Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)
Page 30
They had conspired to kidnap both the MacLeod boy and the Owen girl. The Owen kidnapping would be forgotten soon enough, especially with Kernough’s help, but the MacLeod kidnapping, that would take some finesse. He was too important for the police to move slowly on it, or the media to not to report on it. So they’d had to set up a fall guy—or woman in this case. Jessie MacLeod. And once she was safely behind bars, they’d hightailed it out of town and back to the ‘earth of their earliest ancestors’ to perform their bloody ceremony.
Marsaili NicRath. MacLeod’s rival. She’d likely chosen the precise noble to victimize.
Glynis Campbell. NicRath’s lawyer. And Jessie’s too; she was more than able to feed the young girl dubious legal advice.
Caroline Nelson. Wife to MacLeod’s C.O.O. She’d undoubtedly manipulated her husband into the affair, with her long hours and indifferent attitude, banking on the fact that he’d never come forward to corroborate Jessie’s alibi if doing so meant throwing away both his career and marriage.
Nellie MacQuarrie. MacLeod’s nanny. No wonder the newspaper said there were no signs of forced entry. She’d let the others in—or carried the child down to their waiting hands.
And Detective Sergeant Alison Chisholm of the Glasgow Police Department. To make sure Jessie MacLeod was arrested. Warwick had been right to be paranoid—of course.
That left the sixth member of the coven. The leader. The one who had subtly approached Maggie without her even knowing it. The one who had translated the ancient prophecy. Who had maneuvered young Nellie MacQuarrie into MacLeod’s bed. Who had drawn on Glynis Campbell’s legal expertise to frame Jessie MacLeod. And who now planned to exploit Caroline Nelson’s medical knowledge to save the lives of the babies whose throats she was about to slit. Prof. Sarah MacKenzie held up a razor-sharp silver blade and spoke.
“As the prophecy has foretold, so has it come to pass.” Her voice echoed off the empty cavern’s vault-like walls. “The last of the magic has abandoned the Celts, leaving us powerless and all but stateless, subjugated by the invaders who stole our homeland. But today all that ends. Today the prophecy shall be fulfilled. The blood of these children shall mix with the oldest Celtic earth and the ancient Celtic magic shall be reignited—into our hands. The might of the Celts shall be restored to us.”
Wow, Maggie pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, she’s nuts.
“We call upon the spirit of our founder. Our founder whose progeny deserted fair Celtica and left our coven weakened in number—but stronger in resolve. We call on your spirit, Brìghde Innes, the Bean-Sìth, to bless our endeavor with glorious success.”
‘What?!!’ Maggie wanted to shout out, but she held her tongue. Brìghde Innes? How dare she? Brìghde wasn’t a Bean-Sìth, she was a Bean-Slànaighear. A Healer. She would never have condoned this sort of blood-letting. How dare she call on my ancestor? But it gave Maggie an idea. A crazy idea, she knew, but then again she considered her situation.
MacKenzie stepped into the circle and knelt before the two swaddled babes. She lowered the blade to the first child’s throat. Maggie couldn’t see whether it was the MacLeod boy or the Owen girl, but it didn’t really matter. She was out of time. She’d never descend the stairs in time and a shout would only push the blade to quicker work, MacKenzie intent on finishing her task before Maggie could stop her—and she hardly expected the good doctor to be able to save two infants with their throats slit ear to ear. This was her only chance. She yanked the sgian dhu from her pocket.
‘Blood drawn by an enemy’s blade / Ancestor summoned in bloody circle made.’ An abbreviated version of a spell from her Dark Book. Her only chance. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes—and sliced the blade across the palm of her left hand.
Oww!! Holy Hell! Owww!! Tears welled in her eyes even as the blood began to flow from the palm of her left hand. She caught her breath and transferred the knife to the bleeding hand, then repeated the act against her right palm.
Oowwww!! The pain forced the blade from her hand; the resultant ‘cling’ echoed throughout the chamber. MacKenzie looked up from where she was about to draw her own blade across Douglas MacLeod’s soft neck.
“What was that?” she demanded of the others.
Maggie leaned forward onto her bleeding hands, then smeared her hands across the dirty stone blocks to outline a bloody circle, several feet in diameter.
“
The effect was immediate. A shaft of light—an evil red light—shot forth from the full width of the circle and pinned itself against the ceiling above. Then a scream, the most horrible scream Maggie had ever heard, pierced the chamber. The cry of a mother torn from her child, a wife torn from her husband, a spirit torn from her afterworld. Maggie curled onto a ball on her side and covered her ears with bleeding palms, a vain effort to block out the cry which permeated everything in the room.
“Who dares?!?” cried the blood red apparition of Brìghde Innes’ ghost, soaring from its bloody portal into the air above the coven. “Who dares call me?! Who dares call Brìghde Innes?!”
Maggie elected not to raise her hand just then.
She did however manage to lean forward onto the balcony ledge and look down at the cove. They were fleeing. They ran toward the darkened doorways at the far end of the excavation site. Maggie didn’t know where they led, but the women below knew at least that they led away. All except Sarah MacKenzie, who remained kneeling before the children, now red-faced and screeching in their own right.
“Who dares summon me to this plane? Who dares disturb my slumber?! And with the magic of demons, no less!” Her beautiful but ghostly face contorted in agony. “Who dares torment me thus?! Who burns my soul with the rancid touch of evil magic? Release me at once, I demand, lest once tainted, I burn for eternity in the lake of fire!”
Oops! Maggie spun around and swung a foot across the bloody circle, breaking its ring in two places. The motion brought her squarely onto her bum, her back against the balcony railing. But the circle was broken, and with it the spell, releasing her ancestor from her torment. She hadn’t expected that side-effect.
The apparition sighed in divine relief, like the sound of a thousand violins, then faded to a shapeless pink vapor. Then the vapor dissipated and the soul of Brìghde Innes was gone.
Maggie sat leaning against the balcony ledge for a long moment, her ears ringing, her head spinning, her heart racing, and her hands bleeding. She wasn’t even sure where she was for a moment. But the voice brought it all back to her.
“Show yourself, Maggie!” MacKenzie shouted. “I know you’re here somewhere!”
Maggie hesitated, but then shrugged. Why not? She turned around and slowly stood up, rising like a ghost over the banister. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to; MacKenzie saw her.
“There you are!” MacKenzie shouted shaking her knife up toward Maggie’s perch. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. Your grandmother never told you the truth. You don’t understand what’s at stake. The babes wouldn’t have died, Maggie, they wouldn’t have died. But now…” She trailed off and looked down at the two bundles squirming and crying at her feet.
“Don’t do it, Sarah.” Maggie exhorted. “Don’t. It won’t work. The magic is gone. Accept that.”
“The magic is gone?” MacKenzie cried out. “Gone, you say? How the bloody hell can you stand up there and tell me it’s gone when you just summoned a ghost right before my very eyes. Gone, you say!”
This was no time for a lecture on dark versus light magic. She had to save the babies. She stepped over to the stairs and began to descend.
“Stay right where you are!” MacKenzie screamed, waving the blade wildly in front of her.
“C’mon, Sarah. You don’t want to do this.” But Maggie stopped at the top st
air just to be safe.
MacKenzie threw her gaze down at the children then back up at Maggie. “Don’t take another step!” she warned.
Maggie went ahead and took one anyway. Slowly so as not to startle MacKenzie too much. Maybe she would realize what she was doing and drop the knife and just run away. No such luck.
“You take one more step, Maggie Devereaux,” MacKenzie bent down toward the swaddled infants, “and I’ll slice the little buggers where they lie.”
Now that’s an illogical threat, Maggie thought. She gave voice to her skepticism. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do anyway?”
Sarah MacKenzie regarded the helpless children before them. “Aye, Maggie,” she replied with an evil grin. “It is.” And she sliced the blade across Douglas MacLeod’s throat.
Douglas’ gurgled yelp was entirely drowned out by Maggie’s panicked, “NO!” But before she could make it down the steps, MacKenzie repeated the atrocity against the Owen girl. Blood spurted forth from their innocent throats and into the dry, thirsty earth beneath them. MacKenzie stood up over their bleeding forms and raised her face toward the heavens, throwing her arms wide. Awaiting the rushing torrent of white magic spewing forth from the earth into her greedy hands, no doubt.
But of course nothing happened.
The prophecy was now fulfilled. But MacKenzie had it in the wrong order.
Maggie half sprinted, half jumped down the stairs. It was taking too damned long. When she finally reached the bottom, she raced toward the children, screaming the whole way, “No! No! Nooo!!”
MacKenzie dropped her face and shone panicked eyes toward Maggie. She was clearly surprised by the ineffectiveness of her blood rite. Maggie was fast approaching. She stepped two uncertain steps backward, then threw down the knife and ran for one of the darkened exits, flailing at first but then settling into a full sprint.
Maggie couldn’t have cared less about MacKenzie’s flight at that point. She’d reached the children.
“Don’t die, babies.” She pressed a hand against each one’s throats—only to feel the faint pulse of blood with each beat of their tiny hearts. At least they were still alive.
Bean-Slànaighear. Healer. Healing spell. But there is no healing spell. There is no healing spell.
She couldn’t even try one. She’d never found the Spellbook of Ballincoomer. Damn Kitty McCusker. And Damn Sarah MacKenzie.
Then she remembered the newspaper photograph.
“A tháinmhne na dohrgatas, slánaich an mhac a’sio!” she cried. “Slánaich a’ chaile a’sio!”
‘Forces of Darkness, heal this boy! Heal this girl!’
Nothing.
“A tháinmhne na dohrgatas, slánaich an mhac a’sio! Slánaich a’ chaile a’sio!”
Still nothing.
Oh, God! What am I going to do?!
Then she saw MacKenzie’s blade lying just a few feet away. She sprang forward, snatched it up and in one motion sliced the back of her hands this time, spilling the blood running through the raised veins there. She circled the freshly drawn blood across the earthen floor of the cavern. “Grandma!” she cried.
The red light returned, shooting again to the vaulted ceiling some fifty feet above. Then the light shaft faded to reveal the glowing red apparition of her grandmother.
Maggie didn’t wait for a greeting. “What’s the healing spell?”
Her grandmother’s expression was as pained as Brìghde’s; the same dark magic tore at her spirit. She shook her head sadly and explained, “There is no healing spell. Not any more.”
Maggie’s eyes were running over with tears. “Then what do I do?!” she demanded, blood running down her forearms from her clenched fists.
Her grandmother’s spirit fought against its agony. “What you must,” she counseled. “The magic need not be dark.”
Maggie looked wildly at the dying children then again at her grandmother. “Thank you,” she said, then kicked away a portion of the bloody circle to release her grandmother’s soul.
Maggie snatched up the knife again. Time to craft.
“
This had the desired effect. The blade immediately began to glow red—the same evil red that had enveloped the ghosts of her ancestors. She turned toward the stricken infants.
“God forgive me,” she whispered, then seared the knife against Douglas MacLeod’s bloody neck. He let out a gurgled scream and his small body shook violently within its blanket. The smell of burnt flesh stung Maggie’s nostrils.
She released the knife, liquified skin sticking to it, and repeated the barbaric cure on the Owen girl. She too was wracked with half-mute screams and violent jerking. Then both children were still.
Shock, Maggie hoped. Dead, she feared.
“Stand aside!”
Maggie turned and saw a large man running toward her. He was stocky, with thick black hair, and was dressed all in black. He knelt down and clutched Douglas MacLeod to his breast.
“I didn’t—” Maggie began.
“I know,” Taggert replied. “I know, lass.”
He lifted up Holly Owen as well.
“Did I kill them?” Maggie asked from her seat on the ground, eyes streaming tears and hands oozing blood front and back.
“Nae, lass.” He placed an ear to each child’s chest in turn. “Indeed, you may have saved them.”
Then he turned and jogged lightly toward the doorway from which he’d entered. “Good work, lass,” he called out again over his shoulder, then he disappeared into the blackened tunnel.
Maggie collapsed onto the earth, not really sitting, not really lying. Her hands hurt, her lungs hurt, her eyes hurt, her heart hurt. “God,” she wheezed, “what just happened?”
“You tell me.”
She bolted up into a full sitting position. Then sprang to her feet. “Iain!”
“Tell me,” he repeated. He was standing at the bottom of the staircase she had used to descend into the excavation pit. He was holding a bottle of water in one hand. “What just happened here?”
She considered her bleeding hands, dirty clothes, teary eyes. This would be a test of her powers of persuasion.
“Well, you see—” she began.
“Don’t,” Iain interrupted. “Just don’t. You promised me: no lies.” He looked down at the bottle of water in his hand. In disgust, he threw it to the ground. “I told you I’d give you your bloody secrets, woman, but damn it, no lies!”
Maggie was unsure what to say. He was really angry. She’d never seen him this angry. She’d never really seen him angry at all.
“I saw what you did, Maggie.” The words hissed past his lips.
The knife, she immediately thought. He saw me put the knife to the babies throats. He thinks I hurt them. Okay, that’s easy enough. He just doesn’t understand. “The knife, you mean? I can explain—”
“Not the knife!” he bellowed. His voice echoing off the walls. “Damn the knife! I saw what you did their with your, your, your damned witch’s circle.”
Oh hell. The black cat was out of the bag.
“Iain,” she started gingerly, but he would have none of it.
“What the bloody hell was that? you can summon spirits? you can make a knife glow like the bloody sun? you can heal wee babes whose throats are slit side to side? What the bloody hell are you?”
“I’m— I’m Maggie.”
Iain shook his head wildly. “No. No, you’re not Maggie. You’re not the Maggie I know. Or not the one I thought I knew at any rate. What do you do, then—just say ‘Ach Lach MacTarnagach!’ and turn people to stone?”
“It’s—It’s not like that,” Maggie protested.
“Oh aye? And what’s it like?” He was beside himself. “What is it bloody like?!”
Maggie’s eyes filled again with tears. “I—I can’t explain.”
Iain glared at her, unspeaking, unmoving. Finally, he spat on the ground. “Then don’t.” And he turned around and began climbing the stairs.
&nbs
p; “Iain!” she called out after him. “Mo chridhe!”
He stopped.
“I need you to understand,” she begged.
Iain Grant stared down at the ground for the longest time. “I don’t know if I can, Maggie. I don’t know if I can.”
And he disappeared up the stairs.
Maggie ran to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at where her heart had just vanished into the darkened passageways of the castle. She frantically wiped the tears out from under her glasses, smearing blood across her cheekbones like an ancient warrior.
“Iain!” she cried. “Iain! IAIN!!!”
But there was no reply.
Epilogue
“Köszönöm.” The man exited the taxi, stepped to the front window and handed the driver a bank note. “Tessék a viteldíj. A többi a magáé.”
The taxi driver nodded in thanks, wondered at the man’s perfect grammar but strange accent, and pulled slowly away. The man ignored for a moment the destination he’d reached and stood instead gazing down at the Danube below. Tall and fit, with an air of authority about him, he wore a suit of the finest summer wool, a brilliant silk tie, and Italian leather shoes. The light breeze flirted with his strawberry blond hair, but it retained its shape, combed straight back from his face. Finally, without a shrug, he turned and walked toward the ruins of Visegrád Castle.
He passed through the front entry, surveyed the lobby, tucked a large bill into the ‘Donations’ box, then waited for the few other early morning patrons to depart the foyer for the museum within, before stepping over the barrier rope, ducking behind the plastic sheet hanging from the ceiling, and disappearing through the stone doorway into the dim passageways below.
He emerged at the other end on a stone balcony overlooking the excavation site. There was no one working yet that early on a Saturday morning. He scanned the dirt and stains on the balcony floor, kicking gently at some brown debris, but declining to bend down or touch anything. His hands still in his pockets, he turned and descended the stone steps to his left.