracle considering the gnawing in her midsection. It pulsed like a silent alarm in her solar plexus, the center of psychic intuition, and seemed connected somehow to Graham. He felt strangely nearby, which was just wishful thinking, right? It was four in the afternoon. If he’d departed at dawn as planned, he’d be in Druimdeurfait by now. Unless he didn’t go. She flung the hope away before it could take root. Of course he’d gone. If he’d changed his mind about going, she surely would have heard from him by now.
So what was with the weird feeling? Taking a breath, she sank into it, seeking clarity. An image twinkled briefly behind her eyes. Graham on a table in restraints. What the hell? He was in Scotland, safe and sound. She rubbed her eyes, afraid it might be a stress-induced delusion. Had the pressure of getting her dissertation done compiled with him leaving and the looming threat of Lord Fitzgerald put a crack in her sanity?
The pulsing in her gut grew more insistent. It was definitely a distress signal of some sort. But what sort? She searched her mind for an explanation, coming up with the only one that made sense. He’d said the blood exchange would enable him to feel when she was in trouble. Did it also work in reverse? Was he in trouble? Was he still here in Wickenham? Had Fitzgerald shown up? Was Branwen up to her old tricks?
Her blood pressure escalated as she remembered the raven’s threat from last night. She drew a deep breath and blew it out, trying to clear her mind and relax her spasming middle. The pulsing persisted. She bit her lip. What to do? If Graham was in trouble, she needed to help him somehow.
But how?
As her mind chased the possibilities, she packed up her things, returned the borrowed books to the reserve desk, and left the library. She hurried down the High Street toward the cottage, cursing the fact she’d elected to walk today of all days. With each step, the feeling grew stronger. More images flashed. Branwen standing over him dressed like a dominatrix. She felt a hot flush of possessiveness. And protectiveness. He belonged to her, dammit. And she would not stand for that faery bitch or anybody else abusing him.
She was in a sweat by the time she reached home. Hurrying up the brick path to the rose-covered door, she fumbled in her satchel for her keys. With clumsy hands, she attempted to separate the house key from the others on the ring. Another image flashed. Oh dear goddess, Branwen was poking some sort of wire into Angus Og! Fury exploded in Cat’s chest. She tried to stick the key in the lock, but her hands shook too hard. After several bumbling attempts, she finally got the bloody door open.
She dropped her satchel just inside, ran down the hall to her room, and pulled her grimoire from the shelf above the altar. There wasn’t time to cast a circle, draw sigils, mix up herbs, and recite multiple incantations. She flipped through the pages, searching for a quick and dirty summoning spell, feeling like she’d swallowed an acid-soaked bag of rocks. Come on. Come on. Her hands shook as she turned the pages. She was almost sure she’d written down something a few weeks ago that would do the trick.
Finding the charm she sought at last, she selected a red candle and quickly anointed herself and the candle with the same oils she’d used on Friday night. As she flamed the wick with her disposable lighter, she recited the incantation.
“Summoning with oils and candlelight,
Let him come now into my sight.”
She repeated the words twice more before climbing on the bed and hugging her knees to her chest. Within seconds, the air began to shimmer. Her heart pounded excitedly as she watched him take shape. The eyes appeared first, two luminous pools of whisky. The sight awoke something carnal deep in her belly. A face began to form around the eyes. Angular, chiseled, beautiful. The lips were full and sensual, the jaw strong, the cheekbones high and prominent, the hair long and silky. The body came next. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, graceful hands. The waist was trim, the hips narrow, the legs long.
As glorious as always, he took her breath away. There was just one problem. It wasn’t Graham who stood before her. It was the dark angel from her recurring nightmare.
“Cathleen Fingal, I presume?” He arched a perfect black eyebrow. “My, but you have a persistent soul.”
Hugging herself tighter, she tried not to look him in the eye. What had she done wrong? Why had Lord Fitzgerald answered her summons instead of Graham? Then, she realized her mistake. She hadn’t used a name in the incantation, leaving the door open for any entity within hearing range. A careless, stupid, rookie mistake.
Swallowing, she asked, voice squeaking, “What do you want with me?”
“It isn’t you I want, witch.” His voice was like ice wine, sweet, intoxicating, and icy. “You’re merely a means to an end.”
His eyes pulled like magnets, making not looking at him harder than hell.
She swallowed hard. “What end?”
“The surrender of his soul.”
* * *
Branwen had forced him to drink tea laced with opium, so he was in the midst of a blissful, twilight dream in which Caitriona lay in his arms, pliant, warm, and smelling of violets. Her breasts were heavy and swollen, her nipples as dark as treacle. He reached between her legs, finding succulent warmth. As his fingers played, she emitted a satisfied moan, a spur to his swelling desire.
He liked the effects of opiates, liked the euphoria and the lucid dreams, liked how colors seemed more vibrant, how music touched him so deeply his heart swelled with awe. Back in the Victorian era, he preyed on opium addicts and often took laudanum, but stopped when the line began to blur between dream and reality.
Beneath him, the mattress was hard and unforgiving, so they must be in her room at the convent. He felt her mouth, petal-soft, come down on his, felt her tongue, firmly persuasive, parting his lips. Accepting it eagerly, he drew it deeper as he caressed it with his own. The kiss grew more torrid, his need for her more insistent. As she pulled away and slithered down his body, he ached for the loss of her mouth.
“I’ve missed you.” Her voice was low and husky. “Have you missed me?”
“Oh, aye. Aye, m’aingael. So much.”
A groan escaped him as her lips closed around the most innervated part of his anatomy. She’d never done this before, and the one time he’d attempted to pleasure her with his mouth, she’d pulled away, calling it “vile and debased.” And now, here she was, applying her tongue with startling finesse. Hadn’t she said she’d learned from the Internet? He swallowed the laugh tickling his throat. These were strange days to be alive. Very strange indeed.
* * *
She listened, fighting the strong urge to meet his gaze, as Lord Fitzgerald explained. After mastering the dark arts to the extent humanly possible, he summoned Madoc Morfryn and struck a deal. The Unseelie Lord’s magical assistance in exchange for the wizard’s immortal soul. Long an apostate, Fitzgerald believed he’d gotten the better end of the deal until, at the moment of death, he found himself indentured to the Dark Faery King for the rest of eternity. He could return to the mortal world for only a few months every hundred years, to claim more souls for his lord and master.
Those he drained to the point of death lost their souls; those he transfused with his blood did not. Transfusing, thus, was forbidden to him. Why? Because the soul of a transfused dusios would break his bond of servitude. But the soul must be willingly surrendered, something Graham, a devout Catholic in life, would never do. So, Fitzgerald let him believe he’d lost his soul, hoping one day to compel him to give it up with the help of a witch empowered by love.
Things now made sense. The wizard must have made the same request of Caitriona and Catharine and then killed them when refused to do what he wanted. And he’d do the same to her when she refused, which, of course, she would. She’d sooner die than see her twin flame stripped of his soul.
And speaking of twin flames, the pulsing in her solar plexus had eased. Wherever he was, whatever Branwen might be doing
to him, he seemed free of distress. For now, anyway. That was a good thing because she needed to focus all her energy on figuring out how to play Lord Fitzgerald.
“I loved him, you know.” The Irishman’s confession recalled her attention. “I didn’t turn him as a way to escape Lord Morfryn. I rather hoped he’d give up his narrow-minded attraction to the female form. And that I could persuade him to return to the Unseelie Court with me. But, either way, I had to stop him from marrying, which I did. I even managed to persuade the girl’s ignorant father to lock her away in a convent. But he found her. And learned she carried his child.” He heaved a sigh. “What was I to do?”
Tears pricked her eyes and tightened her throat. “So you killed her along with his innocent unborn son?”
“I gave her the chance to save herself and the child she carried. By extending the same offer I’m making to you. Deliver him to me, heart and soul, and I will let you live.”
The compulsion to look at him overpowered. Her eyes flicked toward the wizard, but only for the briefest instant. She saw him turn toward her out of the edge of her eye.
“So, which will you sacrifice, witch? His immortal soul or your mortal life?”
As she searched for something to say, an idea came to her. What if she agreed? But only as a ruse to buy herself time.
“I’ll help you, but can’t cast the spell until the new moon,” she lied. “Can you wait that long?”
He shrugged. “I’ve waited two hundred years. What’s another fortnight?” His tone sharpened as he added, “But I warn you, witch, no tricks.”
“I wouldn’t dream of double dealing you, Lord Fitzgerald,” she said with all the sincerity she could conjure. She’d realized something while he spoke, something Graham didn’t know. While on furlough from the faery realm, the dark wizard could not do magic. So, he’d have only his preternatural powers to defend himself.
Lord Fitzgerald, appearing to have bought her connivance, vanished in a puff of vapor, promising to return on the eve of the new moon. Head still reeling from all she’d learned, she climbed off the bed and crossed to her altar. Time to save her man from that ball-busting faery bitch. And, after that, they could both go to Scotland and work out a plan to take down Lord Fitzgerald.
But first, she needed a long, hot bath to calm and refocus her mind.
* * *
Kicking back in the fragrant warmth of the big claw-foot bathtub, she closed her eyes and began the process of clearing her mind for magic. It took longer than usual, given all that weighed on her. Maud Edenfield’s disclosures. The meeting with Gerard Fitzgerald. Rescuing Graham from Branwen. What would he say when she broke the news about Fitzgerald? Once free of his curse, there would be nothing to stop them from finally being together, getting married, having children, growing old together. Everything he’d ever wanted. And now, she wanted those things too.
But only with him.
Her other half.
The peg that fit the hole in her heart.
Sinking into the water, she reveled in the enveloping warmth. While filling the tub, she’d opened the window to release the steam and let in some fresh air. The cool night breeze felt good, but did nothing to quiet her mind. Chattering thoughts and nagging worries still muted her inner voice. Silencing the mind took regular practice and tremendous focus. Knowledge, courage, will, and silence. Those, the four powers of the magus, were the powers she called upon now.
Just as she began to quiet her mind, she heard something. A flapping sound. Heart sparking with alarm, eyes popping open, she turned toward the open window. There on the sill stood a big, black raven, its emerald eyes simmering with contempt.
Oh, shit.
“What do you want?” she demanded, trying to be brave despite her vulnerable condition. She was alone in a bathtub stark naked with no way to defend herself. “Where’s Graham?”
“On his way to Scotland, thanks to you,” the bird squawked.
“You’re lying. Where is he really? What have you done to him?”
The bird hopped down, landed on the floor, and, in a pillar of vapor, became Branwen. She crept toward the bathtub, arms outstretched, fingers curled like claws. “You filthy little blood-bag. You’ve bewitched him, haven’t you?”
“No!”
Desperate to cover herself, she cast around for a nearby towel, but found nothing within reach. Branwen flew to the edge of the tub, grabbed her head, and shoved her under. She held her breath and shut her eyes, struggling to keep her wits. Branwen was supernatural and even stronger than Graham. Fighting her was futile.
The urge to inhale grew more and more demanding. It felt as though an elephant was sitting on her chest. Soon, her reflexes would force her to inhale. Then, she would drown and she and Graham would have to wait another hundred years to try again.
Opening her eyes, she looked up through the water, pleading soundlessly for her life. The bath salts stung her eyes and she could taste their soapy perfume, but those were the least of her worries. Vindictive green orbs glared down at her. Her mind grew murky, the urge to breathe overpowering. When she could fight it no longer, she opened her mouth and filled her lungs. Water rushed in, burning like fire. She thrashed like a landed fish until the fight went out of her. She felt peaceful, strangely peaceful, as if drifting in a dark ocean.
From somewhere far off, she heard a voice calling her name. Was it her guardian angel? Had she come for her? She’d always imagined her guardian angel would be female.
Angel of God, my guardian dear
To whom God's love commits me here.
Ever this day be at my side
To light, to guard, to rule and guide.
Hands plunged into the water and hauled her out. The air was cold on her skin. She tried to take a breath, but couldn’t. Her lungs felt like they’d been filled with lead. The angel laid her on the floor and rolled her on her side. Water filled her throat and spilled out of her mouth and nose. Her chest convulsed, purging a soap-tainted flood. She retched and choked, gasping for air.
“Cat, can you hear me? What happened?”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t remember. Her thoughts were liquid and slippery, impossible to catch.
“Did you hit your head?”
Though her coughing had subsided, her lungs still hurt like hell. The room was chilly. So chilly, her teeth chattered between coughing fits. The surface beneath her was hard and frigid. She was on her side, curled in the fetal position and shivering. Opening her eyes, she squinted at the face hovering over her. She was indeed an angel. Breathtakingly beautiful with china-blue eyes and long golden hair that shone in the light like a nimbus.
“What the hell happened? Are you all right?”
It was then she realized she was soaking wet and naked. She squinted around. The space was white and bright. Was it heaven? Was everybody naked in heaven? Was her angel naked too? Craning her neck, she let her gaze roam over what she could see of the angel’s crouching frame. She had on blue jeans, a T-shirt reading, “Keep Calm and Carry On,” and what looked to be riding boots, which struck her as rather odd footwear for an angel. Shouldn’t she be wearing sandals?
Cat blinked up at her angel. My, she was lovely. “Why aren’t you naked? And why don’t you have wings? Are you a screw-up like that angel in It’s a Wonderful Life?”
The angel’s beautiful full mouth turned down in a frown. Why? Were angels sensitive? Had she hurt the angel’s feelings? “I’m sorry.” She offered the heavenly messenger a feeble smile, the most she could manage. “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do.”
The angel’s frown deepened, making her look positively grim. “Can’t you remember anything?”
Searching her mind, she found only vague impressions. She felt like Alice, caught up in a nonsensical world. Would a white rabbit in a waistcoat with a pocket watch be along any moment?
The pocket watch reminded her of something, but she couldn’t coax the memory from the quagmire engulfing her brain. She blinked a
few times to try to clear her head. Thoughts crystallized little by little. She was in the bathroom at Mayflower Cottage. On the floor under a towel. Avery was beside her, her pretty face pale and drawn with worry. But how did she get here? The last thing she remembered, she was standing at the front of a lecture hall, talking about Dracula.
She blinked up at her housemate. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Avery shook her head. “I just popped in to change my clothes and found you drowning in the tub with the window wide open.”
Chapter 15: Nevermore
Following the bathtub incident, Cat spent all of her free time in the university library working on her dissertation. What went down in the bathroom that night never surfaced, nor did any other memories from most of that day. The last thing she recalled was lecturing on Dracula.
As far as she knew, Graham had gone to Scotland to protect her from Fitzgerald. Yes, she was heartbroken about it, but what could she do except keep calm and carry on? In the nights since, she’d dreamed of the yellow-eyed vampire. She’d also dreamed of a raven sitting on her bedroom windowsill repeating “Nevermore” over and over, a mental fusion no doubt of Edgar Allan Poe, who she was teaching this week, and Branwen O’Lyr. Luckily, with him gone, she’d never have to deal with that she-devil again.
The same could not be said of Avery, who she’d decided to forgive, albeit in a leery, watchful sort of way. It seemed the least she could do. She didn’t want to think what might have happened had her housemate not come home when she did. The thought of it still gave her the chills.
Avery, of course, had no clue she’d ever been upset with her. When they were home together, which wasn’t often, Avery prattled on about Benedict from inside her bubble of oblivion. Was she hooked? Maybe. She was definitely high on the guy. Cat had considered warning her friend about her toxic relationship, but how to explain it? In every scenario she’d imagined, she came off sounding like a lunatic.