“Be careful?” Her mind could not merge words with meaning. The knot on the back of her head was huge and sensitive, even to her light touch.
“You must move slowly. You are hurt.” When he spoke, his lips parted to reveal perfectly shaped white teeth. And she knew his breath would be fresh and warm, like a cup of honey-sweet tea. But that should be irrelevant, shouldn’t it?
“Who are you?” She touched her cheek and flinched at the tender skin.
The blond angel said nothing as he watched her, his sandy-colored brows pursed. He reached out to caress her cheek, but she yanked away, fearful the touch would be painful. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned down and locked eyes with her, muttering an incomprehensible tumble of words. In an instant, she calmed, like his words were an accelerated sedative her body was all too willing to absorb. She allowed him to examine her face.
“You’re bruised and cut.”
She had no good response, so she stared at him.
“Nothing is broken.” He paused, scanned the lot, then said, “I must go.”
“Go? Where’s…where’s…?” Before she could speak the word Jerry, she saw her client, lying nearby in a pool of blood.
“Oh my—Jerry.” She tried to stand up, but the man with the halo held her back.
“He’s gone, lass. Gone.”
“What do you mean, he’s gone? What happened? Who did this?” Her voice shrilled higher with each word like notes on a keyboard, and her body shook like a dryer. Jerry, her client, was motionless, and blood seeped out from behind his head.
“Call 911. Now.”
She was vaguely aware of a car pulling into the lot, and then another, and of the blond angel darting away.
Noise erupted as doors slammed.
Thank God, help is coming.
She struggled to all fours and crawled toward Jerry. She sobbed. “Jerry?”
Footsteps pounded and voices carried, but she couldn’t understand what they said. Jerry’s skin was turning gray.
She fought for breath as several hands grabbed her, pulling her back.
“Wren, are you okay?” It was Tiffany, finally showing up to work. Wren curled into the secretary’s slender arms.
“Call 911,” barked Dr. Rick Martin before leaning down into Wren’s face. “Ms. O’Hara, what happened here?” His voice was curt and impatient, the same voice he used with the clients.
Someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and folded the sides together under her neck. The only things she was really conscious of, though, were her throbbing cheek and head. Sirens blared their approach and she cringed.
Tiffany rocked her back and forth. “I think she’s in shock, Dr. Martin.”
A new voice appeared, one she vaguely recognized. “What happened?”
“No one saw anything?” came another new voice.
“There’s no way she could do this to a man his size. Maybe someone else attacked them both.”
She glanced at Jerry just as a haze of white gaseous air lifted from his still body and floated away.
Good-bye, Jerry.
“Ms. O’Hara?” Dr. Martin fought for balance with his cane then leaned down into her face. “Who did this?”
Sirens screeched to a halt. More voices erupted like a volcano, but all Wren wanted was quiet, quiet, quiet. And for someone to explain the last ten minutes of her life because they were a blur and a whir of hazy-white confusion.
“What happened?” someone asked.
“Who did this?” someone else asked.
“Are you hurt, miss?” a third person asked.
She could hear the questions but couldn’t remember how to respond. Her throat felt swollen, locked.
Dr. Martin leaned into her face again, his breath a mix of cigarette smoke and mint gum. He was so close she could count the white hairs in his dark beard.
“Ms. O’Hara.”
She cringed at the loud crack of his voice, like a whip snapping against her skull. No wonder Jerry and her other clients didn’t seem to like him as their psychiatrist.
“I’m fine,” she managed.
“Well, what happened then?” he demanded as a police officer hunched nearby.
“I’m Officer Buford. Who is in charge here?” He glanced at the EMTs as they tried to resuscitate Jerry.
Couldn’t they tell that was useless?
Dr. Martin stood, leaning on his cane, the paunch of his belly pushing against his button-up shirt. “I am Dr. Rick Martin. I am the psychiatrist at this agency. You can address any questions to me.”
Officer Buford wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “With all due respect, sir, it appears I need to speak with the young woman. If you don’t mind.” He stepped in front of the doctor and bent down.
Dr. Martin snorted, indignant, and shuffled to Wren’s other side.
“What happened?” asked the officer as sweat pooled above his thin lip.
Someone handed Wren a paper cup filled with water. After a sip, she forced her mind to piece together what she knew.
“I’m not sure. Jerry was here in the parking lot when I pulled in. He was mad, and it was clear he hadn’t taken his meds.” Her voice sounded foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. “He started shouting at me. Then he—” She remembered slamming into the concrete. “He pushed me, and I fell, and I guess I blacked out. I don’t know.” She suddenly remembered the angel. Where was he? Had she imagined him? And if she did, who had saved her?
The EMTs covered Jerry’s body with a sheet, then talked quietly to each other, stealing glances her way.
The angel. He had been here, hadn’t he? He must have stopped Jerry from kicking her in the head. She shivered as the memory of his booted foot hurtling toward her head played like a slo-mo short film. The angel was the only person who could’ve stopped him.
Was he the one who killed Jerry?
It hurt to blink.
Then hands were on her head, feeling over her skull. Other hands were at her face, putting something cold against her cheek. The pressure stung and tears sprang to her eyes.
Dr. Martin was in her face again. “Who did this to Jerry?”
She didn’t know how to answer that question, couldn’t risk them thinking she was crazy like her mom. Telling them an angel had done it seemed nothing short of insane.
There had been someone else here, but then, where was he now?
Officer Buford tried again. “Who hit you?” He pulled out a little pocket notebook, licked his finger, and then flipped to a clean page. Dr. Martin threw his free hand on his hip and stared at the officer.
“Jerry. I told you that already.”
“Jerry hit you?”
“Yes. Jerry attacked me.”
“Who did this to Jerry?”
She glanced at Jerry’s blood, drying into the cracks of the concrete.
“Did you attack Jerry, Ms. O’Hara?” Dr. Martin loomed over her. “Did you do this?”
“I…I don’t know who did it. I must have lost consciousness. I didn’t see anyone else.” She met Dr. Martin’s accusing eyes. “I did not do this to him.”
“BY THE GODS, what have I done?”
Riagan held his hands in front of his face, his mortal hands with small splatters of blood on them.
“What have I done?” He wailed to the trees as if they could provide him the answers he sought. He stood at the edge of the woods, right beyond the parking lot where he’d just killed a man.
He fell upon his knees. The pulse pounding in his temples made him cry out. Where had this aggression come from? He was a Protector of the Cauldron, not a protector of this woman. Why had he committed murder over someone he didn’t even know, didn’t want to know, and never cared to see again?
He raised his head at the shrill ring of a siren and watched a speeding car with flashing lights race away from the lot.
I can’t be seen. By the heavens, no. Mortal and imprisoned is not an option.
Naked and exposed, he darted, crouched like an animal, into t
he forest where the thick growth of the trees would provide the safety and security he needed.
The cool, crisp mountain breeze carried a small sliver of solace to his skin. Going deeper and deeper into the forest, he was soon surrounded by aged trees, tall and thick. Protruding roots, fallen limbs, and dead leaves covered the ground. He stubbed his toe several times but suppressed a cry of pain. Nothing could compare to the inner despair consuming him.
Eventually, he stood upright and walked, certain there was no one around. He spotted a black bear and two of her cubs. When she bared her teeth at him, he eased in the other direction but paid her little attention otherwise. Owls peppered the branches of this forest, and several times he spotted deer in the distance, staring at him with gentle brown eyes.
His mind felt choppier than the Earth’s ocean waves during a hurricane.
He would need to leave this area, that much was certain. But the fact that he landed here after his banishment from the Sacred Grove meant a portal to the otherworlds must be nearby. He knew not where others rested on this realm of man and hesitated to veer too far.
Even though he suffered almost no hope for a return to his realm.
But yet, if he moved away from this area where he’d landed, it took that almost no hope and made it zero hope. Null and void hope. Forget about it, don’t think about it, don’t even play with the idea hope. That was a big risk to take.
Being a member of the Brotherhood was all he knew—protecting that ancient artifact the meaning of his existence.
No, he couldn’t leave. Not yet at least.
He continued forth until his human heart pounded. Lost in thought, he failed to notice the change in the forest. He did not think he’d walked into the night but the sunlight was dim now, so dim there was hardly any light at all. The trees had become taller and taller, rounder and rounder.
He slowed and studied his surroundings. The trees were so closely grown together he could reach out and touch several of them. The limbs, high above his head, were naked but thickly intertwined, obscuring the sunlight. The ceiling of this forest was as dark as the ground.
Then he noticed that every single tree was an oak, and not just any oak—the white oak—the only trees known to survive centuries and across realms. He scanned the forest. Indeed, there were no maples, poplars, or spruce trees any longer. Not a one.
Strange that an earthly forest would harbor such a vast grove of the sacred tree.
To the right, his ears picked up a faint droning vibration that carried through the wind like a lover’s breathy sigh. He maneuvered in that direction, slowly and with deliberate steps, touching the trees’ rough surfaces as he went, feeling the coolness absorb into his fingers. His mind was alert now, searching.
Light appeared ahead. As he stalked toward it, he had to turn sideways to fit through the growth it had become so thick. The light became brighter, the droning louder. His human heart lurched.
A portal lay nearby.
By the gods, he’d found the portal.
He was closer than he could’ve ever prayed to be.
He pushed ahead on silent feet, tentative and cautious, for he knew not what creatures rested near a portal to the otherworlds.
Coarse bark scratched the bare skin of his body but he did not notice. He came to a small clearing, a perfect three-yard radius of a circle made by the trees at the periphery. Inside the ring of trees, the clearing flattened, free from leaves, overgrowth, or any type of forest debris.
He sucked in his breath and maneuvered between the trees that formed the last line of defense, a wall of protection, and he knew his instinct was correct. Only magical trees of a portal forest held the ability to obscure, protect, and defend.
He may be mortal now, but he would always be druid-born.
Dark green moss covered the ground. Riagan ran his hand over the surface, so like the soft floor of his realm.
Pain and longing tugged at his heart.
The trees started moving, swaying together in timeless rhythm, from their trunks that fed into the earth all the way up through their limbs. They moved, not from a mountain breeze, but from simply being alive.
The portal.
Yes, the trees murmured.
Riagan bowed his head and lifted his hands in supplication.
Why have you come? Their ancient song filled the air.
“Tree-friends, is there a portal between the worlds here?”
Yes, the otherworlds are close, and the veil is thin here. What ask you of this sacred land?
“If I may be so bold yet humble, I ask for protection and permission to pass through the portal; to reunite with the Brotherhood of the Sacred Grove; to reestablish myself as a Guardian of the Murias Cauldron and live my life as a druid among my own kind.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, unscripted, uncensored, and he flushed at his lack of control.
He did not know if the trees knew of his betrayal or punishment, and did not ask.
You may reside here, near the portal, until the full moon looms at the autumnal equinox. Then the veil between the worlds dissipates and you may attempt contact.
“Have you any news of my Brotherhood? How fares the druid realm?”
But the trees hardened en masse and said no more.
He clenched his teeth. All because of a woman and her haunting voice. Wasn’t it a woman who had gotten him banished to the realm of man in the first place?
Fisting his hands, he started pacing, first around the clearing, then around a wider arc. He created a well-worn path before he started allowing his feet to carry him where they would.
He walked until the trees shrunk in height and grew apart enough for him to pass through easily. After a while, the variation of trees he expected appeared—mostly maple and spruce trees, some poplars and a flowering dogwood here and there. The yellow rays of the Earth’s sun replaced the portal’s luminous light. The beams did nothing to warm the air, though, and he shivered from cold.
He knew not if he walked in the same direction from which he came—he’d been far too preoccupied to pay attention—but soon he arrived upon a clearing where an old, rectangular house sat, white but rusty. It looked like it had been pushed into the side of the mountain, from where it protruded like an ugly sore. The shutters hung off their hinges and part of the roof threatened to sink in with the next big snow. Grassy patches mixed with dirt patches, and the whole place appeared abandoned.
He eased forward, hoping to find clothes there. He had days until the equinox. He couldn’t very well roam the earth nude. Now that he was human, he would need to eat and find water.
So inconvenient it is to be mortal.
He crept to a window and peeked in. The home was dark; an older woman reclined in a chair, sleeping. Her red hair, generously mixed with gray, was pulled back from her face in a long braid. The pink housecoat had fallen open revealing heavily freckled skin.
He listened for other sounds and heard nothing. Convinced she was alone, he stole through the front door, careful not to wake her. The house, in contrast to the outside of it, was clean, pristine almost.
He came to a room at the end of a short hallway. The bed was neatly made and the room was immaculate. Not even a thread of dust wafted through the air. There was a large, clear window that gazed upon the forest. On the nightstand sat a small lamp and a book. There was no other furniture so he went to the closet.
Only a handful of clothes, replicas of the same housecoat the woman had on now, filled the space. At the far corner was a battered footlocker where he found men’s clothing.
Perfect.
He yanked out jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. They fit, except for the shirt, which was too tight through the shoulders and chest, but it would have to do. He grabbed several more items from the box and stuffed them into a bag he found under the bed.
A tarnished full-length mirror leaned against the wall, and he had to take several steps back to fit his entire body into its reflection.
The clothes were tight,
but fortunate was he that the first place he looked had clothes he could wear. He scrutinized himself in the mirror, appreciative of his powerful body, typical of a warrior druid of his kind. Though he had to admit, his physique was blessed, even among his fellow warriors.
“More like a Greek statue, if I say so myself. Too bad I must cover up with clothing.”
A growly snort erupted behind him, and he pivoted to see a dog lying on the floor.
Riagan resisted the urge to pet the animal’s head, unsure if it would nip him. Giving it a wide berth, he tiptoed down the hallway then slipped out of the house, the woman’s snores growing quiet as he headed toward the forest.
Master.” Gwyon bowed, the undyed woolen robe falling forward. “I have but just returned from the realm of man and am here to report that Riagan has killed a man. It will be impossible now to fulfill the requirements to ease his banishment. Jail is an unlikely place to find love.”
Gwyon willed his knees to stop shaking. Leaning his weight on the boulder behind him, he tried to breathe as he awaited Master’s response. His clubbed feet were pained, and it took all the strength in his being not to show weakness.
The moon loomed to the right, mere days from achieving its fullness. The energy from the enormous orb reverberated through the air, sending small shockwaves across Gwyon’s skin. Or it could be the excitement over this latest development.
Finally, the statuesque figure in front of him swiveled, as if on a pivot. The hood of the black cloak hid the Master’s face, and the only part of his body Gwyon could see were the ashen gray hands, with long fingers protruding from the sleeves like fallen sticks. Thin. Dead. Master stood as still as the ancient oaks surrounding him.
Master pushed back the hood, allowing Gwyon a view of his entire face. Even though he’d known that face for as long as he held memory within his mind, the features still frightened him, with cheeks sunken so deep Gwyon could see the skeleton underneath the paper-thin skin.
“I have seen it.” Master’s soft voice, more like a prepubescent boy’s than a man’s, was just loud enough for Gwyon to hear.
Had the time come? Would Riagan and Drake suffer now as Gwyon had suffered?
Destiny Fulfilled Page 3