The Void (Witching Savannah Book 3)

by Horn, J. D.

  “We were to build the machine, drain the earth of its life force, and go out to find other planets to destroy.”

  “Precisely, and the cycle was intended to go on forever, forward and backward through time, but here, on earth, we witches drew the line.” He reached out for me, drawing my hands into his. “That, Mercy, is why we need you to demonstrate your loyalty. We need you to join us in protecting the line so it can continue to protect us all.”

  “I have never intended to do anything else.” I weighed the pieces I had been presented. Incredible and contradictory tales, but no concrete evidence. I compared Gudrun’s version of the story to that of this odd Swede. I had no idea how much of what either had shared was truth, and how much was lie. I suspected both had offered up no more truth than the bare-bones frame from which they suspended their stories. Fridtjof had without doubt whitewashed history and offered me up a pious fiction. Still, my gut told me that Fridtjof’s account was essentially true. Besides, I knew Gudrun was a monster by the company she kept.

  With my hands cradled in his, Fridtjof bowed his head. “This is indeed good to hear. As you have expressed your commitment to preserving the line, we must discuss your mother.”

  “What about her?” I sensed all of this had only been the windup; now he was ready for the pitch. I freed my hands from his grasp.

  We three turned at the sound of a car pulling off the road and coming to a stop on the gravel parking lot. A boy, maybe eight, maybe ten, climbed out of the backseat. He was a round little fellow, his horizontally striped yellow-and-blue shirt adding to the impression. Large, thick glasses. He came barreling toward us.

  “Mitchell, I told you to wait until I could get your sister out.” The voice of his harried mother chased after him.

  The boy was entranced by the sight of the stones, but he stopped and walked sullenly back toward the car. “But Mom, they’re right there.”

  “You will wait for me,” his mother said, climbing out of the car and opening a back door, “or we will get right back in the car and go home.” The boy folded his arms over his chest and stomped a foot; still, he didn’t talk back. There was something so comical about the sulky expression he wore as his poor mother struggled with the buckles and straps of the child seat that I fell instantly in love with the boy.

  “Finally,” he said and sighed dramatically as his mother pulled a much younger child dressed all in pink out of the back of the car and onto her hip.

  “The monument is closed for maintenance,” Fridtjof called out to them.

  “Oh,” the mother said. “It’s just we’ve driven here from Atlanta. Couldn’t we just stay for a minute or so, get some pictures?” The boy was crestfallen, and within seconds on the verge of tears. I slugged Fridtjof on the shoulder and circled around him.

  “Of course you can,” I said, “and you can stay as long as you like.” The woman flashed me a look that spoke of relief combined with gratitude. She saw me as another mother, willing to bend the rules to save another woman a two-hour return trip featuring a meltdown from a very disappointed child.

  She handed her son a cell phone. “Well, go on then,” she said to the boy, then smiled at me. Her son raced to the monument and began taking pictures. “Honestly, I have no idea how he even heard of this place,” she said, bouncing the sweet and waking little girl on her hip. The child looked at me and smiled, then buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “This one’s going through her shy phase, and that one”—she nodded at her son—“well, that one . . .” She shrugged signaling she had nothing more to say, but the love in her eyes spoke volumes. “Thank you so much. I promised him that if he got all As on his report card, we’d make the trip out here.”

  “No need for thanks.” I glanced over at Fridtjof, who had slid on a pair of sunglasses. He still was unnaturally pale, but at least he had dealt with the most startling of his characteristics. I had no need to worry about the woman’s reaction to Fridtjof, though. Although she kept one eye on her son, her other appreciative eye followed Emmet as he began circling the monument. “My,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows and smiling as he began drawing nearer. Leaning in toward me, “Yours?” she asked in a whisper.

  Emmet looked toward her. “I certainly am,” he said as he stepped up to us. “I certainly am.” His dark eyes bored into me. This moment told me more than any of his previous declarations. He would be persistent, patient, and most of all present. That he would be my husband and a father to my child were in his mind inevitabilities. Even though most of me rebelled against letting go of Peter, the tiniest part of my heart relaxed into the idea that Emmet was right.

  “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “Mom,” the boy bellowed. “Take my picture.”

  “How about I take one of you all together,” Emmet offered.

  “You are so thoughtful.” She flashed me a look that said, “You are so lucky.” She called to her boy, “Okay, we’ll take a few pictures, but we have to get out of these nice folks’ way.” She picked her way through the field toward the standing stones and Emmet followed. I watched as he played peekaboo with the little girl, who had obviously fallen just as hard for Emmet as her mother had.

  “He is quite the charmer, your golem.” Fridtjof spoke in a low enough voice that the others would not hear.

  “He isn’t just a golem, not anymore,” I said, speaking in a near whisper. “He may have started out that way, but he’s a man, a real human being now, and there is nothing anyone could say to convince me otherwise.”

  “I feel no compulsion to debate his humanity or lack thereof. We were concerned about him at first, but he has been deemed harmless.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would you worry about Emmet?”

  “Because of the prophecy made about the ‘Babalon Working’ and the fall of the line. We have reason to believe that before her death, Emily had attempted the great work. Perhaps her efforts were what led to her death.”

  “Babylon, like Mesopotamia Babylon?”

  “No, Babalon with an ‘a,’ not a ‘y.’ It is an example of the blackest of magics, aimed at creating the ‘Abomination,’ a non-human spirit born into a human body.”

  “You all thought Emmet might be the result of this spell? But you allowed his creation.”

  “With all the changes happening, we had every right to feel concern. Even the best and most loyal of witches might be working with a covert agenda.”

  “Oh please,” I said with a nod in Emmet’s direction. “Look at him.”

  Emmet busied himself making faces at the little girl in an attempt to get her to smile for the photos. He snapped a few pictures on the woman’s phone, then handed it back to the boy for his approval.

  “What do we say?” the mother addressed her son.

  “Thank you,” the boy said, and it very nearly sounded sincere, but he was already off, running one last lap around the standing stones before his mother delivered the inevitable command to return to the car.

  Fridtjof leaned in to my ear. “In the end we determined it was the line itself that bestowed your golem with his humanity, so his existence has been approved.”

  I wanted to ask Fridtjof just who the hell he was to approve or disapprove, but the mother returned, bouncing her daughter on her hip. The little one squealed in delight as Emmet waved a finger at her. “Thank you. No really.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “If I had to drive all the way home without him seeing these things . . .” She paused. “What are they about anyway?”

  I shrugged and lied. “We’re just paid to maintain the place. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  She looked back over her shoulder at them. “I don’t know. I’m glad we got to see them, but honestly, there’s just something creepy about them, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do think.”

  She smiled at me, then at Em
met, only I noticed she blushed a little when looking his way. “Come on, Mitch,” she called to her son, who had taken advantage of her lack of attention to begin a second circuit. He cut through the monument, and jogged along toward us. She reached out and patted him on the back. “Let’s get going, big guy.”

  As they trotted off together to their car, I surmised Mitchell was satisfied with his visit. He jabbered on about a movie he was wanting to see, and his mother kept repeating the words “We’ll see. We’ll see.” My heart ached to have this same exasperated conversation with my Colin.

  The boy and mother both waved good-bye as they backed out onto the main road. Emmet and I waved back. Fridtjof behaved as if he had already forgotten they existed. “The Babalon Working . . .”

  “Listen,” I said. “You can tell the other anchors they have . . . the line has my support, but I’m ready to get home. I’ve enjoyed this little field trip immensely but my feet are swelling. I want to sit down, maybe have some tea—”

  A table covered by a white tablecloth along with three comfortable chairs appeared before us. A large pot of tea and a three-tiered pastry stand sat on the table alongside cups, plates, and silver. Fridtjof stood there contemplating his work. A crystal vase filled with daffodils shimmered into existence. “There, that’s a nice touch, no?” He pulled out a chair for me. “About the Babalon Working,” he continued. I looked at Emmet, who shrugged. “I brought you here to discuss just that.”

  “Here I believed,” Emmet began, “I was no longer thought to be the world-eating spawn of the Great Whore.”

  “This has nothing to do with you, golem”—Fridtjof faced me—“and everything to do with your mother.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “I thought you didn’t know what Gudrun’s spell was attempting.”

  “I’m not speaking of Gudrun’s spell.” Fridtjof took a step back. “Whatever she was attempting, it has no relation to the Babalon Working.”

  “Okay, but seriously, I think you are confused. Emily attempted something she called the Babel spell. She tried to suck Emmet and me into it, but we handled her, right?” I looked to Emmet for validation.

  “Yes,” Emmet said, pouring tea into one of the delicate china cups and setting it on a saucer before me. “Or at least Jilo did.”

  “No, I’m not in the least bit confused. We are already aware of what happened through your mother’s little Tillandsia project. Emily’s Babel spell was intended to carry you beyond the line’s protection. No doubt, it was a nasty piece of work, but it was a mere walk in the park compared to the great working. We know now that Emily’s fascination with the Babalon Working goes back many years. She surrounded herself with books and artifacts and people, one in particular whom she disguised as a servant, that were related to the great work. I believe you have met her purported driver?”

  “Parsons?” The image of the man’s waxy gray face rose to mind. I washed it down with a quick sip of the hot black tea.

  “Indeed. Fool of a man. Brilliant, very nearly capable of succeeding. He is a magic worker, but he is no witch. I personally am convinced that were he a witch, this planet would have been lost to the old ones long ago. As things stand, he nearly destroyed himself. Tell me”—he shifted gears without warning—“in your knowledge has Emily Taylor ever acted in the best interest of either you or your sister?”

  I fought to keep my emotions from showing. Still, I was struck by the notion that perhaps the only time she had actually done right by us was when she faked her own death and left us in Iris’s care. Iris had not been a perfect parent by any means, but I grew up knowing I was loved. Had Emily raised us, God only knows the person I might have grown into.

  Fridtjof didn’t seem interested in allowing me time for a full inventory. “No, I thought not.” He leaned in toward me. “Emily knew your husband was a Fae changeling. She knew she could unravel your entire life simply by alerting Peter to that fact. So one is left to ask, why did she not?”

  It was true. She had promised Peter would never learn from her about his true parentage. Had she been so sure his awareness would be otherwise triggered? Even if that were the case, she seemed to relish in bringing pain. Why would she not have rushed to do just that? “I really don’t know why.” I would have liked to believe it showed that deep down there remained a shred of decency in my mother, that maybe a subliminal part of her soul actually did love me. All the same, I knew Fridtjof was preparing to dash that hope.

  “Your parents, and yes, we are now aware Erik was your father.” He waited for me to respond, but I held my tongue and watched him through a cool eye. I had the suspicion our little bonding experience was coming to its official end. “We have investigated and determined that your parents had both dedicated themselves to ending the line. We are certain Erik’s defection from his family’s position was a ruse, though a convincingly played one.” His pale eyelids closed partially over his blank eyes. “You have certainly heard of the prophecy about the combining of your bloodlines.”

  Yes, of course I had, but I bit my tongue. I would let him lay out his cards before me before I committed to anything.

  “The prophecy stated that a union of the Weber line with the Taylors’ could produce a child capable of bringing down the line,” he added for my benefit, on the off chance this tidbit had somehow escaped me. “We never took it seriously, as there are similar predictions about many other supposedly dangerous combinations among the witch families. If the anchors had truly believed this to be an actual prophecy and not just an old witches’ tale, your Ellen would never have been allowed to marry Erik.”

  “Why are we going through all this ancient history, especially if you hold no credence in the ‘prophecy’?”

  “Because we fear that your mother succeeded.”

  “How?” I asked. “If she had succeeded, why would she be dead and us playing tea party in a pasture?”

  The lack of pupil and iris made it difficult to glean much information from his eyes. Fridtjof placed his hands on the table, and from the angle of his face, he appeared to be examining them. “Emily has been hiding your entire life, working in the background to achieve the end of destroying the line.” His face tilted up to mine. “She could have chosen to return at any time, but she waited until you were pregnant.”

  It took a few seconds for me to realize where his train of thought was heading. What he implied seemed to be simply impossible. It was impossible he would even consider it. “No,” I said, pushing back from the table. Emmet didn’t seem to have made the connection yet, but he jumped up ready to defend me all the same.

  “Mercy, you must realize, I get no pleasure from forcing you to acknowledge this. Think about it. I can smell the magic on you. The magic you and your family are using to keep your pregnancy viable.” My hands fell to my stomach. “That is why Emily never told Peter about his parentage. She knew enough about Fae magic to realize that if he lost his footing in this dimension, if his existence here were erased before the baby could establish its own foothold in our reality, the baby would never be born.”

  I took a step back, sliding without intending to into Emmet’s outstretched arm. He wrapped both arms around me, and I realized around Colin too. My senses were overwhelmed with Emmet’s intention to protect us both.

  “This thing growing in you—” Fridtjof stood and with a wave of his hand made the table and chairs disappear. “It isn’t a child, it is the Abomination.”

  “You are wrong.”

  “Listen to me, Mercy,” he said, folding his hands as if he were praying. “I know it is a horrible thing to hear.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You must realize what a blessing it is Peter returned to his world. You can save the line, you can save the entire world simply by letting go.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Emmet. His handsome face was twisted with rage. “We need to go,” I told him, and prepared to sl
ide us home.

  “Can’t you see how he loves you?” The question caused me to hesitate. “I can tell you love Emmet as well. Let yourself forget. Forget Peter, forget this thing that has taken root in your womb. Let it dissolve.”

  “I cannot forget my child,” I said. “I will not forget my child.”

  “Your golem is fertile. You will have other children, you and your giant there. Beautiful children. So many. Simply let this one go.”

  “No,” Emmet spoke for me. “If Mercy will allow me, I will indeed father children by her, but this one”—his large hand slid over mine—“will be our first. We will never let go.”

  “Then you leave us with no choice but to perform a binding on the girl,” he said and raised his hand toward me. “Last chance, Mercy. Let the Abomination fade away. Understand this is your only choice.”

  “Only choice? You people are insane. Just how do you think one innocent child will destroy the world?”

  Fridtjof blinked, and for a moment his features softened. “I’m sorry, but we don’t believe your child is an innocent. The Babalon spell. Its aim is to bring a non-human soul into human form. We believe Emily succeeded in circumventing the line and bringing one of the old gods back into our world. That thing you’re carrying is not a child. It’s an embodiment of the force that will destroy us all.” He lowered his head, as if he could no longer bear to see the agony he caused me. “All of your fellow anchors are awaiting my signal. When I begin the binding, all the others—all the others—will join in. We are unanimous. Once your magic is bound up in you, you will live the rest of your life as a vegetable, and you will also lose any ability to protect the monster inside you. It will never live to see the light of day.”