The two of them, the only ones called out by name as part of a sabbat invocation, must bring forth the power to satisfy the ritual of Imbolc. This was not the mere show of prayers and fasting he observed in the idle years, the empty times when she was somewhere else, growing into maturity yet again. In the twentieth year—or in this case, the twenty-first, they were reunited, joining together to quell their needs and the angst of a restless world. He knew he could not fulfill his duty without her, nor, did it seem, could she without him. For if she had found happiness in the arms of another, as others suspected, that had not been enough to calm the storms that threatened her world.
“I call forth the sabbat,” he announced, the words driven up from deep in his gut. “I release the energy to ignite the portal and unite male to female, mortal to immortal, a light to end the winter darkness.”
His arm still quivered when he lowered it, leveling his aim so the end of the priapic wand pointed at the portal archway. A shudder went through him, and he did not fight it. He let it go, feeling that energy surge through him, down his arm into the shaft of his wand, and out the tip. A ripple trailed out of the end, turning and wavering like a ribbon of fog, headed for the arch, and when it reached the shimmering air in its midst, the fog splayed out, as though it had hit something solid, diffusing and filling the space. There it roiled, clouds of mist, and after a moment, it dissipated. Left behind was the shimmer, the crystalline glitter of the portal that had been reset to what hopefully was the location of her return. The time had come for him to step through.
With a careful, but unsteady motion, he slid the wand back into its resting place. The snowdrop he removed carefully from its pouch. Jarvil came forward and took it with reverence. Eradimus held out his arms and waited for the aide to set the blossom beneath the bell jar and return to slip the robe from the god of Imbolc’s shoulders, leaving him girded in just the cloth and ankle boots. The crown of leaves prickled against Eradimus’s scalp, and he thought of times when he had adorned his Bride, his Brighid, with his crown or one of her own, fashioned from the evergreens that thrived during this season. He ached to hold her, crown her once again as his goddess, his true love.
Two of the counselors were waving the blessed sage bundles, releasing smoke in curls about the room. Sandovar extinguished his bundle and pinched the ashen tip between his fingers, then used it to draw the mark of divinity on Eradimus’s forehead.
“God speed to the holy keeper of the sabbat,” called Counselor Veramus.
More sentiments went up from the counsel while Eradimus walked to the portal, feeling the energies drawing him in. He stopped, hoping the snowdrops told truth, and that they would guide the portal to open on a spot very near his love’s return. Then he stepped through the veil.
***
The rain was coming, and as fast as she could pump the pedals of the bike, Brighid knew she wouldn’t beat out the first of the storm.
A leisurely tour of the cliffs had offered a spectacular view of brilliant green and the ocean beyond, so wondrous that she had stayed out far too long, inhaling the crisp air and blinking against a landscape that was almost too clear for her eyes to process. Now, she saw little of that view against the gray sky. Her focus was on the path straight ahead, the dusty trail that had taken her up, high enough that her thighs had burned with the effort. She had seen the clouds coming, breezing in off the shores of Ireland, but she had been so entranced by the majestic bluffs of emerald that she hadn’t realized how quickly the white wisps would turn to thick chunks of black—and how quickly the winds would carry them ashore. Now she was headed back, with a cold, angry wind whipping across her cheeks as she coasted downhill faster, too fast. Her breath caught as a sense of doom struck. Her hands, cramped with cold, squeezed the brakes, not too hard, but hopefully enough to quell the dangerous plunge downward.
Lazy arms of other paths branched off from the main road, one of which was her turnoff to head away from the cliffs and back to the inn where she had been staying. Three branches, then four, but she was heading down too quickly, and she couldn’t think of the correct one. Dark splotches appeared on the road, small spots of darkened earth where rain drops were landing.
“Stay calm,” she told herself. “Just slow down easy.”
But somehow, she couldn’t. The bike had a mind of its own, speeding away from the fear of rust in its gears, perhaps, and she whizzed past a multi-branched arm of road she was certain she hadn’t passed when she’d gone up the road. She’d missed her turn and gone too far.
On she went, and she hit the brakes hard to try and slow down, turn around, and head back. The bike skidded and she cried out, instantly plunging headlong into the memory of another time when she was on wheels and out of control. The entire reason she’d toured the countryside on a bicycle rather than in a car was because of that night, and it was happening again.
Her heart seized up as the bike headed closer to the edge, off the path, still locked in a skid and bumping over small stones and clumps of brush while she veered toward the cliff.
With a yell, she flung herself from the bike and hit the ground, knocking the wind out of her and rolling as the bike sailed off the cliff and vanished. Brighid stopped a few feet away, unable to catch her breath, her mouth open in a silent scream. Pins and needles and sharp stings had erupted from what could have been a much greater set of injuries, had she not been dressed in sturdy jeans and a thick coat. But then, not even her odd choice of biking attire would have helped the slightest had she gone over the edge with her rental bike.
She laid there, fighting to draw in oxygen until she was finally able to suck in a breath. She coughed, gagged, and rolled onto her stomach, pushing up on shaky arms to sit and scoot back from the edge that was far too close for comfort. She didn’t need to peer down to know the bike was history. But paying for its replacement was the least of her problems at the moment. She hadn’t seen a soul on the trails for ages, and as the skies opened above, she knew that she wouldn’t.
Her legs were wobbly from fear and fatigue, but she managed to get on her feet. Her throat was dry from dust, and it would stay that way for the time being. Her water bottle had been clipped to the bike frame. She opened her mouth to let rainwater in, but even as quickly as the sheets were falling, they could not drown the parched feel on her tongue. She had to get back, and soon.
Her feet shuffled, her body stiff and aching, as she headed back up the hill. She passed the unfamiliar branch off the main path, then another, but rain came down harder, the sky darkened by the minute, and she knew she would not recognize the right road to take. The best she could do would be to turn down the next arm, hope it led her back to the inn. Or, if not, to someplace where she could get help and directions.
A good half an hour down her chosen path, Brighid knew she had made a mistake. No signs of civilization were evident here. She pulled her hood higher over her head, determined not to give in to the fear rising in her stomach. A rivulet of cold water dripped from her hair down into her cleavage, and she clutched the front of her coat tighter around her. Endless buckets of rain fell from a foreign sky, and she felt a swell of gratitude when a nearby tree offered shelter under the reach of its gnarled arms. She mustered up a burst of energy and sprinted beneath the limbs, pausing with a grateful sigh, her breath evident in moist puffs of cloud coming between pursed lips.
“Getting lost in unfamiliar territory happens to people all the time,” she told herself. “You’ll be okay. You’ll find help.”
Then again, getting lost in open country at night in the worst storm the Emerald Isle had likely ever seen was an achievement Brighid felt certain earned her top honors for tourist stupidity. She had been drawn here, practically forced here against the will of her better common sense, all for the sake of inspiration. For where else, she had reasoned to herself, would she find a more spectacular backdrop to stoke the fires of her inner muse? Poetry would flow here far better than within the confines of the cement cracker box she
lived in. She’d wanted fresh air, by golly, and well, she’d certainly found it. Although if she breathed deeply enough in the current deluge, she’d likely drown.
A violent shiver rocked her, and she braced against the tree while fighting chattering teeth. At this rate, the only inspiration that would come of her trip would be the news story of how a stupid city girl from the States flew to Ireland and died of exposure—in February, no less, early spring in the lands that had once been touted as mild and temperate.
“Temperate my ass,” she said in a quivering voice. Why had she come out here? She’d heard grumbling from locals about the unseasonable weather and wildly unpredictable storms that had plagued the planet for the past year.
She was shaking uncontrollably now, and the rumble of nearby thunder doubled the effect. What on earth should she do? She couldn’t stay under the tree all night. Her wet clothing wouldn’t keep her warm enough. But as the point to her heading this direction had been to find peace and solitude, there were no signs of civilization about. Her room at the cozy inn over the pub sounded heavenly right now, but thanks to the biking incident that drove a hot flush of embarrassment to her cheeks, she had no hopes of either reaching it or phoning anyone for help.
As she clutched cramped fingers around her mouth in hopes of warming them with her breath, her eyes raised to a sight that made her stop and blink wildly. Was that a light winking through the silvery fall of rain?
She straightened up from the tree trunk with a gasp. “A house,” she said with a rush of relief. “It has to be.”
Running toward the hazy light, she prayed the effect wasn’t just a product of her imagination. The illumination grew brighter as she drew near, however, and her heart sped. The dark outline of a building was soon evident, and she’d just about smiled in relief when the hairs on her neck stood up.
A brilliant flare of light snaked from the sky and struck the ground several feet in front of her, catching her up short. The grass exploded into a circle of smoke and flame, but for only a brief moment before the rain extinguished it into a scorched ring.
Brighid found herself on the ground in a daze until she realized what had happened. Then she jumped up and ran toward the lit building. The lines of the structure took shape until she could see it was a barn. Her hope deflated a little at that, but cheered at the thought that where there was a barn, there must be a house nearby.
She was about to change course for a quick look around when another jagged arm of lightning struck a tree close enough to feel the charge run through her. A sharp crack announced the splitting of limbs as a branch hit the ground. She couldn’t risk staying out here any longer in search of a main house she couldn’t even see. A barn at least meant shelter.
Racing as fast as her tired legs could carry her, she made it to the side of the building. A single floodlight proved to be the source of the light she’d seen, and it helped her spot the small doorway on the dark wood. She fully expected the door to be locked, but it pulled open with just moderate protest from squeaky hinges.
Stepping out of the rain brought an instant sigh of relief from her, but she stayed on her guard while she checked out her new surroundings. Light spilling from outside showed her much of the interior, some of which puzzled her. There were no animals kept here, although hay was piled high in one corner. Long-handled tools hung in a neat row along one wall, tools that appeared old but recently oiled. A lantern hung from a large metal hook. Matches sat nearby, but her stiff, shaking fingers fumbled through several attempts before she managed to strike one and bring the lamp to life. The warm light was enough to allow her to see once she closed the barn door, shutting out the rain that was sliding in sideways on puffs of persistent, malevolent wind.
She wandered to the puzzling sight she’d stumbled into and tried to make sense of it. Strips of various fabrics lay across hay bales nearby. And there was a bed, plunked down right in the middle of the barn. Small but carefully prepared, the bed was heaped with quilts tucked into crisp corners and the top turned down on the diagonal. Another quilt lay folded across the foot of the bed. On a stool beside this sat a plate and cup. There was a small, round loaf of artisan bread and hunks of cubed cheese, and what she first thought was juice proved to be wine when she took a whiff.
“What on earth is all this for?” she wondered aloud.
Another attack of shivers came in reply, and she eyed the blankets and cozy bed. Someone was obviously meant to come here, but who else would be out in this storm? With all things considered, perhaps the owners of the barn wouldn’t be too angry if a lost stranger took advantage of the odd hospitality.
Thunder rolled outside while she reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed. They wouldn’t begrudge her one quilt, surely. She longed to wrap herself in the colorful cloth, but her dripping clothes stopped her. She would only succeed in getting the blanket as dreary and cold as she felt if she stayed in her wet things.
“There’s nothing for it,” she said, and she struggled for a few minutes to peel off unpleasant layers of wet fabric. Soon she stood in just her panties, which were also damp, her pale skin puckered with gooseflesh and her nipples jutting out like stiff buds in the cold. She drew the blanket around her, noticing for the first time that her palms were skinned and dirty. Once she had seen the wounds, the stinging she’d barely felt before grew to a fierce stabbing. Her lip throbbed to the beat as well, and her tongue tasted recent blood on a swollen area of her lower lip. There were no first aid supplies in the barn however, so she did her best to ignore the pain. She’d weathered much worse, and she was still alive. A few scrapes here and there was a small price to pay for that.
Now there was nothing to do but stand mostly naked in the middle of the barn, staring down at the bed and food like a starving orphan.
“Oh, what the hell.” She sat on the bed, whose springs groaned just a little under her slight weight, and she tore into the bread as best as her uncooperative hands would allow. The bread and cheese tasted homemade and delightful, and after a while she ventured a taste of the wine. The tang was rich and heady, though it stung her lip a bit. But, she theorized, alcohol would help clean the wound, so she drank more. Her stomach warmed enough after a few sips that the shivers in her body began to ease.
The small dose of wine on top of a long day hit her as fast and strong as the lightning strikes battering the landscape outside, and she yawned. Leaning over to replace the cup on her nearly empty plate, her braid fell forward, dripping water onto the quilt as well as the dirt and straw floor. Her locks would never dry that way, so she unbound the plait and used the larger, thicker strips of nearby cloth as makeshift toweling to squeeze and rub the rebellious red waves until they were barely damp. She laid down on the bed and pulled the remaining blankets over her, wiggling her cramped toes and so grateful to be warm again that she almost giggled. She inhaled and was surprised by a pleasant floral scent, and exploration beneath her small pillow revealed a handmade sachet of herbs. For having been such a difficult, uncooperative day, things were ending on quite an oddly perfect note.
With her hair tossed over the pillow and a slight smile curving her lips, she relaxed into a welcome sense of peace despite the raging storm outside. She drifted off.
Brighid had no idea how long she’d slept, but the next thing she knew, she was awakened by the crash of the side door banging open. Her eyes flew open to a burst of cold wind, a flurry of rain, and the glowing figure of a man in the doorway who appeared to be as shocked to see her as she was him.
“So,” he said in a thick and heady voice. “It is true. You have come at last.”
She blinked at the contrast of light clashing with the darkness around him. “I’m sorry?”
He stepped more fully into the barn. “And why is the goddess of Imbolc sorry to meet her consort?”
“The who?” She sat up, startled, and remembered just in time that she was rather naked beneath the warm quilts. She clutched them high around her, under her chin. “I
think I’d better explain myself. I’m not who you think I am.”
“On the contrary, I know you must fully. Brighid.”
Her mouth fell open. His pronunciation was off, as he’d turned the final vowel into a long e sound. Yet she had to admit the way he said it rolled most appealingly off his lips. How could he have known her name, though? Maybe a lucky guess. After all, the name was a lot more common here than back in the states. Still, it wasn’t that common.
“It’s pronounced Bridge-id,” she said. “Back in the states, at least. But how do you know my name? Did the inn send you to find me?” Maybe they, or someone at the bike shop, realized she hadn’t come back, sent someone looking.
“I have followed you since the days of the Tuatha de Danann, when the hillsides marked Imbolc eve with naught but bonfire light, and magic flowed as freely as the fiery hair spilling down your back.”
There was an old style to his speech in a dialect that did not match the region. She twisted the lantern key to turn up the flame, and lifted the lamp to get a better look at the man. Nothing about her day had been normal, and so it shouldn’t have surprised her that he was far from average himself. His hair hung wild and free in streaks of layers of pale browns and gold that hung below wide shoulders. Braids were dotted here and there in a chaotic pattern. A circlet of woven reeds and leaves crowned his head, as well as his wrists and ankles. Beneath the crown, a smudge in the shape of a cross had been marked along his forehead and down his nose. Golden brown eyes shimmered in a study of her that she found as unsettling as their unnatural color. He was barely more clothed than she was, wearing only some sort of brown skirt tied at the side of a narrow waist and short enough to show off a broad, hard chest and muscled thighs. Ankle boots made of the same fabric—doeskin perhaps, she thought to herself—completed the ensemble. This was definitely not someone who had been sent to rescue her. There had been some sort of pagan festival advertised around the outer towns in honor of Imbolc, some celebration she’d never heard of. Perhaps he had come from there.
Eradimus: God of Imbolc (Sons of Herne, #2) Page 2
