by Carmen Caine
A chill shivered up my spine.
An ally. A friend. And in the most unexpected of places and at the most desperately needed of times.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Perhaps Fate had not abandoned me after all.
“I will find her, Lady Rowle,” Tabitha’s voice echoed against my musings. “I will protect her and hers. I am young. I will see the next latchling born.”
Tears burnt my lashes. I heard the sincerity in her voice. I knew she spoke the truth.
She stepped back, a hard scowl etched on her brow, and then approaching Lord Rowle, she gave a low, sweeping bow. “The child belongs to this house, Lord Rowle,” she said in slow, measured words. “Your bloodline is as it should be.”
Truth. She’d spoken the truth, but he heard only what he wanted. His shoulders visibly relaxed and a smile pulled at his lips.
Behind him, the nobles applauded, and as Lord Rowle moved my way, the Rowle House Drake vanished.
I never saw her again.
Immense pride lit Lord Rowle’s face as he took the babe from my arms, but then his gaze locked on my eyes. “Your eyes,” he said, noting they still remained a dull blue.
Marie had swathed me in spells, providing the illusion I still belonged with the Charmed, but I could not risk a deep probing. “Your son is powerful, Lord Rowle,” I misdirected him. “I still need rest.”
That pleased him, and I knew not only for his son’s power, but for my weakness.
“Rest, then,” he said and taking the babe with him, strode away to join those assembled to greet the new Rowle, princeling of the Charmed.
I knew what his carelessness towards me meant. He truly had no need for me now. I’d suspected before, but now I knew. He would find some way to dispose of me and quickly. I had precious little time to execute my plan.
Marie appeared at my side then, guiding me into the castle and up the narrow staircase to my chambers with its fresh herb-strewn rushes. The air smelled light and sweet. Fat candles flickered on the table. At least someone in this place still respected me even if its lord did not.
It wasn’t until I sat down that I breathed a silent sigh of relief.
I’d made it back to Dunnottar, and I’d not only successfully delivered the changeling, but Fate had kindly given me a protector for my babe as well. Clearly, the powerful forces of destiny were at play.
But now?
Now I entered the deadliest phase of my plan.
Marie disappeared, but returned a moment later with an elaborate meal and an ornate silver flask filled with honeyed mead. “Eat,” she said kindly. “You’ll need your strength, my lady.”
I would. I freshened up and changed first, selecting a bronze-colored gown with a square neckline, and then as I ate, I asked, “Any news of Jacques?”
“Not yet,” she said.
I nodded. Jacques would not fail me. He would be here this night. He had to be.
“Esmeralda?” I asked next.
A soft thump from behind answered in Marie’s stead, and I whirled to see the black cat standing behind me, her green eyes meeting mine, unblinking.
“It is dangerous to stay so long in cat form, Esmerelda,” I pointed out, moving to kneel by her side and rub behind her ears. “There may be a time you cannot leave it.”
A moment later, she shifted into her wizened devilkin form. “You can no longer hear my voice,” she commented dispassionately. “I have come to warn you. The path you tread is a foolish one.”
“Which path is this?” I asked. I hadn’t yet spoken of my true path to anyone.
“He will sense your power has gone,” she answered, hunching on the floor and wrapping her brown, stick-like arms around her thin legs. “No water witch spell can hide such a thing from the Hell Kind, nor one such as he.”
I knew ‘he’ meant Emilio, but like her, I did not wish to mouth his name. “Then I must not meet him,” I replied stubbornly. “I need access to his Hell Stone only. It is here, or else you would not be.”
“And what would you do with it?” she asked, tilting her head curiously to one side.
I couldn’t tell her. Not yet. I couldn’t risk her refusing to help. “I must study it first,” I said.
“You are powerless,” she observed coolly, as only a cat could.
“I have knowledge,” I disagreed. “I have learned much in the Stonehenge Druid vaults. I know something that may turn the tide in our favor.”
She perked up at that, but she didn’t press further. “Then be ready at nightfall, foolish human,” her little voice taunted mildly.
Nightfall? “Why so late?” I asked, shaking my head. Nightfall would be far too dangerous.
“He lies with the Hell Stone in the bowels of the castle during the day,” she informed. Already, her feet were melting into the paws of a black cat. “He would wake and destroy you, should you venture there, even before the sun sets.”
I couldn’t ask her more. She’d scarcely finished the sentence before she’d resumed cat form to sit at my feet and tuck her paws beneath her chest.
“Very well, then,” I murmured.
It wouldn’t matter.
Jacques and the wolves would be there.
Scooping her up in my arms, I moved to the bed. I needed rest. The night would prove an eventful one. I didn’t let myself dwell on what those events might be.
We sat there on the comforter, her and I, both lost in our own thoughts. Mine? For a time, I absently twirled a long strand of hair betwixt my fingers and thought of Dorian, but when it grew too painful, I lay back and forced my eyes to close.
I had to rest.
I knew with certainty that this night would be my last, just as I knew I would soon need every ounce of strength I possessed to accomplish my task.
“For you, my sweet daughter,” I whispered soundlessly. “And for our latchling, far in the future.”
I would not fail them.
I could not.
Clearing my mind, I closed my lashes and willed sleep to come.
* * *
Esmeralda hissed and with a growl, sprang away.
Startled, I bolted up from the bed and glanced around.
Had I truly fallen asleep?
The room around me appeared empty. Esmeralda had vanished in the evening shadows lengthening in the room. I’d slept nearly the entire day. Very soon, the sun would sink below the horizon.
“You’re awake,” a voice said from the antechamber nearby.
Lord Rowle.
My breath caught in my throat. I glanced around again, this time looking for some sort of weapon. I would not enter that antechamber unarmed.
I heard his footsteps approach. Not having much choice, I settled for the nearest thing. The silver flask of honeyed mead that Marie had brought. At least it was heavy.
I’d just managed to hide it behind my back as Lord Rowle appeared in the bedchamber’s doorway. “I was never deceived by your smooth tongue,” he announced coldly. “You’ve been lying to me, little witch.”
I didn’t answer. I had deceived him on so many accounts, I knew not which one he spoke of.
Our gazes locked. Such a cold, disdainful man, bedecked in an overabundance of finery but lacking severely in emotions of any kind. Relief flooded through me at the thought I would never again have to suffer his touch.
Lifting a dark brow, he slowly glanced over his shoulder and beckoned with a finger.
Someone moved behind him and he stepped aside, allowing me to see.
Marie.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Marie jerked towards me, her arms outspread and her legs marching stiffly up and down. Her eyes cried out to me, speaking volumes even as her mouth remained shut.
Lord Rowle drew something out of his pocket then. A doll. A small wooden puppet fashioned in Marie’s likeness, freckles and all. He shook it, roughly.
My Marie spasmed, her legs and arms flailing, mimicking the puppet’s macabre movements.
&nbs
p; I drew a long, shaking breath. He’d cursed Marie with his particular brand of evil magic.
“You are no match for me,” he snorted, reading the distress I could not hide.
He had me. With both knew it. No matter what I would say, he would destroy Marie in front of me. “We may be powerless, but our spirits cannot be bridled by the likes of you,” I whispered, seeing the sentiment mirror in Marie’s red-rimmed eyes.
Lord Rowle chuckled. Suspending the small puppet to one side, he made it walk and Marie followed him woodenly, as he sauntered over to the small table where I’d eaten my morning meal.
He’d brought his chessboard and its pieces. “Shall we play then?” he asked, pointing to the game.
I gripped the heavy silver flask tightly with one hand. “For?” I asked, wondering the true nature of his game.
Lord Rowle seemed more amused than anything else. “Your life,” he said and pointed to Marie. “And hers.”
I knew very well that he’d never let me win. He’d designed the ploy to torture, to draw out his enjoyment. He wanted to watch me sweat.
I walked over to the chessboard and with one hand, tipped it onto the floor, sending the pieces flying in all directions.
“Foolish woman,” he grated, though clearly, a little surprised.
“I don’t have time for games,” I said. And I didn’t. Emilio would be free soon. I had to avoid him at all costs. I didn’t have a choice. Marie and I both knew that.
She smiled at me with her eyes, even as the rest of her body stood stiff, caught in Lord Rowle’s spell.
But my husband’s cruelty knew no bounds. He caught our exchange and with a twist of his wrist, jiggled Marie’s puppet.
She shivered and gasped, as if sucking air into burning lungs.
“Stop it,” I whispered, tightly clutching the silver flask behind my back.
Lord Rowle’s lip lifted in a smile of cold calculation.
It was over before I could truly register what happened.
He lifted the puppet to wring it with both hands, twisting it as one wrings water from a cloth.
Marie’s sharp cry ended in a gurgling gasp as she fell to the floor in a whimpering, crumped heap, her bones broken and twisted. I watched, numb with shock as her head dropped to the floor and a red pool of blood began to fan out on the flagstones beneath her.
Lord Rowle chuckled, a dark lock of silver-threaded hair drooped over his brow.
“No!” I choked.
Fury and rage caught hold of me then, seizing me like a desperate, wild animal backed into a corner. With a grip, strong and sure, I swung the heavy silver flask hard, just as he stepped forward to smirk at me.
I caught him unprepared, knocking his head back at an angle, the air whistling as he sucked it between his teeth. I couldn’t contain the force of rage blinding me. It gave me strength and quickened my reflexes, even as I heard Marie gasping the words of a spell, seeking to protect me even as she lay dying on the floor.
The thought of Marie deepened my rage even more and I reached for the dagger on his belt.
Lord Rowle tried to stop me, but between my attack and Marie’s spell, we’d miraculously managed to daze him.
I didn’t hesitate. He was powerful. Already, he’d begun to straighten, shaking off Marie’s spell, but I was too quick for him. Faster than the eye could see, I unsheathed his dagger and, swinging the flask again, cracked his jaw and plunged his own blade deep into his heart.
He staggered back and when he looked at me, I saw the first genuine flicker of fear in his eyes. Yanking the knife from where it had caught on his bone, I raised it again, driving it deep even as I bludgeoned him yet again with the flask.
He fell back, hitting the floor with full force. Still, I attacked, not stopping until his struggling legs suddenly relaxed. I stood over him then, his bloodied face and chest lying cold as a marble statue on the flagstone floor.
I shuddered, letting both the knife and flask go, and as they clanged to the ground, I turned away from that cruel man, not knowing if he still lived. I had so much more to think about, so much more to do.
But first, I had to see to Marie.
“Emilio stirs,” she gasped as I dove to her side, agony from her wounds interlacing with panic in her voice. “Esmeralda … says you must … leave. At once!”
Leave? How could I? Tears cascaded from my eyes. I didn’t want to leave her. She was dying. We both knew it.
“I’ll be fine,” she lied, attempting to shove me away with words since she could no longer move. “Go! You … have no choice! Too much … at stake.”
She was right. I knew it. But I could not leave my Marie to die alone. Instead, I cradled her in my arms. A tear slid down my cheek to fall upon her upturned face, mingling with her own tears and life’s blood draining away.
She moaned, closing her eyes. Her lips began to form the words of a spell, but she spoke in words I could no longer understand.
“No spells.” I wept. “No magic. It will only hasten your end.”
But even I said the words, a flash of light blinded me and the next moment, a small, tear-shaped stone rolled to the floor.
“Take it,” Marie gasped weakly. “’Tis a watermark, my lady.”
A watermark. The most powerful spell a water witch could cast, one woven with their tears and dying breath.
Picking up the stone, I held it in awe. It was beautiful, glowing white like a small, tear-shaped moon in the gathering darkness.
“Not bad … for such a …poor water witch as I,” she laughed in huffing breaths. “But then … ‘tis your tears … with my own. ‘Twill be a … watermark of the most powerful … kind. Leave … a message for your … latchling…”
It was a great gift. Watermarks broke, as all spells do, the moment the casting witch died, but watermarks left an image, like words on a page. They were the perfect message, written in mana, a message that could be carried down through time. My chance to pass a message on to my latchling in the future, a message he just might receive.
“Be … quick,” she urged, her voice sounding faint.
Already, I could see she struggled to focus her eyes. I had little time, but the thought of losing my dear Marie rendered me speechless.
Oh, my Marie knew me well. Frowning as best she could, she ordered me, “Help … your latchling! Hurry! Tell … him what he faces.”
I knew she was right. She had only moments of life left before the spell would unleash, burning its magical message into whatever it touched. Quickly, I looked for a suitable item, something that could last seven hundred years, and seeing only the silver flask, grabbed it to lay the stone upon its cold, metallic surface.
Marie coughed.
Emotion nearly strangled me. Soon, my Marie would be gone. If only I could stop this nightmare. If only I could stop time itself.
I knew then what my message would be then.
Hope.
I would leave my latchling hope.
“You are a latchling of the Stonehenge Druids,” I whispered to the stone, knowing that if my daughter had already forgotten her heritage, my future latchling would never know or understand what lurked in his blood. Without knowing, how could he control such power?
“Quickly,” Marie whispered through white lips.
With a deep, wavering breath, I continued, “You are a latchling of promise, you carry within you my power and that of your mother and her descendants through time. Hold yourself to the highest code of honor, follow the strongest sense of justice, and become a warlock whiter than snow, and you will realize our hopes, for what we have fought and lost our lives for. The key is the Hell Stone, within it lies Mindbreaker’s secret. Find that and he is undone. But remember this, dearest latchling, you do not fight alone. There are those you can trust, those who have helped me who will help you as well. You will know them by these words. Honor. Justice. Forever. Never fading throughout the long march of time.”
I had so much more to say, but at that moment, I fel
t Marie go limp in my arms.
Tears blurred my vision. I wept, my shoulders shaking. I wept for too long, I know that. ‘Twas a blunder of the worst kind, but a blunder I would make again.
Coming to my senses, I forced myself to move.
Already, the sun poised on the horizon. Soon, Emilio would be moving about.
“I’m sorry, Marie,” I whispered, letting her go and regretting the fact I must leave her lying there unattended.
I rose to my feet before remembering the watermark, but to my astonishment, the tear-shaped stone still lay there, it’s spell yet untriggered.
Hope sprang to my breast, hope that Marie still lived, but with one look, I knew ‘twas a false hope, indeed. Already, her skin felt cool.
Astonished and bewildered, I grabbed the glowing watermark and, tucking it in my pocket, ran for the door. I could grieve later. Now, I had to find the Hell Stone and Esmeralda to convince in the opening of the thing so that I might learn the Mindbreaker’s secret.
And I had to be quick, before anyone discovered Lord Rowle lying on my bedchamber floor.
I flew down the stairs, but at the bottom of the first flight, I heard a whispered warning.
“Run,” came Esmeralda’s voice from the shadows. “He approaches the bottom stair.”
I ran up the stairs, hoping the sun still lingered enough to dissuade his pursuit, but I knew already it was too late for that. It was night already. Emilio was on the prowl.
Darting into my chambers, I bolted the door, but it didn’t last. Only a moment later, the door exploded, blowing me back against the wall.
Emilio strode inside, clothed from head to toe in black velvet. Taking one look at Lord Rowle’s body, he swung an angry gaze over me. “Do you know what you've done?” he began, but then his expression altered. “Your eyes.”
I closed them, even though I knew it made little difference. He’d be able to sense my lack of mana easily enough.
