“Thank you. I appreciate that. Although, I’ll apologize upfront. I’m not real good at letting anyone take care of me. But, no, I mean, I said no because I want to know more about my mother first. I want to see pictures. I’ve seen not a single family photo in any room I’ve been in so far.”
“We don’t have them. They’ve been stolen before and used in spells against us. The few photos that remain are locked away at a secure location where no one would think to look, I hope. We’d be better off downstairs. What I know comes from books downstairs. Even the threatening letters are down there in a part of the house only Darcaryn and me knew of until you and Aedan were told. The rooms we use to practice are far underground, past what looks like long unused, decayed rooms,” her aunt stated, rather matter-of-factly, and then rose to from her chair.
“Wait. Tell me something more. I came all this way to learn of my mother as well as to meet you.”
“You will learn of her downstairs. I don’t trust any other place to talk in this cursed house. All my life the walls have carried an energy built of dark spells and incanted demons. This negative collected consciousness is imprinted on this house and everyone who dwells here. A living projection of hatred and jealousy lives on a cellular level here now, having mutated into everyone who dwells here. We’ve warded, as in protected with spells, as best we could, but I still don’t trust. They’ve proven too powerful before.
“I know I make little sense to you right now, but you will come to understand all too well, too soon, my dear. Even then the whole thing is so frustrating. To be cursed by an unseen enemy, unknown, almost impossible to fight, though I’ll never give up to keep you safe. It seems the more one knows and studies, the more confusing it all becomes. They probably want it that way. I’ve often wondered if my father was an evil genius, if he deserved the revenge. But, I’ve started to deal with the fact I may die never knowing the whole of the truth.”
Her aunt’s words hung heavy in the air, like a thick smog. The haze of emotion invaded Kyna’s brain and formed flashes of images of her aunt on a floor. Kyna witnessed her own reaction to her aunt’s death, the screaming and the tears for a person she barely knew. She experienced the loss of obtaining information, memories that died with her aunt. Her breath hitched. She shook her head so violently in an attempt to dislodge the images that it began to ache.
“I just don’t get it,” Kyna hissed as pain shot through her jaw, made her realize how tightly she’d been clenching it. “I keep seeing things, feeling things. Premonitions, I guess you would call them. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“It must feel that way if you’ve not grown up with it. You were supposed to be protected from all of this your whole life. I’m sorry I had to bring you here,” her aunt apologized, her voice sounding brittle, again on the edge of tears.
Kyna looked up at the woman who readied herself to go, a lady on a mission. Yes, Kyna existed now as her only living relative, but she seemed far too frazzled and way too elusive. Something didn’t sit right with Kyna. Sure, the woman lied, or at best evaded the whole truth. Kyna admonished herself to play nice, even if only to gain answers.
“Some of what you are experiencing stems from coming into a place where magic such as yours has always been used,” her aunt began again, her voice regaining its stern determination. “Ancestral magic enhances your gifts, even ones long denied. Mostly, though, this is the curse. Let me see if I can explain this. Think of a spider’s web, one hanging on an old building just after a strong storm like the one we had last night. While the web moves with the wind, the rain and winds don’t break it, as if the strands are made of bendable steel. Spells and curses, once placed, are similar to a web. They attach to the lay lines of the ground, where the energy travels, and then to the nervous system, the electromagnetic field in the body.
“The body can only heal itself if it knows the cause and how to counter it. Here, in Ireland, for many generations, there’ve been very powerful spoken spells. In fact, people used to hire those who wrote poetry and who were also well versed in magic. They created a sort of unknown language, which made the magic even more powerful. They established a formula for hexes, curses, and even projecting spells like your shadow person last night. These people were ritualistic with strong beliefs and strong emotions, making them often a force to be reckoned with. Once the curse was placed, it worked with the fearful emotions in the cursed person, making them a victim not only of the spell, but eventually of their subconscious mind as well.
“When this projected energy is created by a group, a collective consciousness, a demonic energy is used by summoning the little dickens and trapping them, especially when the emotions used in the spell are dark emotions like jealousy or hate.” Her aunt sucked in a large gulp of air. “Well, then it all spells bad news for the cursed. Thankfully, we have Darcaryn working on our side. Please, let me take you to him. I’m getting more worried as each moment passes, and I haven’t felt like this in so long. I need a drink, and the sun has barely risen.”
When her aunt grasped Kyna’s hand this time, the spark snapped and crackled in the air around them. A slice of heat surged within her, around her. Her heart beat hard in her chest as she rose, a mixture of fears she didn’t understand rushing through her, wouldn’t even claim weren’t hers. She’d claim them as stemming from her own mind, a determined call to adventure, a barrage of angry frustration, and a healthy caution toward the unknown. All of these swirled like a tornado in her chest. Her aunt, on the other hand, had to be the owner of the dismay and distress that all wouldn’t go as she so desperately wanted, because Kyna didn’t yet have fully formed ideas about how she wished her future to go at the moment.
She’d always dreamed of a big adventure in her life, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such a place, such people. Like Aedan, if she hadn’t seen it, or in her case actually felt it, she wouldn’t have stopped trying so hard to disbelieve it. More than that, the power felt like a part of her. Something long denied that once accepted would complete her, make her feel whole.
But, first and foremost, she wanted to know about her mother, so bad she’d just about go along with anything to get the answers she sought. She had this longing, a physical ache, to know more about where she came from, who she really was. So, it came as no surprise that she desperately felt the need to hug her aunt, to bring the woman some comfort while getting some of her own. She felt a coil of energy tight in her gut right now, and she hoped some answers waited downstairs rather than more questions.
Chapter Four
Aedan and Aunt Saoirse lead Kyna to another side of the house. This far end may as well have been another side of the world. Here, white walls in desperate need of a new coat of paint gave way to a worn, wooden center staircase with doors on each side. The flight of steps led to a small balcony with a dusty ornate finish just below the railing. The wall just above her, housed several sets of glass doors to what looked to be a garden area. In this end of the house, obviously neglected, no plush, vibrant rugs adorned the floor or stairs. No luxurious chairs welcomed with plush pillows, and no candles flickered to highlight such beauty.
Instead, a practically fossilized rug rested under a table in the center of it all. Worn blues and browns in a rigid, matted plush were all it had to offer. No flowers graced this entranceway, only an antique copper kettle in the middle of the table and a few empty vases on the windowsills. A dilapidated brown teddy bear, once well loved, sat on a gothic style chair. The stuffed animal’s arms stretched out as if it begged for a hug. Seemingly, no one had given a thought to this décor made of cast aside items. Oddly, this side felt homier to her, offered more of a familiar comfort than the rest of the place she’d seen. Well used and country, she’d been raised in that style. Although, she figured she could do her best to easily adjust to her room. A quick grin at thoughts of having time for a swim in her tub faded as a wayward question realigned her thoughts.
She needed to keep her mother at the forefront of the conversation in her hope that at some point her aunt would relent and start to share.
An odd croak, like trying to swallow back tears, was all the response Kyna got. Her aunt turned to her. Tears brimmed her eyes. With one arm she pulled Kyna into a weak hug. The woman’s arm trembled in a different rhythm than her body shook. After giving Kyna a brief kiss on her forehead, her aunt shook her head and released her.
“Mine, actually,” her aunt whispered before she began her descent of the stairs.
With a tilt of his head, Aedan flashed her a look of compassion, which, if possible, made the softened features of his face even more attractive.
Grateful for the distraction from her disappointment, Kyna gave a, behind her back secret wave good-bye to the bear.
The faded wooden doors, slightly ajar, showed two dark stairwells headed down to rooms below ground level. The click of a light switch inside the door to the left revealed a slightly spiraled staircase. It looked as if it’d been carved out of mud and sealed in a thin plaster that hadn’t held up its end of the bargain. A damp, earthy smell offended her nose. The yellowish light from a single, bare hanging bulb cast a sickly look over the walls. Claustrophobia set in, though she’d never suffered from it before. However, here, all that awaited her after the one sharp turn of the cavernous stairs was a solid black door.
Her aunt yanked a skeleton key out from under her sweater. She wore the thing like a pendant on a heavy, silver necklace.
“We keep this locked,” her aunt explained. “The servants think it’s for their safety, which isn’t a lie, but they think it's due to the nature of disrepair in this part of the house. Actually, these rooms have never been kept up to discourage people from thinking anything worthwhile is down here.”
After the big door groaned open, the word disrepair, Kyna realized, didn’t do this room justice. The word, rubble, came to mind when she looked at the mess on the floor in front of the fireplace. Old wood and plaster, mounds of soot and dirt, broken plates and teacups, along with mildewed books and papers adorned floor. One hearty copper teakettle covered with a patina of old-world charm stood out among the mess. A picture lay crooked on the floor, half-propped against the wall, glass shattered to reveal fragments of a yellowed picture of a woman in a wedding dress.
A potbellied stove had blown its girdle, bowed in the middle, weighted down by the pipe coming from the ceiling. Its door hung sideways from one hinge. The walls and ceiling were unlike anything she’d ever seen, even in the poorest of places she’d been back home. She’d only witnessed this extent of decay in photos. Light, mint green paint peeled rather than chipped from the walls in huge chunks, showing grey and almost black matter beneath. She imagined the past glory of the built-in shelf with the glass door, although now it held only a few pieces of stained and chipped dinnerware.
The second room only seemed worse. Floorboards rose up as if to taunt her. Holes in the walls appeared portals to the same doom that must have befallen the people in all of the pictures hanging awry on the walls. Some frames had fallen to the ground when the mantle fell on one side. She viewed them curiously, the faces familiar though the clothes dated. She saw her nose, her eyes, her build hinted at in various images of her relatives. An odd sensation of belonging brought a slim smile to her tight features. A few candlesticks someone could surely sell for a small fortune if cleaned up rested among the mess. She fisted her hands, wanting to gather souvenirs from the wreckage.
“Great aunts to great, great grandfathers, and such. All of them from my father’s side of the family. All had gifts. I can only assume these rooms held much life at one time. Can you feel the residue of their magic here?” her aunt questioned her.
Kyna felt something, like she herself was a light. Electricity flickered to life inside her, and she half expected her skin to start glowing. That same skin crawled, like spiders walked all over her. After several looks to be sure she imagined it, she forced herself not to brush her hands over her warm arms. Nothing actually crawled there, though a spider in this place, millions of them in fact, would come as no big surprise.
“What about your mom, Aunt Saoirse?” she asked to play her mother card again.
“She died when I was young, so young I barely have any memories of her. My father never talked much about her after. It was like he tried to erase all memories of her. I guess it was his way of dealing with his loss.”
Sounded familiar.
“You didn’t ask about her as you grew? I know I did about my dad after he passed,” she urged.
“No. It wasn’t worth his anger,” she stated–no maybe warned–her words stiff and her tone flat.
As her aunt unlocked another door with a small key she pulled from her pocket this time, Kyna’s breathing became little pants. Sensations overwhelmed her. As did the impression she toured a cave that never ended, was being swallowed by the earth. The fact of how far away normal civilization seemed to be getting startled her. She took a quick inventory of her thoughts and reined them back in with practical, scientific type tidbits of knowledge she searched her mind to acquire in an attempt to grasp some sanity.
This new room opened into a much larger area, about four times the size of the two previous rooms. Scarcely decorated, save for a white ceiling and tan walls, it needed nothing for all it stored. From the ceiling hung many hooks, all with bound herbs and flowers hanging upside down from them. A stone fireplace took up three-fourths of the far wall, capped by a thick, wooden beam laced with large, black pots. To her right, a huge hutch held hundreds of bottles, all meticulously labeled, in various shapes and colors. On the left, floor to ceiling bookshelves were stocked full to rival her small hometown library. In the middle of it all stood a long worktable scattered with open books, heavy pots, full bottles, a few sprigs of herbs, various tools, and such. Centering the scene at the table, a bottle in one hand and the other marking his place in a book, stood Darcaryn.
“Well, Kyna, we meet again. I hope you got some sleep last night. Have a big day planned for you.” Darcaryn grinned, a slightly tilted half-scowl-like attempt at one, but one just the same.
“Yes, I did, thanks to Aedan. So, I’m ready for whatever you have to throw my way,” she replied dutifully while her mind gave a sarcastic thanks for being granted yet another big day.
“Found that cursed bottle yet?” Kyna’s aunt let out a weighted sigh as if she’d already been given a bad verdict.
“No, haven’t found a locater spell that could detect it yet. We did this years ago. I don’t know why we’re even trying again. Seems a waste of time to me,” Darcaryn answered, his voice as annoyed as the look on his face, both tight and gruff.
Today, Darcaryn stood fully clothed in a royal blue dress shirt under a black jacket. His long hair pulled back into a loose braid made the lines on his face age him to a stern, but still gorgeous, middle-aged man. Yet, no hint of gray soiled his hair. Instead, wisps fell around his face catching the light of the fire, making the red hues appear to mimic actual flames at times.
“Bottle? Locator spell? What? What are you talking about? What’s going on?” A hot rush broke out into a cold sweat over her neck. Fingers spread ridged by her side, her hands shook despite her best efforts.
She looked to Aedan who stood silent and stiff, like a proper security guard, behind Darcaryn. He’d walked in, swept through the room, and stood where he faced the door. With his head cocked slightly to the side, his right eyebrow raised in opposition to his firm scowl, he observed. Even if not sending off a positive vibe, she definitely felt protected. She hated her need for it. Her whole life she’d been able to take more than adequate care of herself. On the other hand, she’d never had to deal with magic and curses, eerie sounds and evasive relatives, along with a sorcerer and secret society for cripes sake. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.
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��Okay, first things first,” her aunt huffed. “I know you need answers Kyna. Lots of them. But, there’s so much to tell. Please bear with me…us,” she stated as her high shoulders fell into a sudden slump.
She gave her head a little shake, took a deep breath, and continued. “I asked Darcaryn to look again for a witch’s bottle. A witch’s bottle is something bad witch’s use to curse a property. Good witches use them for entirely different matters, much more noble causes. My father received a letter long ago, a very detailed letter explaining the property had been cursed with one. The location warded, protected that is, still no one has been able to locate and remove this bottle. That is, if it exists. Many bad things have happened to this family since. Whether a result of a spell, or our own belief in the spell, who knows. I personally believe the bottle exists. This group, whoever the hell they are, seem to be gifted in a very dark, evil magic,” she stated as if she’d read the words from a cue card.
Even unnerved, Kyna remarked, “I get it. This nameless group is bad news and hates this family. What exactly is a witch’s bottle? Details, please, on something.” Kyna stomped her foot with the last word then a rosy flush filled her cheeks as she admonished herself.
“Details. You deserve them,” her aunt relented. “A witch’s bottle is just a bottle, but it’s filled with objects that represent the curse, are used to represent harm and destruction. In the letter, my father was told this particular witch’s bottle had been filled with things like nine rusty nails. At the time, nine people lived in this house as my father had extended family here, too. Other than me, each of them has either passed away or moved away. These nails were marinated, I guess you could say, in subsidiary ingredients like graveyard dirt. Obvious representation there, I assume. Many herbs and roots that represent bad things, like whiskey, a rough spirit believed to aid in such dealings, were said to be in the bottle along with more personal items.
Beyond The Veil: A Paranormal & Magical Romance Boxed Set Page 24