"She's dying..."
One thing at a time, one thing at a time. Mac concentrated on regulating his breathing until he could restrain the foreboding that had temporarily immobilized him. What was he so afraid of? What lurked in his mind that could render him as terrified as a child? He was a man, fully grown. In his past he'd taken down warriors ten times stronger than the men of today. Fear was something to be controlled, not to rule. Taking a deep cleansing breath, Mac looked at Jennifer's face, tears ran from her eyes and into her hair.
"I know where she is. " He forced himself to his feet, relieved when his legs supported his weight. "I'm going to try and save her." He ran into the foyer where his hiking boots stood by the door. Foregoing socks, he shoved his feet into them, lacing them up quickly. He ran back to Jennifer's side; her eyes were closed and her breathing labored. Chills still racked her body but they had slowed in strength.
"Jennifer, you need to hang on." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, torn between leaving her alone and trying to save Miranda.
Her hand pressed lightly against his chest as if she were trying to push him away. "Go," she whispered hoarsely.
Mac captured her hand. He noted the bruises that were forming from her ordeal at the window. He knew the restorative powers of a revenant well; and by the time he returned very little would remain of the injuries. Even after all these years, those powers still impressed him. He pressed a quick kiss to her palm then tenderly covered her arm with the afghan.
After one last glance at her pale face, he grabbed his cell phone and ran for the kitchen. He dialed as he exited through the kitchen and out the back door. By the time he reached the bottom of the narrow steps that led to the garage, he was at a dead run. With his heart in his throat, Mac ran toward the BMW while a voice in his mind chanted, Too Late... Too Late...
A sensual, sleepy voice answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Addy, I need a favor...."
* * *
Chapter 6
S.W. Of Inverness, Scotland
Mac grasped the steering wheel in a death grip, his palms slick as his mind scrabbled around in circles. Random thoughts chased themselves to death with no answers being revealed. He wondered if he were finally going insane. Had hundreds of years of nightmares and broken images irrevocably damaged and tortured his mind?
As he turned onto the ancient road that would take him near the circle, a stab of unease caught him between the shoulders. The freezing rain and snow mix cleared for a brief second, and the circle loomed in the distance, perched on its hilltop as if waiting for him.
It looked familiar, too familiar.
How could this be? He'd never visited this part of Scotland before, or had he? He didn't have any memories prior to the day Renault found him one thousand years before in a niche in Hadrian's Wall. Anything before that time was a blank. Until now.
The Land Rover slid on the icy road, jarring him from his thoughts. With a modicum of effort he corrected the spin and raced toward the circle in the distance. Already he feared he was too late. Mentally he thanked his friend Adeline Marshall- Smythe, Addy to her friends, for her assistance in flying him to Inverness in record time. Without her, all would've been lost.
The undercarriage of the four-wheel drive scraped on the overgrown road, but he paid it no mind. It rocked when it hit larger objects and still he accelerated. Clouds shifted at the eastern edge of the landscape and stripes of pink brightened the sky as he drew closer to the circle in the distance.
He'd been here before, no doubt about it. The landscape was as familiar to him as his own face, the swirling snow notwithstanding. His chest grew tight with tension as he crept closer to the stones and the sun continued its inexorable rise.
The heavy tires spun in the thickening slush as he swung around the last curve in the road. With ease of long practice he counter-steered, righted the truck and sped toward the circle. The sun peaked over the horizon as the engine suddenly stalled.
An oath broke from his lips as the steering locked and the power brakes refused to slow the vehicle. A large gray guardian stone loomed directly ahead. Hitting the stone at this speed would kill him for sure. Mac fumbled for the seatbelt. Unbuckling it, he flung open the door and threw himself out into the swirling snow. Rolling over in the icy grass, he ducked his head for the crash that was sure to follow.
Silence.
He raised his head. The boxy blue Land Rover, nearly enveloped in the rising storm, stood mere inches from the stone. He rolled to his feet, staring in disbelief. There was no way a vehicle that size could've stopped on icy grass in that short a distance, not at the speed he'd been traveling. Unease trickled down his spine. Something was definitely at work here, something evil. He could feel it breathing down his neck.
A faint cry, like that of a woman, came from above.
"Miranda!" he bellowed, and took off at a run for the hill. The ice and snow-covered grass impeded his journey as he tried to scramble up the steep slope. The long grasses flattened and quickly iced beneath his boots, making it impossible for him to remain upright. Something didn't want him to reach the top. Mikhail? Could vampires control the weather? He'd never heard of one being able to do so.
He paused in his battle with the elements as the hairs on his neck stood up. Someone or something was watching him. He resisted the urge to look around, opting to continue his grueling climb. He took another step and slid backward two more paces.
"Damn it," he snarled, throwing himself flat against the hillside. He clawed his way upward.
A low keening sound reached his ears, causing a growl to erupt from him. Redoubling his efforts, he ignored the icy rain stinging his exposed skin and continued his clawing journey. Rapidly his fingers grew numb as shards of ice and frozen grass jabbed at his hands. The heart-wrenching keening grew in volume as he gained the top. Icy winds whipped around the standing stones, its haunting whistle raising goose bumps on his flesh. His lungs screamed in protest as the sun broke through the thick snow clouds.
"No!" he gasped.
At the same moment an inhuman wail rose from the center of the circle. The winds, much fiercer here, yanked at his clothing and lashed at his hair as he staggered to his feet in time to see something burst into flames on the altar.
With a war cry that would have impressed his Celtic ancestors, Mac fought against the torrential winds and threw himself through the western arch. He landed on his knees. Instantly he noticed the winds did not broach the inner circle, instead they swirled wildly around the boundaries as if angry to be denied entrance to this sacred place.
He looked up at the altar, the massive red stone rising from the center of the circle as if it had grown there. The altar was ablaze and through the flames he could see the figure of a woman laid out upon a crude wooden cross. Unearthly screams tore from her gaping mouth as she writhed and burned in the relentless sunshine.
He was too late.
Tears scalded his eyes as he lumbered to his feet, suddenly feeling every day of his thousand years weighing upon his shoulders. He approached the head of the altar and placed his hands on either side. The stone felt icy beneath his touch while the heat of the inferno seared his skin. The moment he touched the altar, the roar of the icy winds outside the circle calmed.
"Why?" He hissed. He threw back his head, a cry torn from his throat. "Mither, whit wey hae ye forsak ye childr?" The ancient Scots language tripped off his tongue without a single thought. His fists knotted and his eyes flooded with tears. A warm breeze poured over him, caught his words and swirled them up into the sky. His head dropped, his chin against his chest as sobs shook his body.
"Why have you forsaken us?" he whispered, opening his eyes again. He looked up at the small patch of pale blue sky visible in the layer of gray clouds.
Above him, clouds swirled and thickened as a tunnel began to form around the patch of blue sky over the altar. Almost instantly the flames died down and only ashes and bits of charred clothing remained. The icy winds re-surge
d outside the circle and a thick, enveloping snow began to fall, obscuring the circle in a blinding white shroud. As he gazed upon the perfect, 3D ashen image of Miranda, a glimmer caught his eye.
Her golden ring gleamed in the weak sunshine. He moved toward where her wrist lay bound to the cross. Her hand was a perfectly formed ashen image, the gold gleamed on her forefinger where she'd worn it for hundreds of years. He glanced at her ashen face, serene in repose; then back to the ring as it glimmered in the light. Hesitantly he reached for the ring. As his fingers brushed the gold, her hand disintegrated. The ashes swirled about his hand, as if to caress it for one final parting touch, before settling on the wood.
The ring lay nestled in his palm.
A sense of rightness descended upon him as the gold heated at his touch. Not questioning his instincts, he slid the ring onto his finger where it fit perfectly. A warm wind rushed through the circle from above, disturbing the ashes on the altar. Mac stepped back as the wind relentlessly obliterated her image.
The wind grew steadily stronger, concentrating only on the area of the altar. The ashes lifted into the tornadolike funnel that formed. Images danced within the funnel, shadows moved and swayed with the current. They teased his eyes, showing him nothing yet hinting at the images to come. The winds slowed and the funnel opened like a gray cocoon, revealing a ghostly image of Miranda, fully formed and solid as she'd appeared in life.
Her smile was serene, beatific, and her gaze warm as she watched Mac.
His heart stopped as he beheld Miranda, levitating a few yards above the altar. Tears continued to flow unheeded down his cheeks as the warm winds tugged at his hair. "Pal," he whispered, his heart aching with loss.
"Destiny, MacNaughten." Her voice, melodic and soft, was a balm to his soul. "My final gift to you is your destiny. It will save you and those you love...." With a parting smile, she looked up at the patch of blue sky visible at the top of the funnel cloud. The cocoon slowly closed around her and she vanished forever from his sight.
Instantly the winds turned icy cold and the sun faded, leaving swirling black clouds above the circle. Mac grunted as the winds forced him from the altar. Staggering, he crashed into the West portal. As he touched the cold stone, images slammed into his mind with the speed of a runaway freight train. A ring of black robed worshippers chanted in a circle around the altar, the red stone covered in blood. Naked women danced around the stone. A silver knife gleamed under a star-filled sky with a full moon. A stooped figure in an oversized ceremonial robe.
An unearthly moan drew his attention to the center of the circle as the remains of the charred wooden cross began to rise off the ancient altar. It hovered a few feet from the stone when a sudden CRACK rent the air and the cross exploded into hundreds of pieces. Mac dropped to the ground, nose pressed into the snow to avoid being hit by the dangerous shards.
Around him, the world seemed to tip on its axis. Nothing would ever be the same again.
"Git you up, fool," a voice snarled.
He blinked as the crisp grass poked him in the nose. Raising his head, he saw two men haul a robed figure to its feet where it swayed drunkenly. The robe, richly embroidered with gold and blue silk thread, depicted a variety of Celtic symbols that struck a note of longing in Mac's heart.
He knew this person, didn't he? The robe was certainly familiar enough. His mother had made it on his tenth summer... His mother? He didn't have a mother. Slowly he got to his feet, gaping at the scene laid out before him.
The crisp air was rife with the scent of wood smoke from a massive bonfire. The sound of chanting rang in his ears as he glanced around him to see a ring of black robed figures walking in a widdershins circle around the altar. Their monotonous words were lulling, almost comforting in their familiarity. In the center by the altar, a tall man stood clad in a dark robe, the hood obscuring his face. He stood silent as a stone, his arms raised toward the face of the full moon.
Terror blossomed in Mac's chest as he regarded the ghostly scene. He knew with great certainty this was his Uncle Manfred. This man was his dead father's only brother.
And his father's killer.
The knowledge slammed into Mac's head, and he staggered backward into the west stone. What? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images, but they didn't change. He wanted to move away from the stone but his limbs didn't want to work. His head felt disconnected as if he'd been drugged. His gaze flickered over the scene before locking on his Uncle.
The firelight flickered on the golden thread of his Uncle's robe as he slowly lowered his arms. He turned toward the two men and the small figure they held upright between them.
"Bring forth my son," he intoned.
The two men herded the unresisting boy toward the altar. Mac glanced at his bare feet as they coerced him over the crisp, frost-covered grass. What time of year was it? Harvest, maybe? He wanted more than anything to struggle against the lethargy that held him against the stone, but his body refused to respond to his urgent summons. A feeling a dread washed over him. He didn't want to see what was about to happen to the child.
"No," his mind screamed as the child was presented before the altar. With brisk efficiency the two men whisked the hood back to reveal the head of the child. Mac stared in horror at the perfect child image of himself. The two men stepped back, leaving the fourteen-year-old Mac to face his Uncle alone.
Shock rendered Mac immobile as he watched the images of the distant past before him. "I am not his son," his mind shrieked as the scene continued to play itself out.
Uncle moved forward, reaching for the tie on child-Mac's black robe. He tugged at the tie until it came free and he whisked the robe off of the child's unresisting body, leaving him naked to the elements. The moon gleamed on the milky white skin that stretched over the child-Mac's emaciated frame. Bruises and festering wounds covered his pale flesh while bones poked at the damaged skin, making him look like a walking skeleton rather than a healthy fourteen-year-old boy he should've been.
He saw his younger self whisper, "Goddess..." His lips barely moved.
Anger churned in Mac's gut as he watched the child he'd once been and the man who should have loved and protected him.
His uncle raised a hand and motioned at two smaller robed figures. They came forward, stripping off their robes as they moved, revealing themselves to be women. Careful to keep their gazes averted, they urged the child-Mac up onto the cold stone. Laying him out, they carefully bathed him in warm water scented with rosemary, chamomile and mint as the remaining robed figures began their monotone chant once again.
The clear night sky glittered above as Mac watched them move their hands over the child's damaged body. Their touch was light, impersonal almost. When they completed their cleansing, they rubbed scented oils into his skin. The scent of bayberry lingered in the air, replacing the scents of the herbs. When they were through oiling him from top to bottom, they stepped away from the stone and left him to his fate, abandoned on the altar.
The chanting stopped and once again the circle was silent except for the crackling of the fire. Uncle stepped into view again, taking the position at the head of the sacrificial stone. Raising his arms over his head, he spoke.
"Master, on this winter's night, accept the offering of this virgin child. Innocent and as pure as the day he was born, he is known as Conor, the Good Son. We offer up his life in service to you," he opened a small pouch at his waist.
"We offer his life in service to you," the circle echoed.
Uncle withdrew a handful of herbs and tossed them onto the child-Mac's frail body. "Accept our gift of this child's life so that we may worship in your name."
"In your name," the circle chanted.
"Accept our gift of this child's flesh so that we may work your will," Uncle intoned.
"Work your will," the circle chanted.
Uncle drew out a silver knife. Terror left a metallic tang in Mac's mouth as he saw the blade gleaming in the moonlight. Even knowing he'
d survived the attack did not dispel the fear that held him immobile, pinned against the stone like some sort of scientific specimen. The robed circle began to move again, this time clockwise, the chanting low and sonorous. Time ticked by as his Uncle held the knife poised over the tiny, emaciated chest. The worshippers feet and words picked up speed.
Letting out a cry that turned Mac's blood cold, Uncle plunged the knife into the child's chest and then quickly withdrew it. Immediately pain burst through his body as the memory of the knife tearing through his skin returned in full force. He cried out as the child jerked on the altar, a high-pitched cry echoing Mac's. Blood welled from the wound and covered the child's battered chest.
Mac clutched at his own chest, surprised that he was unharmed. Nausea churned in his stomach as the pain from the non-existent wound blossomed, enveloped him and drove him to his knees.
The worshippers surged toward the altar and dipped their fingers into the child-Mac's lifeblood as it poured from his chest. Hands reverently stroked his dying flesh until they painted him red from head to toe. Sighs of ecstasy from the mouths of the worshippers filled the night as they stroked the dying child and kissed the hem of Uncle's robe. Their cries echoed off the stones as Mac watched his younger self dying on the altar.
An unearthly scream sounded from outside the circle, halting the worshippers in their delirious exhalation. Startled, Mac turned his head toward the sound. Golden eyes gleamed from the darkness outside the ring.
"'Tis the master," someone whispered.
"Nonsense," snarled Uncle. "I am one with the master and I would know of his arrival." Raising his voice. "Who dares to intrude upon our circle here?" Again the unearthly cry sounded, followed by the rhythmic padding of heavy feet.
Animal feet.
With a sobbing cry, the younger of the bathing women dropped to her knees. A wild keening sound arose as the majority of the worshippers followed suit. They cried out to the darkened sky and their Master to save them from whatever stalked them from outside the circle. The padding feet continued their pacing beyond the reach of the firelight.
Wilder, J. C. - Shadow Dweller 2 Page 9
