A Path of Oak and Ash

by M. P. Reeves

  Tadhg sauntered through the trees not long after, his loud tone cutting off whatever bickering was about to begin. "Why ya ladies sittin round? We best be off."

  While the other druids moved with the quiet grace of a deer, Tadhg was really more of a bear. No, a drunken bear gorged on honey. Stumbling about loudly with an unapologetic smile plastered to his face, chiding each of them in turn. The more Carrick got to know him he determined it wasn't a lack of refinement or variation in training from his brothers. Tadhg just didn't give a damn. He was who he was and that was that. Before master or servant Tadhg was only Tadhg, with no nuances or inclinations otherwise. In a way Carrick envied his confidence.

  "Before we do. Come here." Quin approached the group, extending his arms out from his side at a forty five degree angle. All followed suit, forming a circle without contact.

  "Guide us through this day. Grant us the sight to traverse the darkness, wisdom to overcome doubt, patience against anger, bless us with love-of the land and each other-and bring clarity to our spirits." Quin's blessing was repeated by all in somber unison.

  When Quin lowered his arms, he smiled. A rare and surprisingly warming expression. "We may die this day, but if we do it will be as one. As brothers." His steel gaze landed on Carrick. In that moment Carrick found no resentment in his stare, no judgment or malice, just friendship.

  Together they walked down the path towards the fields where the gateway lay, as they broke through the tree line Carrick caught sight of a solitary figure lurking in the woods far behind them in his peripheral vision. Meliae was standing beside a wide oak. Her stoic face marred by tears that glistened from sun kissed rays that penetrated the canopy on high. She seemed such a frail thing in that moment, little girl lost rather than ancient guardian spirit. In fleeting thought Carrick considered turning to her, offering words of comfort and apology. He could picture her smile, a warm embrace and well wishes for his journey. However it was just a passing notion. In reality his feet merely carried him forward, toward a place he no longer called home.

  32

  Carrick did not expect them to get out of Iona in one piece, let alone back to the states. Around every corner from the ferry to the airport he looked over his shoulder, certain death's icy breath was on his neck. Each phase of their journey spited him, the plane ride as uneventful as the ferry. To pass the time, Carrick took advantage of the onboard portable DVD player and small stack of new releases. Thankfully it was all shoot 'em-ups and monster movies, he couldn't sit through a romantic comedy right now. Between the imagery of Liz that kept running through his head and the business with the nymph he was in no mood to think about girls. They were either trying to get him killed or being killed. No thanks, not now. As the ominous music drowned out his surroundings, Carrick felt a nudge on his leg. Pausing the movie, his eyes flicked from the sneaking serial killer to the large wolf that had sat beside him.

  "Hey Mills." He couldn't call her Millie, she was just too...fierce. Her massive tail waged once, leaning forward, she placed her basketball sized head in his lap. Her chin must have bumped the play button, the imagery on the mostly concealed screen changing. Carrick quickly shuffled the headphones and DVD player to the seat next to him, taking count of the cabin for the first time in hours. Aodhan, Conall and Tadhg were asleep, Quin was reading a book with Starless curled up on his feet. With a soft smile, Carrick ran his hands through Millie's fur. "Bored girl?" She snorted.

  "You seem to have a way with Fenrir." Quin spoke quietly as not to wake the others who were sleeping.

  "She's awesome." Somewhere behind her soulful blue eyes she seemed to appreciate the compliment.

  "Perhaps someday, you will be Fang."

  "I would be proud to be Fang, or Skyborn actually like my uncle. Just as long as I'm not Serpentine." Quin shifted uncomfortably at his statement.

  "What?"

  "My father was Serpentine."

  "Oh..." Carrick blushed. Leave it to me to make things awkward just as he doesn't completely hate me, Carrick thought. "I didn't mean...'

  Quin set his book down. "It is alright." His steel gaze shifted, looking out the window. "There is little that has not been already said on the matter."

  "I bet he was a great man anyway." Carrick offered.

  "He was." Past tense.

  "Did he...die in the fight against Lorcan?"

  Quin gave a reserved nod. "He died that day."

  "I'm sorry."

  Carrick could have sworn he said 'I am not' but his voice was overruled by Millie’s loud whine for more attention. Carrick let it go, whatever lay between Quin and his father was not for him to demand. Everyone after all, was entitled to a bit of secrecy.

  When the plane landed at the regional airport, their concealments returned. As previous, Quin took on the gothic appeal while the others preferred suits and ties. Exiting the charter they made their way from the hanger to the parking lot. It was fairly empty for mid-morning, a forty something man was prepping a white Cessna with red stripes in the bay two down from their dock with his teenage son. A worker drove past them in a baggage cart, his face hidden behind by large sunglasses and a ball cap.

  "So where to Carrick?" Aodhan asked somewhat cheerfully.

  "...Carrick?" He heard Aodhan saying his name somewhere in his conscious. At this moment there was nothing that could divert his attention away from a discarded days old paper wadded on the ground. Quickly, he grabbed the old edition, his heart sinking as he reread the article headline over and over.

  Tragedy struck twice: Prominent executive, daughter killed in early morning collision.

  Beneath those flavored words was a picture of a well-aged older man with salt and pepper hair standing beside a smiling blond teenage girl with bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips and perfect teeth. A face he had dreamed about seeing since he had fled New York. Now one he would never see again, Liz Waters was dead.

  33

  In her long history of capable decision making, never before had Elizabeth been so faced with a rock and a hard place. The responsible thing for her to do at this point would be to alert the local authorities, contact the US Consulate and find a way home. Yet, if the New York PD participated in covered up her death - or so her captors had said-how could she reasonably trust the local police? All in all, John had offered her sanctuary while seeming to know the roots of what was transpiring. Her curiosity overruled common sense, when John adamantly declared they leave the cafe in favor of his home, she agreed. Albeit partially because she could not stand to be cramped in that little office any longer. It reminded her far too much of her cell. No, not her cell. The cell. She did not own it nor would she claim it. Now nor ever. He assured her the place boasted a comfortable guest bed and amazing views as they snuck out the back exit to his vehicle. Not that she really cared.

  She eagerly climbed into his white SUV. After the vehicle lurched forward she watched in delight as the cafe, and her prison somewhere in the woods behind it, disappeared from view. During the long bumpy car ride over gravel roads, Elizabeth slept mostly. The vehicle jostled her awake as it pulled into the long winding cobbled drive.

  At the end of the approach was a two story Spanish style home-no, a villa-in pristine condition. Even had one of those rod iron gated courtyards leading up to a black arched double door. Which was of course filled with plants-both potted and planted-and a seating area comprised of a burgundy sectional.

  "Forgive the mess, I didn't know I'd be bringing in company." John remarked as he twisted a key in the silver lock above the wide handle. Lion shaped knockers hung on both door panels, although she assumed they were for show. One would have to get past the gate to the property then the gate to the courtyard to muster a knock after all.

  As he swung open the front door, she found herself wondering what mess he could possibly be referring to. The inside was immaculate, even magazine worthy. The marble entryway opened to a great room larger than most homes. A dining table for twenty sat beneath an opulent
chandelier made of mercury glass and iron. Kitchen was bigger than her bedroom, cherry cabinets and pale marble counters spaced between-what appeared to be customer-stainless steel appliances. Five high backed white leather chairs surrounded the island, colorful fresh fruit eagerly awaiting consumption in several woven baskets atop its surface. The leather U-shaped sectional focused on a large stone hearth with a massive television mounted above its flame. Fully stocked bookcases flanked both sides extended into the molding decorating the high ceiling. John either loved to read, or loved to collect. She hoped it was the former.

  "What mess? This is a palace."

  "It’s a building, nothing more or less. Death's knuckles rap upon both gilded and weathered doors consonantly." He walked into the great room, disappearing behind the kitchen island. "You can come inside and make yourself comfortable, no sense in lurking about by the door like an untamed feline."

  Slowly she padded across the marble flooring, eyes daring into every nook and cranny expecting an assailant or some form of danger. She made it to the first stool in the kitchen without incident. Reaching out to touch the cool soft leather, her adrenaline rush abated. Well within the large room she was able to get a decent look out the massive windows that lined the back wall. The gardens behind the home were even more breathtaking than the interior. A pergola sat above an outdoor dining room. A pool, with water fountain, lay beyond the dinette sparking in the sunlight. Wide brimmed palm's shaded chaise lounges while hanging lanterns danced in the breeze high above. How did he afford all this? She wondered, praying his means weren't derived from drugs. The shotgun carrying wait staff combined with his office behavior kind of led to that conclusion. Still, he didn't come off like that sort of man. Not that she had been exposed to that sort of man aside from movie stereotypes. He just seemed...decent.

  "Drink this." His voice snapped her out of the lull she had entered. Sounds of the blender and John fiddling in the fridge had been lost to her ears. The glass he handed her was full of something that looked like tea but smelled of cherries and vanilla.

  "What is it?" She swished it around in her palm, watching the edges bubble.

  "Liquefied rainbows and ground unicorns." Liz glared at him. He groaned, rolling his eyes. "If I wanted to bloody harm you Estevan would have pulled the trigger."

  "There are other kinds of harm." She muttered, thinking of an article she read about the date rape drug. Her facial expression must have given her thoughts away, he snorted.

  "Look around. Though I am a dwarf, do you seriously think women would deny me?" He had a point, any gold digger that saw this place would be instantly enthralled. "Just drink it. "

  So she did. It had a pulp to it like orange juice, yet tasted surprisingly like the green river's she favored from the Sundry in her childhood; lemon, lime and sweet. The inexplicable combination of taste, texture and smell made her gag reflex jump. "Damn, what was in that?"

  "A concoction of natural remedies to keep you from dying on my watch. Now let’s get you to bed, rest is the true best medicine." The nap in the car had only exacerbated her lethargy, as much as she wanted to argue she was truly and utterly exhausted.

  "But..."

  "Hush...we'll talk about it tomorrow." Leaving the kitchen, he led her through the living room down a hallway with five visible doors. The only furniture a white washed console table topped with fresh pink roses set in front of a large silver leaf trimmed square mirror. Beautiful simplistic elegance, she thought, he had to have hired a designer. The thought of interiors put fresh pangs of loss in her chest, her mother was always trying to refresh or renew this or that. Upscaling she called it. How many Saturdays had they spent going through flea markets together, picking old ratty pieces of furniture to renew...

  "Suite on the right is yours, my room is the far end. Knock first if you need anything less you catch me without my clothes."

  She wiped her eyes, trying to suppress her sudden urge to cry. "Bathroom?"

  "Through your room. It should be appropriately stocked with girlish things." She wondered what he considered girlish as one could hardly picture him buying tampons.

  He turned the knob for her, the room beyond nothing short of splendid. A king sized canopy bed sat diagonally to French doors that opened onto some sort of balcony. Everything was done in cool whites and airy blues. If the designer was going for relaxing ethereal, they hit the nail on the head. It was almost too pretty, she feared using the room would tarnish it. Something this peaceful needed to be left unchained. Unfouled by man, murders and demons. What? She blinked, suddenly unsure of her own reasoning.

  John grabbed her arm hard, forcing her to refocus on him. She had been listing to the side. "I think you better lay down before you fall down."

  "Yeah. Thanks." She mumbled, allowing him to lead her through the doorway. Soon as she was inside the space, he quietly shut the tall white door behind her. On unsteady feet she approached the bed, taking a moment to pull the handgun she had been given from her waist band and set it on the night stand. Exhaling sharply she fell face first into the plush cloud like embrace at an odd angle. The fabric too soft to be real, smelled too sweetly to be a prison, as she closed her eyes the last thought Elizabeth had was a prayer. For her family, for her new friend and finally, for Richard Smith...wherever he was.

  34

  Marcus Kane grimaced at the clock. It was almost six thirty on a Thursday, his wife would be expecting him at the club for cocktails within the hour. Honestly he'd meant to leave at four thirty, five at the latest, but time had a way of running wild. A trend Marcus did not care for. At all. Being a very calculating man, the recent setback's associated with poorly derived intelligence had thrown him for a loop. It had been months, and his agents were no closer to obtaining the boy or the book. In sharp contrast, his above bar endeavors had never been more successful.

  There was something in the air when it came to first world politics. Once principled elected officials now quietly enacted legislation-often as a rider to more popular initiatives-to further his interests. More specifically, the ability for him-and people like him- to use their ample means to persuade public opinion and line the pockets of appropriate individuals. All in all it was the public opinion sway he found the most comical. All he need do was hire an aspiring-therefore mendable-cinematographer, run the spot frequently and lo before Marcus could sign off on the invoice the masses were shouting drill, frack, mine and export. If only they had the time in their busy lives to read up on what they were endorsing, but that was the saying wasn't it? Man is intelligent but men are beasts, and thus became lemmings at his sway. Had he the media outlets available to him these days twenty years ago, who knew what accomplishments he'd be taking with him into retirement?

  As he read over the latest trial results from their pharmaceutical holdings, his eyes flicked to the left to check the time. Seven fifteen. If he had the car brought round now, he'd still be fifteen minutes late. Mrs. Kane, much like himself, was a calculating creature. Such uncommunicated delays would be admonished.

  "Crystal, please let Mrs. Kane know I will be late." He tapped the intercom button once more. "And bring me the Appencorp file and a martini, if you would." He never said please. Curtsey on servants elevated them to equals, or lowered him to servile. Neither was acceptable.

  At Seven Thirty One the message indicator light blinked on his phone. Drawing his attention away from the reading material in front of him. It had been fifteen minutes and Crystal had delivered neither the files nor drink he'd requested.

  He punched the intercom button. "Crystal. Where is my file?"

  Two minutes ticked by, he received no response. Marcus rose from his desk, a frown firmly placed on his usually stoic face. The girl never left without notification, not once since she'd been in his employ. Perhaps there had been a family emergency, he thought, buttoning his jacket as he approached the cherry double doors that led to his office. Even if there was, he still planned to terminate her. Failure was failure, regardless
of what colored glass you viewed it from.

  Swinging wide the paneled door until it latched on the stay-open floor groove he huffed in frustration at the sight before him. Crystal was hunched over her desk, head down on her folded arms. He knew she had recently taken up night classes but that was no reason to be sleeping on his dime. It wasn't as though her pay wasn't more than sufficient to satisfy her lifestyle, why she chose to occupy her time with fabrics and paint swatches he'd never understand.

  Marcus stormed over to her desk, his heavy stride failing to rouse her.

  "Crystal."

  "Crystal." When she did not respond to vocal prompts he tapped her shoulder. Nothing.

  He shook her. Crystal's head rolled to the side, a thin stream of blood draining out of her now exposed ear. Her perfect blue eyes listless and immobile. Marcus took a step back, his first impulse was to retrieve his cell phone from the charging dock in his office and call a medic. However, she was obviously dead. Finding her as such within his building would lead to inquiries, inquiries led to indictments...

  "You failed me."

  Marcus whirled around to find his office occupied, someone seated behind his own desk. With the lights out and monitor screen asleep, the man behind the desk was mostly a shadow. Light falling only on his tented hands resting upon the glass surface.

  "No." His Italian leather loafers making no sound as walked back into his own office, slowly approaching the desk like a damned intern who'd forgotten to get signatures on part of a vital contract. "No, we still have leads. We still have a plan."

  "You have nothing." The man leaned forward, his face dipping into the light. "Which is why you are nothing." The anger in his oddly hued eyes chilled Marcus to the bone. He had seen that look only once before. Some twenty years ago in an off-the-books arms deal with some less than forward thinking African tribesmen. It was a fire that burned only for those who crossed the river Styx, not by Charon, but by their own oar. Yet, even those who tread facilely betwixt life and death must fathom operational acumen. He took a step forward, putting both hands on his own desk as leaned in. "I am in the middle of preparing a ten point plan of attack. Please sir...allow me to-"