Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy Page 12

  Set free only at th’ Hunter’s caprices,

  Compelled ta seek th’ lost one.

  Hunting throughout every nation,

  Will wha’ ye find be yer destruction or salvation?

  Alex remembered every word, for they had sealed his fate.

  Aerten herself presided over the Rite of the Phoenix in the next hour. Prophecy and Fate together, one to foretell and the other to make it so; no wonder people tended to steer clear. The previous Shaman only held the office for twenty-three years. Gray hair hadn’t even begun to grow on his head.

  He remembered Cormac’s face at the proclamation and ceremony. It didn’t change. The envy was almost palpable—almost as great as the hatred Alex read in Cormac’s smug countenance now. Cormac couldn’t bring himself to move beyond it then, and their friendship had dwindled soon after. He saw it as the gods’ favor, not as the death sentence it was.

  “I’ve no’ had the time ta dedicate ta replacing th’ spells ye so callously shattered. I did make contact with th’ woman, though o’ th’ one who intervened I’ve learned nothing.”

  “Nay. It doesna matter noo. It appears tha’ th’ gods ha’ found her.”

  “Ye were in th’ crowd yestereve.”

  “I saw ye carry her back. Verra interesting tha’ incantation was, aye?”

  Alex rubbed his temples, trying to get a hold on his annoyance. “Wha’ dae ye want?”

  Cormac snickered, “It looks like ye weren’t needed after all. When dae ye think ye’ll be called back to the Stalking Grounds, noo that ye ha’ proven yerself incapable o’ e’en identifying a mere potential?”

  Alex balled his fists, but Cormac was up and took a wild swing. Alex easily ducked and came back with a solid left blow to his jaw, followed by a right to his ribs. Cormac staggered back and lost his balance against the coffee table. He splintered the pressed wood table as he fell.

  “Do ye want more, Cormac? Ye ne’er could best me at hand to hand. Wha’ makes ye think ye can dae so noo?”

  “Truce.” Cormac held out his arm. “Help me up.”

  Alex clasped his forearm and yanked.

  “We must make arrangements ta present her ta th’ Elders.”

  “Book yer flight and go home, Cormac. Take th’ Vate with ye. She’s nay longer needed.”

  “Wha’ o’ th’ woman?”

  “I will take care o’ her. I will stop by to pay my respect ta th’ Oracle afore ye go.”

  Chapter 13

  Roaches skittered across the tiled bathroom floor, so Cormac couldn’t even say the motel was clean, despite the overpowering smell of bleach in the confines of the motel room. He closed the door and looked over at the snoring form of the Vate, unconscious since the moment her duty was done. She lay curled on top of the bedclothes in the same position since she was deposited there. At least the dead eye was closed.

  He paced, wearing the orange shag rug further, occasionally stirring the thick green concoction which she insisted having after every read. She finally began to stir. He strode over, helping her to a sitting position as he handed her the elixir. “Haur, drink this, it will soothe th’ pain.”

  She slurped greedily at the foul smelling potion, licking her top lip to get the last of it.

  He sat on the side of the bed, spreading an afghan around her skeletal frame, “Tell me, wha’ did ye see?”

  “Our path is unclear.” Shaking her head, “Multiple visions, all dependent on th’ actions o’ others—Sinclair, her and ye.

  “Could ye see if she’s th’ one? Or are we wasting our time yet again?

  “Only tha’ she’s someone o’ import. Too many variables. Ye must put aside yer difference with Alexander. We must keep him close, manipulate th’ information he receives, use him, and then if necessary, ye can kill him.”

  “Ah, if it were only that easy. I kill him, he’ll just come back stronger and more arrogant.”

  “The apprentice’s botched attempt, acting, I think, on yer behalf. Aye, he cannae be killed, he is forever part o’ th’ hunting grounds. So it is noo, at least, but in time? Until then, observe th’ courtesies and respect yer betters.”

  It rankled to hear Alexander considered his better, but she was right, Cormac had to bide his time until the moment he could make Alexander pay. “Wha’ shall I dae when he comes ta me?”

  “Ascertain wha’ he has learned and then encourage him ta stay close, learn wha’ we ha’ been unable ta see. Encourage him ta train her.”

  “And about th’ other matter?”

  She rounded her eye on him. “Th’ acolyte needs ta retreat. He cannae be found by her—not yet. It is still unknown wha’ his portion is in th’ prophecy, but when it is made clear, ‘tis easy enough ta call him forth. Send him back in time, Master Bard. He deserves a reward, if only for a moment, for his devotion ta our cause. He served us well by diverting attention from th’ sacrifices.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Alex had to meet with Cormac again and quickly, before they retreated to Scotland and disappeared into the murk. At daybreak, he ventured forth.

  He closed and padlocked the door to the apartment’s attic and opened the attic window sash. He undressed, folding his clothes neatly to pile them on the edge of the wardrobe. What would he tell Cormac? The instinctual response urged him to flight as his bones hollowed and plumage settled around his body. He might not even get to utter one word.

  The foreknowledge of Cormac’s limited funds led him to the sole motel in the area. He perched on the apex of the main building, where a blinking neon sign advertised vacancy. A screech from his lungs sent a curtain twitching at the end of the long U of cottages. The door opened, Cormac looked his way and hurried off with a bundle under his arm.

  Alex found the pile of clothes: sweatpants and a t-shirt, under a tree behind the motel. The door latch gave when he knocked, sending the door swinging in, squeaking on its hinges. The Vate hunched on the end of the bed. Cormac, arms crossed, leaned against the closet door.

  “Alexander,” he nodded in his direction. “Ha’ ye new information?”

  “I have. She’s no’ th’ one we search for.”

  “The gods seem ta disagree. Do ye doubt their power?”

  The Oracle turned her milky eye toward him, smacking her lips together several times before speaking, “Shaman, th’ omens ha’ been vague and contradictory. While we cannae afford ta be hasty, th’ fact tha’ th’ gods ha’ recognized her gives credence ta our efforts.”

  Cormac handed him a vial of silver nitrate, “Come Shaman, show us wha’ ye ha’ discovered.” Leading him to a plastic ice bucket filled with tap water, Alex worked the cork free and emptied the contents in the bucket, swirling it with his fingers. The water became cloudy instantly, and then a vision appeared. Recognizing Brenawyn, Alex wanted to hide it, throw the basin on the floor, eliminate her face from where Cormac could see.

  “Ah, a verra pretty wench. Perhaps, I will take yer duties off yer hands.”

  “Nay. Nay, it falls ta me; my obligation.”

  “Oh, but ye are weary, rest this one out, I’ll take care o’ her. Eliminate her from th’ list o’ potentials.”

  “No, Cormac. I will dae it.”

  Alex didn’t hear the Vate approach from behind and cringed when she touched his arm, “Have her in Scotland and ready by Saimhain for her presentation ta th’ Elders. It must be done ta complete th’ initiation rite so she can take her place, long absented.”

  Peeling off the borrowed clothes, “Until October then.”

  Chapter 14

  At 7:45, dressed in a black sheath dress that ended just above her knees, Brenawyn tossed her heels by the back door and opted for the more comfortable flip flops. No need to begin torturing her feet by putting the strappy heels on before Alex arrived. “Nan, I’m taking the kitchen garbage out, and I’ll bring the cans to the curb for tomorrow’s pick up.” She went to put a new liner in the kitchen can.

  “Ok, Brenawyn. Thank you. Will the dog be okay while
you’re gone?” Leo asked from the living room.

  “I’m taking him out with me now. He’ll be fine until I get back.” Brenawyn said in response. “Come on, Spence. No time for a walk tonight. You’ll have to make do with the back yard.”

  Spencer bolted out the screen door and Brenawyn went around to the side, reaching over to unlatch the gate. Stepping out, she stuffed the last bag into the plastic bin and dragged it to the curb. She stood looking down the street with her arms folded over her chest. Goose bumps prickled on her skin as the branches of the nearby trees rustled in the cool wind. A man in a hooded sweatshirt hurriedly walked past, eyes focused on the ground. She stepped out of his path quickly to avoid collision. She stared after him but he never looked up. Shrugging her shoulders, she bent to get the community paper on the front steps and heard Spencer growl.

  Paper in hand, she rounded the corner of the house and saw the dog clawing at the fence to get out, “Hush, Spencer. What’s the matter with you? I’m…” A hand clasped roughly over her mouth and the other latched onto her waist like a vise, lifting her off the ground. Her scream was muffled by the restraint, and she clawed at the hands, writhing in his grip. She bit down on the fingers that found their way into her mouth. The assailant tore his hand away bleeding, and ripped at the neckline of her dress. The flimsy silk gave way at the shoulder seams, and panic flooded Brenawyn’s senses. Mouth freed, she took a deep breath and screamed. The assailant renewed his efforts, grappling as he forced her through the gate, away from prying eyes.

  She hit her head on the slate walk as he pushed her to the ground. Momentarily dazed, he had time to straddle her hips, grinding them into the ground. Sprawled on top of her, he captured both her hands in one of his, and held them pinned above her head as he groped in the pocket of his sweatshirt with the other. His hood came free and to Brenawyn’s horror, his eyes flashed scarlet under bushy brows and heavy lids.

  With a deep snarl, a blur hit him mid-chest, knocking him off Brenawyn. She scrabbled away, scooting back on the cement using her legs as propulsion and only gaining her feet when she reached the wall of the house. A long-bladed knife glinted with the reflected rays of the near-setting sun as the attacker faced eighty-five pounds of teeth. Spencer launched himself in another attempt at the man, but the knife sunk in the vulnerable side of the dog. Spencer fell to the ground in a whimper, blood spurting out to coat the brindle fur.

  “NO!” Tears streaming down her face, armed with a rock pried from the edge of the garden, she flew at her attacker, but he was too quick and dodged. The rock only grazed his shoulder and he emitted a grunt; but in the next instant, he seized her again. “NO! Please, my dog,” she cried.

  He brought the knife to her throat and pressed until she could feel a slow warmth trickle down her neck. She stilled, praying for her grandmother to stay safely inside, for someone else to hear her struggles and call for help, for Alex to come and scare him off, for her dog not to die, for a quick death, all at once. Straining her eyes, she looked at Spencer’s labored breathing, but with a shudder his chest ceased to heave. She closed her eyes as fury and bile rose in her throat and she bore down with white knuckles on her attacker’s bare forearm, the sweatshirt pushed up in their previous struggle.

  ~ ~ ~

  Scents of burning hair and roasting meat reached Alex’s nose before an ear-piercing shrill scream broke the silence. He rounded the corner at a dead run and ran into a man clutching his arm. He struggled with the man, wrenching the arm away from his chest; the fleeing man howled in pain, all fight leeched out of him. Alex looked down; the man’s skin and the flesh underneath his fingers had been burnt away and charred to the bone. Alex released his grip but the damaged flesh tore free, and a renewed scream erupted from the hoarse throat. Alex backed away to watch the man stumble off.

  Hearing a sob from further back in the yard, Alex ran to find Brenawyn crouched over her dog. Her sigils glowed brightly down the long line of her near naked back, but it was only on closer perusal that he noticed that her exposed skin was covered in bleeding scrapes and red welts that promised to be bruises tomorrow. “Holy sh—did tha’ man…? I’ll kill him.” Alex shook with outrage.

  “No, help me. My dog…my puppy. Help me. He’s hurt bad.”

  He dropped to his knees beside her as she pressed what appeared to be the remnants of her dress, wadded up, to the flank of the bleeding dog. Tears flowed freely from her eyes in dark rivulets as they tracked her make-up down her cheeks. “Help me, please. Spencer was stabbed,” she sobbed.

  He ripped off his jacket and placed it gently around Brenawyn’s naked shoulders, then he reached to rub the dog’s head. Spencer weakly wagged his tail. “Tha’s a guid sign. Afore we try moving him ta th’ house, did ye see him stabbed?”

  “Yes, but not very clearly. The knife went in just behind the left shoulder, but I couldn’t tell how far it went in, or the angle. The blood was spurting out. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  He lied, assuring her that it wasn’t, and assessed her condition. The runes glowed in a pulsing radiance up her arms, across her chest and abdomen and her hands emitted a bright blue light as it pressed the cloth to the dog’s side. “Did he hurt ye…more?”

  “No.” Looking down at her bruised body, “he didn’t hurt me more than you can see. I don’t know what he would have done if he had no distractions though. He was too strong.”

  “Thank th’ gods for small mercies tha’ yer dog was a distraction. Let’s try ta take th’ dress away ta see, because we’re going ta ha’ ta ease th’ pressure ta move him.”

  Brenawyn took her weight off the make-shift bandage, and the dog gave a small grunt of relief. She eased the cloth back to reveal the gash, but the bleeding had slowed considerably, welling to fill in the gap, but no longer gushing out.

  “Aaricht, I will lift him. Grab his muzzle gently but firmly, I doonae want him ta bite me as I move him.”

  She positioned herself by Spencer’s head, the dog’s eyes rounding on her dolefully. She cupped his chin and gently placed her thumb over his muzzle.

  “Rise with me.” They stood in unison, the dog securely braced in his arms, its soft cry the only sound between them. “Och, tha’s guid. Ye can let go o’ his muzzle. Go clear th’ way.”

  Brenawyn picked up the wicker basket on the step. She was only a step of two ahead of Alex so she opened the kitchen door and ran to clear the kitchen table with a swipe of her arm, letting the pot of silk flowers bounce and roll away. “Put him here and I’ll get the first aid kit.”

  Leo entered the room as Brenawyn ran out. “What is—oh my goodness!” she cried striding to the table side. “Alex, what happened?”

  “Go get a clean towel,” he barked over his shoulder.

  As Brenawyn hurried back with a pile of towels and compresses, Leo took in her granddaughter’s appearance—dressed only in her bra and black slip, bedraggled by blood, mud streaked over her limbs and back, her dress obviously the bloody rag held to Spencer. She watched as Brenawyn impatiently discarded Alex’s sport coat over the nearby chair to rifle through the medical kit unhindered. “This is useless. I can’t use anything in here,” she said throwing the kit on the floor.

  “Haur Leo, gi’ me a clean towel,” Alex calmly said over Brenawyn’s shoulder. Then, taking Brenawyn’s hand and pulling her closer to the dog, he directed, “Haur, put pressure on it.” Once she was positioned, he stepped away, taking the blood soaked garment from the table and dropping it in the sink. He ripped at his tie, unfastened the top two buttons of his white shirt, and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows.

  Slipping the tie beneath the dog, Alex tied a temporary field dressing to keep pressure on the wound. Stepping back, he noticed that the cadence of Brenawyn’s speech changed from the soft murmurs of tender endearments to her wounded dog to higher pitched, almost hysterical mumblings, causing Alex and Leo to look at each other. “What’s the same, Brenawyn?”

  Brenawyn looked over her shoulder, “The eyes. His ey
es were the same—the same as the woman at the rest stop.”

  “How were the eyes the same? What woman at the rest stop?” Leo and Alex asked simultaneously.

  “I thought it a trick, play of the light, an overactive imagination when her eyes glowed red.”

  “Whoa, start at the beginning.” Alex turned to face her. So she’s rationalized the encounter with the Vate. How much will she remember now? Will she recognize him? Perhaps it would be better if she did.

  Brenawyn took a breath, “I stopped at a rest stop on the way here to use the bathroom. It was empty when I entered, but not for long. The stall next to mine was occupied by a person who shuffled in. The person, the woman—you have to understand, I have no proof that it was her—grabbed my ankle underneath the wall. I stepped on her hand I think, to get away and ran back to my car. Spencer was barking and snarling in the car, and as I drove away, the woman—because I swear there was no one else in the bathroom at the time—she stood in the roadway watching me pass. Her eyes glowed red. The dog went insane, jumping to the backseat, foaming at the mouth much like he did tonight.

  “Did you call the police?” Leo asked.

  Brenawyn looked at her grandmother flatly, “And tell them what? That some woman grabbed me in the bathroom, and later her eyes glowed red?” Brenawyn quipped sarcastically. “No. I didn’t call the police. Once Spencer calmed down and my heart stopped racing, I dismissed it.”

  “Tonight, your attacker’s eyes glowed the same red?”

  “Yes. Don’t look at me that way!” Brenawyn looked to her grandmother and said in a small voice, “Nana, I am standing in a room and everyone’s eyes—do my eyes glow too? I’m assuming here, since my skin does. What is that anyway?” She looked at her outstretched arms. She saw the identical nods, “All right, everyone’s eyes, including my own, for some unfathomable reason, glow…if not for that, I would have thought I was crazy too.”

  “Go wash up and put some clean clothes on. I’ll take care of Spencer. We have to call the police.”