though I fought not to let Her in.
I emerged from the grave,
by the magic She gave
The dirt in my eyes,
swept away by Her sighs
A dead man, reborn
Night gave way to morn
My hunger She sates
My fear She abates
My soul, She does own
My heart has come home
Infinity
unfolds through space and time,
as soft I hold Her hand in mine
I’ve found Her again
A love without end
As Her kiss I taste,
my tears are erased
My grief-crippled soul,
at Her touch is made whole
And the gift from above,
is the joy of Her love
-NICODIMUS LACHLAN
Prologue
I AM LYING in a shallow grave, immersed as if in the bowels of some great, black sea. I know not how long I have been captive in this void, nor do I care. But something has disturbed me, has stirred me to consciousness . . . of a sort. A sound. A steady beat, pulsing ever more strongly, forcing me back to the realm of coherent thought.
And thought alone.
The silk that once wrapped my body has rotted away. I have no coffin. Black, rocky soil is my tomb. But I am not dead. As dead as I can be, perhaps, and that is my greatest fear. I am . . . immortal.
I do not want this . . . to think. To know. To remember. But that drumbeat in my mind will not release me. And bit by bit, my mind clears, my past resurfaces.
My name . . . do I even know my own name?
I grasp in the darkness of my mind, fighting a momentary panic, and find it there. Nicodimus. That is my name. Nicodimus.
The beat that stirred me grows louder, as faint memories taunt me through the mists of my mind. There is no light, no return of feeling or sense. Only of awareness. Horrible, wrenching awareness. A living nightmare. The knowledge that I have been buried alive.
And the beat grows still louder.
Gods, it is my heart! It is near. I sense it drawing closer to me the way a lodestone can sense the north. I feel its beat growing stronger when logic tells me it should be weakening . . . slowing, fading, as its power is steadily drained by its greedy captor.
And yet, the proximity of the organ matters not. My heart is no longer my own, and without it, here is where I shall remain. I wonder, can the heart of an immortal ever cease its endless beating? And if it should, will the soul of its rightful owner find blessed release at last?
If not, then what remains for me? A living mind trapped in this undying body. A living soul held captive in a dead man’s grave. How long can this go on? How long?
Forever .
The answer comes to me as if riding a whisper-soft breath. Her breath.
At the first thought of her, those teasing, distant memories break free at last, and rush through my mind all at once in a chaos of emotion too agonizingly shrill and sharp to bear. Images and fragments, painfully vivid, blindingly bright, that all begin with . . .
Arianna.
Arianna.
Arianna .
Part One
Chapter 1
1511,
Stonehaven Village,
in the Scottish Highlands
I RODE MY faithful Black, and he stepped high, as though he knew the man he bore to be of an utterly different breed than those others who surrounded us. Beside me rode an old friend, a mortal, chieftain of his clan, and laird as well. Joseph Lachlan welcomed my visit. He called me his cousin because I claimed to be. But though I supposed I might be some distant relative of his, the link was too old to trace now. I used the name and claimed the clan Lachlan only when it suited me.
Joseph didn’t doubt me, nor did he ask why I might need to retreat here for a time. And that was just as well, for I couldn’t have told him the answers had he questioned me. The truth was that resting from the constant battle was only one of the reasons I’d come.
Another was the skulking, dark robed pair who’d been following me on and off over the previous seven centuries. Always silent, always faceless within the caves of their hoods. But I didn’t need to look upon their faces to know. I’d avoided them sometimes. On other occasions, they had vanished without explanation. But more often than not, I’d fought them. Sometimes one at a time, frequently both together. Once I had nearly bested Kohl, but he fled before I could finish the job. And once— this last time—the two immortal brothers had done the same to me, and I had fled. To Stonehaven—my sanctuary.
I feared very little, almost nothing. But there was a cold dread in the pit of my stomach where my oldest and most bitter enemies were concerned. And it came, I believe, of knowing exactly why they had stalked me so doggedly, and for so long.
They blamed me for the deaths of their sister and their nephews, my wife and my sons. And they would never stop until they had taken my heart.
Or I theirs.
So I had come here to rest from the endless fighting. I put it from my thoughts in order to focus on the other reason I had returned to Stonehaven—the more important one. Her. The girl who had drawn me back here time and time again over the past seventeen years.
“You never age, Nicodimus,” Joseph remarked. “You look to be the same fair lad I last saw five years past.”
I sent a cocky grin his way. “And you’ve grown wrinkles about your eyes, Joseph. Soon I’ll mistake you for my father.” Joseph was perfectly bald, his pale head as shiny as his cheeks and his bulbous nose. He did have brows and lashes, but of a hue so pale it seemed as if he were entirely hairless. When he smiled, as he often did, it seemed even his bald head smiled along.
“No hope of that, lad. Your father was twice the man I’ll ever be.” Joseph lowered his chin. “I do miss him. But havin’ you here on occasion is almost like havin’ my dear cousin back with me again.”
I had to avert my eyes. Joseph had never known my father. He had known only me. But when he’d seen me die at his side on a field of battle, I’d had no choice but to stay away for many years. And when I returned—as I had been compelled to do—I had simply claimed to be my own son. He had believed me.
“My father often spoke similarly of you, Joseph,” I said after a pause. I nudged Black’s sides with my heels. The stallion trotted forward along the narrow, twisting paths of the village, chickens scattering in his wake. A fat man rolled a barrel of ale from a rickety wagon into the daub-and-waddle hovel that passed as the village tavern, while across the way a woman hurled wash water from a window hole where no glass had ever stood.
I’d seen London and Rome, Paris and Constantinople, great cities all around the world. Yet I marveled at how this tiny hamlet had grown. For when I had lived there it had borne no name. My home had been a thatched straw hut, cured hides stretched over the walls had served to keep out the cold. The meat I killed, my wife had cooked over a fire on the dirt floor.
Anya. Beautiful Anya. Meek, gentle, fragile. I could see her still, in my mind. Soft brown hair and eyes like the palest winter sky, her belly swelling with our third child as she watched over the other two. And I could see our boys. Jaymes, growing taller by the day and too skinny to stand up to a windstorm, though he ate more than his brother and I together. He had his mother’s coloring, Jaymes did. And Will, a head shorter, but strong, already looking more man than boy. Hunting at my side, and outdoing me now and again. Begging to fight beside me as well.
The old pain trembled and howled and threatened to break free. I caught it with a will of forged steel, and forced it still and silent.
“The village hasna’ changed since last you were here,” Joseph said, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Ahead of me, the crofters’ cottages leaned crookedly, their thatched roofs showing wear. I caught myself studying the villagers we passed, with their well-worn kilts and haggard faces, and realized I was seeking the golden child as I did on each visit. But I did
not see her there. And it occurred to me then that I might not even recognize her at first glance, after so long.
I nearly smiled at the unlikelihood of that.
She stood out from the rest of the villagers the way a diamond stands out among bits of coal; her dark brown eyes gleaming against ivory skin. Her pale-yellow hair. Her upturned bit of a nose, and the gleam of life in her little girl eyes. And more. A spirit, a fire, undefinable, yet all but gleaming in its brilliance.
She had been a child, barely twelve years of age, when last I had seen her. She would be . . . seven and ten now. Quite possibly wed—though people here married later than they used to. I’d made Anya my wife when I’d been but four and ten. But things changed a great deal in seven long centuries. And wedded or not, this girl, Arianna, was likely still unaware of what she truly was.
“Is that saddle maker still in the village, Joseph?” I asked abruptly. “Sinclair, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. Is your saddle in need of repair?” Joseph eyed it, likely seeing that it was perfectly fine. Likely thinking that I never paid him a visit but that I needed repairs done to my saddle.
“Only a bit of loose stitching at the girth,” I told him. “But I ought have it checked before I leave again.”
Joseph nodded. “‘Twas a cursed bad year for poor Sinclair. Cursed bad.”
My head swung toward him. “Was it?”
“Aye.” Joseph’s lips thinned, and his bald head joined his brow in a frown. “Lost a daughter, he did.”
At those words, my heart seemed to ice over. I had been watching the girl all her life, awaiting the time when I would explain her own nature to her. When she was old enough, and mature enough to understand and deal with the truth. Perhaps I had waited too long. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Joseph never seemed to notice the force of my reactions. He was involved now in the telling of his tale. “Nearly lost the both of his girls, that sad day. Over a year ago, ‘twas. They’d been up to no good, playin’ in the loch when their father had forbidden it. My lads were about, heard the shoutin’. Kenyon pulled the one to safety, an’ Lud went back for her sister. But ‘twas no use. She drowned in the muddy waters of Loch Haven.”
“Drowned?” I asked, nearly holding my breath.
“Aye. And young Arianna has ne’er been right since the day the loch claimed her sister.”
I lowered my head and released my breath all at once. So Arianna was alive. Not that she could have died by drowning. She’d have revived, but to what?
Joseph nodded toward some distant point. “See for yourself, Nicodimus. She’s there now, at the grave. Tis no place for a lass of ten and seven to be spendin’ all her time. An’ alone, no less! She’s forever walkin’ about alone.” He ran a hand over his head, and slowly shook it.
I frowned, knowing exactly what Joseph implied. It was said that only a witch walked about all alone. Only a witch. And Arianna was one. But she couldn’t know that. Not yet.
“Perhaps if I were to have a word with her,” I suggested.
Joseph drew his mount to a halt, frowning at me. “Do you think it wise?”
“Why not? I’ve lost loved ones myself. I know a bit of what she’s feeling.” I knew, I realized, far too much of what she was feeling. It was a feeling she would have to get used to, for in time she would lose everyone and everything she knew. I sighed as I looked at her. Slight, so slight. Barely larger than she’d been at twelve. A golden wisp of a girl, the picture of innocence. She would have to learn to be hard. To close herself off. She would have to learn to stop caring, as I had done.
Looking worried, Joseph nodded all the same. “Take care, my friend. Dinna spend too long with her. She’s promised to the cobbler’s son, but even he’s beginning to shy away. There’s been some talk–”
“What sort of talk?”
Joseph shrugged. “Ah, I pay it no mind, nor will I tolerate anyone persecutin’ the poor lassie. We must make allowances, after all. Grief can twist a mind in all manner of—”
“What sort of talk, Joseph?”
Joseph cleared his throat. “Some claim she slips out alone in the dead of night. An’ she’s been seen speakin’ to The Crones more than once. What people will make of it . . . well, you can guess as well as I.”
The Crones . . . the outcasts. The word “witch” was never spoken aloud here. The people were too superstitious to dare it. Everyone in the village knew what the three old women were, yet The Crones were tolerated. Their shack outside the village at the edge of the forest was left alone. That happy state would likely continue, so long as only good fortune smiled down upon the flocks and the crops and the crofters here. As for the blue-blooded Christians of Stonehaven, most would no more exchange a public greeting with The Crones than eat from the trough of a pig. But they visited the old women every now and then, for a potion to cure the croup or a charm for good luck. In secrecy. In hypocrisy.
I turned again to stare at the girl. She knelt beside the grave of her sister off in the distance. Perhaps she knew more than I’d thought she possibly could. It would explain her visits to the village witches. But who was there to tell her? I’d never met another Immortal High Witch, Dark nor Light, in this part of Scotland. Never. And our secrets were seldom shared with anyone else. I’d ascertained years ago that The Crones were mere mortals, and knew nothing of our existence.
“I’ll speak with her,” I said. “Before she lets the gossips ruin her.”
Joseph nodded. “Perhaps ‘twill do some good at that. Shall I wait at the tavern, then?”
“If the owner still brews that secret recipe of his.”
“Heather Ale?” Joseph asked with a crook of his invisible brow that resulted in new wrinkles appearing in his forehead. “That he does, Nic. That he does.” Joseph gave a wink, and wheeled his horse about, heading away.
I turned my attention toward the cemetery once more, and nudged Black’s sides until he leapt into a spirited trot. Stopping him a short distance away from the girl, I tied him to a scraggly tree, then walked to where Arianna Sinclair knelt. For a moment, I only stood still and silent, looking at her.
Arianna had changed. In five short years she’d grown from a waif into a woman. And that aura of vitality that had always surrounded her seemed stronger than ever before. Her golden hair draped about her shoulders like a shawl of spun sunlight, moving in the breeze every now and again. And I’d been wrong when I’d concluded she had not grown, for she had. Her breasts swelled now, a woman’s breasts, straining the fabric of her homespun dress. Her hips had also taken on a sweet roundness, while her waist remained small.
Kneeling, spine straight, chin high, she lifted a fist, and let some herb or other spill from it atop her sister’s grave, as she muttered soft words under her breath.
A spell. For the love of the Gods, had the girl no sense? In full daylight?
“What is it you’re doing?” I called. I expected her to stiffen with surprise and perhaps fear at being caught. The lesson would do her good.
She didn’t start, didn’t turn to face me. “Should anyone else ask, I’m plantin’ wild heather upon my sister’s burial site.”
“And if I ask?”
“I think, Nicodimus, you know better than to ask.”
I blinked in surprise. Just how much did she know? And the familiarity of her tone with me . . . as if she knew me far more intimately than she did. We’d spoken only a handful of words to one another in the past. Polite greetings at most, though my interest in her had always been more than that of a stranger. She was my kind. A rarity in itself. She was without a teacher, and . . . and something about her spoke to me on a level I had never understood.
The herbs gone, she pounded her fist thrice on the ground; a time-honored method for releasing the energy raised in spellwork. Then she lowered her head for but an instant. Finally, she rose, brushing her hands on her skirts and facing me. Her velvet brown eyes hadn’t been so large before . . . nor so haunted. “It has been a long while s
ince your last visit here,” she said.
“Long enough so I must wonder how you could have recognized my voice.”
“‘Twas nay your voice, Nicodimus. Although ‘tis true, you speak distinctly enough.”
“Do I?”
“Aye,” she said. “Almost like a Sassenach, rather than a true Scot. Careful, an’ slow, without a hint of an accent, so a body could never guess where you truly come from.”
“I come from right here,” I told her.
She shrugged, and I wasn’t sure whether she believed me or not. “Regardless of how you speak,” she went on, “I knew you were there long afore you did.”
Her words gave me pause. If that were true, her natural powers were incredibly advanced—particularly for one so young. “How?” I asked her.
She shrugged again. “I always know when you’re near. Have since . . . why since I was a wee bairn toddlin’ along and clingin’ to Mam’s skirts, an’ you came ridin’ into the village alongside Laird Lachlan. Do you recall?”
I did. It had been then I had first set eyes on her, and I’d known—even before I’d seen the crescent shaped birthmark on her chubby right flank—that she was one of us. “I remember it well.”
Arms crossed over her middle, she sent me a steady look, and I studied her in return. Her small, upturned nose was the same as before. But her face had thinned. No babe’s plumpness to her cheeks. Not now. It was a woman’s face, touched by sorrow.
“I always wanted to ask you about it—that feelin’ I get when you’re near. But it seemed I should remember my place, and be neither impertinent nor disrespectful.”
“But you’ve changed your mind about those things now?”
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 34
