Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy

by Melissa Macfie

  Cormac pushed on her arm, causing her to yelp in pain. “I understan’ tha’ an arm oot o’ joint hurts verra badly. Dae ye want ta ken for sure?” He pushed on it again, making her whimper and reminding her who was in control. He looked over his shoulder, “Boy, go find something ta bind th’ priestess with. And ye, watch him. He’s still dangerous.”

  Buchanan came back into the living room with a roll of duct tape. “I’m going to enjoy this, you bitch.” He tore at the end of the tape with his teeth. “Teach you some manners…”

  “Yer no’ going ta instruct her on one bluddy thing.” Cormac had him by the collar, “Just bind her and be quick about it, aye?”

  Buchanan bound her wrists as Cormac held her face in the pillows, grabbed her upper arm to help her up. She shrugged him off. She turned and mule kicked Buchanan with such force that he bounced off the opposing wall, blood gushing from his nose. She stood clumsily and ran to Alex tripping so she covered the last few feet sliding on her knees on the hardwood floors.

  “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

  “Aye, tha’ we dae.” Alex stood and pulled Brenawyn to her feet setting her behind him. The remaining acolyte was the first to engage. He lunged, but Alex feinted to the right and sidestepped the rush. His opponent screamed his frustration and dove for Alex yet again. This time, Alex hit him before he fell, and rained down blows to his head and midsection.

  Buchanan waited for his chance, and when Alex was occupied he charged Brenawyn. His face and hands slick with gore from the broken nose, he grappled with her, struggling to get a grip. They pirouetted around ending with Buchanan’s back to Alex, his hands crushing Brenawyn’s windpipe, watching as her eyes bulged grotesquely. He heard a sickening pop from behind and something hit the floor with a thud. The next thing he knew, he was hoisted off the floor, away from Brenawyn, his arms flailing like a ragdoll.

  Thwack!

  Cormac brained Alex with a candlestick.

  He came to, finding himself lying on the floor with smelling salts being applied by the Vate, who crooned to him. He jerked away from her and sat up to see Brenawyn fully trussed and Cormac pacing.

  “There, he’s awake. What do you want from me? From us? If I can, I’ll willingly give it, just let us go.” Brenawyn pleaded.

  “Ye will give it, whether ye will it or no’. Ha’ nay doubt.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Ah, tha’ question has waited six hundred years ta be answered, my lassie.” Cormac sat on the arm of the couch. “Shall I tell it, Alex or let ye?”

  “Please, Cormac, that is your name, yes? We haven’t been introduced, yet you have tried to kill me tonight, and I’m assuming here, several times before, too? Why don’t you tell me, hm?”

  “Och, I like her spirit, Alexander! No wonder ye were so possessive.” He got up and caressed her cheek, “If thaur were only time ta properly explore.”

  Brenawyn pulled away, changing Cormac’s demeanor. A frown pressed his features down, blackening his look.

  “Ugh, always one ta rhapsodize, get on with it, Cormac, afore my joints get rheumy.

  “Six hundred years o’ searching for th’ priestess, and haur ye are,” crowed Cormac. “Th’ one ta restore balance.”

  “What is this balance?”

  “Ye doonae ken? She doesnae ken?” he looked incredulous but guffawed at last, shaking his head. “Ooh, Aerten ha’ a sense o’ humor after all,” he said as he wiped his eyes, “Th’ balance is distribution o’ power.”

  “I gathered that. I’m not stupid.”

  Corac smacked her. “Years ago a group was formed when it was made known tha’ th’ priestess was lost ta time. Myself and Alex, thaur, were made members. Our task was ta protect th’ balance until she was found and able ta take her rightful place among th’ Druid clergy. Six hundred years is a long time, though, aye? And certain members became accustomed ta a life beyond their means.”

  Brenawyn’s cheek stung and she tasted blood, but she couldn’t help herself, “You mean, you became greedy for power.”

  He surged upon her, “Ye’ll never ken wha’ ‘tis like ta harness such power and ken tha’ sometime in th’ future ye will be stripped o’ it. I willna go back ta serving. Th’ gods doonae ken, Aerten herself doesnae ken, what yer capacity is. They’re afraid; whauras me? I’m excited. If I complete th’ Rite o’ th’ Phoenix on Samhain, I obtain all o’ yer powers, latent abilities and all.”

  “How do you know I am who you think I am? I don’t feel any different than I’ve felt all my life. What if it’s all a mistake?”

  “Ah, tha’ would be a puzzle, but alas, yer soul ha’ been recognized by th’ gods. They are ne’er wrong. Ye are th’ priestess.”

  “I’m not familiar with your religion. Your gods are not my God. I don’t believe. Yours is not my faith.”

  Motioning to the hooded figure, Cormac instructed, “Eric, take off yer cloak and gi’ her a keek at her handiwork.”

  The second acolyte approached and unfastened the mantle at his neck. The heavy material pooled on the floor. He took the hem of his button-down shirt and lifted it over his head.

  “And th’ bandage too.”

  He played with edging of a soiled wrap. He hissed through his teeth as he began unwrapping, round and round. The last layers caused him pain as the gauze stuck to the seeping wound. The rotten skin sloughed off and opened sores had bright blood mixing with pus. “Get a good look at what you did to me, bitch.” He shoved the arm under her nose. Brenawyn leaned back in the chair she was tied to so that the chair balanced on two legs; she would have fallen over had it not been for the wall. She turned her head forcefully away, but the man placed a heavy hand on the arm of the chair and pushed down. The chair righted itself with a thump, and Brenawyn’s head bounced once off the head rest only to come close to ricocheting against the offending arm. The man had the forethought to pull back at the last instant to save himself from an onslaught of new pain to the damaged limb.

  Brenawyn turned her head and vomited on herself. Some of the contents of her stomach splashed onto him, and he backhanded her. “Ugh, filthy whore. I’m going to lose my arm, thanks to you.”

  She looked down and saw the mottled hand and blackened fingertips. “You need to get that looked at, maybe the doctors can save the arm.”

  “How charitable, the image of compassion.”

  “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Don’t know who I am? He shoved his other wrist at her. She looked down at the tattoo of the three lines. Recognition flared in her.

  She looked at Alex. He was trussed like her, at the wrists and ankles with duct tape, in the matching Queen Anne side chair; but Alex was also bound at the elbows, knees and chest, pinning him most effectively to the seat.

  “You bastard! You almost killed my dog.”

  The Oracle stepped forward, pulling the acolyte away. “Enough!” She squatted in front of Brenawyn, “Ye see, ye are th’ priestess, regardless o’ yer belief system. Ye ha’ powers, newly emerged. Who kens why they ha’ lay dormant so long? Who kens which abilities will surface? And who kens how strong ye will grow? I ha’ nay seen it through th’ use o’ augury. ”

  “Please, please, don’t hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me. Please, I beg of you!”

  The Vate patted her hand. “Tis no’ personal tha’ we must sacrifice ye, but yer fate tha’ it must be so.”

  “Don’t go spouting lies. Tell her true, tha’ ‘tis nothin’ more than yer own selfish ambition tha’ makes ye act this way. Tha’ she will die for naught other than tha’.” Alex growled.

  “Haud yer wheest, boy,” the Vate scolded. “I ha’ studied th’ prophecies.”

  “So, ha’ I, enough ta ken tha’ she’s nay mentioned but th’ once.”

  The Vate frowned and reached in her cloak. “Dun do bheal[6]." She pulled out a sheathed jeweled knife and tossed it to Cormac. “Ye wanted ta dae him in. Dae it noo, ta stop his yammering.”

  “With ple
asure.” Cormac unsheathed the wicked looking blade, and Brenawyn yelled out in alarm.

  “Alex!”

  “Aye, I see it, lass. Dae ye remember what I said?”

  “No, I…”

  “No matter wha’ happens, I will come for ye.”

  “How?”

  “Doesnae matter, noo. Dae ye believe me?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No matter wha’ happens.”

  Cormac approached from an angle, the knife gripped in his fist. Alex flexed his muscles against the unyielding restraints, rocking the chair back and forth. The antique wood frame held, despite its protests. In the last instant, he held his breath to await the blade.

  “I ha’ no finesse like th’ Oracle,” Cormac grunted with the effort puncturing Alex’s abdomen, “but ‘tis no’ warranted. Ye are no’ a sacrifice.” He placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder.

  Through gritted teeth, Alex hissed, “Leuk awa’ Brenawyn. Ye doonae want ta see this.”

  Cormac repositioned himself to give Brenawyn an unobstructed view and laughed. “Dae ye see yer protector noo?” and started sawing the blade through his skin.

  Brenawyn screamed as Alex’s guts spilled out. “A traitor would be treated verra similar, usually strapped ta a table in th’ town’s square for e’eryone ta witness. Th’ executioner, if he ken his art, would ha’ th’ man be alive until th’ last when he saw was his own beating heart ripped from his chest.”

  Brenawyn screamed again, pulling at the restraints banging the chair against the wall behind her trying to break the chair.

  “We ha’ nay time for that, and I ha’ nay stomach ta stick my hand in his chest cavity ta yank oot his heart. He’ll just ha’ ta make dae with this.” Cormac took the blade out and at an upward angle sank it to the hilt under his breastbone. Alex spurted blood and slumped.

  “Nooooooooooo, damn you!” The interlace on Brenawyn flared to life and the chair broke.

  Chapter 22

  Alexander floated in an undulating haze, electricity tingling from every nerve ending. He didn’t want it to end, he focused on the feeling, tried to relax, but it slipped away. Grunting with the loss he tossed, his limbs slow to respond. He opened his eyes and pulsing colors beset him: reds, blues, so cool against his skin, the feeling came back now, multiplied tenfold centralized to his groin. He moaned. Wet suction, an eager mouth—Brenawyn.

  He needed her not to stop.

  The surge of release swept over him and he fought the primal urge to pump into her. He buried his hands in her hair, and she let out a guttural chuckle, renewing her efforts, swirling her tongue over his sensitized tip—

  Something wasn’t right.

  The silken texture of her hair changed, growing coarse and wiry in his hands. He was twisting away, trying to wrench himself from her before his addled mind connected that this was not Brenawyn.

  He jerked as a voice to the side purred, “I havena had my fill o’ him yet.”

  The sea of silk crested and broke beaching the voice’s owner tight against him. A dearg due, the sister of the one still latched on to his shriveled manhood. Creatures of the faerie, single-minded in their lust, they were identical to look at, the only color against their steely gray bodies was the deep pink of sexual excitement. Their puckered nipples and engorged nether lips glistened with moisture.

  He vaulted up, reaching for the draped canopy, and yanked. Yards of fabric rained down and the sisters panicked, unable to abide the constriction of the light silk. Releasing him in their struggle to be free, he stumbled away on wobbly legs unable to hold his weight. He went crashing to the floor.

  The two screeched and snapped at each other, rending fabric, until one caught sight of him. A violent upheaval left the remnants of the bedding shredded, leaving her sister to claw her way out. She never took her eyes from him. Alex tried to rise, but ended up on his back disoriented and vulnerable. She pounced, straddling his hips. Vicious razor talons raked him from chest to groin, her forked tongue following the same route, lapping up his blood, healing the wounds as she passed. Some errant thought had him tensing the moment the sting dissipated.

  A scream ripped from his throat as festering blisters appeared along the path, and she rubbed against him in ecstasy. The sister, now free, swooped down and shoved her tongue in his open mouth. He resisted, bit down, but memories flooded in, a parody of their same position, this time not forced, servicing them both, though they took a more pleasant form. Colleen.

  Revulsion and shame swamped him.

  “I wonder, if th’ priestess saw ye noo, would she be so eager ta save ye?”

  Alex sobbed, “Finvarra,” straining against their heated advances, “get them off me.”

  Thunder boomed when the god of the dead clapped his hands. Plaster drifted down from the ceiling, window glass shook in its frames, small ornaments toppled off tabletops, and the dearg due sisters looked around, puzzled. “Ladies, if ye will be most kind, I ha’ business with this one. I will only take him for a time, ye may play with him more later.”

  They looked at each other and then down at Alex, but obeyed the god. In passing, he gave them each a caress and watched them sashay through the glamoured wall. “Doonae think about it. Ye will no’ be able ta escape tha’ way.”

  “Even if I did, I ha’ nay way o’ getting oot. It’s haur or th’ Stalking Grounds, each prison brutal.”

  “Ye didnae always think so.”

  “That’s as much as ye ken.”

  “Th’ dearg due deserve yer pity as much as th’ others.”

  “Wha’?”

  “They are shades, vessels holding th’ smallest portion of their previous lives, th’ most primal, instinctual. Desire is all they feel, but even in their stunted, static existence, they are e’er cognizant o’ their confinement. They battle it in their own way, but ye ken this. For a time, ye battled it th’ same way.”

  “Th’ way they can change their form ta leuk like—ta get what they want, ta drive ye a little more insane.”

  Finvarra reached down to touch Alex’s temples, “I’ll clear yer head o’ th’ ambrosia’s effects.”

  The room came into focus almost instantly, and he felt the strength returning to his legs as the muscle spasms eased. The sumptuous furnishings of his fishbowl prison came into view. The luxury was lost on him the moment the purpose of the prison had been told to him the first time he was incarcerated here. The view was part of the punishment, to be compelled to watch each target be hunted, captured, and killed quickly or heinously, it didn’t matter. This prison was identical, at least from the outside, to all the others lining the perimeter of the Stalking Grounds. He always was returned here to this particular cell.

  They were built partly as instructional aids, as if it mattered. Humans against gods—a losing bet every time, even with the resurrections taking him further away from humanity. He was an animal, an abomination to be exterminated.

  His head cleared at last and the dire situation in which he had left the other realm came rushing back. He felt the urgency to return.

  Finvarra cleared his throat, and turned to reveal Caer Ibormeith who stood silently behind him. He offered her a hand and steered her out of the shadowy recess of the room to stand in front of Alex. She moved with an unearthly grace, a divine ballerina. Her snowy hair was braided and looped into an intricate design, sweeping her hair away from her face. Her violet eyes were strikingly large and expressive, perhaps because she had no mouth, no means of verbal communication.

  Caer pantomimed concern for Alex and he slowly stood to show her that concern was not necessary. Empathetic or not, it was not a good idea to be the focus of any god. The last time he had direct contact with her was the night he became the Shaman. He didn’t need any more of her empathy; he didn’t know if he’d survive it.

  She turned her attention to Finvarra, placing a dainty hand on his forearm. He looked at her for a long moment, and Alex was transfixed, watching her changing facial expressions. Finvarra snor
ted in surprise.

  He turned to Alex. “Ye caught her unaware. Ye ha’ ta willingly submit ta her inquiry.”

  “Damn it.” He looked out at the moss covered cypress trees growing from the sulfurous bog, mentally preparing himself for the process, “How?”

  “She needs ta ken what happened. Let her touch ye.”

  Alex inhaled sharply and turned to Caer, holding his hands out to her. She took them and gave them a reassuring squeeze, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her hands were cool in his own clammy ones. She brushed his palms, his inner forearms, and his chest with her fingertips, activating his runes as she went. She cupped his face, fingertips resting just at the temples.

  Alex relaxed; there was no pain as he so often encountered with the gods, just a slightly odd sense of closeness.

  She threw a glance at Finvarra and he nodded, “Think o’ th’ most recent events, those tha’ ha’ ye haur noo.”

  Alex did as he was instructed, and her grip on his face hardened. Her eyes grew big, creasing her brow, her body stiffened. She exchanged a heated look with Finvarra, to which he announced, “I must leave ye in a moment ta summon Aerten and Taranis. Together, ye will transverse th’ veil for Caer ta exact revenge. As th’ many times afore, ye will no’ be able ta die in th’ same manner, but ye will also gain th’ gift o’ communication as necessary ta understand Caer. Ye will be her retribution. Dae ye ken what I’ve just told ye?”

  “Aye, I dae.”

  “Prepare yerself, man.” Finvarra crossed to the console and picked up a worn piece of leather. He then gave it to Alex who put it in his mouth. His teeth found the all too familiar indents from times past. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

  Finvarra placed his right hand next to the glowing sigils on Alex’s chest, and his left on his forehead. Caer placed her hand over Finvarra’s on Alex’s head. “é a thuiscint[7].”

  The smell of burning flesh seared Alex’s nasal passages as it traced the bounds of the comprehension spell extending from his base of blue interlace.