Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy (16 page)

“What will you do if you find them? No. It’s too dangerous. It would stir up trouble before we’re ready for it. Brenawyn would be safer with you close by. She needs to be taught quickly before the Order comes for her.”

“Wha’ was th’ purpose o’ this, then?” indicating the ransacked room.

Leo looked at the mess and then at the stones, “I owe it to her. Barbara. Her murderers need to be brought to justice.”

“The authorities willna be able ta hold a Vate.”

Chapter 20

Brenawyn walked in the house led by Spencer, tripping over her bulging luggage, thrown haphazardly by the back door. She stood speechless and confused as tears welled in her eyes. She let the leash go and sat on the largest upright suitcase, feeling dejected, looking around at the scattered bags and boxes. Her garment bag lay over the chair with its zipper stuck two thirds of the way up, white cambric protruding from its teeth.

Aromas of hidden goodies, the lace curtains and placemats, the nubby fibers of the bright kitchen slice under the sink, and memories of many evenings playing Dots with Nana at the table, all made the kitchen so warm and welcoming. The change was subtle, the lace curtains and tabletop decorations remained and the lingering scent of breakfast still hung in the air, but the presence of the bags made it cold and utilitarian.

She was no longer wanted in the house.

The steps creaked, and Brenawyn wiped the tears from her eyes with the hem of her shirt. She sniffled and fumbled with the paper towel roll, knocking it out of its holder; it unrolled across the floor. Spencer entered, his scampering feet sliding across the linoleum. He saw the towels and made a mad dash for his newfound toy. Brenawyn charged after him grabbing the fluttering stream of printed paper. It tore at the perforations, leaving her with several sections as the dog careened around the corner with the rest.

She blew her nose in the wadded up paper towels and turned on her heel find Alex trudging down the stairs carrying her boxes, her makeup bag slung on his shoulder.

Striding over to yank the cardboard box from his hands, “What’s going on?” she asked as the contents spilled out from the weakened bottom.

“Brenawyn, wait, I… Bren.”

She rounded on him and pushed him, “No, damn it. I don’t care who you are or what you can do. Get the hell out.”

She saw emotion flash in his eyes and then he was crowding her. Her heart pounded in her chest, “I’m sorry. I should have…I’m sorry.” She stepped back desperate to get away until her back hit the bannister. He braced his two arms on the railing imprisoning her. She flinched covering her face with her arms as she turned it away. She opened her eyes when the blow didn’t fall and watched him through the corner of her eye, ready to retreat again.

He didn’t touch her.

“Lass, did yer husband beat ye?”

Shocked at the question, Brenawyn shook her head, “No. No, of course not.”

“Then why?”

He caressed her cheek gently, “Leuk at me, Brenawyn.” She looked up at him eyes wide with fear. “That’s it. I willna hurt ye. Shhh. I ha’ ne’er raised my hand ta a woman. Shhh. All will be well. Yer grandmother is downstairs in th’ office, getting th’ paperwork in order ta close th’ store.”

“What? Why?”

“Ye can ask her yerself.”

The office door was ajar and the light within cast the shadow of her grandmother ripping open file cabinet drawers.

She poked her head in, “Nana?”

“Oh, Brenawyn,” Nana looked around distractedly at the papers strewn across the desk. “Come in and sit down,” motioning to the chairs opposite the desk. “Ah, here it is,” she exclaimed to no one, and put the paper on the short stack she had on the left corner, the only neat pile amongst the mess. “Alex, I know you are hovering just outside the door. Come in and sit.”

Brenawyn got up and moved over as Alex slid past. She avoided his gaze, she wasn’t ready to look at him, nor was she going to let him touch her, even in passing.

“I’m closing up the shop. We’re going to Tannersville tonight.”

“Nana, that’s crazy. How can you do that, financially?”

Waving her hand, “Internet sales are the bulk of the business, and the merchandise ships directly from the warehouse.”

She stared, dumbfounded that her grandmother was computer savvy. “Really? Wow. Why so early then?”

“With your attack and Barbara’s murder, how can you ask that?

“But the cops don’t think that the two are related. They’re just random violence.”

Alex stood by her chair, “Go stand by th’ mirror, Brenawyn.”

She ignored him.

“Brenawyn,” her grandmother intoned, “Do as he says. Go stand by the mirror.”

She got up, shocked that her grandmother took the side of this man—a veritable stranger. “Fine.” She huffed over to the full length mirror, crossed her arms over her chest, cocked her hip to the side, and waited. “Well? What am I standing here for?”

“Stop acting like a bairn and leuk at me.”

She started to turn around and Alex grabbed her hips. “No, leuk at my reflection.” He closed his eyes and his nostrils flared with deep measured breaths.

“I’m not acting like a…”

Alex’s lids shot open to reveal their burning iridescence. She tried turning, but his hands dug into her hips, keeping her stationary. When she stilled, he took his hand and fastened it on her chin, forcing her to watch their reflection. The urge to fight back rose in her throat like bile and she renewed her struggle in earnest. Clamping her body to him with an arm around her waist, he lifted so her feet dangled inches above the floor. With the other arm he grabbed her wrist, holding her in position so she could see their iridescent runes glowing where they touched. She quieted. Her eyes flew to her waist; she could feel his touch on her bare skin. Her shirt had ridden up exposing part of her rib cage; runes glowed there too.

“Oh my God! Oh God! Let me go. Now.” Alex let go and stepped back, allowing Brenawyn time to regain her composure. She stepped away, stretching her shirt down past her hips to cover herself.

Nana was at her side, “Brenawyn, honey, sit down.” Leo led her  to the chair. “Do you want some water?”

“I want to go home, back to my life—my job, my friends, my house where everything was normal.”

“Yer life, no matter whaur, was never normal. Ignorance doesna equate ta normality.”

“Yeah, well, ignorance is bliss,” she spat. “Ever since I met you, things don’t make sense.”

“Ugh. Talk to her.” Alex demanded before he stormed out.

Nana looked after him, and with a sigh turned back to Brenawyn, who was still seething in the chair. She leaned against the corner of the desk, folded her hands and waited patiently.

“Nana…”

“No. We will talk when you have calmed down.”

Annoyed at being treated like a child, she sat back. Things were so much better when all she had to worry about was getting lesson plans in on time and lackadaisical parents who spoiled their belligerent children. She had sold the house and quit the job and what did she have to show for it? She paused when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror: arms crossed, slouching in the chair, legs crossed at the knee, her foot swinging,
My God, I am acting like a child
. She straightened and rubbed her hands over her face.

Her grandmother’s look softened at the change in posture. “We’ll be taking two cars, yours and Alex’s.”

~ ~ ~

Brenawyn trudged up the stairs and found, still on the floor, her things from the cardboard box she had torn from Alex’s arms, untouched except for a dark blue velvet pouch Spencer was industriously chewing on. “Stop. Release now.” But the dog held on, and when Brenawyn wrested it away from Spencer, her fingers were covered in drool. “Uh, bad boy.”

The contents crunched under her fingers as she loosened the drawstring, and a mixed scent assailed her senses. The dog lifted his head, sniffed the air and moved to retrieve his toy. She crinkled her nose, and poured some in her hand; it looked like potpourri but had a scent which she couldn’t identify. This wasn’t hers.

In fact, as she looked around at the ornate wood box resting on its side, she knew it had come from one of Liam’s boxes, one she’d had no time to go through so she had just thrown in the car. She returned the contents to the bag, drew tight the strings, and set it behind her on the stairs. The dog lunged for the discarded sachet, whining and growling as he nosed it on the stair.

She grabbed his snout, “No growling.”

Alex marched in holding the blue pouch, but stopped when he saw Brenawyn sitting on the step. “Is this yers?”

“Hmm?” She swiped at her eyes, “No. I don’t know what it is.”

He threw it onto the counter and tore into the lower cabinets producing a metal bowl. With a clang, he tossed the bowl next to the stove. The ticking of the starter went on for seconds before the burner lit, and Alex held the pouch over the flame until it caught in several places. Curious, Brenawyn met him at the counter and watched his face as the bag and its contents gradually turned to cinders. “T’was a charm, an ill omen tha’ has nay power anymore.”

Chapter 21

The strained squeak of the porch’s storm door and heavy footfalls on the steps had Alex and Brenawyn look up in unison. Alex stepped out to shield her as the frame of the kitchen door splintered and two hooded figures rushed in. He inhaled and initiated his shift, ready to fight, but Brenawyn gave a breathless gasp and cowered behind him. Now was not the time to fight, he had to get her to safety. She clasped him about the waist, shaking. He covered her hand in reassurance and moved a leg back. She noticed the shift in his body and moved with him backward in the direction of the front steps. A scream from below gave him pause, but Brenawyn was the insistent one now, yanking on him until another set of footsteps, these with an auditory hitch, sounded on the second set of stairs. They were boxed in. The front was still his choice of an escape. Coming down on an intruder from above would give them a tactical advantage. A plummet down the stairs was far less violent than the hand-to-hand combat awaiting him with these intruders in the confines of the kitchen.

Alex backed up into the hallway, taking Brenawyn with him. The two hooded figures followed, interlace glowing bright on their skin. The one cracked his knuckles, a sneer spreading across his face. Brenawyn was the one to stop now, and Alex spared a glance behind him.

The Vate stood on the landing, supported by Cormac. She was out of breath, but alert and aware.

Brenawyn gulped, “You!”

“Aye, dearie, ‘tis me.

Turning to Alex, “This is the woman…”

“He will no’ be able ta help ye noo. Come ‘ere ta me.”

“No.”

“Shaman, ye ha’ done well. I’ll take her from haur. Bring her ta me.”

“Nay, I willna.” He put a protective arm across Brenawyn’s chest.

The Vate’s scowl softened, and a toothless smile punctuated her raisin of a face. Her one good eye sparkled, and she chortled. “Resistant ta th’ last. Alexander Morgan Sinclair, ye always ha’ more piss and vinegar ta ye than blud. After all these years, I’d expected ye ta ha’ learned ta respect yer elders, even if it were no’ for th’ skelpings ye received at yer father’s hearth. Thick-heided clout. What o’ yer oath as th’ Shaman?”

“I could ask ye th’ same.”

She paused and squinted at him. She placed her hand on the newel post to steady herself, then took her hand from the crook of Cormac’s arm. She motioned for Cormac to bring Brenawyn as she shambled into the living room.

Alex saw Cormac begin to move and readied himself. Cormac wasn’t going to take her, he resolved, but the two hooded figures seized Alex from behind. He struggled, and recognized John Buchanan, Maggie’s abusive boyfriend, as the hood fell back. Alex wound up with his back arched against the boy, an arm braced against his throat. Buchanan was wearing an acolyte’s robes and reciting a novice enchantment to garner physical strength. His pride was too big for repetition; as Alex knew he would, he broke off to incite him, “How does it feel, old man?”

The second he broke the cycle, Alex could feel the strength ebb from Buchanan’s scrawny arm. Alex renewed his efforts to get free but the other, a more seasoned initiate, was there to subdue him. The two of them forced him into the living room, where the Vate was already perched on the couch. Brenawyn was seated opposite on Cormac’s lap, his hand balled in her hair, forcing her to look at the Vate.

The Vate leaned over to dump the contents of the shallow dish on the coffee table. The decorative twig and feathered balls rolled and bounced away. She took out a worn drawstring bag from the voluminous folds of her cloak and emptied the contents in the basin. Alex knew what it was. She was readying herself to rune cast.

She shook the dish to level the sand and drew in it with her index finger, looking at Alex. “Such a shame ‘tis tha’ ye couldnae be moved. Yer da would be heartbroke ta learn wha’ ha’ become o’ ye.”

“Nay, he wouldnae, because he’d ken tha’ I deid with honor, upholdin’ my oath.”

“Haud yer wheest!
[5]
Yer oath! Tcha. Awa’ with ye. Ye broke yer oath ta yer caste and th’ Order long ago.”

Turning to Brenawyn, he said, “Whate’er happens, Brenawyn. I’ll come for ye.”

The Vate drew the last of the Ogham rune and greedily took the dish in both hands up to her mouth. Like a mother bird regurgitating sustenance for her young, she hocked up phlegm and spit a wad of dark mucus into the dish. A line of spittle ran from the edge of her mouth, but she didn’t notice or care. The Vate threw the contents of the dish into the air. The moist sand landed with a thump back in the container. She set it down and scooped it out, packing it with both hands like one would a snowball.

“Leuk priestess, and see. Yer protector is o’ nay use ta ye noo.”

Brenawyn looked on in disgust, she had no clue what the woman was doing.

The Vate held out her hand, and the clump sat in the middle of her palm slowly rotating on its own. She tossed it in the air, and it hovered inches from her hand, rotating faster. Particles of sand separated from the ball, lengthening and elongating until it appeared as a swirling vortex. The vortex expanded, allowing more space between the particulate until only the rune remained. This the Vate cupped with both her hands, infusing it with more magic until it glowed. “Open his shirt.”

Alex struggled against the restraint of the two men, but his shirt was finally laid open from neck to navel. The Vate approached and with both hands pressed the glowing rune onto his chest. Holding it there, she chanted:

I bind yer magic, Alexander Sinclair, from shifting form.

I bind yer magic, Alexander Sinclair, from causing harm.

I bind yer magic, Alexander Sinclair, from calling the elements.

I bind yer magic, Alexander Sinclair, from healing.

I bind yer magic, Alexander Sinclair, from protecting.

I say this thee times for the Maiden, the Matron, and the Crone.

I bind yer magic. I bind yer magic. I bind yer magic.

Alex’s captors let go as he felt the spell take hold. His limbs felt heavy and lethargic, his chest tight, heart pounding, his muscles weak and spasming. This was what it was to feel mortal.

Brenawyn surged against Cormac’s restraining hold. “Let me go, God damn you.” She freed her arm and managed to hit him in the jaw, stunning him for a moment, but he overpowered her, and she wound up with her face shoved into the cushions, an arm twisted behind her back.

Cormac pushed on her arm, causing her to yelp in pain. “I understan’ tha’ an arm oot o’ joint hurts verra badly. Dae ye want ta ken for sure?” He pushed on it again, making her whimper and reminding her who was in control. He looked over his shoulder, “Boy, go find something ta bind th’ priestess with. And ye, watch him. He’s still dangerous.”

Buchanan came back into the living room with a roll of duct tape. “I’m going to enjoy this, you bitch.” He tore at the end of the tape with his teeth. “Teach you some manners…”

“Yer no’ going ta instruct her on one bluddy thing.” Cormac had him by the collar, “Just bind her and be quick about it, aye?”

Buchanan bound her wrists as Cormac held her face in the pillows, grabbed her upper arm to help her up. She shrugged him off. She turned and mule kicked Buchanan with such force that he bounced off the opposing wall, blood gushing from his nose. She stood clumsily and ran to Alex tripping so she covered the last few feet sliding on her knees on the hardwood floors.

“Come on, we have to get out of here.”

“Aye, tha’ we dae.” Alex stood and pulled Brenawyn to her feet setting her behind him. The remaining acolyte was the first to engage. He lunged, but Alex feinted to the right and sidestepped the rush. His opponent screamed his frustration and dove for Alex yet again. This time, Alex hit him before he fell, and rained down blows to his head and midsection.

Buchanan waited for his chance, and when Alex was occupied he charged Brenawyn. His face and hands slick with gore from the broken nose, he grappled with her, struggling to get a grip. They pirouetted around ending with Buchanan’s back to Alex, his hands crushing Brenawyn’s windpipe, watching as her eyes bulged grotesquely. He heard a sickening pop from behind and something hit the floor with a thud. The next thing he knew, he was hoisted off the floor, away from Brenawyn, his arms flailing like a ragdoll.

Thwack!

Cormac brained Alex with a candlestick.

He came to, finding himself lying on the floor with smelling salts being applied by the Vate, who crooned to him. He jerked away from her and sat up to see Brenawyn fully trussed and Cormac pacing.

“There, he’s awake. What do you want from me? From us? If I can, I’ll willingly give it, just let us go.” Brenawyn pleaded.

“Ye will give it, whether ye will it or no’. Ha’ nay doubt.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Ah, tha’ question has waited six hundred years ta be answered, my lassie.” Cormac sat on the arm of the couch. “Shall I tell it, Alex or let ye?”

“Please, Cormac, that is your name, yes? We haven’t been introduced, yet you have tried to kill me tonight, and I’m assuming here, several times before, too? Why don’t
you
tell me, hm?”

“Och, I like her spirit, Alexander! No wonder ye were so possessive.” He got up and caressed her cheek, “If thaur were only time ta properly explore.”

Brenawyn pulled away, changing Cormac’s demeanor. A frown pressed his features down, blackening his look.

“Ugh, always one ta rhapsodize, get on with it, Cormac, afore my joints get rheumy.

“Six hundred years o’ searching for th’ priestess, and haur ye are,” crowed Cormac. “Th’ one ta restore balance.”

“What is this balance?”

“Ye doonae ken? She doesnae ken?” he looked incredulous but guffawed at last, shaking his head. “Ooh, Aerten ha’ a sense o’ humor after all,” he said as he wiped his eyes, “Th’ balance is distribution o’ power.”

“I gathered that. I’m not stupid.”

Corac smacked her. “Years ago a group was formed when it was made known tha’ th’ priestess was lost ta time. Myself and Alex, thaur, were made members. Our task was ta protect th’ balance until she was found and able ta take her rightful place among th’ Druid clergy. Six hundred years is a long time, though, aye? And certain members became accustomed ta a life beyond their means.”

Brenawyn’s cheek stung and she tasted blood, but she couldn’t help herself, “You mean, you became greedy for power.”

He surged upon her, “Ye’ll never ken wha’ ‘tis like ta harness such power and ken tha’ sometime in th’ future ye will be stripped o’ it. I willna go back ta serving. Th’ gods doonae ken, Aerten herself doesnae ken, what yer capacity is. They’re afraid; whauras me? I’m excited. If I complete th’ Rite o’ th’ Phoenix on Samhain, I obtain all o’ yer powers, latent abilities and all.”

“How do you know I am who you think I am? I don’t feel any different than I’ve felt all my life. What if it’s all a mistake?”

“Ah, tha’ would be a puzzle, but alas, yer soul ha’ been recognized by th’ gods. They are ne’er wrong. Ye are th’ priestess.”

“I’m not familiar with your religion. Your gods are not my God. I don’t believe. Yours is not my faith.”

Motioning to the hooded figure, Cormac instructed, “Eric, take off yer cloak and gi’ her a keek at her handiwork.”

The second acolyte approached and unfastened the mantle at his neck. The heavy material pooled on the floor. He took the hem of his button-down shirt and lifted it over his head.

“And th’ bandage too.”

He played with edging of a soiled wrap. He hissed through his teeth as he began unwrapping, round and round. The last layers caused him pain as the gauze stuck to the seeping wound. The rotten skin sloughed off and opened sores had bright blood mixing with pus. “Get a good look at what you did to me, bitch.” He shoved the arm under her nose. Brenawyn leaned back in the chair she was tied to so that the chair balanced on two legs; she would have fallen over had it not been for the wall. She turned her head forcefully away, but the man placed a heavy hand on the arm of the chair and pushed down. The chair righted itself with a thump, and Brenawyn’s head bounced once off the head rest only to come close to ricocheting against the offending arm. The man had the forethought to pull back at the last instant to save himself from an onslaught of new pain to the damaged limb.

Brenawyn turned her head and vomited on herself. Some of the contents of her stomach splashed onto him, and he backhanded her. “Ugh, filthy whore. I’m going to lose my arm, thanks to you.”

She looked down and saw the mottled hand and blackened fingertips. “You need to get that looked at, maybe the doctors can save the arm.”

“How charitable, the image of compassion.”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“Don’t know who I am? He shoved his other wrist at her. She looked down at the tattoo of the three lines. Recognition flared in her.

She looked at Alex. He was trussed like her, at the wrists and ankles with duct tape, in the matching Queen Anne side chair; but Alex was also bound at the elbows, knees and chest, pinning him most effectively to the seat.