The Cursing Stones

by Sonya Bateman

  The night sounds of the forest washed around her, soothing in their forgotten familiarity. A concert of insects served as the backdrop, with the occasional rustling branch overhead, the mournful hooting of owls, and the haunting calls of curlews. She understood the animal sounds in a cascade of senses, most of them warm and social and welcoming.

  Maybe she had missed a few things about this island.

  Eventually she reached the ash grove and stopped for a moment to breathe in the cool, clean scent of the trees. This part of the forest wasn’t too dense away from the path, so finding her way back shouldn’t be a problem. She switched the light on and directed the beam up, scanning the tops of the trees for the denser green clusters that indicated mistletoe.

  She’d gone about halfway through the ash grove when she came upon a clearing, one she didn’t recall being here before. And what was in the clearing definitely hadn’t been here. It was a rough circle of stones, varying in height but all resembling each other in shape. They looked like tombstones.

  Frowning, she approached the stones slowly. They were spaced two or three feet apart, and the ground inside the circle was completely bare. Dry, cracked earth, as though nothing had grown there for centuries.

  She took her phone out and snapped a few pictures of the circle. Maybe her father would know something about it.

  On the other side of the clearing, she spotted a fairly large growth of mistletoe near the top of an old ash tree, gnarled and twisted with age, that looked at least forty feet tall. Fortunately, she’d had plenty of tree-climbing experience. Maybe she’d been eleven or twelve when climbing trees edged out of her activities list, but it was probably like riding a bike. She’d remember how once she started. She hoped.

  The first bit was the most challenging. Once she figured a way up the thickest part of the trunk, there were plenty of stout branches to grab onto and climb higher. Before long she’d gotten to the point where the branches thinned somewhat, and the tree swayed gently with her weight.

  She reminded herself not to look down. And of course, instantly did so.

  Then she found it wasn’t so bad. In fact, the view from up here was almost breathtaking, in a good way. She could see the tops of smaller trees, the clearing and the stone circle, and the lights of the camp to the east of here. And when she turned in the other direction, there was Aislinn Castle on its tor, overlooking the entire island.

  The castle was particularly beautiful in the moonlight, what little there was of it.

  After a few moments spent appreciating the view, she set to work gathering mistletoe. The handsaw made quick work of the boughs, and soon she had a plentiful crop of clusters in the bag. She’d only dropped a sprig or two. Those she’d leave where they lay, since mistletoe lost its power when it touched the ground.

  She was almost proud of herself for remembering that bit of lore.

  Just as she decided to wrap it up and head back, something flashed overhead. She looked up and saw lightning crackle across a clear, star-strewn sky. But the air wasn’t humid at all, and there’d been no thunder to accompany it. Maybe it was just heat lightning.

  She was halfway down the tree when she remembered the first part of Colm O’Shea’s drunken ramblings. First there was lightning, and then the dog.

  At that moment, the scratches on her arm began to burn.

  “No,” she half-whispered, scrambling down the tree as fast as she dared. “No, this can’t happen yet. It’s not happening. I still have three days—”

  A new sound rolled through the air, drowning out the constant hum of the insects. Low and throaty rumbling, like thunder. Or a very large dog.

  With shaking hands, Rain maneuvered the flashlight to point down.

  And illuminated the face of hell.

  Chapter 41

  Ogham Wood – The Ash Grove

  The dog was impossibly huge.

  It stood at the base of the tree, face upturned, snarling at her. Its matted fur was a deep, dank green, its eyes enormous and red. The creature crouched low on its haunches, opened a mouth full of wickedly curved fangs, and barked.

  The sound was like a chorus of screams. Hot, fetid breath washed over her, and spittle flew from the dog’s mouth as it barked twice more.

  She really, really hoped faerie dogs couldn’t climb trees.

  Heart pounding hard enough to bruise the inside of her ribs, she unsheathed the sword and started moving higher. She’d gained maybe three branches when the black dog lunged off the ground.

  Its teeth snapped together inches away from her.

  Everything in her wanted to freeze in terror. She forced herself to move, to keep climbing, the sword held out in a defensive position — as if this metal toothpick could actually do anything against that enormous creature. The size of it alone made her head throb sickly.

  The dog had barely touched the ground when it jumped again. This time Rain lashed out with the sword, hoping to catch it and wound it a bit, maybe slow it down. But she only smacked the flat of the blade along the beast’s nose, and it nearly bit her hand off in reaction to the blow.

  She’d have to climb higher. Back to the top of the tree, and wait there until … what? Until the dog got tired and gave up? Or someone realized she was gone and decided to check the ash grove? The time frames for those things happening were approximately never and never.

  Her only choice was to fight the thing, here and now. And she might’ve felt she stood half a chance — if she’d been on the ground when the creature arrived.

  There was another flash of light, but this one didn’t come from the sky. Startled, she stared at the clearing as a multi-colored ripple of light washed into the stone circle. It was bright enough to make her squint, but for an instant she could’ve sworn a shadow darted out of the light, headed toward her. Then the glimmering glow winked out as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Gabh sios!”

  The deep voice echoed through the trees, coming from everywhere and nowhere. And suddenly the snarling, lunging dog backed down and stood there, whining a bit.

  “Trobhad!”

  With another low whine, the great black dog turned and trotted a few feet away.

  “Suidh sios.”

  The dog sat.

  Rain clung to the tree branches, frozen with indecision. She had no idea who, or what, had spoken — friend or foe, stranger or not. Of course, she didn’t know anyone who could command a black dog, so she was leaning toward stranger.

  Then a voice came out of the gloom. “Go round the other side of that tree, aillidh, and climb down slowly. I’ll keep this magnificent bitch occupied.”

  Kieran. Shuddering, she did what he said as quickly as possible. When she reached the ground, she could hear him murmuring to the beast, almost crooning.

  “Are you down, then?” he said softly. “It’s all right. You can speak.”

  “Yes,” she said in a near whisper. “I’m down.”

  “Right. Shame to kill her, but you must if you’re to live.” He spoke a few more soothing words to the dog. “Keep quiet, now, and come up on the right. Best to take the throat.”

  She drew a deep breath, and began to creep toward the beast. Halfway there she paused as she remembered what her father had found in the journal. To slay the beast, she had to tip the cold iron weapon in the blood of its intended victim. Her blood.

  Biting down as hard as she could to steel herself, she bared a forearm and drew the edge of the sword across her skin. Blood welled instantly. She winced as she coated the tip of the sword, and then started forward again.

  “It’s not her fault,” Kieran said in that strange, singsong tone. “She’s just as cursed as you, the poor creature. Aren’t you, pretty?”

  The dog whined softly … and Rain felt it in her heart. She knew it was either her or the beast. But suddenly, killing the black dog was not something she wanted to do.

  Then she stepped on a twig, and the dog snarled and twisted around toward her, enormous teeth bared and
snapping.

  She changed her mind about killing it.

  Kieran snarled something that was probably a curse, then leapt into the air and landed on the dog’s back. The creature gave a startled yelp as Kieran grabbed it by the ears and pulled its head back. “Strike now! Quickly,” he shouted. “I’ll not be able to hold her long.”

  With an involuntary sob, Rain stepped forward and sliced the blade across the dog’s throat.

  Dark, hot blood sprayed from the wound, splashing her from head to foot. She stumbled back gagging as the creature sank to the ground. Kieran jumped from its back seconds before it started to burn—just like the banshee.

  Rain scrambled back, struggling to find her feet. Then Kieran was there, hauling her up, helping her move away from the burning beast. It was over in less than a minute, the flames snuffed out and the air laced with acrid smoke.

  It took her a long time to find her voice. Finally, she said, “You saved my life.”

  “Aye. But don’t go all soft on me, aillidh,” he said. “It was entirely self-serving. You see, none of this works without you.”

  For some reason, the words chilled her. “None of what works?”

  “You’ve no idea at all who you are, do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “Rain Finlay.”

  “As you say.” He flashed a wicked smile.

  “I know who I am. And I know who you are — or what you are, anyway.”

  “Do you, now?”

  She hesitated, and then said, “You’re Unseelie.”

  He laughed darkly. “A good try, aillidh. In a way, you’ve got it partly right. As to what I really am … well, perhaps you’ll know that when you know who you are.” His features hardened suddenly, and he said, “I must leave you now. Being a druid, I’ll assume you can find your way home.”

  “Wait,” she said quickly. “Even if it was self-serving, you did save me. How can I repay you?”

  His smile was almost a sneer. “You want to repay me, knowing that I’m evil?” he said. “All right. There is something you can do for me.”

  “What?”

  “Tell no one of me,” he said. “Mention nothing of what I’ve done, what I’ve said to you. Where and how you’ve seen me. Can you do that, aillidh?”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  “You’ve my thanks, then.” He was already fading. “We’ll meet again … Rain Finlay.”

  For a long time, she stared at the place he’d been, and wondered if the evil he claimed to be was the same as the black dog’s. Cursed and unavoidable. He did say that someone had imprisoned him, and whatever made him semi-transparent and not completely here seemed like a curse to her.

  She only knew one thing for sure. After tonight, fighting these creatures was no longer black and white.

  Chapter 42

  Ogham Wood – The Aftermath

  Rain gave herself a few moments to catch her breath before she went about doing what needed to be done. First, she had to clean her sword.

  And then she had to check the ashes of the black dog, in case it’d left something behind.

  Once she’d finished with the sword, she tried to wipe as much of the creature’s blood as she could from her face and arms. The clothes were hopeless. Miraculously, the bag of mistletoe was intact, though the outside was stained with blood.

  That wouldn’t have mattered either way. Right now, she cared exactly nothing about what Brigid would say tomorrow. Or any day, for that matter.

  She grabbed a branch that must’ve broken off when the dog was lunging up the tree at her and used it to stir the ashes around. Sure enough, there was a stone buried in the mound. Same as the last one — round and polished with a hole through the center, its surface covered with flame-smudged runes.

  With a faint frown, she picked it up and brushed the ash away. If she hadn’t killed the beast, she wouldn’t be alive now, but the guilt lingered on. She almost wished Kieran hadn’t told her that it wasn’t the dog’s fault.

  But she would’ve allowed herself to figure that out on her own, eventually. She did know it’d been cursed. The banshee, too. Someone was using these creatures as a means to a cruel and violent end.

  And she wanted to find that someone, and make them pay.

  She slipped the stone in the bag and stood there a moment, listening to the night sounds return after the disturbance. The soothing lullaby of the forest allowed her to breathe easier, regain a bit of strength. She’d need it now to make it back home. Even training with Iona twice in one day hadn’t exhausted her this much.

  Just as she pointed herself back toward the path, a piercing cry sounded above her — the call of a hawk. Then she heard something roaring in the distance, approaching at a high speed, and saw light through the trees.

  That was Kincaid’s motorcycle.

  She hurried the rest of the way, reaching the path just as Kincaid zoomed into view. He stopped fast, tires squealing and spinning in protest, and then let the bike fall as he jumped off and ran toward her. “Rain! Is that beastie after you?” he said, panic bright in his tone as he grabbed her arm. “Come on, I can outrun it. We’ll—”

  “It’s all right, Kincaid,” she said with a weary smile. “It’s finished.”

  “It is?” He stared at her, and did a double-take. “What’s this all over you?”

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  Just then a winged shape circled overhead, releasing another sharp cry as it descended toward them. “Gavin,” she said hoarsely. The bird perched on her shoulder with a worried expression, and she decided not to mention the no-perching rule for now. “I’m fine,” she told him, and looked at Kincaid. “How did you find me?”

  “A little birdie told me. Sort of.” Kincaid’s brow furrowed. “This hawk of yours showed up crashing into my window. So I went outside, and … funny, I’m not sure what happened. I could’ve sworn he talked. But I knew you were in the ash grove, and in trouble.”

  Gavin shivered on her shoulder and shifted his weight. “I was hunting, and I heard the dog,” he said. “So I brought help.”

  Kincaid’s eyes went wide. “Did he just…”

  “Of course not. Birds don’t talk.” Rain gave the goshawk a grateful smile. “You should go back to hunting,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Gavin nodded and flew off.

  “Wow. You really do have an amazing gift.” Kincaid shook his head slowly. “All right, so when you say finished, you mean…”

  “The black dog is dead.”

  “You found it?” he said. “I thought you’d struck out on the summoning bit.”

  “I did. It came after me, and I killed it.” Without mentioning Kieran’s assistance, it made for a shallow, unbelievable story. But she’d promised. “Just barely, though,” she said. “I guess I do need those sword lessons after all.”

  “Aye. Good think you’d had a few before now, or you might not’ve made it.” Kincaid gave her a stern glare. “Knew I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight,” he said. “Next time I tell you I’m staying, I’m staying. You got that? If anything’d happened to you…”

  She managed a laugh. “All right. But let’s hope there isn’t a next time, at least as far as death omens coming after me.” Suddenly remembering the actual curse part of this whole thing, she pushed her sleeve up and removed the bandage from her arm.

  The mark was completely gone.

  “So it is over, then,” Kincaid said.

  “Looks that way.” She sent a final sad glance back into the grove toward the remains of the cursed dog, wishing there was some other way this could have ended. But she had a feeling this particular beast wasn’t the last they’d see — not until they tracked down the one responsible for controlling it. “So,” she said, letting out a heavy breath. “Can I have a ride home?”

  Kincaid smiled. “Happy to oblige.”

  He righted his bike and handed her a helmet. This time when she climbed on behind him, she didn’t try to ignore the warm fe
eling that flooded her as she leaned against him, her arms around his waist.

  This felt like home already.

  Part 4: Servant of the Bones

  Chapter 43

  Bairnskill Cemetery; The Moors – Night

  It was a wild night, and Bryan Cleary might’ve had a wee too much at the pub. That’d be why he had the brilliant idea to come out here in the middle of the night to pay some overdue respect to his Gran — and why that flash of lightning and the distant sound of a barking dog had him practically jumping out of his skin.

  No reason to be afraid, he told himself firmly and a bit drunkenly. He’d nothing to fear from the dead.

  He plodded through the cemetery, a ramshackle bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked from the moors clutched in one hand. It took a few moments of squinting at headstones before he realized this was the wrong row. He corrected his course, heading further in toward the larger tombstones and the crypts at the back.

  Those things, now. They creeped him right out. Great marble houses for the dead, with doors that looked as though they’d creak open at any moment to disgorge a stream of shambling corpses into the world.

  Keeping his gaze averted from the crypts, Bryan made his way to the pale, weathered headstone that marked his Gran’s final resting place. Rosalyn Mary Cleary, wife of Patrick, mother of four, 1912 to 1997 may-she-rest-in-peace. Half a dozen brittle, long-dead roses in a paper cone rested against the headstone, and he knelt to place his fresher, if less showy, offering beside it.

  No doubt the roses had been from his brother Dylan. Always trying to one-up him, was Dylan. The irritating part was that he usually succeeded.

  “Hullo, Gran,” Bryan murmured, reaching down to pull some errant weeds from the gravesite. Dutiful Dylan hadn’t done that, had he? He smiled absently and yanked a few more, smoothing the grass back into place as he worked. “Let’s just tidy things up for you, then,” he said. “Hope your eternal rest is going well.”