by Rhodan, Rhea
With little hope but nothing to lose, he pumped the gas, giving it one last try. If it didn’t fire up, he’d have to start walking.
The engine turned right over. He breathed a sigh of relief over a tongue turned to sandpaper in his mouth. A Handi-Freez sure would be nice. He smacked his head. Damn it, he’d done it again. She’d done it again. He’d be defenseless when his headache came back.
There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. He drove on, looking for a good place to turn around. He told himself he wasn’t looking for Cayden. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t find a sign of her anywhere, nor any sign of Buchanan’s Crossing, or Buchanan’s anything.
Good thing his truck was finally running. He hadn’t seen another car since they’d passed East Granby. At least the deserted road made it easy to turn around.
The place was dead, which was most likely why the brilliant flash of light in his rearview mirror made him jump. He shifted into park and craned his neck out the window to get a better look. The moon was gone for good though, the night too dark, the blaze too bright, brighter than a fire should be. It came from a hill, through a thick grove of trees. Then, poof, it was gone.
What the hell? Without a doubt, it involved Cayden, and Beltane, the Wiccan holiday. Some kind of secret party. Maybe they danced around naked. He shifted in his jeans. Not that again. It was probably just a kegger and some illegal fireworks. Yeah. When his ring finger itched, he recalled that type of flash only came with a bang, and he hadn’t heard any such thing.
The crickets had stopped again. No longer heavy and expectant as it had been in that missed opportunity with Cayden, the night was empty. Instead, it felt like the drawn-out vacuum that occurred after something important happened, that long frozen instant before anyone could react.
Why on earth would he come up with a thought like that? He checked his face in the rearview mirror. He still looked like the same guy. Clearly, the lack of sleep, the headaches, his truck acting up, and Cayden in general, had been too much. Much too goddamn much.
The clock on the dash said a couple minutes past midnight. He gunned the engine till it roared. Time to leave Cayden and this teeming strangeness behind. He didn’t have room in his plans for any of it.
The moon passed behind the clouds again, stealing the soft shadows of the grove’s ancient oaks, shadows Cayden had played in as far back as she could remember, shadows that had concealed and comforted her when the outside world and her mother’s endless harping had driven her there.
Buchanan’s Crossing held her highest hopes and deepest fears. It had always been her safest refuge and heaviest burden. Even as a child, she’d been aware of the primeval power and the sacred obligation that accompanied it.
The currents of magic eddied around her, ruffling her hair in the airless night. No breeze stirred the leaves. No creature made its home in this virgin wood. The deep quiet of the place didn’t soothe her tonight. It was the deafening silence of expectation.
It knew what she was here to do. It had probably known before she had, before she’d knocked on Gran’s door with a mouth full of apologies for arriving late. A single glance had told her, before Gran herself had, that she wasn’t up to joining Cayden at the Crossing for the keeping of Beltane. She had kissed Gran goodnight, then made her way up the hill, certain of what must be done.
This was no longer an ordinary Beltane celebration, for Cayden or for Buchanan’s Crossing.
The darkness was so deep she stumbled in the wood more familiar to her than her parents’ living room. Every step felt wrong, or felt right and was wrong. Little time remained to make the necessary preparations for the special ceremony, even less to fight off the panic threatening to choke her.
She had to find her tree, the one whose image was inked from her third chakra to her first, its branches beginning below her breasts, its roots curling around the top of her thighs. How many times over the years had she leaned against its great trunk, huddled in the gnarled roots that broke the earth and sheltered her, taken strength in their embrace? She needed that strength now.
If she could pull this off, everything would be okay. Gran would get stronger because she wouldn’t have to bear the strain of warding the Crossing by herself. Cayden could share it, then assume it fully after she and Clint had—Clint. Last night, she’d been ready to write off any kind of relationship with him after the Joining. But he’d been so nice tonight. Maybe…
No. She couldn’t afford to think about him now. Focus was imperative. Where was her tree?
She tripped over its thick root. The rough bark of its trunk scraped her hand when she caught herself on it. Out of recent habit, she blamed it on Clint rather than take it as an omen. She’d found the tree, anyway. That’s what was important.
The moon chose that moment to reappear, which Cayden chose to accept as favorable sign. Beginning and ending with her tree, she inscribed the lines of the pentagram with stark white ashes from the jar in her backpack, then set the wood for the small fire at the center of it. All the while, she whispered the words of the ritual in a lost dialect of highlander Gaelic taught to her by Gran, Gran by her grandmother, her by hers, up through the powerful line of witches that bleak land had bred.
Even so, the chant was standard Beltane boilerplate, blessings and such. Going through the motions centered her. The Rite of Commitment was more complex, and of course she’d never performed it. But she’d played the words through her head so often, she could recite them backwards.
She only had to say them forwards, pour all her power into each word, and believe in herself, believe in her worthiness, believe—Midnight had arrived. The Beltane energy was building, rushing, pushing her hair off her face, forcing her back against the trunk of her tree. Pictures swirled past her mind’s eye: Gran, two hooded men, liquid darkness spilling from a wounded tree. Each element circled a central figure who came slowly into focus: Clint MacAllen.
No! He didn’t belong here, not now. Get out. She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled through gritted teeth, then spread her arms to start the fire, and opened her mouth to swear the oath that would bind her to the Crossing.
The blinding flash didn’t give her a chance to speak. It consumed the sacrificial wood in a great gulp, its flames reaching as if to lick the stars. It was gone just as suddenly, searing Clint’s face onto her mind.
She didn’t know how long she sat stunned, incapable of thought or reaction. The first thing she felt was the physical discomfort of having her butt slammed onto the tree’s tangled roots. The deeper ache came after.
Gran’s cottage was dark as Cayden slunk by it to get her bike. Whether Gran had been asleep or not, whether she knew what Cayden had intended or not, she would be aware that her Warder-in-waiting had tried…and failed.
She couldn’t face the comfort Gran would offer. She didn’t deserve it. Besides, Gran needed her rest more than ever now. The long ride to Springfield would give Cayden a chance to mull over what had happened, figure out where she’d gone wrong. Thinking clearly was easier when she moved.
Yet no matter how furiously she pedaled, how intently she analyzed the evening’s events, she couldn’t escape her own inadequacy.
The Rite of Commitment wasn’t the only thing she’d blown. Even though she wasn’t strictly to blame that it had been too late to take Clint to Gran for the tracing spell, or that she hadn’t been able to get the ring on him, the responsibility for those losses ultimately belonged to her. What bothered her the most, though, was that he hadn’t kissed her when she’d been so sure he’d wanted to. She’d had it right initially. He wasn’t interested. How was she ever going to get him to the Joining? There had to be a way around it.
Ouch! What was she doing lying on the pavement under a flickering street light? She didn’t need to question why it died, or why the rest of the lights along the street followed suit one after anot
her. That was expected. The small canyon gaping in the pavement explained the true mystery. The twisted rim of her bike’s oversized front wheel lay on its side. The smaller rear wheel was still spinning, squeaking in a sort of off-beat rhythm.
Black flapping wings settled on the handlebars. Nevermore croaked, “Clint MacAllen clueless bastard?”
When she opened her mouth to remind the crow to watch his language, Cayden burst out laughing.
Chapter Five
If Cayden hadn’t had fencing classes to teach that afternoon, she would never have gotten out of bed. The pendulum’s swing of last night’s emotions, from the excitement of tantalizing possibilities to the disappointment of failure, had smacked the strength right out of her. The weight of her failure pinned her to the mattress. Her power-drained body was none the better for her encounter with the pothole, either.
The kids were counting on her. She didn’t want to miss those bright young faces lined in concentration as they observed her instruction, then took turns practicing—lunging and retreating, attacking and parrying in the beautiful dance. Yes, that youthful enthusiasm would be a good antidote to her battered spirits.
After dragging herself and her wreck of a bike home, she’d tossed her torn dress over the low balcony of her bedroom to the living room below and fallen into bed. Limping down the stairs this morning, she’d noticed her suit of armor, the imperturbable Dr. Seuss, was now wearing it. An attempt by Nevermore to cheer her up, perhaps. The raspberries she’d set out for him were gone, as was he.
The better part of her shower was spent picking tiny stones from her palms and the shoulder she’d landed on. The stinging water on her scrapes was oddly soothing, a physical manifestation expressing her inner pain. Still, she couldn’t help remembering she’d done better landing on the columbines the last time she’d taken a spill. She’d been thinking about Clint MacAllen then, too. She didn’t utter the curse that came to mind of course, but she did think it loudly. This whole business would be so much easier if he’d been the jerk she’d thought he was, or if he weren’t so deliciously hot. She didn’t need to add “potential heartbreak” to her worry list.
She was still thinking about Clint as she roller skated her way down Sumner Avenue. An awful lot of people were hanging around. By the time she noticed the street was cordoned off, it was too late to take a different route. She’d forgotten Beltane was also May Day. The parade would start soon. People were already lining the sidewalk. If some were getting their pre-show entertainment staring at her, so what if she wasn’t exactly looking her best?
Muggy air moistened her mostly bare skin while lending the nest of hair on her head a particularly electrified look. At least her short, flouncy very dark red satin skirt and black off-the-shoulder top coordinated well with the mass of bruises and scabs. Covering them with something would have meant sticking to that something, then ripping it off prior to donning the stifling fabric of her full-body fencing uniform, which was going to be bad enough as it was.
Fortunately, she had no need of her shade umbrella, because both hands were necessary to dodge people who weren’t paying any attention to where they were going as they milled around. A tall, skinny blonde stepped out in front of her, forcing Cayden into an unpleasant confrontation with a lamppost.
“Excuse you,” Cayden said.
“Excuse me? That’s what you get for not watching where you were going.” The blonde delivered a disdainful once-over that would have done Cayden’s mother proud. “I would think anyone as obviously lacking in physical coordination would choose another mode of transportation.” Then she turned her back.
What? Cayden dropped her jaw in outrage, but she was busy disentangling herself from the lamppost when Barbie said over her shoulder, “By the way, if you were going for horrifying, you succeeded.”
There were times when Cayden ignored the comments of the ignorant. This wasn’t going to be one of them.
“Oh really? Do I look like I care who elected you chairwoman of the Universe Revolves Around Perfect Plastic Barbies League?”
Barbie opened her perfect pink lips and put her hands on her perfect little hips in perfect indignation. A deep voice out of nowhere said, “Here’s your iced latte, Darcy. Sorry it took so long.”
The deep voice belonged to him, and he was touching the shoulder of Barbie’s perfectly crisp cream linen dress with obvious intimacy. All the blood rushed to her heart as if to save it from being crushed. The journey was wasted.
“Cayden?”
He was staring at her while Barbie stared at him, perfectly appalled.
“Puh-lease don’t tell me you actually know this…this rude disgusting little freak.”
The words were barely out of Barbie’s mouth when a remarkably large bird bomb exploded across the top of her perfectly sleek blond bob. Telltale bits of raspberry pink dripped sedately down onto the sleeve cap of Barbie’s dress.
Nevermore was already wheeling in the air far above the crowd when Cayden started laughing.
She kept laughing as she rolled rapidly down the street to her studio, away from Clint MacAllen and his not-quite-so-perfect-anymore Barbie. Nevermore was perched jauntily on a branch of the small tree on the boulevard outside the door when she arrived.
“Cayden forgive Nevermore?”
“Ah, now I know why you weren’t home this morning. You were feeling guilty. A move like that would earn a lot of forgiveness, but what for?” She’d almost been afraid to ask. The possibilities ranged from a prank on a neighbor to stealing a diamond ring from the palm of a jeweler’s hand through an open shop door.
“Not there for Cayden.”
Oh. “Last night, you mean?”
Nevermore nodded his head and shifted his grip on the branch from foot to foot. “Rob Roy bastard cat…”
“Of course. I don’t care to be a within a mile of him myself. I don’t want you any closer. Understand?”
“Cayden love Nevermore.”
“Very much.”
“Clint MacAllen clueless bastard.”
For once, Cayden felt not an ounce of desire to scold Nevermore for his language. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” She scanned the clouds. “You’d best get on home before this weather breaks.”
The sky had darkened from thickly overcast to heavy with rain. The storm was coming on fast and hard. Everyone attending the May Day parade would be soaked. She didn’t chide herself for taking satisfaction in that, either.
An afternoon of teaching fencing was just what she needed. It was all about focus and control. If she could control her power, she could attempt the Rite of Commitment again on Midsummer’s Eve. The Crossing’s acceptance of her as Assistant Warder would at least buy both her and Gran more time. Possibly get her around the Joining altogether.
She’d done pretty well last night at HandiMart. The lights had barely flickered when the surprise of seeing Clint again had literally knocked her off her stool. But last night was a thousand years ago. Recalling it brought her twice the grief it had earlier this morning.
The romantic fantasy of riding off into the sunset with a handsome knight in shining armor had done just that without her, thank-you-very-much. The sight of Dr. Seuss wearing her tattered dress was an apropos reminder that a fairytale knight wants a fairytale princess, not a plump, quirky witch.
Someone must have cranked the air-conditioning in Chez Louis to arctic. Not that Clint was an expert on their environmental controls; it was his first time in the place. Maybe all the sparkling crystal, white tablecloths, and stuck-up waiters were what made it seem so cold.
Darcy had been hinting she wanted to come here for weeks, if mentioning it was her favorite restaurant in Boston every single time he took her to dinner elsewhere could be called hinting rather than carping. She’d been even less subtle with her questions about his “background�
�� and wanting to meet his parents.
He’d thought he was doing a good job putting her off with vague excuses. Then she did an end run around him by sneaking the number off his cell and calling his mother, who had promptly invited them both to dinner. In a desperate effort to procrastinate the event until he was successful enough to buy them a new home, he’d offered to take everyone to dinner at Chez Louis on the premise of celebrating his contract with J. Milton.
It had seemed the perfect solution then. Not so much now. Less so by the minute.
Darcy’s moods, fickle at best, hadn’t been improved by the day’s events. They’d originally planned to go to the parade in Springfield, then drive to Boston together to meet his parents for an early dinner. Instead, she drove back to Boston alone to shower and change because her outfit was ruined, a fact she had reminded him of pretty much non-stop since he picked her up twenty minutes ago, after keeping him waiting in the lobby of her apartment building for three quarters of an hour.
His parents were already seated. Of course they were, since he and Darcy were arriving—he checked his watch—shit, almost half an hour late. They’d be even later if he hadn’t built in the extra time he’d learned was necessary when making reservations involving Darcy. His mom and dad whispered to each other in low tones, unaware he and Darcy had entered the dining room.
Dad wore the ancient suit Clint recognized from his first communion photo. That it still fit his father’s wiry frame was a testament to how hard he worked. That he still wore it, evidence of how little he earned.
Clint didn’t have to hear the words Mom spoke. He could tell by the way she leaned toward his dad, the tilt of her head, the hand she laid on his arm, that she was trying to reassure him. She was wearing her good blue dress, the same blue dress she’d worn on special occasions for as long as he could remember. Unlike Dad’s suit, it didn’t fit her small rounded figure quite as well as it once had. But her straight spine told him she still wore it with pride. In every one of Clint’s memories of her in that blue dress, she was proud: of him, of her husband, and yes, of herself.