Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy

by Melissa Macfie

  Ashes.

  Appropriate.

  She stormed away, but returned just as quickly to watch the last of the embers wink out. She stood there, silently considering the incriminating, albeit circumstantial, evidence. “Ugh. Damn it,” slamming her hand on the mantle. “Do you even know that he’s dead?”

  “Is everything aaricht, a chuisle?” She turned to find Alex sitting in the leather wing chair in the shadowed recess of the room, book on his knee.

  Brenawyn’s breath hitched as she sighed. “Unpacking the last of the boxes from the house I shared with my husband.” She glanced back at the fireplace, “Found some pic…some unexpected things,” she amended.

  “Ah lass, dae ye want ta talk about it?”

  “No, thank you. I’d rather forget it all together.”

  A few steps into the hall had her at the bedroom door to see garbage strewn on the floor and her dog, Spencer crouched in the corner, chewing a used tissue. “Spencer, put that down!” The dog bolted but Brenawyn wrestled him to the ground, prying his mouth open enough to extract his treat. “Mine!” as she held the wet tissue aloft.

  Sitting up, Brenawyn looked around her bedroom, strewn with the contents of the remaining boxes from her home in Jersey that she hadn’t had time to go through, now transported here in haste.

  “Three years. Three years. If I close my eyes…picking up the phone to hear…seeing the wrecked guard rail, the car…Ugh. Time doesn’t heal shit.”

  Brenawyn reached over for the box of tissues on the nightstand and patted the bed beside her, “Come here, boy. Come on up.”

  She caught the eighty-pound bundle of wriggling fur. Not content with either licking her face or being as close to her as possible, Spencer did both simultaneously. “Eww, no doggie kisses.” She scratched him under his collar. “Who’s a good boy?” The dog tried one more time to sneak a last minute kiss that barely missed her open mouth, before giving up and settling down with a grunt as he nestled in, molding his body to her side. Absently she petted him, “You didn’t know Liam. He was a good man, even though he was allergic to dogs.”

  The next item in the box was a small notebook filled with her husband’s tight neat script. She leafed through it before recognizing what it was—the notebook that they shared when they took the philosophy class together during their last year of college. How she managed to get an A in the class was still a mystery to her when all she was concerned with was the heat of his body as he sat next to her.

  She pulled out the insurance papers she had seen too often. “Again? How many copies did you keep? Did you think I would forget where they were?” She could almost hear his voice. This is where copies of the insurance papers and the keys to the safety deposit box are… “How many times did we argue over this?”

  Brenawyn dropped the papers, pushed the box across the bed and flung herself back on it, startling the dog. She didn’t move until she felt his wet nose nuzzle her arm. “It’s okay, Spencer. Talking to you is one thing, but talking to the dead husband… I need to stop that.”

  Resolved to finish, she picked up the box and extracted the last item in the container, a small wooden box. Brenawyn ran her hand along the ornate brass fittings. Locked. She upended the box. No key. “Hmm.” Running her hands along the back revealed a weak hinge. She tried prying the hinge with the edge of her fingernail only to be thwarted when her nail broke. Sucking on the injured finger, she unfolded herself from the bed and climbed over the unmoving dog.

  The hinges gave little resistance to the flathead screwdriver. Reaching in, Brenawyn took out a brightly wrapped gift box complete with a silver mylar bow, flattened now after so long. She put the box on the nightstand, hesitant to open it. It was so long since the last time she stumbled upon a surprise like this from a man long dead.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alex paced the room, but Brenawyn didn’t return. Keeping an ear to the hallway, he strode over to the fireplace and sifted through the ashes. A soot covered portion of a photo lay in the debris. Centuries may have passed, but Alex would always remember the face of James Morgan. Hatred boiled up from his gut, he needed to hit something.

  He got some satisfaction as the brittle paper crumbled in his fist. He wished it were that easy. Jamie never gave him the opportunity. Coward.

  A soft cry from the hallway pulled him back into the present and he opened his hand.

  Was Jamie her husband? James Liam Morgan McAllister.

  Damn him.

  Always one step ahead.

  Alex stopped at the open doorway to see Brenawyn reaching for a wrapped gift on the nightstand. She fumbled with the paper, ripping at the seams with her teeth until the box was dented. She found purchase and wiped the bit of paper from her lip with one hand as the other pealed the paper away to reveal a black velvet jewelry box. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she opened the box. He couldn’t see what was inside but the facets of the stones spread sparkles across the ceiling as it caught the first rays of the day.

  Brenawyn carefully removed the necklace and held it up. She held the medallion as she approached the mirror tracing the detailed design. She looped it around her neck letting the medallion fall between her breasts.

  “Years later I’m still finding stuff you left for me? This is why I couldn’t live there anymore. I’m trying to move on with my life.”

  It was only then that she saw him in the doorway. She jumped. “Jesus, you scared me.”

  “Lass, what’s wrong? Is thaur anything I can dae ta help?”

  “Eh. It’s nothing.” Sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand so hard that she saw spots. “My husband…” shaking her head, “my late husband would give me things, presents, jewelry and other pretty things.” She carried the medallion to him, “Three years after his death, I am still finding gifts.”

  She dropped the necklace in his open hand and whirled to gather the rest of the items back into the box. An exquisite medallion of gold Celtic knot work with ruby, sapphire, emerald, diamond, and topaz gemstones glinted up from his palm. He knew this necklace, could trace the pattern from memory, if he needed more proof to convince him of what he already knew.

  “Tis verra beautiful. It reminds me o’ another. Come haur. Thaur is something…” Brenawyn straightened and met him, “I am curious about.” He looped the necklace around her head lifting her hair so the chain fell again her skin. He stepped back and looked unsatisfied, “The medallion needs ta be in contact with yer skin,” and he went to make it so. Brenawyn pulled away blushing, his fingertip loosing contact with her collar.

  “Ok, I’ll do it, thank you.” And she dropped the medallion in her cleavage. “This is very strange. Necklaces are supposed to be worn outside…”

  “Humor me.” His face must have given something away because her eyes grew wide. “Turn around and leuk in th’ mirror.”

  Much to her surprise, her reflection showed glowing sigils across her clavicle, dimming slightly across her shoulders to almost nothing as they tracked down her upper arms. He saw recognition reflected in her eyes. These were the same iridescent markings as were present in the office’s mirror. Alex came up behind her and held her about the waist and the dimmed tracings burst to life, racing down her arms in matching intensity.

  “What does this mean?” as she searched his face reflected in the mirror.

  “Th’ necklace, or rather th’ medallion, th’ chain has nay power, is Eiliminteach, a mythic piece, one o’ five, drenched in Druid lore. Five pieces, scattered, hidden, until th’ one is revealed. Foci most powerful for th’ priestess just as the torc is for th’ Shaman.

  “Why are the markings activated by it? And why do they glow brighter at your touch?”

  “Th’ medallion is a sort o’ antenna ta focus your abilities.” Eyes burning with desire, he swept aside her tresses and dipped his head so his lips brushed her ear. “My touch is different…are ya sure ye want ta ken, Brenawyn?”

  She turned to face him and stepped back to look
into his eyes, careful not to touch him.

  “We are two halves ta a whole. Shaman, priestess, man, woman, yin, yang, if ye will; we represent balance, and because o’ tha’ balance, th’ gods favor our union.”

  “If it is as you say, why would my husband have it amongst his belongings.”

  Everything stopped as the silent weight of her words beat on his heart. “I ken yer husband a while sin.” The words were out of his mouth before the decision to tell her registered in his mind. How he would explain his connection to James, he had no clue. The truth? Yeah, as if she would believe him yet.

  Brenawyn looked at him, mouth agape. “How… how did you know Liam?”

  “He never deserved yer loyalty. He wasna a kind man.”

  “What? Ye knew him?” Her arms uncrossed so that the robe gaped open. “When?”

  “Brenawyn, I shouldnae ha’ mentioned it. T’was a long time ago. Perhaps he changed.”

  “No. Tell me what he was like when you knew him. Please.”

  “T’was a long time ago. Please. Ye ha’ good memories o’ him. Mine aren’t so. I’d rather no’ say.”

  She moved to bar the door, “No, damn it. Tell me.”

  “Jamie and I were friends. I ken him as James Morgan—James Liam Morgan McAllister. It doesna matter noo. A woman came between us. We weren’t friends any longer. End o’ story.” Alex brushed by her on his way out of the room, knowing that she was right on his heels.

  “Your story lacks detail.” Brenawyn caught his arm, “Please, tell me. It’s been three years, I can’t get over his death. My memories are fading but instead of making it better and allowing me to move on, I feel anxious and panicked, as if there is something important that I’ve forgotten, but I can’t recall it.”

  “Brenawyn, if ye’ll agree ta let it wait, I’ll tell ye everything in time.”

  The backdoor opened with a squeak and Spencer bolted through the room, stepping on Brenawyn’s bare foot. She hobbled hopping on one foot, Alex grabbed her forearm to keep her from falling.

  “Brenawyn, yer question, ask yerself this, why would he ha’ the Eiliminteach?

  Alex softly closed the door behind him “Why, Jamie? Damn ye.” He could have lived with the betrayal; eventually he would have stopped hating them so much if it had been true. Perhaps it was on her part. He’ll never know after what Jamie had done to her. Now here he was centuries later with another woman whose memories were violated and altered by the same depraved animal.

  Damn him.

  All for power.

  Not this time.

  Alex would give Brenawyn the truth even if she hated him as a result.

  Jamie—Ian was dead.

  It was time the façade died too.

  Acknowledgements

  Artistic license was used in choosing the gods featured in this novel. While they are all Celtic, they are not from the same country of origin. This was intentional to further diversify names. A list of the gods and their specific origins can be found in the glossary.

  There is not much written history on the Druids, so the practices and the clerical hierarchy mentioned here were greatly bolstered by my own imagination. I feel it is important to note that my use of the term acolyte, and its relatives: student, novice, and initiate, are used to describe a lengthy apprenticeship; one that will be explored in greater depth in The Reliquary’s Choice: Book Two of the Celtic Prophecy. The term Shaman, though typically understood as originating from another culture, is the correct term to be used here to describe Alexander Sinclair’s religious office. Shamanism spans many different cultures and religions, and is thought by some to even predate the Druids.

  I would like to acknowledge the anonymous aid I received from the Irish Translation Forum on the Irish Gaelic Translator website. Their translations lend a nuanced authenticity to this novel. The responsibility for any incorrect usage or phrasing falls to me.

  While the list of those who supported and encouraged me during the process of writing this novel is long, a special acknowledgement needs to be made to my friend and fellow author, K.W. Penndorf. Without the numerous motivating discussions about plot points, writer’s block, and genre issues; the last of which still plague me, Fate’s Hand would not have materialized.

  Lastly, I would like to acknowledge my family, starting with my husband, Donald Andrew Macfie Jr., whose patience never faltered during the years I worked on this project. He never complained about the hours I would dedicate to writing, particularly at the end when the writing dominated my life insomuch as foregoing sleep. My daughter, Elizabeth, who would listen to me read my newest chapters for hours over the phone when she was away at college. My son, Donald, who was ever so patient with answering endless questions on the male point of view even if it made him uncomfortable. Thank you for your love and support. Please know that you are the first in my thoughts as I wake, and the last as I lay my head on the pillow at night—always.

  About the Author

  For most of her life, Melissa Macfie has pursued artistic endeavors such as drawing, painting, and sculpting. She holds a M.Ed. in English Education from the Graduate School of Education at Rutgers University, and has spent the last sixteen years as a public school English teacher. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, Donald. Their children, Elizabeth and Donald, are grown and pursuing their own dreams.

  * * *

  [1] My heart

  [2] Some time ago

  [3] A design of three interlocking spirals

  [4] A design also known as the trinity knot

  [5] Be quiet.

  [6] Shut your mouth

  [7] Understand it

  [8] Defend us in battle