Concentric Circles (2 page)

Shayla stared at the place where Barb previously stood and shook her head. With a low sigh, she turned, and focused on the curious items in the lighted case.

Small crystals cut in different shapes, made to carry in a purse or pocket, lay on black velvet and gleamed with mystic allure.

She moved down further, past an assortment of wands, feather quills and parchment to the jewelry section.

“I see the garnets draw you.” Connell smiled, and indicated a beautiful necklace. “It’s healing and protective properties will see you through your intended journey. Would you like to try it on?” Eyes, the palest shade of sky blue glistened in candle glow.

“It’s beautiful,” Shayla answered. “But I’m sure it’s too expensive for my budget.”

A bark-like laugh erupted from Connell. The sound was friendly and lines crinkled around the corners of his eyes.

Shayla had the impression of mystical agelessness.

“Perhaps,” he said kindly, “it’s something else you seek. For while the hawthorn and heart have powerful symbolism when combined with garnet, all that is in existence goes to whom it is intended.”

He winked and opened the display case door. “It’s always free to look.”

The heart shaped pendant warmed her fingertips when Shayla held the necklace. But, the warmth wasn’t enough. She passed a thumb over the garnet, held it up in the candlelight, and waited.

It glistened and twirled in the ambient golden glow of the shop. The pendant, although beautiful, didn’t speak to her.

She handed it back. “It’s exquisite, but I don’t think so.”

“Ah. A young woman who knows herself. A true treasure.” The corners of his mouth tucked into a smile. He replaced the necklace on its velvet rest and smoothed the filigree chain to perfection.

Shayla moved across the shop. Passing the stacks, she heard Barb muttering like a fiendish bookworm.

“Typical. Naw, have that one. Just give me something different.”

Shayla suppressed a laugh.

Barb, always fascinated with magic, kept a veritable library in her closet and considered herself a closet witch.

Shayla, however, wanted nothing to do with the hocus pocus found in those books. She didn’t have anything against the books. She had tried exploring there before, but nothing had come together in the clear-cut rightness she sought.

It was just that she was different.

Her magic came naturally. The whisperings in her soul guided her on a different path. Problem was, she didn’t always know the magical language spoken within her mind.

If she could just figure it out, then perhaps the mystery that was her life could be resolved.

Shayla shook the thought and feelings off and returned to the present moment.

The display cases on this side of the shop housed various athames, an assortment of bolines, and other curious blades. The athames were the same models she had seen before.

However, Shayla stopped and bent closer to study the curved bladed bolines. Only having seen them online, she wondered about their use.

“Interesting specimen,” Connell said, indicating the knife. “British Sheffield Steel and hawthorn handle. I must say, you are definitely drawn to hawthorn. It’s your tree. When are you planning to leave?”

Shayla straightened and forced away the frown pushing down her brows. “What do you mean, hawthorn is my tree?”

“Everyone has one,” Connell said. “A species of tree that draws them. For some it’s oak. Others, pine.”

He shrugged and pointed to the boline. “That particular boline is meant for ritual use when preparing your herbs. It’s custom made with a hand carved hawthorn handle straight from Glastonbury, England. The garnet necklace you admired a few moments ago was created by a former resident of Glastonbury.”

“Is it coincidences in the items I like in your shop that makes you think I’m leaving?”

“There are no coincidences.”

“Yeah right.” She bit back a laugh because she had heard that before and never really believed it.

“Mine is the apple tree.”

Shayla choked. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, while shaking off the return of her previous sense of déjà vu. She turned, and stared at the glass case.

The sound of water falling into the fountain carried her into a daze of jumbled thoughts.
Apples? Avalon. Glastonbury. Hawthorn—the holy thorn
.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Connel said, gently as though he did not wish to intrude upon her thoughts. “I believe your friend has found something.”

“That's fine,” she said and nodded. Still slightly dazed, Shayla wandered around the tables.

Although the shop offered many items from Glastonbury, the next case shifted geographically.

Blood red velvet, laid over unseen boxes gave the interior of the next case a layered look. Highland tartan accented and dominated the vignette. Several handcrafted items drew her in closer.

Shayla leaned forward, mind and heart racing. “There are no coincidences.”

The reason for her sense of déjà vu glistened under the glass.

There it is
…

[2] Concentric Circles:
Joining

Meekal Chilkwell bent over and grumbled under his breath, “Ungrateful.” The words stopped as he reached for litter mussing the garden path.

The garden around the Chalice Well, Glastonbury, England, protected the sacred water spring in many ways. “There’s always one.” He crumpled the paper and rammed it into his jeans pocket.

The airwaves along the ley lines shifted with potent magical force.

A lifelong guardian of the hallowed ground, he knew power shifts along ley lines like the rhythm of his own heart. Something in the family garden had changed.

Tingles journeyed along his arm, and heightened fine tuned senses. The breeze also shifted directions.

A light, more radiant than the brilliant fall sunshine, encapsulated the area near the Vesica Pisces Pool.

He squinted and changed course. Only moments before, he had heard Mrs. Amethyst Graham speaking. Now, silence greeted his ears. He picked up his pace.

Rounding the hawthorn tree, he stopped with the realization of a divine presence.

Amethyst Graham swiveled her head, eyes wide. She motioned toward the opaque whiteness.

The sound of an osprey pierced the air.

The White Lady, Celtic Goddess Warrior of Water, shifted from human form into her animal shape. A beautiful osprey hovered briefly, and then took flight.

Flapping powerful wings, she blinked at him. The glance glistened with the wisdom of eons. With a wing snap, she vanished.

Meekal waved his hand through the soft mist left behind by her presence and knelt on one knee.

Beauty lay upon the stone path.

“Miss. Miss?”

“Her name is Shayla, Meekal,” Amethyst said.

“Shayla, wake up. Come on, lass.” He took the woman's hand in his while shaking her shoulder with the other. “Wake up.”

She wore a leather jacket, teased by long tresses of black hair which shimmered like dark garnets in the sunshine.

At first touch, the skin of his palm hummed with awesome joining.

Black lashes fluttered. Full lips parted slightly, Shayla trembled and opened her eyes.

His heart flipped. “Can you stand?” he asked, gripping her hand and helping her to sit.

With her eyes falling shut, she moaned and clutched him.

“You need to get off the ground,” he encouraged. Her breast brushed against him. He swallowed and shifted position to get a better grip and lifted her. “Up you go.”

She stood on shaky legs. “That was weird,” she said, while looking toward Mrs. Graham. She moved away from him.

Her sudden absence left an odd sense of separation cupping his heart.

“Whoa.” Hand quivering, she tucked hair behind an ear, and gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. “Who are you? Thanks for helping. I’ve never…” An enticing blush spread across her high cheekbones and she dropped her eyes toward the path. “Fainted.”

He lifted a shoulder while trying to give the impression of nonchalance. “You can probably thank the White Lady for that.”

“Um, what do you mean?” She gave him the impression of secrets unready to share.

Instead of answering her question, he smiled at Mrs. Graham. “Amethyst, please tell Gail that Shayla will miss the rest of today’s tour. She’ll be at the manor, resting.”

“I don’t know who you are.” She radiated sudden stubbornness. “I’m not going to the manor.” She straightened the collar of her jacket. Her hand froze in mid-action.

“What’s this?” she asked with bewilderment.

He reached forward, wrapped fingers around her warm wrist, and turned it to see. A purple tattoo comprised of two concentric circles embellished the soft skin just above her thumb. “You don't recognize this?”

“No. Where did it come from?”

“I’m Meekal Chilkwell. I’ll explain everything when we get to the manor. This isn’t the proper place.”

“I’m not going to this manor you keep talking about. I don’t know you.”

The scent of her perfume wafted in the air, hugging him with a sensual power. “Shayla,” he said, huskiness overwhelmed his throat.

“Shayla,” Mrs. Graham said, while patting her arm in comforting, grandmotherly fashion. “Meekal is perfectly safe. Perhaps he’s right. After what’s happened.”

“After what’s happened?” Brows tightened into a deep frown, Shayla gnawed her lower lip. “It’s true I don’t understand why I fainted, but I can rest on the tour bus.”

“Some tea and provocative company,” Mrs. Graham replied, with exuberance. “That’s the best medicine. We’ll be back in no time and tomorrow the tour visits the Abbey.”

She took Shayla’s hand, entwined delicate fingers with Meekal’s, and then patted as though to seal the link.

He grinned and squeezed gently.

Confusion and frustration upon Shayla’s face didn’t stop Mrs. Graham. She smiled brightly at them, winked, and then walked away humming
‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’
under her breath.

Shayla stared after her. “I don’t believe it.”

“Let’s go.” He tugged her in gentle encouragement and shook with repressed laughter over Amethyst’s rendition of the Beatles oldie.

“The manor is just over there,” he said. “It's on the edge of the Chalice Well Garden.” He paused and refocused his attention on Shayla's face where a bizarre expression ruled striking features. “What is it?”

Brows puckered into a tight new frown, Shayla tossed her head as if to send an annoying insect away. “This isn’t a good idea. I still don’t know you. I feel strange.” Glittering sapphire blue orbs grew round, and then rolled back into her head.

Arms around her, he grinned and reached to place one behind her wobbly knees. “Stubborn, even in the face of the White Lady’s magic.” He eyed her with intent now that her face rested against his shoulder.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and then glanced around the garden. They were alone. His heel grated on the stone pathway as he spun around with one objective in mind.

* * * * * *

“Meekal!” His mum scolded. “You shouldn’t have done that!”

He shifted Shayla’s weight and shrugged. “There was no one around, Mum. What should I have done? Throw her over my shoulder like a Neanderthal?”

He placed Shayla gently on the library sofa. Finger tingling with anticipation, he brushed long strands of hair away from a firm jaw line covered with silky smooth skin. His fingertips lingered over her pulse point.

She leaned forward and studied their guest. “All the same, you are too cavalier when you travel magically. Who is she?”

“Amethyst said her name is Shayla. The White Lady invoked a faint to encourage her to stay here. The tour bus has left. That’s all I know except for this.”

Meekal held lithe fingers, nails done in a dark rosy shade, and moved Shayla’s hand so Chaeli Chilkwell could see the concentric circles tattoo. “She says this is new.”

“Meekal,” she said in a suddenly quiet voice, “she has the nimbus.”

“Aye, can't miss that. Black hair with garnet highlights. By her speech, she’s American.”

Chaeli continued to study Shayla's face while they contemplated her presence in a hushed quiet. Finally, she broke the silence. “Well, we must realize there's a probably a good reason she’s here.”

Perhaps those were magic words because Shayla groaned, shifted position and took a deep breath of relief.

“Easy, Shayla.” Meekal reached forward and assisted her to sit. The change in position moved her leather skirt upward and revealed a smooth, enticing thigh. He backed away mesmerized while his blood thrummed, and resisted a longing to touch.

Flustered, Shayla pushed the wayward hemline down and searched the room with curiosity. “Is this the manor you keep spouting on about?” She stopped speaking, eyes locked on Chaeli.

“Hello, Shayla,” Chaeli said. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m Meekal’s mum. You may call me Chaeli.”

Relief flashed across Shayla’s features. “Oh. Hello. I umm…”

“You fainted again,” Meekal said, finishing for her. “Perhaps a cup of tea will help you feel better? I'm sure Mari has some chamomile tea in the kitchen.”

Shayla crinkled her nose, and then released the expression in politeness. “No, thank you. I don’t care for chamomile.” She shifted as if to stand.

Apparent dizziness stopped the upward momentum. “Ugh. This is crazy. Why won’t it stop?”

“Acquiescence,” Meekal said, resisting the urge to chuckle. “When you face the fact the White Lady wants you here, then it will cease to be a problem.”

Fall sunshine coming in through the window enhanced Shayla’s expressive glare.

“She…” Shayla's gaze dropped to fidgeting hands. She clenched fingers together tightly and pulled her lower lip between pearly white teeth. “She said I’m stubborn. That isn’t news to me.”

“You don’t have to give up such a powerful attribute,” he replied while kneeling at her knee and resting a hand upon hers. “A simple shift in belief and acceptance. That’s all it takes.”

He tucked the corner of his mouth up, showing off a dimple with the purpose of easing her qualms. “The White Lady talks to me all the time. She is gentle, yet very persistent.”