The Cursing Stones

by Sonya Bateman

  Two long wooden handles, belonging to a broom and a mop. Those would have to do.

  She grabbed them both and headed back for the center of the room. “Okay, I’m putting you on speaker,” she said to Kincaid. “Hang on.”

  “Is anyone else listening?” he said.

  “No. It’s just me and a lot of books.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Something in the way he asked the question chilled her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason.” He cleared his throat. “All right. Go ahead.”

  She found a semi-clear spot on the nearest table and rubbed the dust away with her sleeve, then tapped the speaker button and set the phone down. “Can you hear me?”

  “Aye. There’s an echo, though.”

  “It’s a really big room,” she said, turning to grab the mop. “Just explain the rest while I — er, purify this.”

  While Kincaid told her how to stand in the center and channel a bunch of white light, she set to work. The mop was just as coated with dust as everything else, and it didn’t do much but push things around. She gave up fast and tried the broom, which was a little better. At least she ended up with a rough circle that was a different color than the rest of the floor.

  “Once you’ve got the light, extend your arm and point to the edge,” Kincaid said. “Then turn clockwise three times and envision using the light to inscribe your circle. When you’re done, don’t forget to close the circle. Same thing, only counter-clockwise. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she said uncertainly. “So … guess I’ll just go for it, then.”

  “Want me to stay on the line? For moral support, like.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “All right. I’ll be here.”

  She stepped into the center of the circle and tried to draw a cleansing breath as she closed her eyes. Channeling a white light proved challenging. At first she only saw what was there: blackness. Then she envisioned a light bulb, a white flame, the sun on a clear winter’s day. She switched to the moon, and the glow of the image in her mind spread until it filled her with an energy she could almost feel.

  When she opened her eyes, she felt it still. And when she pointed and turned in a slow circle, she could see the light inscribing a curved line on the floor around the edge of the space.

  Of course she couldn’t really be doing that, making light. But it did help her focus to imagine it.

  The light circle glowed stronger with each pass. She finished the third turn and concentrated on the beast, the horrific images she’d seen in the minds of the ewe and the dog. With the nightmare fixed in her thoughts, she scanned the library slowly, alert for some sign the Finding spell was working.

  There. On the far side of the room, four shelves up. A thick book bound in leather and brass glowed with the same white light as the circle. “Kincaid?” she half-whispered, afraid of breaking the spell. “I’ve found it, but I can’t get it from here. Can I leave the circle while the spell’s going?”

  “You can, but you must leave something of yours inside.”

  “Does it have to be something … bloody?”

  He laughed. “No. A shoe, a piece of jewelry, anything that’s been in contact with you will work for a time,” he said. “Of course, if you want to leave something bloody…”

  “Shoe’s good,” she said quickly, slipping one of them off. She hesitated, and then stepped over the edge of the circle.

  The book still glowed.

  She made her way over and pulled it down from the shelf. There was a title branded onto the front cover: Bestiary of the Between. That didn’t sound pleasant at all.

  “I’ve got it,” she said as she returned to the circle, placing the book carefully on the table next to her phone.

  “Good. Don’t forget to close the circle.”

  “Doing that now.” She stood in the center, pointed and turned counter-clockwise. The imagined light faded and erased itself on the last pass — and all at once, she felt drained and exhausted. “You forgot to mention the side effects,” she panted.

  “You all right?” Genuine concern edged Kincaid’s voice. “It’s a bit tiring to cast an energy circle, but it shouldn’t be that bad. Gets easier with practice, too.”

  She took a few deep breaths. “I’m fine,” she said, resolved to ignore it for now. She’d probably done something wrong and she didn’t want to admit it. “Thank you, Kincaid. I really appreciate this.”

  “Don’t think you’ll get away with just a thanks,” he said cheerfully. “When you get back to camp, I’ll want a full report. No one gets inside the castle.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it,” she promised. “But I have to go for now.”

  “See you, then.”

  “See you.”

  She ended the call and sent an uneasy stare at the book, wondering what the Between was — and how many beasts it had, to merit such a thick tome about them.

  Finally, she took a chair and pulled the book into her lap, and began to read.

  Chapter 9

  Aislinn Castle – Behind the Throne Room

  The man calling himself Duncan Aislinn kept a close eye on the man currently going by Emory Darach as he completed the procedure. There’d been an ‘accident’ last time, and while it hadn’t bothered his companion at all, Duncan didn’t want to see it repeated.

  Just now, Tehgan was beginning to pale and nod off — but Emory was pulling the tourniquet below the wound tighter, forcing the blood to flow faster.

  “That’s enough,” Duncan said quietly.

  Emory gave him a look he’d used too often lately. One that said he knew best, and Duncan was a fool for contradicting him. He’d seen the look frequently as a boy, and he didn’t like it any better now. After all this time they should’ve been past this.

  Still, Emory relented. Without a word he loosened the tourniquet, set the silver goblet aside and held a hand over Tehgan’s arm, healing the deep cut that had been draining blood into the cup. “It’s not enough,” he said. “Not nearly.”

  “It’ll do for now. Thank you, Tehgan,” Duncan said as the Seelie Fae shook himself and rose slowly from the chair. “Your gift is appreciated, as always.”

  Tehgan gave a slight bow. “Of course, Sire,” he said.

  “Duncan. Please.”

  “Of course … Duncan.” He spoke the name with difficulty. “If you need nothing more…”

  “No. Go and rest.”

  He bowed again and left the room silently.

  When he was gone, Emory flashed a severe frown. “You’re slowing the process,” he said. “We’ll need you back at full strength as quickly as possible, if we’re truly dealing with him.”

  “It is him. All the signs are here.” He held a hand out, and Emory pressed the goblet into it. Without looking at its thick, dark contents, he drank and tried not to grimace. The blood was already cold and congealing before he finished, but he refused to drink directly from the source like an animal. His people did not deserve that. “And how is the synthetic replacement coming along?” he said.

  “Slowly. I do have more pressing matters at the moment.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do.” He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the near instant effect of the borrowed blood coursing through him. It was strong but short-lived. Each time he drank, he peaked a bit higher and came down to a slightly improved level.

  Of course, if Emory had his way, he would’ve drained as many Fae as it took directly into him until the healing was completed. Seelie or Unseelie, it made no difference to him. But it mattered to Duncan. He would never take Unseelie blood again.

  When the rush subsided, he opened his eyes to find Emory staring intently at him. “What is it now?” he said.

  “I’ll ask you one last time. Are you sure it’s him?”

  That look again. Duncan shook his head. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “Some of the villagers have seen him, and only by moonlight. They think he’s a ghost.”

  �
��Yet I’ve seen nothing of this.”

  “You know, old friend, you’re not as all-powerful as you believe yourself to be.” He gave a slanted smile. “And I have learned a thing or two myself over these years.”

  “You have,” Emory said. “But you still haven’t learned not to confront your enemies when you’re weak.”

  “He’s nowhere near strong enough yet, and I haven’t confronted him.”

  “I don’t mean him, Arthur. I mean the girl.”

  His eyes narrowed. “She is not my enemy,” he said, ignoring the name slip for now.

  “Isn’t she? You do remember what happened the last time we stayed here.”

  “It’s been centuries, Merlin,” he said, using the true name just to ensure his companion was paying attention. “She’s died and returned dozens of times since, more faded than the last with each rebirth. Regina Tavish barely remembered a thing, even at the end.”

  Emory scowled. “It’s still a risk you don’t have to take.”

  “She intrigues me.” Duncan smiled a bit, recalling the girl’s beauty and stubborn determination, and the exotic name she’d taken. Rain. “She has powerful potential, and I don’t think she’s at all aware of it. I’d like to have her around.”

  “Powerful potential,” Emory repeated with distaste. “Yes, I can feel her power from here. She’s using it to scry — and she’s terrible at it.” A sallow grin lifted his thin lips. “Let me help the girl, so she’ll leave.”

  “Let her be,” Duncan said. “She can’t meet you yet. I want her to come back.”

  “Fine. But if she does have such potential, don’t you think it’s possible she’ll remember eventually? She could be worse than the last time.”

  “That won’t happen.” A pang of sorrow washed through him as he stared off into the distance, stirred by memories of times long past. “There’s nothing left of her,” he said softly. “My Guinevere is gone forever.”

  Chapter 10

  Finlay Cabin, Druid Encampment – Nightfall

  “It’s a duin’alla.”

  Rain sat at the table with her father and Kincaid, tapping through her phone to the pictures she’d taken of the pages that mentioned the creature. She would’ve asked Duncan to let her take the book itself — but she’d have had to put the request through Bastien, and she didn’t want to press her luck. “Here,” she said, turning the phone around to show Lachlan the page with the drawing. “That’s what I saw. Well, what the animals saw.”

  He frowned at the screen. “Ye say this came from a book?”

  “Yes. Bestiary of the Between.”

  “The Between,” her father said roughly. “If that’s true…”

  “Excuse me, but does someone want to explain what in the hell’s going on?” Kincaid looked from the phone to Lachlan, and then to Rain. “That thing is real? And between what, now?”

  “That thing is what took Poppy and the others,” she said. “Apparently it’s here, somewhere. And according to the book, it came from—”

  “Beyond the Veil, in the space between this world and the realm of the Fair Folk.”

  “Yes,” she said, shooting her father a look. “But I still don’t believe in faeries.”

  “Faeries? Seriously, little winged people?” Kincaid’s eyes widened. “Come on, then. We can’t really think this has anything to do with faeries.”

  “The Folk are neither little, nor winged. And they are very serious.” Lachlan stared at the phone with a grim expression. “But this is no faerie,” he said. “The Between is a realm of nightmares. A purgatory, a barren and violent wasteland. If something’s escaped the Between, it must’ve been let out.”

  Rain shuddered. “You think this thing was sent here on purpose?”

  “Might have been,” he said. “Or it might be that something worse is trying to escape — and the duin’alla slipped through in the process.”

  “All right. Can we focus on what’s real, here?” Kincaid seemed desperate to turn the subject away from faeries and nightmare realms, and Rain couldn’t really blame him. “This whatever-it-is came here and took Ewan and some villagers to snack on, or something,” he said. “How do we find it, and how do we kill it?”

  Rain grabbed her phone and swiped through a few images. “The book says the duin’alla chooses a dark and damp place for its lair, preferably by water. And it likes to keep a full, living larder.” Saying that out loud made her shiver again. “I think it must’ve come through in the woods, and once it had a look around, it settled on the moors. Where’s that map, Da’?”

  “Here.” He moved a pile of papers off the map, still bristling with thumbtacks.

  She half-stood and leaned across the table. “Dark, damp, and by water,” she said, tapping the far shoreline at the edge of the moors. “The rocky crags. Right here, aren’t they? That stretch of rock is full of caves.”

  “Aye,” Lachlan said slowly. “Plenty of places for a monster to make its lair.”

  “Well, that’s where we look.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “Don’t give me any grief about waiting for daybreak, either,” she said. “We might not have that long.”

  Kincaid looked up at her. “Fantastic,” he said. “But you kind of skipped the important part of the question. How do we kill the bloody thing?”

  “Um…”

  “Got that covered,” her father said. “Master Nolan, if ye’ll go and gather yer kit? Those taken are likely to need yer gift. Them what survived, leastwise.”

  “Right,” Kincaid muttered. “So I’m volunteered for this lunacy, am I?”

  “Nae, boy. What ye are is conscripted.”

  “Course I am.” He sighed and got to his feet. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m all for saving folks. It’s just I wish they didn’t need saving from a beastie that came out of a nightmare, is all. And here I thought the ghost was bad.”

  Rain gave him an encouraging smile. “So, I never asked,” she said. “What’s your gift?”

  “Healing.” He winked. “Now I kinda wish it was killing monsters, though. Back in a few.” He lifted a brief wave and walked out of the cabin.

  When Kincaid was gone, she turned to her father. “All right, how do you have it covered?” she said. “Because I didn’t see anything in the book about killing it.”

  “Don’t need a book for that.” He gave her an unreadable stare before he stood and crossed the spacious main room, walking past the couch and toward the back of the cabin.

  She followed him to the big cedar linen chest against the far wall, which as far as she knew, contained nothing but blankets. “Planning to smother the thing to death?” she said.

  “Keep tempting me,” he said as he opened the chest. “I’ll arm ye with naught but a bouquet of daisies.”

  “Not even roses? At least they have thorns.”

  “Ye never did pay attention to yer botanicals, girl. If ye must choose a flower, go for the belladonna.”

  In spite of the tension, she smiled. Surly and closed as he was most of the time, she’d missed these occasional sarcastic exchanges with her father. Lachlan always did get the last word in, though. Someday she’d manage to stun him into silence. Maybe it was a petty goal, but she’d still savor the victory when it happened.

  He pulled blankets out and piled them on the floor until the chest was empty. Then he knelt in front of it, produced a switchblade — and cut his finger open.

  She let out a gasp. “What are you doing?”

  “Ye really have gone soft. It’s just a bit of blood, girl.” Shaking his head, he reached into the chest and drew a bloody rune on the floor of it. He whispered a few words in Gaelic, and there was a metallic click, like a lock opening.

  The chest had a false bottom. He opened it and took out something long and slender, wrapped in an oilcloth. She stepped back to give him room as he got to his feet.

  “’Twas yer mother’s,” he said softly, turning to hand her the bundle. “It’s meant for ye now, but … I had hope
d ye’d never need it.”

  Unexpected tears stood in her eyes as she accepted it. Not for the mother she’d never known, but for the care and concern in her father’s voice. It was something she’d rarely heard, and she wasn’t sure how to process it. “Thank you,” she managed.

  “Don’t thank me.”

  This time she ignored his gruff tone, because she knew why he used it. In his own way he’d been trying to protect her. But now it was time to step up.

  She unwrapped the bundle and saw a glint of metal, a slightly curved edge, a flash of light.

  It was a sword.

  She stared at it for a long moment, and then gripped the aged leather cord wrapped around the hilt. The handle was bronze, the blade silver-blue steel, the tip flared into a double-edged spearhead. There were runes she didn’t recognize etched along the blade. It wasn’t terribly light, but the weight felt comforting in her hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “There’s just one problem.”

  “And that’d be what?”

  “I’ve never held a sword in my life.”

  “Yer holdin’ one now, ain’t ye?” Her father smirked. “Generally, the pointy end goes into whatever yer fighting.”

  She sighed. “I’m serious. I have no idea how to swordfight.”

  “Ye’ll know what ye need, when the time comes.”

  “Terrific,” she said. “Only it’d be a lot more helpful to know before the time comes. I’d rather not learn how to use a sword because I’ll die if I don’t.”

  “Best way to learn anything.” His expression grew solemn. “Rhiannon, I don’t wish this on ye. I truly don’t. But I do know this — if yer Poppy and the others can be saved, ye’ll be the one to save them.”

  “But how?” she whispered. “How do you know that?”

  For a moment he looked unbearably sad. “Ye’ll just have to trust me.”

  She closed her eyes. The anger wanted to surface, but now was not the time for a fight. And she was beginning to think he might actually have a reason for not explaining things to her, even if the reason only made sense to him. She’d have to try not to react so quickly to his stubbornness. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way around it.