The Cursing Stones

by Sonya Bateman

  “Great.” Kincaid held the paper in front of him. He drew a pinch of something from a pocket and threw it at the rapidly thickening smoke form, then switched a penlight on and started to chant in Gaelic. The words were deep and hypnotic, almost musical.

  By the time he reached the last line or so, the banshee had fully formed — sneering, grotesque and twisted, wrapped in ragged cloth and reaching for Kincaid. He spoke the final words and held a hand up. “So mote it be,” he said, and gestured.

  The banshee’s mouth opened wide. No sound came out.

  “Better hit it now,” Kincaid said, backing up rapidly. “I think you’re right. You’ve pissed it off.”

  Rain rushed at the apparition, sword upraised. It turned its head just as she was bringing the blade down … and immediately faded to a faint sketch of itself.

  Once again, the sword went through it with no effect.

  “Damn!” Rain swung again. Same thing. “It’s not working,” she called, moving back as the banshee came toward her. “Any ideas?”

  “Um. Hang on.” Kincaid took off around the back.

  She watched him a second, and then slashed at the fully transparent banshee. Its expression shifted into a malevolent grin, and its mouth moved as though it was laughing. It swiped a hand at her with nails like claws — and she felt the sting along her forearm, as if she’d actually been scratched.

  “Kincaid? Please move faster…”

  “I’m here!” He came back with the black case and set it on the ground, shining the penlight on it. “Don’t know about this,” he said, pulling ingredients rapidly from the case. “It’s all I can think of. Where’s that willow bark?”

  Rain ducked to the side as the banshee lunged again. “What are you doing?”

  “Summoning spell.”

  “It’s already summoned!”

  “Not all the way. I think.” He piled wood shavings and lit them with a small silver torch, then started dropping powdered components in. “Sandalwood, yew … I don’t even know what that thing is, really.” The fire flashed a different color each time he added something. “Lavender. Er, and wormwood. All right.” He held a hand over the flame and murmured a few words.

  The banshee solidified instantly.

  Rain wasted no time. She stepped forward and swung the sword in a wide arc, calling on the white light that had served her before as she did. This time she felt the blade connect, but the resistance was minimal as it sliced through the banshee’s neck and severed its head.

  The look of astonishment remained on the apparition’s face, even as it caught fire and disintegrated into ash.

  Rain lowered the sword, breathing heavily. “Kincaid, you’re a genius,” she said, going down to one knee as she tried to catch her breath. “This is why you’re on monster duty.”

  “Bloody hell. Next time I’ll just let the thing rip you apart.” He smirked as he returned the jars to their places. “You all right?”

  “Fine. I think.” She turned her arm to get a look at her forearm. Sure enough, there were four faint scratches down it, like she’d been attacked by a cat a week ago. So the thing hadn’t been very strong, physically — but it did have some physical ability. That couldn’t be good news.

  Kincaid stood slowly and brushed his pants off, then stomped the remains of the small fire out. “What happened there?” he said, pointing to her arm.

  “It scratched me.”

  “The banshee?” He gave a deep frown. “Shouldn’t be possible.”

  “Tell me about it.” She sighed and looked at the pile of ash, all that remained of the apparition.

  And saw something solid in the center of it.

  “What the…” She reached out, brushed at the ash, and removed a stone from the pile. It was smooth, half the size of her fist, with a hole through the center. Small, smudged markings covered the surface, black against pale gray. They were runes. Or used to be, until the fire blurred them. “The stone reveals the source,” she murmured.

  Kincaid walked over and stared down at her. “Did that come from the banshee?”

  She nodded. “It was cursed,” she said. “And that means…”

  “Someone cursed it. Someone was controlling it.”

  “Exactly.” She took a moment to clean the sword, and then got to her feet. “I need to get this to my father,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 28

  Druid Encampment – Finlay Cabin

  Both Lachlan and Poppy were sitting at the work table when she came in, playing some card game and trying not to look like they were waiting up. Her father glanced at her and looked away fast, but not before she caught the concern in his eyes. “Ye killed it, then?” he said to his cards.

  “It’s gone.” She approached the table, pulled the stone from her pocket and placed it in front of her father. “It left this behind.”

  “A cursing stone.” Poppy put his cards down and smiled at her. “Ye’ve done well, my girl. I knew ye’d beat this thing.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without Kincaid,” she said. “It toned itself down somehow, so the sword went right through it, until he cast a Summoning spell.”

  “Good thinking, that,” her father said, picking the stone up carefully. “Master Nolan’s come far in his work. Might be a seat on the Council for him before long.”

  Rain laughed inwardly. She didn’t know Kincaid extremely well yet, but any druid who rode around on a motorcycle probably wasn’t interested in the stuffy drudge work of the Council. “Can you use that to figure out who cursed the banshee?” she said.

  “Might be.” He frowned at the stone. “These runes … they aren’t druidic,” he said. “Hard to make ’em out, but I may be able to restore them. It’ll take some time. Few other spells I can try, too. We’ll track down this source.”

  “Good.” Rain turned to glance at the back hall, where a hot shower and sleep awaited. Her whole body wanted that more than anything, right this minute. But first she had to have a delicate discussion with her father before she could talk herself out of it. No time like the present. “Da’,” she said. “Remember how you told me that having a dedicated work space is the most important thing you can do?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Aye. Didn’t know you remembered, though.”

  “Well, I do, and you’re right.” She drew in a slow breath. “I’m glad to be home. Mostly. You know, except for all the evil creatures that keep trying to kill people,” she said. “But the thing is, I need my own space.”

  Both her father and Poppy stared at her.

  “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she said. “Okay, you get on my nerves sometimes, Da’, and you both make me crazy with all the secrets. I know, you can’t tell me. I’ll accept that.” She sighed and crossed her arms. “But I think we’ll all get more accomplished if I’m not living here. In the cabin, I mean.”

  Lachlan frowned. “And where do ye think ye’re going to live, then?”

  “At the apothecary,” she said. “In that apartment above the shop, where Glynis stayed. That’s what it’s for, anyway — so someone’s there in case of emergencies. Right?”

  There was a long silence, and she started to think an explosion was coming. At last, her father said, “Actually, I think it’s a good idea.”

  “You do?” she blurted.

  “Aye. Don’t look so surprised, Rhiannon Dawn.” He smiled a bit. “Ye do need a dedicated work space. Plus, ye’re a young woman now, and ye shouldn’t be livin’ with us old folks if there’s a better solution. Ain’t that right, Ewan?”

  “Speak for yerself, ye old goat. I’m only as old as I feel,” Poppy said with a grin. “Well, I suppose ye should have yer own place, my girl. But I must say I’ll miss seeing ye here. Ye do brighten the place up.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll visit all the time,” she said, hugging her grandfather and kissing his cheek. Then on impulse she walked around the table and hugged Lachlan.

  He stiffened a bit, but soon relaxed and
patted her back awkwardly. “All right, girl,” he said. “Ye’d best get some sleep, now. Tomorrow’s another long day with your new friend Brigid.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she groaned.

  She said goodnight and left them to their cards, feeling better than she’d expected — even though things were far from all right. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel completely helpless. With the help of her friends and family, she’d already faced down two monsters and defeated them both.

  She paused at the bathroom door and looked out the back window at the waning moon, surrounded by twinkling stars. “Bring it on, whatever you are,” she said. “I’m ready for you.”

  She could almost hear the moon whispering back.

  Part 3: Black Dog

  Chapter 29

  Isle of Parthas – Bairnskill Village Docks

  Colm O’Shea was thinking rather strenuously that he never should’ve let Brody talk him into coming out here for a spot of night fishing. But all he could do was think it — because if he actually said anything, Brody would mock him for a coward, or worse.

  “Nice night, innit?” Brody set his pole and pulled a fresh beer from the cooler beside him. He didn’t, of course, offer one to Colm. “Been quiet around here lately.”

  Yes, Colm thought. Because of the monsters and the banshees. Everyone in the village had heard the rumors. His own wife’s cousin had been out to the MacCallan farm a few days back, and then she’d come round telling tales of some four-armed freak with spider fangs that attacked the boy.

  After that, his wife had started putting bowls of milk out for the faeries again.

  “More fish for us then, right?” Brody grinned, but the expression turned into a grimace as he clamped a hand over the bandage on his neck. “This damned rash,” he said.

  Colm glanced over at him. They were sitting at the end of the dock, a lantern between them, and he could see a few spots of fresh blood seeping into the bandage. He’d noticed the mark when Brody first got it—four faint, jagged scratches, like healing claw marks. It was no rash, but there was no telling him that. “Not getting better, is it?” he said by way of conversation.

  “Course it is. It’s just irritating, that’s all.” There was a flat look in Brody’s eyes as he swigged back beer. “The old lady keeps nagging me to go to the doc’s, but there’s no reason to shell out good money for some smelly concoction that won’t do no good anyway. Am I right?”

  “Right,” Colm said absently. Something had tugged on his line, and he wouldn’t mind a bite about now. Maybe a nice, tasty fish dinner’d make up for having to be out here at night, with nothing but Brody for company.

  “Anyway, it’ll heal on its own,” Brody said with slightly slurred finality. “Burns a bit, but it’s nothing.”

  “Sure it is, Brody.”

  Colm silently disagreed. The man claimed to have no idea how he’d got the scratches. He’d just woke up with them one morning. But they’d been getting steadily worse. Deeper and redder every day, and Brody had started scratching at them constantly. Now he was saying it burned.

  That couldn’t be a good sign, but Brody was too stubborn to admit it.

  Just then, Colm’s pole jerked in his hands and the end of it dipped sharply. “There’s a one,” he said, repositioning for a tighter grip. “Feels pretty big. Maybe a fifteen-, twenty-pounder.”

  Brody sneered at him. “Right. You’ve probably snagged your hook on a rock or something,” he said. “You know you never catch nothin’, O’Shea.”

  That wasn’t true, but Colm didn’t bother saying so. The pull was stronger now, the tugging faster. His pole dipped and sprang back crazily, twanging like a flag wire in a high wind. “Maybe even a thirty,” he said, his mouth starting to water as he got to his feet. It sure felt like a monster.

  “If you’ve got a thirty-pounder, O’Shea, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Hope you brought a spot of mustard for it, then,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Brody.” Colm tuned the other man out and focused on reeling his catch in. He jerked the pole, wound the reel fast and jerked again — and a huge, thrashing white trout breached the surface, scales flashing in the moonlight. “What a corker!” he said breathlessly, straining to pull the fish in. “That’ll make a fine meal or two, sure as rain.”

  “You won’t land it,” Brody said sourly. “Doesn’t look that big to me, anyway. I’d give you fifteen, maybe.”

  Colm ignored him and gave a mighty tug. The trout came up in a great spray of water that soaked his legs and splashed right in Brody’s face as the fish landed wetly on the dock.

  “Forty pounds, easy,” Colm said, panting as he knelt beside his catch to remove the hook. “Oh, and she’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

  He glanced over at Brody for approval. Then he stared, ignoring the dying throes of the fish. “That ain’t better,” he said, pointing at the other man’s neck. The bandage had gotten soaked and come loose, and he could see the scratches. Deep, ragged and bloody, the skin turning black at the edges. Truly nasty stuff. “You know, that could be hex marks,” he said without thinking. “You ought to go see them druids. They just opened up the apothecary—”

  “Druids!” A dark red flush suffused Brody’s face. “Bunch of witchy bastards, think they’re better’n everybody else. They’d just as soon poison me as not,” he said. “Ain’t goin’ near that camp of theirs.”

  “All right, Brody.” Like he’d thought before, there was no point telling the man anything. One of these days he’d stubborn himself to death.

  A flash of light above him caught Colm’s attention. He looked up and saw lightning dancing across the sky. But no thunder with it, and not a cloud in sight. “Huh,” he said. “Must be one o’ them summer ’lectrical storms.

  “What the Christ are you on about?” Brody said.

  “Lightning,” he said, pointing at the sky. “Might be a storm comin’.”

  Brody grunted. “Well, I ain’t leaving without a catch. Hope you brought an umbrella.”

  “Right,” Colm sighed. Because no way on God’s green earth was Brody Barnes going to be outdone by Colm O’Shea. He resigned himself to a long night of watching Brody drink and listening to Brody whinge about everything.

  Then he heard a sound, like distant thunder but more rumbly. Throaty. And it was coming not from the sky, but from the land end of the dock. Hackles rising, he turned slowly and looked.

  A great black dog stood with two paws on the wooden slats. No, not black, he thought as the lightning flashed again — it was dark green. Which was impossible. In fact, the entire beast was impossible. It was the size of a cow, for one. It crouched low with a menacing snarl, giving a view of a plaited tale that rested in a great coil on its back. Its eyes were huge. And glowing red.

  “Brody.” Colm could only manage a crackling whisper as he straightened and backed away. “Oi,” he said. “Brody.”

  “Christ, what is it?” The other man looked up just as the great dog growled again, louder this time. Then he looked back. And the beast advanced onto the dock.

  Without a word, Brody sprang to his feet — then pushed Colm at the beast as he whirled and dove into the water.

  Colm was falling toward the dock. He couldn’t get enough breath to scream. If he didn’t catch himself, he’d be demon dog chow for sure. He managed to land on his knees, but pure fear kept him paralyzed in place.

  The great dog barked. Once, twice, three times. The sound was a guttural bellow, nearly human in its rage. As it galloped toward him, the entire dock shook under the weight of each bound.

  It jumped straight over Colm and splashed into the water.

  Colm scrambled upright and ran to the edge of the dock. The beast was just as fast in water as on land, and had nearly reached the rapidly swimming man already. He’d no idea how Brody could manage to swim that fast. Cold water must’ve sobered him right quick. “Brody!” he called. “Behind yo
u!”

  The great dog leapt out of the water like a breaching fish, and landed directly on top of Brody.

  The water churned and churned. Brody broke the surface, gasping and shouting for a split second before the rest of him came up — clamped firmly in the dog’s massive jaws. The beast began to shake him rapidly, snarling and chomping as it made its way back toward the shore with its prize.

  Brody’s screams lasted for a very long time.

  At last, Colm shook himself free of the trance-like sight of Brody being savaged to death. Primal instinct took over, and he ran as fast as he could back toward the village while the great dog was busy with its human chew toy.

  He thought, with only a small measure of guilt, that at least he’d never have to cave in to another of Brody’s demands again.

  Chapter 30

  Druid Encampment, The Apothecary – Next Morning

  Rain Finlay stepped outside and sighed at the rambling patch of weeds and boggy puddles that used to be a back yard.

  She was making good progress inside. The shop itself was nearly perfect, with just a few areas damaged by years of neglect that still needed attention. And the apartment above it was no longer horrible. She’d gotten one room completely ready — and then promptly moved in, to give herself some breathing room away from her father. In fact, last night was the first she’d spent here, and it was wonderful.

  Unlike this tangled mess of a yard, which was not so wonderful.

  The apothecary was located just at the border of Ogham Wood, along the main path that led to the village one way, and the druid encampment in the forest the other. Years ago, the patch of land behind it had been fenced and well-tended, with a beautiful pond where Glynis, the previous shop keeper, had cultivated many of the herbs she used in her potions and remedies.

  Now the pond had all but grown over with thistles and ragwort and creeping buttercup. The wooden fence was faded and in gross disrepair, and the grass had grown coarse and thick, interspersed with clusters of dried brown stalks as high as her waist. She couldn’t even decide where to begin fixing it all.