Another ugly chuckle erupted from the Arch Druid’s lips and all turned, confusion set upon every brow. “He doesn’t know how to love. Each Arch Druid has made sure of that. None of you can love.”
“What?” Drake demanded, not understanding what Riagan already knew. At least his assumption was confirmed. He was never meant to fulfill the terms of his banishment. He was never meant to return.
“Riagan, son of Ragda, you have not fulfilled the terms of your punishment. You will remain a mortal upon this earth just as you asked. And so it shall be.” Caswallen raised his thin arm and forked his fingers toward Riagan again. The robe fell away, revealing skin so white it was gray.
Then a voice, soft and vulnerable, said, “No.”
Wren stood at the edge of the clearing, Oephille sitting on her shoulder, and a massive oak tree standing at her back.
WREN FORCED HERSELF to stay rooted to the ground, imagining herself one of the surrounding trees, despite the frightening and intimidating stares of the massive men in front of her. The soft flutter of the faery’s wings beat against her cheek, and the rough bark against her back was welcome support.
There was an acrid scent deep within this forest that she couldn’t place. It smelled like something burning, something metallic, something stranger than any smell she’d ever encountered.
In an arc along one side of the clearing stood several men, all wearing identical, flowing red robes. One looked exactly like Ray, and she knew that must be the brother he spoke of. A step in front was an older man with long gray hair and pasty, pale skin. He glared at her through eyes as cold and harsh as the Arctic Circle. She gasped at the hatred she saw there. Evil, pure evil was all she could think.
Her hands sought the bark of the tree.
She felt a flash of relief that she did not see her mother in the midst of these men. Where she was, though, Wren would have to tackle after she was finished here—whatever that meant.
The limb wrapped around her hand and gently squeezed. She felt instantly better, as if the tree gave her some of the oxygen that seemed all but void in this strange place.
Ray stared at her as if trying to figure out if she was a dream come true or a nightmare most feared.
She should say something, but it was Ray who spoke first. “Wren?”
She wanted to smile, or at least look less terrified, but her facial muscles would not work. So she just stood there, more uncertain and alarmed than she had ever been in her life.
Ray’s body bulged with what she imagined was unshed energy, making him look even bigger than before, if that were possible. He finally pulled his gaze from hers and swung it between her and the man with the cold eyes.
“Who presents themselves at this sacred Council?” demanded the older man. He must be the Arch Druid Ray had mentioned that day when he told her who he really was, the day when she believed she’d lost her mind and traveled straight to Hell on an express train. Now, with this ominous man before her, she wondered if this was not Hell.
The tree nudged her shoulder. She cleared her throat and tried to answer, but it came out as a dry, coarse groan. She coughed then said, “My name is Wren O’Hara.”
She stepped forward, Ray suddenly by her side.
A flash of what looked like shock crossed the older man’s face but was quickly replaced with a leer oozing with hatred.
“Why have you come here, Wren O’Hara?” His voice, just a hint deeper than her seven-year-old nephew’s, did not sound pleased. Didn’t he want Ray to return to his home? To protect this Cauldron? Somehow she got the impression he did not. In fact, rage contorted his features and she stepped back, suddenly gripped by terror.
“Have strength, Wren.” The tiny faery’s words were crystal clear and sounded exactly like the voices she’d been hearing these past months. It was a wonder she hadn’t understood them all along.
The rough twigs of the tree’s limbs lay over her shoulder like hands. Without them, she didn’t think she could speak, but she absorbed the strength of this powerful mass and said, “My business is to say that…” She turned to Ray. His eyes glowed like green jade lit from within.
“I…I’ve come to say that…” What had she come to say? That her reality on Earth was becoming unbearable so better to live in the land of insanity? Or that she actually believed Ray’s words and wanted to help?
With her eyes boring into Ray’s, she stated, “I have fallen in love with this man, Ra—I mean, Riagan T-T-Tenman.” She hoped she pronounced his name correctly, realizing it was more of a fit for him. A simple and easy name like Ray didn’t merge with such a complex and powerful man.
Breath seeped out of Riagan’s chest as if he’d just been deflated. She couldn’t tell if he was moved by her words or if he found them a bore.
She turned back to the ancient-looking man standing before her. He met her gaze unflinchingly, and she recoiled. Never had she seen a face so ashen gray on a person who was alive. Well, she didn’t know if he was alive or not. Hadn’t Riagan mentioned something about being immortal? Jerry had had the same color after his spirit left his body.
The surrounding light flared. Where did it come from? The silvery glow cast an eerie sheen across the clearing.
Riagan grasped her by the shoulders and turned her toward him. He lifted her face with his finger. “You love me? You love me true?”
He cradled her face in his large palms and looked into her eyes, as if searching to the depths of her soul for the answer. “It wasn’t just because we made love?”
“It wasn’t because of that.” Tears welled in her eyes and the Council was all but forgotten. “I just love you.”
“Wren.” His face contorted as if he were in pain.
Wasn’t this what he wanted to hear? Didn’t she need to love him?
But he needed to love her back, didn’t he?
Her heart sank like a cinder block. He didn’t love her.
He needed to love her in return and he didn’t.
She wanted to cry and bit her lower lip to prevent the trembling. What had she expected?
His solid arm wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her into his chest. His heartbeat was strong and fast, his body tense. Despite the fact that she’d confessed her love and he didn’t respond, his embrace told her he would protect her no matter what. It lessened the weight of despair threatening to stop her heart, though only a little.
But when the Arch Druid cackled out a sound to rival an evil witch’s, she knew she’d need his protection at this moment more than his love.
Riagan.” The Arch Druid’s voice sliced through the forest causing the trees to beat against one another, unsettled and agitated. “Does your friend understand you have to feel love, too, for you to fulfill the terms of your banishment? Does she know why you were banished in the first place?”
Riagan clasped Wren so close, he could tell she struggled to breathe. He needed to keep her nearby, though. Danger permeated the forest like a foul odor.
The semicircle of men watched, alert. He knew they were eager to have their Brotherhood restored to its ultimate power. How could Caswallen justify otherwise?
Wren’s shoulders shook, but he did not release his grip.
Caswallen clasped his hands in front of his concave stomach. “Whatever the case, Riagan, it is too late.”
“No, it’s not,” whispered one of his Brothers.
Drake stepped forward, his red robe blinding against the lightness of his hair. “What say you, Caswallen? He needs to return to his Brotherhood where he belongs.” Drake lowered his voice, but his words dripped with fury. “Need I remind you that the hour of attack is upon us?”
The Arch Druid regarded Drake with ice in his eyes before slowly turning to Riagan.
“You did not fulfill the terms. There will be no forgiveness.”
Riagan wished Wren had not come, that she was back at her run-down trailer with her boy of a future fiancé and her funny-looking mutt. She had already sacrificed too much for him. H
e did not want her to sacrifice her life, and by the way Caswallen was studying her, the seriousness of his intent was growing more obvious with each passing minute.
The Arch Druid lifted his hands and pushed the hood back until it fell below his shoulders. His face was ugly, altered within a sneer Riagan had never seen before.
“It is too late. The Murias Cauldron is, as we speak, being taken. You have lost, and you will die a mortal. Along with your mortal lover.”
CASWALLEN LUNGED FOR Wren as he pulled a dagger from inside his robe. The moon’s light reflected off its long blade, like a beacon calling for her life. One thrust would kill her, that was clear.
Wren could see this, but somehow felt disconnected, as if she was watching from a limb high in one of these giant oaks. Everything moved slowly, sluggishly.
She tried to lift her hand to fend off the attack but couldn’t. Was it the medicine still coursing through her body, was she still in the straitjacket, or was this all just a dream?
When she felt Riagan’s hard shove into the tree, the impact awoke her from whatever strange hold she was under. With the breath knocked out of her, the tree’s bark opened like a cavernous black mouth and wrapped around her body. She tried to scream, but she could hear no sound other than the vibrations of the wood.
She could see out, though, as clearly as she had when she was by Riagan’s side. He crouched with his back to her, arms spread wide. His shirt ripped in several places as his body grew in size, much like Duke’s had done.
Riagan grabbed for Caswallen’s dagger, but missed, and it sliced through his palm. Blood ran down his hand and over his arm, too red against the paleness of his skin. He didn’t seem to notice because he crouched low again, his powerful legs bent, ready to spring. He raised his arms, palms opened toward the elder.
The two men circled each other—one crouched, one upright. Beads of sweat covered Riagan’s brow, but the Arch Druid was as calm as shallow water, his face hardened, focused on his goal, which, she thought with a shudder, was to kill.
Then, with a sudden burst of what sounded like thunder, a bulbous black mass burst forth from the center of the clearing. Within a heartbeat, the mass splintered into a band of black-as-night creatures with long talons and sharp teeth that dripped with saliva. A second later, they spread out to surround the clearing and those in it.
Drake’s voice boomed, “We fight!”
With one hand, each druid removed a dagger from beneath his cloak. With the other, they pulled out a sword. The whoosh of their synchronized movement blew the hair around her face as they sliced at the oncoming creatures.
“Brother,” Drake yelled.
Riagan lifted his left hand, palm open, ready to accept the sword he seemed to know his brother was throwing. His long fingers closed around the hilt like it was a limb of his own body, and he made two swift slices through the air. Then he crouched again. His broad back rippled with tension, his eyes never leaving his target.
The Brotherhood formed a circle, their backs toward the middle, their long arms thrust outward with weapons ready. Wren could feel their power even from within the depth of the tree, the only tree that did not thrash and beat to the rhythm of battle.
The creatures rushed forward, eyes wild and glowing red like they were lit by inner fire. They weaved between the surrounding trees, popping in and out of view, until they surrounded the smaller, tighter group of druids. The warriors did not flinch. The power emanating from them wavered through the air like bursts of orange, red, and black, like a fireworks display.
Riagan and Caswallen were oblivious to these monsters and circled each other like birds of prey until a piercing war cry erupted and everyone turned. Wren covered her ears, but that didn’t stop her from hearing the most painful wail she’d ever heard. When she looked to see who, or what, made that sound, she saw an enormous black crow sitting on a nearby tree’s heavy branch. Its shining black beak was opened wide, obscuring its entire face with its haunting deep pit.
The bird halted its call and everything was quiet. The crow expanded its broad wings, at least eight feet wide. Its eyes were round as saucers and orange, bright, glowing. The creature scanned the clearing, then flew to the Earth’s floor where it positioned itself along the periphery as if it were about to referee a football game.
After a lightning-quick flick of its long wing, the battle began.
The creatures broke apart and rushed the circle of druids. The druids crouched in unison, not to the ground but as if compacting their bodies into an impenetrable wall. The slice of metal against flesh sent shivers into the tree and through her body.
Riagan thrust forward and Caswallen lunged right. With a fluid swipe, Riagan’s dagger sliced the elder’s cloak and blood oozed over the fabric, darkening the already red hue. The druid grabbed the hilt of Riagan’s dagger, then yanked Riagan toward him. The Arch Druid was powerful for such a thin, sickly looking man. The tree shook around her and she knew its fear.
Riagan, with a pull of his arm that ripped the entire side of his shirt, broke free of the druid’s hold and crouched again, muscles pulsing. His back, broad and strong, heaved with his breath.
She looked up to see the moon, full and enormous, looming through a newly formed opening in the trees’ canopy, like a spectator at a sporting event. The crow sat immobile but alert—an ominous black mass that would have been difficult to ignore were it not for the life-and-death battle unfolding in front of her.
Then she saw a familiar shadow weaving along the tree line. She strained to see past the men, but it disappeared behind a massive trunk before it reappeared and the moonlight reflected off the canine form.
Duke.
“Duke, run,” she screamed, but her warning cry was swallowed up by the sounds of battle.
He must have heard her, though, because he swiveled his bulk in her direction, his large chocolate eyes focused and alert. He inclined his head at her but stayed at the edge of the battle, positioned like a sentry. If it were even possible, he seemed bigger here in the forest—like a small horse more than a large dog. Was she hallucinating again?
The sounds of creatures dying yanked her attention back to the battle. It was a hateful sound—one of fury, disaster, desperation. She thought this would be a massacre, that there was no way the small number of druids could win against so many. But the circle of warrior druids had not broken, had not shrunk. In fact, they had broadened the space of their circle, and their arms flew with slices faster than strikes of lightning. Enemy after enemy charged toward them and fell.
With each jab of the dagger or whip of the sword, another monster died, only to be replaced by another until she realized they replenished instantly. How, she did not know.
There was no frustration on the faces of the warriors, though. Their motions were as crisp and lethal as when the battle began. Riagan’s brother fought three men at once, whirling in a deadly dance as his weapons flew through the air, slicing through fur and skin, piercing organs, causing death. The others were just as efficient.
Riagan made an arc with his dagger, forcing the Arch Druid back on his heels. The elder was not finished, though, and lunged toward Riagan, just missing his throat. Wren could hear the whistle of the Arch Druid’s sword as it whirled through the air. Riagan darted behind the elder’s back and thrust his dagger, cutting through Caswallen’s robe.
As Caswallen stumbled, two creatures came after Riagan, pushing him back toward the tree where she was held. Sweat glistened off his skin like crystals. He did not appear winded but focused, lethal. His white knuckles circled around the hilt of his dagger, whose tip dripped with blood.
The creatures sprang forward, and Riagan moved so fast she could no longer see his arms. He whirled with the force of a hurricane—slicing, jabbing, and killing.
Two more appeared.
Riagan’s body didn’t seem real, he was moving so fast. He stabbed through creature after creature in one fluid movement until each fell upon the ground, dead.
The Arch Druid crouched before Riagan who was huffing now, heaving with exertion.
Duke wove in and out of the trees, his eyes flipping from Riagan to Wren. He came to her side and sat, alert.
Just when it looked like Riagan was fading and the Arch Druid was gathering renewed energy, the tree’s longest limb reached down and pushed the Arch Druid, knocking him off balance.
The crow cawed. She heard a chuckle and glanced down at Duke. Was he smirking?
Riagan lunged forward and with one powerful thrust of his dagger, pierced the shoulder, missing the heart by inches. Caswallen gasped. With a blood-curdling battle cry, Riagan yanked the dagger back and positioned himself to attack again.
The Arch Druid didn’t falter. He stood with his mouth open and his eyes wide. If possible, he turned a shade more ashen gray but he did not fall. Riagan watched, ready to strike again. Duke rose to all fours.
Caswallen laughed, a coyote-like cry as the trees moaned their own monotone wail of distress. The ebony monsters, those still alive and standing, stopped midfight. The druids tightened their defensive circle, backs facing inward, arms facing outward, tightly woven. Blood dripped from sword and dagger.
Then all at once, the enemy, with Caswallen leading, morphed together into one dark mass, losing all shape and distinction. The globule hovered in the air, right in the middle of the circle of warriors, then dispersed like a mass of flies.
The warriors turned to Riagan, whose shirt was soaked with perspiration, dyed red with blood. The tree let Wren go and she rushed forward, her arms circling Riagan as he fell to the ground, either in a faint or dead. Duke went to his side and sniffed the hair on his head.
Riagan’s twin darted toward them, swinging out the sides of his cloak until they were all covered by its soft thread. He started to chant, words she didn’t understand. Before she could question him, she was sucked inside a black void. She couldn’t see. All she heard was a deafening drone. If she screamed, she couldn’t hear it.
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