by KB Anne
I stop in front of Ryan and Lizzie’s invisible prisons. In sleep they both look so innocent and benign, as if no curse was laid upon them. Rage surges within me.
I will get my revenge. I thirst for it.
The dark countryside welcomes me as if we are old friends, and we are. It’s been weeks since I wandered the wilds of Ireland on my own. A sense of exhilaration runs through me, even with the prospect of my possible impending doom. For too long I’ve been weighed down with responsibilities and drama. Tonight, I’m free—albeit for too short of a time because I arrive at the castle ruins much faster than I anticipated. My running along Ireland’s hillsides along with my training at Gallean’s, even if it was mostly energy dance moves, have conditioned my lungs to longer bouts of exercise. My Vernal Falls PE teacher, Mr. O, would be so proud.
I stare at the giant rock slab that imprisons Clayone. Bits of moss and grass have grown over the flat surface. Though I haven’t been back to check on it since the eve of Samhain, it doesn’t appear that the rock has been moved. Werewolves might have inhuman strength, but I doubt Lizzie or even Alaric would be able to move it. They would have to undo my sealing spell, and I’m the only one capable of that. The triskele carved in it would also prevent anyone from entering. How could anyone have gotten inside?
A pebble skitters across a rock behind me. I snap around and see nothing but darkness.
“Anyone there?”
No one answers. Big surprise.
“Maddie? Are you following me?”
Still nothing. Normally when I confront him, Maddie appears, or at least acknowledges that he’s there. I study the shadows of the ruins, waiting for an attack from any one of my enemies, because it seems I have many. I whisper into my hand and send out a searching spell. When no one materializes, I let loose a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I stare up at the night sky. The moon is in the waxing gibbous phase. In a few days it will be full. The Oak Moon on the winter solstice—a time of celestial power. The night the Fomorians would most likely make their move. I shudder at the thought of the Fomorian witch relinquishing Kensey’s body for her own. I had witnessed what she’d done to Kensey’s appearance. What hideous beast would she be in her true form?
The night Alaric and I wandered into the tunnels below Saint Brigit’s Cathedral, I felt Lizzie’s presence down there, and Alaric smelled her. Is it possible that there’s another entrance to Brigit’s shrine in the tunnel system? I’m going to find out.
12
Oops! Wrong Turn
Before entering the tunnel, I chant the spell Clarissa used to ensure nothing was lurking in the shadows of the tunnels. The ball of light shoots out of my palm and enters the tunnels on a search-and-report mission. Shortly after, it returns back to my palm undisturbed, solving the monsters-under-the-bed question.
I approach the tunnel entrance, but something stops me. A feeling in my gut—and the one thing I learned during dozens of counseling sessions back in Vernal Falls was to always listen to my gut. Rather than use a flashlight (which I didn’t think to bring anyway), I conjure up a good old-fashioned fireball in order to see. Nerves knot my stomach and I have this shit show I call life to blame for it. Initially I was confident that Alaric’s feelings for me would win out over any blood lust he might be harboring for me, but now, as I round the final bend before the large cavernous meeting cave, I’m not nearly so confident. Especially when a shadow emerges from the darkness and stalks toward me.
I’d recognize Alaric’s body anywhere. His powerful muscles bulge from his arms and legs. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him that I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and smother him with kisses.
On impulse I step toward him. A growl ripples from his throat. A warning to tread carefully. But how can I? Through my many reincarnations we’ve always found each other. To be separated from him now after being apart for so long is a cruel torture that needs to be remedied.
I continue advancing toward him, ignoring the warnings trying to needle their way into my mind. His eyes flash yellow—another warning—but I’m drawn to him. I’m the moth to his flame. I couldn’t resist even if I wanted to.
Step after step.
He bares his teeth, his canines protruding from his gums. A fierce growl riffles through the space, vicious and angry, and it finally sinks in that he wants to kill me. That in this reincarnation, at least for now, he’s my enemy.
I stumble away from him, suddenly fearful that he might rip out my throat if I get too close. My first impulse is to run. My survival instinct warns me not to. If I run, the predator will appear, and any affection he might still harbor for me will disappear as his thirst for blood boils over. I slowly back away, completely unaware of my surroundings, only focused on him.
Kill, kill, kill, chants through my head, but the words are not my own. They belong to the man stalking toward me.
Panic bulges in my chest. My palms burn with magic, wanting nothing more than to create fireballs and lob them at Alaric. Granda once told me I was incapable of hurting another living being, but the heat in my hands is real. Maybe an immortal being doesn’t count as a living, breathing human.
Magic circles around me. My protective instincts are strong in the presence of danger. I study Alaric’s eyes for a trace of the man I fell for.
“Alaric, fight it.”
My whispers snake through the air and circle his head. He tries to free himself from my word magic as he continues his approach.
I keep backing away. “Fight it, Alaric. Fight it for me.”
He pauses, a flash of recognition appearing in those green eyes.
I smile, preparing to keep spelling him with words, but suddenly someone pins my arms behind my back. I try to break free, but it’s no use.
In my next reincarnation, I better freaking come back as a body builder.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time,” a lilting Irish voice says.
I whip around, trying to catch a glimpse of my attacker. His yellow eyes roil my stomach.
“Declan, what are you doing here?”
He spits in my face. “Don’t talk to me, filth.”
Filth. Really. He couldn’t come up with anything more creative.
“I know we never liked each other very much, but to call me, filth? It seems a bit much.”
A swath of magic slaps over my mouth. “Silence,” Maria/Carman shouts.
Were my visons of Lizzie and Clayone controlling Alaric wrong? Had Carman been pulling the strings all along? Could she cause false visions? Could she penetrate my mind? I know she’s been three steps ahead of everyone the entire time, but I thought I’d leapt five steps ahead of her.
Maria/Carman prowls toward me, swinging her hips back and forth. “You might ask yourself why I took so long to show up. You figured out I wasn’t poor mousy Maria all those weeks ago, but now, in this new form, I have needs and desires.” She drags a clawed hand down Declan’s chest. It rumbles as if he’s purring. “I was waiting to build my strength and, in turn, my army. Declan.”
Declan whips me around to face a tunnel full of minds I can’t read. The minds of more werewolves than I can count. How had she been able to create so many?
“I am very convincing,” she whispers in my ear.
My blood runs cold.
“But the one I really need in order to cause the level of destruction I’d like is locked in your shrine.”
“I’d rather die than open his prison.”
She flashes a wicked smile at me and a remnant of Carman’s old face surfaces. “Oh, I know that, but unfortunately if you die, Clayone will be locked away forever.”
“What do you want from me?” I growl.
“This,” she says, taking my hand and jabbing a dagger into my palm. She throws my hand into the air. “Chruthaigh garrai gaghainn . . .” she chants, using my own blood and my own containment spell against me.
But who is she locking in? Me? Alaric? All of us?
>
She nods her head. Declan whips me back around. She throws my hand against the stone wall and finishes the spell, “m’intinne féin.”
“Enjoy,” she says cheerfully as Declan throws me into the middle of the large cavern.
I sprint toward the tunnel that leads back to the Cathedral. If I can run fast enough, maybe I’ll have enough time to call for Brigit’s protection. My body slams into an invisible wall as I reach the entrance, knocking me backward.
Carman’s cackles fill the cavern. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”
I lunge toward the tunnels leading to the dungeons. Maybe, just maybe, I can find an exit, or worst case, I could lock myself in a cell and try to call open a portal. I slam into another invisible barrier.
I whip around. Alaric stalks toward me, his eyes flashing yellow. I have to get away. Scanning wildly for another way out, I’m left with two choices. One is filled with Carman, Declan, and an army of werewolves thirsting for my blood. The other, an empty tunnel I’ve never been in.
Don’t, Brigit warns me.
Alaric lunges. His claws slice my side as I leap away from him and crash into the rock wall. I scream as I sprint toward the tunnel, bracing myself for impact. But rather than getting thrown back again, I’m able to run right through it.
“Finally,” a thunderous voice echoes through the tunnel.
I don’t stop and overthink it. Besides, there’s not much I can do about one little old Original Werewolf when I’ve got a hungry army of regular werewolves after me. I run as fast as my legs will take me. Unfortunately, I’m short so it doesn’t do me much good. I never found this issue to be particularly problematic until today, though.
In the darkness ahead, a figure steps out of the shadows—a hulking beast of a man—and all my suspicions are confirmed. My sealing spell imprisoned him in Brigit’s shrine room both above ground and underground, but it didn’t prevent others from entering or exiting.
Imprisoned but not dead. The reality comes back to rip out my throat.
“So nice of you to join us,” Clayone whispers.
If he didn’t want to kill me, and I had a thing for psychopathic older men hell-bent on revenge, I’d think he was handsome. I can see where Alaric gets his good looks. With any luck he didn’t also inherit his father’s psychopathic tendencies.
With Clayone’s massive form taking up the entire tunnel, I have three options. One, stop and wait for him to kill me. Two, turn around and run back toward Alaric and hope that he has an instant change of heart (but even then, I’d still have to deal with the army of werewolves thirsting for my blood and the evil witch also hell-bent on revenge). Or, three, and to be honest I loathe this option above the first two, but it really is my only choice . . .
“You’re welcome,” Carman cackles in the distance. “Don’t forget our agreement.”
How wonderful it is that in her new form she has developed a sense of humor. However, I don’t find it the least bit funny. She should really work on her comedic timing.
I suck in extra oxygen to prepare myself as I try to recall Dad’s lesson from long ago. He had this naive idea that I could actually excel at a sport if I knew the proper technique. He was wrong, but his lesson stayed with me.
“Prepare to slide mentally,” Dad had said.
Here goes.
“After you leave the base, run as fast as you can.”
I sprint at Clayone.
Do you know what you’re doing?
Now was not the time to layer in self-doubt.
Clayone spreads his legs and throws out his arms, but I don’t think he intends to give me a welcome hug. Hot breath from behind me heats my neck. I’d be turned on if it wasn’t for Alaric wanting to kill me. Godsdamn him and his werewolf speed.
“When you’re close, throw your legs out in front of you.”
Clayone’s eyes widen, not fully believing that I am willingly running toward him. The element of surprise is finally on my side.
“Slide like you and the ground are one.”
That was the part that always got dicey for me. The ground and I were actually besties, and because of that closeness, I always wound up tumbling or cartwheeling or eating dirt.
I kick my legs out in front of me and manage to slide between Clayone’s legs. Once through, I leap up and make a mad dash toward the shrine room. I throw back my hand, murmuring a shield spell to block the entrance.
“Not fast enough,” a voice drawls.
My stomach drops as I turn to face the frightening figure stalking toward me, his canines dripping with salvia.
“Alaric.”
13
Eight of Pentacles
The dawn broke in a fiery blaze as the ground shook beneath them, but the villagers stood firmly in place behind Caer, Scott, and Gallean. They would die for Caer. Somehow she could sense that. Along the way she had developed a relationship with them without even knowing it.
It was like she’d known them her entire life. Sure, she had watched them from afar and snuck into their homes while they slept, but there was something more. Something kindred.
“Gallean, why are the villagers familiar to me?”
He looked away from her as he answered. “Because you’ve watched them since your arrival in the Shadow Realm.”
Lie. Why would he lie to her? He often told partial truths, for her own protection he’d claimed, but he had never lied. As she became the warrior she was destined to be, she no longer needed the shelter of a child.
“There’s something more to it. You’re not telling me the truth. Why are they willing to die for me?”
His eyes softened. “When Balor killed your father and took over the kingdom, many of his people were turned to stone. These villagers are the ones who managed to get away.”
“But you said they were orphans and thieves,” Scott said.
“Some resorted to thievery to survive, but they are all orphans. Orphaned from their land, from their kind, from their . . . queen.”
“From their queen?” Caer’s eyes misted. She couldn’t be held responsible for their lives. She had one mission and that was to kill Balor at whatever cost. She couldn’t worry about people she didn’t know.
They’re your people, Caer, a voice whispered in her head. It was the voice of her father.
“No,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I have no people.”
Scott frowned at her. She ignored him. He may be her love in the Otherworld, but in this one they were strangers.
She gripped her sword. “I will kill Balor no matter what the cost.”
The boundary shield shattered, and the heavy mist surrounding the island lifted. Before them, a mighty army of soldiers disembarked from boats at the water’s edge. In the distance, tall ships with broad white sails bunched together, ready to be set free once their bounty was attained, to catch the wind and sail away from the Land of Shadows as swiftly as the winds could carry them.
She sensed Balor’s presence long before she saw him. His very being sent a chill deep into her bones as she scanned the enemy. Soon her eyes landed on the giant. His hulking frame stood towering over the sea of beasts. His cold gray eye searched for her. His other may have been covered with a patch, but his seeing one promised pain, suffering, and death. She swallowed hard. Balor was much larger than she remembered, but then, she had only seen him through a small hole in the stone.
“Reveal yourself to me,” he demanded to the small gathering of people around her.
It would be simple to merely disappear into the shadows. After all, she’d spent a lifetime hiding in them. But today she would not use her invisibility to hide from the beast. She stood tall, gripping Freagarach, and thrust her chest out. She would not cower before this monster. She would not falter for any man.
His gaze fell upon her. “You’re mine,” his voice rumbled through the valley.
“Caer, we’re not ready for this fight,” Scott said. “We are ill equipped. We aren’t fully trained.”
/> For a fleeting moment, she worried Scott was right. She was no more prepared to battle Balor than when she fought off the crocodiles in the King’s washroom.
But she had survived that encounter. Thrived, in fact. She’d survive this one.
Balor lifted a silver sword. She recognized the handle as her father’s. If his desired affect was self-doubt, he’d made a fatal mistake. Her father’s sword fueled her rage.
“I was born to kill him,” she growled. She refused to be swayed by such trivial concerns as training and preparation. Not with her father’s murderer staring her down.
In addition to the legions of soldiers, mythical beasts also began to descend from the ships. Black hellhounds circled Balor, awaiting their master’s command. They would be a challenge to kill, but not impossible. No one was impossible to kill, including Balor.
Gallean stiffened beside her. “There are too many. We cannot beat them.”
She glared at Balor. “I don’t need to beat them. I just need to kill him.”
“Are you willing to sacrifice your people for your own vanity?” he roared at her.
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to forsake Scott?”
She kept staring at Balor. “Yes.”
“Even me?”
She almost faltered. Gallean was the closest thing to a father she’d had since losing her own. But she’d spent almost every waking and sleeping moment of her life with a singular focus: kill Balor. Nothing else mattered. No one else mattered. She gripped her sword handle.
“Yes,” she growled through gritted teeth and sprinted toward the army.
She swung Freagarach in a high arc and removed three heads from their frames with ease. Blood splattered across her face. Her battle fury grew with each kill. Sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, she raced toward her desired target. She would not be deterred.
