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

by Auburn Tempest

  When that’s done, Dora gathers the cards not chosen and sets them aside, then places each one of the nine face-down in a deliberate pattern on the table.

  “There are seventy-eight cards in a standard Tarot deck. There are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana and twenty-two in the Major Arcana. The Minor Arcana consists of four suits—swords, cups, wands, and pentacles—that range from the ace to the king, much like mundane playing cards.”

  Okay, that I understand. Brendan and Calum went through a big Texas Hold’em phase. They bought clay chips, and we play cards all the time.

  “Ace through king reflect a journey—the ace being one and symbolizing the beginning of something new and untested and the king signifying mastery or completion.”

  I groan. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m going to get a lot of low cards?”

  “Your journey is new, that’s true, but the Tarot tells us more than that. By what I’ve witnessed, I’ll bet the Major Arcana will weigh in heavily, and the cards will have plenty they want to say.”

  I hope so. “Will it explain why the ravens were flying weird outside? And maybe what I should do about the Vow of Vengeance leveled against us?”

  “If it matters, it will. Now, stay with me. The Major Arcana provides twenty-two different cards that symbolize the fool’s journey.”

  “Am I the fool?”

  Sloan snorts. “Can I answer that one?”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “Pretty men are better seen and not heard.”

  His dark mocha manliness crosses his buff arms over his chest and continues to laugh at me.

  Dora points at the deck, and I give her back my full attention. “Card zero is The Fool and shows him beginning his quest. He’s young, carefree, and happy. By the time he’s worked his way through the Major Arcana, our traveler is older and wiser. When we see him reflected in the final card, The World, he has embraced the challenges and mysteries of his path and fully evolved.”

  “Okay, it all seems simple enough.”

  Dora chuckles and flips the first card. “If it were simple, it wouldn’t have stumped and terrified the masses since the fifteenth century. For now, I’ll help you read the signs. You’ll want to find a deck that speaks to you and start learning to read them yourself. Even if you start with pulling one card a day, eventually you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Well then, if it’s going to take that long, I’m glad to have you on my team.”

  Dora nods. “Deep breath. Positive energy. Open mind. Are you ready to begin?”

  “Let’s do this.” Jazzed, I look down at my first card. My enthusiasm gets knocked on its ass, and I throw up my hands.

  Death. My first card is Death.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sloan walks tight to my ass as we make our way from the nightclub to my truck. I have my keys out and my sights set on my vehicle. He has his palm up, and his eyes scan rooflines, pedestrians’ faces, and moving vehicles.

  “There’s no need to panic.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or me. By the shaky tone of my voice, I think mostly me. “She said interpretation is key. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seemed. And nothing is set in stone. She said that a bunch of times. We all have the power to change the course of what’s coming at us.”

  “Oh, we’re changing it.” Sloan snatches the keys from my hand, clicks the fob, and opens the passenger door. After he has me in my seat and checks that my seatbelt is buckled and secured, he closes the door.

  Locking the doors while he walks around to the driver’s side seems slightly over the top, but I won’t argue. Growing up with Da and five older brothers, I’m well-versed in overprotective males. I know when to push for independence, and I know when to shut up and let them do what they need to do not to lose their shit.

  We are squarely in shit-losing territory.

  “Can you even drive here?” I suddenly feel nervous for entirely different reasons. “Canada roads are opposite, right? This is my new SUV. Please don’t kill my Hellcat.”

  “I won’t kill yer truck. For fuck’s sake, would ye try to worry about the right things for once?”

  “Testy much?”

  I want to remind him that Death doesn’t mean death, the Hanged Man doesn’t mean I’m trapped and stuck, and the Tower’s shocking and dramatic upheaval doesn’t have to be negative. It won’t help.

  Dora tried, and he swelled up like a pufferfish.

  “Is there anything I can say that will defuse the bomb ticking inside you?”

  “No.”

  All righty then. I search on my phone to find the grave of John Ridout, a teenager shot in the throat and killed in a duel in 1817. When the search comes back, I nod and relax a little. “I know exactly where the St. James Cathedral is. At the second intersection, turn right on Parliament. Three city blocks after turn right again on King.”

  “Before ye traipse around out in the open, are ye sure Pan Dora’s magical knowhow and support is worth a side trip now? Yer in the crosshairs of everyone in sight. Is this the right time to do the woman a favor?”

  “Are you familiar with the term quid pro quo? She’s going to approach the Lakeshore Guild on my behalf, and I’m going to fetch her lost trinket.”

  “We don’t even know who or what she is. We can’t be sure we can trust her.”

  Ye can, Red. Without a doubt in yer mind.

  “Bruin says we can.”

  “And what makes ye so sure, Bear? This is Fiona’s life we're talking about. Does Pan Dora have the goods to risk her safety for an errand?”

  There’s no one I would trust more for magical support. If she says she’ll help in exchange for the amulet, get it for her.

  When the light flips green, Sloan makes the first right, and we head south. “So, don’t keep us in suspense then. Who was Pan Dora when you knew her way back when?”

  I won’t say. There’s honor in giving those of us with long lives privacy and anonymity.

  “A fat lot of help that is.”

  “Easy.” I peg Sloan with a stink-eye. “Bruin’s on our side, remember? If he’s not comfortable telling Dora’s story, that’s his choice.”

  Sloan draws a deep breath and nods. “My apologies, Bear. It’s been a day.”

  Besides, she basically told ye herself.

  I relay that to Sloan, and he frowns. “Okay, what did she say? A wizard, prophet, drunk, mentor, and king’s advisor. And ye think we’ll know, so she is someone we’ve heard of.”

  Without a doubt.

  I’m mulling over the clues in my mind and thinking about Bruin’s declaration that there’s no one he’d rank higher than Dora for magical support. I cast a sideways glance to Sloan at the same time his brow comes down and he looks at me. “No way.”

  Sloan shakes his idea off at the same time. “That can’t be right. Impossible.”

  I think about the clues again, and my hamster is spinning in its wheel. “Is anything impossible in this world? A goddess made a bird into a rabbit who crapped out a turd that made a forest in my backyard. That’s pretty impossible.”

  “That’s a deity.”

  “The ghost of my great-granda warrior sucked me back in time to feed me an enchanted fish with all the Fianna fortress’s answers. Does that sound possible?”

  Sloan stops at the corner of King and Parliament, and we wave away the window-washing panhandler. “I get that ye don’t want to betray the woman’s confidence, Bear, but are ye tellin’ us what we think yer tellin’ us?”

  I told you nothing. She did.

  When our path is clear, Sloan turns right, and we pull away from the corner. “Right. But we’re not crazy for thinkin’ what we’re thinkin’?”

  Yer not crazy. In another lifetime, Pan Dora navigated castles and dragons. She was renowned by some and feared by a great deal more. That she found happiness in this life by reinventing herself is a well-deserved blessing. If ye want to see her smile, the next time ye
see her, Red, mention ye spent more time with the Queen of Dragons. It’ll mean a great deal to her to know they thrive.

  I repeat that for Sloan’s benefit, dazzled by the whole thing. “Pass the cathedral and turn right on Church Street. There’s parking on the left off Court.”

  He follows my instructions, and we enter the parking lot and pull into a vacant spot.

  “We can’t tell my brothers. They’ll make a huge deal of it, and she’ll be uncomfortable. Bruin’s right. If she wanted people to know, we would’ve known. We won’t tell anyone.”

  “Tell anyone what?” Sloan runs his hand over the steering wheel, much calmer than he was a moment ago. “As Bruin said, there’s honor in giving a person their privacy.”

  “Then it’s agreed. Pan Dora’s secret is safe with us.”

  I thank ye, Red. And thank broody too.

  “Of course,” he says after I relay the info. After turning off the engine, he hands me my keys. “It’s a fun secret even if only the three of us know.”

  I giggle and stomp my feet against the floorboard like a maniac. “I’m trying to play it cool—seriously, I am—but I’m fighting down an OMG, screaming girl, freakout dance.”

  Sloan laughs. “Yer not winning the fight. It’s leaking out. How about ye save the big finale until we get ye home and into the grove? That way, no one in the outside world has to bear witness to yer particular brand of insanity.”

  I slip my cell into my purse and smile. “And you won’t be embarrassed? Is that what we’re really talking about here?”

  “Something like that.” Sloan adjusts the rearview and does a three-sixty check to ensure the coast is clear.

  “Well, you’re not launching off to attack homeless people heading into the mission. That’s a good sign.”

  He ignores the jibe. “Now that we’ve established that Pan Dora knows what she’s talking about and we can trust her, what’s our plan for retrieving this trinket of hers?”

  I sit back in my seat and look at the massive Gothic Revival cathedral across the road. “Ask nicely?”

  “Try again.”

  “Wait until tonight when it’s dark and abandoned?”

  Sloan shakes his head. “According to Droghan, Emperor Creeper and his minions are coming for ye. No. I think we need to get it now and have Dora solidly on our side.”

  “Bam. Sloan Mackenzie, all fired up.”

  He points at the people entering the grand entrance at the south end of the church. “I looked it up while ye thanked Dora for yer reading. At one o’clock, there’s an organ performance. The concert keeps everyone in the nave and draws enough attention that we should be able to work without unwanted attention to us performing a felony.”

  “All gung-ho and ready to go. FYI, grave robbing is not a felony. It’s a misdemeanor punishable with a fine or short-term imprisonment. As long as we don’t do anything gross with the body or bones, at worst, we’ll be charged with possession of property obtained by crime and/or mischief over five thousand dollars. Do you think an ancient amulet from a certain wizard would be valued over five thousand dollars?”

  Sloan is busy watching the people entering the church. “That ye even know that is both bizarre and endearing. And yes, I think an authentic piece of history from that particular wizard will be valued at more than five thousand dollars, more likely five million dollars.”

  “Holy crapamoly. Yeah?”

  The two of us bail out of my truck, and I eye the almost two-hundred-year-old church’s architecture. “It’s in better shape than the last cathedral you took me to.”

  “This one is seven hundred years younger.”

  “Annnd has a roof and all its walls. That Ardfelt Cathedral is a bit of a fixer-upper.”

  Sloan presses a gentle hand against the small of my back and urges me toward the main entrance. “Don’t tell me that I don’t show ye a good time.”

  We stop at the bottom of the stone steps below the south porch and nod to a busload of blue-haired old ladies wearing regrettable floral dresses and bad shoes.

  “Hopefully, we get done here without someone hexing me, and you forcing me to drink liquid manure.”

  “Och, I believe ye poured a foul concoction of yer own down my throat the other day. Kevin told us before ye topped it with coffee that it smelled like festering maggots.”

  I frown. “Loose lips sink ships. I’ll talk to Kevin about what we share with the impaired. Besides, the two of you were on your feet and ready to take on your day before Emmet got hold of you. That’s worth a few gulps of festering maggots. Trust me. You got the better end of that deal.”

  Sloan presses his back against the stone of the wall, and I can tell by his expression that he’s scanning for hobgoblins, weres, fae, or any other weirdness we should be aware of.

  Thankfully, for once, there’s nothing.

  “Score one for the good guys.” I raise a hand in the air. “Can I get an amen and hallelujah?”

  Several of the old ladies shuffling up the stairs peg me with a scowl.

  Save the celebration, Red. First, we have to make sure this amulet is still here. Dora said she stashed it in the grave in the 1800s. There’s no guarantee someone hasn’t found it and taken it since then.

  “It’s here.” I breathe to the depths of my lungs. “Positive thinking. It’s here somewhere. We won’t have a problem.”

  Sloan arches a brow. “How can ye be so sure?”

  “Because the rest of our day has been a bubbling cauldron of monkey shit. As Calum would say, we’re due for some fast cars and orgasms.”

  Sloan bursts out laughing, and we draw more geriatric disapproval. “I’m with Calum. That would be a nice change over bubbling cauldrons of monkey shit. Okay, I’ll take yer word for it. It’s here.”

  “Forget what I said before. It’s not here.”

  I roll my eyes and give Sloan the most disdainful stink-eye I can muster. “No shit, Sherlock. But the gravestone is here. Why wouldn’t his grave be attached to it?”

  I read the commemorative plaque on the stone wall of the St. James Cathedral and paraphrase the highlights. “In July 1817, Samuel Jarvis and John Ridout got into a scafuffle about Sam’s gambling debts owed to Johnny’s daddy. Yadda yadda. Social privilege. Upstanding families. When cornered to pay up, Sam challenged the kid to a duel. They stood back-to-back, took eight strides, and were supposed to shoot on the count of three.”

  “But they didn’t?” Sloan shifts closer to read.

  “No, the kid spooked and shot on two. So the Seconds witnessing the event decided Johnny would stand unarmed while Jarvis took his shot. He caught it in the neck.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. It says here that dead Johnny’s gravestone was removed from the old cemetery to be displayed here on the south porch wall as a tribute to rich daddy who donated a chunk of change to the diocese.”

  “So his grave is at the old St. James cemetery, which isn’t at the old St. James Cathedral?”

  “That’s my take on it, yeah.” I pull out my phone and do another search. “We’re definitely in the wrong place. Our dead guy’s dirt isn’t here. But hey, you got to see another historical old church.”

  “It’s lovely, but I’m not interested in churches at the moment. We’re a little busy for sightseeing.”

  “Maybe, but I thought you, the history snob elitist, would still appreciate the historic significance. See, Toronto has history too, and it doesn’t even smell moldy or look crumbly.”

  “Is this you focusing?”

  “As close as it gets when I’m stressed and hangry, yeah.” We turn and head back to the parking lot across the road. I spot a street meat truck parked on King. I detour and point. “Sausage dog me, Mackenzie. I’m about to turn into a gremlin, and I can’t be held responsible.”

  He looks from me to the food truck and back again. “Now? The magical world is closin’ in on ye. Yer aware of that, yeah?”

  “I’m aware. But if the hobgoblins descend,
I don’t want to be weak and faint. Sausage dog… Saaausssage daawwg.”

  He curses and relents, grips my elbow, and turns us up the road. “Ye’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

  “Then it’s fitting that we’ll be at the cemetery.”

  My street meat sausage is utterly amazeballs, and by the time I pull into my spot in the back lane, I’m catching my second wind.

  Sloan looks at me sideways and shrugs. “I thought we were headed to the cemetery next. Ye told Pan Dora we’d get it done straight away.”

  “We are and we will.” I turn off my truck and crank the handle to get out. “Wanna hear something cray-cray?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not really, no, but I have a feeling it’s coming my way regardless.”

  I laugh and point across the side lane at the trees. “The crazy thing is, the old St. James Cemetery is part of the wildlands that border my house. I figured we’d be less conspicuous if we walk. There are always people exploring the gravesites and making etchings of the mausoleum inscriptions. We can walk around, find poor dead Johnny Ridout, and walk on out. Besides, you wanted to get some exercise this afternoon, didn’t you?”

  He follows me across the dirt side lane and into the trees. If we went right, the forested area would take us deeper into the Don River System, but the left is less than a hundred meters until the cemetery’s paved pathway. We wander side by side, exploring the grounds and working our way through the aisles of tombstones and commemorative plaques.

  “This is taking too long.” Sloan blows out a breath. “As lovely as this place is, we don’t have time to sightsee today, and there are too many choices. We need to cast a scrying spell or something.”

  I snort. “Or, we could ask someone. Crazy, eh? You can’t always think like a druid, Mackenzie. Sometimes the easiest answer is the way to go.”

  I scan the landscape and find a groundskeeper who’s finishing up with an elderly gentleman. “Excuse me,” I say once he’s alone and free to talk. “My friend and I were over at the Cathedral earlier and read about John Ridout and his duel. They moved his gravestone to the church’s south wall, but we were curious about where his grave is.”