The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love

by Nina Mason

  Luckily, he had a good-sized Range Rover, so there’d be room enough for the dogs and a few pieces of luggage. The horses, the groom could look after until he returned. If he returned. And he had to believe with every part of himself that her magic would prove powerful enough to break his curse; that they would one day find themselves like the couple on the Ten of Cups, arm-in-arm under a rainbow of abundance with their children dancing around them; that she’d come back, as she’d attested all along, not to punish but to redeem him.

  He so wanted her to be right. About everything. Wanted her to pull him down off his tightrope, to take his hand and lead him out of the darkness, to fill the emptiness he’d suffered so long with light and love and hope. She was more powerful than the last two times she’d come through. He’d felt it that night at the pub when he’d read her, again when she’d summoned him through the ethers, and just now as she cast the binding spell.

  Caitriona had been what was known as a cailleach or “spae wife” in the Highlands. She knew how to use herbs for magical and medicinal purposes, consulted the runes for guidance, had psychic dreams sometimes, and made simple love potions, herbal poultices, and runic amulets to protect travelers, heal disease, and ward off evil. As far as he knew, she couldn’t summon paranormal entities or break spells and curses. She could see spirits, though, and insisted she’d seen the ghost of his beloved Granda when she visited his castle.

  Catharine was more of an occultist. Like him at that time, she practiced various methods of divination; endorsed esoteric mysticism; studied the cabbala; cast spells; consulted with spirits and angels; and attended séances.

  They were in Cat’s car now, heading toward the manor house. He’d wanted to etherically transport, but she insisted on coming along to ensure the spell had worked. The plan was to drop him at the gates, wait while he collected his things, and follow him back to the cottage. For insurance, she’d brought along the poppet and a very serious looking hatpin, a vintage piece with a smiling crescent moon and three stars. If Shelob gave him any trouble, she planned to jab the poppet like a voodoo doll. He’d wickedly suggested she target the doll’s crotch, to give Shelob a taste of her own warped medicine. She’d protested, insisting it was too cruel. He shook his head. Too cruel? Bloody hell. His balls still smarted from that fucking paddle. At the same time, though, he’d found her benevolence endearing.

  Not as altruistic, he found it hard to overlook offences. Branwen, Fitzgerald, that idiot who’d attacked her outside the pub, even her housemate. Hell, he still harbored ill will toward Caitriona’s father for packing her off to a convent instead of protecting her and their unborn son.

  Shaking his head to dispel his grievances, he rerouted his thoughts to what lay ahead. Before setting off, he’d rung the caretaker at Tur-nan-Deur. Not having been back to Druimdeurfait since the 1970s, he’d never met the man. MacCabe had been hired by his solicitor, the same man who managed his trust and kept his records up to date, including his birth certificate and passport. Fortunately, a couple of long-standing firms in Edinburgh catered to the special legal needs of his kind.

  MacCabe had informed him there was a wedding party in residence just now, so he’d best delay his arrival for a day or two. That suited him fine, actually, because it afforded the opportunity to revisit some of his favorite historic sites: Stirling Castle, where he’d trained after joining the Argyle & Sutherland. Bannockburn, where Robert the Bruce won Scotland’s freedom from the English back in 1314; Falkirk, where his Granda lost his leg fighting with the Bonny Prince and, of course, Culloden, the devastating defeat that forever changed the Highland way of life.

  * * *

  Through the imposing iron gates, she watched the house, dark except for the porch lamps. Please let him be quick and have no backlash from Branwen. Stomach tightly knotted, she squeezed the poppet, still in her hand. She actually rather liked his suggestion about stabbing it in the crotch. It was mean, but, in her opinion, that evil bitch deserved no less.

  She heaved a sigh. It was hard to believe anyone was capable of such deliberate cruelty, though at some level she knew people were capable of all sorts of terrible things. Just look at the world. War, genocide, rape, terrorism, torture, murder. And that was just the icing. The underlying cake was a festering cesspool of greed, fear, hatred, selfishness, and malice.

  Movement above the front-door portico jolted her from her thoughts. As she strained to see what it was, Graham stepped onto the porch with Wallace and Bruce on leashes. He’d changed into his kilt and was pulling one of those suitcases on wheels. As he came down the steps, fighting to keep the dogs under control, he looked so human, and so handsome, she couldn’t help smiling.

  A flutter of motion drew her eyes back to the roof. Shadow bathed the area, so she couldn’t make out what was there. She stared for a long moment, squinting and straining, but saw nothing. Her gaze climbed higher, past the dormers and up the steep incline of slate tiles. Still nothing. Shaking it off, she told herself it was probably just a fruit rat or a feral cat.

  Lowering her gaze, she watched him walk toward the carriage house, dogs leading, suitcase trailing. Her breath caught when she saw something swoop toward him from the portico. Something large and dark. A raven. Rage spread through her like wildfire. Glaring down at the poppet in her hand, she ground out through clenched teeth, “May all your malevolence return to you ten-fold!”

  Lifting the pin, she aimed for the doll’s crotch and jabbed. The bird was already on him, clawing at his face with its talons. He’d let go of the dogs to fight it off. As she plunged in the pin, the raven screeched and madly flapped its wings. Seizing the advantage, he caught the bird by the tail and flung it away. It landed hard on the cobbles. In a blink, the dogs were on it, snarling like hungry wolves. He yelled at them and tried to pull them off, but they wouldn’t be deterred. One Westie grabbed the bird by the neck and ran, shaking it in his jaws as he went. The other followed, snapping at one of the wings. When he got his teeth in it, a vicious tugging match ensued.

  The head and wing tore off.

  Nausea rolled through her. Swallowing hard, she squeezed shut her eyes. As much as she despised Branwen, she couldn’t bear to watch the terriers rip her apart. Still, she’d reaped what she’d sown, hadn’t she? The spell might not have stopped her from attacking Graham, probably because they’d not yet disposed of the poppet, but it had definitely repaid her wickedness times ten.

  * * *

  There wasn’t much left of the raven by the time he got the dogs under control. Had Wallace and Bruce known somehow that the bird was the woman who kicked them and locked them up? He felt terrible about what had happened, but didn’t doubt she’d have stopped at nothing to keep him.

  He shot a wary glance at the house. How to tell Benedict? It wouldn’t be right to run off to Scotland without informing his friend of Branwen’s unfortunate demise. Thankfully, she hadn’t turned back into her human form like all those shifters on the telly. The sight of her torn limb from limb would have been more than he could bear. He’d known her a long while, after all, and wasn’t completely devoid of feeling. She just hadn’t known how to take no for an answer.

  He loaded the dogs and his suitcase into the Range Rover, pulled around to the front, and got out, giving Cat a wave before going back into the house. His gut was tight as he climbed the stairs. Would he find Benedict alone? How would his friend take the news? The O’Lyrs had been stingy with the details of their lives, but in a couple of drunken moments, Benedict had mentioned being from Wales and of royal blood.

  There was an old folktale about a lass named Branwen who was given in marriage by her brothers to the king of Ireland. Because of some perceived insult, the king abused the sister and, when the brothers learned of this, they attacked Ireland. All but a handful died, including one of Branwen’s brothers. He wondered sometimes if the O’Lyrs might be they.

  Upon reaching Benedict’s bedchamber, he knocked softly. He heard movement inside and a few minutes lat
er, his friend opened the door, hair tousled, face engraved with sleep.

  His eyes widened in surprise as he beheld Graham. “I thought you’d gone to Scotland.”

  “Aye well,” he muttered, dreading what he came to say. “That was the plan. But your sister had other ideas, didn’t she?”

  “Who is it, baby?” It was a female voice from inside the room, which he recognized as belonging to Cat’s saucy housemate.

  “It’s only Graham, dearest. Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep, all right? Not that you need any beauty rest.”

  Graham made a face at the syrupy and completely out-of-character exchange. Was Benedict actually smitten with the lass? If so, it would be a first. The gancanaugh stepped into the hall and shut the door. Should he tell him about Avery’s overture as well as his sister’s death? Probably not. Avery’s faithlessness was against her girlfriend, after all, not her lover, who she’d only just met at the time. Besides, the gancanaugh could more than take care of himself where the other sex was concerned. If anyone needed warning, it was probably Avery. But she was on her own.

  “It’s about your sister.” Searching for his next words, he raked his fingers through his hair. “She attacked me just now…out in the yard…in her raven form...and, well,”—he heaved a sigh—“it grieves me deeply to have to tell you this, but...I’m afraid the dogs got her.”

  Benedict’s brow creased. “The dogs?”

  “Aye.” He swallowed. “My dogs. And it wasn’t pretty.”

  “Is she...?”

  “Aye. I’m afraid so.”

  Benedict, wearing a pained expression, reached out and touched his arm, a reassuring gesture. “It’s all right, mate. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Aye, well. Be that as it may, I’m still off to Scotland on the morrow…but now taking the lass along. Would you be a pal and let Avery know?”

  “Of course,” Benedict said, his expression solemn.

  Swallowing, Graham extended his hand. “I guess that’s it then.”

  They shook, biting back their feelings. Graham had never been one for emotional displays. Besides, with any luck, he’d be back for the rest of his things one day, so this wasn’t necessarily the end of their friendship.

  “What shall I do with her...remains?”

  “Leave that to me.” Benedict heaved a sigh. “I went to war for her once, you know, against a king who would make a scullery maid of his own queen over some perceived slight.” He sighed again and shook his head. “Branwen was a lovely, sweet-tempered lass back then. And knowing how many brave lads gave their lives to avenge her honor was more than she could bear. On the voyage home, she died of a broken heart. To save her, I summoned Morgan La Fey and traded my soul for my sister’s life. Back then, she was worth the sacrifice...but too many years and disappointed hopes turned her into a cruel and covetous creature.” He paused to lick his lips. “It grieves me to speak ill of my own flesh and blood, but I believe what’s happened is for the best.”

  So, he’d been right about the O’Lyrs. They had been the brother and sister from the folktale. “Aye, well.” Graham had to force the words through his thickening throat. “I’m still sorry, Benedict. Truly.”

  Benedict shrugged. “It sounds to me like she had it coming.”

  Pressing his lips together, Graham stepped away and turned toward the stairs. She did, actually, but it still seemed a bloody shame.

  Chapter 17: Masturbation is a Mortal Sin

  When Cat opened her eyes, the room was bright enough to make her squint. Head still fuzzy from sleep, it took a moment for reality to dawn. She was in her own bed. Branwen was dead. She’d followed him back to her place after he’d broken the news to Benedict. He’d been with Avery, who she’d almost forgiven. Almost, but not quite. Graham seemed down when they got back and disinterested in physical relations. Not that she blamed him, given all he’d endured.

  But where is he now?

  Pushing up on an elbow, she looked around. Judging by the hush, he wasn’t in the room or the flat. Alarm prickled. Oh, no. Had he left for Scotland without her? The tingling became a sharp stab. Leaping out of bed, she pulled on her robe and dashed into the hall. He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. She looked out the window overlooking the back garden. There was no sign of him. Tears threatened, tightening her throat. She sucked in a breath to steel herself. With it came the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee.

  Rounding on the coffee pot, she saw the full carafe. Relief doused the fear burning in her belly. If he’d left without her, would he have made coffee first? Deciding he wouldn’t, she relaxed a little and poured herself a cup. Taking it to the front window, she peered out. The sight greeting her triggered an onrush of relief. There he was on the front lawn playing with Wallace and Bruce. A smile bloomed across her face. One of these days, she’d have to buy them a special treat as thanks for getting rid of Branwen. Now, if only they could do the same with Gerard Fitzgerald.

  As she sipped her coffee and watched him romp with the dogs, she began to daydream about the future. Would they get married? Would they move to his castle? She’d rather enjoy living in a Scottish castle, but what would they do for money? He must have something to live on, but was it enough to support the two of them? And what about her career? Could she get a teaching job in Scotland? She let out a sigh. Their future together still hinged on defeating Fitzgerald and breaking his curse, so she mustn’t get too far ahead of herself.

  Seeing him heading back inside, she went to the door to greet him.

  “Good morning.” She lifted her cup. “Thanks for making coffee.”

  “You’re welcome.” He crouched to unleash the dogs, which panted hard from the exercise. They were so adorable, she couldn’t help grinning at them. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Well, yes.” She sipped her coffee. “Enough, no.”

  Frowning with concern, he asked, “Do you want to go back to bed for a bit?”

  She batted her eyes at him. “Is that an invitation?”

  He grinned. “If I came with, you wouldn’t get any rest.”

  “Promise?”

  “Believe me, lass, I’d like nothing better than to spend the day shagging, but don’t you need to take care of a bit of business before we set off?”

  Shit. After all that went down last night, she’d forgotten about work. Still, it was early, leaving more than enough time to shag at least once. He’d not been in the mood last night for obvious reasons, but what about now?

  “Have you showered?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Then, come.” Taking his hand, she tugged him toward the hallway. “I’ll wash your back.”

  When he didn’t resist, her hope blossomed. She led him down the hall to the bathroom, letting go of his hand as she entered. “Have you ever showered with anyone before?”

  “I can’t say as I have.” He said it from the doorway with a tense laugh. “Unless you count the communal showers in the military.”

  Bending over the tub, she turned on the taps. Should she bring up the war? He’d opened the door, but was this the time? What if it ruined the mood? And, given what she’d read, how could it not?

  Deciding to leave it for now, she retrieved a bottle of bubble bath from underneath the counter. As she poured it into the water, the pleasant fragrance of comingled lavender and vanilla filled the room. He stripped in the doorway, saying nothing. Biting her lip, she let her gaze roam over his physique.

  As desire ripened, she shut off the faucet and shed her robe, aware of his eyes on her. With a sultry smile, she held out her hand in invitation. As he took it, she stepped into the water. It was deliciously warm and aromatic. He stepped in behind her, put his arms around her, and pulled her against him. As he ran his hands down the front of her body, his mouth made love to her neck.

  “You’re very bonny,” he whispered between nibbles. “Do you know that?”

  Her face got as hot as the water. “Shall we sit?”<
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  As they sank together into the bubbles, she lay back against his chest, feeling as if she’d died and gone to heaven. She closed her eyes, relaxing into the feeling. When she opened them and twisted her neck to look up at him, she found him watching her with tenderness in his eyes.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “How good you feel.”

  She smiled. “Funny, I was thinking the exact same thing.”

  He reached for the soap and lathered his hands before returning it to the dish. Putting his soapy hands on her neck, he began to massage, working his way to her shoulders. He moved down her arms, caressing as he scrubbed. Her breath hitched as his soapy fingers teased her nipples. Lust hooked her womb and tugged. As his hand moved lower, she parted her legs. When he began to work her sweet spot, she moaned with pleasure. Behind her, pressed between them, she could feel his growing erection.

  For some reason, she thought of the magazines she’d found in his bedside table. Heather with her oversized breasts and shorn pubis. She conjured a picture of him in bed with the magazine, touching himself. The image titillated. Solo videos of masturbating men were her favorite kind of porn.

  “Graham,” she whispered. “Do you ever, well, pleasure yourself?”

  An indignant scoff tore from his throat. “Of course not. Masturbation is a mortal sin.”

  He sounded serious, but how could he be? What about the dirty magazines in his nightstand? She didn’t believe for a minute he bought them for the articles. Not that she could call him out without giving away her snooping.

  “And why is that, do you suppose? I mean, isn’t it a bit like putting a fabulous toy within reach, then forbidding a child to touch it on pain of eternal damnation? If you ask me, it’s just cruel and senseless.”

  He laughed, but didn’t say anything.