If I were to be honest, I might admit that I feared for my heart and soulss well-being as well. Perhaps even more so than for hers. She intrigued me, enticed me, tempted me, in a way no woman ever had. No, not even my precious Anya. Arianna was so unlike my first love as to be a different breed altogether. Anya had been tame and timid. Arianna was wild and untamable. Anya had endured my touch, enjoyed it even, out of her desire to please me and her love for me. But Arianna was a bundle of passion awaiting release.
No. I could not go to her. I feared her, it was true. I felt as if she could easily destroy me, and lay to waste the solid stone wall I’d spent centuries building ‘round my heart.
I knew now what I had done. I almost smiled when I realized that I had had a hand in destroying my own defenses by having put myself into this predicament. Her husband. By the Gods, I was the girl’s husband now.
I rode Black hard, far away from the keep walls, into the forest beyond, and still farther, picking up the timeworn, but still familiar trail that led to my place. The sacred place of my people, and of those who came before them.
The Stone Circle.
When the towering pillars rose before me, I felt the first hint of peace beckoning me nearer. Tying Black’s reins to a tree limb, I unlaced and removed my boots, out of reverence for the sacred site. My head bowed low, I stepped between the stones and entered the sanctuary.
Power pulsed here—from the stones, perhaps, or maybe from the ground itself. No one knew if the construction of the circle gave it the power, or if the power had been what had made the Ancient Ones choose this site. Perhaps neither was true, and it had been the constant use of this place for worship and ritual that had imbued it with magical energies. I only knew the power here was real. A force I could feel thrumming like heady wine through my veins the moment my bared feet touched the soil within.
Moving to the center of the circle, I sat cross-legged and willed myself calm. Consciously, I slowed my breathing, deepened it, and one by one, relaxed every tense muscle in my body. I lowered my chin, closed my eyes, and opened my senses.
Gradually, the peace of the place worked into me. The sounds of the forest–for it was alive around me–made their way to me. The gentle breeze whispering amid the trees, and the stones themselves. The songs of night-birds and crickets chirping. I could think clearly here. I would see the way I must proceed with Arianna. I had no wish to hurt her, and I knew I had that power. I had no wish to be hurt by her . . . and yet I suspected that power could belong to her all too easily. In silence, I sat. Until the silence was broken by a voice, deep and loud, calling my name from without.
“Nicodimus!”
My head came up fast, eyes wide, but sharp in the darkness. He stood outside the sacred place, a dagger already gleaming by the pale light of a crescent moon in his hand.
“The time has come.”
Slowly, I got to my feet, my hand inching toward my own dagger, the one I never dared to be without. For this was my life. I never knew when a challenge would come.
He took a step forward. I held up a hand. “Not within the circle,” I said, my voice low. This is sacred ground.”
He shrugged, his face invisible behind the beaked helm. “I’ve no care where I kill you, Nicodimus, so long as it gets done.”
“Are you so certain you’re ready to die, Marten?” I asked him, moving forward, coming out from amid the stones ten paces before him. “Or is it Kohl, behind the mask?”
“I am not certain at all that I wish to die,” he said, his voice tinny and hollow. “But then I have no intent of dying, so what does it matter?”
He sprang then, and though I had no wish to take a life here in this place, nor on the night of my wedding, I had no choice but to try my best to kill the man. For unless I did, he would surely kill me.
He plowed into me like a maddened bull before I could react. The pointed cone of his helm rammed my midsection and sent me stumbling backward, doubled over. Instinctively, I drew my knee sharply upward to pummel his face. An ill-planned move, since it only resulted in the beakish helm piercing my knee clean to the bone, by the feel of it.
I went down to the ground, and still he kept coming, roaring like an animal as he brought his blade down hard and fast. I rolled away, and his blade found dirt instead of flesh. Scrambling to my feet, even as he yanked his dagger free of the earth and began to straighten, I plunged my own blade deep into his back. My head clear now, I sought the spot where the bottom of his helm met the top of the breastplate he wore. My aim was true. The blade sank deep into the place between neck and back, and the force with which I drove it sent it clean through my enemy’s spine.
He cried out but once, a cry that seemed cut off almost before it began. Then he went still. Motionless. Not a breath whispered from him. Not a sound. And yet he lived. Paralyzed and unable to breathe, but alive still. I sensed it.
I drew my blade from him and straightened, rolled him over with my foot, and crouching low, removed the helm. Blood poured from the thing, dampening the ground beneath him. And for a moment, it held my attention, and the familiar surge of regret swamped me. Spilling blood, taking lives, it had never set well with me. I did not like to be the instrument of death. Not even to one as evil as he.
But then my gaze went to his face. The bulging, unblinking eyes. The mouth, agape as he suffocated. And I stilled, as recognition flooded me. Kohl. One of Anya’s two brutish brothers, as I had suspected. One less to torment me all my days.
Gripping his shoulders, I searched his immobile face, frozen in its dying grimace. “You were no immortal when I first knew you,” I said to him. “And well I know how you gained your immortality, Kohl. By murder. What I wish to know is, how did you learn of this? Who taught you the way to steal unending life? Who?” But my voice trailed off, as I realized he could not answer me. And besides, what answer did I need?
It was obvious what had occurred, and it had been for a very long time now. Somehow Kohl and his brother had learned the secrets of the immortal High Witches. Somehow they had learned that to become one, they need only take the heart of another. And they had done so, long ago. A short time after Anya’s death, as near as I could guess it. They had made themselves into a deadly pair of Dark High Witches, and likely I had been their reason for doing so. They had yearned to avenge their father’s death, and then their sister’s. On me. What did it matter who had taught them?
I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and thought of Anya. Lifting my head again, I saw the life slowly fading from Kohl’s face. “I’ll not take your heart until you die, Kohl,” I said slowly. Knowing full well that had our positions been reversed, he’d delight in carving my own immortal heart from my chest while I still lived. “I’ll do it before you have time to revive. You’ll feel no pain. Make your peace, Kohl. You’ll not be waking from death this time. Your life is over.”
He blinked once and I sensed he would have spoken had he been able. To curse me? To thank me? How could I know? But taking his heart was the only way to ensure he stay dead. For immortals, be they Dark or Light, would revive from any death, so long as their hearts remained within them. And the hearts themselves would beat long into the future, even when removed. Imprisoned in small boxes, they were the stolen sources of the Dark Ones’ power. My own immortality was earned in another way, for I was of the Light. My power came from the Source of all power, not from doing murder. I had no need of Kohl’s heart nor the power it held. But I must take it all the same. And burn it, for that was the only way to release his soul.
The light in Kohl’s eyes finally died. And still I waited, just to be sure. When his body began to grow cool, I removed his breastplate, and carved into his chest.
* * * *
ARIANNA BORROWED A horse from the stables Joseph kept within the keep walls. She headed out in the direction she had seen Nicodimus take, and then followed the deeply embedded tracks of his horse’s pounding hooves. Once she had picked up the trail by the light of the moon, it was easy eno
ugh to guess where he was headed. To the Stone Circle. The Crones had shown her the place once. They had spoken of it with great reverence, but seemed afraid of the power they said the place held.
It was not difficult to find the place again. And when she neared it, she knew Nicodimus was nearby. She need only come within a short distance of him to feel his presence. And she felt him now. That tingling awareness that seemed to brush over her flesh. The delicious sense of him filling her. Gods, how she loved him. Wanted him. Craved him the way some men craved their whiskey. Strong, he was, but so tender. His touch would be gentle and powerful all at once. He would teach her what this yearning in her belly meant. And how to quench it. He was the only man who could.
“Gods, how I love you, Nicodimus,” she whispered. “Never has any man touched my soul as you have done.” And now, oh, now, if only he would touch her body in the same way. Her fantasies of him had carried her this far, but they were no longer enough. She needed him . . . not in her mind, but in her arms, in her bed, inside her.
She closed her eyes, and the now familiar feeling of moisture gathered between her legs. It had been happening frequently of late, this new sensation, the dampness. The empty feeling, yearning to be filled. Maiden she may be, but learned as well. The Crones had spoken of such things, taught her what her mother would not. According to them, the pleasure to be had in mating was intense and wonderful and not at all sinful. A woman, they said, would experience as much pleasure as a man, and it was natural that it be so. Not shameful, not immoral, but good and right, and as our Creator intended. For did not the the entirety of creation come about by the mating of Goddess and God? Was not our Source truly the union of the two? As above, so below. All is but a reflection of itself.
She wanted to feel that magic with Nicodimus. She wanted to be one with him. It was meant to happen. She knew it was. He was the missing part of herself. She was his. He would realize it one day. He had to.
Shaking herself out of the deep contemplation into which she had fallen, she dismounted from the dun mare she’d taken, and moved forward, bare feet brushing the ferns and woodland grasses and mossy stones. And slowly, bit by bit, she emerged into the clearing.
Then she went still, and caught her breath. At first she saw only the Stone Circle, the sight of which filled her with as much awe and reverence now as it had the only other time she’d glimpsed it. It seemed to have been created by a race of giants, for she could think of no other creature capable of standing such massive structures upright, much less securing them deep enough within the earth to remain that way.
But then the scene taking place within the circle caught her attention, and her blood congealed at the horror of it.
Two men, within the sacred circle. One lying still atop a pile of brush, like a miniature funeral pyre about to be lit. He was obviously dead. His chest had been laid open, and his clothing was soaked in blood. The other man stood above him, his hands held high, and in those hands rested a bloody mass that nearly made Arianna retch to see it.
She whirled away, clinging to a tree with one hand, moving behind it as if to shield herself from the gruesome sight. Head bowed low, eyes closed tightly, she fought to catch her breath as her stomach churned. But something compelled her to look again. Something forced her to see . . . to know. . . .
Slowly, she forced her eyes open, and lifted her head. Peering around the tree, she made herself look. Really look and see what was happening. And when she did, a soft sound rose in her throat entirely against her will.
The man standing was Nicodimus. And the thing in his hands . . . was a human heart.
A heart that was still quivering . . . beating
The sound she made was half gasp, half cry. And when she uttered it, she clasped a hand to her lips. But too late. Nicodimus’s head turned sharply, his keen eyes scanning the woods, and landing unerringly upon her. His lips parted, as if he would speak, and he reached toward her with a hand stained scarlet.
Arianna backed away, shaking her head, unable to speak or even to cry. Good Gods, what was this? What sort of witch was he? And what kind of evil drove him to . . . .
She did not want to know. Suddenly she feared the man she had always loved. His secrets were far too many and too deep . . . and darker than she had ever imagined.
Even as he took a step toward her, Arianna whirled and raced away, frantically untying the reins before leaping onto the mare’s back and wheeling her about. Kicking the mare’s sides, she galloped into the forest.
She must run, she told herself. She must! For the hands that held a ghastly still-beating heart skyward in some sick offering to whatever Gods lived in Nicodimus’s soul, must never touch her. Never!
Chapter 10
HASTILY, I BUILT a pyre within the circle. Hastily, for I’d no wish to have Kohl revive before I did what must be done. His wounds would heal, and I would be bound to kill or be killed all over again. Already I felt my own torn flesh begin to tingle, mending itself as it always would–no matter the injury–unless my own heart were taken from me.
Slinging his lifeless body over my shoulder, I laid Kohl upon the pyre, and there I took his heart. Flint ready in my pocket, kindling laid, I held the heart high above my head, and whispered the words I had long used for such grim occasions as this.
“By the powers of the Ancient Ones, by the force of my Creator, and by my will, I commend this body to the fire, this heart to the flame, and this soul to its Source. Go forth, Kohl, and ponder the lessons of this lifetime. And return, one day, to live again, enlightened by all you have learned. Go in peace, my brother. As I will, so mote it be.”
For a long moment, I held the heart high, pushing my will into it, feeling it begin to slow, to release its life force bit by bit. But even before I could place it upon the pyre, a soft sound startled me out of my state of intense concentration. A sound so pained, so hurting, that it cut right to my soul. I snapped my head ‘round in search of the source of that cry, knowing even before I saw her there, that Arianna had found me, had seen this wretched deed I did. And the knowledge brought with it a fierce surge of regret.
I spotted her there, clinging to a large oak, staring at me from beyond it. Her eyes were wide with surprise and shock and something I had hoped never to see in them. Fear. Fear of me. I tried to speak, not knowing what to say, even lifted a hand toward her, but she turned and fled as if she’d seen some monster instead of her husband.
And indeed, she likely believed she had.
With a heavy heart, I returned to my grim task. For to leave it unfinished would make me the exact monster my wife seemed to believe I was. It must be done. I would deal with Arianna later, though I had no idea how or what I could say. I should, perhaps, have told her what I was long before now. But I had not. Now I had no choice.
Calming my frantic heart, I placed Kohl’s atop the pyre, near his feet. Then kneeling, I struck the flint until it produced a spark and ignited the kindling. There I waited until the flames danced high, and the body was too far consumed for there to be any hope of someone coming along and snatching it out in time. The heart, too, sizzled and oozed as the flames roasted it, burned it, then reduced it to smoldering ash.
Only when all was complete, did I dare leave and go off in search of my runaway bride, to try to explain what she had witnessed. And I must hurry, before her emotions made her do something foolish. For her to learn the truth was inevitable. For her to learn it like this, unforgivable.
Even now, I was uncertain just how much I should tell her. She was so young, and so incredibly vulnerable to me. To tell her what I was, how I must live, was going to be shocking enough to rock her right to her soul. But to tell her that she was the same . . . I was not sure I could bring myself to do that. Not yet. I resolved to wait, to see her reactions to the first of my frightening revelations before deciding if she was ready for the rest. The truth. The frightening, shocking truth, of what she was. An immortal High Witch, who would one day be forced to commit the same violen
ce she’d just seen me do. Or have it performed upon her by one of the Dark Ones.
The knowledge could easily destroy my fragile little cat. And for the first time I realized that if it did, it might well destroy me, too.
* * * *
I RETURNED TO the keep only to be told that Arianna had left with a small pouch of her belongings. Joseph’s sons had already set out to search for her along the roads leading away from the village. But I didn’t think she would leave Stonehaven. Not yet. I knew Arianna, or thought I did, better than anyone. So I went to the places where I knew she would go for solace. Her parents’ home in the village, the cemetery where her beloved sister lay buried, the shores of the loch.
And finally, to the site of The Crones’ cottage. That was where I found her. Alone, sitting on a small boulder with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped tight around them. Her face lowered, her dress absorbing her tears. Trembling and frightened, I found her. Vulnerable and afraid. I knew I would have to treat her gently, or see her bolt.
It twisted my heart into a knot to see her hurting, to know that her pain belonged to me.
The night wind whispered her name as I stepped slowly closer, and then I repeated its loving refrain.
“Arianna.”
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 47
