He made a face and shook his head.
“The longer you leave it to fester, the worse it’ll get.”
“That’s a terrible punch line.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Let me just think up something that includes puss and maggots, then.” Now that he was decent and no longer parading around in his boxers, I sat back on the couch. “I need to deal with this now before someone gets hurt.”
Boone didn’t say anything. He just watched me stew in my own juices as my mind raced. How did I defeat something I’d never seen before with a power I’d hardly begun using?
“There’s gotta be a spell or something in here.” I opened the spell book—the grimoire—and began studying each page. Too bad some of them were written in languages that were similar to English but not. Went to show how words changed over the centuries. Unfortunately, ye olde English was not my forte.
“Aileen’s magic was always instinctual,” Boone said, seeming to have accepted my need for immediate action. “I never saw her chant or perform rituals.”
“I can’t rely on instinct,” I complained, leafing through the spell book. “I need a backup plan.”
“I’ve seen you cast spells, Skye.”
“Yeah, little ones. All two of them.”
“That packed a punch.”
“What if I choke?” I asked. “What if I freeze just as the craglorn tries to suck me dry? What then?” I raised my eyebrows. “I would be a wrinkled prune.” I made a slurping sound, then smacked my lips. “Bam. Dehydrated.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” Boone said, making a face.
“I don’t really want to find out. Anyway, I can’t just hold up my hand, shape it like a pretend gun, and go pew pew! I’m pretty sure I would be insulting the entire Crescent bloodline by pretending I’m an extra in Star Wars.”
He snorted, and my head shot up. He was stifling a laugh, which wasn’t helping my mood.
“Boone!”
“Hey, you said it.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “What do you need me to do?”
“Be quiet. That would be a good start.”
Focusing on the challenge ahead, I turned the pages of the spell book, allowing my thoughts to mull. The fae had been trapped here a thousand years, so there had to be a clue in there somewhere, right? The Crescents were epic badasses who’d have to have faced off with them before. This book was the coven’s answer for a Bible. There had to be an origin story in here somewhere. I was just missing it in my naivety.
I wished there was a page labeled craglorn one-oh-one. It would make my life a lot easier, but I knew this was one of those ‘life lesson’ moments. If I got through this, I was so making a cute graphic with an inspirational quote slapped on it. Hashtag adulting.
Glancing at the clock on the mantle, I saw it was one a.m. Boone was slouched on the couch beside me and hadn’t once complained. His eyelids were drooping, so he was either trying not to drift off or he was a total weirdo who slept with his eyes open.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mumbled.
“Like what?” I smiled sweetly.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
“Okay, I think I’ve got this down.” I took a deep breath. “I can create a magical net to trap the craglorn, but I need a place to anchor it to. Since I’m essentially a newbie, I should probably use the hawthorn in the forest. It’s powerful, can help me control my magic, and will act as a lure. Then we just need a way to finish off Mr. Craggy for good.”
“Mr. Craggy?”
“Mr. Craggy.” I thought for a moment. “How do you kill a fae? I mean, can we just cut off its head?”
“You want to decapitate a craglorn?” Boone’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yeah?” I began to feel uncertain.
Boone opened his mouth and shut it again, looking uncomfortable. He wanted to say something but was too pussy to say it.
“Spit it out,” I demanded.
“Aileen… She used magic and only magic.”
“You think the only way to kill it for good is to use magic?” I snorted. “Stands to reason.” I opened the book again.
“You might be able to hurt it but not mortally.”
“Then we make a magical dagger!” I turned around the page I’d found and showed him. Some long-dead ancestor had drawn up schematics for a weapon to protect against the fae, and it sat before me, the thick book of spells finally revealing something I had a shot at understanding. Besides, this witch’s handwriting was completely A-plus material. I’d give her a gold star.
“A dagger?” Boone peered at the book, clearly not understanding. His shapeshifting juju was instinctual, and I suspected it was linked to his emotions more than anything, so recipes and maths equations were likely beyond him. In a magical sense, not a flunk out of year seven maths scenario.
“There’s a way to charge a dagger with the power required.” I pointed to the page, running my fingertip over the words. “Saeclum naeniam. Is that Latin?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Tracing the lines of the pentagram inked onto the page, I wondered who’d written it. Whoever it was, thank goodness they’d chosen to immortalize their spell.
Picking up my mobile phone, I opened a web browser and copied in the words I couldn’t make out.
“Saeclum naeniam, a spell for the subiit deserta,” I said, then read off the clumsy translation that had appeared on Google Translate. “Dissolve incantation, a spell for the forlorn. This has to be it! You called them the ravaged and the lonely.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?”
“Are you sure you can handle all these spells?” Boone asked with a frown.
“I have to. There isn’t any other way around it unless you have an idea. The floor is open. Take the mic if you want.” He shrugged, so I went back to plotting world domination. “Aqua fons… Spring water… Cruach Phádraig… Is that last part Irish? This is confusing.”
“Cruach Phádraig,” Boone said, correcting my messy pronunciation. “Croagh Patrick.”
“What’s that?”
“Croagh Patrick is a mountain to the west of here,” he explained. “The peak of St. Patrick. It’s a holy site.”
“Then there’s a spring at the mountain that can charge the dagger,” I said excitedly. “If it’s a holy site, then it must be the key to the spell…” My expression faded as I saw the look of fear that tinged the corners of Boone’s mouth. “The boundary…”
“I cannae go.”
“Then I’ll go alone.”
“Nay, Skye…”
“No biggie,” I said when in reality, I needed an adult diaper. “It’s a test, is all. This is my first outing as a Crescent Witch. We’ll figure the Croagh Patrick part out later. Now we need a dagger.” Where the hell was I going to find one of those? There wasn’t time to order from eBay. “Wait, I found the book under the floorboards. Maybe there are more hidden compartments. Give me a hand.”
I began scrambling across the floor, bashing my fist. I knew it was fruitless because I’d tried the same thing the other week when Boone had told me the truth about Aileen. I’d ripped the cottage apart and found nothing.
“I don’t think there’s anythin’ there,” he said, watching me crawl around the floor with my ass in the air.
“You lived here,” I complained. “You never saw Aileen with a dagger?”
“The most I ever saw was a steak knife. I doubt she left a dagger layin’ about the cottage. I never saw her with any ritual objects.”
“So no cauldrons?” I pouted.
“No broomsticks, either.”
“Hang on…” An idea began to form in my mind. “Does it have to be a dagger? Or can we improvise?”
Boone shook his head, clearly not a fan of where I was going with my lightbulb moment. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to stab a craglorn with a butter knife.”
“Duh, of course, not. There’s a big knife block
in the kitchen. Lots of pointy things good for hacking.”
“You’re startin’ to scare me.”
“Says the naked Irishman.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m never goin’ to live that down, am I?”
“Nope, and I’m going to take great pleasure in reminding you.”
Turning back to the book, I thought about the logistics of using a carving knife. Was stainless steel hardy enough to store enough magical energy from the spring at Croagh Patrick to defeat the craglorn? Ugh, it probably had to be silver or something even rarer. Knowing my luck, it would have to be made from the metal from a comet and dusted with particles from its icy tail during the smithing process. It would have to have a flawless ruby set into the hilt that had to first be swallowed whole by a pregnant deer, roasted in its stomach acid, then shat out on a full moon. Where was I going to get something like that on a day’s notice?
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. The feeling of certainty that smacked me in the face was so strong I almost puked out of both ends in excitement. This must be the intuition thing Boone was telling me about.
“The tower house,” I declared. “It feels weird up there. Like it’s in a bubble… That’s why I went to the meadow to cast the talisman spell in the first place. I felt protected there.” I leaped to my feet. “Mary Byrne was a Crescent Witch!”
Boone stood. “You think somethin’ is buried up there?”
“You said to follow my intuition, and it’s telling me the answer is there.” I shivered, shaking out my arms and legs and blowing a raspberry. “I’m all tingly.”
“The ruined tower house?” He didn’t seem convinced, but it didn’t matter. I was sold.
“I’m going to need a shovel!” I declared. “Post haste!”
Wandering outside in the dark had never worried me. Not until tonight.
We found a shovel in Aileen’s garden shed. Boone changed into a gyrfalcon—while my back was turned, and my fingers were in my ears—and now we were making a silent dash toward the tower house on the hill.
The moment we hit the small arm of woodland that separated the back of the cottage from the hill, Boone settled on my shoulder, wanting to be near until we reached the tower house.
It was the first time I’d seen him in his falcon shape, and he was rather handsome. His feathers were all white with dark speckles, his beak was hooked and razor sharp, and his eyes were golden and bright. His talons were poking painfully into my flesh but not hard enough he broke the skin.
I snorted, causing him to swivel his head toward me. This was totally weird. A man, who was a bird, was sitting on the shoulder of a witch as they climbed a hill, armed with a shovel so they could look for buried treasure. I was living in a strange reality—that was for sure.
When we broke through the tree line and stepped out into the open, Boone leaped off my shoulder and wheeled overhead, securing the perimeter.
Staring up at the outline of the ruins against the star-studded sky, I stepped forward, sensing the same strange bubble of protection that had drawn me here in the first place. It was Crescent magic that had marked this place, so was that why I could feel it so strongly? Made sense.
Standing in front of the iron door that separated me from the interior, I picked up the rusty padlock and shook it. It didn’t budge, which came with zero surprises, so I dropped it and peered into the darkness. My gut was telling me to go inside the scary dark ruins. Hopefully, it wasn’t the same as when people ran up the stairs in horror movies. Always a bad move.
Taking a deep breath, I blew it out and cracked my knuckles. Just a little bit of magic to bust the lock. No biggie. Light as a feather.
“Doorus unlockyus,” I whispered, blurting the first thing that came to mind. Doorus unlockyus? I’d said stupider things in my lifetime.
The lock popped open, and I fist pumped the air in triumph. Bam! Who was stupid now?
Tossing the rusted padlock aside, I opened the gate, the hinges squeaking loudly in the silence. Wincing, I turned and scanned the hillside, but nothing stirred. Overhead, Boone chirped softly, giving me the all clear.
The first room was pitch black. Stepping through the darkness, the scent of damp earth filtered up my nose as I felt my way with my free hand out in front and the shovel tucked under the other. I bashed into a wall and cried out, rubbing my nose. Feeling along the stone, I found an opening, my gut guiding me through.
Then I was outside again. The roof of this room had caved in at some point, leaving rubble strewn on the ground. I picked my way over it, glad for some moonlight to guide me instead of my clumsy fumbling.
Above, a shadow flicked through my peripheral vision, and I yelped, but it turned out to be Boone settling on the wall overhead. He ruffled his feathers and moved from foot to foot, finding a comfortable position where he could watch the hillside and me at the same time.
“Have you ever seen the movie Predator?” I asked.
Gyrfalcon Boone tilted his head to the side.
“It’s about these commandos in the Amazon jungle who end up being hunted by an extraterrestrial warrior,” I went on. “I feel like we’re in that movie. You know, without the tropical jungle part. And without the automatic submachine guns and rocket launchers and commando training.” That craglorn had better not be a Predator.
Turning around, I surveyed the room. There was no telling what it was used for back when the tower house was intact. All that was left was moss and lichen encrusted limestone. Any wood or furnishings had been removed or rotted away long ago. Through the crumbled roof, I could see the rhododendron towering toward the sky, its branches invading and pushing the walls apart. One day, there would be nothing left of this place but a pile of rocks overgrown by nature.
Focusing on the far corner, I lifted the shovel and speared it into the damp earth. I hardly made a dent. Stomping my boot on the end, I worked it deeper and began digging, hoping I would find the buried treasure before the sun rose. Seriously, I could be the pirate, and Boone could be the parrot on my shoulder. Shiver me timbers!
I was just getting into a rhythm when the tip of the shovel hit something hard. Hoping it wasn’t a rock, I scraped back the dirt, and my heart leaped when I saw it was some kind of metal. Working the shovel around the edges, I coaxed it out of the earth, and when it was loose enough, I tossed the shovel, fell to my knees beside the hole, and dug it out with my bare hands.
Finally, prying it free, I held the metal box in my hands. It was a little longer than my forearm, narrow and made out of iron or tin—I couldn’t tell which. It was the perfect size to hold a dagger. Scraping the dirt off the top, I wrestled with the latch.
“Do I need to do the doorus unlockyus thing again?” I threatened the box. “I’m a Crescent, you know.”
The latch sprang open as if I’d scared it into submission, and I opened the lid. Inside sat a thin, silver dagger, its hilt decorated with gold and silver Celtic knotwork. It looked like it should be on display at a museum someplace, sitting on a pedestal with fancy lights shining on it, complete with a little plaque.
“Oh, yeah,” I declared. “Pay dirt.”
Lifting it out of the box, I turned it over in my hands, surprised at how heavy it was. It looked like a mini sword but was only the length of my forearm from hilt to tip. Inspecting the design, my gut feeling was further solidified when I picked out the golden crescent moons among the silver lines and swirls.
I glanced up at Boone and grinned. “Told you so, and we didn’t even have to get a pregnant deer to shit at midnight under a full moon.”
Now all I had to do was get to Croagh Patrick and find the spring…without Boone. It sounded easy as pie, but like him, there was no telling what awaited me outside the influence of the hawthorns.
Too bad, so sad. There was no other way.
CHAPTER 17
It turned out the dagger’s correct name was an athame. And the spring at Croagh Patrick? It was the lifeblood of Ir
eland. The waters that fed the land from the belly of the earth itself. Or so said the spell book.
The ghosts of my ancestors had led me to the tower house the night before, and the next morning, I hoped they would lead me to the spring. Boone couldn’t leave the protection of the hawthorns, so I had to go it alone. A stranger on strange soil with nothing but Google Maps to guide me.
We’d parted ways before the sun came up, and I’d dozed on the couch before the alarm on my phone practically slapped me awake. The plan was for me to borrow Sean McKinnon’s car, with Boone vouching for my exemplary driving skills, and drive the two hours to County Mayo where I would begin my search at the foot of the mountain. I had a few clues in the spell book and an Internet search as to the location of the spring, but I wouldn’t know for sure until I got there.
Boone was adamant the craglorn wouldn’t come out until it was fully dark, so I had time.
Dressing in a comfy pair of black jeans, a plain gray short-sleeved T-shirt, and my trusty combat boots jammed onto my feet, I packed my few essentials—mainly the athame and my phone—into a bag that slung across my chest and went to Irish Moon.
Mairead was waiting for me out front, lingering in a spot of shade under the eave. She was dressed in a cute black dress with tiny purple flowers printed on the fabric, big black boots, and her hair in twin French braids. She had mad style, that kid.
“Hey,” she said when she saw me.
“Mairead…” I smiled sweetly, dangling the keys in the air. “Mairead old buddy, old pal.”
She scowled. “You’ve got dirt on your face.”
“Are you able to spot me today?” I wiped the back of my hand over my cheek.
“Again?” she exclaimed, knowing exactly what I was going to ask before the words left my mouth.
“I’ll give you a bonus. A better one this time and a kickass reference.”
“You better.” She pouted and snatched the keys from me.
“Consider this a promotion to assistant manager. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Her eyes lit up, but she instantly shook it away and pretended to be aloof about it. “You better. You’ve taken more days off than you’ve been here.”
Crescent Calling (The Crescent Witch Chronicles Book 1) Page 14
