by Sarah Hegger
The faithful had started gathering with sundown. He’d been watching their repulsive shit for more years than he could count, and it still turned his stomach. Actually, that was a lie, and the true gut churner lay at his door. For at least half that time, he’d stood right by her side and drank the Kool-Aid. He’d even dispensed the Kool-Aid.
The melodramatic scene would almost make him laugh, if it hadn’t hidden something so dark it oozed through the air. Rhiannon loved a good dark powers mise en scène.
Thick, oily smoke from hundreds of candles created a heavy haze that burned his eyes. Candles covered every available surface and littered the floor. One unwary soul had already set the hem of their robe on fire and had to be carried out. There couldn’t be a candle available anywhere south of London with the number of them crammed into the old school hall.
He kept his horror on ironclad lockdown, because there was where Rhiannon wanted him, and there was where he’d be. His own miserable life had stopped meaning as much to him about the time he’d been instrumental in the murder of ninety witches. Now, he served penance. His amends were to watch and know each life she took that he couldn’t prevent was another failure. It was the sole reason he was still alive, because until Goddess awakened, he was the only one who could do anything about Rhiannon.
And Goddess was waking up. Tonight’s ritual was all about stockpiling power for when Rhiannon needed it. Rhiannon had seen Bronwyn meet her coven sisters today, and it had spurred her to action. If the coven ever figured out who and what they were, and Bronwyn with them, Rhiannon would need extra power to combat them. Unlike the cré-witches, whose magic was constantly with them, Rhiannon had to steal power and squirrel it away for when she needed it.
The Cray cousins had been living in ignorance, and it had kept them alive, but now Mags was tapping too close to the truth vein. Even with her largely dormant powers, she’d managed to stumble over how important Bronwyn was.
Like peering through a rain-streaked window, Mags’s gift gave her occasional clarity on the future. And she’d nailed this one. Bronwyn was the future, their future, as in the future of the cré-witches. Mags knew enough to know Bronwyn was important, but not how she was important, and that knowledge could very well get all of them dead.
In the meantime, Rhiannon shored up her magic, preparing for the battle to come and moving all her pieces into place.
The old school her cult had gathered in had been abandoned in the sixties as too small to meet the community’s growing needs. Rhiannon had snapped it up from the village, and the council had been only too happy to make some money out of an obsolete asset.
Nobody wanted to miss one of Rhiannon’s rituals, and the crowd was standing room only. They’d heard the stories of her true power. They gathered around her, the hopeful and the hopeless, searching for something greater than their ordinary lives. They believed in Rhiannon because they needed to, and tonight she would reward that faith.
Turned toward the door through which Rhiannon would appear, the crowd’s faces bore a nauseating mix of excitement and fervor. Most of them had no idea what they were about to witness. Those who did know what was going down were as lost as the dead. Stupid and clueless, the lot of them, playing at being witches, playing with forces so beyond their control.
Just like the Baile witches. They had no idea who they were or what they were capable of either. He’d befriended the Cray women, convincing Rhiannon it was to know her enemy, but he’d grown really fond of them. Mags was delightfully vague, Niamh a sexy force of nature, Alannah had a heart of gold, and Sinead defined the word intense. They didn’t deserve to die, and he would do whatever needed doing to make sure they didn’t.
Heat and odor of so many bodies pressed together made him long to break a window, just so he could breathe. Nobody moved, nobody complained, because nobody in their right mind would mess with Rhiannon. Especially not as her mood grew fouler every day. Drawing attention to yourself invited a world of nasty to your door.
As her son, he’d been accorded the position of “honor” closest to the altar. Behind the altar—a reconstituted desk from the science lab—six robed and hooded acolytes caterwauled some tuneless, creepy as hell chant. It made him want to make ghost noises and creepy waggly fingers. Six acolytes, evil six, mark of the beast. Mark of the psychotic bitch, more like.
With her devotion to the dramatic, Rhiannon would love it. As much as she could love anything right now.
If Roderick woke, Baile would draw from him, and her defenses would grow stronger. Maeve, as a spirit walker, could open the secrets of the caverns to this current, clueless tiny coven.
The acrid scent of urine reached him. The venerated one had pissed himself.
Completely naked, and stretched across the altar, Clyde did his best to look “worthy” and not scared shitless. Poor, stupid bastard.
Alexander didn’t know where Rhiannon found them, or how she managed to persuade them to give up their lives for her. But they did, in an almost endless supply.
Nobody had held Clyde down or drugged him senseless. Stupid fucker had walked right up to the altar and climbed aboard.
Macabre shadows made by flickered candlelight danced across the wall and ceiling. The cloying stink of incense joined the miasma of sweat and piss.
Rhiannon’s sycophants sucked up the air in the room with their mounting excitement. At least half of them would be puking before Rhiannon was done. Most of those and a few others would finally clue in on what sort of devil they’d sold their souls to. Too late, because Rhiannon never let go once she had her claws in.
Then there were the select few whom he went out of his way to avoid. These were the psychopaths, the sick fucks who got off on the violence and the pain. Not surprisingly, Rhiannon’s favorite kind of follower. Edana and Fiona fit neatly into the psychotic category.
If he ever got a chance to meet Goddess, he would ask her what she thought she was doing when she picked Rhiannon as one of her first four. If she really was this omniscient being, how did she not see right through Rhiannon and pick someone else?
Rhiannon had turned her back on being a cré-witch when she had decided being a goddess would suit her so much better. She’d been growing in power for over two thousand years, and tonight’s macabre pageantry was a complete waste of time and effort. Rhiannon could do it in a back alley as effectively, but she loved an audience.
The chanting intensified and magic—the real kind—oozed into the hall. Those susceptible to it murmured to each other. The robed choir intensified their efforts. Deluded fools that they were.
The magic came from Rhiannon, waiting outside to make her entrance. She didn’t share her jealously collected and guarded power, and she certainly wouldn’t allow it to be diluted amongst this many people. She liked them to think their association with her gave them power.
The truth would devastate most of them, and seriously dent her fan club. Rhiannon couldn’t give them any power because she didn’t have any. Not since she’d been expelled from the cré-witch coven and her connection to Goddess severed. The power she wielded was stolen, corrupted, and forced to serve her.
The hall doors flew open and crashed into the wall on either side. The woman beside him jumped, someone screamed, and a number of people gasped. Rhiannon would be eating this up with a ladle.
Edana and Fiona leading the way, another four priests behind her, Rhiannon made a slow and stately procession through the center of the hall. People dropped to their knees in waves.
Not stupid enough to be the one man standing in this orgy of worship, Alexander did the same.
Her escort wore robes in the four colors corresponding to the four birth elements. Some part of Rhiannon would always be a cré-witch, and although she’d been separated from her birth element since the moment of her expulsion, that part of her still longed for the connection.
Pure white, and almost transparent, Rhiannon’s robe gave her an ethereal quality. It also showed her naked beneath it. So much more than a s
on ever wanted to see of his mother.
Brushed into a gleaming curtain, her dark hair hung past her hips, and he chose to focus on that instead.
She drew parallel with him, stopped and held out her hand. “My son, my pride and joy, will you not join me?”
It wasn’t a request, and Alexander bowed and took her hand. He schooled his features and led her in a procession around the altar. The more he allowed his distaste to show, the worse her display would get. Positioning Rhiannon behind the altar, and facing her congregation, Alexander stepped back. Blessedly, the choir gave it a rest.
Absolute silence greeted Rhiannon. Palpable excitement throbbed through the air.
Rhiannon drew hard on her stolen magic.
It ground against his nerve endings like a toothache. He didn’t know how she did it, drew that much magic. Blood magic felt like taking a rusty razor blade to your internal organs. The more you drew, the deeper the cut. Judging by the echoes he was getting, Rhiannon must be in agony.
But the show must go on.
She picked up a black-handled dagger. “Behold the holy athame.”
The holy athame came from the Jamie Oliver collection, where he’d ordered it online for her.
Her congregation threw up their hands. “Behold.”
Fiona’s eyes glinted, and Edana’s cheeks flushed. They loved this as much as Rhiannon. He thanked his good sense every day that he’d never gone there with either of them. That Roderick couldn’t say the same gave him a smug sense of satisfaction.
Not looking nearly as sure of his decision anymore, Clyde kept his gaze locked on the knife.
Rhiannon leaned down and kissed him, once on each cheek, each eyelid, and his forehead. “For your sacrifice, you will be forever remembered. We will speak your name with honor, and we will raise you to be revered amongst us.”
Rhiannon would barely remember his name by the end of the day if she even knew it now.
What if he didn’t play along? Yeah, right, and hardly the first time Alexander had that thought. Say he did the unthinkable, freed Clyde, and the two of them made a run for the door.
At a generous estimate, they had a twenty percent chance of reaching the door alive. Assuming he could get Clyde to make a break for it, and that was by no means a certainty.
Say they got lucky and made it out the building, then what? Rhiannon had people everywhere, from the citadels of power to the worst piss-soaked alley. There was nowhere he could go she wouldn’t find him, except the one place barred to him. Baile.
“My son?” She held the knife out to him, the challenge in her eyes unmistakable.
Alexander’s gut twisted. She was testing his loyalty, and with more than himself to think about now, he could not fail.
At least he could make sure Clyde didn’t suffer too much. It was so much worse when he’d met them before, and Rhiannon knew that. This venerated being Clyde was no coincidence.
He made the first cut at the wrist. Not too deep, but enough to start the flow of blood.
Gasping, Clyde locked his gaze on Rhiannon.
“Eas.” Rhiannon’s eyes glittered as she called to the east. “Show me the path that opens the way.”
From the acolytes, the two wearing air element yellow robes stepped forward.
Rhiannon dipped her fingers in Clyde’s blood. She anointed each acolyte’s forehead in turn. “I worship the dawn. I celebrate the spring. I make this sacrifice to the waning moon, and I live this as youth.”
By sheer will, Alexander forced his hand not to shake as he slashed Clyde’s groin. He had to cut deeper to hit the femoral artery. The trick was not to nick it too deeply or the entire thing would be over too soon, and Rhiannon would choose someone else. Maybe the next someone would not be so willing to give up their life.
This time Clyde cried out.
Alexander locked it down, hard. He couldn’t help Clyde now. Clyde had made several stupid decisions that landed him there, and if their roles were reversed—or worse, it was one of the Crays on the table—Clyde wouldn’t hesitate.
“Deas,” Rhiannon called, her voice growing stronger.
Red-robed fire-element acolytes stepped forward.
“Show me the path of coming into being.”
She went through the whole anointing thing again.
Blood dripped steadily from the altar to the floor. In the front row, one of the faithful paled as she stared at the growing pool of deep red blood. A soft murmur of distress from somewhere in the crowd broke the tense silence.
It was all very well to talk about blood sacrifice, get yourself loaded on a couple of gin and tonics at the local pub and arrive for the spectacle. But only the true psychopaths could stand here unaffected as a man bled to death.
“Please,” Clyde whispered.
Alexander couldn’t even look at him. The time to beg for his life had come and gone. He cut deep into the second wrist.
A look of displeasure crossed Rhiannon’s face. She hated to be rushed.
Tough luck, bitch. Alexander moved to Clyde’s neck, ready to make the final cut.
Rhiannon sped up through her anointing of the west.
Someone retched, followed by the patter of vomit hitting the floor. It wouldn’t be long before the puking chain reaction set in.
Aaand there they went.
Without looking to see if Rhiannon was ready, he slashed the carotid.
She had two minutes tops to keep torturing the poor bastard.
Rhiannon rushed through the rest of her rigmarole.
It was all bullshit anyway. She didn’t need the acolytes, the audience or the whole anointing with blood thing.
Agony twisted her features as the elemental life magic fought back. It hated what they did to it and every time subduing it was like a wild ride into hell. He got a certain satisfaction from watching the magic tear into her.
Shudders wracked her body. Her audience stared in horror as the fighting magic threw Rhiannon into a grizzly sort of St. Vitus’s dance.
Edana and Fiona each took one of Clyde’s wrists. Pain twisted their features as they shared Rhiannon’s burden.
He could have done the same, helped her, drawn from the same blood magic she did and helped her overpower the magic. His loyalty didn’t, and wouldn’t, stretch that far. She knew he despised the blood magic, and still she chose to test him by drawing him into it.
If she wanted someone dead, then she could pay the full price for it.
The convulsions intensified, tossing her around like a ragdoll. She tumbled to the floor, still thrashing.
Edana was on her knees. Fiona clenched her hands into fists, holding on by sheer force of will.
Rhiannon was right to fear Maeve’s awakening. Maeve could teach Bronwyn all she needed to know to waken the water cardinal point.
Distressed murmurs broke from the watchers.
A pale-faced acolyte, the blood a garish streak on her forehead, stepped forward. “What’s happening?” she whispered. “Is our lady well?”
“She’s fine.” Alexander gave her an unconcerned smile. “Shouldn’t be much longer now.”
Rhiannon’s convulsions intensified, and Alexander motioned the choir.
Fear and fervor driving them, they broke into a chant.
Alexander dropped a cloth into the pool of blood at his feet and then stood on it. Magic roared through his body like a flamethrower and burned him from within. He dug his hands into his thighs to hide his reaction, gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.
Abruptly Rhiannon stilled. Broken blood vessels criss-crossed the whites of her eyes. Blood dribbled from her nose as she gave him a triumphant smile. “It is done.”
He really hoped so. Alexander helped her to her feet and tucked the blood-soaked rag out of sight.
Rhiannon’s acolytes rushed around her. Someone started the “all hail” bullshit but Alexander tuned them out.
Leaning over, he shut Clyde’s dead, staring eyes. “Goodbye,” he whispered. “I hope wherever y
ou are, it’s better than where you came from.”
Chapter Eight
In her dream, Bronwyn sat with Deidre in their kitchen at home, a house that would be hers when she returned. It was early on a summer morning, the air sticky and hot, greenery running wild in Deidre’s garden. Beyond the garden, the dark blue smudge of the sea filled the horizon.
They sat at the scrubbed wooden table in the center of their ordinary, rather drab kitchen. Deidre cradled a mug of tea between her palms and she was smiling at Bronwyn.
Even as one part of Bronwyn registered this was a dream, Deidre seemed so real to her. The lightening of her lashes at the tips, the deep smile grooves on either side of her mouth, the sunlight catching the faint peach fuzz on her top lip that she refused to wax were all so heartbreakingly familiar. Bronwyn could even smell the wood and jasmine that she always associated with Deidre.
Birds outside went quiet. Sunlight dimmed, and she and Deidre looked out the window. A large cloud moved over the sun and Deidre frowned. “That’s not right.”
Rolling and expanding, the cloud grew darker and thicker.
“So wrong.” Deidre’s favorite mug, the one with the picture of the pillar of cats that used to make her smile, dropped from her hands and hit the table. Tea splashed over her lap and the mug rolled off the table, hit the tile floor and shattered.
Deidre stared at the cloud, now black and covering the entire sky. Her eyes widened, eyes the same shade of green as Bronwyn’s. “It’s coming.”
Bronwyn wanted to run, but she couldn’t move. She was stuck in her chair with her arms useless by her sides. She opened her mouth to scream at Dee to run, but no sound came out.
The black cloud filled the garden. Nothing moved, leaves withered on their branches and died and still the black cloud came.
It swelled through the garden and pressed against the kitchen window. The window moaned under the pressure.
Bronwyn’s scream got trapped in her skull. Copper and decay made the air reek.
“Go,” Deidre whispered. “She’s coming for you. It’s you she wants.”