Dream Under the Hill (Oberon Book 8)

by P. G. Forte

  “Wait!” she ordered, stopping him in his tracks.

  Surprised, Liam turned his head to look at her. “What is it?”

  “Just…don’t take too long,” she said. “There’s a lot of changes happening and we all have to pitch in and help out.”

  Liam bit back a groan. How much more of this shit could he take? “What kind of changes?”

  “Big changes,” Cara promised, in a voice that tried hard to sound mysterious. “Y’ever hear of the ascension?”

  “The ascension?” Just saying the word left an ugly, bad taste in his mouth. Memories of his earliest conversation with Lauren came back to haunt him. Crap. He’d almost forgotten about that. “Yeah. I have.” But he still didn’t know what it meant, and anything he could conjecture was not reassuring.

  “Oh.” For an instant, Cara looked taken aback. Then she rallied. “Well, good. ‘Cause it’s happening soon, so we all have to get ready.”

  “When?”

  Cara shrugged. “I dunno. Like I said: soon. Gregg had a vision, or a premonition, or something.”

  “I’ll bet he did.” Acid churned in Liam’s gut, making him wish he’d taken the time to eat one of the pastries Chenoa had offered. The thought of the coming ascension, whatever that might turn out to be, had him more worried than he wanted to admit – even to himself. Especially now, with Nick unconscious and– “Hey, is Lauren still here?” he asked, praying the answer would be no, that she was hell and gone from this place, that she was home now, taking care of her daughter.

  Cara’s face turned sullen again. “Yeah. But you can’t see her.”

  “What do you mean, I can’t see her?” he demanded, matching her scowl for scowl. “Why not?”

  Cara rolled her eyes. “Because she’s in seclusion.” She drew the last word out until it became a mockery. “Gregg says she’s not supposed to be disturbed.”

  Liam sighed. “Give me a break, huh? I’m not gonna disturb her. Just– where is she? Upstairs?”

  Cara’s mouth tightened. “It doesn’t matter where she is. I just told you, you can’t–” She broke off at the sound of hurried footsteps along the upstairs landing.

  “Liam?” Lauren’s voice floated down to them. “Oh, thank God, you’re back.” She was sobbing as she stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling in her haste.

  “Clumsy bitch,” Cara murmured beneath her breath.

  Liam shot her a reproving frown as he moved toward Lauren. “What’s wrong?”

  Lauren came into his arms in a rush. Her body shook with tremors so violent they made her teeth chatter and her voice all but unintelligible. “Make her go away,” she whispered, gesturing toward Cara and cringing.

  Furious, Liam turned again to Cara. “This is your idea of not disturbed? What the hell’d you do to her?”

  Cara’s eyes blazed. “Me? What’d I do? She’s been nothing but trouble since she got here. Why can’t she leave, if she’s so unhappy? Who wants her here, anyway?”

  Lauren’s hands clenched on Liam’s arms. She glared at Cara with something close to hatred in her eyes. “Gr-Gr-Gregg does,” she replied, speaking with difficulty. “He said– said– said–” She stuttered to a stop, buried her face against Liam’s chest and began to cry. “I can’t leave.”

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Liam soothed, by no means certain that was the case. He needed to find out what was wrong, and it was clear that was not about to happen—not with Cara standing there. Meeting her eyes over Lauren’s head he asked, “Look, could you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

  Cara stared at him, in disbelief. “Can I do what?”

  He sighed impatiently. “Please?”

  She stared at him a moment longer, and then huffed out an angry breath. “Fine,” she said as she turned on her heel. “Five minutes. Then you’d better get your ass in the kitchen, and help make dinner.”

  * * *

  Cara slid the bathroom door closed behind her and leaned against it. “Dinner? Why’d I have to say that for?” She could feel herself shaking and she knew that if she didn’t get hold of herself again quick, she’d start to cry. She didn’t want Liam in the kitchen with her. Shit, why couldn’t she have found something for him to do in the basement, or up on the roof—anything to keep him away from her.

  He only had to look at her, and she felt naked all over again. Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable. Defenseless.

  The feeling sucked.

  All day she’d been fine. Better than fine. She’d been having a great time, getting the place ready for Phase Two of Gregg’s plan – whatever the fuck that was supposed to be. With Gregg’s encouragement, she’d been ordering everyone around and loving it. She’d even put Lauren in her place a time or two – though nothing like she’d wanted to do. And not the way anyone would think she had, either, after watching Lauren’s phony wounded act. It figured Liam would fall for something so stupid.

  She’d thought he was different. Smarter. Nicer. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t different at all. He was just like every guy she’d ever known.

  * * *

  Only five days to go before Easter, and Chenoa couldn’t remember the bakery ever being so busy. Orders kept pouring in over the phone for cookies shaped like bunnies or chickens or eggs, for cakes made with almonds or pine nuts or grain. Or for bread. Sweet bread or savory. Iced or un-iced. Bread with raisins, with anise, with eggs. Kulich, Paska, Pan di Pasqua, Lambropsomo. Russian, Polish, Italian, Greek – they each had their own tradition, their own special twist on Easter Bread.

  She was grateful for the work, it kept her from dwelling overmuch on her other problems. In fact, she’d probably have been able to put them out of her mind entirely, at least for several hours, if it weren’t for the well meaning interference of her friends.

  “I wish you’d stop for a minute and sit down,” her friend Ruth said, eyeing her critically. “We need to talk about this.”

  “I can’t stop right now, Ruth,” Chenoa replied, as she counted out change for a customer who’d just picked up a cake in the shape of a lamb. “I have too much work to do.”

  “Yes, you do.” Ruth nodded vigorously, ignoring the now departing customer, and the startled glance the woman tossed in her direction. “That’s exactly my point. This is not your real work, and you know it.”

  Chenoa sighed. It would be nice if they could wait to have this conversation another time – in a place and time where there were no customers to wait on. But she supposed she had no one to blame but herself. It had been a mistake telling Ruth of her decision to stop healing and counseling, and to put away her pipe. Her friend’s faith in her had always equaled or exceeded Chenoa’s belief in herself. It was hardly a surprise that Ruth had not reacted well to the news.

  But what else could she do? It wasn’t the kind of thing she could keep secret forever. “This is real work, Ruth. And there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s clean, it’s simple, it’s basic. It nourishes people. And I happen to be good at it.” Unlike everything else she’d been attempting to accomplish in the last few months.

  Ruth shook her head in disgust. “You’re also wasting your potential.” She stared at her sourly for several minutes and then added, “Look, sweetie, I know everyone suffers with self-doubt from time to time, and that can’t be helped. But to give up like this, at the first sign of trouble! I’d never have believed you’d turn out to be such a coward.”

  The words stung, and Chenoa’s first instinct was to lash out at her friend. To release her badger, unsheathe her claws and let Ruth have it—right between the eyes. But if there was one lesson she’d learned from her encounter with Liam, it was that rash words and rash actions were not always the best choice. “It’s not fear, Ruth. It’s realism. I’ve messed up, and I don’t trust myself not to do it again. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Why is that a bad thing? I think I’m acting very responsibly.”

  “Responsible,” Ruth scoffed. “You’re acting like a child. And just who is it that got hurt?”

  Cheno
a shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Besides, this is the middle of the work day, and like I said before, I don’t want–”

  “I know.” Ruth picked up her bag and got to her feet. “You don’t want to argue in front of your customers, right? Well, I can’t say I blame you for that. You do have a point, and I’m sick of trying to talk sense to you, anyway. So, don’t worry. I’m leaving.”

  Remorse swept over Chenoa as her friend headed for the door—without even a goodbye. “Ruth–”

  The older woman shook her head. “This isn’t over,” she called over her shoulder. “You might be ready to give up on yourself, but I’m not going to let you.” She paused in the doorway and looked at her sadly. “Don’t worry so much about people getting hurt. We’re all much more resilient than you realize. Besides, you’re likely worrying about nothing. I doubt anyone’s been hurt because of something you’ve done.” Then she turned again, and was gone.

  Chenoa shook her head. “No,” she murmured to the empty room. “You’re wrong about that.” Someone got hurt, all right. Me.

  * * *

  The little glade was beautiful this evening, if a trifle cool. The Redbud and Dogwood trees that dotted the surrounding woods were in full and glorious bloom, along with a few late daffodils that clustered around the edges of the rock garden, and glowed cream and orange in the deepening dusk. The air smelled of cedar from the trees that ringed the glade, of rosemary and lavender from the shrubs that ringed the cottage; a clean, pure scent that Marsha had always imagined was how heaven must smell.

  She glanced around the clearing and sighed. So many of the happiest hours of her life had been spent here in this place. This was not one of them.

  Her circle had been cast. Seeds, and colored eggs, and other symbols of the season had been readied. The directions had been called in, and she could feel Sam, already skyclad, as was she, waiting for her to begin tonight’s ceremony. But she couldn’t do it.

  It was a lie. It might be spring as far as the year or the calendar or the world – anything outside herself – was concerned, but, within her heart, it was the depths of winter. She felt empty. Barren. Lifeless. Dead.

  “Angel?” Sam’s voice was quiet, hesitant. It vibrated with something – but what? Anger? Disappointment? Pity?

  Maybe with all three, Marsha thought. She was feeling that way herself, so why shouldn’t he? And, in any case, she was tired of conjecture. Tired of trying to see beyond the surface and failing; of ripping the same old wounds open, again and again.

  What did it matter that it was spring, or that the moon was still waxing; it was time to end this farce.

  She picked up the obsidian blade she had just used to draw her circle and stared at it sadly. She had given it to Sam in a happier time, so long ago it seemed now...

  It was an elegant little thing, fashioned of rainbow obsidian – black, with an iridescent sheen, its hilt wrapped in silver wire and set with semi-precious gems. Gently, she placed it in his open palm, and folded his fingers over it.

  “As an object made of stone, it’s associated with the earth, and with the Goddess,” she explained. “On a more personal level, it represents the physical. Everything I possess, everything over which you now have rulership. Because of how it is formed, obsidian is also associated with the element fire. This piece has been shaped into a knife. And just as a wand is the tool which represents a wizard’s will, the knife represents his power. His will made manifest. But a knife is a weapon, Sam, as well as a tool, and while it can create, it can also sever. You’ve bound yourself to me with this ring and within this circle. Now, I am gifting you with the ability to cut those bonds”

  Sam’s eyes widened in alarm. “No,” he insisted, trying to hand the blade back to her. “How could you even think I’d want that? I’ve told you, time and again–”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter if you want it, Sam. It’s not what I want, either. But you need to know this. If it were ever to become necessary, or desirable, you have both the ability and the obligation to set us free.”

  “Here,” she said now, holding it out to him. “Take this.”

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked, as he reached for the knife in her hand.

  Marsha took a deep breath. “Do you remember what I told you the night I gave this to you? About what you might someday have to use it for?”

  Sam’s expression grew dark. His hand paused over hers. “Marsha, you can’t– You don’t mean–?”

  “I think that someday is now, Sam.”

  “No.” His hand dropped to his side. “No, you’re wrong. And, I won’t.”

  “You have to,” she insisted. She gestured at the circle around them. “It isn’t any good this way. Surely you can feel that, too? The bond between us is gone. We’ve lost it.” I’ve lost it. She shook her head, feeling lost herself, feeling hopeless. Tears stung her eyes. “It’s over, Sam.”

  “Angel,” Sam’s voice was soft with sympathy as he reached for her. “Stop it. Don’t say that.”

  “No,” Marsha pushed him away. She could feel anger rise to fill up the emptiness inside her heart. Anger for their loss, for their pain, for the sheer unfairness of it all. “Don’t touch me.”

  Sam’s eyes widened in hurt surprise.

  “What’s the point of it, Sam?” she demanded. “You touch me and I don’t feel anything! It’s like I’m dead inside. It’s like my body’s gone to sleep, or something. And all I can think about is what I can’t feel, what we don’t have anymore. I hate it!”

  “Gone to sleep, huh?” Sam’s face had hardened. A muscle ticked at the corner of his jaw as he nodded thoughtfully.

  Marsha couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t gone too far. Shit. “I’m sorry, Sam. I–”

  “Open the circle,” he growled, still frowning.

  Marsha stared at him. Why was he even bothering to ask? She was sure he’d never thought it anything more than a formality, so if he wanted to leave... why not just go?

  “Do it, Marsha,” he ordered. “Now.”

  She took a deep breath, gritted her own teeth and swept the dagger in a circle, counter-clockwise, undoing the circle she had just cast around them; feeling as though it was her whole world she was unraveling.

  As her husband stormed off toward the cottage, Marsha went about the lonely business of packing up her tools.

  The night weighed heavily on her spirits as she finished her task. It was still and dark, as quiet as the grave. Even the river sounded muffled tonight. The grass was cold beneath her bare feet and the dampness of the earth seemed to creep into her bones until she doubted she would ever feel warm again.

  Sam was in the kitchen when Marsha joined him in the cottage. He’d taken an empty carton from the broom closet and was busily filling it with bottles and jars and sundry items culled from the cabinets and drawers. If he was packing to leave, he was making an odd job of it.

  “Look, Sam, I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it to come out the way it did.”

  He ignored her as he moved on to the freezer; pulling out ice trays and vodka—was he making them drinks?

  Marsha frowned at the collection he had put together on the counter. An ice bucket, a feather duster, a silk scarf, a jar of hot peppers and another of honey, some mint extract, muscle rub, cinnamon… “What’s all this for?”

  “Wait and see,” he answered, still rummaging.

  “Right,” she sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll go get dressed then, and–”

  “No.” He turned to glare at her. “Not yet. Just stay right where you are.”

  Marsha’s eyebrows rose. “Sam... really, what are you doing?”

  “My job,” he replied as his eyes swept over her from head to toe. “Apparently I’ve got a whole lot of work cut out for me.”

  Marsha felt her cheeks redden. “Job? What job?”

  He smiled grimly. “Angel, if your body’s asleep, I figure as your husband, it’s my job to wake it up.”

/>   Goosebumps raced across her flesh. Marsha crossed her arms. “Forget it, Sam. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not gonna work.”

  There was a flash of something in Sam’s eyes – whether it was laughter or more fury, she couldn’t say. “Well, now, that just goes to show how little you know about men, doesn’t it? Because I doubt there’s a man alive who wouldn’t see that as a pretty much irresistible challenge.” He shook his head as he turned and went back to work. “And, I gotta tell you, doll, if you don’t figure out some of this stuff soon, you’re going to have a hell of a time with those boys of yours, in another few years.”

  Marsha’s breath caught. “I will?” she asked faintly. I? Not we? Not us? Has it really come to that now?

  Sam nodded. “Yes, you. I don’t anticipate having any problems with them. We’re on the same wavelength, after all.”

  Marsha stared at the ring on her finger for several seconds, gathering the courage to speak. “I wouldn’t fault you for walking away,” she said at last, quietly. “I know this isn’t what you signed on for, Sam. I’m not the same woman you married.”

  Sam’s shoulders sagged. He huffed out an angry breath as he turned to face her once again. “Really? That’s funny, and here I thought you were.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not a clue.”

  They stared at each other unhappily.

  “Things aren’t the way they used to be,” Marsha explained. They’ve changed. I’ve changed. And I feel... I feel like I don’t have as much to offer you anymore.”

  “Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?” he asked softly.

  Marsha shrugged and looked away; not answering, just trying not to cry again.

  Heaving another angry sigh, Sam stalked across the room to where she stood, stopping when he was only a few paces away. “Okay,” he said, eyes snapping. “That’s it. I love you, but I’ve had just about all I can stand of this nonsense. It’s insulting to us both, the subject’s become a bore and we’ve already wasted more than enough time on it, as it is. Maybe this kind of thing works for your friend, Lucy, but it doesn’t work for me. So, we’re going to do this once, and then we’re not going to talk about it any more, you got that?”