A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Book 2)

by Auburn Tempest

“We don’t have time. I blew it today.”

  “And tomorrow, ye’ll do better.”

  I stare up between the overlapping leaves at the moon and wish I could go back six months to when a night out was a few drams of whiskey with the boys and a spin on the dance floor with Liam. “How stupid was I to think I could do this?”

  Da chuffs. “Fiona Kacee Cumhaill, in all the years of bein’ yer Da, I’ve known ye to be a great many things—stupid has never been one of them.”

  I lean my head back against the trunk of the tree and draw a deep breath. The ambient power is strong. It makes me feel strong. It’s a placebo effect, and I have to remember that.

  “I think the reason it stung so much is that he’s right. I’m not ready, and I’m going to be the reason one of you gets hurt, or worse. We lost Brendan. I can’t lose anyone else.”

  “Och, now, I’ll disagree with you there. Sloan meant well, but that boy has the social grace of a blind rhino in a crystal palace. Despite bein’ the center of our world, ye can’t take on the responsibility of our health and safety.”

  “Why not? You’re all here because of me and the decisions I made. Sloan is an ass, but he’s smart. He knows how much I love all of you and what it’ll do to me if I screw up and one of you gets hurt.”

  “And how do ye think we’d feel if ye went it alone and yer the one who gets hurt? We lived through seven weeks of that hell. Not one of us ever wants to suffer that again. I saw Sloan’s face when ye ran off. He never meant to cut ye so deeply or embarrass ye in front of yer brothers. He wants ye to understand that thinkin’ yerself ready is dangerous. Ye don’t know what ye don’t know, and those who know more will exploit yer confidence.”

  “I get that, but we were training amongst ourselves not fighting the enemy. He didn’t need to be such a douche.”

  Da shrugs. “His parents are strict warriors, luv. Harsh reality is what he knows. When ye train, ye teach yer mind and yer muscles how to react. If ye don’t train as if yer life depends on it, ye won’t be ready when it does.”

  I sigh. “Fine. I’ll give him that, but I’m still mad.”

  “As is he. He’s scared for ye, mo chroi. We all are. Since Fionn marked ye, it seems yer in the sights of the entire fae realm. Hard truths are what Sloan knows. In his way, he was tryin’ to help ye grow.”

  I blow out a long breath. “He’s still an autocratic dick.”

  Da chuckles. “I’ll not argue with ye there. Come now. Yer brothers are havin’ a few beers around the bonfire. It’s not the same without ye there to razz them. And ye needn’t worry. Sloan has long since given up waitin’ to apologize. He went home with a storm cloud over his head and shadows in his eyes. If ye wanted him to suffer, I’d say ye got yer wish.”

  “It’s not about that. I just...” I shake my head and sigh. “I want this, Da. I want to be great at it. I want to live up to what everyone needs me to be, and when I fail, it hurts.”

  “I know, mo chroi. Come now. Drink a few drinks and tomorrow will be a better day. Look at it this way. Ye called a lightning strike. That takes juice. Take the win.”

  Chapter Five

  As Da predicts, a full night of sleep does improve my outlook. I have a nice family breakfast, play outside with the kids for an hour, then Kinu and Gran take the monkeys on an exploring tour of the property while we get out the notes I scribed about how to find and access the Fianna fortress.

  I study the faces of my family as the discussion progresses and settle into what’s to come. I push my worries down, and although they push back up at me like an underwater beachball, I’m determined to keep them buried long enough to get things done.

  Someone suggests that either Granda or Bruin should stay behind and guard the grove and the family while we’re gone. Since Granda is a historian and well-versed in druid practices and spells—and because I can call Bruin to me if we need him—my bear gets assigned to guard the homefront.

  He’s annoyed at the idea of missing an adventure but appeased when I tell him he can Killer Clawbearer any black-cloaked intruders to his heart’s content.

  After lunch, we stack the remaining road trip supplies and medical gear on the driveway and wait for Sloan to make his appearance. The Land Rover won’t fit all of us, so we’ll also need his Kodiaq. I’d rather make the trip in one vehicle but eight people in seven seats won’t work well for a lengthy trip.

  I hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel lane before the truck passes beneath the arch of the shrub hedge. His absence has held a looming tension for me, but his arrival spikes my anxiety meter’s needle into the redline.

  He stops in the middle of the driveway and hops out.

  My brothers scatter like ants, and I let out a long-suffering breath. That’s not awkward at all.

  Fine. I’m an adult. Here goes nothing.

  I stride straight for him and stop. “I get what you were saying. I’m still mad about how you said it. Today is about the fortress. The end.”

  I turn to leave, and he catches my wrist. I refuse to look at him and focus on pushing my beachball of worries back down. “Sloan, don’t. I need to focus.”

  “Then let me apologize so I can too.”

  “You apologized by text.”

  “And ye likely didn’t read past the first line.”

  No. I didn’t. “Still, you apologized.”

  “Fiona, look at me.”

  I pull up my big girl panties, draw a deep breath, and face him. Before he can speak, I take control of the convo.

  “I get it. You want me to go into things with a realistic view of my abilities and my shortcomings. You suck at communication, and you duffed the delivery. Point made. I’m well aware I have a long way to go, but if you think humiliating me was the best way to explain that to me, you don’t understand me at all. You hurt me, Sloan. Don’t do it again.”

  I pull my hand free from his grasp and head to the Land Rover. “All right, family. Let’s head out.”

  When I Google the drive distance from Granda’s place in the Kerry countryside to the Hill of Allen north of Kildare, I get a travel time of between three and four hours depending on the route. I don’t know the roads, so I can’t give an opinion about which way we go, but thankfully I don’t have to. Granda and Sloan know where we’re headed so I’m free to sit in the back and read over my notes.

  “Sloan spoke to me last night about the assessments of yer skills and where the boys fit into that,” Da says. “He’s impressed by the diversity and thinks once ye develop into yer own, we’ll have one hell of a collection of skills in Toronto.”

  “I wondered about the diversity too. Do most children follow in the disciplines of one or both of their parents? He has the warrior from his mother and the healer from his father. Is that normal?”

  “As a rule, it goes like that, although it’s by no means uncommon to get outliers.”

  Granda joins the conversation. “Sloan’s powers may be indicative of his parents’ disciplines, but he’s different too. There was never a wayfarer in the Mackenzie line, and then, there he was.”

  I picture him again as a five-year-old standing in the kitchen in his jammies. I lean closer to Granda while Aiden and Da talk. “You and Gran mean the world to him.”

  “And he to us.” Granda meets my gaze in the rearview. “Ye must forgive him his shortcomings, mo chroi. He’s taken a great many knocks to his confidence, but I’ve never seen him as lost as he was last night. It’s not only yer gran and I who mean the world to him.”

  I lean back into my seat and gaze out the window at the passing scenery. “I’m focused on being a druid, Granda. I’m clear on that. Sloan made it crystal clear that I’ve got a long way to go in my training. I’m not interested in taking on anything else until that’s finished.”

  “Message received.” He focuses on the road ahead. “We should arrive in Kildare an hour before the quarry shuts down. We’ll get some dinner at a local pub and get situated before dark. Once we’re sure the workers a
re clear for the day, we’ll move in.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The Hill of Allen is a seven hundred eighteen-foot mound of forested earth. The west side has been heavily quarried, and the construction is eating into the core of the hill.

  “According to Trip Advisor,” I flip to the next screen on my cell, “if we approach from the northeast side of the hill, just off the roadside, there is space enough to park. From what Fionn’s fish wisdom told me, there is a row of large boulders there, and through them, we’ll find a clearing with an old stone altar.”

  Granda looks back at me and frowns. “I’m surprised that we’re stopping there and looking for the entrance. There’s a stone tower farther up the hill believed to be part of Fionn’s fortress.”

  I shake my head. “That was built later. Fionn’s fortress is underground. I figure the trick will be finding the entrance after all this time.”

  The trick isn’t finding the entrance but figuring out how to access it. The information I wrote down, most specifically the coordinates, leads us straight to a crevasse in the rocky stone of the ground. Dillan finds the opening, and we all sense the rightness of it as the access point.

  After staring at it and wondering what to do next, Dillan clears away a layer of old growth to expose a stone chiseled with a message. “Damn, and me without my decoder ring. Granda or Sloan, you’re up.”

  The two of them kneel over the missive and mumble about the ancient Celtic symbology. When I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll be stuck here under analysis paralysis for the rest of our lives, Sloan nods and straightens. “The inscription translates to…

  Passage gained at end of day.

  Sacrifice of blood to pay.

  Aiden’s brow arches. “Seriously?”

  I make a face and look back down into the dark crack in the earth. “Sloan, whose affinity is strong in paying the blood sacrifice?”

  Sloan lifts his palms. “I would, really, but since it’s Fionn’s ward, and he’s demanding blood, I’d say ye have the best chance of success if the plasma comes from Clan mac Cumhaill.”

  Dillan laughs. “Nice. You tried to sound intellectual there, but it still smells like chicken.”

  Emmet lets out a couple of clucks and pumps his elbows.

  Sloan doesn’t engage.

  Unfortunately, I agree with him. “Okay, Aiden, slice my hand with your pocketknife.”

  “What? Why?” He looks at me like I’ve grown a couple of extra hydra heads.

  “Because I want to be bleeding when I stick my hand down the creepy booby-trap hole.”

  “Ha! You said booby,” Emmet laughs.

  “It doesn’t have to be you.” Da throws Emmet a look. “If Sloan’s instinct is right, and I believe it is sound logic, the blood could come from any one of us.”

  I wave away his fatherly concern. “If Fionn came and went from this place regularly, it stands to reason that the blood sacrifice doesn’t have to be big. It’s simply to prove that we belong here. Aiden. Your knife.”

  The oldest of the six of us, he’s only slightly less protective of me than Da. He pulls out his knife, then looks at the crack. “I honestly would do it, but I couldn’t get my hand down there if I tried.”

  “It’s fine.” I hold out my hand. “Getter done, Cumhaill.”

  “Let me do it.” Emmet thrusts his hand forward. “We all know I have freakishly delicate girl hands and if my affinity is healing, I’ll mend faster than Fi. Right, Sloan?”

  “Having an affinity for healin’ means ye can heal others. It doesn’t give ye regenerative powers like Wolverine.”

  I frown. “And your hands are not freakish girl hands. Besides, if your power is healing, you can help Sloan heal me if things go badly.”

  Emmet looks like he’s considering that, then shakes his head. “No. Let it be me. I’m good.”

  Sloan agrees. “My vote’s on Emmet. No offense, my friend, but this is yer sister’s quest. She should remain whole and unscathed as long as possible for the trials to come.”

  “Agreed.” Da gives us the nod of final decision. “Emmet, it’s you.”

  I roll my eyes and give them all a look. “Fates protect me from well-meaning men.”

  “No need,” Da counters. “Yer well-meaning men will do the protectin’ for ye.”

  I blow Da a kiss and watch as Emmet grips his fingers around Aiden’s knife blade. With a grimace and a hiss, he pulls the steel free of his grasp and kneels over the crevasse.

  “Okay, Granda-Fionn, here’s the sacrifice of my blood.”

  As he reaches toward the crack in the earth, the stone shifts, widening the opening to accept his hand.

  “Well, there,” Calum says. “We didn’t need Emmet’s freakishly girly hands.”

  Emmet scowls and continues lowering his arm. “Yeah, good to know for next time, eh?”

  We all wait, wondering what’s supposed to happen. When nothing does, we end up staring at one another with blank expressions all around.

  “Okay, what now?” Emmet asks.

  “Feel around in there?” I suggest. “Is there a button or a lever or something that will unlock the door?”

  Dillan snorts. “You think there’s a doorknob in the earth to unlatch the booby-trapped entrance to a druid fortress?”

  We all look at Emmet, who’s chuckling. “Booby.”

  I shrug. “What’s your suggestion, Einstein?”

  “Wait,” Sloan says.

  We all freeze and stare at Emmet.

  “What wait?” I’m afraid of what’s happening. “Why’s your face screwed up weird like that?”

  Sloan scowls. “I was thinking. And this is what my face always looks like.”

  Thankfully not, but I don’t voice that opinion. “Okay, wait for what? Did you come up with something?”

  He points at the tangerine skyline behind the trees bordering the clearing. “The first part of the inscription is, ‘Passage gained at end of day.’ It stands to reason that now that the sun is setting…”

  “Yep. I feel it,” Emmet says. “Got it.”

  Something rumbles in the earth below our feet. I’m staring at Emmet—armpit deep in the rock crevasse—when my footing gives way. Instead of a doorway appearing, the ground beneath me is suddenly gone.

  “Oh shit—”

  I freefall into the depths of the hill.

  Slow Descent!

  Sloan and I crash-land in a heap of tangled limbs and I hear the “oof” as Sloan hits the ground with me on top of him. We’re at the base of a steep set of roughhewn steps, and my brothers are racing down the treads, calling my name.

  “I’m fine.” I roll off Sloan and rest on my knees for a sec while I catch my breath. “Sloan caught me. Well, sort of caught me. Mostly, he broke my fall.”

  Calum and Aiden help Sloan up, and Da gets me to my feet. “Are ye hurt?”

  I brush the dirt off my palms and wipe the side of my face with the back of my wrist. “I’m fine. Good job on releasing the door, Emmet. We better get our lights out before—” I almost finish my warning before the door reforms “—we’re sealed in pitch darkness.”

  “On it.” the sound of a zipper, some rummaging, then a click accompanies Aiden’s reassurance. A wide beam of light streams from a four-inch square, handheld spotlight. “Let there be light.”

  Dillan’s backpack has the super bright penlights, and we each take one and wrap the strap around our wrists. It may not be very druid in Sloan’s eyes, but hey, we can’t all cast illumination spells, so it works.

  “Okay, so, we’re in.” Da wraps Emmet’s palm with a roll of gauze. “Lead the way, Fi. We’re all with ye.”

  “Do you want me to heal that?” Sloan asks with less gusto than usual.

  “No, son.” Da tests that Sloan’s steady. “Catch yer breath. We appreciate yer quick thought, by the way.”

  “Yeah,” Aiden adds. “We owe you one for being her landing pad.”

  “I’d say it was my pleasure,” he twists
his back a little and winces, “But Mam taught me never to lie.”

  “Are ye hurt, my boy?” Granda asks.

  “I’ll be fine, Lugh. Just tweaked my back a bit. She was a bit of a flailing mess on the way down.”

  I snort. “Sorry. The next time I fall to my death, I’ll try to have better form and stick the landing.”

  Chapter Six

  “And around this corner,” I flash my penlight on my notes, “there should be an upright chest on the left that releases poisonous snakes. We have to render them harmless to pass. It says they’ll spill out onto the stone of the floor and need to be tamed or convinced we belong here.”

  “I’ll take this one,” Granda states.

  I move to let him pass. We’ve been making our way like this, each intruder alert taken on by one of my brothers or Sloan, in turn. That’s the problem with being surrounded by heroes and adrenaline junkies. If you don’t keep them from getting bored, they’ll get into trouble.

  “Will they still be alive?” Dillan asks. “Fionn has been dead for centuries.”

  “They’re magical snakes lying in wait,” Da reminds him. “If Fionn was as skilled and powerful as he’s said to be, the spell will activate after millennia.”

  “Is anyone else getting an Indiana Jones vibe here?” Calum asks. “Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?”

  Emmet nods. “We named the dog, Indiana.”

  “That’s why they call it the jungle, sweetheart,” Dillan adds, putting on the accent.

  “Quiet, now.” Granda shakes out his hands.

  We all grow still and watch. I saw Granda in action when we were attacked on his back lawn a few months ago. He’s much more powerful than he looks. Still, I have no idea what kind of skill it takes to calm killer guard snakes.

  Granda inches forward, his boots crunching on the pebbled stone floor. When his weight shifts and he steps beside the upright chest, there’s a pregnant pause and a breathy hiss. The doors of the cabinet swing open, and a landslide of slithering snakes hits Granda.