Daughter of the Spellcaster (25 page)

He looked at the shovel, which was leaning against the tree where he’d left it. Only...not quite where he’d left it. Turning, he looked at the spot where he intended to bury Selma’s necklace, even though he didn’t think the thing posed any threat.

He knew immediately that something was wrong. After cleansing his knife overnight by burying it in the earth, he’d dug it up and filled in the hole. He’d patted the dirt down nice and flat with the back of the shovel when he’d finished. But now it was all loose and mounded up on top.

“What the hell...?”

Grabbing the shovel, Ryan plunged the blade into the dirt, easily turning it. It didn’t take long to feel that there was something there. He knelt to pull it out. It was hard, square, wrapped in plastic. He knew, not just by its familiar shape and weight, but by the feeling that hit him as he brushed the dirt off it, what it was. But he unwrapped it anyway.

The intricately carved wooden box was too heavy to be empty. He opened the lid to look all the same.

And there was his knife. The one he was supposed to use to kill Lena.

Pick it up.

Go on, take it...

...it’s yours, it’s...

...your destiny. Do it!

Pick it up!

His hand moved toward the box, and once again he wasn’t the one telling it what to do. How easy would it be to commit some horrible crime if he couldn’t control his own body, his own mind?

Think of Lena,
he screamed inwardly.
Think of the baby.

He’d lost her once before.

You survived it then.

You’ll survive it now,
said the loudest of those mental whisperers.
As long as you don’t let yourself care too much.

Not too much, Ryan...

Not to the point of madness, like some men do. Not to the point where losing her means giving up your life, your son, your family, and spending the rest of it traveling the world in search of a reason why.

...like your father did, Ryan...

Nothing is worth that. You must never, ever let yourself care that much for anyone.

...not ever, Ryan...

It’s certain doom.

The voices weren’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, he realized, and then he was aware of his hand closing on the handle of his knife, lifting it from the box, feeling its power buzzing against his palm.

Fulfill your destiny and you can have anything you want.

...anything you want, Ryan...

“I can
already
have anything I want,” he said softly. And yet something in his mind said that what he
really
wanted was to obey the whispers that would not let him go.

* * *

Lena wondered what was taking Ryan so long and started getting nervous. She headed out after him, around back where he’d said he had buried his knife to cleanse it before. She was nearly there when she heard him talking softly, as if someone else was there. She went still and silent, creeping slowly closer, peering through the limbs to see him standing there wearing a gleaming piece of quartz around his neck on a silver chain and holding the knife he’d claimed not to have found last night. Holding it right in his own two hands.

She backed away, her heart breaking into sharp, glittering fragments that first cut her and made her bleed, and then froze into shards of fear. She had to get out of here, and she had to do it now. Without him. Without her mother. Without anyone. She was on her own. She could trust no one.

The voice said to trust him. Perfect love and perfect trust, remember?

But he’s got the knife. He lied to me. I have to put the baby first.

It wasn’t hard to get back to the house without him seeing her. Nor to slide in the front way while Selma was putting a delicious breakfast on the table. She called out, “I’ve got a really bad backache, Mom. I’m going to soak in the tub for a while, okay?”

“Of course, hon. Are you all right?” Her mother peeked around the corner at her, so she took off her boots. “It’s not labor, is it? It can start with lower back pain, you know.”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m sure it was just...um...from sleeping on the floor last night.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s most likely it.” Selma looked relieved. “But don’t you want breakfast?”

Lena shrugged off her jacket, hung it on a hook and started upstairs. “I couldn’t eat right now if I wanted to. You guys go ahead, and I’ll be down when I feel better. Save me a plate, will you? I’ll come down after my bath—and maybe a nap, since I didn’t sleep much last night—and I’ll warm it up and eat it then.”

“Okay, honey.”

Lena padded the rest of the way up the stairs, went into her room, turned on the water and closed the bathroom door, then shoved her purse and a change of clothes into a backpack. She took an old coat from her closet, and put on a pair of hiking shoes, as well. She turned off the water, and when she left her bedroom she locked the door from the inside before pulling it shut behind her.

She realized she hadn’t heard Ryan come back in yet.

She slipped into the temple room and grabbed the chalice, remembering the warning to keep it close to her. Then she buried it deep in the backpack.

Good. All she had to do was get downstairs and outside undetected. Easy.

The cat wound around her legs and looked up at her.

Nodding, she scooped the animal into her arms and slipped quietly down the stairs, making almost no sound at all. She turned the doorknob as if it were made of nitroglycerine, opened the door slowly, then slipped outside and pulled it closed very softly behind her. And then she ran across the driveway into the open field, and cut at an angle across it, heading for the woods. This was the crucial part of her escape, she knew, because she was in plain sight, no cover. Bahru would see her if he so much as looked out the front window of his cottage. Her mother would see her if she looked out the door. Ryan would see her if he came around the corner of the house.

She ran full out, which wasn’t easy with the cat in her arms, the backpack bouncing up and down, the chalice bruising her spine and the weight of her baby straining her abdominal muscles. She kept one arm around her belly to support it and ran despite the pain. Icy needles of fear, the kind you felt when you
just knew
someone was after you, prickled up and down her spine and along her nape, until finally she was in the woods, lost in the sheltering embrace of the pines.

If they hadn’t seen her yet, they wouldn’t see her now. She paused just long enough to turn around and look back, peering through the fragrant needled boughs. But the house was still and quiet. As she watched, Ryan came around the corner, and she ducked back quickly. But he only walked slowly to the front door and went inside.

He hadn’t seen her. Good. And since he didn’t pop right back out again, her mother must not have seen her, either. She looked toward Bahru’s cottage. It was still and silent. Maybe, just maybe, she was going to pull this off. But she was going to have to hurry.

She probably wouldn’t be able to leave town, so she needed help. She needed to find someone she could trust. Turning, she headed through the woods again. Help was within walking distance, and she knew she could get there safely if she was fast.

However, the sprint from the house to the woods had taken its toll, and the backache she’d only been making up earlier had become a reality now. Lies. Nothing good ever came from them.

17

R
yan returned to the house feeling as if his head was floating somewhere in the stratosphere and only connected to the rest of his body by an ever-thinning, ever-weakening thread. Everything he did felt as if it was being controlled by someone else, as if he were on autopilot.
Walk. Go inside. Enter the kitchen. Sit down. Eat.
At the same time, from somewhere far, far away, he could hear, very faintly, his own voice calling to him.
Over here, Ryan. Pay attention! You’ve got to fight this possession. You’ve got to save Lena and the baby. You’ve got to resist!

Possession?
Really, was that what this was? The thought was dispassionate, as if it was coming from a part of his brain where no emotion resided. And for a second it hit him, in that faraway place to which his brain had emigrated, that he used to be just that emotionless most of the time. Perhaps not quite as robotic, but emotionless. Living his life from a safe distance, never caring too much about anything or anyone.

And the most shocking part of that bit of self-realization was that it wasn’t true anymore. He’d stepped out of that safe place. He cared. He cared more than he had ever imagined he was capable of caring.

He loved Lena.

Selma is speaking to you. Answer her.

His head moved as if someone was controlling him via remote. He looked at Selma, but he felt as if he was seeing her through a camera lens. His own body, his own eyes, were machines now. Just tools.

“Ryan, you look really off this morning,” she said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

His head nodded for him. His lips formed words. He honest to God didn’t know what they would be until his ears heard them and his brain interpreted. “I’m fine. I was up all night, and it’s catching up with me.”

“Worrying about Lena, I’ll bet.”

“And the baby.”

She nodded, her face softening. She patted his hand. He looked at the contact in some surprise, because he didn’t feel as if it was his hand at all.

“Well, she’s going to be fine, I promise.”

Where is she?

“Where is she?” Ryan asked, still as if someone else was wielding a master control. A master control? Or just a
master?

“It was a long night for her, too,” Selma said. “She’s soaking in a hot bath. Said she was going to take a nap when she gets out.”

Ryan’s head turned toward the stairs as Selma set a plate of food in front of him. His stomach grumbled in hunger. He told his hand to pick up the fork and was surprised when it did so.

Hunger. A basic human need that enabled him to take control, however feebly. Good thing to remember. He shoveled some food into his mouth, eager to fill his stomach while he was still able.

Go check. Make sure she’s upstairs.
The master’s voice.
The
Master
.

He decided to try to ignore the command, to try to eat a little more, just to test himself. He had a shaky grip on the reins, but they were slick and pulling against him. He ate another bite, the biggest one he could fit into his mouth, sensing he couldn’t keep control much longer. Then he eyed his coffee and managed to bring it to his lips, despite a burning pain in his arm, as if he were trying to lift a thousand pounds instead of a cup of coffee. He managed to take a sip before he lost his tenuous grip.

The cup slammed to the table so hard the contents sloshed over the side.
Dammit!

But he was already rising, turning, through no will of his own, walking out of the kitchen, through the living room to the staircase.

“Ryan? You can’t possibly be full.”

“I have to check on Lena,” the Master said through Ryan’s lips.

“Well, be quiet about it, okay? Try not to wake her. She really needs to— Ryan?”

But he was already halfway up the stairs.

He went to Lena’s door, paused outside to listen.

Open it.

He didn’t want to be anywhere near Lena right now. Not with the blade tucked into the back of his jeans and the pendant burning his skin. Not when he wasn’t in control of his own body.

His hand began to rise. He forced it down again, tried to hold it at his side, but it was shaking, trembling as a force like a two-ton winch began to lift it again. He fought as long as he could, but the hand snapped up, twisted the doorknob, breaking the lock. He shoved the door open wide.

Lena wasn’t inside. Thank God.

The bathroom. Check the bathroom.

His feet moved, obeying even as his true self—his soul, maybe?—resisted. It was no use. When he tried to stop it felt like the muscles were being torn from his bones. Pain, burning, ripping pain. He tried, but he was physically unable to hold against it. Within a few seconds he was opening the bathroom door.

She wasn’t there, either.

Run, Lena,
he thought.
Run as far as you can. You were right not to trust me.

Go after her,
the Master commanded.

I won’t
.

You don’t have a choice. Or have you not realized that yet?

* * *

Lena hugged her coat around her as she picked her way through the woods, moving as quickly and silently as she could manage. Neither one was easy, given the size of her belly and the ice that coated everything around her. Every footstep crunched and crackled. Her back screamed and pulsed in pain.

The sun was beaming down, though, and the woods looked like an enchanted forest, every limb, every twig, completely encased in a layer of clear ice that sparkled in the sun. It was as if they’d been painted in liquid diamonds that had hardened on contact. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and the scent of the pines on the cold, cold air was heady.

It was Imbolc, she realized. February 2nd, one of the High Holy Days of her faith. The mundane world had co-opted only one of the day’s traditions—using nature’s signs to predict the arrival of spring—and called it Groundhog Day. The rest had been mostly forgotten. It was in fact a holiday that honored Brigit, goddess of the forge, and of the creative fire of the artist. The day was sacred to poets and musicians and writers. It was the halfway point between the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and the vernal equinox, when day and night were equal. It was a time of magic. A day of power.

And she could use all the power she could get today.

She kept on moving and whispered a prayer to Brigit. “Lady of the fiery forge, I call on you now to protect my child from evil and from harm.” She wished she could take out her chalice and ask it which way to turn, but she couldn’t stop long enough to do that.

Not yet.

Eventually she emerged from the woods and onto the closest main road. She’d kept to the woods until they ended and estimated she was a solid mile from her house at this point. Doc Cartwright’s place was just a few hundred yards back the other way. She could see the roof of his house, a ribbon of soft smoke wafting from the chimney.

But Doc Cartwright had been wearing one of those pendants. As had everyone in the dream. Even her own mother had worn one this morning, and then Ryan...

Oh, Ryan...

She didn’t know what the pendant meant, but she didn’t dare risk finding out. Enchanted crystals were not unheard of. Using them to turn a good person into an evil one would take magic far beyond any she’d ever heard of. But to use the crystal as an entryway into a person’s mind? That was a well-known type of manipulative magic. Dark magic. It was a form of possession, and it was strictly forbidden in the Craft of the Wise.

Could it be what was happening here? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t take the chance that it might be.

So Doc’s place was out of the question.

Sheriff Dunbar, on the other hand, lived just another mile or so down the road. If she could make it that far with this screaming pain in her back—which felt like a steel band was wrapped around her and tightening—she would be fine, she thought. She just had to get there before anyone came looking for her.

The roads were glare ice, probably still closed. No wonder there was no traffic.

And yet, no sooner had that thought crossed her mind, than she heard a deep-throated motor in the distance behind her. She didn’t dare wait to see who it was. It sounded too much like that massive black truck Ryan had bought. She scrambled into the ditch along the roadside and lay down on her side, hiding herself as well as she could, given her condition. Too late, she discovered that there was an inch or so of icy water in the bottom of the ditch. But she couldn’t move now or the driver would see her for certain.

She huddled there, terrified, as the vehicle drew closer and thought of the irony if this
was
Ryan. In her hazy memories of that past life, her prince had been trying to come to her rescue, racing across the desert on a mighty white stallion.

In this lifetime his “steed”
was black, and he
was coming to kill her. To do her in so some demonic force could take her baby.

God, I don’t want to believe that.

Their destinies were entwined, just as she had always known, but not in the way she’d expected. It made her heart ache to admit it. Damn him for refusing to love her, to be the man he’d been before and to complete this horrible cycle by saving her now as he’d been unable to save her then.

The truck rumbled past. She only saw it from behind, but it was him. Damn. He was out looking for her already. She had very little time.

As soon as the truck was out of sight she climbed out of the ditch, hugging her belly against another really bad cramp and forcing herself to keep moving despite the agony. She could handle the pain. She had to.

She hurried down the road, figured she’d covered a third of the distance to the sheriff’s place, when she heard the truck coming back.

Again she lay down in the ditch, her clothes soaking up still more frigid water. And again he drove by without seeing her.

This time when she got out and stumbled onward she was shivering, despite the warm sun and climbing temperatures. This was February, and “unseasonably warm” meant hitting a high of forty, at most. At the moment it was maybe thirty-five, only a few degrees above freezing.

She kept on moving, and thankfully she didn’t hear the truck again. Finally the sheriff’s house came into view around a bend in the road. The stitch in her belly and pain in her lower back were worse, and she wanted to sit down and rest so much that she could barely stand it. But she was
so close
. So freaking close.

She heard an engine again, far behind her, and she began to run as best she could. If she just could get all the way around the bend, she thought, she would be out of sight for a few seconds longer and might even make it to the front door before anyone could spot her. So she poured on every ounce of power she had as the motor grew louder.

She dropped the cat, who had been remarkably compliant through everything, and pushed around the curve, her feet sending gravel flying behind her. Crisp winter air filled her lungs as she panted, air so cold it hurt. She was still shivering, but now she was damp with sweat, too, and her abdominal muscles were screaming in painful protest.

She wrapped one arm under her belly to support it, pumping the other as she ran. Her legs were trembling in exhaustion, and she wanted to sink to the ground, but she willed herself on. To the house, to the woodpile near the front door, around it and then hunching down, fast, as that big black truck came around the bend.

Safe. She was safe.

She crouched behind the woodpile, smelling the tangy essence of maple and sawdust. Peeked out between the stacked firewood and saw the truck passing by. It was moving slowly now, so slowly that she could see Ryan craning his neck to look into the ditches as he passed.

That was the only reason she’d been able to make it this far, she thought—because he’d slowed way down to search the ditches. Thank the Goddess he hadn’t thought of that before.

A creaking hinge made her turn her head sharply. Molly Dunbar, the sheriff’s wife, was standing in the doorway, holding it open and frowning at her.

Lena brought one finger to her lips and felt hot tears burning on her cold face. If Molly gave her away it was over.
Please,
she thought at her.
Please!

Molly shifted her focus to the truck that was creeping along the road. So did Lena. She could see Ryan looking at the woman oddly.

She looked back to see what Molly would do. She was a cop’s wife—small-town, but still—it ought to be obvious that Lena was in trouble.

As Lena held her breath and spoke with her eyes, Molly Dunbar pasted a great big smile on her face, waved hello to Ryan and walked over to the woodpile. She took a log off the top, as if that had been her intent the whole time, and went back into the house without even hinting there was anything unusual going on, like a freezing, wet, pregnant neighbor hiding behind her neatly stacked firewood.

Ryan had slowed to a near stop. As the door banged behind Molly, he
did
stop, then looked around the place, giving Lena a chance to really see his face. She knew there was something terribly wrong with him. His face was blank. Just...empty.

And that damned pendant was dangling down his chest, gleaming in the winter sun.

Or was it the sun at all? It looked almost as if it was glowing from within.

After what seemed like forever he stepped on the gas and moved on. Lena sighed in relief and waited until she was sure he was out of sight before she got up and went to the door.

Molly was standing on the other side, waiting. She quickly pulled the door open and helped her inside. The sheriff’s wife had short dark hair and narrow blue eyes that nearly disappeared when she smiled, and she was, Lena thought, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“My goodness, child, what in the world is going on? You’re soaked. And freezing.”

The pain hit Lena again, and she realized at last that this wasn’t just a muscle cramp from exertion. “I think I’m in labor,” she said. “Oh, God, not now, not yet.”