by Ann Gimpel
Within the three branches of witchdom, those who’d chosen the black magic path were by far and away the most dangerous. Arlen hadn’t thought much about witches in a very long time, mostly because the least bothersome of them—humans who’d adopted Wicca as their religion—were the only visible type these days. Although some had a small spark of magic, it wasn’t enough to disturb the natural order of anything.
White witches, the second group, were born into witchy families and did possess power, but made a commitment to not use it for ill. Similar to black magic, white drew its maximum power from evil, from sacrifice, pain, and death. White witches lacked the stomach to cast such spells, though, and accepted the trade-off of being contented with lesser magic. Not so with black magic witches. They gloried in creating pain and suffering. At least half a dozen families of witches were steeped in black magic, but he hadn’t heard so much as a whisper from them in well over a hundred years.
Aye, and a right daft fool I was to believe they’d vanished to some other spot.
Like all convoluted puzzles, once he looked at this one through fresh eyes, it made more sense than he liked. Katerina had picked the clans for her research for the best of reasons. Her witch ancestors had been seers and mages for Scotland’s clans. Beyond that, they’d become instrumental as the clans waged war against one another since the winning clan almost always possessed the most powerful witch.
After Morgan had finished ripping into him for stupidity, she’d reminded him the Roskellys had been linked to the Cameron clan most recently, but to others in earlier times. He’d bowed low, thanked her, and told her he was in her debt. He’d also silently blessed the Celtic pantheon for having the wisdom to allow women into the Druidic priesthood. The women had to be strong. They’d had a tough go of things after the Church labeled them witches in an attempt to weaken Druidic influence over an increasingly Christian population.
Though they both practiced magic, witches—even the relatively benevolent varieties—and Druids had never been good bedfellows. Druidic power was earth-linked; he liked to view his magic as pure, responsive to all living creatures. While white witches and humans immersed in Wicca respected the natural world, their more powerful cousins ran roughshod over everyone and everything.
Respect wasn’t even a word in their vocabularies.
He winced and gripped the steering wheel tighter. He’d thought the various witchy lines had vanished long ago, right along with many other manifestations of enchantment. Something about science quashed magic; it couldn’t retain its grip in the face of widespread disbelief in its existence.
“Arlen!” Thomas shouted into his mind, a vast departure from the man’s normally unflappable demeanor.
“I know I’m late,” he replied, trying for soothing to counteract Thomas’s frenzy. “No worries. I’ll arrive in time to pick up Dr. Roskelly.”
He swallowed hard. Knowing what he knew, he’d like to put an ocean or two between himself and Katerina Roskelly, but he didn’t have that luxury. Another reason the gathering with his kin had run so long was they’d crafted a strategy. He was a key element in that plan, and the first task was to bring the witch to the cave where the rest of the Druids remained.
It was a bold undertaking and rested on the assumption his magic would be stronger than hers. If it wasn’t, she’d slither through his efforts like sand through a twisted hourglass. He didn’t believe she could leverage sufficient power to kill him, but it was a possibility.
As Arch Druid, he was bound by oath and blood to risk himself for his people, except he hadn’t been called upon to do much except preside over ceremonies since the tail end of the 1800s. Just because it had been a long time didn’t excuse him from his duties, though—
“Arlen! Ye’re not listening.” Thomas’s tone was insistent but riddled with apprehension.
Arlen shook himself. Had he been lost so deep in thought he’d missed something Thomas said?
“Aye. Sorry. I am now. What happened?” A deeply sinking feeling sat on his chest like an ungainly weight as he waited for Thomas to put a face on bad news.
“I tried to hold Dr. Roskelly—” His telepathic sending broke off, but before Arlen could question him, he continued. “My magic, it bounced right off her. She left in a taxi after basically telling me to go to hell.”
Arlen ground his jaws together. “Not your fault,” he gritted out.
“Of course, ’tis. Ye left me a task, and I failed. ’Tis sorry I am.”
Arlen wasn’t certain how safe it was to continue their conversation in telepathy. He’d apparently read Katerina all wrong last night. Far from a victim of fell forces, she wielded major power, and she’d directed it toward escaping Thomas. But why?
“Did she check out of the hotel?”
“Nay, merely flew out of here in a cab.”
“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Between now and then, find out where that taxi took her.”
“I won’t let you down a second time.” Thomas cut his side of the sending abruptly.
Arlen unflexed a hand from what had turned into a death grip on the wheel. Thomas took his duties seriously. It was a rare enough occurrence for Arlen to ask anything of him, and the other man must be devastated.
Where the hell had Katerina gone? Had she seen through his lightly worded offer of lunch and a tour? If so, she might have left in search of reinforcements. Other Roskelly witches who’d converge on him and clean his clock.
“Och aye, I’m being a wee bit on the dramatic side,” he muttered.
Not much reason for the eighteen Druids to remain in the cave waiting for him, though. It could take him the rest of the day to track Katerina—assuming he could locate her at all. If she’d gone to ground in the midst of a pack of witches, he’d never find her.
He directed telepathy at Morgan. “No call for you to remain.” He kept his sending terse, gruff.
“And why would that be?” Morgan asked in a tone so neutral she must be biting back further words.
“Thomas said she left, and—”
“You’re going after her, aren’t you?” Morgan broke in, the neutral quality in her voice replaced by something that sounded suspiciously like terror. He could visualize her sitting in a nest of long, silver hair, her dark eyes pinched with worry.
“Of course I am, but ’tis a one-man effort. More of us would clutter the field.”
“Let us know what you need from us.” Sean’s deeper voice was welcome.
“For now, communicate with those who weren’t with us last night. Alert them…” Arlen pushed a flood of words back behind his teeth. Anyone with a smidgeon of magic could listen in on telepathic speech.
“Understood,” Sean was quick to jump into the gap. “We’re all standing by.”
Sean was his second. An average height, well-dressed man with curly brown hair and merry brown eyes. He was who’d take over if aught happened to Arlen. Sean had been a banker in one iteration or another since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. His position gave their order a quiet way to squirrel away funds. One of the sideline benefits of living long lives was most of them had amassed significant fortunes. Thanks to Sean, that money was all but invisible.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something.” Arlen cut their connection. As he covered the last few kilometers to the King’s Arms, he played the conversation back through his mind hunting for missteps, places a wily witch could use the information to trip them up.
Worst case, they’d know he was about to launch a search for their kinswoman, Katerina. It wasn’t the best news because it offered the witches plenty of time to design a counterattack, but it couldn’t be helped.
He’d either locate Katerina—and have it out with her—or she’d choose to remain hidden from him, which would only boot the problem down the road. If he didn’t find her here, he’d have no choice but to follow her back to California. Now that he knew what she was, it was far too dangerous to ignore her presence. She had robust standin
g in academic circles. It gave her far too much power to do evil by manipulating her research to whitewash witch magic.
Not that belief in the supernatural was widespread, but if people didn’t think something existed, they’d relinquish any attempts to guard themselves. Black witches fed off human misery. Whoever they targeted would merely believe they’d stumbled into a run of bad luck. No one would ever guess a witch was behind losing everything they’d ever valued. Meanwhile, the witch in question was lapping up their pain and using it to strengthen herself.
He curled one hand into a fist and brought it down on the dashboard. Black magic would not see a rebirth. Not on his watch. Katerina might be part of some grand plan to place witches back in ascendance, but they’d have to go through him and his Druids.
He nosed the car into the stately old hotel’s main drive. Thomas ran toward him, flung the passenger door open, and got inside. Before Arlen could question him, he said, “I found out where the taxi went. It left her at Inverlochy Castle.”
Arlen brought the car to a stop in a fifteen-minute parking zone next to the curb and killed the engine. He turned to face Thomas. “Did it cost you to get that information?”
“Nay. I called the cab company, told them Dr. Roskelly’s partner wanted to join her, but needed a precise location.” Thomas shrugged broad shoulders, his blue eyes holding a worried aspect. Gunmetal hair brushed his collarbones. As usual, his dark blue uniform was spotless and impeccably pressed.
Arlen sketched out what he’d discovered. When he got to the part about the connection between Katerina and the Roskelly witches, Thomas slapped his forehead with an open palm. “Christ on a bleeding cross. What a dolt I am not to have seen that.”
“Aye, well, I missed it too. You can thank Morgan and several others for making the connection.”
Thomas drew his forehead into a mass of wrinkles. “Ye should have seen her face when she drew back her upper lip. She snarled at me. Didn’t look a thing like herself.”
“What exactly did she say?” Arlen leaned close, not wanting to miss anything.
“She tossed my compulsion spell off as if it didn’t exist and left the building. I was reeling, I tell you, reeling from shock. I believe the next thing I said was you’d be disappointed to miss her. That was when she turned to face me and snarled, ‘Ask me if I give a damn. Now go away and leave me be.’”
“Was that all?”
“Aye.” He hesitated. “Wait. She did apologize right before she got into the taxi. Had a tortured look on her face as if she regretted being so nasty, but it might have been an act. Mayhap she recognized how beastly she’d been.”
Arlen slumped against the plush leather seatback. Thomas’s description had turned already murky waters even cloudier. If Katerina were truly an actively practicing black witch, she’d never have apologized, or looked the least bit cowed. No. She’d have cast her own spell to counteract Thomas’s and been done with things. If that happened, Thomas wouldn’t be sitting here talking with him. He’d be either a blithering idiot or dead.
“Are ye heading south?” Thomas asked.
“Aye. I must at least try to intercept her.”
“Ye canna go alone. Give me a moment, I’ll just duck inside and change. I’m not due back on shift till the morrow.”
Arlen considered it. The man’s additional magic might be a huge help, but he had no idea what he’d find in Inverlochy’s ruins. The Camerons were buried behind the castle. A powerful witch could raise them from the dead. Something sharp and cold trailed down his spine.
“Thank you, Thomas, but this is one task I must do alone.”
“But ye canna. ’Tis dangerous.” Thomas shut his mouth with a clack.
“As head of our order, ’tis my duty. I’ll be in touch with Sean and the others. We had a plan, but her actions voided it.”
“She must have known,” Thomas hissed. “She’s a sneaky bitch, that one.”
“I’m not certain of that.” In truth, Arlen wasn’t sure of anything, and he didn’t care much for floundering about trying to figure out what was real.
Thomas didn’t budge.
“You have to get out of the car,” Arlen urged. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Ye canna know that—” Thomas began.
“Leave now.” Arlen infused power into the two words. After leveling a stricken look his way, Thomas pushed the door open and got out. Arlen reached across and caught the door handle, pulling it shut. He’d have plenty of time to consider his strategy driving to Inverlochy.
Traffic was surprisingly heavy, and it took him almost an hour and a half before he pulled into the visitors’ parking area that sat near the castle ruins. The day was overcast, but it wasn’t raining. Luckily, no other cars were in the parking lot, which might mean he’d have the graveyard to himself.
He got out and locked the Aston Martin before shrouding himself in magic. When he shut his eyes, he homed in on fragments of Katerina’s energy. She had been here, and not all that long ago. Using his nose and magic as a guide, he followed the track she’d taken.
It led to the Cameron crypt, just as he’d expected it would. An iron bar of tension settled between his shoulder blades. If it hadn’t been for aid from the Roskelly witches, the Camerons’ bloody path through Scotland would have ended a century before it was finally quelled. As a cultural anthropologist—and a Druid—he knew his country’s history well. Clan Mackintosh had been the Camerons’ primary enemy, and it had taken over three centuries to establish an uneasy détente.
He gave himself a brisk mental shove. He was stalling, the foray into history totally unnecessary. Determined to roust the witch from whatever skullduggery she was hatching up, he trotted down broken steps. Magic sharpened his senses, so seeing in the dark wasn’t a problem. He scanned the crypt, but it was empty. Still tracking Katerina, he strode the length of the burial site to a second set of stairs.
His nostrils flared. Yes. She’d come this way. He lurched down an even worse set of steps than the first one. Longer and winding, they spit him out in a lower level. He’d visited this place a time or two and it always creeped him out enough, he’d never remained long. This room was a third the size of the one above, and Katerina wasn’t here. She’d come this way, though. Her scent coated everything, rich with vanilla and rosemary.
He blew out a tense breath. By rights, she should smell of hell’s bane or nightshade. Witches employed belladonna in their ceremonies, capitalizing on its hallucinogenic effects. The line between high and dead was a thin one, though.
Arlen turned in a circle. She’d been here, and she wasn’t now. What the fuck did it mean? He retraced his steps, returning to the parking lot. Taking care to be methodical, he checked every possible egress point from Inverlochy’s ruins, but couldn’t sense her.
A quarter of an hour later, he returned to the crypt, turning the data over and over in his mind. She hadn’t left the castle grounds—unless she’d teleported, and even then traces of expended magic would have caught his attention.
He made his way to the crypt’s lowest level. Katerina’s energy pulsed most strongly there. Perhaps it would yield clues to her disappearance. The crypt possessed an energy all its own. It washed over him, as if testing him, before power took a swipe across his shoulder blades.
The blow knocked the wind from him and almost drove him to his knees, but he pushed back. Magic already deployed, he redirected it to form a ward around himself. Whatever this was, it had the same signature as the malevolence in the auditorium last night with one significant difference.
Last night, whoever wielded evil was invested in hiding themselves and their wickedness from him. Today, the full brunt of black magic whacked him.
Dark power with Roskelly initials all over it.
Malevolent energy built around him, battering him. A whirling spot opened in the darkness and understanding swept through him.
A time portal.
Katerina had summoned a spell to bend the
strands of time. No wonder her research was so spotless. The canny bitch took a wee trip now and then, right into the bowels of Old Scotland. The vortex pulled at him, its suction growing stronger.
He was holding his own. He should leave. Fuck Katerina Roskelly. He’d damn sure wait until she was back in the States, a place far harder to work magic. He could confront her there.
“Aye,” he muttered in Gaelic. “The voice of reason, but I am not a reasonable man. I am here. The portal is open. It will lead me right to the witch, and we shall do battle. Whichever one of us is victorious shall return to the twenty-first century.”
The sound of his words steadied him. He flirted with sending a message to Sean but didn’t. What would he say? The others would want to join him, and he’d be damned if he’d put them in danger.
Nor did he want to wait for them.
An arcane summoning spell rose from the swirling place that ate light. Arlen stopped thinking and jumped through. The journey was swift, like all supernatural travel, and he tumbled out into the same spot he’d left, but far earlier in time. He could tell by how the air smelled. Dank but pure. No undercurrent of metals or plastic.
He blinked, expecting Katerina to rush him from the shadows. Instead, light blazed before him, and a woman shrieked in ancient Gaelic. This woman had silver hair that spilled to the dirt floor and blue-green, whirling eyes. Eyes that matched the whirlpool that had sucked him backward in time.
A small moan caught the edges of his hearing, and he saw Katerina standing a few feet away. The look on her face smote him. She was scared to her bones, and his interpretation of how she’d ended up here rearranged itself. The same vortex that had taken him had trapped her as well. He started toward her when a glob of magic hit him broadside. The other witch, clearly one of the earlier Roskellys, continued her tirade.
Katerina was hers. Her flesh. Her blood.
He was an interloper.
She would kill him for interfering.
“Och, and we shall see about that,” he shouted back at her, matching her Gaelic with his own.