by Kat Bastion
And within the place of darkest shadow, deep in the bowels of the earth, she—a child of trees and flowers and bright summer sunlight—found the surprise of an even greater comfort, an overwhelmin’ peace. In truth, cool calm air, dense stone walls, and the dusty preserved earth, embraced her like a second home.
Filled with a childlike curiosity about the strange comfort, she hovered a hand, fingers splayed wide, over the cold, dry surface of the massive stone wall. Vibration purred back through her skin, in recognition and…invitation. Hummin’ the low tones of a tune that oddly seemed at once foreign and familiar, she pressed her cheek to the surface.
And the wall vanished.
Beyond where solid stone had been an instant before, bursts of bright starlight danced, ancient knowledge flowed, unseen souls sang with incredible joy.
Brigid gave a heavy blink, then stared in wonder through a gateway that led into a dazzlin’ otherworld.
Yet none of the brightness she witnessed past the gateway breached into the serenity of their cave. Absolute darkness remained where they stood.
“You’re evolving at an accelerating pace,” Skorpius murmured from right behind her, his warm breath dancin’ over her ear.
“Aye.” Tingles shimmered within her, under her skin, itchin’ to break free. A newborn butterfly anxious to take flight. “Do you see?” The brilliance of all the energy, at her fingertips.
“Yes. The birth of a goddess.” Protective soft wings curved around her. But not in any cage. Solely in support.
With another slow blink, the otherworld vanished. Still there, somewhere, but hidden from the human world. Ready to be explored, she sensed. Secrets lay in wait there. To be shared through her to a chosen few. But when and to whom she chose.
But how? she wondered, to herself.
From the center darkness of the bowels of the cave, Skorpius extended his hand out to her. “Ready?”
To discover her present, she needed to uncover her past.
Brigid exhaled a clearin’ breath.
“Aye.” Confident her path lay there, she manifested her satchel and weapons onto her person once more, slid her hand over his palm, and gave a brief nod.
The next turbulent seconds stole her breath away.
Utter darkness…
Freezin’ cold…
Pleasurable sparks whippin’…
Fiery hot…
Tense and achin’…
Blissful rollin’ thunder quakin’, down into her verra core…
But through the startlin’ fall, Skorpius’s hand held hers, tight and reassurin’.
Then Brigid blinked awake. Hale and whole.
The solid strength of Skorpius’s hand still clasped hers.
A different cold stone pressed against their backs. Fragrant lavender rushes carpeted the floor at their feet. But their presence lay hidden in the shadows in a far corner of a room. In truth, they’d become a part of the shadows themselves. Real, but insubstantial. Visible, yet ethereal.
Another span of darkness surrounded them, save for the flickerin’ light of beeswax tapers in an iron stand. And instead of the gentle brush of coolness to the air, cloyin’ heat choked the room, magnified by tapestries that blocked the narrow windows.
Two ladies’ maids wrung their hands at the foot of a large bed piled high with linens. The young lasses flanked an elder third who squatted upon a low stool.
“One more, M’Lady,” the elder midwife urged. “Wee feet’ve popped out. But I need ya ta give ‘er a harder push.”
Atop the beddin’, ghostly white fists gripped sweat-soaked sheets. Pantin’ breaths preceded a low moan. A copper curlin’ nest of hair tumbled loose as the exhausted form attempted to curve forward. The two maids, fierce pride in their steely gazes each took up a position behind a shoulder, bolsterin’ the efforts, loyal servants determined to see their cause through to the verra end.
A low growl vibrated out, then escalated into a rasped empty scream.
One last silent gasp escaped.
A pained expression twisted further into stark agony.
Then a harsh exhale, moanin’ grunt, and pale face flushin’ beet red marked the final push.
The woman collapsed back onto the bed, spiraled hair fanned across a mountain of pillows. Limp. Unmovin’.
With quick work, the three hovered over a wee glistenin’ red-and-white form. Wet linens were swiped head to foot, blood cleansed away. Tense hands swaddled the soundless bundle.
Hopeful faces stared down.
Seconds dragged by.
Grim frowns began to form.
In the hot room gone deathly quiet, the dyin’ mother reached out an arm and pointed her fingers toward her newborn bairn. “To the verra Heavens we traveled. Star-dusted honey we gathered from the wings of angels. With all the strength of your namesake goddess.” A fat tear fell from her eye, then splashed onto the floor. “I proclaim thee Brigid.”
Time appeared to slow, stretchin’ eternal.
Skorpius tightened his grip on her hand, eyes widenin’.
Your mother. She traveled through the wall.
Aye. With me in her womb.
Astonished, Brigid gazed into the hopeful eyes of a mother she’d never known. Red hair like hers spilled onto a pillow. Similar dimples marked her flushed cheeks as the lass gave a slight smile and a slow exhale. ’Twas amazin’ to finally see a face she’d only imagined, so verra much like her own.
An instant after the maternal proclamation, a thunderous boom sounded and a thick bolt of energy flashed from the heart of the mother into the breast of the babe.
The newborn sucked in a ragged breath.
Then she wailed out her existence with ragin’ fury.
Angelic magick scorched your mother’s dying wish into your blood. Where it has lain dormant. Waiting.
Brigid stared in shock at the wailin’ bairn. At her own wee self, eighteen long summers ago. An innocent.
Till I traveled through the wall. Again.
So it would seem.
As the midwife attempted to soothe the unsettled bairn, the two maids returned to find a lifeless form on the bed. After several distraught attempts to find life in her, mournful faces grew wet with tears.
In a thrice, Brigid yanked on Skorpius’s hand, rushin’ to the bedside to judge for herself. Yet as she’d already known, no breath lifted her chest, no pulsin’ blood colored her cheeks.
Unprepared to face a mother who’d sacrificed her life to bring forth her babe, Brigid tasted the salty fall of tears. She exhaled heartfelt gratitude in wordless eulogy to the sweet bonnie lass that in all her life she’d never dreamed she’d have the chance to meet.
A fresh linen sheet snapped in front of her face. Then it settled onto the whole of the bed.
Pitch-black flashed again, Skorpius’s hand firm within hers.
Another heavy blink, and they stood in a familiar room, Iain’s map room. However…
Nay. ’Tis not Iain’s map room.
Brigid’s knees went weak.
Skorpius gave her hand a gentle squeeze of support.
“Da?” Her father. Laird of Clan Brodie, before Iain. A man Brigid had never met. For he’d fallen into such grave heartache in the fortnight followin’ her ma’s death, he’d faded into the afterlife to be with her. Yet there the man stood at the room’s wooden map table, larger than life. Larger even than Iain.
Two wee lads, standin’ near the base of their castle’s magick wall, turned their way at her unexpected murmur. Both of the lads’ gazes locked with hers, their darkened eyes widenin’. The youngest walked right up to her, a flat hand hoverin’ over her emerald gown, as if to touch. “Look, Iain,” the wee lad whispered. “’Tis an angel.”
“Nay, Gawain.” Seriousness washed over the elder lad’s expression as he took his brother’s hand—an instant before the two divergent energies, one from the future dropped into the lads’ present, collided. “Angels come to take lives, but t’night’s about bringin’ us one.”
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br /> They see us? At her birth, Iain would’ve been four summers. Gawain barely two.
Yes. Innocents often do.
“Bah,” Laird scoffed without glancin’ their way. His attention remained riveted on a leather tome he pored over by candlelight. “Naught but yer wild imaginin’s be there.”
Wee Iain’s eyes narrowed at her. Then the lad’s shrewd gaze fixed upon Skorpius. “Aye, Da. Somethin’s there. But they’re no angels. ’Tis our guardians. Keepers of our castle.”
One of many names I’ve been called, Skorpius clarified. Guardian of Time. Keeper of the Castle.
Tears began to roll down the younger lad’s cherub cheeks.
Mayhap, Gawain knows.
Sensed his mother’s fate? Possible.
Without botherin’ to ask, Brigid bent down toward the wee one, a brother whom she’d struggled to connect with due to the frightful night they now bravely shared, one that, to her, had become a rare treasured moment. “Aye, wee Gawain.”
The lad’s eyes blinked clear of tears upon hearin’ his name.
“T’night we’re angels an’ guardians,” she explained. “Death and life, ’tis but a thin veil betwixt the two. Cherish those ye still have, whilst ye have them. Hold them dear. And love yer wee sister. For she already loves you dearly.” Tears welled in her own eyes as a cramp choked the base of her throat.
The lad frowned. “A sister!” Gawain gave a fierce headshake. “Lasses smell bad. All flowery an’ sweet.”
She bit her lip to suppress a smile. “This lass will smell bad as well. For a while. But forgive your wee sister. No matter how many summers it takes, brave Gawain. Love her, when you can.”
Because, she’d understood. With life and death, overcomin’ heartache took time. And through the trials of growin’ up in a clan who’d known what terrible pain her birth had caused—Gawain mayhap payin’ the highest price of all—she’d had faith that her youngest brother would love her.
In time, he had. You still do.
Her tremblin’ hand reached for his still-wet cheek. She dinna touch. But she hovered radiant energy over his face, bathin’ both lads in her newfound golden light. And I love you too.
Brigid shifted her gaze toward the stronger, wiser Iain. Fierce kindness glinted back at her. Always the rock-steady one, he’d immediately accepted her. Loved her. Been fair and noble when he could’ve hated her even more. But the ferocious night of her birth heralded his transition from carefree child into a lad who would become Laird in a fortnight. She gave young Iain a solemn nod. And a wink.
The lads spun around and ran off, excitement snappin’ hot through their veins. Each holdin’ a monumental vision of a fiery goddess and guardian angel to hold dear, meager solace for the hours to come.
One final glance landed on her da. Upon further examination, the tome he refused to stray his attention from made sense: a clandestine hand-scribed English copy of the Vulgate Bible. “Peace be with you, dear Da,” she murmured to a man she hoped had found what he searched for.
Rest assured, goddess. Your father finds immeasurable peace.
Still hand in hand with Skorpius, and grateful for the solid cornerstone, she gave a gentle nod.
A familiar energy licked across her senses. Teasin’. Temptin’.
The wall!
Brigid stared at the massive unbroken span of stone that stretched from corner to corner, floor to ceilin’. Nigh black, but for a wee sparkle of darkest blue—akin to the inky hue of Skorpius’s magick—the wall’s surface hummed with power.
Before, she’d thought her lone action had instigated the chain of events, caused her magick. I’d been through before. As an unborn bairn. By her mother’s own admission. Take me back. She tugged on Skorpius’s hand, wishin’ to travel back in time a wee bit farther. I’d like to see when and why she’d done so.
Skorpius gave a firm tug back. No. We cannot risk another visit with your mother.
Bound tight to his hand, Brigid angled closer to the gateway that had led her to the source magick. And in response, the sentient wall reacted to her proximity.
Only in a way far different than before.
When Isobel had activated the wall to protect their clan, pinpoints of light had brightened. Pulsin’ and twinklin’ like so many stars sprinkled over a black midnight sky, they’d flared to blindin’, brilliant as the sun. But because Isobel had lost her balance and disappeared before the castle went invisible, Brigid had stepped in as her second, pressed her hand upon it, and stepped right through it. To the most amazin’ place.
But the bright twinklin’ lights were absent on the wall before her. And its vibration of magick greater, more seductive. As she watched, the surface shimmered into a translucent veil, a bluish black sparklin’ shadow, a sheer dark curtain into the otherworld.
When she reached out her free hand to touch, Skorpius gripped her hand tighter, yanked her back, and energized her body with his protective shield, surroundin’ her with his own bluish black magick.
Skorpius’s powerful time-travelin’ magick pulsed into her at their point of contact, as if he attempted to take her back, remove her from the map room, from her past.
With a keening cry of anguish, Brigid burst forth a surge of her own golden magick and lunged for the wall.
That point of groundin’ contact with Skorpius? Broke.
And her whole world tumbled into icy darkness.
Chapter 14
Brigid!
Skorpius dove after her. Into the vast reaches of space between time.
Through a maelstrom of dark matter.
Where nothing existed.
No mortal body could survive even a split second in the tempestuous nonmatter realm. And no being untrained in the nuances of time travel would have any basis to be able to gain their bearings.
Were it not for his internal tether to the rebellious female, and her resilient—though nascent and still fragile—immortal state, she’d have been forever lost.
Skorpius! A panicked cry for help.
Her essence hovered nearby, but still beyond his reach.
Find your calm. Spoken to her. To himself. Radiate that spectacular golden magick of yours. All that stood between her and utter destruction. Become more energy, less matter.
Akin to my peace within your magick sphere?
Yes. Skorpius gritted his teeth against unimaginable forces that scoured the shell of his essence. The shaking vibration on her tether broadcast the similar strain she bore. For glacial dark-matter vortexes buffeted them both. Tightly coiled bottoms of infinite black holes swirled and scraped at the fringes of their souls, hungry to steal the vital essence from any unlucky energy caught in its unforgiving web.
The vicious realm of antimatter destroyed substance. Obliterated form.
Few beings in existence had the talent and navigational skill to use the support structure between worlds to leap through time. Skorpius did. And the Traveler.
Brigid had the makings. And power. Which would’ve been enough—if she’d had any training and experience.
If only he’d warned her before she’d broken contact.
No. Skorpius redirected his thoughts. Focus on the now.
And more, he called out to her. Like in the glade. On a subconscious level, she could tap into that immense energy again. To save herself from deadly forces—this time brewed from the depths of the universe itself.
Aye. Brigid’s mental voice felt thready, stretched with exhaustion. Burst…forth, she continued. Bright…starlight. Whispered over his senses, her words had begun to slur.
Yes. Exactly like that. Fight hard, Brigid. Be brilliant.
Although she’d had no conscious recollection of battle details from the glade, her magick knew. And her fierce magick protected her now, any way it could. Yet fragile and new, without guidance, her physical body would succumb. Her brilliant light? Snuffed out, an inconsequential flame to the mighty storm of primordial forces.
As it was, only a precious few seconds remai
ned before that inevitable fate would befall her anyway.
Time-rift problem solved. By her own hand.
Not on my guard.
Not her. Not now. Not…yet.
Focus. The realm of nonmatter existed as a causeway, to be instantly traversed, not endured. Consciousness, and the physical body that followed it, snapped from one point of time and place to the next, a slingshot moment. For good reason.
A violent yank on the other end of Brigid’s tether, then another, signaled the strength of her calm force weakening, her body being tossed about by the lethal elements.
On a steady exhale, Skorpius relaxed and let go, allowed the tether to reel him toward her. And on the way, he blasted as much of his magick to propel him as he dared.
There! Through the swirling bitter darkness, Skorpius spotted her distant position in the never-ending nothingness: a pinpoint of fading light.
Talk to me, he urged. Almost there, but he needed her strong and in one piece.
Verrrrra…ccc…cccold.
Near flameout himself, Skorpius stoked his inner core, coated his form with every ounce of magick he had remaining, and plummeted toward her.
On instinct, he tapped into his internal chronometer, calculated speed and trajectory, gauged a sufficient distance of travel beyond her, then locked on to a safe exit point.
A slight shiver coursed along their tether. Then nothing.
The taut bond…snapped.
A split-second haunting image seared into his mind. Brigid’s perished form, weightless without gravity, hovering on the brink of combustion back to its base elements. Motionless. Breathless. Pulseless. Slack arms and legs floating wide, splayed copper hair and dress, drifting backward. Unseeing silver eyes. Luminous titanium skin.
Fractal light manifested on every surface molecule, each infinite pinprick brightening toward blinding.
But before Brigid’s limp body began to break apart, his rocketing fireball ensnared her. Don’t you die on me now. They’d come so far in such a short time. With no threat to time surfacing. Not from her.
