“Halloween hijinks gone very wrong,” the local radio stations proclaimed as they warned against the “darkness” and “insidiousness” of alternative religion and the isolation that foreign students might be subjected to on campus.
“Real-life witch’s ritual has deadly results,” was the headline on the website of Trinity’s alternative student publication, The Brazen Harp.
Now there were notices posted around campus announcing special meetings on “The Dangers of Solitary Cults,” socials and pub crawls for foreign students, and the inevitable “Everything You Need to Know about Wicca” seminar.
Everyone was asking questions about Clare. Even a week later, reporters were pinging Sally’s cell phone a few times every minute, requesting everything from what kind of shoes Clare wore and the titles of the books she’d been reading, to a plea for an in-depth interview with Sally on what it was like to share an apartment with a teenage witch. They all assumed that Sally and Clare, being American flatmates at a foreign college, would naturally have been best friends.
But these tales made it apparent how few friends Clare had had in Ireland.
Sally had kept her head down and her mouth shut. Trinity offered two weeks of bereavement leave under the unusual circumstances of her roommate’s death. But Sally only used a few days of it. Now she was gritting her way through the mandatory counseling.
Heimdall had been on her case to return to Portland with him. She could take the rest of the year off to study with Frigga, he’d said, and then start again at Portland State the next summer or fall.
But Sally chose to stay. She wanted to finish what she’d started, even if she still wasn’t quite sure what that was. And after extracting a promise from Niall and his land healer family to watch over Sally and see to it that she became more familiar with the local legends and spirits, Heimdall had to admit he was beaten.
Odin and Loki knew enough to leave her alone, at least for the time being.
Freya remained silent.
After a few false starts, Sally had managed to pack up Clare’s things. Niall and even Thor had offered to help, but she wanted to do it herself. Even if they hadn’t been close, Sally decided Clare deserved better than to have strangers sort through her belongings.
Sally had no idea if Clare’s family knew about their daughter’s magickal pursuits. She debated over whether to ship Clare’s essential oils, statuary, candles, wands, and Tarot cards back to Texas. Would Clare’s parents demand to know how Clare had been spending her time? Would they blame Sally for what had happened? Would they start hounding her for answers just like the reporters?
What could she possibly tell them?
In the end, Sally packed Clare’s witchy wares into boxes along with her roommate’s socks and underwear.
But Sally did hold back Clare’s magickal journals and the box of turf incense. She hoped Clare would have approved.
Sally’s phone buzzed again. Another text message asking for an interview, this time from a CNN producer. She switched off her phone and headed for the library.
Even in the midst of the ongoing restoration, the library was probably Sally’s best bet for some peace and quiet. Hanging out in the flat suddenly devoid of Clare’s incessant “Celtic mystic” music and the clouds of scented smoke choking the air still gave Sally the creeps.
Because Sally kept seeing Clare’s body floating in the Black Pool beneath Badbh’s clawed feet. She heard echoes of Clare’s voice pontificating about how to cast a magickal circle or insisting upon being called Tara. And Clare’s absence made Sally think about Freyr—and the burnt-out eel stone and the pooka’s promise.
So. The library.
Sally found an empty cube and set up her laptop. It took a good thirty minutes to weed through several hundred new email messages, even if she did send most of them to her spam folder.
She’d come to Ireland to escape magick for a while, but now it was all anyone—especially strangers—wanted to talk to her about. She’d not exactly been “outed” as the Norse Moon Witch, not that most people would have known what that meant, but it looked like Clare’s lasting legacy would be to force Sally to acknowledge that she couldn’t escape her own identity.
“Fate and destiny,” Sally whispered to the screen as she deleted another fourteen media requests from a few Irish papers, a UK radio station, a Canadian news network, and even a teen-scene blogger in Japan.
There was another message from her parents. They’d been calling every day, desperate for reassurance that Sally was all right. She knew they’d been talking to her academic dean as well, and that they’d asked the Rubrics House XXV resident advisor to keep an eye on her. Sally couldn’t blame them. In fact, she’d started to send them links to websites about real magick—beginning to lay the groundwork for telling them the truth, at last.
Then she saw the email from her Global Currents professor. Her paper on “personal ethics and individual responsibility as it relates to membership in the larger community” had turned into a rant about being beholden to ancient deities who kept interfering in her quest for a normal life. But she had also written about sacrifice and about having her core values tested. She’d gone through an entire box of tissues writing about loss, and about finding the strength to pick herself up and continue forward.
She concluded with a kind of mission statement about committing to mastering the magick in her own blood—though she’d used what she’d hoped was sufficiently vague vocabulary on that score—and to setting healthy boundaries in her relationships with the members of Odin’s Lodge. Instead of letting her destiny—or was it her fate?—rule her for the rest of her days, she would take control of her life and position.
And then, without even reading back over what she’d written, Sally had hit SEND. She’d been cringing over it ever since.
Sally’s fingers hovered over the computer’s trackpad, not quite ready to read the professor’s response. She thought about heading over to Gogarty’s for a pint and a bowl of fish chowder instead.
“Oh, get a grip, would you?” Sally took a deep breath and clicked on the message. Her heart sank when she saw she’d gotten the Trinity equivalent of a C-minus. Technically a passing grade, but still.
She skimmed over the professor’s critical notes and questions for further discussion.
“I did not assign a work of fiction, Miss Dahl,” Professor Ball had written in closing, “though I certainly recognize and praise your prodigious imagination. I do make generous allowance for the mysterious and shocking circumstances surrounding your flatmate’s demise. Perhaps your particular strengths and interests would be better suited to a track in creative writing?”
Sally smiled at that. She thought back over the last couple of years with Odin et al. and the crazy tales she hadn’t even thought about trying to tell. But it was all in her Book of Shadows.
Her magickal journal wasn’t yet complete. There were huge gaps in her knowledge of medicinal plants of the Pacific Northwest and also of the spirits living there. If her time in Ireland had taught her nothing else, Sally knew she needed to connect—properly—with the local energies of Oregon once she returned.
And her Book of Shadows still had a few blank pages reserved for the Oweynagat soil she’d poured into a jar and hidden in the back of her closet. Not even Freya knew she had it. What she’d do with dirt she’d taken from the sacred site, and from the last place anyone had caught sight of Freyr, Sally wasn’t quite sure. Not yet. But she’d figure it out.
Epilogue
Badbh stood at the center of her stone cauldron. The waters had receded, and the many Tuatha de Danann who had submerged themselves in the Black Pool were gone. Even the well of elixir had lost most of its shimmer.
She looked up and sighed. Where she had so recently seen the stars, after centuries of isolation, the solid roof of dirt and rock had returned.
Alone in the buried darkness. Again.
Her skin was fast returning to its smoky, wrinkled state. Her fi
ngers and toes were slowly growing sharper, her hair losing its fierce sheen. The mantle of submission was heavy and familiar on her shoulders.
A shade whispered along the shadowed walls of the underground cauldron.
“Freyr,” Badbh said with a note of sad resignation. He was no longer conscious. He had never progressed beyond his confused state between worlds, and now he was less than a ghost. Not even a memory, more a reminiscent hush that clung to the damp stone.
Badbh opened her mouth to apologize to him, but she stopped herself. What had been wrought could not be undone, not even by the keeper of the cauldron. Not in this state.
Macha had returned to Central America, and Nemain to the jungles of Africa. Her sisters were alive and well—and feeding off the chaos and lust of bloody battle. Though scattered, as long as the three facets of The Morrigan survived, there was always the hope of return.
“We will wait here together,” she said to the shade. She settled onto the cold floor and drew her withering legs beneath her. “It seems the world belongs to the human creatures, for the time being.
She watched the shadows play over the curved wall.
“But the one constant in these worlds, both inside and out, is change.”
The shadows appeared to flicker in response. Badbh took a deep, easy breath and prepared for another long slumber. She closed her eyes and let a feeling of satisfaction settle into her bones. The pendulum would again swing back in her favor.
Badbh had developed a talent for waiting.
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Raven Quest (Valhalla volume 4)
Thor’s wet face burned. His entire body dripped with sweat. He tried to rub the salt out of his eyes, but that just made the stinging worse and he still couldn’t see worth a kerling’s tongue through the thick, fragrant steam. He shifted on the rough, wooden bench and tried to keep his towel from bunching up in uncomfortable places.
But he didn’t complain.
Tim Wallulatum tossed another handful of dried herbs and leaves onto the rocks beneath the dome of deerskin. The sweat lodge guide hadn’t said much before Thor and his kin entered the cramped, dark space, and once the hide covering the narrow opening was pulled into place, he’d said even less.
Flickering light from the heated rocks played over Tim’s features. Seated on the ground, the man appeared ethereal and almost angelic one moment, then dark and demonic the next. The rocks’ red-orange glow was the only light in the steamy lodge, save for a bit of sunlight peeking between the deerskins and the dirt floor.
Thor squirmed, still trying to find a tolerable sitting position. Benches weren’t customary to the sweat lodge experience, it had been explained to him, but were added for the Norsemen’s comfort. He thought he’d prefer the dirt, where he wouldn’t have to worry about getting splinters in his butt. Probably.
He breathed in the heady smoke of sage and sweetgrass. His nasal passages burned. Thor didn’t know much about herbs, but he did know this particular smoke wasn’t nearly as pleasant as Frigga’s apple and sage sausages. But then, he was beginning to feel a bit like a smoked sausage himself.
There were other scents and tastes in the air Thor couldn’t identify. Freya had assured him there wouldn’t be anything hallucinogenic in the mix, but he wasn’t so sure.
Tim poured another ladle of herbed water over the rocks. A fresh cloud of steam hissed upward, and Thor’s skin took painful exception to the new wave of heat hitting him full in the face and chest. Thor’s lungs were getting seared from the inside out. He pulled at a corner of his towel to wipe his drenched face, but the cloth was already saturated. He balled the material in his fist and squeezed a few teaspoons of salty moisture onto the dirt floor.
Heimdall leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. His back, chest, and legs glistened rosy pink. He sat next to Thor, but not too close. The lodge was sticky enough without shared body heat.
“Not exactly the hot springs of the Old Country.” Heimdall’s voice was rough with smoke.
“Our people have always enjoyed a good sauna.” Two yards away on the opposite side of the hearth of hot rocks, Odin and his leather eye-patch were slick with sweat.
Sitting next to Odin, Rod chuckled and then coughed. Frigga’s human handyman was always well-dressed and expertly groomed, and even in the active sweat lodge he was the prettiest man Thor had ever seen. But he was also a warrior of Odin’s Lodge and a worthy companion in this bit of male bonding prior to Thor’s impending quest.
The smoke was getting to everyone but Tim, whose silver hair gleamed against his leathery skin in the orange glow of the lodge. Thor choked back a cough, and he could have sworn he saw Tim smile.
“You get a lot of newbies?” Thor asked.
“Plenty of city folks want an authentic native experience,” Tim answered with a smirk. “They come to sweat, to chant, whatever. Then they drive their hybrid cars back to their condos and flat-screen TVs and congratulate themselves on their spiritual adventures.”
Tim tossed another handful of mystery herbs onto the hot rocks. Heimdall knocked Thor with his elbow as he tried to rub the stinging smoke out of his eyes.
“But this is the first time I’ve had Old Ones in my lodge.” Tim ladled more water over the rocks, and his face disappeared behind a thick cloud of steam.
“We are grateful for your hospitality,” Odin replied. “You honor us by allowing my kin to participate in your traditions and pay our respects to your gods.”
Thor sat up straight, and his scalp scraped against the wood lattice of the dome. No one had said anything to him about interacting with Native American gods. He’d had no real dealings with the local spirits in his many years in the Pacific Northwest. He told himself he was embarking on just a couple of days in the woods, but he knew things could go unimaginably badly in less time and in less fertile settings.
“Same here.” Rod smiled and leaned forward with a subtle flex of his perfect pectorals. “I’m honored to be included.”
“Happy to have you here, Rod.” Thor’s eyes widened when he realized he’d been the one speaking. He thought about his own belly—solid and strong, but big—as Rod ran his hands over his chiseled face, shook the sweat from his fingers, and then pulled his white smile and tanned muscles back into the shadows.
Tim produced a large plastic jug, swirled its contents, and unscrewed the lid. He took a long swig, then passed the jug to Thor. Thor peered warily into the open container.
Tim laughed. “It’s just tea.”
“Yeah, but what kind of tea?”
“Just drink it,” Heimdall said.
Thor took a large gulp and was relieved by the sweet taste of honeyed herbs mixed with black tea. It was hot, like everything else inside the sweat lodge, but the infusion of fluids was welcome. He gulped greedily until Heimdall elbowed him in the ribs.
“There are other people.”
With a grunt, Thor passed the jug.
“How much longer?” Heimdall took a few smaller slurps and passed the jug to Rod.
“As long as it takes.” Again, Thor was surprised by his own reply.
It wasn’t that he was enjoying the sweat—he absolutely was not. He was sticky and hot. His scalp itched and he was having trouble catching his breath in the humid smoke. With all of his wriggling on the bench, his towel was sticking to him in a suggestive and unattractive fashion, and he was pretty sure he had splinters in his butt after all. But this in
fernal sweat and the trials to follow got him that much closer to Sunday afternoon with Bonnie.
Heimdall looked at his brother with weary, red-faced admiration. “You’re really committed to this.”
“It’s important to Bonnie.” Thor sniffed the hot, herb-smoked air and wondered if he might have third-degree burns inside his nostrils. “At least, it’s important to her grandmother, and her grandmother’s blessing is important to Bonnie.” He massaged his face with his thick fingers, trying to work the smoke out of his sinuses. “So. Here we are.”
Odin finished off the tea and handed the empty jug to Tim. “You can’t blame the old woman for wanting to keep her people’s ways alive into the next generation.”
Heimdall cleared his throat. “No, but you have to admit this whole thing is pretty hard core.”
“Hard core, and all kinds of awesome,” Rod said. He seemed to be the only one enjoying himself. Thor made a deliberate effort not to entertain any prejudiced thoughts about gay men and saunas.
Odin tipped his head back. “We all have to make decisions about what we wish to survive us.”
“So, next you go out in the woods, right? By yourself?” Rod asked.
Thor sniffed hard and immediately regretted it as the sage steam burned his sinuses anew and clung to his mucus membranes. “My vision quest. But I’ll have a guide.”
“And the goal of this quest?” Heimdall asked.
“I’m not as clear on that part.”
Rod laughed. “I think the old lady is messing with you.”
Odin straightened his spine. He had impressive muscle definition in his chest and abdomen for an old god, though his body hair was a distinct mix of gray and silver. “The goal is for Thor to undertake some of the rituals of Grace Red Cliff’s people. To have these experiences become a part of who he is, and part of the family Thor and Bonnie will build together.”
The Black Pool (Valhalla Book 3) Page 23