The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (20 page)

“
You make it sound so simple.” The statement dripped with sarcasm.

“It won’t be, I’m sure. But I’m working on a plan.”

“Oh aye? What kind of plan?”

“To use multiple spells to render him defenseless,” she explained.

His fingers plowed through his hair. He didn’t like the idea of hanging around Wickenham for two bloody weeks with both Fitzgerald and Branwen on the prowl. And he’d already packed for Scotland. But he could hardly go without her now, and not just because of the lurking threats. Though he no longer had the strength to leave her behind, hanging around wasn’t an option, either.

“
I think we should get out of here,” he said.

“
So do I. And the sooner the better.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works for me. But first, I need to talk to Maud about covering my finals. And cast a spell so Branwen never touches you again.”

His brow furrowed.
“What kind of spell?”

“A binding spell. And I know just the one. But we’ll need to toss the poppet in the ocean when it’s done. Do
you know a good place we can do that?”

He took a second
, along with another warming sip of brandy, before the right spot presented itself. After setting the empty glass on the table, he gathered her into his arms and gave her a kiss. “Aye,
m’aingael
. I know the perfect place.”

Part
III: The Kill



I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

—
George Gordon, Lord Byron

Chapter 16: Count Dracula Disguised as Cupid

Cat believed love’s opposite wasn’t hate or even indifference. It was fear. Love was positive. Love flowed and released. Love asked for nothing. Love was an open hand. Fear was negative. Fear ebbed and blocked. Fear coveted and demanded. Fear yearned to possess. Fear was a fist. Unrequited love wasn’t love. It was fear masquerading as love. Count Dracula disguised as Cupid.

Thus, what Branwen
called love was actually love’s enemy.

She
had empathy for Branwen. Yes, she disliked the dark faery immensely, but she wasn’t without compassion for her plight. Unrequited love sucked big time. And if she could remove Branwen’s vampiric feelings toward Graham, she might be tempted to do so. Unfortunately, her powers didn’t extend that far.

Magic wasn’t about raising power and commanding it to do or change this or that, just as the magician pleased. It was about redirecting. Calling upon the powers of nature and creation to move existing energies along a different route. She couldn’t summon just anyone.
Oh, no. She could only summon beings already capable of moving through the ethers. She couldn’t change Branwen’s feelings, she could only steer them away from Graham. And that was just what she intended to do with the spell she’d chosen to bind the
gancanaugh
from doing either of them further harm.

The spell was more complicated than most she’d cast. It called for candles, fabric, tobacco, runes, a poppet, ribbons, banishing oil, and multiple incantations. It was now midnight and she was at her desk sewing together two pieces of felt she’d cut roughly to resemble Branwen. The next step was to stuff the poppet with cotton, loose tobacco, and the hair or nail clippings of the spell’s object, though the latter, thankfully, was non-essential. Graham, meanwhile, was busy
in the kitchen mixing the banishing oil from a recipe she’d found on the internet.

½
oz. olive oil infused with cayenne pepper

10 drops peppermint oil

12 drops of rue or rosemary oil

15 drops of pine oil

A handful of black peppercorns, finely crushed

A small piece of obsidian or black onyx stone

The spell called for a large black candle, into whose wax she’d already used a nail to carve Branwen’s name, a circle to represent the dark moon, bars like those in a jail, a widdershins spiral, and three runic symbols:
Thurisaz
(the gateway),
Isa
(standstill), and
Eihwaz
(movement).

Just as she was knotting the thread on the poppet, Graham came up behind her,
and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “The oil’s ready.”

He handed her the dark medicine bottle into which he’d put the oil and onyx. Taking it and the poppet to the altar, she
poured a few drops on the poppet and the candlewick before casting a protective circle around the altar. From his seat on the bed, he observed the ritual in reverent silence. Doing her best to keep her mind focused on Branwen, she lit the candle and adjusted the standing mirror to reflect the flame. Finally, she drew a deep breath, picked up the poppet, and held it over the flame.

“Creature of cloth thou art,

Creature of flesh and blood you be.

I name
you, Branwen O’Lyr.

No more shall
you do harm to me.

No more shall
you interfere in my life,

N
or in the lives of those I love.

By the power
of the goddess and by my will,

so
mote it be.”

Maintaining her
concentration, she sucked in another deep breath before drawing an invoking pentagram over the poppet. Next, she picked up the red ribbon and began to bind the doll like a mummy. As she did this, being careful to leave no gaps in the binding, she said:

“I bind your feet from bringing harm to me.

I bind your hands from reaching out to harm me.

I bind your mouth from spreading false tales to harm me.

I bind your mind from sending energy to harm me.

If
you so continue, may all your malevolence return to you ten-fold!”

After t
ying off the ribbon, she held the poppet in front of the mirror and called into her mind all the terrible things Branwen had done to Graham and herself. Molesting him in his sleep, putting him in handcuffs, torturing his genitals, attacking her in the form of a raven. She then imagined all the grief and heartache he’d suffered as a consequence of these actions returning to Branwen ten-fold. Finally, she wrapped the poppet in the black cloth, tied it with another length of red ribbon, closed her eyes, and said:

“Hecate, I implore
you

Bind Branwen O’Lyr from doing further harm

To my person or any I hold in my heart.

By t
he powers of three times three

By Earth and Fire, Air and Sea,

I fix this spell, then set it free

’
Twill give no harm to return to me

As I will, so
mote it be.”

That done, s
he set the bundle on the altar, where it would remain until the candle burned away. The final step, as she’d already told Graham, was to toss the bound poppet into the sea and walk away, never looking back.

“There
.” She let out a breath. “That should take care of Branwen. Now we need to figure out the best way to ambush Gerard Fitzgerald.”

* * *

As much as he’d like nothing better than to spend the next few hours between the sheets, it was out of the question. There was too much yet to do before leaving for Scotland. And as much as he would have preferred never to darken Wicken Hall’s door again, returning was unavoidable. His dogs were there, for one thing. So was the portrait of Caitriona. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave either behind for the world. Nor his diaries. He’d sooner burn them then let them fall into Branwen’s clutches. The book he’d dreamed of writing would just have to sit for the time being on that big shelf in the sky labeled “maybe someday.”

Luckily, he had a good-sized Range Rover, so there’d be room enough for the dogs and a few pieces of luggage. The horses, the groom could look after until he returned.
If
he returned. And he had to believe with every part of himself that her magic would prove powerful enough to break his curse; that they would one day find themselves like the couple on the Ten of Cups
,
arm-in-arm under a rainbow of abundance with their children dancing around them; that she’d come back, as she’d attested all along, not to punish but to redeem him.

He
so wanted her to be right. About everything. Wanted her to pull him down off his tightrope, to take his hand and lead him out of the darkness, to fill the emptiness he’d suffered so long with light and love and hope. She was more powerful than the last two times she’d come through. He’d felt it that night at the pub when he’d read her, again when she’d summoned him through the ethers, and just now as she cast the binding spell.

Caitriona had been what was known as a
cailleach
or “spae wife” in the Highlands. She knew how to use herbs for magical and medicinal purposes, consulted the runes for guidance, had psychic dreams sometimes, and made simple love potions, herbal poultices, and runic amulets to protect travelers, heal disease, and ward off evil. As far as he knew, she couldn’t summon paranormal entities or break spells and curses. She could see spirits, though, and insisted she’d seen the ghost of his beloved Granda when she visited his castle.

Catharine was more of an occultist. Like him at that time, she practiced various methods of divination; endorsed esoteric mysticism; studied the cabbala; cast spells; consulted with spirits and angels; and attended séances.

They were in Cat’s car now, heading toward the manor house. He’d wanted to etherically transport, but she insisted on coming along to ensure the spell had worked. The plan was to drop him at the gates, wait while he collected his things, and follow him back to the cottage. For insurance, she’d brought along the poppet and a very serious looking hatpin, a vintage piece with a smiling crescent moon and three stars. If Shelob gave him any trouble, she planned to jab the poppet like a voodoo doll. He’d wickedly suggested she target the doll’s crotch, to give Shelob a taste of her own warped medicine. She’d protested, insisting it was too cruel. He shook his head. Too cruel?
Bloody hell
. His balls still smarted from that fucking paddle. At the same time, though, he’d found her benevolence endearing.

Not as altruistic, h
e found it hard to overlook offences. Branwen, Fitzgerald, that idiot who’d attacked her outside the pub, even her housemate. Hell, he still harbored ill will toward Caitriona’s father for packing her off to a convent instead of protecting her and their unborn son.

Shaking his
head to dispel his grievances, he rerouted his thoughts to what lay ahead. Before setting off, he’d rung the caretaker at
Tur-nan-Deur.
Not having been back to Druimdeurfait since the 1970s, he’d never met the man. MacCabe had been hired by his solicitor, the same man who managed his trust and kept his records up to date, including his birth certificate and passport. Fortunately, a couple of long-standing firms in Edinburgh catered to the special legal needs of his kind.

MacCabe had informed him there was a wedding party in residence just now, so he’d best delay his arrival for a day or two. That suited
him fine, actually, because it afforded the opportunity to revisit some of his favorite historic sites: Stirling Castle, where he’d trained after joining the Argyle & Sutherland. Bannockburn, where Robert the Bruce won Scotland’s freedom from the English back in 1314; Falkirk, where his Granda lost his leg fighting with the Bonny Prince and, of course, Culloden, the devastating defeat that forever changed the Highland way of life.

* * *

Through the imposing iron gates, she watched the house, dark except for the porch lamps.
Please let him be quick and have no backlash from Branwen.
Stomach tightly knotted, she squeezed the poppet, still in her hand. She actually rather liked his suggestion about stabbing it in the crotch. It was mean, but, in her opinion, that evil bitch deserved no less.

She heaved a sigh. It was hard to
believe anyone was capable of such deliberate cruelty, though at some level she knew people were capable of all sorts of terrible things. Just look at the world. War, genocide, rape, terrorism, torture, murder. And that was just the icing. The underlying cake was a festering cesspool of greed, fear, hatred, selfishness, and malice.

Movement above the front-door portico jolted her from her thoughts. As she strained to see what it was, Graham stepped onto the porch with Wallace and Bruce on leashes. He’d changed into his kilt and
was pulling one of those suitcases on wheels. As he came down the steps, fighting to keep the dogs under control, he looked so human, and so handsome, she couldn’t help smiling.

A flutter of motion drew her eyes back to the roof. Shadow
bathed the area, so she couldn’t make out what was there. She stared for a long moment, squinting and straining, but saw nothing. Her gaze climbed higher, past the dormers and up the steep incline of slate tiles. Still nothing. Shaking it off, she told herself it was probably just a fruit rat or a feral cat.

Lowering her gaze,
she watched him walk toward the carriage house, dogs leading, suitcase trailing. Her breath caught when she saw something swoop toward him from the portico. Something large and dark. A raven. Rage spread through her like wildfire. Glaring down at the poppet in her hand, she ground out through clenched teeth, “May all your malevolence return to you ten-fold!”

Lifting the pin, she
aimed for the doll’s crotch and jabbed. The bird was already on him, clawing at his face with its talons. He’d let go of the dogs to fight it off. As she plunged in the pin, the raven screeched and madly flapped its wings. Seizing the advantage, he caught the bird by the tail and flung it away. It landed hard on the cobbles. In a blink, the dogs were on it, snarling like hungry wolves. He yelled at them and tried to pull them off, but they wouldn’t be deterred. One Westie grabbed the bird by the neck and ran, shaking it in his jaws as he went. The other followed, snapping at one of the wings. When he got his teeth in it, a vicious tugging match ensued.

The head and wing tore off.

Nausea rolled through her. Swallowing hard, she squeezed shut her eyes. As much as she despised Branwen, she couldn’t bear to watch the terriers rip her apart. Still, she’d reaped what she’d sown, hadn’t she? The spell might not have stopped her from attacking Graham, probably because they’d not yet disposed of the poppet, but it had definitely repaid her wickedness times ten.

* * *

There wasn’t much left of the raven by the time he got the dogs under control. Had Wallace and Bruce known somehow that the bird was the woman who kicked them and locked them up? He felt terrible about what had happened, but didn’t doubt she’d have stopped at nothing to keep him.