by Ann Gimpel
At least not enough to formulate the kinds of changes that might make a dent in an inevitable slide toward oblivion. He came to a stop next to the scotch. He’d left it out, but when he reached for it, he changed his mind. Liquor wouldn’t solve his problems, and he needed a clear head.
Something was going on, something dark and subtle and insidious, but he couldn’t quite identify it. He might be overreacting, but he didn’t think so. Katerina was a stunning woman, and he was drawn to her in ways he didn’t understand. He’d been so aroused by the touch of her lips and body, his mind had checked out. Yet their kiss in the car held elements of coercion simmering in the background.
One thing was certain. If he hadn’t interrupted their embrace, they’d have ended up in the miniature backseat with her straddling his lap. Just the thought of her sinking onto his cock, all heat and slickness, almost made him come. He clapped a hand over the tented-out front of his trousers before he realized what he was about.
What? Was he going to drag his dick out in the middle of his living room and shag himself until he came? The way he was feeling, it wouldn’t take more than a few strokes.
“Stop it. Just stop.” His words were harsh and loud, but they had the desired effect. His arousal receded enough for him to think of something beyond Katerina’s high, rounded globes of breasts and the taste of her mouth glued against his as she kissed him. She’d returned his passion with a fire that made him long for her.
He examined his hunger and his need. Both were real enough but tainted with whatever had been skulking on the sidelines since two nights ago in the lecture hall.
He sucked air deep into his lungs, blew it out, and did it again, before standing tall. If he was right, and something evil was creeping about, he’d deal with it immediately. “Show yourself.” He added a Gaelic power word to the mix. If anything lurked, it would have no choice but to reveal its presence.
The corners of his vision darkened, and the air took on a decidedly menacing edge. The feel of witch magic pounded him, acrid and sour. Was it Rhea, or was he picking up something from Katerina?
She had the same power as her kinswoman, just no concept what to do with it. Or maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she’d led him to believe. He’d assumed her panic in the Cameron crypt was real, but a consummate actress could have faked being scared to her bones.
His arousal scattered, leaving an ache in his balls. Thank all the gods he hadn’t had sex with her. His semen would give her power over him, if she were inclined to grab the upper hand.
Witch power moved toward him from the four corners of the generous great room, creating a gray haze that partially obscured antique furniture, bookcases, and finely crafted art objects he’d collected through his lengthy life. The fire blew out in a whoosh, turning from flames to smoldering cinders.
Arlen squared his shoulders. He’d summoned the thing. He’d see this through. Magic danced to his call, and he draped warding around himself. Before it was complete, he reached for Sean with his mind calling, “Gabh i leith.” Gaelic for come to me.
Cackling laughter battered him from all sides. He rolled his eyes and said in Gaelic, “If ’tis the most ye can do, best leave off afore ye strain your vocal cords.”
He narrowed his eyes, willing the voice to develop a body to go along with it. Sure enough, Rhea took shape out of the misty gloom, flanked by two more witches.
He angled his head. “Dinna care for the odds last time? One on one too much for you?”
“Sling all the shit ye wish,” Rhea countered. Her silvery hair shrouded her projection, but enough of her was here for him to do some harm.
“What the unholy fuck?” Another witch with skanky dark hair falling out in patches asked.
“Aye, just our luck,” witch number three cut in. “A man who rises above his cock.” She dissolved into cackles, maybe at her own play on words about things rising. Her hair had probably been a clear, true red once, but had faded to rust tones splashed with gray.
All three of the women were garbed in tattered black robes. For all he knew, they’d been buried in them.
Arlen cut to the chase. “Lovely of ye three to drop in, but why are ye here?” He eyed the trio. They reminded him of the witches in Macbeth or the Morrigan with her triple nature. Neither analogy made him feel any better.
“We are here,” Rhea began, adding a dramatic flourish with both hands. Her nails were cracked with dirt ground beneath them.
“To make certain ye doona interfere a second time,” the dark-haired witch clarified.
“Interfere with what?” he asked, projecting confusion. He was quite sure he understood, but keeping them talking meant maybe they wouldn’t pay close attention while he cooked up a counter spell to banish them from his home. Besides, if they had information, they might let some of it leak.
Being dead conferred an advantage or two, but it also dulled reasoning ability.
Rhea floated closer, not stopping until her face was only a foot away. She smelled of rot and death with a flowery veneer that didn’t do much to mask her stench. “Katerina is mine. I claim her by right of blood. Ye willna interfere.”
“Interfere with what?” Arlen shrugged. “As ye can see, I’m here in my home, minding my business. Katerina is her own woman. I left her at her hotel as any gentleman rightly born would have.”
“Ye werena so gentlemanly in your car.” Rhea’s tone was sly.
He buried his reactions deep, along with fervent relief Kat had been a bystander. Rhea was the one on the sidelines orchestrating lust—or feeding the flames since his desire for Kat had a life of its own without help from anyone—living or dead.
“I might have been more forward if I had a taste for ménage a trois.” He leered at her. “Or necrophilia.”
She hissed, drawing her lips back from yellowed teeth. “Ye upstart.”
“I’d watch who ye call names. I’m older than ye lay claim to.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I still have no idea why ye’re here.”
“To make certain ye remain and doona run after our kinswoman as ye did the last time.”
Anger did battle with worry. He wanted to tear the witches into untidy pieces—and he might make it through one of them before the others laid into him with teeth, nails, and excoriating magic meant to strip flesh from bones.
It took effort, but he played dumb. “I left her at her hotel. Why would I go after her?”
Rhea snarled, “I canna believe ye’re that dense, Druid.” The way she said Druid made it sound like a curse.
“Fine. Berate a chap for asking an honest question. If ’tis all the same to you, I’d prefer it if ye returned whence ye came. I would retire, and I was serious when I said sex with the dead isn’t in my top ten preferred activities.”
He gazed from one Roskelly witch to the next and back again. Would they believe his deception? Or would they see right through his flimsy effort for the desperate ploy it was?
The witch with faded red hair sidled close. “Ye only think ye left her at the King’s Arms. We had other plans.”
Alarm bells tolled, deafening him, but he forced himself to retain a bland demeanor. “Other plans?” He echoed her words. “Like what? Inverness is a wee bit shy on night life.”
Another wicked laugh punctuated the spell eddying about him. “Particularly the Inverness where we sent her,” the witch retorted.
“Shut up!” Rhea rounded on her. “Just shut up, ye great stupid cow.”
“I’ll not have ye calling me names.” Red hauled off and slapped Rhea, but since neither of them were fully corporeal, the blow bounced off.
Arlen’s mind moved with the speed of a riverboat gambler shuffling cards. Goddammit all to hell. Kat must have gone out and been snared in another time-traveling junket. He had to get rid of the dynamic trio, so he could go after her. She wouldn’t fare any better in Old Inverness than she would have in Old Ft. William.
He feigned surprise. “Ye went to a lot of trouble to move her backward
in time—again. Yet ye’re here. Aren’t ye a wee bit concerned she’ll find a way out of your trickery? After all, she holds the same magic as you.”
“Pfft.” Rhea spat a thin strand of saliva onto the rug. “If she gets into a dicey spot, she’ll welcome me when I show up.”
“She’s the last of our line,” Red piped up.
“I told ye to shut up,” Rhea screeched.
Arlen filed the information away. No wonder Rhea was hot on the trail of her great-great granddaughter. “Let me guess,” he said as he let magic seep into him, intent on attacking. “Someone else ye’d counted on either died or defected.”
“Died,” the black-haired witch snapped. “No one defects from the Roskellys. ’Tis an honor to be counted among our number.”
Arlen waited through five more seconds before he loosed a volley of power aimed right at Rhea. Her form shattered but regrouped a few feet away. “I thought ye were up to something. Give it up, Druid. Ye’re no match for three of us.”
“We could lock him in,” Red suggested.
“Aye, if we did, then we could follow our kinswoman—ensure her loyalty to us and us alone.”
Arlen was done playing with the witches. He fired more power, this time scattering it, so it hit them all. Their bodies barely flickered before shining stronger than ever.
Concern tempered with fury ripped through him. He had to get to Kat before she ran into a rabid churchman. One gander through that shoulder bag she always carried, and she’d be on a one-way trip to the gallows or the pyre. Nothing like an electronic tablet that blinked and beeped and played music to seal your fate.
“Where’d you send her this time?” He tried for authoritative but didn’t even fool himself.
“Ye must think we’re stupid.” Red lifted a corner of her mouth into a sneer.
It took discipline, but he restrained himself from hearty agreement. If he got out of this mess, he could track Kat with magic, so long as her trail hadn’t grown too cold.
He glared at the witches. They glared back. Around him, the house grumbled and groaned. Constructed with a generous dollop of Druid magic mixed with Earth power, it resented the witches’ presence as much as he did.
Hope flared. The stones and timbers around him could help expel fell energy. He hadn’t considered them before, but he did now. The time for elegant and indirect was past. He raised his hands, chanting in ancient Gaelic, the Druids’ spell language.
Rhea and her henchwomen laughed, but he kept going. If this worked, they’d be laughing from the stone dungeon, a spot he could hold them with magic once he managed to stuff them inside.
Power rumbled through the stones around him, amplifying his Druid ability beyond his expectations. Power rushed through him; even his voice grew deeper, more commanding. The floor shook; plaster rained down. He could rebuild later. The most important thing was breaking free.
He had to find Kat. And this time, by all the bloody, fucking saints, he’d teach her magic whether she wanted to learn or not. She had to protect herself or her life would turn into a revolving door as she bounced forward and backward in time. Even if she kept right on telling Rhea to go to hell, eventually, she’d run up against the wrong people, and that would be that.
Blistering insight ran molten, scouring his soul with awareness. She was his. They were fated to be together. Why else would she have been thrust into his path? And he into hers?
Magic called to magic. No two ways to slice it.
With total disregard for his newfound wisdom, the witches uttered blood-curdling cries and threw themselves on him, biting, ripping, tearing with teeth and nails. Christ! They weren’t even here, not really, so why was he bleeding from a dozen spots. He tried warding himself, but their magic cut right through his efforts.
When wards didn’t work, he slapped and punched and bit back. Grabbing handfuls of hair, he pulled until the witches shrieked with pain, and great hanks of the greasy shit came loose in his hands. He should use magic. It was neater, cleaner, and a whole lot more powerful.
Except, he’d tried it and gotten nowhere. Whatever he destroyed with Druid magic, they resurrected immediately by applying the darker side of enchantments.
He’d always known black magic was stronger, but when had it outstripped his by such an enormous margin?
When I stopped using magic and lost my touch, he thought sourly and sucker-punched Red in the chest. She opened her mouth and spewed a noxious mix of vomit and saliva all over him. He kicked her from the side and heard ribs breaking. Moaning, she crumpled to the floor and wrapped her arms around herself. Flexible staves shot through the floor, winding themselves around her scrunched up body. She struggled against them, but they held her in place.
Excellent.
He’d been afraid if he hurt the witches too badly, they’d thumb their noses at him and leave. He needed to immobilize them, not have them pop back up like smirking gargoyle targets in a shooting gallery.
One down. Two to go. He could do this. A hunk of plaster the size of a beach ball broke off and fell on Rhea’s head, knocking her to her knees. Staves shot out, but before they could snare her, she leapt beyond their reach shouting in a language he’d never heard before.
He’d always suspected black magic practitioners had their own dialect, but this was the first he’d heard it. He made a point of remembering her words. Maybe there’d be a way to turn witch power against Rhea and the other Roskellys. This batch was the tip of the iceberg. If they failed, others would pick up the slack.
If Katerina was truly the last, they wouldn’t rest until she was inculcated into the fold.
A roar rolled through the old house. From the far end, the stout oaken door boomed as it crashed against its stops. Druid energy poured inside, along with their Gaelic war cry rolling from many throats.
Sean, Morgan, and half a dozen others rushed to his side, magic shrouding them and flashing from outstretched hands. He wove his power in with theirs, but in the moments while they joined forces, Rhea and the black-haired Roskelly witch turned into pillars of black-tinged flame and vanished.
“Ye canna leave me,” Red wailed from where she thrashed on the floor.
“Ha.” Morgan stood over her. “So much for solidarity among witches, eh?” She kicked the witch in her broken ribs.
The witch squealed.
“No time for her,” Arlen shouted. “We have to go after Katerina.”
“Thought you left her at the King’s Arms.” Sean was breathing hard, but his immaculately tailored suit was none the worse for his mad dash across Inverness.
“Aye, that I did, but she apparently went out for something—”
“Or was pushed into doing so,” Morgan said sourly and gave the witch at her feet another robust kick. “Is that what happened, bitch?”
“A wee suggestion,” the witch moaned. “’Twasn’t as if we twisted her arm and forced our kinswoman to leave her room.”
Arlen hunkered next to the witch. “Where is she?” he thundered.
“Wouldn’t ye like to know.” Blood dripped from the witch’s mouth, staining her chin and teeth.
“Aye, and ye’d like to be free, eh?” He rocked back on his heels, regarding the captive witch.
A shadow crossed her broken face, and she shook her head. “I’d give anything to be free, but the others would kill me.”
“I have news, witch,” Morgan snarled. “Ye’re already dead.”
“Look at me.” She spat another mouthful of blood, turning the carpet red-black. “Dead doesna mean I canna suffer.”
“They left you to rot.” Sean joined them.
“Aye, that they did,” Arlen agreed. “I’d watch where ye place your loyalties.”
The witch turned her face away. Tears slid from beneath her closed lids. When she opened her amber eyes, she said, “Ye’ll free me?”
Arlen touched her shoulder, so she’d know he was telling the truth. “We canna afford to waste time picking exit points in the past. If we gue
ss wrong too many times, Katerina will swing from a gibbet afore we arrive.”
“Rhea wouldn’t allow it.” Red sounded indignant.
He didn’t point out that being shanghaied into witchcraft wouldn’t fly, either. Kat would fight them tooth and nail, but in the end, she’d be just as dead as if a Churchman had found her first.
“Rhea doesn’t care as much as all that.” Morgan’s tone was silk-lined compulsion. “Where is Katerina?”
“1732.”
“Inverness, right?” Arlen pressed.
The witch nodded and thrashed weakly. “Free me. We struck a bargain.”
“I shall keep my end, but only once I’ve returned.”
“Why ye right bastard,” the witch screeched, spraying him with spittle.
He pushed to his feet. “Think about it,” he growled. “We free you now, first thing ye’ll do is run to Rhea and the other one. Ye’ll confess, and they’ll move Kat. Unlike ye, I am honorable. Unless ye’ve destroyed yourself fighting your bonds, I’ll sever them as soon as Kat is safely returned.”
“I can find her for you.” The witch assessed him with shrewd eyes.
“I’ll find her on my own, thanks,” Arlen retorted. Motioning the Druids to the far side of the room, he draped them in magic to mute their conversation. “Who’s coming with me? I’ll take two. More than that, and the time-transit magic will become too complex.”
“Me,” Sean said.
“Aye, and me as well.” Morgan screwed her face into a mask that would frighten anyone.
“We’ll stand guard over the witch,” Will said.
“Aye. In case the two who left have second thoughts and return for her,” Krista added. Will’s mate, she was just as fair as him. Arlen had always suspected they had faery blood with their white-blonde hair and icy, pale eyes.
“Excellent.” Arlen touched both of them briefly on the shoulder.
He thought Rhea and the other witch returning was remote, but it paid to be careful. He let power build around him, as Sean and Morgan threaded their magic with his spell.