Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3)

by Stephen Penner

  Philip was standing right behind Sarah. He had walked up behind her during the commotion and gunshots. He raised the shovel in hands and smashed Sarah over the head.

  She collapsed to the ground. The gun bounced from her limp hand. Philip picked it up and held it away from his body, like a dead rat. “I followed Sarah’s car when I saw her load you into the trunk and speed out of the lot. She beat me to the ferry dock and I had to wait for the next one. I called Ellen on the way. Maggie, I don’t understand what this is all about, but whatever it is—whatever you do, do it.”

  Maggie nodded and looked down at Iain. He managed a smile. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I’m sorry I ran away. I was scared. By you. By—cough—by how I felt about you. But I thought about it. I know, I know what I want. I want you. I—cough—I love you, Maggie.”

  Then he closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. It was imperceptible, but still extant. Like the white magic, she realized.

  She kissed him on the cheek, then limped to the nearest standing stone, ignoring the pain in her shattered foot. She laid her hands on the stone, remembering what she’d seen and heard.

  Sarah’s assertion: The white magic is still there… It’s just waiting to be pulled out again

  Dougie’s explanation: Deleting something doesn’t actually get rid of it… Everything important is still there, invisible, but just waiting to get pulled out again.

  The museum’s information: The stones at Stonehenge were some sort of recording device, preserving in psychic vibration the knowledge of the ancients.

  Maggie looked at her Dark Book, across the grass next to Sarah’s limp body. But she didn’t need the dark magic any more. She’d finally found the white magic. She could feel the vibrations in the stone, reverberating into her own bones.

  The white magic wanted out.

  She let it.

  A blinding white light exploded from her stone to the next, connecting them with a wall of white electricity. The energy blasted to the next stone, and the next, lighting each up in a brilliant glow, and sealing her and Iain within the resultant circle of white magic.

  She didn’t need to think of a spell. It wasn’t about words to trick nature; it was about embracing nature and letting it do what it did, only better, faster. She touched her foot and felt the bones knit back together, felt the hole in her flesh close and heal until there wasn’t so much as a scar left.

  Then she stepped over to Iain. The magic was fairly crackling through her body. The rush from the dark magic was nothing compared to the euphoria consuming her soul as she reached her love.

  “Mo cridhe,” she whispered as she knelt down and laid hands on him. ‘My heart.’

  Iain’s body responded to her touch—in the way it always had, and in ways it never could have. His natural healing power, ordinarily no match for the violence done by two metal slugs tearing through it, accelerated to a frenzied pace. The bullets were pressed through and out of his body, the tissues and organs healing up behind them like a zipper. In a few moments, he was as good as new.

  The lightshow dissipated then, until all that was left was an echo of a glow behind each stone, and around the two figures at the center of the circle.

  Ellen ran in and up to Philip. She was about to ask what happened, but he silenced her. This wasn’t about them.

  Iain opened his eyes and looked up at Maggie, his hands searching for the fatal wounds she had removed. Maggie reached down and grabbed his hands. Then she leaned down and kissed him.

  When she finally pulled away, she looked him right in those deep blue eyes of his and smiled.

  “I love you too.”

  Epilogue

  The ‘Tome Tomb’ was thriving. Location, location. location, as they say. It found itself at the intersection of trendy and disposable income. Maggie walked into the shop on a sunny November Saturday to find its proprietor attentively straightening the shelves while several customers milled about, looking for books to add to those they’d already selected for purchase.

  Sinclair turned when she entered, always the conscientious business owner, and smiled. “Miss Devereaux.”

  She inclined her head to him. “Mr. Sinclair. Good to see you again.” Then, aware that he often knew more than she realized, she added, “I missed you at Callanish.”

  Sinclair’s smile transformed from professional to truly warm. “I was there in spirit.”

  She nodded and stepped over to the counter. He followed. They were a bit farther away from the customers there. “I don’t doubt it,” she replied. “Ellen told me you called her. Well, no, actually she said some man called and told her I’d be at the Castle of Park. But the man wouldn’t identify himself.”

  Sinclair grinned and met her gaze. “Then why would I do so now?”

  Maggie ignored the question. “How did you know?”

  “How did you know?” Sinclair turned it back on her.

  “I followed the grave robberies,” she answered.

  Sinclair nodded. And Maggie knew she wasn’t the only one who could figure things out.

  But that wasn’t the most pressing question. “What happened at the Hotel Regency?” she asked.

  He nodded again, but the smile gave way to an expression of concern. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  Maggie’s own smile also faded, into a tight frown. “Apparently I figured out that a certain book needed to be kept away from a certain person until after a certain date. I tried to make myself forget where I’d hidden said book. But I did it a little too well.”

  Sinclair didn’t say anything. He raised an eyebrow to encourage further disclosure.

  “I still can’t remember anything for several weeks,” Maggie admitted. “I was hoping you might fill me in.”

  At that point, one of the customers came to purchase his selections. There were several and Maggie was glad to see that Sinclair’s business seemed to be doing well. When the man had left with his books, Sinclair returned his attention to Maggie.

  “You called me,” explained. “From the hotel. Honestly, you seemed to be raving a bit. You went on about a prophesy, babies, dark and white magic, and the book we both know you had. You said you needed a place to stay for a few nights. Someplace away from Aberdeen. Someplace where no one would find you. I agreed to reserve a room at the hotel for you. When I arrived, you were unconscious, there was a dead man in the bathtub, and there was no sign of the book you’d finally admitted to.”

  “So you left me in a hotel room with a dead man?” Maggie found that less than chivalrous.

  “Yes, well…” Sinclair shifted his weight uneasily. “I didn’t see a lot of options. There was something about your slumber. It wasn’t natural. I tried moving you, but it was as if you were chained to the earth. I was afraid if I moved you, I might injure you somehow. I hardly expected you’d be a suspect in the murder. In fact, as long as you were found unconscious, it would likely appear you were a secondary victim. Hence my call to the police and their speedy arrival. Apparently, however, you woke up a bit too soon.”

  Maggie shook her head slightly. Stupid amnesia spell, she thought. Why couldn’t it have knocked her out a few minutes longer?

  “So what’s next for you, Maggie Devereaux?” Sinclair asked.

  A smile crept into the corner of her mouth. “I’m not sure. My criminal case was dismissed, so I won’t have to come back to Edinburgh unless I want to. Sarah’s criminal case has just started. I expect I’ll see her again when I’m called to testify, except that she may be committed to an insane asylum first if she’s stupid enough to tell the truth.”

  “I imagine she may be just that stupid,” Sinclair opined.

  Maggie had to agree. “And then…” She shrugged, but the rest of her answer walked through the door in the form of a tall, handsome Scotsman.

  “Mr. Grant,” Sinclair greeted him as he walked in.

  Iain stepped over. “Have we met?” he asked genially.

  “No,” Sinclair answered. He nodded toward Ma
ggie. “But we have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Oh, aye,” Iain replied. Then he turned to Maggie. “The car’s all packed and we’re ready to head home. Alex was hoping I could be there this afternoon to go over the books since I left. He never was very good at those.”

  “Keeping books can be tricky business,” Sinclair observed. “But worth the effort.”

  Maggie smiled. “Aye.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Stephen Penner is an author and artist from Seattle. He writes a variety of fiction, including thrillers, mysteries, and children’s books.

  His other works include the David Brunelle legal thriller series, starting with Presumption of Innocence. He also wrote and illustrated the children’s books Katie Carpenter, Fourth Grade Genius and Professor Barrister’s Dinosaur Mysteries.

  For more information, please visit www.stephenpenner.com.

  www.ringoffirebooks.com