by Nina Mason
Meanwhile, she was on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. In the wee hours, when work and her paper didn’t consume her, she felt a harrowing mixture of anguish and anxiety over Graham, even as the hours until her deadline ticked away like a time bomb.
As much as she hurt right now, she couldn’t allow it to screw up her future. He was gone. End of story. And no amount of moping or hoping would bring him back. Still, she sometimes felt him near; felt him in need of her. But that was just wishful thinking, right? He was safe in his castle hundreds of miles away. Out of her life forever. And the sooner she accepted cruel reality and moved on, the sooner she’d feel better.
She kept telling herself he had every right to end the relationship and she needed to respect that right, however much she disagreed with his decision. Sometimes, though, her resolve wavered. Once or twice, she’d come close to summoning him, reasoning that seeing her again might change his mind. Luckily, she’d always stopped herself before things went too far. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how he was doing all alone up there in Druimdeurfait. Was he hurting too? Did he miss her half as much as she missed him?
Spewing a despondent sigh, she pressed her face against the library table. The cool laminate surface felt soothing against her tear-scorched cheek. As she lay there, she extracted from her heart the promise she would not go to pieces while, from her mind, she summoned an apropos verse by Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet:
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! Lest while you’re lagging,
I may remember him!
Heaving a sigh, she rubbed her eyes. She’d been at it for hours now and was running out of steam. She was nearly finished, thankfully. Just a few more edits to make on the footnotes and bibliography. It still had to pass muster with her committee, of course, but she wasn’t overly worried about that, as she’d conferred with the chairman throughout the process and taken pains to meet all of his demands.
In one way, she felt like a sailor who’d finally sighted land after being at sea for months on end. In another, she was sorry to lose the distraction. It had now been a week since Graham ran off to Scotland. And with Avery never at home anymore, she had only her work to keep her company. And her pain. She felt more alone, more empty, than ever before. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and felt nothing except the echo in her heart. It was as though she’d lost a piece of herself, the piece that saw color, heard music, tasted food, and felt joy.
“Professor Fingal, a word, if I might.”
Starting a little, Cat looked up from her laptop to meet piercing blue bespectacled eyes.
“I thought I might find you here.” The witch smiled and held out a sealed manila envelope. “I found that spell we talked about and copied it out for you.”
Eyeing it curiously, Cat took it from her. “Spell? What spell?”
“The one we talked about,” Maud repeated, looking puzzled. “To bind gancanaghs. Have you honestly forgotten?”
At a complete loss, Cat nodded blankly. They must have talked the day she fell in the bathtub. She vaguely recalled planning to seek out Professor Edenfield, but what about?
“I’m so sorry,” Cat offered with a penitent smile, “but I hit my head, you see. And I seem to have forgotten most of what happened that day.”
Professor Edenfield, brow furrowed, looked as if she were trying to work something out. Finally, tapping her chin, she said, “Have you have also forgotten our little tête-à-tête about your friend?”
“What tête-à-tête?” Cat was half embarrassed and half intrigued. “Please, do refresh my memory.”
Her heart swelled with hope as the senior witch filled her in on their earlier conversation about how the curse could be broken. As soon as Maud left her, she pulled out her mobile and sent him a text: I have good news. Please get in touch asap.
In the hours she waited for him to get in touch, she completed her edits, did a final proofread, and emailed the whole 150-page document in a zipped file to her dissertation adviser at Cambridge.
That daunting task now behind her, she turned her thoughts fully to Graham. Why hadn’t he called? Was he being stubborn? Or had he not received her message? Either way, what she had to tell him was too important to leave any longer. They could defeat Gerard Fitzgerald. They could break his curse. They could finally be together. She had to tell him. Had to. This instant, dammit.
She rang his mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Shit, now what? He’d mentioned at one point he rented out his castle for weddings and other functions, so it must have a website, right? Could she maybe reach him that way?
Calling up the Google window, she typed in Tur-nan-Deur. The castle, she soon found, had a website, a Wikipedia entry, and a YouTube channel. Holy shit. Why had she not thought to check it out before? While chiding herself, she skimmed the homepage, which contained several photographs—and yes, it was the same place she’d seen in her vision!—and a greeting from the Laird:
A very warm welcome to Tur-nan-Deur, the home of my ancestors for more than five centuries. I am proud of the castle and its splendid gardens and so pleased to be able to extend to you the legendary Highland hospitality on your special day. Please enjoy!
Lord Graham Logan
She cleared the surprise from her throat. She’d known he was of noble birth, but knowing and seeing it in print were two different things. Lord Graham Logan. Holy cow. Would she become a lady if and when they married? The idea of it at once thrilled and overwhelmed.
Shaking the feelings off, she searched for contact information. Finding a phone number, she hurriedly punched it in. It rang five times before someone answered. Her heart soared when she heard the deep Scottish burr, but plummeted again when the man identified himself as Alasdair MacCabe, the caretaker.
“Hello,” she began, heart fluttering. “This is Cathleen Fingal, a good friend of, um, Lord Logan’s. I’ve been trying to reach him, you see, but he’s not answering his mobile. I urgently need to speak with him. Would you be good enough to call him to the telephone?”
“Miss Fingal, did you say?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Miss, but Lord Logan isna here. He was expected a week back, but never arrived. And I’ve been unable to reach him myself...”
Concern stabbed like a dull blade. She got off the phone quickly, worrying her lip as her mind agitated. If Graham never made it to Tur-nan-Deur, where could he be? An idea began to dawn. A terrifying, infuriating idea.
He’d never left Wicken Hall.
Because Branwen, damn her perverted black soul, was holding him prisoner somewhere
* * *
When he first smelled the fragrant smoke, he was howling in pain as Branwen ground her stiletto heel into the loose flesh of his scrotum. She’d found a riding crop at the stables and was holding it over his limp cock, ready to snap it once more as she cursed its unresponsive state.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep whiff, praying he hadn’t imagined the scent. Nay, there it was, thank God. Faint hints of juniper, cinnamon, and caraway. Just like the first time. He sighed with relief, his heart swelling with affection for the clever wee witch.
Too bad it took her so long to figure out he’d never left Wickenham. Had her blood radar gone haywire? Had she not put her trust in it? Either way, he prayed her spell would work. He’d suffered innumerous indignities in Branwen’s punishing hands.
The smoke swirled around him like curling fingers, beckoning him to follow. Branwen cracked the whip again, stinging his prick like a hornet.
Flinching, he cried, “Take me. Take me now!”
His tormentor, believing he addressed her, got a gleam in her eye and came down astride his thighs. He groaned as she seized his member, now covered in w
elts, and began pumping ruthlessly as the smoke caressed and tugged.
Bending over him, Branwen took his still-limp cock into her mouth, but still got no response. Looking past her to his feet, he felt a rush of elation when he saw they were fading. The next moment, the darkness claimed him, the same disembodied darkness as before, and, following a brief voyage through nothingness, dumped him flat on his arse on the floor in Cat’s bedroom.
“Oh my God.” She raced to his side. “Are you all right?”
“I will be.” He was still fighting to get his bearings.
“Was it that bitch Branwen?”
“Aye,” he said, swallowing.
Her gaze shifted from his face to his penis, the sight of which made her wince. “Oh my God. What did she do to you?”
Unsure how to answer without adding to his humiliation, he simply grunted and struggled to get up.
“Let me help you,” she offered, ducking under his arm and assisting him to his feet. “Can I get you a drink? I don’t have any whisky, but I’ve got a little brandy. Would that be all right?”
“That would be great.” He still felt unsteady, but without the iron impeding his healing, he’d recover soon enough.
She helped him into the living room, where she parked him on a big, slipcovered sofa before throwing a knitted afghan over his lap. She then disappeared back down the hallway, returning a few minutes later in a salmon-colored kimono. It pleased him to see she carried a bottle and two glasses. Sitting beside him, she filled the glasses before handing one to him.
“Now, tell me everything she did to you.”
He took a sip of brandy and licked his lips. “We have bigger problems, eh? Lord Fitzgerald is near. I can feel him in my blood.”
She took a drink, seemingly unaffected by the threat. “I learned something.”
Brow knitting, he waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, his impatience prompted him to ask, “Oh, aye? And what’s that?”
“There’s a way to break your curse; to make you human again.”
Sputtering in surprise, he opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. He took another slug of brandy and another. Could it be true? “Who told you this?”
“Maud Edenfield.”
“Who?”
“The witch on the faculty who told me about vampires.”
“Oh.”
“You have to kill Lord Fitzgerald with a stake made of hawthorn, burn his heart, and drink the ashes in a tea made from the berries of the same tree the stake was made from.”
“You make it sound so simple.” The statement dripped with sarcasm.
“It won’t be, I’m sure. But I’m working on a plan.”
“Oh aye? What kind of plan?”
“To use multiple spells to render him defenseless,” she explained.
His fingers plowed through his hair. He didn’t like the idea of hanging around Wickenham for two bloody weeks with both Fitzgerald and Branwen on the prowl. And he’d already packed for Scotland. But he could hardly go without her now, and not just because of the lurking threats. Though he no longer had the strength to leave her behind, hanging around wasn’t an option, either.
“I think we should get out of here,” he said.
“So do I. And the sooner the better.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works for me. But first, I need to talk to Maud about covering my finals. And cast a spell so Branwen never touches you again.”
His brow furrowed. “What kind of spell?”
“A binding spell. And I know just the one. But we’ll need to toss the poppet in the ocean when it’s done. Do you know a good place we can do that?”
He took a second, along with another warming sip of brandy, before the right spot presented itself. After setting the empty glass on the table, he gathered her into his arms and gave her a kiss. “Aye, m’aingael. I know the perfect place.”
Part III: The Kill
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
—George Gordon, Lord Byron
Chapter 16: Count Dracula Disguised as Cupid
Cat believed love’s opposite wasn’t hate or even indifference. It was fear. Love was positive. Love flowed and released. Love asked for nothing. Love was an open hand. Fear was negative. Fear ebbed and blocked. Fear coveted and demanded. Fear yearned to possess. Fear was a fist. Unrequited love wasn’t love. It was fear masquerading as love. Count Dracula disguised as Cupid.
Thus, what Branwen called love was actually love’s enemy.
She had empathy for Branwen. Yes, she disliked the dark faery immensely, but she wasn’t without compassion for her plight. Unrequited love sucked big time. And if she could remove Branwen’s vampiric feelings toward Graham, she might be tempted to do so. Unfortunately, her powers didn’t extend that far.
Magic wasn’t about raising power and commanding it to do or change this or that, just as the magician pleased. It was about redirecting. Calling upon the powers of nature and creation to move existing energies along a different route. She couldn’t summon just anyone. Oh, no. She could only summon beings already capable of moving through the ethers. She couldn’t change Branwen’s feelings, she could only steer them away from Graham. And that was just what she intended to do with the spell she’d chosen to bind the gancanaugh from doing either of them further harm.
The spell was more complicated than most she’d cast. It called for candles, fabric, tobacco, runes, a poppet, ribbons, banishing oil, and multiple incantations. It was now midnight and she was at her desk sewing together two pieces of felt she’d cut roughly to resemble Branwen. The next step was to stuff the poppet with cotton, loose tobacco, and the hair or nail clippings of the spell’s object, though the latter, thankfully, was non-essential. Graham, meanwhile, was busy in the kitchen mixing the banishing oil from a recipe she’d found on the internet.
½ oz. olive oil infused with cayenne pepper
10 drops peppermint oil
12 drops of rue or rosemary oil
15 drops of pine oil
A handful of black peppercorns, finely crushed
A small piece of obsidian or black onyx stone
The spell called for a large black candle, into whose wax she’d already used a nail to carve Branwen’s name, a circle to represent the dark moon, bars like those in a jail, a widdershins spiral, and three runic symbols: Thurisaz (the gateway), Isa (standstill), and Eihwaz (movement).
Just as she was knotting the thread on the poppet, Graham came up behind her, and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “The oil’s ready.”
He handed her the dark medicine bottle into which he’d put the oil and onyx. Taking it and the poppet to the altar, she poured a few drops on the poppet and the candlewick before casting a protective circle around the altar. From his seat on the bed, he observed the ritual in reverent silence. Doing her best to keep her mind focused on Branwen, she lit the candle and adjusted the standing mirror to reflect the flame. Finally, she drew a deep breath, picked up the poppet, and held it over the flame.
“Creature of cloth thou art,
Creature of flesh and blood you be.
I name you, Branwen O’Lyr.
No more shall you do harm to me.
No more shall you interfere in my life,
Nor in the lives of those I love.
By the power of the goddess and by my will,
so mote it be.”
Maintaining her concentration, she sucked in another deep breath before drawing an invoking pentagram over the poppet. Next, she picked up the red ribbon and began to bind the doll like a mummy. As she did this, being car
eful to leave no gaps in the binding, she said:
“I bind your feet from bringing harm to me.
I bind your hands from reaching out to harm me.
I bind your mouth from spreading false tales to harm me.
I bind your mind from sending energy to harm me.
If you so continue, may all your malevolence return to you ten-fold!”
After tying off the ribbon, she held the poppet in front of the mirror and called into her mind all the terrible things Branwen had done to Graham and herself. Molesting him in his sleep, putting him in handcuffs, torturing his genitals, attacking her in the form of a raven. She then imagined all the grief and heartache he’d suffered as a consequence of these actions returning to Branwen ten-fold. Finally, she wrapped the poppet in the black cloth, tied it with another length of red ribbon, closed her eyes, and said:
“Hecate, I implore you
Bind Branwen O’Lyr from doing further harm
To my person or any I hold in my heart.
By the powers of three times three
By Earth and Fire, Air and Sea,
I fix this spell, then set it free
’Twill give no harm to return to me
As I will, so mote it be.”
That done, she set the bundle on the altar, where it would remain until the candle burned away. The final step, as she’d already told Graham, was to toss the bound poppet into the sea and walk away, never looking back.
“There.” She let out a breath. “That should take care of Branwen. Now we need to figure out the best way to ambush Gerard Fitzgerald.”
* * *
As much as he’d like nothing better than to spend the next few hours between the sheets, it was out of the question. There was too much yet to do before leaving for Scotland. And as much as he would have preferred never to darken Wicken Hall’s door again, returning was unavoidable. His dogs were there, for one thing. So was the portrait of Caitriona. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave either behind for the world. Nor his diaries. He’d sooner burn them then let them fall into Branwen’s clutches. The book he’d dreamed of writing would just have to sit for the time being on that big shelf in the sky labeled “maybe someday.”
