by Silver, Lily
*******
Kieran released his hold on Donovan. The Fetch had him secured and would keep him restrained until Kieran dissolved the spell. He needed to go to Elizabeth. He could feel her strength wavering. She was overwhelmed by so many spirits crowding about her. She was powerful, but still a novice in the art of necromancy. Supernatural power, undirected, uncontrolled, could be lethal to both the practitioner and to those within close range of the circle should it collapse and release the souls of the dead into the world of the living. Kieran was weakened from loss of blood. He’d have to crawl to get across the room to his sister. And it was draining his meager energies keeping the Fetch here so Donovan would not interfere.
Kieran watched and listened, adding his will and his power to Elizabeth’s.
The circle Elizabeth cast was no longer invisible to the human eye. The outline was obvious; a swirling, transparent, smoky black mist contained within a curious bubble in the center of the room, much like a smoking pipe under a glass bowl. The Veil was leaking into the circle. His sister was bringing the souls of the dead to confront Fletcher.
“Captain Fletcher, we meet again.” Their father, Shawn O’Flaherty, spoke through Elizabeth’s vocal chords for a second time. “You have much to answer for among my people.”
Fletcher seemed paralyzed with fear as he gazed at Elizabeth, who was not Elizabeth just now but their father, speaking through her so that the condemned could hear the proceedings of his own tribunal. Fletcher was about to be judged by the dead; specifically those he had killed.
The noise to his left distracted Kieran. The men were hacking away at the salon doors with an axe, trying, like men of any age, to storm the castle and save the day.
Or so they believed, in the physical realm. In the spirit realm, interference by mortal men could cause many deaths. The spirits were churned up, lusting for blood, and if Donovan’s men interfered, they would die, plain and simple.
“Stop them.” Kieran said, directing his command to his brother-in-law. “Tell them to be still and wait for your signal to advance.”
Donovan, the stalwart warrior in the physical realm, looked at Kieran with panicked eyes. “What have you done? Why can’t I move? We must protect Lizzie. Let me go to her.”
“Do it. Give the order.” Kieran insisted, tired of having to deal with the uninitiated when so much was at stake. “I will release you if you do as I say.” He added, knowing he must release the man soon anyway as his ability to control the Fetch was waning.
“Duchamp, wait. Do not enter until I give the word.” Donovan commanded.
Kieran nodded and summoned the last of his strength to chant the releasing spell.
Donovan stumbled as the Fetch let go of him. He righted himself. His sides heaved, and he leaned forward on the sofa, breathing heavily. “What the hell did you do to me?”
“I summoned an elemental to restrain you. Elizabeth needs help. I can’t go to her.” Kieran paused, feeling as if he might pass out. He clutched the sofa, struggling to remain upright.
Noting his waning strength Donovan gestured for his butler to assist Kieran. “Put him on the sofa. You can sit down, can’t you, while my wife opens the floodgates of hell?”
“Yes.” Kieran held his blood slickened shoulder and allowed the two men to bring him around to the front of the sofa. They assisted him in reclining on it. “It is not hell.” He corrected as Donovan pulled the saturated wad of shirt away from Kieran’s wound and replaced it with a discarded shawl one of the ladies had left on the sofa. “It is the Celtic place of the dead. Not evil, a sacred place where souls wait to converse with the seer. You must go to her, but first listen.”
Donovan nodded, white faced, no longer the arrogant warrior. He was a man of logic, and at this moment he must be frighteningly aware that he was well out of his depth.
“You cannot cross the circle’s boundary, not with anger or violence in your heart. Only love can enter, pure love. And only love can emerge. That is a protection spell to keep the angry souls from breaking free and wreaking havoc on the world. Believe me, tracking malicious souls of the dead released from the Veil and returning them there is no easy task.”
“What should I do when I reach her?” Donovan asked.
“Trust her. And remember your love for her. That will be your shield. Step into the circle slowly. You’ll feel a pull. It’s like stepping through a waterfall. And focus on love, only love.” Kieran shivered and licked his lips. He was incredibly thirsty. “How long does Michael have?”
“Not long unless I can stop the bleeding.” Donovan rose from Kieran’s side, clutching the machete in his fist. “May I take this, in case I get close enough to strike Fletcher? I’m not one to go in unarmed, spirits or dark magic beside the point. Fletcher is near my wife and he’s armed.”
“Yes, but you must focus all your energy on love, not vengeance in order to penetrate the circle’s boundary.” Kieran insisted, wearied by the question. “Don’t distract her--with anything--that is imperative. She must finish this. She needs your strength. She needs support from those who love her to be able to complete her task. Go, help her, and give her the strength of your love. Naught but love shall enter in, and naught but love shall emerge from within.” Kieran repeated.
Donovan bowed his head. He took a deep breath, and stepped toward the circle.
*******
Elizabeth felt herself weakening. She was going to swoon. It took so much strength to keep the circle charged, control the spirits and remain aware of everything going on around her. Added to that, a spirit had slipped inside her body, seeking to use her energy to speak to the accused. Please, she pleaded, trying to reach the entity, Let me go. I can’t do this with you here.
“My precious child, you’ve made me and your grandmother very proud.” The male voice replied to her inside her head. “All will be well, my little one. All will be well, I promise.”
The sweetness that filled Elizabeth as her true father spoke to her was a soothing balm to her frantic, frenzied soul. His voice was like a waterfall flowing gently inside of her, a waterfall of warmth, tenderness and absolute, perfect love.
It was a timeless moment of perfection and completion that Elizabeth did not wish to end.
“Ah, my brave lad, you’ve come.” Her father’s spirit used Elizabeth’s vocal chords to speak aloud. “Hold my girl. Hold her while I step away so she doesn’t collapse from the shock.”
Elizabeth started as solid human arms surrounded her. Donovan slipped his arms under hers and about her waist from behind. As he did so she felt a sudden jerk within, as if something were moving and sloshing about inside her. And then that something very abruptly stepped through her body and stood in front of her.
She felt like a cast off garment being tossed to the floor.
Donovan’s arms supported her as she wilted. She leaned back against him from within the circle of his arms. “Oh, Dear.” She gasped, staring at the apparition who had stepped out of her body. Shawn O’Flaherty resembled an older version of her brother, more bulky and solid.
Two other spirits stood beside him. She recognized them instantly, although she had never met the gentlemen. They were her uncles, Rory and Pierce O’Flaherty.
“Name one of the lads after me.” Her father told Elizabeth and then he and his brothers stepped into the crowded throng of spirits and disappeared among their grey shifting forms.
“Donovan?” She whispered, gaining strength from his mere name. She leaned back, against his solid form. “How can you be here?”
“Kieran sensed you needed help. He sent me across the boundary.”
Elizabeth shivered violently. Her teeth chattered.
She hissed as the icy cold air sliced through her again. The abrupt cold was painful.
Someone was coming. She felt the spirit emerge from the other side of the Veil.
Immediately, there was a stirring amid the gathered souls. They stood still, recognizing the presence of a soul whose arrival wa
s much anticipated and was essential to the outcome.
“I’m so sorry, my dear child.” The female spirit whispered with deep regret before moving to stand between her and her cowering stepfather. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Elizabeth gasped. Her eyes filled with tears at her mother’s words.
“William.” Her mother spoke audibly in a light, sweet feminine timbre Elizabeth recalled from when Mama was alive. “Why are you hurting my children?” The spirit of Angela Fletcher stepped forward gracefully, inch by dainty inch. Her form wavered, fading and then re-emerging in a jerky, inconstant manner. “You will stop this. Now.”
“Go away!” Fletcher shrieked, clutching Michael’s unconscious form against him as if his son were a talisman against the enraged spirit. “You’re dead--Angela--you can’t be here!”
Angela’s ghost materialized into a solid form. She stood before Fletcher dressed in her burial gown. “Yes, William. I am dead; because you killed me.” She tilted her head, one way then the other, as if puzzled, trying to understand. “Why do you seek to kill my children? Why is my baby bleeding? What have you done to my sweet little Michael?”
“I--I--“ Fletcher blustered, his face contorting into an ugly mask of terror. “I didn’t shoot him, woman--they did!” He pointed toward the doors where Mr. Duchamp had fired at him. “Here--take him then, your precious little boy. Take him and be gone, I say.” He shoved Michael’s limp body to the floor and rose clumsily. He backed away, taking refuge behind his chair, as if that would shield him from Angela’s steady, predatory approach.
Elizabeth wanted to go to Michael’s crumpled form on the floor, but she could not. Donovan held her tight against him.
“Easy, my darlin’ lass.” Sheila spoke. Elizabeth turned her head. Sheila stood beside them, a solid form, just like her mother. She placed her cold hand on Elizabeth’s arm.
“But Michael--he’s hurt.” Elizabeth pleaded, with both Donovan and Sheila.
“Ach, he’ll live to give you much trouble in years to come.” Sheila countered. “Let her confront him. This is her moment. Her one chance to stop cowering and being a victim, her opportunity to initiate the justice she craves. The ancients have decided she must instigate the judgment, and he. . .” Sheila’s snowy white head tilted toward Donovan, “He must finish it.”
“Angela--What are you talking about, my love?” Fletcher shook his head, denying her accusation, his eyes wide with pure terror as he tried to speak to her in loving tones Elizabeth had never heard him use when her mother was alive. “They shot him--they shot your boy!” He gestured wildly beyond Elizabeth and Donovan, to the closed doors. “Go haunt them, not me.”
He was shaking. Elizabeth noted the shivering of his limbs with satisfaction. Yes, he deserved to be frightened for what he had done; to Mama, Sheila, Father, Kieran, the Uncles and likely countless more. And now Michael, his own flesh, was bleeding due to his maliciousness.
But Mama was only a spirit. And a timid one, just as she’d been in life. Elizabeth doubted her mother would have the temerity to do anything more than glare fiercely at Captain Fletcher.
“You murdered me.” Angela Fletcher accused. “You murdered me, and you raised my children in fear instead of love. You broke their tender spirits. You bruised their bodies and poisoned their souls. You killed Shawn, my one true love. You sold my son to strangers. You tried to kill my daughter, time and time again. Sheila warned me. But I was foolish. I didn’t believe her. I believed you. I see now what I refused to see then.”
Mama’s pale hand rose. She pointed at him, leveling yet another accusation in the wake of so many others. “You are a pernicious evil that must be banished from the earth.”
Before Elizabeth could blink, her mother’s spirit had moved to hover before Fletcher’s graying face. She snarled with malevolence. Her face became skeletal, frightening to behold.
Captain Fletcher screamed like a terrified child.
He kept on screaming when Mama took his face in her suddenly claw-like hands.
And then the screaming stopped. He gazed up at her with shock mingled with horror. He coughed and gagged. Blood oozed from his mouth.
Elizabeth cringed, and started to turn away. Sheila stopped her from turning into Donovan’s protective embrace.
“No, child. It is the duty of the priestess to bear witness when judgment is dispensed on behalf of her people.” Sheila’s cold, solid hand touched Elizabeth’s cheek, cupping it lovingly. “Watch, record it in the Book. It is your duty as it was once mine.”
Elizabeth did as her grandmother bade. She watched Mama confront the man who abused her in life, the man who would murder her children, steal her inheritance and then spit on her as she lay gasping her last breath. Fletcher was turning blue, gasping for breath and no wonder.
Mama’s hand was reaching inside of his chest. It was a transparent, ghostly hand.
“Now, Lad. You must finish what she has begun.” Sheila commanded, quickly wrapping her arms about Elizabeth. “Donovan O’Rourke Beaumont, living Descendent of the Clans O’Rourke and O’Donovan! You are the chosen vessel of the ancients to secure justice on behalf of the innocent. You are chosen to be their sword of vengeance in this matter.” Sheila spoke the decree of the Ancient Dead and the Druid priests and priestesses of ages.
Donovan remained immobile as they watched Mama’s hand disappear inside Fletcher’s chest. She was squeezing his heart, crushing it. Fletcher coughed, gasped and clutched helplessly at his chest. Fletcher’s eyes bulged and his face was a mask of blue-grey horror.
“Finish it!” Sheila shrieked, raising the hackles on Elizabeth’s neck as her image turned blue and she spoke in the frightful voice of the Banshee. “Now. Dispense the Justice of the Ancients. Use the blade.”
Donovan sprang forward, leaving Elizabeth trapped in Sheila’s icy embrace. He lifted the machete clutched in his fist and swung the heavy steel blade in a wide, level arc.
There was a wet, fluid whooshing sound as Captain Fletcher’s head flew up from his body, bouncing and turning slightly in a ruby spray of blood before hitting the floor.
Chapter Forty Five
Fletcher was dead. Elizabeth stared at the filthy bare feet of her tormentor.
His body lay sprawled on the floor several feet in front of her. He always wore boots.
And the sound of them on the stairs, in the halls, was the stuff of her worst nightmares.
“Close the Veil.” Kieran shouted. “Send them back, quickly.”
Elizabeth bent double. She dropped to the floor on three limbs and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the carpet. The scent of so much blood was revolting. Fletcher smelled like he’d bathed in pig manure. She gagged, and retched.
“Lizzie.” Donovan prompted, touching her ankle. She looked in the direction of his hand. He was bent over Michael’s body, but gazing desperately at her. “Send those things back. Get them out of here. You’re the only one who can do it. I have move Michael and Kieran to my surgery room.”
She wiped her mouth with the edge of her shawl-sling and steeled herself for the task ahead. There was nothing left to bring up. Her stomach was empty. Elizabeth rose and stood in the center of the circle. She raised the dagger. Chanting in Gaelic, she commanded the spirits to return to the Veil. Within the span of minutes the grey mists dissolved. Seeing no loitering spirits, she walked the boundary, retracting the sacred circle by pulling the energy back into the dagger and through it, into herself, as she had seen Sheila do thousands of times before.
It was done. She dropped the dagger. She stood with one hand in a sling, the other dangling at her side, coated with her blood. Kieran rose and staggered slowly towards her. She met his unsteady strides. They embraced with one arm as both of them had one free to use. Kieran’s arm was bound and wrapped tight in Chloe’s shawl.
“You did it.” Kieran sighed and kissed her hair. “My brave little sister.”
The room was suddenly swarming with men; Ambrose and his guard
s, Gareth, Barnaby, and Pearl. Even poor Gus O’Leary, who staggered in holding a cloth to his head. As two footmen helped him to an overturned chair another righted it so Gus could sit down.
Elizabeth and Kieran stood in their midst, clutching each other, unwilling to let go and face their curious audience. Everyone was looking at them with shock, wonder or horror.
Donovan was shouting orders, as always, as the man in charge of the world--his world, at any rate. Elizabeth wanted to lie down, to sleep, for days on end. But Michael was injured, and Kieran. Donovan, too, but one would never know it by the veracity of his voice as he instructed his men to remove Fletcher’s body and bring a pallet to carry Michael to the surgery on.
“My boy.” Barnaby intruded, genuinely worried about Kieran as any father would be upon seeing his son bleeding so. “I was with your grandfather upstairs. I sensed something, but I couldn’t get past the count’s men in the hall.”
Pearl and Chloe were comforting little Gavin. Chloe sat on the floor and held the boy on her lap. She was speaking softly to him as Pearl checked the child for injuries. Johnny O’Reilly appeared in the doorway and seeing his little brother among the wounded, he ran across the long room and dropped to his knees to hug Gavin close.
“Lizzie.” Donovan was at her side, pulling her away from Kieran’s embrace and into his own “I could think only of getting to you. When I heard he escaped I came straight here.”
His words had the effect of a harsh slap. “What?” Elizabeth cried out harshly, overcome with emotions. “How could you hear he escaped? From where? Where was Fletcher that he could escape and come here?” She demanded, knowing the answer.
