Bewitched (Fated #1)

by Kelly Moran

  What the hell did it mean that it had vanished?

  Cold claws of dread sank into his chest, crushed his ribs. Slowly, he turned around and eyed the sisters as his world spun off its axis into oblivion. Hot tears splashed onto his cheeks and his peripheral went gray.

  “It’s gone,” he croaked. “The mark disappeared.”

  Gasping, Fiona wedged herself between the two front seats. She grabbed his arm, flipped it over, and stared at the spot where the trinity knot used to be. The color drained from her face and she shared a horrified glance with Ceara.

  Riley’s gaze ping-ponged between the ladies, his chest unmoving. Tristan diverted his disconcerted attention between the road and Brady, jaw ticking and nostrils flared.

  Brady’s stomach bottomed out.

  Pressing her fingers to her quivering lips, Ceara looked into the rearview mirror. “Hurry. You have to hurry.”

  Tristan jerked the wheel and sped past the busted Galloway security gate.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Slumped against the cottage near the meadow, legs sprawled in the grass in front of her, Kaida pried her eyes open for the second time. The stone exterior dug into her spine and a smarting jab in her ribs made breathing a chore, but she was alive. Somehow.

  One moment she was heading toward a vendor to fetch a bottle of water, the next she was being dragged between storefronts into an alley. A pinching prick in her neck had followed, and her world had gone black. She’d awoken in her current predicament.

  Whatever Greg Meath had injected into her was dulling her power. A sedative, no doubt. After taking stock, and confused out of her gourd, she’d slipped back into unconsciousness in order to project to Brady. Which had zapped what little strength remained. It had also required her to remove her pentagram necklace, leaving her unprotected from attack.

  And that was the other thing. Not that she was complaining, but why wasn’t she dead? Greg had ample opportunity to kill her, including when he’d taken her off the street. Yet here she sat, injured, but with a heartbeat.

  She wiggled her hands, but the rope securing them was too tight to escape and the movement only served to make her wrists more raw. The skin around the rope burned like acid. Her left eye throbbed and her jaw ached. Blood stains smeared her shirt. Greg had hit her. Hard. Judging by the pain, he’d done it a few more times after she’d blacked out again.

  Dew-speckled grass dampened her jeans and overcast skies threatened rain. Humidity clung to the brine-scented air, and she took a calming breath to think. Her hands were bound, rendering fighting difficult, but her legs were free, so she could run if the need arose.

  She focused on the green blades teeming with bluebells and buttercups, but she couldn’t conjure magick to get her water element to work. The harder she tried, the dimmer the spark inside her fizzled. Sweat broke out on her brow with the effort and she wound up exhausting herself instead of aiding.

  Struggling through the drugging pull of medication and injury, she took comfort in knowing she’d reached Brady and her sisters. She’d managed that much. They were coming. Hopefully, in time.

  Fear niggled at the edges of her mind, caused her pulse to trip. Falter.

  Damn, but she didn’t want to die. There was so much she needed to learn, things she had yet to do. She wanted more time with Brady, with her family. Her sisters. They were finally getting to know and accept one another. Besides her own selfish reasons and above all else, they needed her to break the curse.

  Helpless desperation and worry threatened to swallow her whole. Tears clogged her throat. What would become of those she loved if she failed? Worse, would they be harmed, too?

  How ironic she’d go out here, of all places. Where it had begun centuries ago and mere yards from where her life had truly started. In a dream. With him. Her sweet, smart, sexy, and brave Brady.

  The hinges on the cottage door rattled, and she turned her head. Greg, dagger in hand, gripped the knob with enough force the door should’ve caved, especially given its age. Alas, nada.

  His gray slacks were wet at the hem and his white button-down had her blood on the front. A thickly engraved gold ring donned the index finger of his right hand and glinted in the light. She’d seen it in various portraits inside the Meath mansion. Square in design, it held the family crest with an emerald in the center. It had obviously been passed down from generation to generation because all of the men in the framed pictures along the upstairs hallway had been wearing it.

  He pounded his fist on the door and glared at the wood, then ran his fingers through his short brown strands mixed with gray. Whipping his lethal green gaze to hers like he’d known she was watching, he bared his teeth. “Why won’t this bloody open, witch?”

  “I...” Swallowing, she cleared the rasp from her throat. “I don’t know.”

  She had a good theory, however, not that she’d share it with him. Considering the longevity spell cast on the place and the fact the boxes were hidden in a different plane inside, it made total sense not just anyone could get over the threshold.

  “You’re lying.” He bent and yanked her hair, causing her to cry out in shock. Her neck cramped at the odd angle he maneuvered her head as he ducked his face close to hers. “Get me inside the cottage. Now.” His breath smelled faintly of cigars and mint, but he had an underlying odor to him that she couldn’t place and made her stomach recoil. Liniment or some kind of oil? “I’ve been waiting centuries for this. You did your part. Open this door so I can destroy that witch’s box. Cooperate and I’ll make your death quick.”

  Hold on. He’d been waiting centuries? And how did he know what Celeste had left behind for the fated? It had never been mentioned in the journals. Furthermore, she hadn’t completed her task yet.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain, she closed her eyes. And it dawned on her, suddenly and almost blindingly, what was happening. He’d never had any intention of hurting her in the clearing that night. At least, not fatally. He’d just wanted to make his presence known, strike fear into them, and gather intel.

  For whatever reason, he’d wanted her and Brady to fulfill their end. The Venatores had been around since shortly after Celeste was murdered. And they’d left the Galloways alone. Well, all but Hope. Why? To one day lift the curse? To remove the black shroud cloaking the Meaths?

  That plan made a twisted kind of sense. Allow the Galloways to complete their tasks, break the curse, kill them, and live happily-ever-after steeped in sanctimonious honor knowing they’d fixed an error from three-hundred years before. Finish what they’d started, in other words.

  The stupidest thing the Minister had done on that fateful night was give Celeste her famous last rite. And they’d all been paying for it ever since.

  “I wouldn’t help you even if I did know how.” She hissed through her teeth at the anguish talking created. Her ribs were broken, for sure. The entire lower left side felt like trolls were mining for diamonds against her bones. Drawing air was getting harder, too. Her lung might be punctured. “You're a monster.”

  His laugh lacked any trace of amusement. “I’m not the one who’ll roast in the bowels of hell for—” He straightened suddenly, cocking his head.

  Car doors slammed in the distance, and relief sagged her shoulders.

  Thank God. Help had arrived. Between her sisters’ powers and the guys’ strength, Greg Meath was going down. She’d dance around his grave. Merrily. Once she could move, anyhow.

  Apparently, the jackass would go out fighting, though. By her hair, he hauled her unsteadily to her feet and shoved her in front of him, securing her against his chest with an arm around her middle and the dagger at her jugular.

  Agony drilled her from every possible angle, ripping a scream from a place so deep within her, she shook. Blood dripped into her eye and coated her tongue. Her ribs went from painful to she-might-pass-out-cold. The scary wet rasp of her oxygen exchange filled the meadow. Wheezing, she fought nausea and the black dots spotting her vision.
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br />   “Kaida!” Brady’s frantic voice drifted to her seconds before he rounded the hedge wall and skidded to a stop a few yards away. “Ah, God.” His mossy eyes widened in hysteria, gaze running over her from head to toe. Abject terror replaced concern and he balled his hand over his stomach. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  “Yes.” No, she wasn’t, but she didn’t want to frighten him more. She was beginning to suspect her injuries, namely the ribs, were of the life and death variety. “I love you,” she mouthed.

  His nostrils flared with a rapid inhale and his eyes reddened like he was fighting tears. He nodded repeatedly, seemingly unable to speak.

  The others ran up behind him, each one taking in the scene. They lined up on either side of Brady, stances wide and in battle mode. Kaida nearly wept in relief.

  “How bloody nice of you to come,” Greg yelled, his hot breath scraping her ear. “Not exactly a part of my plan, but it seems fitting you should watch your precious youngest witch die. Then you’ll know what’s in store for you. Make no mistake, I will slaughter her just as I’ll cast down all of you heathens.”

  Huffing, Brady clenched his fists and grew so rigid, she was shocked his spine didn’t snap. “Let her go or there won’t be anything left of you to bury.” He motioned as if to charge.

  “Ah-ah. Back up this instant or this’ll end messier than it needs to.”

  Brady paused, but Fiona raised her arm, palm extended.

  Panic tore through Kaida. “No!” She closed her eyes a moment to catch her breath and reset her equilibrium. “That’s the witching blade at my throat. If he kills me with it, all my powers will be lost and I won’t complete my task.”

  Brady choked and pressed his lips into a thin line. “Kaida.” That was it, her name, but a thousand emotions riddled through his voice.

  Hesitantly, Fiona lowered her arm and glared at Greg. “You heard him. Let her go or I will paint this field with your blood.”

  Riley’s brows shot to his hairline. He stared at her, part respect, part alarm.

  “I think not.” Greg glanced to their left. “Come out, Mara. I know you’re there.”

  Seconds passed, and she emerged from behind the cottage to stand beside the group. Her apologetic blue gaze met Kaida’s as if Mara had somehow failed.

  “It’s okay, Aunt Mara. Not your fault.”

  The elder woman shook her head in disagreement and focused on Greg. “What do you want?”

  “The same thing I’ve wanted from the start. To rid the world of you abominations and do God’s work.” Kaida’s back rumbled when he spoke and she winced as the tip of the blade nicked under her jaw. “You’re still the same pathetic nothing you were back then. Helpless to do your sister’s bidding. I should’ve put you on a pyre right along with her.”

  The group froze as a whole, glancing at one another with confused expressions.

  Possibilities wormed through Kaida’s mind. There and gone in a blink. The way he was talking, he’d deluded himself into believing he’d been the one to condemn Celeste. That he’d been there that night.

  Lord. And here she thought they’d been dealing with a zealot. Instead, insanity had been dropped at their feet like a gauntlet. And every sane person knew they couldn’t argue or rationalize with crazy.

  Mara snapped to faster than the rest. “Explain yourself.”

  “I’d rather show you.” Keeping the blade on Kaida, he moved to her side and stuck his finger in his mouth, scraping the crest ring off with his teeth. Gone was the short, neatly trimmed hair and slender body. In its place was a solidly built man with longish white strands that brushed his shoulders. He shoved the ring in his pocket. “What’s it been, witch? Three-hundred years? Give or take.”

  Breath whooshed from Kaida’s lips. “It’s you.” The guy from the hotel room when she and Brady had astral-projected together. She’d assumed it had been a nightmare or the man had been another hunter after them. What the heck was going on? “You tried to strangle me.”

  Satisfaction lit his bitter gaze. “Should’ve finished the job.”

  “This isn’t possible,” Mara gasped, eyes bugging. “It’s simply not possible.”

  A quick scan of the other dazed expressions proved her sisters and the brothers were just as blown away as Kaida by Greg’s transformation. Who the hell was this guy and how did he possess the power to shift? Far as she knew, the Meaths had no magick.

  “Ah...” Hands up in surrender, Riley cleared his throat. “Someone explain this to me. In English. As if I was still in preschool.”

  Mara pressed a trembling hand to her breast and shook her head in disbelief. “Saint’s preserve us. That’s...the Minister.”

  Tristan reared. “As in, Minister Gregory Meath? The one who’s been dead going on thirty decades?” He whirled on Mara. “Wait. How would you know what he looks like? His painted portrait never left the mansion and we burned it to ash on our twenty-first birthday.”

  Her watery gaze met his. “Because I was there. That was Celeste’s plan. I wasn’t to grow older than sixty years, doomed to watch over our line until the fated were born.” She looked at Greg again. “But how are you here? I don’t understand.”

  “That bitch plagued me,” he growled. “Like you, I didn’t age past sixty. I buried my son, my Finn, looking younger than him, and I kept the secret all this time, waiting for the day I could get my revenge. I was forced to enlist a dark sorcerer for glamour spells to stay hidden, forced to rely on sin wearing that enchanted ring, and forced to become someone else over and over. For three centuries!”

  Silence fell, his shout echoing across the meadow.

  Kaida swayed on her feet. She wasn’t going to hold out much longer. It was taking all her willpower not to face-plant. She was drowning where she stood, her lungs filling. Combine her physical state with Greg’s revelation, and she was toast. It zapped her miniscule energy to dust.

  “Huh. That is some serious anti-aging cream.” Riley sighed. “Care to share?”

  “Silence, you blasted fool!” The dagger pressed deeper into her skin, drawing hot blood that trickled down her cold skin. “The world is not your punch line. You were worthless from the start.”

  Her head lolled, and she listed to the side. Before she could go down, Greg pinned her in front of him once again and bore her weight.

  “Say goodbye, witch.”

  “No!” Brady took a step forward and drew up short, arms extended. “Take me. Do whatever you want, Uncle Greg. Just leave her alone.”

  She met Brady’s fretful red-rimmed gaze and offered him the only thing she could. Her love. “I...regret nothing,” she grated. “Love...you.” She choked, coughing violently.

  Greg extended his arm, dagger aimed at her throat, and spewed a mish-mash of Bible verses about the shadow of death and not allowing a sorceress to live. His words faded into white noise as she desperately clung to shallow breath. Piercing needles stabbed her chest from the inside out. The coppery tang of blood rose up her esophagus.

  Listen, my children. We must hurry.

  Mara’s Irish brogue penetrated Kaida’s mind, and she looked at her aunt through heavy lids and a gray fog. The others whipped their attention toward her like they’d heard, too, and time dragged to a slow motion reel.

  Sole focus over Kaida’s shoulder on Greg, Mara pushed again. Aye, I can read your thoughts and press mine into your heads. Worry not, he can’t hear me. We must act quickly. I will make the earth quake, throwing him off-balance. Fiona, you blast him with wind to create distance from Kaida. Brady, get to her fast and carry her to safety. Ceara, trap him with a ring of fire. Riley and Tristan can then restrain him and remove the blade from his possession. She tore her gaze from Greg to the others. Are we in agreement? Nod if you understand.

  In unison, they nodded consent.

  A woman emerged from a white light next to Mara, muting everyone and everything from Kaida’s vision but her. She hovered as if suspended, bathed in a glow that was blinding and b
eautiful. Ringlets of red curls trailed over her shoulders and she fisted an opal pendant around her neck. Her peasant garments flowed with a breeze that didn’t reach Kaida.

  Celeste Galloway. It was her. The same woman who’d appeared on the cliffs what seemed so long ago in Kaida’s dream. Mara’s painted portrait of Celeste was hauntingly accurate. There was no doubt it was her. The very witch who’d set them on this course and screwed up two families in her wake.

  “You are stronger than him and, together, you six can defeat him.” She turned her head, gaze upon the others, but they didn’t appear to notice her presence. Her bluer than blue eyes reclaimed Kaida’s. “Come home, youngest Galloway.”

  What did that mean? She’d said the same thing in her dream. Kaida was right in front of her, wheezing and bleeding and, most likely, dying for her role. She’d ventured to the island on a wing and very little hope, and with no knowledge of all that lay ahead of her. She’d done what was asked of her and embraced her gifts. She’d brought the circle of six together and united them. Just what the hell else was she supposed to do?

  Potent frustration rose, meting her pain and injuries for a blessed beat. But then a wave of vertigo hit her, jarring and brutal, and Celeste was gone as if she’d never been there.

  Kaida huffed, grasping her chest while white-hot pokers stole what little oxygen remained. Bile churned in her stomach as the agony became too much.

  And then, everything went to hell.

  The ground quaked, rumbling and groaning, tossing her to her knees.

  Fiona raised her palm, and Greg flew backward into the side of the cottage with a thud. He grunted and shook his head, then righted himself and lunged.

  Ceara whirled, her auburn hair soaring around her head while she flicked her fingers. Fire shot from her hand, but it missed its mark. Instead of creating a ring, it nailed Greg square in the chest and spread, engulfing him in flames.