by kimberly
"Does he know?" Julienne asked waveringly. "Is that why he won't?"
"He knows that a man and woman joined in blood will be mated in body if the flesh comes together," Anlese said vaguely. Her gaze seemed to lose focus. "I wonder if he suspected…"
"What?" Julienne shuddered over her grandmother's lapse.
"That I put a sleeping potion in your tea." Anlese put her hand to her mouth in sudden guilt and stood speechless.
"A potion?" Julienne scrambled to her feet, instantly alert. Her gut seized, stomach rolling. The tea. It was so bitter. It had tasted awful, but she drank it anyway, to be polite. "Like in poisoned? Why? I don't understand."
"I couldn't let what we've become die." Anlese's voice trailed into a sob. "It was my wish, my hope, that you become mated with Morgan, that he give us what he has always withheld."
"Kept from us?"
"Immortality."
"Immortality?" Julienne echoed, disbelieving her words.
"Yes," Anlese replied, a bit hesitant. "I wanted that for you, to see a Blackthorne woman join with him."
Julienne shook her head. "I can hardly join with him when he won't sleep with me," she shot incredulously. Her eyes moved briefly toward the altar. Again, the image of him kissing her deep and hard flooded her mind.
Anlese grasped her hand in a grip that belied her frail strength. "Listen to me when I say you must join with him before he leaves."
"Why is it so important?"
"Morgan is the one who can lead the three worlds to peace," Anlese began to explain, her voice low and hoarse. "He refuses to realize the truth, but it is so. Alone, he will only destroy himself."
"But with a mate?"
"He will realize his destiny, stop denying fate and embrace it. And you," her grandmother patted her face with an arthritic hand, "will stand beside him, a powerful woman and mother of his child."
Mother of his child, she thought. Is that really my destiny?
Sighing, Anlese turned away. She walked to her chair and wearily sat down, propping her cane against her legs. Disappointment showed in her sagging shoulders. Muttering to herself in a rhythmic chant, she leaned forward and picked some object out of the clay pots near her feet. Dropping it into the black kettle over the fire, she leaned back. The lines on her face were deeper. A wracking hack burst from her thin lips, and her body shook for endless minutes. She spat blood into a stained handkerchief. The cancer had eaten through the lining of her stomach.
"Grandmother!" Alarmed, Julienne quickly moved to kneel beside her grandmother's chair. She could see the old woman was rapidly losing strength. There was a long and faintly uneasy silence between them as Anlese patiently conquered her pain. Julienne could only watch, helpless to render aid.
Anlese lowered the handkerchief, her face gaunt, skin unhealthy and pallid, breathing heavily from the effort of keeping herself erect. "I'm all right, dear. It's just a matter of days now."
With a deft gentleness, Julienne gathered her grandmother's weak fingers in her hand, cradling them lightly in her strong grasp. "Don't say that," she pleaded.
For a moment, Anlese kept silent, her face a cautious blank; but her hesitancy was brief. "It's true," she soothed, stirring to free her hands, "but don't be afraid for me."
Julienne shuttered her eyes on the tears threatening to fall. "I don't want you to die." In such a short time, she'd come to love Anlese and did not want to lose her so soon. Reality, though, told her there would be no recovery. She felt helpless watching her grandmother suffer from the insidious disease that was devouring her. It was a disturbing thing, and she reached down into the depth of her soul to find a strength she hadn't known she possessed.
Anlese grasped the younger woman's arm with as much intensity as she could muster. Her skin was parchment thin, and the veins were starkly prominent. With urgency she pressed a hard, warm object into Julienne's hand.
"Take this," she urged. "This is your heritage." Her tense features brightened, relaxing as a wry smile crossed her lips. "I only wish I had had the time to teach you the Wicca properly."
Julienne opened her hand. Across her palm lay the single key to Anlese's secret room. The bronze key seemed to have a weight heavier than its size warranted. Perhaps it was the awesome responsibility that came with possessing it. She was not sure.
"I know nothing about this," she protested, trying to give back the key. Anlese refused it.
"It is my dying regret that I let Cassandra take you away from Blackthorne," Anlese motioned with a thin hand for her to come closer. Her face was schooled to impassivity, but her fingers quivered a little. "But Morgan can teach you the ways. You have the gift inside you. You always did. It's untrained, but strong. I feel it." She stared hard through bleary eyes burning with pain, pain gnawing its way through her fragile mortal shell.
"I sometimes think I feel it," Julienne said, pressing her hand to her chest. "Here. Inside. I can't explain it, but I feel this…second pulse inside."
"Heed my words when I say you must find a way to go with him," Anlese said in a lower, more somber tone. She paused as if to gather strength. "Or two lives may be lost. His, because he is reckless on his own, and you. Alone, on this side without him, you would go stark raving mad. Morgan's blood can be ice. Time has made him forget many of his emotions, but you bring them out in him, I know. Make him remember there is love to be found in life."
Julienne moved her head negatively, wiping away the tears. "What if I can't?" Her throat was tight with a fear she could neither explain nor vanquish.
Reaching out with an unsteady hand, Anlese patted her scarred cheek. She smiled, and its brightness was a thing of pure transcendence, a blessing, almost beatific. "You can, and you will."
Julienne smiled despite her despair, her wry grin coming and going all too quickly to be genuine. She relaxed and for a space of minutes lay her head on her grandmother's lap. Anlese held her gently, letting her rest undisturbed. She could feel the feather-soft caress of the old woman's fingers. Inwardly, she knew what she had been told was frighteningly true. A strange and curious feeling of restlessness settled over her. How could she ever live a normal life? She was aware of the supernatural world around her as few were.
I once felt I didn't belong in this world, among people. I was right. I don't. I'm a different kind. I don't really belong in this world. I don't think I ever have.
"There is one thing you must remember and beware of," Anlese finally said.
Julienne did not stir. "What?" she murmured sleepily, suddenly weary.
"Morgan has a sister. Megwyn." Anlese's lips tightened, stern and grim. Her eyes had grown dark, their queer luminosity veiled with suppressed emotion.
"A sister?" said Julienne in a hushed voice. With regret, she lifted her head and drew away from her grandmother.
"His twin." There was an oddly vehement anger in the old woman's voice, as if she despised the thought, the very idea of such a being. Her wrinkled features betrayed a hatred so naked that Julienne shivered under its intensity. "She is the equal, but opposite, of him. She's head justice of the witches' council."
"How do you know this, Grandmother?" she whispered, like a woman in a dream.
"It is part of a prophecy, one written many centuries ago," Anlese explained, trembling with the power of her emotions. "They are two forces, alike in strength, but opposite in direction, pitted against each other. She seeks to destroy him, but do not let her fool you. Though she comes in the light, her heart is black and she's evil, the mistress of deceptions. If she gains the upper hand, our world will fall."
* * *
Time, now of the utmost importance, began to tick away.
Each minute was counted to the exact second.
Julienne pulled herself away from Anlese's bedside when the old woman fell into a deep sleep. She was glad to have a few quiet hours to herself. Worry had pushed her to the point of exhaustion. Her appetite was dead. For days she had been surviving on cigarettes and coffee. How she managed to endure the stress w
ithout some illegal substance was a mark of her growing strength of character. Though she often thought about her drug use, she would never go back to that life of abuse.
As she entered her rooms and began to prepare for bed, she wondered if death was what the next few days would bring. Anlese was weak, dying. These last two weeks had seen her disintegrate rapidly. It was, Julienne felt, only a matter of hours.
* * *
Though Julienne knew she had not been asleep long, her mind was sluggish. Her body would not respond to her commands to move when she opened her eyelids to peer into the darkness of her room to see what had awakened her.
Dressed in flowing white gossamer, Anlese stood at the foot of the canopied bed. Only it was not her grandmother as Julienne knew her. This woman was young, fair-skinned, Titian-haired, and full of life and vigor. Strength radiated from her. It took several minutes for Julienne to realize this vision was of Anlese as a young woman.
Silently, the young witch beckoned Julienne to rise. Mesmerized, she did as she was bid, understanding what the woman wanted of her though not a word was spoken. Raising her hand without really knowing she was responding, she took the hand Anlese offered. Pulled forward with a sudden, teeth-clattering jerk, she felt her conscious being leave its earthbound shell. The sensation was light and delicious. She felt free and uninhibited in her shadowy form. She looked down from where she was standing and regarded her discarded body with loathing. In her phantom form it meant nothing.
Come, child. Anlese smiled gently. We haven't much time together. Though she did not open her mouth her thoughts were communicated perfectly.
Where are we going? Julienne was curious.
You shall see. Follow.
Julienne watched without much surprise as the witch's image began to float up through the ceiling, melting, then vanishing.
Wondering how she was to follow, she freed her mind of all its earthbound limitations and willed herself up. For a brief moment she was one with the stone, wood, and plaster forming Blackthorne's structure. A thousand voices and memories of the images trapped there flooded her mind. The sensation was a terrible one as her self became lost in the past and experienced thoughts not her own. She feared she would be lost forever, trapped within the plaster walls.
At the last moment, her consciousness broke free and she felt as if she were floating, higher, away from the Earth, expanding to reach the faraway stars. A steady beat rose, a regular cadence that was more than sound, more than light, engulfing, then filling her. Her senses shifted, rapidly twisting and contorting into an indescribable blending in which past, present and future merged into one giant substance as she passed into the eternal pathways of the astral. She was around it, in it and of it, merging briefly with the energies that were the core of all creation. A ghostly hand found hers and, fingers entwining, pulled her forward, past space and into the ripples of time itself, a whirling, colorful, warm vortex bearing her on star-warmed tides that suddenly gave way to a strange, new place.
The two women entered a large stone room radiating a comfortable ambiance. Lavishly brimming with the artifacts of bygone ages, the chamber lay under an arched ceiling. Marble columns supported walls covered in multicolored tiles of cream and gold. Persian carpets woven of pure silk were spread across floors of glazed stone, their designs of otherworld deities imaginatively conceived. Furnishings crafted by expert hands, utensils fashioned from gold and alabaster, materials woven by hand upon the loom. The spacious chamber was designed for comfort. By the light of fire-warmed hearths and the many candles in the candelabra, this harbor teemed with serenity.
But its tranquility was false. Fear was a constant undercurrent, a scent on the air like the overpowering stench of a dead animal.
Julienne inwardly gasped when she saw a large, looming figure.
Xavier, Anlese whispered the name into her mind. The enemy who holds Morgan's soul in bondage.
The sorcerer's labored gasps echoed harshly. Crimson robes trimmed with fine gold braid clung to his tall, beefy form. The material rustled softly as he moved, reflecting in the isolated firelight like blood drawn from a fresh wound. Oily sweat beaded his hairless brow, plastering to his skin the ragged strip of stained linen cloth wrapped clumsily around half his face. Etched into his flesh from the bridge of his nose to his cheek was a wound so deep it threatened the sight of his left eye. Managing to conceal the gruesome mutilation, the cloth did not soak up the pus leaking from poorly placed stitches that tore into his bloated flesh. His right eye was gone. Long ago, the eyeball had been gouged out. Grotesquely thick scars marred the hollow socket and the flaccid cheek below, startlingly red against a complexion that had not felt the heat of any sun for nearly a thousand years.
Another strip of cloth was wrapped around his thick neck. He breathed with great difficulty, hardly seeming able to take in enough air to sustain his body. Trapped in his disintegrating temple, he wheezed as he drew in breath, then exhaled.
Xavier was not alone.
Megwyn Saint-Evanston swept into Julienne's view like a goddess of light. A woman of dominant carriage despite her diminutive stature, she entered the chamber as though it were her own. Swathed in a gossamer gown of white silk, covered with a cape of coal-black mink, she held her head high. Soft slippers masked her steps in silence. She was a captivatingly beautiful woman, slender, petite of frame, finely boned, with delicate arms and soft hands. Her pert face had the precise, incised features of one born to a high caste, an almost too-perfect symmetry to her forehead, cheekbones and chin. Her skin was flawless, an unblemished ivory of the purest translucency, her generous lips the shade of dew-kissed roses. Platinum-white hair hung down her back in flowing waves. An arresting crown, it was by no means her finest feature. Her eyes were. They were crystal blue flecked with gold, and fathomless and cold as an icy lake. She was the female version of her darker twin, and just as capricious as he, if not more so.
As she took her time loosening her cape, Megwyn's unflinching gaze traveled the sorcerer's grotesque form. A smile curled her lips, one displaying glee, disgust and mockery.
"I see my brother has once again bested you," she chortled buoyantly, sweeping her cloak off her shoulders and tossing it into the hands of one of Xavier's female slaves.
"Morgan is soon to fall, woman," Xavier said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You think so?" Megwyn scoffed. Her forehead wrinkled a little, not with anger but with annoyance. "You had him in your grasp, owned his soul; and yet he still escaped you. Methinks my brother is the wilier fox."
"Since you think so highly of his skills," the sorcerer rasped, taking in a deep breath before he was able to speak again, "perhaps you should seek him out!" He jerked back, pretending to belatedly recall something, knowing well how to deliver a verbal spike. "Ah, but I remember now that he despises you even worse than me. He may wound me, but, woman, he will kill you slowly and painfully if he becomes aware of your alliance with the Dragon."
Megwyn's lips thinned with pique. "The council still follows me. They'll not let him get past my defenses. And you would not dare withdraw your legions from my side, lest you lose a very valuable ally." She flipped a hand of dismissal. "Please, let's put aside insults and get down to the real issues at hand--taking down my brother, once and for all."
Xavier nodded in concurrence, a scowl curving his pallid features into a grotesque death mask.
"Morgan returned to Sclyd only to reclaim his soul. In that he has been successful," Megwyn remarked, with no delight. "The only grace to your failure is that while he may have freed himself from bondage he has not yet reclaimed his legacy. There is still time."
The sorcerer flinched at the return barb. "He knows the truth about our alliance to retake the mortal realm," he wheezed, seeking to contain it and failing. "He may choose to fight again. If he does, it is for that time we must prepare."
"I am prepared to face him," Megwyn snarled nastily, "but I do not want him dead--yet. I have a reckoning with him th
at will bring me into my rightful legacy. Only then will my turning to Oroborous be justified."
"You seek a dangerous merging of the gods," Xavier warned.
Megwyn threw back her head and began to laugh.
Julienne watched in fascination, mesmerized as Morgan's two enemies plotted his downfall, one of them his own twin! She wanted to stay, learn more, but unexpectedly the scene shifted and she found herself hovering in another place, quite different from the sanctuary of the sorcerer. She glanced around through phantom eyes, wondering where she was. Flitting around the room, blending with the shadows and light, she scanned it with her eyes. Shock halted her searching.
No! She screamed a silent cry, heard only in her mind, fighting the deep pain that began to envelop her. As though her spirit were weighted with lead, she slowly approached the still figure sprawled on the floor, kneeling beside it. She reached out, but her phantom hands could offer no healing touch.
Morgan's Saint-Evanston's complexion was waxen, the color of his black hair a stark contrast against the white skin. His eyes were closed, his thick hair clinging in damp strands to his forehead. His clothing was torn and stained with a lethal amount of blood, his face and body bearing the cuts and abrasions of recent torture.
But these wounds were not the cause of his demise. A dagger protruded from Morgan's chest, one she recognized from his collection. The blade had been thrust hard, deep enough to penetrate his heart.
Julienne could see his blood was still fresh, its wet, scarlet hue reflecting the flickering of the candles. Knowing he was not yet dead, desperate to save him, she reached for the dagger, but her ghostly hands passed through it. Tears of helplessness began to blur her vision.
What use is seeing this if I can't stop it? she lamented. The question had yet to be answered.
She felt a hard tug at her shoulder. It was Anlese. She was trying to warn her the time had come for their departure. At first, Julienne ignored her grandmother's urging, so drawn was she to the visions before her eyes. She wanted to stay with Morgan, be a part of his phantom world forever.
