Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Read online

  Book Three of the Celtic Prophecy

  Oracle’s Curse

  by

  Melissa Macfie

  Can’t Put It Down Books

  Oracle’s Curse

  Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy

  Copyright 2017 by Melissa Macfie

  ISBN: 978-0-9994623-1-7

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons or locales, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by

  Can’t Put It Down Books

  An imprint of

  Open Door Publications

  2113 Stackhouse Dr.

  Yardley, PA 19067

  www.CantPutItDownBooks.com

  Cover Design by Genevieve Lavo Cosdon, www.lavodesign.com

  This book is dedicated to my children, Elizabeth and Donald.

  Remember that it takes sheer force of will to affect change in life.

  Take a chance, experience new things, and breathe.

  I love you.

  “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”

  —W.E. Henley

  Table ofContents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary

  References

  About the Author

  Book 4 Chapter Preview

  Prologue

  Death had come for her in its beauteous magnificence. Time slowed. Not in the usual self-contemplating way, though that was true enough; it slowed from Finvarra’s working. The Oracle raised her eyes and saw a bird suspended motionless in the sky. So this is how it ends. She recognized it now. Arrogance and self-aggrandizement built slowly over the centuries bolstered by outside worship of her abilities had made her forget the fact that all things must come to an end, even her. Her death was the first of her premonitions, before even the official bestowal of the sight by Aerten, the goddess of prophecy.

  She looked down at her open hands. Her gnarled, swollen joints made it impossible to extend her fingers. They were old hands, spotted and trembling; still useful in a perfunctory way, the yellowed nails embedded with dirt. How long had they been like that? She seemed to remember a point in her life when appearance meant something. Images of dainty hands, with clear, rounded, and most importantly, clean nails, that used to be hers. She reached up to her damaged eye, wiping at the constant tearing. She didn’t need to see it; she knew what it looked like. A milky, yellowish-white cornea almost indistinguishable against the sclera, if anyone bothered to look, was the brand of the seer, a lesser gift from Balor, the god of the Fomorians. It was praised as the seers’ protection. No one would dare do harm to a seer whose powers lay in divination. Truth was no one dared to touch a seer at all. It was a lonely life. She had had to squash all hope for a family and children early on. She was venerated and ostracized.

  Yet as the Oracle spent the last few moments contemplating her life’s choices, a small part of her rebelled at the thought of fate and its importance. Hadn’t she spent a large portion of the latter part of her life struggling against it? If anyone was going to have a shot at circumventing fate, shouldn’t it have been her? She was there when Aileen had given her unborn child to the universe, an unprecedented move; it shouldn’t even have been possible. The Rite of the Phoenix always had two willing participants for the sole purpose of perpetuating the faith.

  Now, at this moment she hesitated. She wanted to simultaneously grovel at the feet of her gods begging for their beneficence and forgiveness so she’d be allowed to bask in their terrible beauty while at the same time standing defiantly as her lungs were robbed of their very breath, and she, all at once, was tried, convicted, and executed for heresy.

  She looked at the priestess, the woman called Brenawyn, kneeling beside Aerten, touching her. The sight hardened the Oracle’s resolve. Here was the so-named priestess, who hadn’t been raised in the Ways, knew nothing of the lineage of the Druids. She was ignorant of the customs, rites, and hierarchy, and here she was touching the goddess of prophecy! The audacity!

  With a harrumph, she stood taller and made her decision. The Oracle’s interlace grew brighter as she chanted.

  I curse ye, priestess

  In the name o’ Belanus, god o’ healing

  May he turn his face from you.

  I curse ye, priestess

  In the name o’ Epona, goddess o’ fertility

  May she not hear yer silent empty-armed suffering.

  I curse ye, priestess

  In the name o’ Danu, goddess o’ the land

  May ye never find a home.

  I curse ye priestess

  In the name o’ Taranis, god o’ the dead.

  May ye live forever.

  I curse ye, priestess

  In the name o’ Cernunnos, god o’ the hunt

  May ye never find what ye seek.

  I curse ye, priestess

  In the name of Blodevweld …

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  The pain abated as long as Maggie Harris remained utterly still and didn’t breathe. That was a problem. Even in shallow breaths the pain radiating from her lower leg was excruciating. The way she laid on the floor she couldn’t reach to explore the unseen damage, and to move to sit up—she’d rather not vomit again. She fluttered her eyes trying to clear her vision of the maroon blobs as soft flakes drifted to land on her cheeks. Dry blood. Assessing for lesser injuries, she found she had bled from a head wound at some point. There was an underlying throb, the real soreness of which was probably masked by the acute pain in her leg. She reached up to gingerly explore and found more dry blood covering half her face. It pooled around her head drenching the hair underneath. It was brittle, flaking away easily. How long had she been here?

  Panic set in even though she knew that head wounds bleed profusely. She had never seen, or rather felt so much of her own blood. She jerked, and a bolt of lightning shot up from her leg. She screamed, reaching down to cradle her knee. The change of position opened the wound on her head and she felt a trickle of new blood ooze at her hairline. At this angle she could see the damage to her right leg. A memory of the life-sized skeletal model from anatomy class came rushing into her mind. Her tibia looked…odd. The weight of her jeans was almost too much to bear; to press on the fabric to get a better look at the shape of her leg required more courage than she had at the moment. She registered that the leg was broken.

  Scuffling sounded from the room beyond, drawing Maggie up short. “Whose there?”

  A slip of a girl appeared at the doorway, almost drowning in the huge pile of fo
lded cloths that were clutched to her chest.

  “I see that you’re awake. That’s good. I was beginning to worry.”

  At the muffled words, Maggie brightened, “Please, you have to help me. I’ve been kidnapped and taken I don’t know where.”

  The moving pile of fabric stopped and teetered as the girl looked back. “He wouldn’t like it.”

  “He’s here? Near here? Where is here? Where am I?” The questions tumbled out of her mouth, each one pitched in a higher voice than the last. She stopped, realizing she was spooking the girl, who wavered, then ran to the corner, out of reach, and put the folded fabric on a wood chest in the corner. “Someone will be coming soon. I told him you needed a doctor. He didn’t like that, but I think he’s sent for one anyway.”

  “How long ago was that? Where am I? What does he…”

  the questions tumbled out of Maggie’s mouth again; she couldn’t stop them once panic set in. Once again, the girl looked afraid, Maggie realized, noting her own panic reflected in the girl’s eyes just before she skittered out of the room. There was real fear there.

  Maggie’s position was dire. She needed to think. He needed her alive for now, he’d not have taken her if that wasn’t the case. What did she know? What did she have that he wanted?

  Maggie’s thoughts were cut off as soon as they began by the rushed thump-thump of multiple feet on stairs beyond her vision. In her pain-addled mind, a memory flashed of when she was eight. The reverberation of the circus elephants’ weight hit the arena’s floor after being forced to do tricks for the audience. She was awestruck and scared at the enormity and power of the animals, and disgusted by the whips and bull-hooks the trainer’s held. She felt the revulsion emanating for her mother’s newest boyfriend as she tried to hide her eyes…

  Two men entered the room, followed by the slip of a girl again. They rushed her, and Maggie tried to cower away as much as her leg would allow. They had the advantage of being of sound body, and persisted, subduing her with little effort; a man pinning her shoulders as the girl pressed her hips down. The other man took his time searching in a black bag. He must be the doctor that had been sent for, Maggie thought.

  He pulled out a syringe and a rubber-capped injection vial. “Relax. The pain will be better momentarily.” He inserted the needle, pulled back on the plunger, and then tapped the barrel to rid it of any air bubbles. He gave a slight smile as he approached, possibly as an attempt to look less threatening, but Maggie wasn’t having it. He had to know the circumstances, or at least could guess them given she was lying on the ground in a dirt floor basement. He couldn’t be trusted. He wouldn’t help her. She struggled even knowing her abysmal odds. She wasn’t mobile, and even under the optimal conditions of a sterile hospital emergency room or an orthopedist’s office to get a cast, she would only be partially so. Yes, she knew her odds and didn’t like them a bit. At the moment she was completely at the mercy of her captors.

  The smile on the man’s lips disappeared as he knelt down on her side extending her right arm in a punishing grip. “You will cause yourself more pain if you continue to struggle.”

  “You see where I am. The circumstances, even if they aren’t clear to you, you know, you know, I am not here willingly. How can you be an accomplice to kidnapping? You’re a doctor! Doesn’t that go against your oath, or something?”

  He sat back on his haunches, “The Hippocratic Oath? No, there’s no correlation. Plus, you aren’t going to be harmed in my care. You’re not going to die. This,” indicating the syringe, “is only a local anesthetic so I can realign your bones. Unless,” he shrugged his shoulders, “you want to suffer without. It will be much more painful. I wouldn’t suggest it myself, since we have meds in abundance now. I shouldn’t have liked to be a doctor in the past, setting bones, amputation…”

  “Amputation? You’re going to take my leg?”

  “No, no, certainly not. It’s a messy break—compound fracture from the looks of it, but I won’t know until I take a better look. Will you allow me to take a look before I give you anesthesia to put your mind at ease? It will only take a moment.”

  Maggie found herself nodding agreement, and the pressure eased on her lower body as the doctor instructed the girl to retrieve his bag and extract the trauma shears. A few more instructions and a breathless, room-spinning moment the leg of her jeans was cut away.

  “If you would, sir, please help her to sit up a bit.”

  Maggie was elevated, but the movement and the sight of the bone where it pierced her skin was enough to make her vomit on herself. The girl looked away, heaving in reaction, while the doctor looked on unconcerned, patiently waiting for her to stop. The only sympathy was from the man who helped her to sit. He moved behind her head, so when she finally eased back it was to rest on his upper legs. He brushed her bangs off her forehead, but stopped midway to yank back his hands as if caught doing something he shouldn’t. Maggie looked at him for the first time. He was young, her age if she had to guess. Lanky, and wiry strong, and with a short scruff indicating a week’s worth of beard growth. Underneath that however, was skin that hadn’t exactly resolved itself of pubescent acne. She tried to memorize his face, holding him in her stare as long as possible, letting him see the tears that spilled from the corners of her eyes. She had to make an impression, for this boy might be her only help.

  “Despite the look of it, the break is clean; and I’ll leave you with a couple of blister packs of antibiotic. You aren’t allergic to penicillin, are you?”

  Maggie nodded, “I get hives.”

  “More and more people are developing allergies.” He said more to himself than her. “Any more that I should know about?”

  She shook her head. “Very well. I am prepared in any case. Keflex should knock out any infection that starts.” He took the syringe back from the young man, and flicked it again for good measure. “Shall I give you the local now?”

  Maggie came to sometime later in the basement, but things had changed. Gone was the dry blood, and there were fresh stitches at her hairline. There was a cast on her injured leg and she was divested of her jeans, all of her clothes in fact. Someone had taken the time to wash her, comb her hair, and dress her in a loose linen dress that skimmed her calves. She lay on an army cot that smelled of disinfectant and she was covered with a thin, hospital-issue knit blanket.

  She startled when someone cleared their throat. She turned her head to find the young man balanced on a spindled chair against the wall. Her stomach growled at the sight of the folding snack tray laden with food and bottled water next to him.

  “You’re awake. Do you want some water? You must be thirsty.”

  She nodded and went to sit up. As her feet brushed the ground, a wave of dizziness hit her and the floor rushed up to meet her. She was saved by two strong hands steadying her back on the cot. “Are you okay?”

  Maggie sighed deeply, unable to focus. “I’m…fuzzy-headed.” She looked down to his hand still clutching her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of him through the fabric of her dress, could almost count the nerve-endings set off by the tingly, pins and needles under his touch. His hands were large, with big knuckles; she reached and poked his index finger. “Do you crack your knuckles? My mother always warned me not to because I’d get large knuckles.”

  “You’re not making any sense, lie back down.”

  “What did he give me? I feel…floaty.”

  “Enjoy it, because the meds are wearing off and the pain will come back soon enough. He’ll want to see you then.”

  “He? Oh yeah…him. Cormac Mc-something or other.”

  “Yes, and he’s not happy.”

  “Probably still angry at me for hitting him in the nuts with a bat.”

  The young man snorted in agreement.

  “It was a really good swing. Haven’t played since high school. Do you think I would have had more power if it was aluminum rather than wood?”

  He leaned in, “Jesus, girl, shut your mouth, h
e’s looking for payback. If you want to make it out alive…”

  She grasped at him, “Please help me. He took me. He’s keeping me here against my will. Won’t you help me get away?”

  “Hush now, close your eyes.” He laid her head on the pillow and swept up her legs up, “Just sleep,” he said, covering her with the blanket.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Andrew. Andy. Call me Andy.”

  All Maggie could do was nod and lie there, mollified by the comforting weight of the blanket. She concentrated on her breathing, fascinated by the rise of her chest as air filled her lungs. She held her breath and then exhaled slowly, delighting in the ease of pressure. It seemed a difficult task, the inhaling, such labor to force air in, to expand—what if she forgot to breathe? In her relaxation, her body just gave up?

  What had the doctor given her? It was time to get off the loopy train. She had enough…but it was just so nice to just…be.

  She should concentrate on something else. Rafters, planking of the floors above, what was significant about this? Something was missing. She wished she knew what. Insulation. Shouldn’t there be insulation? Was there typically insulation on the ceiling of basements? Or would it invite mold? She suddenly wished to be more observant. She certainly would have seen it in the basement of Leo’s shop. That was a couple hundred years old at least, but it was updated, now that she thought about it. Mr. Callahan updated it for his wife, all except the still room. That had been left purposely untouched. She always thought it was funny why Leo had wanted it that way, but she never asked why. There’s that unobservant bit again, or maybe she considered it unimportant or just crazy eccentricities of an old woman. She never asked, though with the happenings of the last couple of weeks, she should have asked if its untouched state had anything to do with the existence of magic. Maggie wondered if she’d ever get a chance to ask now.