Angelique Armae
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DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the spirit of those who have passed on, but who will never be forgotten:
My ancestors, the ancient Irish Celts; my ancestors who settled in the Schoharie Valley during the mid 18th century; and last but not least, to my late neighbor,
Mr. Craig Cole, who passed from this life while I was writing McNamara’s Ghost.
Chapter 1
1778—McNamara’s Tavern—Northkill, New York
He was a prisoner in his own home. And he hated the fact.
Hugh McNamara silently admitted to his fall, but doing so irked him more than did anything else. He was a high witch, an immortal soul who’d long ago earned the title the Unconquerable McNamara. How had his world come to this? How could he have fallen to his own brother’s vile wrath?
He twisted his wrists against the rope and bit his tongue. Pain stung his already-raw flesh and made his skin burn like fire. He had to free himself. The idea of surrendering to a killer’s mercy was not an option for the Unconquerable McNamara. He wouldn’t allow it.
With arms raised above his head and hands bound by rough rope, Hugh sat slumped against the tavern’s main staircase. He couldn’t move his legs. The wound in his thigh was worse than he’d thought. He slouched back and watched helpless, in agony, as his captor paced the floor, preparing to carry out the next move in his sick game of revenge. Hugh’s leg burned.
Until now, he hadn’t realized just how much his half-brother Alex actually hated him. But seeing the anger in his captor’s dark glare confirmed the age-old rumors. Alex Caldwell was a vile Warlock who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted—even if that meant killing his own kin. And being at odds with the angry warlock was no place Hugh cared to be.
Alex crouched down next to him and offered a sly grin. “You’ve met your match, brother,” he said. “After all these years, I’ve finally managed to conquer the Unconquerable McNamara. What have you to say for it?”
Hugh didn’t answer; he refused to.
“Ah.. .the silent protest,” said Alex. “You always were the righteous one, weren’t you?” Caldwell rose to his feet and retrieved his sword from the floor. He turned his back to Hugh. “To this day, I can make no rhyme or reason as to why mother married a righteous witch by taking up with your father. She would have faired far better with a Warlock.
“You have no idea what life was like for me at that point. I was a Warlock—proud and vengeful like my grandfather before me. A soul more vile than anyone could imagine, and there I was, a boy of nine, forced to live under the roof of a good witch and his repenting wife. Do you know the agony I suffered?
“I was sole heir to the Sage of Oghma Castle, sole heir to the powers of the darkest Warlock ever to walk this earth. And you took it all away from me.”
“We make our own choices in life,” said Hugh. He struggled to raise himself to a more comfortable position. “You’re not a boy anymore. Don’t damn your soul like this, Alex. I’m your brother, for God sake!”
Caldwell offered a slight laugh. “A brother I hate. From the day you were born I detested having you as my kin. You were different.” He paused. A dark, sinister look crossed Alex’s face. “You were a disappointment. Never once did you live up to grandfather’s dark name. But still, once you’re gone, I will probably find myself missing our little wars over good and evil. You were always such good sport, brother. And for that, I shall repay you.”
Hugh twisted once more at the rope tied around his wrists. The abrasive, rough threads burned his skin, but he didn’t care. He had no desire to take part in whatever Alex was cooking up next.
The sound of Caldwell’s boot heels rang out like thunder amid the tense air of the tavern. Hugh watched in silence as his brother made his way across the room. Alex turned around, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the fireplace. His black, fathomless eyes looked like endless pools of darkness, thought Hugh. He wondered just how much evil his brother actually had in his soul. The thought made him shudder.
“You would’ve made a good Warlock, Hugh. Not as evil as myself, of course, but I imagine with proper training you’d have excelled in the black arts as did our dear grandfather.”
“Grandfather disowned me,” said Hugh. “I could never have been like him, and he knew it. He set me free of the family’s curse. I can do the same for you, Alex.”
An evil laugh echoed through the tavern. Caldwell glared at Hugh. “Free? Free me from my dark gift? I think not, brother. It’s the one thing that sets us apart and I have no intention of ever giving up that upon which I thrive. It’s the very reason I’ve brought you here. You’re the one soul who stands in my way. The sooner I kill you, the sooner Oghma Castle, and all it’s glorious powers, will be mine.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“It is my destiny,” said Alex. “Grandfather had one child, and mother had two. You and I are the only souls who can inherit the powers of Oghma. And I was born first.”
“The order of birth never factored into the inheritance of the Oghman.” Hugh took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain. His lungs ached, as did his arms. He was tired. And Alex’s teasing only prolonged the misery. He inclined his head back, and rested against the banister. “Besides, to make use of the powers, you need the blessing of the Daughters of Danu, and today, their identities are seldom revealed.” Alex stared at him. “Ah.but that’s where your death will come in handy.” He leaned in closer and grabbed Hugh by the neck. “I am well aware, brother, of the true identity of your little colonial wench. So you see, I’ve already found a Daughter of Danu. And when you’re gone, Julia will bestow upon me the sacred blessing she already gave to you.” He let go of Hugh. “And she’ll warm my bed besides.”
“You’ll never have her. Julia would never give her soul to a Warlock.”
An evil grin crossed Alex’s lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. When faced with death, people do the strangest things, including agreeing with a Warlock.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Hugh.
“Ah.. .but you wound me, brother. After all these years together, I’d have thought you knew me better than that. How can you think so little of my evil character? I am a master at my game and Julia is but a pawn. I have raided many houses searching for your wench. Burned many innocent victims. And to think all I had to do was confront my own kin. I’m most disappointed in you, Hugh.”
“So you were behind the raids.”
“I’m surprised it took you this long to figure that out. War is a glorious time for a soul such as myself—very rewarding. You already have two enemies, antagonists hungry for a viable reason to engage in combat. The baron and his chief were most easy to persuade. Burning the valleys was an easy task.”
“You’re a sick bastard, Caldwell.”
“Thank you, I know.”
“Leave Julia out of this,” pleaded Hugh. “You can have my power.
I give it to you freely. But spare Julia.”
Alex shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. He rose to his feet and drew his sword. “Your little whore is already under my spell. All that is left for me to do is kill you. The Oghma will be mine.” He jabbed the point of the blade into Hugh’s thigh.
A hot flare of unbearable pain shot through Hugh’s leg, but he refused to scream. He wouldn’t give in to his brother, not even in death. Alex withdrew his sword in a slow, teasing manner.
Hugh stared at the torn flesh peeling from his leg. Blood-soaked stains marred his white breeches and dotted their way from his thigh down to his knee. He cursed to himself. He wouldn’t fall to Alex; he couldn’t.
A soldier entered the room. “Sir, Captain Patrick’s men have been spotted in the vicinity.”
“If you kill me,” said Hugh. “You’ll pay a high price. Even a Warlock is not immune to the wrath of the gods.”
“When I kill you, I’ll rise above the gods. With the power of the Oghma, I will control the sacred scripts of the gods—the language of our people. I’ll rewrite the rules.”
“You’re madder than I thought.”
Alex rose to his feet. He turned to the soldier waiting in the hall. “Secure the tavern. Shutter the windows, and bolt the door.”
The soldier stared at Alex. All color drained from the young man’s face. “But, sir.. .he is your brother.”
“Sedition is punishable by death,” said Alex. He leaned in toward the soldier and whispered, “If you see fit to disobey me, then you must also see fit to disobey the King. Are you rebelling against the crown, as does this.. .traitor? For if you are, I have rope enough for two.”
The young man backed away. He stared at Hugh, then made his way out of the tavern.
The sound of wood shutters slamming against the house sent a thud through the air. Alex called for a flaming torch to be brought to him inside the tavern. He turned to Hugh. “In the name of the gods, I curse you, Hugh McNamara. May your soul know no rest.”
“Don’t do this, Alex,” said Hugh. “For your own sake, don’t do this to me.”
With a careless toss, Alex threw the torch across the room. He turned and left the building without so much as a slight show of remorse.
The crackling of fire gnawing at dry wood grew louder by the second. Hugh struggled with the ropes at his wrist. He twisted and pulled, and twisted again. The burning pain wrenching his torn flesh soared.
He gave a final tug at the ropes and broke free. His arms fell to his sides in relief. But flames licked at the walls around him.
“Hugh! Are you here, Hugh?” A woman’s voice called out among the fire. A soft hand caressed his face. “My God, what has he done?”
“For the love of God, Julia, what are you doing here?” A flash of shiny metal caught his eye—Alex’s crest. Hanging from a silver chain around Julia’s neck dangled the Warlock’s insignia; a curse written in old Irish, woven into the intricate knot work of a Celtic beast’s body.
His heart sank. Alex used the crest as a means of marking his women—souls who had fallen under his spell; souls whom he had bedded.
Alex had taken everything from him, even his beloved Fairy Witch. Hugh didn’t know which betrayal was worse, his brother’s or Julia’s.
Hot, crackling flames spewed into the hallway and inched their way down the corridor. The intense heat warmed his skin. He tilted his head toward Julia. “You have to get out—now.”
Hugh reached up and grabbed hold of the banister. He tried to raise himself up, but it did little good. His legs wouldn’t move.
“I can’t leave you, Hugh,” said Julia. “I would rather die than live without you.”
Her words no longer held meaning with him. “There’s a tunnel beneath the tavern, under the stairs. It’s the only way for you to escape. Now go. If we both die, Alex will win. He’ll have the right to claim the Oghma. You can’t let that happen.”
A trap door opened from under the middle of the stairs. A man wearing a tricorn hat and carrying a musket emerged from the tunnel. Hugh raised his head and nodded to the man. “Save Julia, Samuel.”
The man reached for Julia and pulled her toward the secret tunnel. She fought him, using both her hands and legs. But the man had a firm grasp on her. “I’ll come back, Hugh,” she cried. “I’ll come back to you if it’s the last thing I do on this earth. I’ll come back.”
Julia’s voice faded into the distance. Fire now consumed almost the whole of the tavern. Hugh began to cough. The air grew thin, his breath short.
A dark shadow emerged from the smoke and brushed past him, rising to the ceiling above.
The snapping sound of a breaking beam sliced through the fire’s roar. Hugh looked up and saw a large wood plank shift from its place on the ceiling. The beam headed straight down toward his paralyzed body. In an instant, Hugh McNamara’s world faded to black.
Chapter 2
Present day—Northkill, New York
Juliann Moss entered McNamara’s Tavern and froze. She had waited over two centuries to return to the place where Hugh died, but crossing the threshold made it seem like only yesterday. Her heart still ached, and her powers still remained captive by Alex’s curse. Even a new life couldn’t take away the pain harbored in her soul.
A burning sensation warmed the hallow of her neck, and heated her flesh like the searing prongs of a red-hot branding iron. Alex Caldwell controlled her from beyond the grave. He still cursed her. She still hated him. Julia reached up and wrapped her fingers around the pendant suspended from the chain around her neck. The pain dissipated in an instant, having served as nothing more than a cruel reminder of her centuries-old defeat.
She turned her attention to the stout woman standing at her side.
“Well,” said the realtor. “This is McNamara’s Inn, Miss Moss.”
“Please, call me Julia.”
The short woman nodded her head in acknowledgment. “The grounds are lovely this time of year. The leaves are turning and everything is so colorful,” said the realtor. “The property includes an extensive flower garden, an herb garden and numerous species of lavender, including newer varieties that bloom year round, such as the French lavender. Do you like flowers, Julia?
“Yes.”
“Then let me start by showing you the gardens.”
The realtor led her out the back door, and down a winding path. Irregularly shaped slate blocks formed a trail through the yard, leading up to a gated flower garden.
“The last owner revived the gardens so they matched in placement, to the original plans that date back to the 18th century. There are several species of.” The realtor’s voice trailed off into a slur in Julia’s mind. She was only half-listening, her thoughts wandering to the past, and to a world unseen by man.
Orange and yellow leaves crunched under Julia’s feet as she made her way through the backyard. Fall. She loved this time of year more than any other season. The air was crisp, the wind roamed the night and the veil between man’s realm and the otherworld was slowly diminishing. Irish Fairy Witches lived for this time, for autumn, for the moment when their true world and man’s could be one. A sudden rush of sentimental emotions swarmed through her heart.
On the instant, Julia remembered the gardens of the mother’s world. The Irish Fairy Witches were one with nature, and made their homes among the trees, stones and streams. She longed for her homeland, her people. But Julia Moss was a strong soul who would abide only by her own rules—even the one about self-imposed exile. She wouldn’t go back until she returned to Hugh.
“And around this bend we have an herb garden. What do you think of the grounds, Miss Moss?”
“Lovely. They’re very lovely.” She hoped her wandering mind wasn’t as obvious as she feared it to be.
The woman eyed her with a curious stare. “Perhaps we should do this another day. I’m free on weekends, including Saturday mornings.”
“No,” said Julia. “I want to see the house today.”
“Very well, let’s go back inside.”
They reentered the house through the same back door. Julia followed the woman through the hallway and on up to the front entryway.
“This is a big house,” said the realtor. “There are six bedrooms and three bathrooms upstairs, and eight rooms downstairs. A ballroom sits at the back of the house, just off the main hall.”
“The size of the house doesn’t concern me.”
The realtor looked puzzled. “Are you married, Miss Moss?”
Julia shook her head. “No.”
She toured the dark, cold rooms, following the realtor from doorway to doorway and upstairs. Hugh would n
ever approve of such a place. He liked a warm home. A place where his heart and soul could both rest and play. The present inn felt more like a ghostly tomb.
She entered the master bedroom. A cold, crisp wind blew in from the open window and fluttered the blue drapes.
“Oh, my,” said the realtor, her hand trembling at her neck. “I suppose the last people to look at the house left the window open.” The woman offered a faint smile. “I’ll just close it. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”
“I’m not alarmed,” said Julia. “Should I be?”
The woman shut the window and fixed the drapes. Julia noticed her hand still trembled. “This is a large house,” said the realtor. “I have others more suited for a single person. Why don’t you let me show you those, then you can decide.”
“No,” said Julia. “I want this one.”
The realtor shook her head and crossed the room. Julia followed her into the hallway and back downstairs to the kitchen.
“There are better houses, Miss Moss.”
“I don’t want to see any other.”
“But.” The realtor paused in the kitchen. She bit her bottom lip and fidgeted with a stack of folders clenched in her arms. She set the papers down on the counter top.
Julia sensed the woman’s tension.
“You see, Miss Moss, this house is. Well.McNamara’s Tavern is.is haunted.”
“Then all the more reason for me to buy the place. Is it extra for the ghost?”
A look of shock crossed the realtor’s face. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a parapsychologist,” said Julia. “Ghosts don’t bother me.”
“I’ve never known anyone to purposely look for a haunted house. Perhaps I should tell you the house’s history. Then you can decide whether or not to make the purchase.”
Julia eyed the realtor. The short, red headed woman was getting to be more than a bit annoying. “If you must, but I can guarantee you, no matter what you have to say, I won’t change my mind.”
“By law, I’m obligated.” The woman searched her folders and took out a yellowed sheet of paper. “According to local records, the original house was burned in 1778 during the American Revolution. The colonial innkeeper—the builder of the house—was locked inside and burned to death. In 1779, a new house was built on the site by one of the man’s relatives. The property was eventually abandoned and later sold. Every owner since has been scared off by what is believed to be the innkeeper’s ghost.”