Maggie looked down at Iain's prone form. Had he been angry too? At her?
"So tonight..." she pointed weakly toward Iain.
"So tonight I possessed Iain Grant. And his body would remain mine once the spell was completed."
"Why Iain?!" Maggie demanded. "Why steal his body forever?"
The demon sneered at this display of concern and defiance.
"Anyone would have done—any strong, young man." Frothy drool fell to the ground. "And earlier tonight, when it came time to select my victim and my new host, I sensed a confrontation. I was drawn to you and Iain in the pub. You were yelling at him, embarrassing him in front of everyone. And after he'd done so much for you: driven you across Scotland and back, skipped work to be with you, and never once questioned your motives. And then you went and yelled at him. He was very embarrassed. And very angry. And very vulnerable to me."
Maggie was numb. The thought that she had been partially responsible for Iain's possession—and current helplessness—made her nauseous. She had had no right to yell at him like that. But she had had no idea it would come to this.
"So you would be my final victim," the demon continued. "I would graft onto Iain Grant and I would be able once again to play with this world and its inhabitants. But now," the mouth curved into something disturbingly similar to a smile as more saliva fell to the ground, "now I do not need a weak human flesh-bag as a host. I will have my own body. Your magic will make my body solid."
Maggie shook her head in incomprehension even as the monster pounded mutely on its contorted, scarlet chest. "I can feel it. Your one spell has given my form semi-permanence. You are of this world but wield the magic from mine. You are the bridge. You will bring me here. I will be free." Another guttural laugh escaped its throat as it looked down at its glowing, horrific body. "I will be unstoppable!"
Maggie just stood there, frozen.
"Come, Maggie. Use your magic. Make me real." It raised its hand and looked through its half-corporeal fingers. "If you do not," it kicked at Iain, whose form was jarred only somewhat by the foot that disappeared into his torso, "I am already real enough to kill you where you stand. I will rip pieces of your body off one at a time until you beg me to let you use the magic."
Oh... My... God! What do I do? Maggie fought against the panic that threatened to enshroud her. Apparently she didn't dare use the magic, but she had no other weapons. Damned if I do. Dead if I don't.
"Maggie Devereaux," the demon's voice seemed to penetrate into her very soul.
"What?!" She was trying to think of something—anything.
"You know me." Another large piece of bubbling saliva fell from its glowing red lips. "You have visited me in your dreams."
And Maggie knew it was true. It was the demon from her dream. The one who had linked arms with her as they had drunk Iain's blood.
The demon held up a transparent crimson claw in invitation. "Join me."
Maggie was stunned. "Join you?!" she shrieked in panicked disbelief.
"You wield my magic. Make me real willingly and I will teach you to use it. I know the magic. You can know it too. Join me."
Maggie just stared at the demon, unsure what to think. Or say. Or do.
"I will teach you," it repeated, its evil voice echoing inside her head. "You will have whatever you desire. Money. Fame. Power." It looked through its leg at Iain. "Even him. Or any other mate you want."
Maggie was surprised by what she said next. "How do I know I can trust you?"
The demon laughed. "You can't know that. But I will give you my word just the same."
Maggie blinked at the demon, her mind and heart racing.
"I know you want the full power of the magic," the beast coaxed. "I feel your desire. I can sate it."
Maggie couldn't believe she was considering the offer. But the demon was right: she did want the full power of the magic. And she knew there was so much more to it than was to be found in that one spellbook. Her last spell had confirmed that.
She didn't want money. She didn't want fame. She didn't want power. She wasn't even sure she wanted Iain.
But she wanted the magic.
And there it was, ripe for the taking, its full potential hovering and glowing before her face—just as the candle had done so many weeks ago.
What should she do? No one else was around. No one would know. Sinclair and Iain were out cold. Maybe she could talk the demon out of killing them. Maybe she could take the demon up on its offer, but then double cross it once she'd learned enough of the magic.
The magic.
It was as if her entire trip to Scotland had led her to this point. Stumbling across the spellbook, the chance meeting with Sinclair, the murders that spurned her into trying the magic. And the demon from her dreams who stood before her offering limitless access to limitless power. Had Grandma known all that? Could she possibly have wanted Maggie to ally with a demon? Finding the spellbook couldn't have been a coincidence. And the magic worked. And Maggie knew the demon was telling the truth when he said the magic was from his demonic world. It explained the horrific dreams which hadn't scared her quite enough. It explained the explosive anger which had seized her at any attack on her ancestry or her right to use the magic. And it explained the sweet rush which filled her veins at the slightest possibility of battle.
She remembered that day in the subbasement when she had first read the cover. 'The Dark Book of Rites and Damnation.' If she was supposed to find the book, didn't that mean she was supposed to learn the dark magic? And if she was supposed to learn dark magic, why not learn it from its source—even if that source was a terrifying nine-foot tall demon? Was that the NicInnes legacy? A healer wielding dark magic? Her daughter burned for doing the same?
Suddenly, Maggie really wished her grandmother were there.
She stared up at the crimson devil before her, his clawed hand extended so invitingly. It would be so easy to take a hold of it and finally learn all there was to know about the beautiful, glorious magic.
Then Maggie remembered her grandmother's last words: 'As long as you stay true to what's right, I will always be with you.'
'Stay true.'
Be Traist.
"What say you?" The murderous claw stretched still further toward her own raised hand.
And Maggie Devereaux decided.
Then she saw a light open up in the sky behind the demon. At first she thought it was the moon coming out from behind clouds, but then she remembered there were no clouds, and the moon was new. The yellow-white light swelled and then diffused away, revealing the glowing form of a beautiful young woman floating in the sky behind the demon. It was the woman from the vision Maggie had seen spring forth from the clan crest pendant.
The woman's lips parted, and Maggie heard her grandmother's voice in her ears.
"Transmutation," was all she said.
Maggie's heart sank. Anything but that. She swallowed hard and looked again at the semi-solid beast before her. But it might just work.
"What will it be, Maggie Devereaux?" The demon took a menacing step toward her. "Power or pain?"
Maggie didn't say anything, but instead raised her hands and thought the simple levitation spell. She could feel the spell flow from her fingertips and watched as the demon rose only slightly off the ground, then flared a blinding red, before again lowering to the earth. Fully corporeal. Fully real.
"Ha-ha!" it shouted triumphantly. "Yes! I am real! I am here!" It pointed at Maggie. "You are wise."
"You are dead," she replied, and unleashed the transmutation spell.
There are times when one doesn't mind having to try something for the first time. And there are times when one doesn't mind trying something again which has failed in the past. Times when the stakes aren't very high. When failure means little more than a friendly chuckle and a pat on the back before turning off the grill and ordering pizza. But the stakes here couldn't have been higher. Maggie's very life was at stake. And the lives of her unconscio
us companions, and those of countless residents of Aberdeen and beyond, should this demon escape past her. But she had never been able to get the transmutation spell to work before. And she was terrified she wouldn't be able to now. Normally that doubt might have been enough to ensure failure. 'Ability to use the magic comes from belief in it.' But the doubt was swallowed by the enormity of the stakes, and the knowledge that she had no choice but to succeed.
The spell sprang forth.
The demon cried out in agony. Its voice seemed to echo off the very sky itself. Maggie watched in victorious horror as smoke and fire flared from the sinews and bones of the hideous beast before her. The flames blinded her eyes. The smoke burned her nostrils. She turned away, the screams of agony still piercing her ears. There was one last scream, then it stopped. And then the crackling and popping stopped too. A final hiss dissipated into the black night. Maggie looked up.
Before her stood a nine foot tall stone statue of the demon who had tempted her. Whose presence had originally been summoned by the murdered children of Glenninver. Who had possessed Devan Sinclair. Who had murdered Annette Graham and Fionna FitzSimmons and Kelly Anderson. Who had possessed Iain in order to murder Maggie. Who had been drawn fully into this plane, his body made real. And whose flesh Maggie had just turned to stone.
Had it not been so large and so grotesque, it would have seemed as any other grave marker. And in a way it was a gravestone. For there died the demon who had terrorized two cities across two decades. And there ended the murders in Aberdeen.
Maggie sat down on the frozen earth and dropped her head into her hands. All was quiet for a very long time. Looking up again to the black sky, she confirmed that the vision of her grandmother was gone—although Maggie had no doubt she would see her again. Finally, she heard a groan and looked to see Sinclair stirring. He leaned up onto his elbows and rubbed the back of his head.
"M—Maggie? What—What happened?"
Maggie jerked a thumb toward the statue. "It's over," she said simply.
Sinclair stood up slowly, his hand to the back of his neck, and just stared at the statue. Maggie watched him, but he was oblivious to her gaze. Eventually she saw his eye flash and a single tear traced the scar down the side of his face.
"The demon—" he started.
"Gone," Maggie answered. "For good this time. It's the same one you and Jared summoned?" she confirmed.
"Me?" Sinclair's moist eyes shot back to Maggie's darkened visage. "No. It was Jared. He—"
"Found a book," Maggie finished his sentence, thinking of the coffee—or blood?—stained text Sinclair had refused to sell her.
"Yes," Sinclair confirmed. "It detailed ancient demonological rites."
"Including summoning spells." These weren't really questions. Not anymore.
"Yes," Sinclair shook his head, "but they weren't supposed to be real, just an academic cataloging." He stared into the black toward the demon statue. "I remember when he first showed me the spell. Page 126. It was horrible. I laughed and told him it would never work. And he just looked down and said, 'Aye. But what if it did?'"
And then for the first time since she'd met him, Maggie saw Sinclair shrug. A defeated, tired shrug. "I found him, but it was too late. Too late for Heather. I ran at him, pushed him away—and that's the last thing I remembered."
"Until your parents died."
"It took the death of my parents," Sinclair raised himself up again, "their death at my own possessed hands, to rouse me into consciousness. I took back my body."
"Quite the feat." Maggie was sure it had been.
Sinclair didn't bother acknowledging the compliment. "The demon was trapped then. Trapped here, ethereal and impotent. It had no way back to its own realm, but it had no host either. And it would be eighteen years before the spell could be repeated."
"The moon cycle," Maggie said half to herself.
"Yes. The spell isn't for possession," Sinclair explained, his wet scar glinting dimly in the black. "It grafts a demon directly to a human host. Permanently." A smile played at his lips. "Or at least that's the intent. But to accomplish something like that, everything has to be perfect: everything must be aligned perfectly, and the spell must have had the time to ripen. It's the fourth sacrifice that completes the spell, and it must occur when the night of the new moon—completely lightless, dark as the soul being summoned—falls on the winter solstice. And that only happens once every eighteen years."
Sinclair closed his eyes and Maggie knew he was reading from memory the words which lay on page 126.
"Each victim is surrounded by the four elements, torn from her own corpse: earthy intestines; waterlogged bladder; fiery, acidic stomach; and air-pumping lungs. And each victim is oriented toward a different point on the compass, calling on the four corners of the Earth for power. The fourth victim is pointed south so that at the end of the night, when the moonless sky ends its reign over the victim's blood-drenched heart, it shines the last of its blackness past her lifeless face and into the empty carcass beyond—symbolic of the dark-souled demon coming to fill, like an empty vessel, the waiting human host."
Maggie shuddered. She was to have been the carcass; Iain the vessel.
As if perhaps sensing this thought, Iain finally stirred, twitching just slightly and let out a low "Hnnnhhh."
"Come on," Maggie urged Sinclair. "Help me get him to the church before he's fully awake."
She wasn't interested in trying to explain why they were in a graveyard in the middle of the night, who Sinclair was, or what was with the nine foot tall statue of a monstrous demon. Sinclair brought Iain to his feet as Maggie ran ahead to find the gate in the fence.
"Over here," she shouted finally, and Sinclair led the still groggy Iain to the sound of Maggie's voice.
"Thank you," she said, as Sinclair leaned Iain onto her shoulder.
Sinclair smiled. "Thank you, Maggie Devereaux."
"Will you be all right?" she asked.
Sinclair nodded strongly. "Yes. I've just one more thing to do." Then, as if reading her mind, he added, "I'll see you again."
Maggie was glad, and turned toward the church. Once through the gate, Iain started to wake fully.
"Hhnnh? M—Maggie?" he slurred. "Wh—Where are we?"
Maggie squeezed his hand as he stood fully under his own power. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Iain thought for a moment. "I was in the pub. Drinking. It was my third pint."
Maggie looked up at him, a friendly eyebrow raised.
"All right, maybe my fourth," he admitted. "Then that's it. I don't remember anything else. What happened?"
"Wow, you really did hit your head, didn't you?"
Iain raised his hand to his forehead and felt around a bit. "Hit my head?"
"Yeah," Maggie still held his other hand. "After I yelled at you, I felt bad. I shouldn't have talked to you like that. It wasn't fair. I was on my way back to the college when I ran into you. We walked along for a while, then I decided to walk through the graveyard."
"The graveyard? In the middle of the night?"
"Pretty scary, huh?" Maggie smiled. So far everything she had said had been technically true. "Well, anyway, you followed after me—of course. And I don't know, you must have tripped and hit your head on a gravestone or something."
Iain touched his head again. "I don't have any bumps," he observed.
"Yeah," she laughed. "Pretty weird, huh?"
Iain frowned at the mysterious young woman he'd befriended. "Aye. Pretty weird."
They had almost reached the church. Sure enough, the back door was propped open and light from the vestibule spilled out onto the stone path to the graveyard. As Iain hobbled inside the sanctuary, Maggie turned around and looked back to where she had left Sinclair. It was dark, but her eyes had adjusted and she could just make out the inky forms next to the mausoleum. What she didn't see was the figure behind her, standing in the shadows of the church. The figure of Elizabeth Warwick, who had been present
and observing for some time now.
And then in the cold darkness of the black Aberdeen night, both women watched silently as Devan Sinclair raised the shovel and smashed the stone demon to bits.
Epilogue
Sinclair's bookshop was gone.
Maggie had seen him once more before he'd left, as promised. It was brief and awkward. They had chatted lightly, entirely avoiding the topic of that night. Then he left Aberdeen. He hadn't said where he was going. She hadn't asked.
Spring in Scotland suited Maggie. The days were long again and the rain was far less frequent. Taking advantage of a particularly sunny afternoon, she had led Iain to an outdoor café across the street from where Sinclair's bookshop had been. While Iain waited for the barista for their drinks, Maggie found a table outside and looked across the street. Workers were hanging a 'STARBUCKS' sign over the same wooden door she had walked through months before. It seemed so long ago. She pulled the clan crest pendant out from under her blouse and dangled it in front of her face. The transmutation spell mastered, she had finally been able to remove the black smudge that had defaced the clan motto.
Iain sat down with their drinks.
"Hmph," he said, glancing over at the workers. "It's a shame to see another one of those go in. And right across from this café. I mean, good for them and their success, but I don't want to see Scotland lose all her local charm."
Maggie laughed, half to herself. "Don't worry," she said as she pulled her cappuccino over. "I've found that Scotland has plenty of charms hidden away."
Her pendant flashed in the sun as she raised the cup to her lips.
"Hey!" Iain pointed at the silver crest. "You got the smudge off."
"Yeah." She glanced down with a satisfied grin.
"How'd you do that?" He looked her earnestly in the eye.
She met his gaze just as earnestly and smiled sweetly.
"Magic."
END
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 39
