by KB Anne
“Indeed. Each metal is capable of killing a variety of creatures, but not all of them. A blade composed of both silver and iron is deadly to every living creature, god or otherwise. The metals tend to be volatile together because of their individual powers. It takes a gifted swordsmith to combine the two. For that reason, there are not many of them in existence, and each one possesses a name to be recognized throughout the ages.”
He handed the sword back to Scott. Scott cradled it with new reverence.
“It is a great honor to wield you, Moralltach.”
The blade glowed in answer. Caer’s eyes widened. She’d never spoken directly to her sword before, though it had been her only companion for many years. Tonight, in the privacy of her room, she’d speak to Freagarach and thank the sword for coming to her.
Gallean sat back in his chair, his arms behind his head. “The swords change to accommodate whatever form you take. So as a human in the Earthly Realm, Scott, your sword becomes a knife, and Caer, as a shapeshifting swan, the sword becomes a necklace.”
Scott returned Moralltach to its scabbard. “When I get back to Gigi in Kildare, will it remain a sword, or will it shrink back into a knife? Because a knife isn’t going to be much use in a battle with the Fomorians.”
“I should clarify. The sword will take the form of whatever shape its owner requires.”
Scott dipped his head, awaiting an answer. “So . . .”
“So, if you require a long blade when you return to Gigi, it will remain a sword.”
Scott dropped his chin to his chest. “Right.”
Sadness filled Caer. Scott was merely biding his time in the Land of Shadows until he could return to Gigi. He’d leave Caer, Gallean, and Balor behind to get back to his sister. A hollowness filled her chest.
Freagarach hummed beside her as if reminding her that she wasn’t alone. She patted it before returning to her food. Freagarach would never leave her, and for that she was grateful.
“This afternoon we’re going to do something different,” Gallean said, rising from the table.
“How do you mean?” Scott asked, sounding unsure about a new approach to their daily schedule.
His unease made her feel better. She wasn’t the only one feeling anxious of this new form of training. She hoped Gallean didn’t fall back into the energy-pushing routine. That was an absolute waste of time.
Gallean’s eyes narrowed at her. He lifted his open palm in the air and blew on it. She shifted out of the way before the energy ball hit her. She remembered all too well the last time Gallean had demonstrated what his energy work could do, and she didn’t want to go unconscious in front of Scott. She did not want to appear weak to him, or to the wizard for that matter.
“Do not mock the use of moving energy,” Gallean said, “for in many ways Gigi is more powerful than both of your swords combined.”
Her gaze shifted over to Scott. He was staring at her. Every time his sister was mentioned, she felt his anger toward her resurface, no matter how light his mood had been.
“This afternoon we need to delve into our minds and outside ourselves to seek answers to Gigi’s happenings as well as your own,” Gallean said, lifting both of his open palms up and blowing on them.
She winced at the potential onslaught of the energy, but she needn’t have worried. The energy lit candles throughout the courtyard.
Gallean knelt down in front of the fire and lit the tip of a sage bundle. As if by magic, the heavy, relaxing scent of burning sage filled the air, instantly loosing her shoulders.
“Now, sit in a comfortable seated position, palms up, and open your throat to the universe.”
“Not this again,” Scott mumbled.
Gallean ignored the jab. “Breathe in . . . breathe out . . .” he said in a low, hypnotic voice. “Breathe in . . . breathe out . . .”
Caer could not stop thinking about Scott and his proximity to her. She kept switching between wanting to slice his throat with Freagarach and wanting to tug him to her chest and kiss him. Something about his presence awakened a need deep within her that demanded attention. She tried focusing on her breathing. She did not much see the point in turning inward when there was so much happening outward. She shifted in her seat, trying to quiet the building emotion in her, but no matter what position she tried, she could not get her mind off Scott. The incense only heightened the emotion.
She breathed in and out, in and out. Soon the chair and the courtyard disappeared, leaving nothing but cool, damp soil between her toes. She looked around her. The scent of sage hanging in the air suggested she was still at Gallean’s keep, but her surroundings hinted she was someplace else. Someplace primordial. An ancient forest. Oak and sweet fern mingled with the sage. She took a step, then another. She kept moving forward and found herself on a path. Desire flooded her veins. She did not question where it came from. She merely acknowledged it and continued forward.
There, in the distance, she saw him. The mighty warrior who had come to claim her as his. She watched him swing his sword and kick at his men enlisted to train with him. She wondered if they came willingly or if they were forced to do so. The blade of his sword did not land on their bodies, even when it would seem it should run them through. His powerful legs and feet knocked them to their knees or on their backs, but still they came at him again and again.
His chest rose and fell with the exertion of the fighting, but he was barely winded even after hours of training. She became so completely enthralled with watching him unabashedly that she wasn’t prepared for him to stop training upon seeing her. Their eyes locked, and she could not tear her gaze away.
“My lady,” he said, bowing to her.
She pulled her skirts to the side and curtsied.
“What brings you to my training grounds?”
She stepped toward him. His men fell away.
“I came to challenge you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Challenge me?”
She nodded.
“In your skirts and bare feet?”
“Aye,” she said, withdrawing a sword from her back.
He stepped away from her. “I will not fight a woman.”
She continued moving toward him. “You will if you want to win my hand.”
He swallowed, clearly unnerved. Good, she would use it to her advantage.
She lifted her sword above her head and charged at the warrior. His green eyes widened. He lifted his sword, not to combat her but to ward her off. She came at him again and again. Still he refused to retaliate.
“Fight me,” she growled.
“I will not attack you.”
“I do not want you to attack me. You must prove to me you are my equal in every way before I will consider your hand.”
He glanced at his men. They eyed him warily.
“Fight me, or you are a coward!” she shouted, jabbing his waist with her sword to prove she would wound him if he refused.
He finally took a combative swing. She knocked it away as if it were nothing more than a moth in daylight. He came at her again and again. She parried his onslaught. Her heart pounded in her chest. She had never felt so alive.
His eyes glowed with excitement as his swings increased in strength.
She did not find him lacking. For that reason, hope bloomed within her. Perhaps he was the mate foretold to her. Her equal in every way but one.
She fought off his advance. Somewhere in their dance he had shifted to the aggressor. She stumbled on the folds of her dress but righted herself quickly.
“I told you those skirts would be the death of you.”
“Fear not, for I wore them merely to distract you.” With one swift motion she untied the skirts and fanned them out in front of the warrior, obscuring his view.
His sword tore them away. “I never thought it would be so easy to disrobe you.”
“Do not flatter yourself with ego, for it is I who is in charge of this battle.”
“I didn’t think we we
re fighting. I thought this was a dance.” He feinted to the left. She anticipated it and leapt to meet him, but it was the movement he intended. He wrapped his arm around her body and pinned her to him.
“Do you yield?”
“Never,” she grunted, ducking out of his hold, but the warrior was faster. This time she found his sword point sticking in her neck.
“Do you yield?”
She considered her options. Somehow it was she that had become distracted and given away her upper hand.
“Yes,” she said reluctantly.
“Good,” he said, pulling her toward him.
Her chest rose and fell. The warrior had proven himself worthy of her affections, but she refused to yield entirely. She wrapped her hands around him, pinning his arms to his sides as she met his lips with her own. His hands soon found her waist. They pressed against each other.
A dull ache blossomed within her. She needed the warrior to quell it.
“Is this real?” she whispered.
“I certainly hope so,” he replied.
“Caer,” a voice tickled in her ear. “Caer, wake up.”
9
Scary-Ass Witch
A hard cold pushes out any warmth left in my veins. All the remaining goodness in my soul has been ripped away, replaced by an absolute certainty that death is coming. Mine. Scott’s. Everyone’s.
I’m scared. There, I admit it. I’m scared shitless.
As if a phantom, the Witch lingers in the shadows, tormenting me by the mere thought of her appearance. When I’m certain I will crumble from fear, she steps out from the shadows, and my world turns on its head.
“Kensey?”
A leer emerges from my nemesis’s face. A leer more evil, more terrifying than any Kensey has ever given me.
“I don’t understand.”
She scrapes her long nails up and down the iron bars of the cell. Cold dread circles and whirls around her. I always thought Kensey was the devil incarnate, but this witch, this Fomorian being, is more horrifying than my worst nightmares (and my nightmares would scare the hair gel out of an Elvis impersonator). Even Carman, a Maleficium sorceress, didn’t scare me. But this . . . this being in the form of my sworn enemy causes me to question every single one of my life choices.
Her hair’s wild. Not brushed. Not combed. Not washed. Yet no bird would make a nest in it. No bird could get close enough to build one. The toxic air swelling around her would mean instant death for any living being. Wind would fear to whip through her tresses for chance it would be slashed by the jagged razor points.
And her eyes. Her soulless, lifeless eyes. Dead snake eyes.
If Kensey knew what this Fomorian witch had done to her appearance, she’d make a deal with Derg himself to combat her.
“What have we here?” Fomorian Witch Kensey hisses.
I wait for the forked tongue to dart out and in, but I can’t let this . . . this thing know I fear it. She eats fear.
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
I will not give her what she wants. I will not feed her hunger.
“I assure you, I don’t.”
“We once fought together.”
I try to remain expressionless, but my wide eyes must give me away. She doubles over, cackling at what must be a joke, though I find nothing funny about it (and I pride myself on my colorful personality).
Control, Gigi. Control.
“We did?”
“Well, we fought against each other.”
“Who won?”
Her eyes narrow into slits. “We never finished.”
My stomach roils at the implications of her answer, but I must be brave. I must appear confident.
“Pity.”
“Your union to Breas ended the war.” The bitterness in her answer ices the air in the cell.
“Sorry about that.”
“Soon we will resume where we left off.”
I indicate the layers of silver chains around my arms and legs. “It appears I’m indisposed.”
She reaches her hand into the cell. She’s at least ten feet away from me but her arm stretches across the empty space between us. I pull my head back. I want to close my eyes to shut out the entire situation, but it’s like a gruesome scene in a horror movie—you don’t want to look but you have to. Sharp fingernails drag across my face. Blood pools at the gashes before overflowing and seeping down my cheek. Soon it trails to my neck, sizzling as it hits the chain, whether from the contamination of the Witch’s nails or because of my own blood, I don’t know.
The chains begin to warm as the blood hits them, growing more and more uncomfortable around my neck. Without the ability to lift them off my skin, I start to panic.
“What did you do to me?”
“Chains, even those made of silver, wouldn’t stop a truly magical being,” she hisses. “This form is weak. There will be no challenge when we fight, but a win is a win.”
Of that, I have little doubt, but when would such a war be waged? Does she plan to battle me while I’m chained in the cell, already rendered defenseless by the magic-dampening silver?
The chains grow hotter, searing my neck.
“Stop, please stop,” I beg, unable to raise my voice for fear that the hot chains will further damage my vocal cords.
She throws back her head and cackles in answer.
The pain becomes unbearable. “Please,” I moan. Tears stream down my cheeks, mingling with the tainted blood. But the burning sensation fades as the tears reach my neck. I almost cry out in relief, but I don’t want the Witch to know her torture has ended. “Please,” I whisper faintly.
“Enjoy,” she says as she climbs the stairs. Her laughter echoes down to me long after her departure, until it finally fades. A heavy, uncomfortable silence remains.
The burning lessens as more tears mingle with the blood. On the night of Samhain, after I returned to the tower to free my dad and was imprisoned with him instead, he and I almost paid the ultimate price for my inability to listen to his request for me to stay away. Those tears I shed grew powerful vines. Vines capable of strangling the guard. Vines capable of pulling apart thick rope. Those powerful vines were the reason why Breas used layers of silver chain link this time, but the Fomorian witch said that truly magical beings would not be inhibited by the silver.
In the tower, I had Dad to save. He was my inspiration, my desperation to free myself and him. Now it’s just me. A being who wants to live above all else but doesn’t know if she can continue to do so with all her family gone, with Alaric aligned with Clayone, with Lizzie and Ryan against her.
I tug and pull on the layers of chains. Tears continue to mingle with the blood. Soon the chains no longer burn. In fact they feel almost pliable. My arms and legs can move. Not a lot, mind you, but more than they could before. There’s only the chain at my neck that still binds me without forgiveness. I swallow, preparing myself for the inevitable pain before extending my neck forward. The links bite into my skin, but I keep pushing forward. I can feel my throat constricting with the effort, but I don’t need to breathe. Not right now. Right now I need to free myself. When I’m free I can breathe all I want. I push and push against the tight chains. Not swallowing. Not breathing. Just pushing. Just pulling.
The chains stretch into thin strands of liquid metal until I’m almost standing. Just as I’m ready to free myself from these binds, I hear it.
A whimper.
A sigh.
Lizzie.
I collapse back against the chair, panting with the effort. My breath takes too long to regain itself. Too long until I can take a normal breath, a quiet breath, a breath that will allow me to hear who might be in the cell next to mine.
Another quiet whimper.
Another audible sigh.
“Lizzie?” I whisper into the darkness.
A sharp intake of breath.
“Lizzie, is that you?”
No answer. But in the silence, I recognize the trut
h. My best friend is locked in the next cell.
I close my eyes and focus all my energy on reading a mind I know better than my own, or at least thought I did. Back in Vernal Falls, Ryan and Scott had revealed another side to my Lizzie that I never knew existed. A side fiercely protective of her best friend.
There’s also that other side. The one from my visions that tortured Alaric every time he called out my name. The one possessed by Carman. The one obsessed with a spell book. The one working for Clayone.
But if she’s working for Clayone, why is she here?
I close my eyes and focus on her mind. Poison courses through it. Carman. Clayone. Breas. Too many villainous beings have corrupted her mind. Lizzie, my Lizzie, is lost somewhere inside their insidious web. I take a deep breath to steady myself, to build my strength and concentrate on purging her mind of the containments. The hate bestowed upon her from the three evils forms a thick, impenetrable layer. The unifying source, the common thread of all the sources, is hate for me. Both human girl and goddess.
I poke at it, try to manipulate it, but it is unyielding. The effort leaves me gasping for breath. I refuse to give up. I won’t. There must be some way to cleanse her of this bottomless chasm of loathing.
Again and again I work to eradicate the evil to no avail. Panting with the effort, I throw everything I have at it, but nothing seems to weaken the surface.
It is too much for you, Gigi. You must gather your energy. Do not weaken yourself, for you may not be able to regain your strength.
I ignore Brigit’s warnings. It’s Lizzie we’re talking about. Poor sweet Lizzie. And I will deplete myself to my very last breath to save her.
I concentrate all my focus, all my energy on her mind. Finally, I’m able to enter. I probe it, searching for any positive images of me, but I only find me doing bad things. Me corrupting her by having her skip school. Me stealing some gum at the gas station and shoving it in her pocket. Me talking her into sneaking out of her house and driving her parents’ car to Pittsburgh when we were fifteen. Every terrible thing I’ve ever done to her attacks me, bombarding me with memory after memory.