by KB Anne
After I took the eyeball necklace from Lizzie, did Carman still have access to her? Was there enough of a connection established that she didn’t need a channel to manipulate her? Or was it Clayone who drew her and Ryan to him? It was Ryan’s suggestion to go camping, and Breas claimed credit for planting that idea, but Lizzie somehow convinced her parents to allow her to go too, which, looking back, doesn’t make sense.
When Clayone bit Lizzie, he took control of her. She was no longer controlled by Carman because Clayone’s blood ran through her veins.
Breas somehow managed to compel Ryan even after Clayone bit him, but he’s a god so he is powerful enough to spell people, if only for a short time—I learned that lesson the hard way. But Clayone’s blood still runs through Ryan’s veins.
Blood trumps spells and curses.
What would happen if a werewolf were injected with my blood? Would I be able to return them to human or at least compel them to not want to kill me?
All I need is a needle and syringe.
The only problem is that I’m still locked in a cell and don’t have a needle and syringe on my person to test the whole werewolves-who-want-to-kill-me problem.
Without all the mind chatter of others, mine returns to the Breas and Carman situation. Somewhere along the way, they had a falling out. Did it happen back in Vernal Falls? When I slipped into Breas’s mind and watched the play-by-play action of the night he almost killed me on the motorcycle, I felt his anger for me after denying him sex. Soon after, his fury exploded when he realized Carman was bewitching Lizzie to keep an eye on him. He almost squeezed the life out of Lizzie. And soon after that, Lizzie tried to exorcise Kensey.
Maybe Carman didn’t like Breas trying to usurp her power, and she broke it off with him. That’s why he needed a new ally. Someone capable of opening portals. But why Fomorians? Why would he align with monsters for power? Why not call upon his brethren to join his cause?
Then it hits me—because his brethren are Fomorians, the demons who live in the black purgatories of the Otherworld. His allegiance with the Tuatha Dé Danann ended when he betrayed Brigit on the battlefield. The day he slaughtered thousands in hopes that Brigit would bring her Vessel of Life—which she foolishly did. Which could explain how he intended to bring Fomorians back to this world.
“How does my wife fare?” Breas whispers through the gate, jarring me back to the present.
He just couldn’t stay away, could he. He had no issue keeping me locked in the dungeons all by myself with only spelled Ryan as my sole visitor while he recovered from his wounded appendage. Of course, he wasn’t aware of my surprise visit from Madigan, who promised to return in two days if he didn’t hear from me, but I’m not about to share that juicy information with Breas. For all he knows, I could have swallowed my own tongue and died, and now he dares to call me “wife”? He will bear the brunt of my wrath when I get out of here.
“How’s the tongue?”
“Miraculously healed. I assure you Kensey did not find me lacking, but I am not here to gain your affections. I believe that endeavor may be fruitless at the present. In time, however,” he says, caressing the lock with his hand and entering the cell, “and with the proper motivation, you’ll soon be persuaded that you should align with me, rather than face imminent death.” He stops in front of me and puts his hand to the side of his mouth as if to share a secret only with me. “The Witch really doesn’t like you.”
So a witch then? I can handle a witch.
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
He bends over merely inches from my face. “It should. She’s a Fomorian witch.”
I flinch from him, but my movements are so restricted by the chains that he could pucker his lips and kiss me. He takes caution though. My attack on his tongue must still loom fresh in his memory.
“If you were to join me, imagine what we could accomplish together,” he says in a low, husky, seductive voice. He moves behind me and whispers in my ear. “We could rule the world together. All beings would bend to our will. Serve without question.”
“Nobody possesses that power.”
“If we reformed our bond, we would dominate all those who tried to rise up against us.”
“And why would I want that?”
He whispers in my other ear. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“You really don’t know me at all.”
His fingers trail down my neck over the chains lingering at the base of my throat. “I know you more than you know yourself.”
Aware of my vulnerability but unwilling to cow to him, I will not allow him to intimidate me into joining him. “Human beings are precious. They love. They hate. The way they experience emotions should be savored, not destroyed.”
His fingers trace my collarbone, a not-so-subtle reminder of his control over my life.
“And what have these precious humans given you other than mockery and scorn?”
An image forms in my mind of elementary school me wearing conservative, boring khaki pants with a plain navy blue collared shirt in an inadequate attempt to blend in with my classmates. My hair’s tucked in a low ponytail to try to hide the black hair underneath, but a stubborn patch refuses to remain contained. I watch a cluster of girls, with Kensey leading the pack, pointing at me and whispering, “Skunk Girl.” A tear sneaks out. Laughing and pointing ensue.
Another image of me in sixth grade carrying an armload of books and notebooks down the hallway. Someone knocks into me from behind. All my books and notebooks fly across the floor. More laughing. More pointing.
“Cruel. Vicious. Unforgiving. They ought to pay for what they did to you,” he hisses.
I shake my head in refusal.
Now, I’m in a frilly pink dress a friend of Gram’s picked up at a second-hand shop. The pink flatters my hair and my skin. I actually look pretty. Even the rose corsage on my wrist complements my outfit. Uncle Mark—Dad—bows in front of me and asks me to dance. We swirl around the room, moving in and out of my classmates. A giant smile covers my face. I’m laughing with Dad while other kids whisper and point at me. Kensey stands off to the side of the group with her arms crossed, her dad nowhere to be seen. She glares at her friends—they don’t notice her. They were too busy watching me. Admiring me. She follows their gaze and her glare turns glacial when she sees Dad and me. She marches over to the punch bowl, fills a giant cup, and trips into me.
“What offerings do they give you? They only take. They deserve to be punished.”
I realize where the memories come from. Sure they’re mine, but they’re from Kensey. It was Kensey who was cruel and vicious. Kensey who was envious of my relationship with who I thought was my next-door neighbor. Envious of my friendship with Lizzie. With Ryan. With Scott. Our dedication to each other. Our love for one another.
Everyone in my life would die for me. Has died for me.
I may not be able to conduct magic, but I push images into Breas’s mind.
Of Lizzie and me playing hopscotch during recess.
Scott and me chasing each other with hoses.
Ryan sitting next to me in Principal Donahue’s office and shaking my hand.
Scott and Ryan standing next to me as Kensey mocks me.
Lizzie helping me pick up my scattered notebooks.
Darius dropping me off at home after he found me wandering the flea market by myself.
Gram handing me a mug of tea every morning.
Hugging me when I needed it.
Hugging me when I pretended I didn’t.
Dad smiling at elementary school graduation.
Picking me up at school whenever I was sick.
Always being there to help with homework.
Mom sacrificing her life for me.
Gram dying for me.
Dad dying for me.
The sacrifice. The love.
I bombard him with image after image until finally he growls, “Enough!”
“Your efforts are fruitless. I will never turn against
my people. There is nothing you can do to persuade me to join your side. To turn against them.”
He stomps away from me. “We will see about that,” he grounds out as he slams the cell door.
“Nothing will make me change my mind.”
He stops and stares at me through the bars, his eyes wild with fury. “You haven’t met the Witch.”
The awful scrape of nails against stone fills the space between us. Shivers riffle down my spine into my soul.
The Witch is coming.
8
King of Batons
Scott had managed to best her in their training session the day before. Even with her going invisible, he somehow sensed her intentions and caught her. It drove her mad.
She watched him move as skillfully and swiftly as Gallean. As if he had spent several lifetimes training rather than just a short time with the wizard. And maybe he had. As a reincarnated god it was possible he had trained as a warrior in the realm from which he came—Earth, as he called it. She felt grossly inept compared to him. She feared that in her early reincarnations she had played the weak female in need of protection.
In response to that thought, her body hummed with strength and power, as if to assure her that was not the case. Her muscles and tendons savored the physical exertion of each training session. Her blood thrummed with adrenaline each time she took a step. She had trained in her past lives. It was as much a part of her as living and breathing. Even as a goddess, she was fierce and intelligent. She felt it in her bones. In her soul.
She watched Scott battle Gallean with his sword with the ruby-encrusted handle. The long silver blade shimmered in the sunlight. It was as much an extension of him as hers was to her. She gripped her own ruby-encrusted handle. Her blade glinted with the morning sun, glowing with the same intensity as Scott’s.
How was it that his sword was identical to hers? A mate to her blade. They came from different realms, yet their swords were the same.
Gallean bowed away from Scott’s assault. “We shall break our fast before continuing your training.”
Scott immediately sheathed his sword. His chest rose and fell with the exertion of his morning exercise. His face shimmered with beads of sweat, and his cheeks glowed pink. His muscles strained beneath his shirt as he hurried to the table. “Good. I’m starving!”
Caer was hungry as well, but much of it had nothing to do with her need for food. She took deep breaths in and out to steady herself. She refused to have something so base as desire dictate her actions. She stood with her sword in her hand as she fought to push away thoughts of Scott, not only of his breathtaking beauty but his magnificent use of the sword as well.
He glanced at her and grinned, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “Are you planning to carve the bread with your sword?”
She blinked and shook her head. As much as she tried to fight her feelings for him, he often left her speechless. Instead of sheathing her sword, however, she rested it on the table to serve as a warning, to herself and to Scott.
Meals tended to be long, quiet affairs with only the sounds of ripping bread and teeth tearing into meat to break the silence. Today, with Scott teasing her, the mood had shifted.
Gallean laid a plate of bread, cheese, and dried meat in the middle of the table. “Scott, it is nice to see that your sense of humor has returned. When your sister was present, your chatter was incessant, but since she’s been gone you tend to sit in silence as though your favorite toy was stolen from you.”
Scott stiffened as if Gallean had just reminded him that he was supposed to be mad and forlorn. His green eyes flashed at her and a knot hardened in her throat. It was her fault. She was the reason he didn’t talk.
“Oh, come now. You can’t still hold a grudge against Caer for granting your sister’s wish.”
Scott’s jaw worked as he seemed to consider his next words. Caer felt sick at the prospect of him voicing his anger at her aloud. She barely had control of her emotions now, with his proximity. His words would only confirm what she already knew.
She needed to change the direction of the conversation to avoid his truth.
It had been many years since she’d engaged in topical discussions with guests at a table, but her nursemaid had trained her as a young child in the ways in which to entertain those around her when conversation lacked. She toyed with her sword’s handle as she tried to figure out what she would say. She hadn’t the faintest clue where to begin.
“Something on your mind, Caer?” Gallean asked.
She studied her sword, careful not to lift her eyes and glance at Scott. “How is it that our swords match? We came from different realms.”
Gallean tore off a chunk of bread and slathered it with butter. “When a god reincarnates, his or her symbols of strength manifest in their birth realm.”
She thought about that reasoning as she ate some grapes, but that answer did not satisfy her.
“Can they disappear too?”
“No. As long as the lifeblood flows in the owner, the symbolic possession will remain and will always return to the owner.”
Scott cleared his throat.
“Yes, Scott?”
“When I was a child, my dad gave me the sword, but it was a small silver dagger. He told me to strap it to my leg whenever I wasn’t in school. It didn’t change until I fought you—well the bear—in the seomra de rúin.”
Gallean laughed before drinking from his goblet.
Scott’s forehead furrowed. “What’s so funny?”
“You couldn’t very well walk around with a giant sword in your world, could you?”
Scott grinned. “I guess not. I would have been expelled from school as a kindergartener.”
He spoke about many things Caer didn’t understand. It bothered her that there was much she didn’t know about Scott and his realm. She tried not to bombard him with too many questions, especially when he spent most of his time ignoring her, but since he was participating in the conversation, she thought she would try one. “What is school?”
Scott’s green eyes flashed with amusement. “You don’t know what school is?”
He was laughing at her expense, and she didn’t appreciate it. “Do not make fun of me.”
“No, no, Caer, it just amazes me that in your realm you didn’t have school. Gigi would have loved it there. School was her nemesis.”
Nemesis she understood. “So school is a monster?”
He bit into a hunk of bread. “To some. To Gigi it was. It’s a place kids go to learn.”
She eyed her sword. “To learn how to fight? But you said you would have been expelled from it if you brought your weapon.”
“Oh, I would have. And I couldn’t have brought the sword as a knife either. School is a place where kids go to learn about science and math, English and social studies.”
He continued to speak in words she didn’t understand. Did he purposely want to test her patience?
“Explain.”
He scratched the scab on his arm from a cut she had given him the other day. At the time she’d felt bad about cutting him when they were merely parrying against each other. Now she was glad she’d done it, especially after their session yesterday and his teasing today.
“To learn how the world works, to learn how to make things, to communicate, to discover answers.”
“Like a nursemaid.”
He laughed again. “Yes, sort of like a nursemaid, but with desks and chairs, and rules—a lot of rules—along with books and teachers.”
“Like Gallean?”
Gallean roared in laughter. “No one is quite like me.”
“Agreed,” Scott said. “School is a place of education. A place for boys and girls to interact.”
She felt a pang of jealously at the thought of Scott interacting with other girls. “Why no weapons?”
“School teaches you how to use your mind so you don’t need to use weapons.”
“But here you are with your sword, training with Gallean,�
� she said.
He winced, and his eyes turned sad. “Not all enemies can be debated into submission.”
“Which brings us to the matching swords,” Gallean said, placing his hand on her blade. “May I?”
She nodded.
He lifted the sword and cradled it in both his hands. “These swords were forged by the same swordsmith from the same forge. The blades are made of both silver and iron. The handles include rare stones found only at Lake of the Dragon Mouth, as a tribute to Caer Ibormeith’s true home. The swords were given to your godly forms on the day of your union. Caer, yours is named Freagarach, the Answerer. With proper training, it will cut through anything . . . muscle, bone, stone. It is a formidable ally against any enemy.”
Caer rolled the sword’s name over in her mind, Freagarach—the Answerer. Someday Balor would answer to her. She swallowed as Gallean stroked his palm along Freagarach. She had never let anyone touch it before, let alone hold it entirely and caress it like a lover. Her soul was tethered to that sword, and she wouldn’t feel at ease until it was back in her possession.
Gallean, as if sensing her discomfort, nodded as he handed it back to her. Once her hands wrapped around the handle, a thrum ran through it as if coming home. She quickly sheathed it.
“May I?” Gallean asked Scott.
“Of course,” Scott said, quickly unsheathing his and handing it over to the wizard. He didn’t appear anywhere near as uncomfortable as Caer was when Gallean held hers, but then, Scott always seemed more in control of himself and his emotions.
“Scott, yours is named Moralltach, the Great Fury.”
Scott bit into some cheese. “That’s what you told me,” he said with his mouth full. He swallowed before continuing. “But I thought the blade was only made from silver. It’s made of iron too?”
Gallean ran his hand along Moralltach’s blade too. Caer watched as an energy shifted between the blade and Gallean’s hand, much the same way he had taught them to pull and push energy in their energy dance. It was as if he were examining the sword’s entire history rather than simply the elements and artistry of it. She hadn’t noticed it when Gallean had held her blade, but then, she was far too preoccupied in her discomfort to observe anything without Freagarach in her possession.
