Autumn Thorns (18 page)

“You have a green thumb,” I mentioned, musing over the contrast between our surroundings and our conversation.

“I have an understanding with the natural world.” She tilted her head to one side. “Plants have a form of consciousness,
you know. Not like you and me, but they feel, they calculate . . . they . . . sense. There's far more to the green world than a lot of people realize. That carrot you pull for dinner—it knows it's doomed, as much as any animal you hunt down. Maybe on a different level, with a different type of reaction, but it knows when it's being uprooted.”

I wasn't sure how I felt about my salad knowing that it was dinner-in-waiting, but then again, I was no vegetarian. “All life feeds on life. Death is necessary to ensure life continues, whether it be the death of an apple off a tree or a cow for beef, or whether it's us—to keep the world from being overcrowded. We're worm food, Ivy. And that's something I've always known. Lila was extremely good about instilling a strong respect for the cycle of life in me.”

“Good, because as a spirit shaman, you need to respect the process. Come, follow me.” She opened a door on the right side of the hallway and led me into a large room. It looked like it might have been a master bedroom at one time, or a second sitting room. “Welcome to my temple.”

The moment I stepped across the threshold of the room, my body started to tingle. The energy was high in here—active and alive, and curious. It swirled around me, testing and probing, tapping me on the shoulder to let me know it was there. At no time did I feel threatened, but I knew without a doubt that if I had been a threat to Ivy, it would have struck out like a snake, and I had no doubt its fangs were nasty.

“Your guardians are very strong.”

“My guardians are very old, Kerris. They go beyond history, beyond the human world.” She winked at me. “I am the descendant of a long family line of shapeshifters and witch women. You have my blood in your veins—never forget that. And even though the shapeshifting side won't play through, I have strong magic in my bones. And so do you, though you haven't tapped into it yet.”

I sucked in a deep breath. “Does Oriel know you're a shapeshifter? Did she know about Avery?”

“Of course she knows. Oriel's a special breed, by the way. She took over the boardinghouse from her mother, but
don't let that cheerful demeanor fool you. Oriel's sole focus is to help the town thrive and continue, regardless of what that means. She can be a ruthless enemy and if you are out to harm the town, you are going to face her anger.”

“She's not a shapeshifter, though.”

“No, nor is she a spirit shaman, nor does she pledge to the Morrígan. But she . . . her roots go deep into the natural world, and she is the hearth and heart of Whisper Hollow. She was born into a human body, but she's no more human by soul than I am.”

I frowned, trying to decide how much to say. “Bryan . . . his father was killed by a rival shapeshifting clan. Are all shapeshifters pledged to the Morrígan?”

“No, not at all.” Ivy motioned for me to follow her to the center of the room. “The Morrígan selected several clans of shapeshifters to be her Chosen. The rest? Follow other gods, other ways, and other paths. And trust me, they don't all like each other.”

Ivy motioned for me to sit on a bench in front of her altar. There, in the center, was a statue of a woman with a crow on her shoulders, and several at her feet. Without turning my head, I said, “That's a statue of the Morrígan, right?”

“Correct. You, Ellia, me . . . we are all pledged to her service. We are all part of this together.”

“Tell me what you know about the spirit shamans—I haven't had a chance to read through Lila's journal yet.”

“There are many places in the world like Whisper Hollow, where the dead rise and walk. Each culture has its own form of guardians. Since this town was founded by those of Irish blood—well, we brought our customs with us and that includes the spirit shamans. But you have counterparts all around the world, pledged to different traditions, who all basically do what you do. Protect the living from the restless dead.”

“What about the Native tribes here? Don't they resent us? After all, they have their own beliefs and sacred traditions connected to this land.” I couldn't take my eyes off the statue. The tall bronze woman was dressed in battle gear, but a circlet
with a crescent moon ringed her head, and in one hand, she carried a sword. In her other, she carried a crystal ball.

“The tribes welcomed us when they realized we weren't here to supplant their traditions. The vortex here—the convergence of ley lines—makes it difficult for them, too. They were often plagued by the dead walking and by the creatures that haunt these woodlands. We were able to come in and help control the issue, giving them more freedom. We work with them—at least one member of the Native council belongs to the Crescent Moon Society.”

“Trevor Riverstone.” I did glance at her then, just in time to see her blink. “I met him earlier today. I saw his tattoo and insisted he tell me what it stood for.”

She nodded. “Trevor is a member of the Makah tribe. He reports to them on us, and in return, we have a liaison for when we might need to go into sacred areas to deal with trouble. We've found a way to work together.”

I glanced around the room. The main altar was wide and broad and had not only the statue of the Morrígan on it, but another statue of a man. “Who is that?”

“The Dagda. He is her consort.”

The table was covered with a cloth the color of the night sky, with hints of blue and purple, and sparkling silver stars in it. In the center, between the two statues, stood a smallish cauldron—copper, by the looks of it. Crystals ringed the altar, and other assorted tools. A wand, gleaming silver, and a dagger—with a hilt made out of bone from what I could tell—rested horizontally in front of the statues. A wand of crow feathers—far bigger than the one I had—leaned against the corner of one wall, resting on a luxurious ivy. Votive candles dotted the surface, all within blue and purple and green mosaic glass holders that shimmered in the dim overhead light. A framed photo of a murder of crows hung to one side of the altar, and in the center, over everything, was a wall statue of a large raven. The altar faced the west.

“Why this direction?” I asked.

“The Underworld—Annwn, the world of the dead—as
well as the lands of the Sidhe both lie across the western seas. So the Morrígan looks to the west.” Ivy settled down at a small circular table in the center of the room. It was covered with a jet black cloth. “Come. Sit here.”

I glanced at the rest of the room as I joined her. To the north was a small craft table, covered with bits and pieces of bone and fur and a large shelf of oils. Deep drawers lined the sides of the table, and I had the feeling they were jammed full of goodies. To the east, a window overlooked the side lawn and fence that divided Ivy's yard from Bramblewood Way. To the south, a bookcase stretched across the wall, filled from floor to ceiling with books.

Sliding onto the chair opposite her, I gently rested my hands on the table. In the center was a taper candle—black—and a deck of cards. Next to the cards was a crystal ball. It wasn't lead crystal, but quartz, filled with prisms and fractures that pulled me into their designs. She lit the candle, then moved to flick off the light. When she returned to her seat, she was carrying a black lacy veil, which she draped over her head. I could see her features beneath the veil still, but they were masked and muted by the delicate needlework. She placed her hands on either side of the crystal ball.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, so I waited. A moment later, the temperature in the room dropped abruptly and goose bumps rose on my arms, as the hair on the back of my neck began to tickle. I caught my breath and leaned back in the chair, staring at Ivy.

Beneath the veil, she was shifting, her head weaving from side to side. Then, with a slow inhalation that resonated so deep I could feel it ripple through the room, she sat straight and stared at me. Her eyes, barely visible in the dim candlelight and behind the lace, were glowing red.

“You have a question for me?”

I wasn't sure who I was talking to, but whoever it was, her voice was throaty, rich and deeper than Ivy's, and the magic running through it was enough to make me quake in my boots. Ivy had gone bye-bye, that much was obvious,
and somebody else had come out to play. Somebody big, and someone who was as ancient as the hills.

Not certain what to say, but realizing I needed to say something, I cleared my throat. “I need to know how to protect myself against the Shadow Man. The Shadow People . . . the Ankou.”

A hush fell through the room—a silence that made the quiet before seem loud. The spiral of energy around Ivy began to grow and as I watched, a flutter of crow wings darted past, circling her like pale purple shadows. They spun faster and faster, till I was dizzy with watching them, and then, with a quick swoop, she reached up and lifted the veil from her face.

I wasn't facing Ivy. Who she was, I didn't know yet, but she was brilliant and beautiful, with dark eyes that shimmered red, and her nose had lengthened a bit, and her hair was shining red. Her face was masked in patches of black kohl and creamy white—a patchwork of camouflage. Ruby red lips glistened in the candle's flame as she cocked her head to the side, a curious and coy smile on her face.

“Do you truly not know who I am, Kerris?” The woman reached out one hand to me and without a single hesitation, I took her fingers in mine.

A spark raced up my arm at first, like fire shooting, and then the stinging became a rush of pain. As I opened my lips to scream, the pain shifted and sent me into a massive orgasm. I came hard, bodywide—shaking from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. It was sexual and yet there was a deeper resonance that rang through it. My spirit had climaxed, too—in a way that I had never before experienced. It was as if the universe had torn me wide open and exposed me to some brilliant light that poured through every vein and capillary of my body.

Gasping, I couldn't find my breath. It had been stripped out of me—ripped from my lungs. I struggled, wondering if I was dying, and then, slowly, my chest rose and fell and I caught the motion, caught the breath and inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with a rich blend of air and energy. The
pain subsided and I sat quivering, feeling washed from the inside out, new and whole and shining as brightly as Ivy had been.

The woman sitting opposite me smiled. “Do you know me now?” She was still holding on to my hand.

I felt two inches tall—not in shame, but in stature compared to her. Nodding, I whispered, “Yes, my lady.”

“Then you will be able to remember what you need to know. I have just performed the ritual that was to be your initiation rite, from your grandmother. Your powers have been fully activated. Study, and the studying shall be as core to your being as is the energy you feel now. Learn by doing. But, Kerris, a warning.” The Morrígan leaned forward, holding my hand so tightly it felt like she could break my fingers with any harder pressure.

I winced against the pain. “Yes? What?”

“To find the key to controlling the Ankou, look to your grandmother's journal. And . . . Kerris?”

“Yes?” I held my breath, wondering what was coming next.

“Ellia and Ivy are correct . . . there is a force that seeks to break this town's spirit. It is an old enemy of mine, and he and his minions appear here and there, looking to avenge himself on my chosen. I fought him in my time, and still he seeks revenge for my triumph. You must find and root out his servants or the town will no longer be safe for the children born under my wings.” And then, with a blink, Ivy slumped forward, and the Morrígan vanished.

I slowly let go of her fingers, moving the candle away before the flame could lick against the lace veil, then leaned back. Her children? She couldn't be just talking about the spirit shamans and their triads.

Ivy blinked slowly as she pushed her head up from the table. She shook her head, looking confused. “Did you get your answer?”

I nodded. “Yes, and more questions, but I think . . . I did. Do . . .” I paused, eyeing her carefully. “Do you remember what happened?”

She frowned. “Vaguely . . . kind of.” Then, with a winsome
laugh, she said, “Not really. I know that I played the oracle for you and someone came through to answer your question. I can hold against negative spirits, and my warding is intensely strong against being jumped against my will. This is simply one of my duties.”

Nodding, I debated on what to tell her. Was I supposed to fill her in on what had happened? Or not? But, as I opened my mouth to ask, no words came out. Maybe not, then. Another question occurred to me, and this one I was able to phrase aloud. “Do you know who the children of the Morrígan are? In general, I mean?”

Ivy folded the veil and set it to the side. She blew out the candle and motioned for me to follow her back into the kitchen. “That depends on who you ask. Technically, if you're talking gods and goddesses—”

“No, not really. I mean in general. Who might be living here.” I knew the Morrígan hadn't been talking about legends, but people living here. Humans.

“Oh.” Ivy pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, often those who are considered mad—well, would have been considered mad—were seen to be under her influence. But really, when you look at Whisper Hollow, I think you'd be talking about those with psychic powers. About those who see beyond the boundaries of what the world perceives as reality. The seers and the visionaries, the artists, those who have the power to create other worlds that feel as real as this one. Those who can . . . say . . . speak to the dead. Like the spirit shamans. One aspect of the Morrígan was once referred to as Mania . . . the mad.”