That reminded me.
I shuffled through my coat pocket, pulled out the gift Cinnamon had brought for me, and set it on the counter.
Thor knocked on the front door, so I let him in, fed him some dinner, and grabbed a bottle of water for myself that I chugged until it was gone. I took a few minutes to check e-mails and googled “Web of Weird,” but still came up empty-handed.
Next on the list was cleansing the sword before tonight’s spell.
There are several methods to consecrate and purify a magical tool, and most of them involve utilizing the four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. A smudge stick works well, but I can’t stand the smell of burning sage. Some witches prefer a simple open flame to wave a wand or athame through, or they might bury their tools in the earth for nine days, then dig them up beneath the next new moon. Moonbeams will also cleanse a tool, especially gentle gemstones such as quartz, but that method works best if the item can be laid outside in an open field for the entire cycle of the full moon. Direct sunlight is another cleanser. I never used it personally, because I once set a crystal ball in a bright windowsill at the Geraghty Girls’ Guesthouse, and Fiona’s cat climbed up next to it and accidentally set his tail on fire.
It was not a pretty sight. Or smell.
My preferred method was the most powerful cleansing force in the universe—water. I kicked off my boots and socks, grabbed the sword and a few other items I would need, and padded into the bathroom. I plugged the tub, filled it with scalding water, poured in a handful of Atlantic sea salt from West Cork, added a few drops each of cypress and frankincense oil, then immersed the sword in the anointed pool.
Eyes shut tight, I imagined my body ensconced in bright white light and said:
“To the warrior goddess, fiercest of all;
see my vision, hear my call.
Charge this sword with your sacred power;
Badb be with me in the needful hour.”
I repeated the chant three times, passing my hands over the steaming water in a flowing figure-eight pattern—the shape of the infinity knot. When I stopped speaking, the tub bubbled.
I opened one eye and saw that the water surrounding the blade was bursting with tiny explosions, as if a bath fizzy had been dropped under the faucet.
Which meant the consecration was working.
Smiling, I raised my palms to the sky to feel the energy flow from the water, through the sword, and into me. After several moments of breathing in the oxygen and herbs, I rang a bell to thank the goddess for her presence and stepped into the hallway to grab a fresh towel from the linen closet.
When I saw what was on the shelf, I screamed loud enough to wake the dead.
Chapter 6
Thor trotted over to my side. He cocked his huge head like I was a new species he hadn’t yet encountered and wasn’t sure what to do with.
The dog sat down as I lifted the blue and gold–wrapped gift from the linen-closet shelf—far from the counter where I had left it—and reached for a white, fluffy towel. I pocketed the present and sidestepped into the bathroom to lay the towel on the floor. The water was still steaming, so I turned on the cold faucet to cool it off a bit. Then I extracted the sword and wrapped it in the terrycloth. The tub gurgled as I knelt to unplug the drain.
The bell was still sitting on the bathroom sink when I stood up. It rang once, all by itself.
That’s when I knew I wasn’t alone.
Here’s the thing about bells: They serve many magical purposes. They are used in cleansing rituals, to punctuate enchantments, and to open or close a sacred space. The soft ringing of one will banish negative vibrations, dissipate bad energy, invoke a goddess, or hail a spirit. They also represent the female form.
But you can’t unring a bell. So just because you may have intended it to perform one function, there are no guarantees it won’t do something completely different, like draw the attention of a dead woman who was maddeningly fond of limericks.
When I finally faced her, the cloudy ghost was flipping through the Blessed Book, frowning. I think. Her features were still pretty tough to make out. She looked at me with disappointment, crumpled up the piece of paper that was my to-do list, and bounced it off my head.
“Hey! What is your problem?”
She inflated herself so that her form puffed to twice its original size, covering most of the breakfast bar, and pointed to the crumpled ball on the floor. I bent to pick it up and smoothed it out, keeping an eye on the ornery spirit, wondering what I’d done in another life to send this loon my way.
On the paper, the word Weird was scratched out. Beside it was written Wyrd.
She crossed her arms and stuck her chin in the air.
“Seriously? You’re mad because of a typo?”
She spoke then.
“A Seeker is born once a century;
Tracked by the watchful eyes of the She.
Do not falter in your dedication;
For that leads to misinformation.”
Okay, now she was really annoying me.
“Can you please tell me in plain English what you’re trying to say, Riddler?”
She rose up again, her sea-foam eyes glaring at me, but she didn’t speak.
I sighed, looked at the clock. Thirty minutes until I had to leave. “Fine. Who is she?”
The ethereal spirit tossed her hands in the air as if to give up, then she flew toward the book and shuffled through the thick pages. She stopped near the end, and then flitted to the other side of the room.
I stepped forward and read the page.
Sidhe (pronounced She): The Sidhe are known as the people of the mounds or ‘the Good People.’ They are descendents of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the people of the goddess Danu, who brought the four great treasures to Ireland. They reside mostly in the Otherworld, but sometimes side by side with ours, cloaking their homes in magic. They interfere with our realm when called upon or when necessary to provide protection, guidance, healing, or teaching. These are not the Tinker Bell fairies of Western culture. These are noble beings of great prominence. They are fierce warriors, accomplished silversmiths, agriculturists, and intelligent beyond comprehension. They guard their homes and the entire fairy plane with pride, and rattle the walls of anyone who dares to destroy a leyline. These lines run the length and breadth of the homeland, and beyond. They serve as powerful sources of magic, and have been known to open portals to other dimensions.
I lifted my head to find the iridescent spirit hovering over me, staring straight into my eyes.
“Okay, got it. Don’t piss off the fairies.”
She seemed pleased with that conclusion. She gave me a thumbs-up, stopped to whisper in Thor’s ear, and vanished.
Thor thumped his tail happily.
“Do you know that talking fortune cookie?” I asked him.
He yawned and crawled onto the couch.
There wasn’t a lot of time before I had to leave, so I got to work writing my dedication speech, careful not to say anything that would agitate beings from another dimension.
If only I had thought about the beings from this dimension, things might have gone a bit more smoothly.
There was just enough time to open the present from Gramps before I had to leave. I read the card for the fifth time, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place the handwriting. It couldn’t have been written by anyone in my immediate family, so then who? Perhaps my great-grandmother? Or my father’s mother?
And what did when the time is right mean?
I carefully unraveled the pretty ribbon and set it on the sofa beside me. The paper was brittle, as if manufactured years ago, and it fell apart in my hands, revealing a royal-blue-velvet box. Inside the box was a gold filigree locket that appeared to be quite old, embellished with an infinity knot on its face.
I lifted out the beautiful piece by its long chain and held it up to the light. It pirouetted around my fingers, revealing a shield knot emblazoned on the back.
I clicked
open the dainty latch and held the locket in my palm. On the right side was a watch face; the left side was plain gold.
When the time is right. Was it a pun? Or had it something to do with my birthday? If it was an heirloom, whom had it belonged to?
My phone chimed at that moment, reminding me it was time to go. I tucked the dedication charm into the locket, which I slipped over my head and under my sweater, then grabbed my cape, sword, and Thor, and headed out the door.
It was still bright outside, although a few clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. Someone was burning leaves the next block over, the smoke billowing around a giant maple whose own branches were nearly bare. Just as I approached the backyard of the Geraghty Girls’ Guesthouse, I spotted Birdie and the aunts making their way out of the woods, each donning an autumn-colored cape.
The patio table was dressed in grapevines, with bowls of apples and pears, nuts, and candles scattered about. There were three wrapped presents in the center surrounding a painted plaque of the Green Man, the god of the forest.
Thor settled himself into a giant pile of leaves I had raked the day before as I watched the three Geraghty Girls approach, the air thickening with each step they took.
Something was wrong. Not one of them was smiling, which was unusual on any pagan holiday. They lived for these celebrations.
I heard Birdie say, “I can’t believe you forgot the Green Man, Fiona.”
Fiona replied, “Why must I think of everything, Birdie?”
“With all that’s on my mind, you could have been more observant.”
“You think you’re the only one troubled? I’m concerned as well.”
Lolly spotted me then and waved. She grabbed each sister by the earlobe, spun them around into a huddle, and bent down to whisper something.
What the heck is this all about?
The three of them swung toward me, each offering a false smile.
Lolly rushed over to kiss both my cheeks, reeking of whiskey—a sign that her mind was running on turbo power. Birdie and Fiona stepped in to hug me next, each of them warm to the touch. An enormous crow screeched overhead and landed on the table just as I broke away.
I took a step back and stared at the Geraghty Girls. “What’s going on?”
Fiona said, “Whatever do you mean, dear?”
“Birdie?”
My grandmother shrugged her shoulders.
I tapped my foot impatiently. “Lolly, what’s happening? I could cut the tension in the air with my sword.”
“Oh, wonderful, you brought it,” Lolly said, and clapped her hands.
They all three stood there grinning at me like I was a virgin they were about to toss into a volcano.
I crossed my arms. “I want to know what has you concerned, and I want to know now.”
Fiona blurted out, “Birdie double-booked a room for next weekend.”
Birdie glowered at Fiona. “We will make do. These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” Fiona said.
I said, “That’s it? Why can’t you just call the visitor center and book them a room at another inn?”
“Splendid idea. We’ll do that in the morning.” Lolly shot her sisters a look of warning. “Come, Stacy, open your gifts.”
My oldest aunt glided toward the table, reached for the largest package, and motioned for me to join her. “This is from me.”
I tossed one last glance back at Birdie and Fiona and walked over to where Lolly stood. The box was heavy. I shook it gently and smiled at my great-aunt. She stuck a tiara on my head.
“I hope you like it,” she said.
I lifted the lid off the big box and brushed aside soft white tissue paper to reveal a purple brocade bodice, adorned with triquetras and crisscrossed with thin gold rope. I lifted up the garment, and out spilled a green and amethyst floor-length gown with billowing bell sleeves. “Oh, Lolly, it’s gorgeous!”
“I thought you could wear it tonight. I stitched it from remnants of some of the finest ritual wear.” She pointed out that the gold rope tied through the bodice was worn by Birdie one Samhain many years ago, the silk sleeves had attended Fiona’s first hand fasting, and the emerald velvet patches were recycled from Lolly’s own dedication gown.
“I will.” I reached over to hug her. “Thank you.”
Fiona stepped up and handed me her gift. “It belonged to your great-grandmother, but I had it freshly blackened and newly framed.”
Fiona’s gift was an hourglass-shaped scrying mirror, framed with three inches of etched silver.
“It’s perfect. You’ll have to help me hang it in the cottage,” I said.
She smiled, and I thought I saw a tear in her eye.
Birdie was next. She stepped over to me and hugged me tight. Then she held me at arm’s length and said, “I want you to know I’m very proud of you.” Her eyes were shimmering as she held my gaze, but there was a cloud of concern in them.
“I know that, Birdie.”
When she let go, a shiver danced down my spine, and another crow—or was it the same one?—swooshed over the table, squawked, and flew to the eave beneath Birdie’s bedroom window. I watched it land and saw a bright light flash from the pane.
“What was that?” I asked.
“It’s an old house. Old lighting,” Birdie said, flicking her eyes nervously upward as thunder slapped the sky. “Open your gift.”
Birdie’s present was a broom.
“It took her ages to fashion,” Lolly said.
Fiona nodded and said, “We all three charged it.”
Birdie said, “It has the same branches from my mother’s broom and her mother’s and two generations before them.”
It sizzled in my hand like kindling.
I hugged my grandmother and said, “I’ll use it wisely.”
She whispered in my ear, “Just remember, between destiny and duty lies faith. Keep your faith, and you won’t go wrong.”
I didn’t have time to decipher that cryptic message, because a car door slammed, and another after that. The dinner guests had arrived.
Chapter 7
Fiona said, “Stacy, why don’t you go change into your new dress and stash your gifts while we greet the guests?”
I wasn’t planning to put the dress on until after dinner, but Lolly looked hopeful, so I agreed.
I slipped in through the back door and made my way up the far stairs to Birdie’s bedroom. Someone was in the kitchen below, gathering dishes, as I shut the door behind me. I laid the gifts on top of my grandmother’s bed, set the sword next to them, and disrobed.
The gown was stunning, like something you might see in a Shakespearean play. Even though I wouldn’t get much use out of the gown unless I auditioned for one, I figured if someone offered you the opportunity to dress like a princess for a night, you might as well give it a whirl.
I climbed into the dress, tied the bodice, and fluffed out the skirt, wishing I had some glass slippers to go with it, but the boots would have to do. There was a full-length mirror across the hall, so I went to check out the whole effect. The dress made a whooshing sound as I walked, and it gave off the tiniest vibration, fortified, I suspected, with Lolly’s energy. As I adjusted the waistline, I noticed there was a sturdy leather loop that hung on each hip and there was even a slot for my cell phone. Curious, I shuffled back into Birdie’s room, grabbed the sword, and slipped it through one of the loops.
It weighed me down a bit, but the strap held. I waved my cape over my shoulders, tucked the phone in the pocket, shut the light off, and went to take one last look before dinner.
All I needed was an eye patch and a parrot and I would have made a badass-looking pirate. I shot a sideways look to the painting of Danu and asked, “What do you think?”
A blinding light flashed off the silver of the mirror. I whipped around.
Birdie’s door was still open and the lights were off, but something chimed within the room.
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Had I imagined the flash? Was it simply the front bell I heard ring?
I walked into the room, clicked on the light switch, and looked around. The curtains were drawn, so I went to the window for a peek. Chance stood in the yard, a huge bouquet of roses in his strong hands, talking to Fiona. Then that stupid crow flew into view and tapped his beak on the glass three times. I yelped and jumped back.
That’s when I noticed the smoke seeping from Birdie’s scrying mirror. I rushed over to it, fearing some sort of electrical fire. Perhaps it was positioned over an old outlet. I lifted the mirror gently but saw only wall space.
Until I let go. Then I saw a face.
If Big Bird had a mother, this was what she would look like. The woman staring at me through Birdie’s scrying mirror had some sort of yellow-feathered hat on her head that bobbed up and down all on its own.
Unless it was an actual bird—I couldn’t be sure.
I looked at my own scrying mirror, wondering if it too was equipped with Skype.
The woman snapped, “I need to speak with Birdie.”
“She’s not available right now. May I take a message?”
The woman leaned forward, studied me for a moment. Then her eyes pierced through mine and a chilling grin swam across her face.
I could not believe I was talking to a mirror while wearing a dress pieced together by recycled bits of other garments. I felt like Snow White meets Cinderella. And I had the sneaking suspicion that this woman was some kind of wicked.
I stepped back, startled by the malicious vibe emanating from her. My stomach lurched and that old familiar feeling gripped me.
Harmful intent.
She said, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the famous Stacy Justice.”
Emerald Isle (A Stacy Justice Mystery) Page 4
