Scent of a Witch

by Bri Clark

  Disappointment over losing the dagger was a fleeting thought as her eyes met her pursuer. She was tall for a woman, but this man was a good head taller than her, and she’d guess his height to be several inches above six feet. Hair so black it appeared blue in the light of the setting sun fell past his broad shoulders in heavy strands, but in his eyes she saw power. He regarded her through eyes that were such dark brown they appeared as black as his hair.

  And then she saw the faint red light enclosing the iris indicating the mark of immortality. It was a mark few knew, but it was something Granny had taught her. The instinct to flee took over and she dove.

  The creek didn’t seem so sweet now. The power of the current pulled her along and the restricting material of her skirt pulled her under. She held her breath in the icy depth of the river attempting to relieve herself of the garment. A pull and tug of the elastic waistband finally gave way, and she was free, only now she was freezing and the bank seemed to be farther away. Still, Maeve fought the current to get back to land, as the compulsion to survive kicked in.

  This wasn’t part of her plan. She had to go back and fix the mistakes of the past, and this was not to be how her time ended. Combined with the instinct to survive, the sudden thought renewed her determination.

  Before exhaustion and panic could take over, a band enveloped her waist and moved her toward safety. She went limp, allowing the unknown force to carry her. The chill of cold air hitting icy skin made her teeth chatter, then the cursing her Patty indulged in caused her to smile inside. Maybe this death wasn’t so bad. It would be well if she could be with them again.

  “Wake up lass,” a man ordered in the accent of her beloved grandfather. She opened her eyes only to see the brown irises with the red band she had been fleeing.

  “Why didn’t you just let the cold take me?” she responded, startled to hear that her teeth didn’t chatter and her accent was the heaviest it had ever been. In fact, she wasn’t nearly as cold as she was a moment ago. Taking survey of her surroundings, she felt the same strength that had once anchored her now hold her up.

  “Who taught you how to feign and flee, lass?” the dark stranger asked, his voice deep with what she suspected was anger. A scowl appeared before the brown of his eyes lightened.

  “I wasn’t trying to feign…I just am not as sure with my left hand,” Maeve responded without thinking. A look of amusement softened his cross features.

  An overwhelming sense of exhaustion coated Maeve’s body making it hard to stay awake. “I’m afraid I can answer you no more, immortal, for the blackness calls me. I pray that thee would have mercy and do your deed while I am unaware.”

  ****

  Fionn started at the words the woman spoke. Not only was she a Scent Witch—she knew what he was. Then he discovered himself even more panic-stricken when she went limp in his arms. At the first chatter of her teeth, he shared his body heat with her instinctively. When she told him she had actually been aiming for his head, she’d impressed and amused him. Emotions he hadn’t had in longer than he could remember pushed at his heart. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Setting her limp body on the grass, he ignored the emptiness his arms felt upon releasing her.

  He needed to look at her closer and figured this was as good a time as any. While it was dark under the tall trees by the river, the sun hadn’t fully set. They were safe for now. Flawless ivory skin covered her from her eyebrows to the tips of her dainty toes. Elongated cheekbones ended in a soft but pointed chin, with a small pert nose set in the middle. And the shape of her eyes. . . There was no denying the mark of the Sweeney eyes. But she also had the look of Irish nobility in her untamed locks and lithe build.

  Before Fionn could think too much, the girl coughed. He leaned her forward as some water escaped her lips then she quieted again. The action revealed a necklace hidden among her wet and tangled tresses. Fionn’s stomach dropped to his feet. On the underside of a blue cameo medallion was inserted the talisman of the Celtic Knot. The charm had been created between the Sweeneys and the Hughes, binding their clans for an eternity, ensuring their protection from those that would try to overpower and abuse them for their magic. Each family had received a charm…but with the coming of the rift, both had disappeared. How was it possible that this girl possessed one of the binding charms? Better yet, which clan’s was it?

  Fionn smoothed the wild tangle of hair off the woman’s cheek and actually smiled. For in his arms was not only the last of one line but also two, the hope for not only his clan but an entire people. Then his eyes moved farther down and he was offered an unobstructed view of the legs he’d first noticed. Before his desire flared too high, he covered her with his coat, picked her up in his arms and headed back to the house from which he had followed her.

  After a brief stop to bundle up her things, Fionn carried her limp body past the tree that still held her dagger. With the woman securely cradled in one arm, he inspected the hilt. Familiarity sparked, and determination made his lips press. When she woke, he would have all the truths of who she was. And then, he vowed, he would bring her back to his home, for his father.

  Chapter Four

  The Sweeney estate had never been a large farm in comparison to its neighbor, the Carton Plantation. Walking through the old home unlocked a flood of memories for Fionn, of long lost friends and battles. The bane of being able to travel time was making friends who then must be left behind. That, and a plethora of rules that must be followed because if they weren’t, the very fabric of time could severe, destroying all—past, present, and future.

  A large gold-framed painting of a man who eerily resembled the woman lying on the bed in the room above looked down at Fionn. Dressed in a Confederate uniform showed him to be an ancestor, but it was the Celtic Knot attached to the man’s sword belt that added even more questions to the burden Fionn already carried. Deciding he couldn’t wait any longer when an ornate clocked chimed ten times, he climbed the stairs.

  ****

  Maeve’s eyes flew open and she sat up in her own bed. How did she end up here? The clock on the mantle said ten o’clock. A driving need to hurry took over. Everything had to be ready by midnight. She dashed to her closet, refusing to allow herself to dwell on the thought that she should be dead. If the immortal was going to kill her, he would have already. Instead she pulled an armful of fabric out and laid it on the bed. Sighing as she realized what she was about to do, she conceded it was still necessary to blend in.

  With the torturous underwear in tow, she cleaned herself up in the bathroom. The skirts, while cumbersome, and chemise she got through easily. The corset, however, presented a problem. It was a two-person job.

  At the knock on the door, Maeve looked up into the floor-length mahogany mirror. The immortal showed in the reflection. He met her eyes in the mirror image. Never much of a prude, she nonetheless felt the color leave her face and all warmth drop to places much lower. No! she thought. I don’t have time for this.

  He was supposed to kill her. But he had saved her and now she was attracted to him. Maybe he was the type of twisted mind that enjoyed prolonging the victim’s death. She took a deep breath, hoping it would help set forward her circling thoughts. Even if he was toying with her, she would give him a show, but fear would not be part of this production. With an eye only on the mission in front of her, Maeve squared her shoulders.

  “Can you tie shoes?” she asked the man who accelerated her pulse. He pulled his eyebrows together but nodded.

  “Well then, you can tie a corset. Will you help me?” She gestured toward her back. A look passed through his eyes before his face became emotionless again. But he moved behind her.

  “What’s your name, lass?” he asked tightening the first lace. Maeve gripped the frame of the mirror and swore as her ribs were forced inward.

  “Maeve…” she exhaled. He secured the second stay, and she exhaled through her nose this time, then closed her eyes.

  “Is that all?” he pushed. Di
stracted by the tightening of her ribcage she answered automatically.

  “Maeve da Paer.”

  “And are you to go to a costume ball tonight Mrs. Da Paer?” he continued, securing another knot with a jerk. She refused to elaborate on the “Mrs.”

  “I am to attend the annual All Hallows Eve ball at the Carton Plantation. The one held before the Battle of Franklin.” She spoke her last words through a hiss of pain.

  “A fine event…and do you have an escort?”

  “No, and I don’t need one,” she answered. Maeve took note she would have to keep her breaths shallow.

  “How did you know to bring me here…to the Sweeney Estate?” she asked in between breaths. An arched brow and smirk were her response as he cinched the last tie.

  Pushing past her unexpected assistant, she crossed the room to the bed where her gown lay. She leaned forward and reached for the dress, but her body refused to bend inside the corset and her arms fell short of the garment. Maeve attempted to kneel and pick up the deep green dress but to no avail.

  A suppressed chuckle caught her attention and she glared at the immortal whose arrival had caused her to be late.

  “Well if you aren’t going to kill me, don’t stand there and mock me. Help me put this cursed garment on. I’m already late because of you,” she chastised.

  The amusement disappeared from his face and he became serious.

  “I would never hurt you Maeve da Paer, much less kill you.” The deep warmth of his Scottish burr made the declaration all the more intense. But it was the red band around his eyes that seemed to brighten with the intensity of his words, which connected with something deep inside and encouraged her to believe him.

  It was that belief which helped her keep a nonchalant attitude toward the immortal tracker and potential killer.

  “However, I will only help you on two conditions. First…” he continued without giving her time to respond. “I will escort you and second you will answer all my questions.”

  She looked from him to the dress, down to her restrictive corset, and back.

  “Fine you may come along…but you have to wear the uniform in the closet. And I will answer any question you want. After midnight.” If she could get where she needed by midnight the handsome irritating immortal couldn’t follow her where she was going anyway.

  “Agreed, lass.” He offered his hand.

  Rolling her eyes, she took the extended hand, shocked when he turned her palm over and kissed her knuckles.

  “It is an honor to escort you Lady da Paer.”

  Dazed briefly by the warmth of his kiss, she was brought back to reality by the sound of her name on his lips and the feel of material being raised over her head. “You can’t call me that when we leave this house. I’m known as Maeve here. All I need is some demon hearing you say that name, and everything will be ruined.”

  While immortal trackers worked for the Board of Witchery, and she had been taught to avoid that council at all costs, demons were dark supernatural assassins who would jump at the chance to get her.

  “Fair enough, but what would be ruined lass?” he asked, as he tied the sash of her dress in the back. She turned and found that they were a breath’s distance apart. Her eyes were level with his lips, tan, slightly full, kissable lips placed just above a proud, square jaw.

  “After midnight.” She smiled and shook her finger, making her escape from his nearness. From her closet she removed a Confederate soldier’s uniform and offered it to him.

  “You have ten minutes to change, then I’m gone. I’ll meet you by the stables,” she said pushing him into the bathroom and closing the door. Her heart had instantly leapt at the feel of his hard chest under her palms.

  Facing the mirror she inspected her evening’s attire. The deep green off-the-shoulder dress with its flowing skirts brought joyful but sad memories of when she and Granny Cordy played dress-up. The glisten of tears brightened her eyes and helped her focus. She glanced at the mantle clock then walked out to the stables. With or without an escort, this night was planned, and nothing could go wrong. It just couldn’t.

  Chapter Five

  Fionn was dressed in five minutes and heading to the stables by seven. The power of dark auras were prevalent in the air. It was All Hallows Eve and a full moon, two potent ingredients for the good and evil of the Craft. Folklore and rumor speculated that power was lost at midnight. In truth, it was at its epitome then, only to be repressed by dawn’s light. Maeve was up to something…something big. While he wanted to lock her in the cellar of the powerfully warded home of her grandparents, instinct told him to stick by her. He had sensed strong spells of protection against anything evil approaching the home, and wondered who had taken the care to cast them.

  As he approached the stables, he saw her. Maeve stood at the threshold. Fionn marveled at how truly lovely she was, a vision in the light of the full autumn moon. The ivory expanse of her shoulders seemed to glow beneath the moonbeams. Her hair wasn’t smooth by any means but somewhat tamed into larger curls that were loosely pinned on top of her head. The smell of manure and hay offended Fionn’s nose and he wondered why they were even there.

  “Can you ride, immortal?” she asked, a curl bouncing off of her shoulder as she cocked her head to the side. Another surprising grin tugged at his lips.

  “Aye, lass.” He eyed the saddled white mare painted with black spots.

  “The stable boy saddled him before he left for the day. The roads are shut down this late for tourists, trick-or-treaters, and to keep the drunks from the main part of town.” Once again, a subtle hint that she was late because of him, yet not once had she thanked him for saving her. He mounted the sturdy horse, enjoying the feel of being back in a saddle. Fionn preferred the older means of transportation to the modern automobiles.

  He extended his hand to Maeve and she dazzled him with a smile.

  “And what is your name, kind sir, before we begin this evening?” she asked. Fionn was astounded at the transformation that occurred with a simple smile. No longer appearing tensed and hurried, Maeve more closely resembled one of the Belles of the South she masqueraded as tonight. Much worse, she sounded just the same with the genteel speech of a lady anchored by her unique Gaelic lilt.

  “Fionn. Fionn Hughes, my lady.” It was as if an unseen force struck her. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have fallen back. The smile faded, replaced by sadness, then fear. She tried to pull away but he was stronger…much stronger. With one tug, he gathered her up, side-saddled skirts, petticoats and all, into his embrace, and kicked the horse into a canter toward Carton Plantation.

  Silence filled the air between them as she sat stiff and unmoving in his arms.

  “Why so upset lass?” Fionn whispered in her ear as the wind blew the smell of Honeysuckles in his face.

  “Remember your promise…no answers until after midnight.” She reminded him again without turning her eyes his way.

  “If you will permit me the pleasure ma’am, you are the bonniest lass I have seen in a long time.”

  She jerked around meeting his gaze and what Fionn saw wasn’t anger or fear. It was pain…soul-touching sadness that went straight to his heart. Never had he felt so bad for calling a lass bonnie.

  “What did you say?” she asked softly.

  “I said you were the bonniest…” Before he could finish delicate fingers pressed his lips into silence. Fionn stifled a moan but his grip on the reins stopped the horse as desire surged starting from his lips to grip his body.

  Unshed tears glistened in her slanted eyes. “No one has said those words to me since my Patty,” she explained, jerking her fingers back as if she forgot they were still there.

  “What happened to your grandparents, lass?” Fionn asked, knowing they’d died in what the mortal world reported as an accident, but rumors of foul play abounded among the Witchery.

  The softness that had leaned into him while she was sad grew strong and taut. Her feline eyes narrowed and
the proud features of her face-hardened. “Found by immortal trackers, like you…then murdered.”

  Fionn closed his eyes and cursed before kicking the horse’s flank into a gallop until they reached Carton House. The lass was in much more danger than he’d suspected. While he would love to throw her over his shoulder and head home he knew not one question he asked would be answered until 12:01a.m.

  Chapter Six

  As it turned out, their late arrival allowed them the good fortune of not being officially announced, as had been the practice during the era the dance mimicked. The ball was thoroughly underway and the participants had indulged in drink. With Fionn constantly by her side, Maeve didn’t get a chance to try to clear her mind. Oh, how she longed to take a deep breath, but couldn’t because of the cursed underwear.

  The period band began to play a waltz just as a chilling breeze blew between the flaps of the open doors of the white tent. While the tent itself was far from authentic, the curators of the estate refused to allow the Halloween gala to be held in the house. That alone suggested to Maeve that the owners suspected something more than just an old-fashioned haunting.

  In truth, Carton Plantation was a fertile field of paranormal activity. It wasn’t just the multitude of deaths or the age of the estate. It was the nexus that hid beneath the old home, which only awakened when All Hallows Eve was lit by a full moon. A power Maeve would tap into at midnight in order to go back in time and fix the mistakes her grandparents made.

  Glancing down at the modern day wristwatch she wore, she noted the time to be fifteen minutes until midnight. And while everything seemed to be going well, Maeve knew a lot could happen in fifteen minutes. The aura and power of darkness weighted the air. With each pump of her heart, weariness grew stronger. A heaviness in the air caused her to feel a sensation like being drugged. But it was no drug…it was power. The guiding force at the small of her back grounded Maeve.