“Smooth, Festus,” I muttered, “real smooth.”
The old cat never so much as blinked. “You didn’t seem to be getting real busy about telling them,” he said. “So I thought I’d help you out.”
Help me out?
He might as well have handcuffed me in a straight-backed chair under a single naked light bulb.
So many questions flew at me at once, I can’t tell you who asked what when. I was forced to go back over how I originally used the Casket of Morpheus, what Tori used when we tried to amplify the signal, and every dream from start to finish in excruciating detail.
Finally, in complete frustration, I said, “Enough! You know everything I know. When we get back to Briar Hollow, I’ll send you copies of the pictures from my grimoire, but I know it was Brenna and I’m pretty sure she’s alive. Greer thinks so, too.”
That temporarily shifted the interrogation to Greer, who repeated her theory that the force of Brenna’s reawakened magic might have propelled her through the barrier separating the fairy mound from the greater in between.
“What would have generated enough force to do that?” Moira asked. “Kelly and Gemma placed Brenna in a binding spell. Once the Amulet of the Phoenix was removed from her person, she had no powers.”
The baobhan sith smiled. Not the smile I was used to seeing on Greer’s face. This look was something wilder and more primal. “Blood,” she said, the word rolling off her tongue with a sensual warmth that was almost shocking. “I think her blood awakened when the tip of Colonel Longworth’s sword, infused with the magic of the amulet, pierced her heart.”
No one was prepared to dispute that Greer was our resident blood expert.
“That,” Moira said, “is a theory I can test immediately.”
Rising from the sofa, she walked to the door of the study, opened it, and called to Beau. “Colonel Longworth, a moment please?”
I heard Beau’s boots cross the floorboard. He and Moira exchanged a few words, and then Moira closed the door. She held Beau’s cavalry saber in her hand.
When she returned to sit beside my grandfather, she slid the blade from its scabbard and placed the sword across her knees. Then reached into the collar of her tunic and pulled out a heavy blank pendant on a gold chain, the Touchstone.
I’d only seen the stone used once before. When I first came to Shevington, Moira had each of us hold the pendant to help me understand the levels of power we each possess. This time, she unfastened the chain and wrapped it around the blade to hold the stone in place against the metal.
Within seconds, the Touchstone turned the color of freshly shed blood. Every few seconds, tiny bolts of lightning shot across its surface.
“Greer is correct,” Moira said. “This sword has been used for blood magic.”
So much for me and my theories about dream metaphors.
“So Brenna is alive?” I asked.
“It would appear so,” Moira said, “which means we have an additional question to consider. Is she once again in league with Irenaeus? Barnaby, what is your opinion on the matter?”
My grandfather stared at the pulsating Touchstone. “The possible connection of the Dark Druid to my brother and now the potential resurrection of the Scottish sorceress trouble me deeply,” he admitted, “As does the fact that Irenaeus may have been in possession of the amulet for almost six weeks without making a move.”
“Chesterfield planned and prepared for 79 years to launch his first attempt to get into the fairy mound,” Myrtle said. “Six weeks seems a trivial passage of time.”
“Not if he has made a move coincident with another event,” Barnaby said, “for instance, the Winter Solstice upon which Jinx dreamed a scene much like the kidnapping of one of the well maidens.”
“Did Lucas find out anything in his travels that would be of assistance to us?” Myrtle asked.
Barnaby shook his head. “No,” he said. “Irenaeus has not attempted to acquire any other artifacts on the black market that we can discover.”
“So what’s our next move?” I said.
That’s when Myrtle offered up a suggestion that sent a little thrill of excitement through me.
“I believe we should contact the Witch of the Rowan directly,” Myrtle said, “and ask her to give us the details of the amulet’s theft. That will give us an indication of the accuracy of the dreams Jinx has been experiencing.”
“Who is she?” I asked, thrilled at the idea of meeting another witch in service to a Mother Tree.
“Katrina Warner,” Moira said, “and I assure you, she has about as much patience for Reynold Isherwood and Fae politics as your grandfather.”
20
Everyone sat around the fire in the parlor after we came out of Barnaby’s study. To my surprise, Myrtle asked me to relate the details of our closed-door conversation. When I started talking about my experiments with Grandma Kathleen’s grimoire, I saw my mother’s eyes narrow. I knew there was a “talking to” in my future.
Never one to face maternal disapproval alone, I made sure to include full details of Tori’s involvement. While I was telling that part of the tale, Gemma turned and stared at her daughter, who mouthed, “She made me do it.” Gemma didn’t buy that one for a minute.
As I continued, I saw Beau take a slender book out of the breast pocket of his jacket and start to take notes. Glory looked like she wished she had a bucket of popcorn.
Then I dropped the bombshell about Brenna. Audible gasps circulated the room.
“Is this the evil sorceress that your mom and Tori’s mom are supposed to have killed?” Glory asked. “The one I saw in Mr. Chesterfield’s shop when he plastered me on that cup and set me up on the top shelf for a year?”
Glory tried to steal a lock of Elvis Presley’s hair from Chesterfield. She’d wanted it as a talisman to start a singing career, which is when her nightmare began. The hapless woman never made it out of the shop. Chesterfield miniaturized her and imprisoned her until she was so desperate and terrified she agreed to work as his spy.
“Yes, but the killing part was a group effort,” I said. “Our mothers bound her in magic, Festus kept her distracted, Rodney snatched the amulet off her neck, and Beau stabbed her.”
Glory turned toward Festus who was sitting on the hearth. “You distracted her?” she asked.
Without missing a beat, a shimmering wave passed over the yellow cat’s body leaving a massive mountain lion sitting in his place. “You were saying, Dill Pickle?” Festus asked with a low growl.
Glory took a couple of steps back on the arm of the sofa, lost her balance, and fell into my mother’s lap.
“It’s alright,” Mom said, helping her sit up, “Festus is just showing off, aren’t you, Festus?”
My mother is the only person in the world who can get consistently good behavior out of the cantankerous werecat.
“Yeah,” he said begrudgingly, “I don’t even like pickles.”
“Good,” Mom said, “shift back, now.”
Ignoring all the grinning faces staring at him, the old cat did as he was told. Once back in his usual ginger tom form, he looked at Mom and said, “Sorry, Kelly.”
“I’m not the one you should apologize to,” Mom said sternly.
Festus’ ears deflated. “Sorry, Dill . . . sorry, Glory,” he said contritely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Glory, ever the magnanimous one, gushed with open awe. “You did scare me, and I’ll bet you scared that terrible Brenna person something awful.”
At that, Festus sat up a little straighter and puffed his chest out. “It was nothing,” he said with self-deprecation.
“Which is why the story gets better every time you tell it,” Chase mumbled.
Mom wheeled on him and snapped, “Chase McGregor, you show some respect for your father. He was protecting the Daughters of Knasgowa with courage and distinction when you were a wet-behind-the-ears kitten.”
Chase went white. Opened his mouth to say something. Thought bet
ter of whatever it was, and said, “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, Dad.”
“No problem, boy,” Festus beamed. “No problem at all.”
My Dad leaned back on the sofa and put his arm around Mom’s shoulders. “Down girl,” he said fondly. “You’re scaring the menfolk.”
“I do not like all this secrecy,” she said, staring pointedly at me. “Especially all this talk about the In Between.”
It struck me as odd that out of everything I’d said it was the In Between that bothered her most, but so far she hadn’t lit into me, and I wanted to keep it that way. I let the remark go.
Beau stepped into the breach. “If I am to understand all that you have told us, Miss Jinx,” he said, referring to his notes, “we are in agreement that the wizard Chesterfield met with John Smyth, a man who may have the ability to turn into a deer, which has significance in relation to a figure called the Dark Druid. As Chesterfield exited the dining establishment carrying a jewelry box, the assumption holds that he is in possession of the Amulet of Caorunn, which he may have used in a significant way on the Winter Solstice as per your dream. In addition, it would seem Brenna Sinclair lives. Am I correct on all those points?”
“You are,” I said.
“Then,” the Colonel said, “I have only one query. Given that Myrtle chose this juncture of circumstances to return to our company, might she share with us an account of her time within the consciousness of the Mother Tree?”
“I guess that’s for Myrtle to say,” I answered, turning toward the aos si. “Do you mind?”
For a second, I don’t think Myrtle knew what to say. Then Greer spoke up. “Forgive us, aos si,” she said, “but in merging with the Mother Tree, you have gained insight into the workings of the Grid unlike those granted to any other being. I am also curious about your experiences during the time you have been away.”
Myrtle nodded slowly. “I understand your curiosity, baobhan sith,” she said, “especially given your long years of service to the Trees, and you, Colonel Longworth, you do not want to miss a single piece of information that might aid our search.”
“I do not, dear lady,” Beau said, “but neither do I wish to invade your privacy. Forgive me if I have done so.”
“You have not,” Myrtle said, “it is merely a difficult experience to put into words. Remember, I was born in the roots of the Mother Oak centuries ago in the land of the Celts. For me, being with her again felt quite . . . normal.”
My mother, who was seated closest to Myrtle, laid her hand on the aos si’s arm. “Did you feel as if you were home again?” Mom asked.
“I am home now,” Myrtle said, looking around the room, “but I was also home then. We carry home in our hearts, Kelly, is that not so?”
Mom smiled and squeezed Myrtle’s arm. “It is,” she said.
Even a year earlier, I might not have understood what Myrtle meant, but now her words resonated with me.
“When you were with the Mother Oak, did you know what was happening with all of us?” I asked. She had, after all, nailed me about my dreams and I didn’t think all that information came from a conversation with the fairy mound. Myrtle’s “range” wasn’t as diminished as she and Moira made it out to be.
“Not always directly,” Myrtle answered. “I had to recover from the strongest effects of my exposure to the Orb of Thoth. Then, the Mother Oak allowed me to wander in the global stream of data as I liked. You cannot imagine the sense of connection the Trees enjoy with one another and with the realms.”
Tori perked up. “So the Grid is like a computer network?”
The Grid of Mother Trees provides a structural frame for the Otherworld, the In Between, and the Human Realm. The more we’ve learned about how it works, the more convinced my nerdy BFF becomes that the whole thing is a metaphysical version of the Internet.
“The Mother Trees share global awareness,” Myrtle said, “but it can be quite difficult to distinguish their voices from those of all the lesser trees that add information to the collective whole.”
“Chatter,” Tori said triumphantly, looking at me with elation. “I told you, Jinksy. Avatar.”
She meant the 2009 James Cameron movie about the sentient planet Pandora that kicks the parasitic human settlers right back out into space before they ruin the environment.
Beau, who had been listening quietly, said, “Forgive me, but if the Mother Trees working as a single unit have global awareness, why can they not provide us with the necessary information to apprehend the outlaw wizard Chesterfield or his possible accomplice, the Sinclair woman?”
Every head in the room swiveled in Myrtle’s direction. None of us would be happy to discover that the trees were holding out on us, but we would be thrilled if tracking Chesterfield could be simplified.
“The Mother Trees are repositories of vast and ancient knowledge,” Myrtle said. “They do not monitor or police us in an interventionist manner. Their function is rather to counsel and advise.”
“But each Tree is associated with an amulet that possesses a specific power, right?” I said. “If the trees are in charge of making sure the amulets end up in the hands of the right people, shouldn’t they always be able to locate the amulets themselves?”
“No,” Myrtle said, “although that would most certainly make our current problem much more manageable. The amulets are as sentient as the Trees themselves, and like the Trees, they may make free will choices. The amulets can be subject to manipulation and to magic. The Mother Oak and the Amulet of the Phoenix, which you wear, Colonel, communicate openly.”
Barnaby looked thunderstruck. “Then why was the Amulet of the Phoenix silent following Adeline’s murder?” he asked. “Why, if it was in my brother’s possession, did it not seek to break free from its captor?”
“That,” Myrtle said gently, “would be a question you would need to put to the Amulet itself.”
My grandfather’s pale face told me that conversation wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, even though Beau immediately said, “You need only say the word, Barnaby, and the Amulet will rest in your hand.”
Barnaby shook his head. “Thank you, Colonel Longworth,” he said, “but I do not believe I am yet ready to speak to a witness to my wife’s murder.”
An awkward silence fell over the room until Gemma spoke up. “Myrtle, you said the Phoenix and the Mother Tree communicate. What about Caorunn and the Mother Rowan?”
“Theirs is a more complicated relationship,” Myrtle said. “Since its disappearance, Caorunn has maintained its silence.”
Great — a magical artifact acting like a runaway teenager, just what we needed.
“Is there anything the Mother Trees can tell us about the missing amulet?” Mom asked.
“Only that they are in agreement that Caorunn must be recovered,” Myrtle said.
To my surprise, my father spoke up. “Does it have to be done today?” he asked.
For just an instant, I thought Mom was going to hit him with something. She did let out with a thoroughly disapproving, “Jeff!”
No one else seemed to know what to say until Rube, from his perch in the window seat, rattled his sack of potato chips and voiced his agreement. “Finally!” the raccoon said. “Somebody’s brain kicked in gear.”
Turning first to my father and then to Rube, Barnaby said, “I regret to admit I am not following the point either of you seems to be attempting to make.”
Rube wiped his paws delicately on a napkin, which, to my astonishment, he then folded.
“Not to be rude or nothing Your Lord High Mayorship,” he said, “but technical like, it’s still Christmas.”
“Exactly!” Dad agreed. “I have a date to go ice skating with my son. You ladies are supposed to have a girls’ night out at O’Hanson’s, and Festus invited all the men to the Dirty Claw tonight. Can’t we please put off saving the Grid and dealing with the evil wizard for another 24 hours?”
Currently, we were all running on Shevington time, which moves at a slower rate th
an the timestream in the human world. We planned to head back to Briar Hollow the next afternoon since Tori and I had to open the store Monday morning. In our world, however, we’d arrive around breakfast and have an entire Sunday at our leisure.
One look at my grandfather’s face, however, told me that even a short delay in getting back to business just wasn’t going to happen.
“While I, too, regret the loss of our carefree time together,” Barnaby said, “I hardly think the Mother Tree would have allowed Myrtle to return if this matter could be put off any longer.”
Everyone in the room more or less deflated until Lucas offered a possible compromise.
“Why don’t we call Katrina now?” he suggested. “When we find out what she has to say, then we can decide if we need to head back to Briar Hollow or if we can stay in Shevington one more night.”
It was not lost on me that he used the Witch of the Rowan’s first name in a way that indicated they knew each other. The frisson of jealousy that moved through me touched off a warning claxon in my brain.
Was I already involved enough with Lucas to be jealous? If so, that just compounded the problem life handed me the day before when Chase announced he wanted us to get back together.
Since then, Myrtle’s return had kept Chase and me from having any direct contact, which was fine with me. Given the choice between sorting out my tangled love life and going after a magical amulet to save the world? Point me at the world saving.
Barnaby looked at Myrtle. “What do you think about this proposal, aos si?” he asked.
“I agree with Lucas,” she replied. “Without speaking to the Witch of the Rowan, we cannot proceed intelligently. We should allow that conversation to guide our immediate actions.”
“Very well,” Barnaby said, rising to his feet. “I will fetch the mirror.”
He disappeared into the foyer. A few minutes later we heard wheels crossing the wood floor. I opened my mouth to ask Lucas and Chase to help my grandfather with what sounded like a heavy piece of furniture, but before I could get the words out, Barnaby stepped back into the room.
Beside him, an elegant standing mirror of carved mahogany trundled along under its own power. Barnaby was so absorbed in the leather-bound volume in his hands; he completely ignored the ambulatory looking glass.
The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7) Page 15
