Rogue Soul (The Mythean Arcana Series Book 3) (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Highlands of Celtic Scotland, 634 BC

Long before Andrasta met Camulos

Druantia stood on the hill, the howling wind whipping her hair and cloak behind her, and surveyed the bloody chaos in the valley below, where two Celtic kingdoms collided. Blood spilled into the grass, the screams of men and horses drowned out the clash of iron, and the dead lay scattered. But her side would prevail. She’d made sure.

“High Priestess, the king has sent a message from the front.” The voice of Alban, one of the lesser Druids, broke through her concentration.

“What?” She glared at him. She’d worked long and hard for this moment, rising from the lowliest ranks to High Priestess of her people.
 

“He wants to cease fighting. They are outmanned.” Alban cowered at her feet and she barely resisted kicking him.

“Do not cease.” Her voice, low and hard, carried on the wind. “I have ensured our success with Camulos, god of war.” For she was
gutuatri
, one who spoke to the gods.

“Yes, mistress.” Alban bowed his head, once, twice, then spun away to run down the hill and into the fray. King Suibhne would heed her, for while he was king, she ensured his victory in all respects. Were she ever to feel the need, she would replace him. But in good time.

She stood on the hill, impervious to the cold and the wind, and watched as the battle turned in favor of her people. Soon, the last of the enemy fled over the horizon. Rough cheers rang up from the battlefield, male and female warriors alike surging to take the heads from the bodies of their bravest foes. An honor, for her people believed that the soul resided in the head.
 

She swept down from the hill, heedless of the blood and mud that stuck to her shoes as she strode through the chaos. The women who had not fought ran from their vantage points on a nearby hill, bringing torches to light the now-darkening sky.

A cheer rose up from the warriors as she neared the center of the grisly scene. Men and women, covered in their blood and the blood of others, waved their swords in victory and cheered her name. Power and pleasure surged through her. Some of her disciples said that her power went to her head.

They were wrong. She, Druantia, caused victories such as this. Druids all over their great isle were revered for their power and wisdom. But she—she was their leader.

She stopped in front of King Suibhne, her gaze flashing over the victorious scene. He bowed to her, his eyes cast down, and a smile curved over her face. His second-in-command brought her the head of their bravest foe, slain not an hour past.

She nodded. “Take it to the altar.” It would sit there, to honor the warrior’s bravery and skill. For one day his people would be hers as well.
 

A woman handed her a torch and Druantia grasped it, thrusting it into the sky. She yelled, “It is I, Druantia, who have brought you this victory.”

They cheered, their cries filling her body with everything she craved. “Gather the heads of the greatest fallen. They will line the walls of my temple! We will take their strength into us.”

The crowd—warriors, their families, children—all had come to praise her for their victory. As they should. Their cheers rose on the air, first wordless, then coalescing to form her name. She raised the torch higher, pleasure surging through her at their adulation.

A crack of thunder broke through the night, so strong that it shook the ground beneath her feet. Before it had faded, a man appeared.
 

No, a god. Camulos stood before her, god of war, and rage lined his face. She stepped back instinctively, then caught herself, horrified by her weakness.

She was Druantia, High Priestess of the Druids. She didn’t cower from anyone. Not even a god.
 

“Cease,” Camulos roared, his gaze cutting across the people.
 

Their cries died as they caught sight of him, larger and more powerful than any mortal and with a gods’ rage all but vibrating from him. Whispers passed through the crowd that a god was among them. A rare occurrence, but not unheard of.

“I am Camulos, god of war! Your success on this battlefield was granted at
my
will. You fought fellow Celts. Yet
I alone
decreed that your kingdom should be victorious over theirs.” He swung his arm out, pointing at her. “Not this woman.”

She fell to her knees, propelled by his power until the wet ground soaked through her dress and the rocks bit into her flesh.

“She is but a priestess, bound to do my will as I see fit. Nothing more!” His arrogance cut through the night.

Rage such as Druantia had never experienced engulfed her, made all the worse by her impotence. She could do
nothing.
No matter how she struggled, she was pinned, kneeling in the mud. In front of her people. Their faces all turned to her, confusion turning to disdain.
No!

“Your tributes are to me!” Thunder followed his bellow, the elements urged on by his fury. Rain poured from the sky, turning the mud and the blood of war into a foul swamp that soaked through Druantia’s clothes. “Gather the heads of your greatest foes and bring them here.”

Druantia, trembling in her rage and humiliation, watched as
her
people brought the heads forth and piled them in front of Camulos. Their faces were awed, glowing with admiration in the light of the torches.

The god of war watched, satisfaction and arrogance glowing from his face, until the heads were piled high, a gruesome tribute to his power and glory. The gods were known for their passions and jealousy, but never had it been turned against her. The heads were meant for her temple, so that she might benefit from the power of their souls. But no, they went to him. And such pleasure he took in it that it burned her.

From his outstretched hand, Camulos shot a blast of godly fire that immolated the tribute, the flames rising high despite the pouring rain. The souls of the fallen, what would have been her tribute, poured forth from the flame, rising to Otherworld in his name.

And worse, worst of all, the people cheered.
 

Camulos,
they yelled. Over and over and over until Druantia was certain that the refrain would never leave her head. Did they not know that it was her, Druantia, who had bartered for their victory? Assured it?

The last of the flames died down until there was nothing but ash, and without hesitation, the god of war departed for Otherworld, disappearing before her eyes.
 

Finally, his hold on her disappeared. Trembling, she rose to her feet. Her people spared not a glance for her.
 

Something dark within her surged. Camulos might be a god, but she was the High Priestess of the Druids. And he treated her
like a
servant.
She was but a tool to him, a thing to cast aside.
 

He would regret this night, she vowed. All the gods would regret this night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“You know, I really thought she’d live in a tree or something,” Ana said as they crossed the street toward Druantia’s shop, an ornate stone building that rose three stories above a bustling city street in the heart of Inverness.
 

“A tree?” He arched a brow.

“Well, a big one. Or at least in a copse of trees. In the forest. You know, very Druidy.”

“The old days.”
 

“Well, this building is creepy.”

“She’s strange, but she’s a valuable tool with valuable skills.” He led her around the building to a side entrance in the alley and pushed open the wooden door that lead into a shop.
 

Ana stepped in behind him, and her eyes took a minute to adjust to the light. It was nice enough, full of books and crystals and tiny statues all piled on shelves and tables. Dim light filtered in through small windows, glinting off dust motes and glass. All the sorts of things mortals would buy from a witchy type.

“Times have changed,” Cam murmured.
 

“Indeed they have.” A husky, feminine voice came from an archway in the back of the store. Surprise lit her green eyes when she saw them, and a strange smile twisted her lips. “Camulos. Times really have changed. It’s been nearly two thousand years since I’ve seen you last, hasn’t it? And now you’re in my shop and I’m consigned to peddling trinkets to the mortals and the occasional spell to Mytheans. The good old days are long gone.”

Ana assumed she meant back when Druidry was still the dominant religion in Britain and she’d held an enormous amount of power as the intermediary between mortals and the gods. Ana shrugged mentally. Tough tits—it happened to all the old religions.
 

“Druantia,” Cam said. “We’ve need of your talents.”

No salutation, Ana noticed, and his voice was different. Businesslike and brusque. Far from how he spoke to her. Druantia took it in stride, with only the barest tightening of her lips.

“And who might this be?” Druantia asked, looking at her appraisingly.

“Andrasta, Goddess of Victory.”

The briefest flash of something like shock crossed Druantia’s face, there and gone. Had it existed at all?

“Her glow has faded,” Druantia said.

“I’ve been on earth a while,” Ana said.

“What can I do for you?” Druantia asked.

Ana listened as Cam explained his lost protection charm, but she focused her attention on the store, hoping to see Logan Laufeyson lurking amongst the shelves.

“Aye, I can replace it,” Druantia said when he finished. “But it will cost you.”

“Not a problem. We can do it now?”

She nodded.

“Could I get one, too?” Ana asked. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this before. It would solve all her problems.

“No. It doesn’t work on gods,” Druantia said.

“Oh.” Ana suddenly felt as collapsed as a pile of dead leaves.

“Come on back.” Druantia waved a hand and turned to walk under the archway that led to a back room.
 

Ana glanced at Cam expectantly, the question in her eyes. He nodded and she followed, weaving around the little tables and shelves until she passed through the arch. A zip of magic sang across her skin when she stepped over the threshold. She must have just entered the Mythean part of the store, protected from mortal eyes and ears.

“Sit down.” Druantia nodded to a big wooden chair in the corner of the room.
 

There wasn’t much other than bookshelves and a few chairs. Not as creepy as Ana had been expecting. Then she felt like a bitch for assuming the worst of the spell peddler.

Cam sat in the chair and stripped off his shirt, revealing the hard planes of muscles that always gave Ana dry mouth. He was pale and huge in the cozy room, and suddenly her breath became a little harder to drag into her lungs.
 

Druantia strolled to a bookshelf and picked up a black curved wand-type thing that had a pointy end like a pen. Cam’s face tensed as she neared.
 

“Wait, what are you going to do to him?” Ana asked, suddenly nervous. The thing in Druantia’s hand did look very pointy.
 

“Protection tattoo,” Druantia said, and waved the pen-wand.
 

“He doesn’t have a tattoo from the last one.”

“Aye, he does. It’s invisible. Magic inked into the skin.” She stepped close to his side and Cam looked up at her.
 

“Add her name,” he said. “So she can see me.”

Druantia nodded and set the tip of the pen-wand on the meatiest part of his shoulder. Cam didn’t flinch, but Ana was pretty sure she saw faint lines form at the corners of his eyes. She wanted to ask what he’d meant by seeing him.

Ana held her breath as Druantia began to draw. Fine red lines appeared in the wake of the pen-wand, glowing for a moment until they disappeared. Ana’s eyes darted back and forth between Cam’s glowing shoulder and the harsh set of his lips and eyes. A drop of sweat trickled from his temple.

It all made Ana vaguely ill, and though she was desperate to ask if it was almost over, she held her tongue. Causing Druantia to slip up could only be bad.

“Right. You’re done.” Druantia stepped back, and Cam’s face finally relaxed.
 

Ana let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
 

He stood, flexed his arm and shoulder, nodded appreciatively, then dragged his shirt on.
 

They walked to the front of the store, where Cam settled his bill with a wad of cash she didn’t realize he’d been carrying. How did he make his money if his company was non-profit? She shook her head. Not her business.

“We’d like to speak to Logan Laufeyson. Is he here?” Cam asked.

Druantia’s brows drew together. “I’m sorry, he’s not.”

“Do you know where he is?” Cam asked.

“No. He walked out a few weeks ago and didn’t leave a note or anything.” A grimace twisted her features.

Ana’s breath rushed out of her lungs, disappointment filling up her body like an overflowing jug left out in the rain.
Shit.