by Sarah Hegger
As she stepped into the caverns, the entrance felt different, dark and still.
Nothing.
The sigils did not wake to her presence as they should. For her, as they were for everyone else, they were patterns on the wall made of fossils, shells and crystals. It was like missing a limb. “No.”
“Do not despair,” Roderick murmured. Through their bond she could sense him questing for Goddess and she knew not if he sought to comfort her or himself.
They walked deeper into the first cavern. It was so dark she stumbled over a rock.
The sigils had always cast a soft ambient light for her, enough for her to see her way.
Baile was muted, Roderick couldn’t sense Goddess, and now the sigils remained dormant. She couldn’t reach the witches who had passed. Maeve refused to even consider the possibility the sigils might be forever dead.
Maeve called fire to her and clicked her fingers. Fire rose, as did her magic, scenting the air with lily and orange, but the upswell of power fell short. Fire’s response was a trace of the power she should be able to wield. “My element is…” She couldn’t quite put it in words. “Like a candle barely burning.”
“It must be tied to Goddess being so hushed.” Roderick took the lead, seeming to see better in the dark than she. He led her through an arched doorway into another chamber and then another beyond that. Even Maeve had never explored how many chambers ran beneath Baile. She had only worked in the caverns with sigils on the walls. “If you can sense fire it means it is still there but weak. Like Baile.”
Not wanting to ask her next question, Maeve’s nerves tightened around her lungs. “And Goddess?”
“Same.” Roderick frowned in concentration. “She is there but not there.”
“Then not dead.” And Maeve drew enormous comfort from that. If Goddess was still amongst them, there was hope. Goddess was life, and from life flowed all blessings and good. Cré-witches had been created in her image, made conduits of her magic, to serve life and the life within humanity.
Their footsteps were loud in the silent caverns. In the past, when Maeve had visited, the sigils had always hummed or chimed when she was near. She stopped and pressed her hand to the wall.
Silence greeted her. Where the sacred grove should have been was now a vast emptiness. Her presence rippled through the dead space, growing wider as it spread in circles from the point of contact.
A breath of breeze stirred the dark.
Sister.
Spirit Walker.
Her dead sisters’ voices came from down a long, dark tunnel, so soft she could barely hear them. But at least they were still there, so she indulged in the victory. If they were there, then she could still walk amongst them. “I need to reach them,” she said. “They need me.”
“Aye.” Roderick led her through the caverns into the central cavern. “I think we are needed for much in this time.”
In the center of the central cavern lay Goddess Pool, absolutely still in the dark cavern. Maeve could barely make out the water as darker matter within the gloom.
Roderick stopped at the edge of Goddess Pool and plunged his hand into the water.
Light, the same icy blue as Roderick’s eyes, burst through the pool.
Maeve reeled against the sudden brightness.
Light blazed and then dimmed to creamy phosphorescence. Goddess’s voice, old and brittle as cracked parchment, said, “Roderick?”
“My lady?” Roderick crouched beside the pool with his head bowed. “I serve.”
“Roderick.” The voice strengthened. “You are come at last.”
“I have come, and I serve.” He glanced at Maeve. “I stand with my Blessed.”
Light flickered in the water and then brightened. “Good.” The light dimmed and Goddess’s voice weakened. “It is almost too late. Magic is almost gone.”
“You need magic.” Truth crashed into Maeve. Magic came from Goddess, but it also fed Goddess, like the cord between a mother and her unborn child.
Water flared brighter.
And Maeve knew the why of all of it. Why her sisters had given their lives to send her and Roderick into a frozen state. Why Baile had exhausted her magic to keep them sheltered, and why they were alive at this time. Her coimhdeacht stood near, so tall and strong, and here to work by her side. When Roderick had bonded to her, she had been confused and disbelieving. Why would a spirit walker need a warrior guardian to protect her when she never left Baile? “It’s the magic.”
Goddess had known all along. Maeve would need Roderick to protect her in this new time when nothing was as it had been, and they needed to forge everything from new. Goddess had gifted her the strongest of all the coimhdeacht, the one who could succor Baile. She was the spirit walker, and her dead sisters held the key to all the magic of cré-witches who had come before, and Maeve sensed they would need it all. “It’s our magic.” It bore repeating because it was all they lived for now. “We need to bring it back.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rhiannon had no idea what he’d done. Yet. Alexander knew this for certain because he was still breathing and attending her demand for an immediate meeting. Even her desire to control the prophecy might not be enough to save him if she ever found out the part he’d played in waking Roderick and Maeve. Fortunately, he didn’t see either Maeve or Roderick sharing that tidbit with her. Roderick hated him, but that paled in comparison to how Roderick felt about Rhiannon.
She would find out eventually, so he was living on borrowed time. For now, however, it was enough that Bronwyn was behind Baile’s wards, and Roderick was around to keep it that way. He couldn’t prevent the sting of if only when he thought of Bronwyn. It was as it was, and thinking otherwise would get her killed.
“When did they wake?” He thumbed through his cell for the latest on the mysterious disappearance of The Lovers statue from the village green. Speculation around who, what, when and why ran the gamut from esoteric to entertaining.
Edana and Fiona huddled in the corner of Rhiannon’s living room looking like they wanted to be anywhere else.
Alexander empathized, but Rhiannon had called this meeting, and none of them were foolish enough to not attend.
“Late last night.” Edana gave him a melting look. He would have thought she’d have given up on him by now, but she was nothing if not relentless.
Fiona, the far wiser of the two, kept her attention on a fuming and pacing Rhiannon. “More like the very early hours of this morning.”
Edana glared at Fiona, who made a face back. Even they wouldn’t bicker with Rhiannon in a froth. It was safe to say Rhiannon had not taken the news of Roderick and Maeve being awake well.
“We need to keep a lid on this,” he said. In these days of cell phones and the internet, keeping magic under wraps was imperative, and Rhiannon looked about a heartbeat away from incinerating the village. Another constant in his long life was the way people reacted on discovering witches and magic were real—they didn’t like it. A lot.
Keeping her gaze on the main danger source, Fiona nodded. “I’ve got that in hand.”
“Have you?” Rhiannon halted midpace, her eyes flashing fury. “Like you had Roderick and Maeve in hand. Remember?” She stalked a paling Fiona. “The little spirit walker wasn’t going to be a problem.” She jerked her chin at Edana. “This pretty toy was going to keep Roderick busy.”
Fiona bowed her head. “You’re right, mistress. We failed you.” She side-eyed Edana. “I was given to understand Roderick’s attachment was of a more lasting kind.”
With that, Fiona tossed Edana under the bus, reversed, and drove over her again.
Paler than her white sundress, Edana stared at the floor. Her lips moved as if she was praying for her life. Alexander wished her luck with her prayers. Certainly no good or loving being would be listening to them. Pretty—no beautiful—but vain and stupid, Edana had done her fair share of havoc wreaking.
“He preferred the spirit walker to me,” Edana whis
pered.
Alexander would have made the same choice as Roderick. Not Edana’s match in physical beauty, Maeve radiated purity. He had only met her a couple of times, and not under ideal circumstances, but Alexander would have chosen Maeve over Edana any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
On a growl, Rhiannon paced to the other side of her cluttered living room.
More like a clamber and trip, because Rhiannon never threw anything away. Countless treasures from her obscenely long life filled her house to bursting. Every now and again he snuck one out and sold it. Rhiannon had learned how to use a credit card but gave no thought to how that credit card got paid off. It was in everyone’s best interests to keep her contentedly tottering around in Louboutins. “Where is the water witch?”
“I’m not certain,” he said and the interrogation light swung his way. “I’ve been making considerable progress with her.”
Always ready to defer blame, Fiona sniffed. “Really? Holding hands and tongue tussling isn’t going to get the job done.”
“I’m aware of that.” The trick to Fiona was never letting her see your weakness. “Not that I’d expect you to grasp this, but seduction is a subtle pursuit more than a bellowing charge.”
Fiona flushed and scowled at him. She could glower all she liked because they both knew he had what Rhiannon needed.
Rhiannon wove around an upholstered Tudor chair, tripped over a leg and gave it a vicious kick. “I’m missing something.”
“In terms of?” Alexander winced for the chair. He got up and moved it out of her way. The chair would pay off her Fortnum & Mason’s account this month if she didn’t kick the shit out of it first.
“They woke up.”
The look of pure rage she gave him had Alexander stepping closer to the door. His gut clenched. Now that her rage was more manageable, her brain had kicked in. “I’m aware.”
“So, how the fuck did they do it?” Snatching up a seventeenth century brass lantern clock, she hurled it against the wall.
Alexander really wished she wouldn’t do that. Bribing new minions with flashy bits of metal and bling took an ongoing injection of capital. “You think they had help?”
“What else?” She eyed an extremely rare fourteenth-century English pewter openwork pricket candlestick.
Alexander moved it out of her line of sight. “They’ve been stirring for some time. Didn’t you tell me that?”
“Stirring.” She growled. “But nowhere close to surfacing.”
“Ah.” Alexander braced himself. Last time the subject of Maeve had come up it had cost him a truly exceptional fifteenth-century Norman walnut revolving book stand that he’d earmarked to cover her latest Harvey Nicks spending spree. Not keen to field more nasty demands from Harvey Nichols’ credit department, he kept his tone conciliatory. “But there’s not much she can do without being able to access her gift. Your magic has gotten stronger and stronger.”
The certifiable look drained from her face, and she almost smiled. “You’re right. While she has been sleeping, I have been using my time well. They have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“Does anyone?” He made sure to color his tone with the right amount of awe.
“No.” She preened and then snapped her fingers. “Bring me the bowl.”
Fiona brought her favorite iron casting bowl and placed it on a really lovely Charles I west country oak refectory table.
Blood magic hung in a thick, oily miasma around her and oozed deeper into the room. Alexander stood as far back as he could to mitigate its effect on him.
“What are you doing?” He eased closer to a window and cracked it open. Blood magic grated against his skin.
Eyes closed, dripping blood from her slashed palm, Rhiannon frowned.
It wasn’t unusual for her to simply ignore him. Alexander often wished he could do the same to her.
“The wards,” she murmured. Her frown deepened and then disappeared. Her eyes popped open. “Fucking Roderick being awake has strengthened them.”
“Are you sure?”
She gave him a look of such derision that had he not been well used to them, his feelings might’ve been hurt. “I created those wards.” Contempt dripped from her voice. “I created them, and I can do with them as I will.”
Not quite, but he wasn’t stupid enough to correct her. Rhiannon had cast the magic that raised the wards, but they were anchored through Roderick and his connection to Baile. He had a pet theory that back then, when Rhiannon had been one of the original four witches called by Goddess into service, she’d linked Roderick to the wards as a way to bind him to her. Alas, Goddess had not shared Rhiannon’s plans and Roderick had been bonded to Tahra.
“I need not tell you what is at stake here.” She scowled at him.
“No, you don’t.” His entire life, he’d lived and breathed her need to vanquish Goddess. His very existence was in service to her ambition.
Hand dripping blood all over the Aubusson carpet, she closed on him. “Make sure you don’t fail me with the water witch.”
“I won’t.” He met her gaze without flinching. It was only a matter of time before the delicate dance of smoke and mirrors he’d been doing came to an end. “I’ve made myself a friend of Baile’s witches.”
Rhiannon narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, trying to see into his mind. He wished her luck with that. He hadn’t allowed her to penetrate his shields in hundreds of years. “You are only of use to me in a limited capacity, son.”
“So you keep reminding me.” It had been even longer since he’d felt any filial affection for her. “I know what I’m doing. I’m good at this.”
“Yes, you are.” She smiled, and it was disturbingly beautiful in what it hid. “Women like you.”
He shrugged. She’d made sure of that when she’d conceived him. “She’s already smitten.”
“Good.” She threw herself into an armchair and pressed her bleeding palm into the fabric. “You will need to move fast now that Maeve is awake. We don’t want her teaching your witch how to wake up the cardinal point.”
“Does Maeve even know about that?” Not since the first four had been called had the cardinal points been an issue. They’d been created by the first four, one for each element, but in the history of the cré-witches, they’d never been allowed to go dormant like they were now.
Rhiannon made a face. “Roderick may. Goddess always adored him.”
“She always did have questionable taste.”
That drew a chuckle from her. “It’s interesting that you say that.” She stood suddenly. “I want that witch, and I want that castle.”
“I’m working on both.”
“You have a week.” She slammed out of the room.
It wouldn’t have done him any good to protest a week wasn’t long enough. Frankly, he was amazed he’d kept her at bay this long. With Baile growing stronger and the wards with her, Rhiannon’s patience would run out faster.
“Don’t fuck it up.” Fiona sneered as she cleaned away the casting bowl.
“Really?” He adjusted his cuffs. “But think how much fun you would have if I did.”
Edana leered. “I’d ask her to give you to me.”
“How tempting.” His cock shriveled at the mere suggestion.
Alexander let himself out of her house into the quiet of Greater Littleton’s premier residential street. Her house was surprisingly small and lacked Rhiannon’s usual desperation to parade her importance and wealth. But it had once been a rectory, and it amused her to live in it now. Only he and the twisted two knew about the rectory. The rest of her minions saw her only when she chose and never in her lair.
A headache pinched behind his eyes. All his plans were mere distractions, a way to buy time. If he could stall Rhiannon, he could maybe ensure Bronwyn’s safety. If Bronwyn was safe the cré-witches could wake the water cardinal point. If water was activated, Goddess might begin to regain her power and be able to oppose Rhiannon. If, if, and fucking if.
He turned the corner onto the main road and walked toward the green.
Police cars still clogged the roads around the green, and yellow police tape surrounded the broken plinth. He doubted there was police procedure for a missing statue.
“Isn’t it dreadful.” Hermione appeared at his side, eyes on the police action. “Who could have done such a thing?”
“Do the police know any more?”
She shook her head. “It’s like it vanished.”
It was exactly like that.
“I’m sure there’s a plausible explanation,” he said. And there would be. It amused him how, in this time, people contorted themselves to produce logical and scientific explanations for magic. Their faith in science gave them the delusion they were in control. They had no idea what a master puppeteer Rhiannon really was. Even he didn’t know the extent of the spread of her tentacles through the power structures ruling the modern world.
Three uniformed coppers were working the scene. They moved about oblivious to how the wards shifted their perceptions. Whenever they moved closer, the wards altered the reality to make them believe they were standing in a different place. Alexander could see the shimmer of the wards and the reality they concealed. As they strengthened, the wards would make it so people could see Baile, travel toward it, and somehow never make it inside the castle. The raising of the wards had been some of Rhiannon’s best work.
The only time the villagers had breached the wards was when he and Rhiannon had made it so they could. On that fateful day in 1645 when he had first discovered Baile would allow him past her wards.
Chapter Fourteen
Bronwyn woke the next morning to that feeling of something momentous having happened. The way, as a child, you’d wake up Christmas morning, and in that moment before you opened your eyes, you knew that day was going to be a special one.
Whrrrr, click, click, who-ha-hoo-ha-hoo.