Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series

by Maggie Shayne

  She could have borne wedlock, she supposed, had it been with Nicodimus. He understood her. No one else ever had, nor, she suspected, ever would. But he’d made it all too clear how he felt about the notion of being burdened with her as his wife. So she had little choice remaining. She didn’t know how she would make her way, or even where she would go. She only knew she would survive. She never had any doubt of that.

  She had glanced up at the sky as she’d contemplated which direction to take, and had glimpsed the fiery glow in the distance. The Crones! Their cottage must be ablaze!

  Fear for the three women clutched at her heart, and she dropped her sack to the ground and raced through the village—the oddly silent village. It occurred to her that it wasn’t all that late. Darkness had fallen, but there ought still be people about or some signs of activity. It was strange. Her own family’s cottage had been empty, and it looked as if all the others were, as well. But perhaps the villagers, too, had seen the flames, and had rushed off to help douse the fire.

  Imagine that—the fearful and narrow-minded villagers rushing off to help the outcasts. Never! Nay, it must be something else that had drawn everyone away this night.

  Arianna’s bare feet fell hard on the packed mud path through the village. She clutched a woven shawl around her shoulders to protect against the night’s chill as she ran steadily. She could run like the wind. She’d always been proud of the fact, though she’d been told often enough ‘twas unladylike to race with the boys . . . and unwise to beat them. The long gown Nidaba had loaned her slowed her only until she gathered its skirts up to her knees and held them bunched there with one hand. The night breeze rushed over her face and whipped her hair behind her. Her lungs worked hard, her heart harder, but she pushed on. Perhaps the balefire had got away from The Crones, she thought. Perhaps it was only some brush burning and not the cottage. Perhaps they weren’t even home, but out gathering herbs, or . . . .

  She rounded a bend, and came to an abrupt halt as The Crones’ cottage came into view. It was ablaze, every inch of it, with hungry flames shooting to the heavens. She could feel the heat from where she stood. And . . . and there were people. Arianna’s own clan, all of them standing around, just watching it burn, some carrying torches. What in the name of all heaven?

  She moved forward slowly, a frown creasing her brows, her eyes scanning the crowd for some sign of the old women.

  She found them, not amid the crowd, but dangling high above it. Her stomach lurched so forcefully she doubled over and fell to her knees, gagging.

  Celia, Leandra, and Mary each hung suspended by ropes from the sturdy limb of the giant oak that had shaded their home by summer and protected it through the cold winter months. Their bodies were completely blackened, charred, smoldering still as they turned slowly in the light of the nearby fire.

  Overcome by horror and nausea, Arianna could barely understand the people muttering. Something about a lamb being born with two heads, and how it was a sign. Something about Angus MacClennan, and Arianna’s refusal to wed him. Arianna knelt, heaving violently, shaking so hard she could barely remain on her knees.

  Someone heard her retching and turned. “‘Tis Arianna Sinclair herself,” a voice yelled. The voice was vaguely familiar, though she was certain she’d never heard it raised in such an ugly tone. “She’s been seen with the witches! Out alone, at all hours, day an’ night. An’ she dinna drown when her own sister did!”’

  “A witch just like ‘em, no doubt,” shouted another. “Did you see what she did to young Angus’s face?”

  “Aye, and he said when he cut her she bled only loch water!”

  Arianna weakly lifted her head. The crowd turned toward where she knelt, and slowly began to move forward. She knew she was in more danger than she had ever been, and her stomach clenched with icy fear.

  “God in heaven, nay!”

  It was her mother’s voice. Arianna managed to lift her head a bit higher, saw her mother and her father battling their way through the crowd to reach her. Her mother leaned over her, smoothed a hand over her forehead, and threw her arms around Arianna while her father stood at her side.

  “My daughter is innocent!” her father cried, dropping to one knee, gripping her shoulder.

  “Arianna,” her mother whispered. “We tried to stop this. We did, I swear it to you, but they wouldna listen.”

  “Innocents dinna walk about alone at night, Sinclair,” a voice accused. “Perhaps Arianna should join the other witches in hell!”

  Arianna managed to lift her head again, and saw the crowd moving still closer, while her mother hugged her hard, sobbing in terror. “I’ll nay let them harm you, my girl! They’ll have to hang us all!”

  Stunned by the shock of seeing her friends so brutally murdered, and by the fear, her surprise took a moment to register. But then it did. This was her mother, the woman always so concerned with being proper and what the clan thought of her. On her knees, hugging her accused daughter, and defending her aloud! Tears stung her eyes. To have her mother defend her so fiercely and to show her love so openly. If only it didn’t seem as if this would be the last moments they would share together.

  Arianna looked up to see her father picking up a large limb from the ground. Lifting it high, he turned to face the threatening villagers. As if he’d fight them for her. But they would surely kill him.

  “Da, nay, you mustn’t–”

  And then a large shadow fell between Arianna and her neighbors. A tall, strong man, silhouetted by firelight. But she knew him just as she had always known him. She would know him even if she were blind.

  “Nicodimus,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Thank the Fates.”

  “You can all stop where you are,” he commanded. “Arianna Sinclair is under my direct protection, and the protection of your laird, Joseph Lachlan, as well.”

  His voice was harsh, powerful, and so icy it sent a tremor of reaction through Arianna, even though she knew she had nothing to fear from him.

  “Any man who lays a hand on her, or any woman who speaks an ill word against her, will answer to me. And believe me, it will not go easy with them.”

  There was an angry murmur that grew louder. Nicodimus turned to her, ignoring the crowd. Gripping her shoulders, he helped her to stand. As her mother stood looking confused and afraid, and her father looked on in worry, Nicodimus searched Arianna’s face. He pushed her hair away from her eyes, and brushed the twigs away from her borrowed dress. “Did any one of these pigs touch you, Arianna? Hurt you?”

  She opened her mouth, but only a sob escaped. “Th-they killed them. They killed them. They killed them.” She turned and pointed, and his gaze followed hers to where her beloved teachers dangled from charred ropes. As she stared, one of the ropes seared through, and gave way, sending one blackened corpse smashing to the ground.

  “Celia!” Arianna shrieked.

  Nicodimus pulled her close, tucking her head against his chest so she could no longer see. They’ll answer for what was done here tonight,” he said, and he said it loudly enough so the crofters could hear. “Joseph will see to that. He won’t tolerate murder being done in Stonehaven.”

  “An’ just how is it you’re speaking for Laird Lachlan,” someone demanded.

  “Aye,” challenged another. “An’ how is it Arianna Sinclair is under your protection?”

  Nicodimus turned to face the crowd. “She’s under my protection,” he said fiercely, “because she is my betrothed. And I will kill any man who dares harm her.”

  Arianna stiffened in shock, dizzy now from the onslaught of so many emotions, all bombarding her at once. She was dimly aware of her mother’s gasp, her father’s perplexed frown, the shocked exclamations of the crowd. But all her mind could grasp at the moment were two things. That three innocent women had been murdered tonight because they were different. Women she had loved with everything in her. Women who had risked, and ultimately lost their lives for her sake. And that Nicodimus had claimed her as his
betrothed only to prevent her from being the fourth to die here tonight.

  Oh, but his arms were around her now–strong, warm, and fiercely protective. Right now she never wanted to leave the haven they provided. Her heart pounded as if it would burst, and new tears welled to replace the old. He wouldn’t go back on his word. He’d said he would marry her, whatever the reasons. And he would. She would be his wife. This man brimming with secrets . . . who yet made her feel she knew him as well as she knew her own heart. His wife. She was uncertain she could survive the pain she felt tonight. But if she had any hope at all of facing everything that had happened this night, that hope lay right here in his arms.

  Hoof beats sounded, and she lifted her head from Nicodimus’s sturdy chest to see Laird Lachlan, his sons, and some forty of his men, come thundering into the clearing. The crowd broke apart. Cowards who didn’t wish to be identified quickly melted into the trees. As far as Arianna was concerned they were all guilty. Every one of them had been a part of this evil.

  “Joseph will see to this,” Nicodimus whispered. “Come, you need to be away from here. This is no place for you.”

  Shaking her head, she drew slightly away from him. Yet his embrace remained as she stared up into his dark eyes. “Nay. I canna leave them like that.” And as she spoke her gaze strayed to where two of her friends hung charred and blackened. And one lay bent and broken on the ground.

  Nicodimus’s palm cupped her cheek, turned her head gently, so she could only see him. They’ll not be left, Arianna. I promise you that. But remember all they taught you. Those bodies are but empty shells now. The Crones have moved on, and are beyond the touch of pain. They would not want you lingering here.” One hand moved to stroke a slow path down her outer arm. “Gods, lass, you’re shaking all over.”

  “He’s right.”

  Arianna turned at the sound of her father’s voice. “Come home, lass. I vow I’ll let no harm come to you there.”

  Her lips pulled tight and her tears spilled anew. “Oh, Da . . .” Sniffling, she nodded. But when she looked down, she saw that her father still clutched the limb he’d snatched up in her defense. His hand held to it so fiercely that his knuckles had gone white. “You truly would have fought them all,” she whispered in wonder.

  Her father’s brows rose in surprise. “You’re my own child, Arianna. I’d fight the devil himself did he try to do you harm.” His gaze lowered, but then he reached out and closed a hand around hers. “I love you, lass. I dinna always understand you. But I love you.”

  He hadn’t spoken those words to her since her sister had drowned, and hearing them now brought a surge of emotion that left her weak-kneed. “And I love you, Da.”

  “Come, then. An’ you too.” He nodded to Nicodimus. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  “Aye, sir. That we do,” Nicodimus replied. And without warning, he scooped Arianna up into his arms.

  “I can walk,” she said, her protest mild, for she truly wasn’t sure she could make it under her own power. She still felt weak and ill. She was afraid she might vomit again before they ever made it back to the cottage.

  “You tremble still,” Nicodimus informed her. “Besides, let them all look on and know that I meant what I said. I want there to be no doubt among the clan of my intent.”

  She battled dizziness. “You . . . had little choice, but to say what you did, Nicodimus. I’ll nay hold you to such a promise.”

  He was striding now toward the village, a step behind her father and her mother. She thought his arms tightened just slightly around her. But he didn’t look down. “I meant what I said.” He said no more as he carried her among the crofts and back to her home.

  The Crones, her heart moaned again and again. Gone. Executed like murderers when all they had ever done was try to live in harmony with nature by the old ways. The ways of their ancestors. Gods! It was so unfair! They’d taught her, initiated her into the ways of magic. Aye, they’d wondered at the strength of her power, but perhaps their true fear had not been of her, but for their own safety. Perhaps they’d sensed the disaster building. Perhaps they’d felt it coming. And though she hadn’t wanted to believe it, the blame for all of this rested squarely on her own shoulders.

  She’d been careless–rebellious. Almost dared the clan to discover her activities–to learn where she went at night, what she learned, and at whose tutelage. They’d suspected for some time. And if Arianna’s thoughtless ways hadn’t generated so much talk of witchery in the clan then perhaps The Crones could have continued living here peacefully. Perhaps. . . .

  But not now. They were dead. Murdered.

  “And their killers must die,” Arianna whispered, blinking her eyes open, looking through floods of tears back toward the clearing they were leaving behind. “They must die!”

  Twisting in Nicodimus’s arms, she pushed against his chest so suddenly she broke his hold on her. She stumbled to her feet and snatched the dagger from her side–the dagger The Crones had given her, and had told her never to be without. She’d worn it hidden beneath her clothes. And now the time had come to stain its blade with the cursed blood of killers!

  As soon as she had the dagger in her hand, Arianna ran. A feral cry rose from her, and baring her teeth, she lifted the blade high and charged forward, determined to slash to ribbons every man she came upon. “Murderers!” she screamed. “Murderers all, and if it’s hell you believe in, then I’ll gladly send you there!” She glimpsed movement in the trees, aimed her deadly attack that way. . .

  . . . and was snatched up from behind. Nicodimus’s strong arm clamped tight ‘round her waist, while his free hand closed gently, but firmly, about her wrist. “Let go the blade,” he said hoarsely into her ear.

  “Nay! I’ll kill them all!” She struggled.

  He held her, and let her fight him until all her fight was gone. Finally, her hand went limp, the blade fell to the ground, and her body began to tremble anew. Violent, back-bowing spasms that racked her to her soul. She couldn’t breathe, and felt as if her throat had closed off. “They killed them. Hanged them and burned them, Nicodimus. They–”

  “Shh-shh.” He turned her weakened body into his arms, held her close. She heard her mother’s concerned questions, heard Nicodimus mutter, “It’s the shock, Mara. I’ve seen it before. Come. She needs a warm bed, a cool cloth, and her mother’s comfort. She’ll be all right.”

  He carried her cradled in his arms. But not safe. She didn’t think she would ever feel safe again. Not now that the enormity of it had finally hit her. The Crones were witches, and because of that, they’d been brutally tortured and murdered. More than likely, their killers would be pardoned, for killing a witch was not only legal, but morally acceptable.

  And she . . . she was a witch, too.

  For the first time, she realized that that fact alone was enough to put her life in constant peril. She’d been in grave danger for some time now, only she’d been too blind to see it. Her mother had tried to warn her, her father. Nicodimus . . . .

  What about Nicodimus? Was he one, too? A witch like her? He’d neither admitted nor denied it when she had asked. But sweet Goddess, if he were, then he had put his own life in jeopardy just now. By associating himself even more closely with her, his plan might go completely awry. Rather than restoring her good name, he might simply sully his own!

  An image came to her mind. A vision too horrible to bear. Nicodimus, his body blackened and charred, dangling from a tree like The Crones. She released a horrified cry, and buried her face against his chest once more.

  Chapter 6

  SHE COULD HEAR their voices, deep and hushed. Nicodimus and her father seemed intent on their conversation. A candle’s gentle glow painted her mother’s face as Arianna lay huddled, trembling still, beneath a mound of covers. How long she had been there, she did not know. She only knew dawn must be close. She must have slept at some point, though she only remembered the startled way she kept coming awake, the horrors of the night glaring in
her mind’s eye. And Nicodimus, coming to her each time, soothing her.

  Nicodimus had carried her here last night, and had laid her gently down. Before he’d turned away, his gaze had touched her face, searched it, and she’d glimpsed genuine worry in the deep blue depths of his eyes. Or . . . she thought she had. His fingertips had danced over her forehead, brushing a stray wisp of hair aside. “Rest now,” he had whispered, and then he’d straightened away.

  She could see him now, for their home was small, and only a half wall and a curtain separated this room, and her sleeping pallet, from the rest of the cottage. Still here. He’d stayed all the night through. But why? He sat in a crude wooden chair, dwarfing it and the table and the room itself, not so much by his size, which was substantial but not unusual. Nay, Nicodimus’s force of presence was what made everything around him seem smaller by comparison. He need only walk into a room to have every eye turned upon him. Men looked on him with respect and not a little fear. The women, with something far different in their eyes.

  My Nicodimus, she thought suddenly, and a fierce surge of pride welled up in her throat. Mine, though he knows it not.

  There was a fire burning in the hearth, and his hair gleamed with the flame’s red-gold shimmer. He listened respectfully to all her father said in careful undertones. Nodding his head in reply, he himself spoke softly and glanced her way, catching her eyes and holding them for a long moment. There was something there, some tension she could not identify. Then her father spoke, drawing his gaze away again.