Feeling like a child, Lizzie walked with her mother and Aunt Aggie upstairs to her bedroom. They insisted on helping her into a flannel granny nightgown, helped her into bed and covered her with mounds of blankets. The doting two tucked her in so securely, it seemed she’d been buried alive.
Holy witch’s warts! I can’t breathe!
As her mother and Aunt Aggie crossed to a corner of her room and began whispering, Lizzie sat up and threw off the covers with a sigh of relief. Covered only by a sheet, she closed her eyes and tried to rest. It seemed strange to be in bed while the sun still shone behind her lace curtains.
Her head swam with images of Kincaid. His smiling face, his frowning expression, his joking visage—all of them haunted her. Peace and calm would not truly welcome her soul until she returned him to his rightful place in the world. As her mind drifted, she heard her door click closed and she sensed her mother and Aunt Aggie had left her alone.
A troubled sleep claimed her and she drifted into the world of Morpheus, the god of sleep. Flashes of light burned through her eyelids. Restless, she tossed and turned, unable to fight through the mists of unconsciousness.
***
Caw, caw, caw…
“What the hell?” Lizzie leapt to her feet and scrubbed sleep from her eyes. A noise that sounded like a bird echoed in her room. Gloom and darkness swirled throughout the space, thick and choking. Pale moonlight provided the only illumination, which created shadowy images.
A giant bird with tan and gray plumage thunked down and raked its black claws toward her. It looked just like the one that had attacked her back at King Aedh’s castle. With its oddly-shaped green and yellow beak it started pecking with wild fury, doing its best to try and turn her into a bloody pegboard.
“Goddess above,” she croaked as she ducked behind a chair, frantic to escape the creature. She tried to cry out, but her voice wouldn’t project.
The curious bird flapped its wings and screeched. Like a fierce tide receding from a rocky shoreline, Lizzie’s anger built. She whispered an incantation, and a golden shimmer surrounded the creature. What felt like a jolt of electricity passed through her body. She blinked in shock as the bird began talking.
“Elizabeth Rose, you have been found guilty of murder,” it said.
Lizzie had lived all over the Earth in her lifetime and had dealt with all manner of fantastic creatures, but never had she encountered a bird that could speak.
“I’ve been found guilty of murdering someone? Who?”
The bird squawked and furiously flapped its wings, its beady black eyes seemingly boring through her. Though it didn’t really matter, Lizzie wondered what hellish place the thing hailed from.
When the bird didn’t answer, she said, “Speak up, or I’ll banish you to the Neverlands. It is not a pleasant place, but if you admit your wrongdoings against me, you will be able to redeem your soul and be reborn.”
“Doh,” it replied, sounding just like Homer Simpson.
Curls of blue smoke obscured it from vision. When it cleared, Sorcha appeared in all her skeletal glory, her wispy gown curling around her like writhing snakes. In her hands, she held two bony banshee heads, each staring at her with horrid expressions.
“I’m baaaaack,” the old crone howled and reached out to grab her. “You will pay for what you’ve done!”
“You’re in a dream, Lizzie girl,” Kincaid said as he appeared beside her and prodded her shoulder. “Wake up, lass. Wake up!”
“Kincaid,” she murmured as she opened her eyes, noting with relief she was alone in her room. Neither Sorcha nor the giant bird lurked in the corners. She must have been asleep for several hours because night shadows draped the area and moonlight shimmered through the window.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she sat up in bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her vision of Kincaid had been so real that disappointment shot through her and aching need settled in her chest.
“Time to go,” she told herself, deciding the sooner she returned to Kincaid, the sooner she’d quit pining for him. She glanced at the alarm clock on her night table, which told her it was 11 p.m. Everyone in the house should be sleeping at this hour. After getting out of bed, she walked over to her altar. An antique table covered in a silk scarf embroidered with flowers and herbs, it held candles, incense, a crystal ball, and other talismans she’d collected over the years.
Striking a match, she lit purple tapers and anointed her forehead with sacred almond oil. With her marble mortar and pestle, she ground together rosemary, dragon’s blood herb, clove, fennel, coarse salt, and pepper.
“Travel and venture come to me, bless me with no catastrophes,” she chanted. “Bind this spell with earth, wind, air, and fire, keep me safe from strife and ire. May the nature spirits guide me and bring me home with Kincaid. So mote it be!”
Lizzie scooped up the herbs and placed them in a small white sachet bag, tying the top with a green ribbon. She used more almond oil to trace the wiccan pentagram, a star within a circle, on the surface of the cloth, charging it with energy and protection.
After tucking the bag into a pocket in her cape, she gathered a few items and packed them in her leather pouch. Dressing in a black top, black jeans, and black boots, she secured the cape around her shoulders and walked toward the door.
“Oh,” she cried softly when she opened it. Wren stood guard right outside the threshold, swishing the floorboards with her straw bottom.
“And just where do you think you’re going, Devochka?” she asked.
“Wren! You nearly scared the life out of me.”
“Answer my question, little missy.”
“Where’s Vera?” Lizzie looked up and down the hallway. “I would have imagined she’d want to be in on the action, too.”
“Your Aunt Aggie took her back to the shop,” Wren said. “So it’s just me to stop you from doing something stupid.”
“You don’t understand,” Lizzie said. “Kincaid’s trapped in a golden statue in the Land of the Fae. I’ve got to help him.”
“We’ve all been wondering what happened to that Scottish hottie,” Wren said. “You said he helped you get Uaithne, but you’ve been secretive about what happened while you were gone.”
Lizzie shook her head. “It’s such a long story, Wren. I need to get going.”
When she tried to step around Wren, the broom blocked her way.
“Please let me go,” Lizzie begged. “I’ve got to save Kincaid. He’s my, my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes.” Lizzie held up her ring finger.
“Explain yourself.”
“Move out of my way. I insist!”
“La, la, la, not listening,” the broom responded. “Not until you come clean. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Fine,” Lizzie finally relented. As quickly as she could, she recounted the story. At the wedding part, Wren started to sniff and cry.
“I always thought I’d be able to whisk away the night at your wedding, Devochka. Now I’ve missed the entire celebration.”
“You were with me in spirit,” Lizzie said, patting the broom’s handle. She finished her explanation, noting how Kincaid wound up becoming a golden statue in Queen Dana’s catacombs beneath the Hag’s Mountain.
“Now do you understand why I must return?”
“Totally,” Wren said. “But I’m going with you. Together, we’ll rescue this hunky Scotsman of yours.”
“I was going to drive so I didn’t get you involved. But I’ll appreciate having you along, old friend.”
“Of course, my dear. That’s what witch’s brooms are for!”
Gripping Wren’s handle, Lizzie carried her into the bedroom. She opened her window and said, “Elemental power I invoke, clear the way like wind blows smoke. Powers stir and build in me, as I will, so mote it be!”
The window grew larger, until it became big enough for Lizzie and Wren to fit through. She sat on the broom and said, “Fugare!”
&n
bsp; Wren shot through the enlarged window and flew up into the sky, zooming through the milky starlight toward the cove where Lizzie had moored Kincaid’s ship.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Crying laced the silence. It resonated with deep agony, as though someone’s broken heart ached in their chest, bursting with sadness.
The mournful sobbing echoed in Kincaid’s ears. Curious, he looked around. The thick, cloying mist made him choke. It felt as though someone had secured him with mummy wrappings. Frustrated, he narrowed his gaze to see better, which didn’t improve his field of vision.
“Close your eyes, Spirit Wulver. Return to the realm of sleep,” a soothing female voice instructed him.
“What’s going on? And why, in the name of Mother Scotland, can’t I move?” Kincaid’s ragged breathing caught in his throat, and he found it difficult to inhale enough air to fill his lungs.
“Do as I say,” the voice told him. “Quit struggling against your fate. Just breathe…”
“Queen Dana?” Kincaid frowned, recalling who owned the voice. Dread knifed through his gut when he thought back to when he and Lizzie arrived at the Hag’s Mountain and entered the dark, narrow catacombs. He remembered finding Queen Dana and the offering she needed to release Uaithne.
Me.
He struggled to move, but invisible bonds held him still. It seemed as though someone had planted him in cement.
“Spirit Wulver, I beg of you, don’t fight this. It will only make your suffering worse,” Queen Dana pleaded.
“Who is crying?”
“That is no longer of consequence.”
“It’s Lizzie, isn’t it?”
“Lizzie is gone from this place,” the queen said.
“How long ago did she leave?” Panic set off alarms in his head, and he did his best not to let it consume him.
“Time has no place here,” she explained. “In the catacombs, we simply exist.”
“Will I ever see her again? Will I ever be free?”
Queen Dana said, “Shhh, now. Shhh…”
She began to sing in a lilting tone, “Hush the breeze, hush, let it blow over the mountains and sea. Birds wing through the blue sky, swooping and diving free. Let the sun shine o’er the green hills of your bonnie Scotland home.”
“I want to know if I’ll ever hold my Lizzie girl again,” Kincaid growled. “I deserve to know.”
“I’m so sorry it has to be this way,” the queen said. “But the rules cannot be bent or broken. Unfortunately, I haven’t the knowledge to tell you if you’ll ever return to her.”
Kincaid closed his eyes and swore. “This can’na be happening!”
Queen Dana resumed singing, the words washing over Kincaid, burning like acid. He wanted to run from this suffocating prison, but he was trapped, like a miner in a collapsed cave.
“Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie,” he murmured, now certain it had been her sobbing he’d heard. She may not be nearby, but somewhere in space and time, her voice had reached him.
How long had she been crying for him?
How long had he been here?
“Hush the breeze, hush,” Queen Dana resumed singing.
Kincaid’s heartbeat stopped racing and slowed into a normal rhythm, as though the tune magically calmed his fears. Seemingly of their own volition, his eyes closed and peace filtered through his consciousness. Every muscle he owned melted into compliance.
He felt himself drifting toward slumber.
“Sleep will help you accept your destiny,” Queen Dana murmured. “Sleep will take away the sting of regret and longing.”
No, I can’t fall asleep again!
He had to escape. He needed freedom.
Queen Dana had somehow tricked his mind, convincing him to relax. An unnerving voice told him it would be best to surrender to the dark mists and accept that is where he belonged. At last, exhaustion won over reason. Kincaid accepted that existing anywhere now seemed pointless, considering he couldn’t do a thing to change what had happened.
The famous Spirit Wulver, Kincaid McAllister, no longer battled demons and evil spirits. He wasn’t Elizabeth Rose’s husband and lover any longer.
He had become a speck of dust trapped in the starry universe.
***
Kincaid.
Feeling as though his eyelids were weighted with rocks, he barely managed to lift them. Dark, swirling mist met his gaze, so he allowed his eyes to close again. His mind must be turning to mush, he decided.
“Barmy fool,” he muttered.
His consciousness drifted once again, taking him back to memories of the rocky Scottish coastline, back to his home on the Isle of Trondra. Stone cliffs rose above the azure ocean, which stretched toward the cloud-lined horizon. A salty breeze filled his nostrils and he breathed deeply. He recalled his youth, when as a lad, he fished those deep blue waters with his father.
At the time, he hadn’t a care in the world. His concerns were those of a boy—what savory dish his mother would make for dinner and enjoying time with his friends. His heart twisted as he recalled the night Maeve tucked him into bed and kissed his cheek, as though nothing was amiss.
The next morning, she was gone.
Kincaid had pretended not to be affected by his mother’s abrupt departure. Inside, he felt devastated and betrayed. Guilt plagued him, as though he’d done something to make her leave.
It had also devastated his father, Ronan. He’d given up his entire life for the love of a mortal woman. His wulver pack had even ostracized him for wedding a mortal and siring a half-breed son. It went against the wulvers’ creed because for centuries, they had struggled to keep their bloodlines intact.
Ronan still wasn’t allowed to rejoin his pack when Maeve left. Desperate, he’d dragged his son with him across the world, searching everywhere for his wife. He drowned himself in whiskey to handle his sorrow. When Kincaid turned sixteen, Ronan left a note one night wishing his boy good luck.
Then he, too, disappeared.
Kincaid never felt comfortable anywhere. With the knowledge he’d been deserted by his parents, he lived a painful, difficult existence. Nevertheless, the lesson had hardened his resolve to survive.
Seeing the trouble loving a woman had brought to his father, Kincaid had sworn never to be consumed by matters of the heart. In his experience, love crushed your heart and destroyed your soul.
Then he’d met Lizzie, and his resistance to become attached to anyone dissipated. Even when he’d left her, thoughts of the woman haunted his days and nights.
Kincaid, come back to me…
“Lizzie,” he murmured.
I need you.
“I canna come to you, lass,” Kincaid murmured. “I am the offering for Queen Dana so she would release Uaithne to your safekeeping. By now, the magical harp has defeated Sorcha and her hell-driven banshee swarm. You are free…”
But I am not.
Shivering from his chill surroundings, a bereft sensation clutching his soul, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
That’s when he felt old Sorcha’s magical arm cuff, still tucked inside his pocket. Hope exploded like a ray of sunshine bursting over a misty lake. No doubt the magical silver bangle, engraved with ancient Scottish runes, would be a priceless acquisition.
Especially to the guardian of the catacombs.
“Queen Dana,” he called. “I must speak to you.”
“Sleep, Spirit Wulver,” she answered in a soothing tone. “It will keep you calm and accepting of your fate.”
“I have an offering for you,” he told her. “One I’d like to use in exchange for my freedom.”
“You are desperate,” the queen responded. “You couldn’t possess any mere trinket worth my interest.”
“But I do,” he insisted. “Don’t dismiss my claims. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
Queen Dana appeared before him, her corn silk-colored, flowing locks spread across her shoulders and her long gown hugging her curves. She lifted one pale
eyebrow, curiosity illuminating her youthful features.
“I swear to you, Spirit Wulver, if you are trying to trick me, your fate will be much worse than being imprisoned in a golden statue.” Her gossamer wings fluttered.
“No tricks,” he swore.
Queen Dana began singing: “The humble tree is bending to the queen of Faeries, open the portal now and bring forth the kith and kin trapped within.”
The misty darkness cleared. A jolt of energy shot through Kincaid before he realized he stood once again in Queen Dana’s cave. He blinked in the brightness created by the dazzling gem-studded walls and glinting statues. Patting his chest and legs, he realized the golden statue that had held him captive had vanished.
“What is this item you wish to exchange for your freedom?” Queen Dana asked as she moved closer to Kincaid.
“This.” He withdrew the silver arm cuff and held it toward the light. It radiated with a sparkling gleam before he handed it to Queen Dana. As he watched her, he reached up to rub his chin, but discovered he’d sprouted a long, scruffy beard.
Once again, he wondered how long he’d been down here.
“Fascinating,” she said, her voice trembling. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it,” he explained. “You’ll be pleased to know ’tis the banshee Sorcha’s bric-a-brac. She must have lost it when she was tearin’ through the Earthly Realm.”
“You’re correct,” she said. “It is worth more to me than your life. You are free to go.”
“Thank you, your majesty.”
Kincaid bowed to the queen, then sprinted out of the catacombs before the fickle Faery changed her mind. As the Hag’s Mountain shrank in the distance behind him, he headed toward the marshy lake where he and Lizzie had arrived from the Earthly Realm.
Walking past the graveyard of broken ghost ships, he searched the water’s surface. He’d programmed Iolar to return to the Land of the Fae once it took Lizzie home, so the craft should be out there. The troll he’d purchased it from had designed it to fold itself into a small package in order to remain hidden, so that must be the reason he saw no trace of the ship.
Witch Tease Page 21
