“I couldn’t agree more,” Pierce said.
Pierce reckoned he was going to lose out on seeing Archie on this trip, but then Darius sighed.
“If you’re going to visit Mr. Norwich, he lives near Reading in Burghfield. He has a cottage there by the lake.”
Pierce more or less knew the area.
“You best stay out of trouble while you’re here,” Darius warned, standing with his teacup. “Do not make me regret cutting you loose for the second time. Goodbye, Mr. Landcross.”
Pierce reckoned the man was waffling between whether he really should let him go or not, but he had to ask.
“Erm, could I trouble you for a lift to the railway station?”
It didn’t surprise Pierce when Darius declined. What baffled him was that the man lent him a horse. Darius must have really wanted him out of his sight, which suited Pierce just fine. Darius didn’t even tell him to bring the animal back, which, given its old age, made sense.
He rode into Southampton, popped into a local bookstore where he ignored copies of The Adventures of Pierce Landcross, and bought a book.
Since his encounter with the stable siblings in Le Havre, he figured people might recognize him even more than when he was Britain’s outlaw. For the first time, he could travel through England without being hunted by authorities, yet he was still uncomfortable with having any amount of attention drawn on him, especially when there was a witch out there wanting his blood. And given his kind of reputation, there was no telling who else might try to take his life.
Before going to the station, Pierce decided to purchase a pair of black tinted spectacles, as well. He bought a ticket to Reading, as well as cargo space for his ancient horse.
He had to admit, he was excited about riding on the locomotive. Never had he been on a real train before, only the Puffing Billy trains in London.
After waiting at the halt station, his train arrived. He stood on the platform and watched as it rolled underneath the high glass ceiling of the station. The smoke pouring from the train’s chimney plumed upward and curved against the large skylight.
The locomotive was a black iron beast with a long cowcatcher that narrowed to a fine point. The running gears slowed their hypnotic rotation and squealed loudly to a halt. Steam swooshed over the awaiting passengers, bringing with it the strong smell of burning oil.
Gooseflesh rose over Pierce’s skin.
After the previous passengers departed and claimed their luggage, the next set of passengers boarded. The carpet running between the seats was printed with green, white, pink, and red roses. The walls were dark wood, and there were decorative brass metal light fixtures hanging above.
Pierce took a seat in a cushy emerald chair by an arched window that was tinted lime at the top. He took off his spectacles and began cleaning them with his shirt. He put them back on and read his book while he waited.
When the locomotive began moving, Pierce grinned like a giddy child. As the machine rolled from the station and began to gain speed, he stared out the window, awed by how everything outside went by so quickly.
And yet, it somehow felt as if he had ridden this fast before. He had flown in an airship when he needed to rescue Taisia from Gog, who’d wanted her as his wife. Yet, the sense of traveling in a motorized vehicle beforehand was strong.
Instead of letting the strange déjà vu spoil this exciting experience by trying to place it, he pushed the thought aside and enjoyed the moment.
A guard appeared and requested his ticket.
“Don’t I know you, laddie?” said the Scotsman, punching a hole in his ticket when Pierce gave it to him.
Pierce grunted, afraid the guard might recognize him from the books. “Prostite? Ya ne govoryu po-angliyski,” he responded in Russian.
The guard stared at him, confused, as he handed the ticket over. “Och, sorry, laddie. I was mistaken.”
He walked off and Pierce turned his focus back to the window.
When the exhilaration of train travel subsided, Pierce tried reading, but the constant bumpiness of the ride made him ill. Instead, he reached into his bag and brought out a ring box. The box was the same one he’d used to hold his and Taisia’s wedding bands on the night he found them inside the antique shop in Scotland. It had been stored in his old rucksack, and when Pierce found the box, he decided to use it.
He cracked it open and looked at the tiny painted shell Lydia had given him. His heart swelled. The only good thing about staying on the move was it distracted him from the ache of longing he felt for his wife and children. Not a moment went by without them in his thoughts.
He snapped the box shut and set his sights on the window again while rubbing Taisia’s wedding band between his fingers.
* * *
When the train arrived at Reading Station, Pierce collected his horse and headed down to the lake. The clouds that had been threatening rain for the past few hours had finally opened up. Pierce followed the road leading around the large body of water, searching for the cabin. He stopped at one house to ask about the Norwiches. They sent him to the other side of the damn lake. It wasn’t a quick ride over, either. By the time he was knocking on the door, rain had seeped through his dapper coat and the chill had made him desperate to blow his nose.
“Landcross?” said Archie, who answered the door.
“Do you have a handkerchief, mate?” he asked with a sniff as he stood shivering on the doorstep.
The Sorceress, the Queen, and the Nightmare Mare
Chapter Fourteen
Nightmares
Chains need links to become a chain. When those links are broken, so breaks the chain. The sequence of life is no different, and when severed, new links must be made in order for the sequence to become whole again.
This is the story of how a single link with several special bloodlines was created, and how it later caused a mother’s downfall.
Winter, 1246
“And you wish him dead, little queen?” Sorceress Huld asked Queen Drifa.
“I do, mistress. He has abandoned me and left my heart in pieces. I come to you asking for his life, for you have power over the Fates.”
Huld stretched her arms out and twirled around in the bed of colorful flowers she and the queen stood in. Winter never touched her realm unless she wished it. The fields were always green and decorated with pansies, orchids, hibiscus, and countless other species of flowers, some of which only existed here.
The sorceress stopped her playful spinning and her long hair brushed against her arm before falling back. She looked at the Uppsala queen. Such a weak creature she was, Huld thought. Pretty, but pathetic. If the queen were any kind of woman, she’d forget her husband and rule the kingdom without him. She was no ruler, though, and in truth, neither was King Vanlandi Sveigðisson, who had been running away from his duties for a decade.
“What say you, Mistress Huld?” the little queen pressed. “Will you do this?”
“I shall, but only because I pity you.”
The queen bowed her head, shame reddening her cheeks. “What is to happen to him?”
“I’ll send a mare to ride him. Does that satisfy my lady?”
The queen’s eyes glimmered with delight. “Oh, yes, very much so!”
“Good. Now, go home. You and I shall never speak again.”
* * *
Queen Drifa snapped awake and sat up on the black bearskin rug she lay upon. Surrounding her were candles, most of which had burnt out. The wax had pooled over the candleholders, drying in clumps in the thick fur. A scroll that once bore instructions for how to summon the Finnish sorceress lay before her. The text was no longer printed on the parchment, and the words had fled from her memory.
She crumpled the parchment and began laughing before her laughter turned into heavy sobbing.
* * *
Mara galloped her fire horse through the night sky, enjoying the power of the beast between her legs. The animal foamed lava from its mouth as she whipped it onward
. If anyone below saw her, they would believe they were looking at a slow-moving shooting star. Mara rode into a dense cloud that was plump with water ready to fall. The moisture sizzled against the steed’s fiery body, producing smoke that left a trail behind them. Flashes of lightning ignited all around them. She rode on through it. The electricity excited her. She raised her arms, letting the water wash over her. The forceful sound of thunderous booms struck her chest. Another white flash and all went quiet.
Mara opened her eyes to the sunlight. She stood in a field of flowers. A tall waterfall was falling right out of thin air, crashing into a pond in the distance. The roar was calming. Mara was drenched by rainwater, her blood pumping from the exhilaration she had experienced only moments ago.
“Hello, Mara,” came a voice from behind her.
She turned to see none other than that high and mighty bitch, Huld. The fire mount was grazing nearby. Its flames had been extinguished, leaving behind a scorched, sweat-drenched horse.
Huld looked as charming and majestic as ever. Mara hated her power and beauty.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mara demanded. “Why have you brought me into your realm?”
“I want you to ride someone. Give him such a frightful nightmare it’ll cause his heart to stop.”
“Never have I killed anyone using nightmares.”
“Then this will be the perfect opportunity to test your abilities as a mare,” the snobby enchantress remarked with a flick of her wrist.
“What do I get out of this?” Mara asked as Huld circled her.
The sorceress shrugged. “My protection. None shall be allowed to take your life while I’m alive.” She moved around and faced her. “And you’ll be able to boast. Not many mares are capable of killing using nightmares alone. They can only bring insanity, which sometimes leads to suicide.”
“Then get those few who are able to do that. Why summon me?”
“Because I chose you,” she answered bluntly. “And you are doing this.”
Mara glared at her spitefully. “I have no choice, do I?”
“Not unless you wish for me to melt you into a comet that’ll forever soar aimlessly through the cosmos.”
Mara knew she’d do it, too.
“Fine,” she grunted. “Who is it that I am to ride?”
* * *
King Vanlandi Sveigðisson slept on his bed of furs. He lay on his back, his arm resting over his broad chest. Mara admired him for a while. He had light skin and long dark hair surrounding his handsome face like a lion’s mane.
Perhaps this would be worthwhile, after all.
She undressed and threw the fur covers off him. With victims Mara found attractive, she did more to them than simply give them bad dreams. The Uppsala King would be one of them.
He lay sprawled out before her, and she stripped him nude before mounting him. His head was full of stories that were intertwined with random events that had happened over the course of his day. Typical dreaming, but it was about to change.
With a touch of her hand, his cock was ready to fill her. She straddled him, giving in to her sexual desires.
Yet, even as the king’s body experienced pleasure, his mind was in torment. He moaned not from the sex he was unknowingly having, but from the terrors tearing through his head. She worked him until morning and all through the following night when she returned. In the weeks that followed, she helped herself to the king while projecting horrifying images into his dreams. His dreadful cries only excited her. When the nightmares grew intense enough, the king started to avoid sleep. The fear of dismemberment or being eaten away from the inside out, or even the eternal drowning that had become more realistic with each passing night, kept him awake.
Once, he dreamed a wolf had him pinned to the ground and was tearing into his groin. The pain turned into pleasure when the wolf morphed into a woman with narrow facial features, black eyes, and hair that appeared like twisted twigs standing on end. She was naked and riding him while stroking her own breasts.
When Mara noticed him looking at her, she snarled. “Sleep,” she demanded.
He plunged back into the dangerous darkness where he was being chased by something, but his legs would not work right. The breath of his unknown predator felt tremendously hot at the nape of his neck.
Vanlandi reported what he’d seen to his closest friends. The king believed he was losing his mind.
With his strength fading, Mara came for him one final time.
His heart pounded. She felt the beats beneath her hands while she gripped his chest. Again, she was on top of him, giving his body the pleasure that every mortal man craved. She sent the king the worst nightmares she could while she grew more aggressive in her fucking. With pleasure came the pain. His temperature rose and sweat poured from him. His arms flailed around as he tried to escape the stomach of the beast he dreamt he was in. Pieces of his own mauled body tumbled around in the beast’s stomach. Mara rose with his hips as he arched his back. With a horrified cry, the king climaxed. He awoke with wide eyes that were bloodshot with fear. He gasped, feeling the last painful beat before his heart seized up and stopped. He fell halfway off his bed, his lifeless gaze reflecting the horrors he saw. And there he stayed until his servants found him.
“This took you long enough,” Huld scolded Mara as they watched the servants lift the dead king back up to his bed.
“I told you. I have never killed anyone with nightmares before.”
“I think you let your succubus side take over,” Huld sneered. “No matter. He’s dead and his weak widow can live in her guilt instead of her vengefulness.”
“May I leave now?” the mare asked icily.
Huld faced her, her gaze focusing on Mara’s belly. “Are you going to keep it?”
Mara knew that at the rate she carried on with men, one of them was bound to spill his seed into her and that she’d eventually find herself with child.
“In the sense that I will raise it? No. I’ll discard it by sending it to live among the mortal humans as most of us do who have unwanted offspring.”
Huld snorted. “It amazes me how many of our children we toss to the humans. I often wonder what effect it could have on us someday.”
“What do you mean?”
“Such bloodlines have the potential to lead to dangerous things if certain ones cross paths. Have you ever heard ‘The Story of the Priest?’”
Mara thought a bit. “If it is of the Forgotten Stories, then maybe I have.”
“Let me tell it to you.” She looked away. “No one knows how they obtained their powers,” she began. “Some speculate that they came from another plane of existence, perhaps one that no longer exists. One in which they may have destroyed themselves. They were destructive creatures and were in need of a new home. They found it here, where they declared themselves gods . . .”
When she finished the tale, Mara could hardly believe it.
“Is that true?” Mara asked.
Huld nodded. “Not that you can do anything with what I have told you, little mare, but that doesn’t mean someone else cannot. Take heed, Mara, for the more of our young we cast out, the closer to potential peril we put ourselves.”
After she’d vanished, Mara shook her head. “Stupid fearmongering.”
The mare gave birth to a girl child and left her on the beach of Sylt, Germany, where fishermen discovered the baby.
Another link made.
Chapter Fifteen
What to Do With You
Scotland,
Summer, 1835
Mara kicked her fire horse to get it to go faster through the sky. Only, this time, a witch was chasing her. The witch was clever. As Mara rode her fire horse farther up into the sky, a heavy waterfall suddenly appeared in her path. There was no time to steer the steed away before they rode straight through it, dousing the fire and hardening the animal to stone. Beast and mare fell from the sky. Mara managed to remain on the horse until they’d almost reached the ground. She leap
ed off its back and hit the ground, kicking up mounds of dirt as she rolled over the surface. The horse broke into large chunks and scattered across the land.
Mara’s body was battered from the fall, but she still managed to get to her feet. There was a battle going on in the distance—a skirmish that had happened years ago. The echoes of this fight were being carried out by the spirits and imprints of the dead Viking army of Ivar the Boneless and the soldiers of Constantine I. Mara ran through the chaos of clashing swords and the cries of battle and pain.
She reached a cluster of rocks and climbed onto a boulder that overlooked the entire battlefield. A thick fog pumped out of her as she worked to catch her breath. The witch was nowhere to be seen.
A blast of energy knocked her right off the boulder and back into the fighting field. She hit the ground and rolled before eventually coming to a stop at someone’s foot.
“You’re not going to escape from me, you little slut,” threatened the red-haired woman, looking down at her.
Mara rolled to her feet, standing within the transparent and moving imprint of a Viking spirit fighting his opponent.
“Stay away from me, witch!” Mara said.
“I prefer to hear ‘Mother of Craft’ from the likes of you, mare. And you’re the one who has provoked this fight between us.”
“It is you who started this when you decided to create . . .”
“What I am doing is none of your concern,” the witch cut in tersely.
“It is my concern, especially since you’re using my own descendant in your plan.”
Mara had discovered something while giving an albino German nightmares. Woven within his troubled memories, she had discovered a British man he was hunting. The Englishman was a handsome young thing, Mara thought, and she’d decided that perhaps she’d go visit him. When she found him, though, she sensed the different bloodlines within him. It reminded her of the forgotten story Huld had spoken about. As the youth slept, she peered into his thoughts and discovered a part of his past that related to Mara indirectly. A woman he’d met years ago in a theater. That was when the witch showed up and chased her off.
The Forgotten Story Page 14