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

  Cernunnos dismounted, throwing the reins over the horse’s head, and led the way to a towering tree with a large hollow. At its widest point it could have allowed both of them to proceed shoulder to shoulder, but the Cernunnos had to twist to allow for his antlered helm to pass, and Alex still in wolf form, entered afterward.

  The immediate interior was spacious; Alex’s enhanced hearing picked up the hoot of an owl and its owlets in the expanse above. At the center of what should have been a dead tree, was the top of a spiral staircase leading down. Beyond the first few steps, the staircase widened allowing Cernunnos to pass unrestricted. The stairs wound through the roots of the tree above and the further they descended the more ornate the railings became. Carvings depicting pastoral scenes of Tir-Na-Nog and the human realm interspersed with portraits faerie folk and mortals; carvings only a master would attempt to create. The artistry looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where he had seen such skill before.

  They finally reached the bottom and walked down a tunnel dug from the earth, a series of thick roots laced themselves along the walls and the arching roof to secure it. The floor, a soft loam, was cool on Alex’s paws, but soon gave way to a mosaic marbled tile and the ceiling expanded to three to four times the height of the tunnel. His nails clicked on the tile, expanding to thunderous echoes in the hall. In this space were several steaming pools. “T’is here I take my leave o’ ye. Once ye’ve yer fill, ye’ll be directed ta the hall above.”

  Cernunnos waved a hand in leaving, and Alex shifted back in his human form, naked, painfully erect, driven half mad as a stag at the beginning of rutting season.

  Alex walked toward the pool and the water’s surface of the nearest was broken by an emerging woman, followed by another, both naked. “Welcome, Hunter.” He stopped mid-stride and he was painfully aware of his current condition. Their hair was braided and tied up at their napes so he could get an unobstructed view of their voluptuous bodies.

  They sauntered toward him, rolling their hips to draw attention to the apex of their thighs. There was something vaguely familiar about their synchronized movements but his head was preoccupied with primal thoughts: Hunt, kill, eat, mate; he couldn’t think beyond. The hunt had ended prematurely, and while he’d changed tactics and targeted prey before he didn’t smell fear on them. Their pheromones wafted over his still-heightened predatory senses and a new need surged to the forefront.

  “Hunter, we are gladdened by yer success and safe return.” The dulcet tones slid over him followed by their hands on his chest.

  The hunt over, the contest decided, it was his right and obligation as alpha, as all alphas before him, to set the hierarchical order within his pack. Instinct ruled. He heard the roar and the growl of conquest; it hammered at him with each beat of his heart. He was Hunter. He was home, finally, in the Wild Hunt.

  He sank to his knees taking one of the women with him, the other circled behind trailing her fingers across his shoulders. “Dae ye require additional attendants?”

  As he impaled himself deep within the first, he grunted with shock of sensation, but he turned his head to the source of the inquiry, “Aye, summon them.”

  Chapter 9

  Brenawyn opened her eyes and sat up. “Oh, it’s so late in the morning, why didn’t you wake me?”

  Alex handed her a bowl of oatmeal and berries. “Good morrow, lass. Break your fast wi’ me?”

  Brenawyn looked down at her state of dishabille and blushed, casting overt glances in turn at him and the tent, relative safety, several yards away.

  “Brenawyn, there is no shame in what ye offered, what we did last night. But if you regret it, I ask for yer forgiveness. I’ll turn my back.” He put down the spoon, rose turning…

  “No, Alex, please, that’s not what I meant.”

  He turned back to find Brenawyn had closed the distance between them, the blanket and his plaid discarded on the ground on the other side of the campfire. She stood naked to the sky and his perusal. He opened his arms. “Careful, lass, ye doonae ken the forces ye play with. Say the word and I’ll take ye again.”

  “Sounds good,” she nuzzled him…

  Brenawyn tried with all her might to hold onto the dream. She refused to open her eyes, and lay quietly in bed thinking about the kiss. Reaching under the covers, she found she was slick with need. Holding onto the memory of his hands, his mouth on her, his fingers, his cock in her—she found her release; but she wasn’t sated. She needed him.

  Biology, yes that was it, identifying the strongest and most virile man with wide shoulders, rippling muscles, not an ounce of spare flesh on him, no sign of a receding hairline, in fact no sign of a single gray hair in that luxurious dark silky head of hair. She sighed wistfully. He had the body of legend, honed not in gyms with modern-day weight equipment, but muscles hewn from demanding physical labor and intense weapon training—the body of a warrior.

  Brenawyn pulled herself out of her medieval fantasy and into the very real medieval nightmare. She was astounded that the brief reprieve had allowed her to forget where and when she was. She’d slept like she had when she was a child, deeply and soundly. It probably had to do with that fact that there was no ambient light from alarm clocks, cell phones, street lights, and no sounds of passing traffic.

  She was restless today. Days had crept by at a snail’s pace and Brenawyn was feeling the need to be productive. Her pattern was to spend it primarily in the tower room reading from the limited selection in William’s vast library. She wished that she’d had the forethought to take more than the requisite number of world language classes when she was in school. She would have loved to be able to read The Divine Comedy in its original vernacular Italian. Even if she could, she didn’t think she be able to settle enough to note the exiled author’s nuanced allegorical rebuke of a corrupt institution.

  Alex was in Tir-Na-Nog, safe, or that’s what she was told, until she arrived before Samhain—Halloween—same date. It was September now. She didn’t know how she would get there, how she would find him. It was curious that no one seemed to be concerned over that point except for her. She knew of no one who could help her. There was no one she could trust with the truth of her origins, and she had to keep out of sight from Liam and his wife and child. Not that she could do anything about it right at this moment being held prisoner so effectively. If she got away somehow, where would she go?

  Then there was Maggie. She was in no position to help there either; she didn’t even know where Cormac had taken her. Guilt washed over her. It was her fault that Maggie was mixed up with this mess. The decision to take up the mantle had been one made under duress. Tricked into it, she hadn’t thought of the effects it would have on her loved ones.

  Nana. She would have called the police to report Maggie’s kidnapping. Perhaps all her worry was for naught because they could have already apprehended Cormac, and Maggie was safe. Brenawyn rocketed out of bed, her bare feet slapping the stone flags to pace. She was impotent here. She couldn’t call for an update. She couldn’t coordinate a search party. She needed to get out of here!

  If she had known that she’d end up here, a veritable prisoner in a time and place where danger lurked around every corner, as well as in the hearts of those that seemed kind, she would have reconsidered. Actually, she never would have promised anything in the first place if she’d known that her oath was built on empty promises, that she wasn’t in fact ensuring Alex’s survival. To hell with this whole thing!

  She heard the grating of the key in the lock, but the door opened too quickly, giving Brenawyn almost no warning, and in blew Mistress Fordoun with an entourage of young strapping boys carrying buckets of steaming water. Even though Brenawyn was fully clothed, she had been there long enough to know she was in dishabille as evidenced by the appreciative side glances she received from the boys. She repositioned the screen and caught her reflection in the mirror, sleep tousled hair, rosy cheeks, and nipples straining against the soft lawn of the nightdress. Holy Lord,
she was indecent!

  The water brigade disbanded after the third visit, leaving a tub filled with lavender scented, steaming water. Mrs. Fordoun made efficient work of laying out a new dress and all of its sundry articles on the bed that had been newly made by one of the girls, as the other laid out breakfast. The smell of the pastries beckoned her, but as she approached, tea was poured, and at the smell Brenawyn’s stomach heaved. She covered her mouth and made it just in time to the chamber pot to empty her stomach of last night’s dinner.

  “Och, are ye aright, dearie?”

  Wiping her mouth with the back of hand, Brenawyn pushed the pot away and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Yes, I’ll be right there.” She felt her breasts. They were tender and sensitive. No! This can’t be. She pulled taut the fabric against her abdomen and turned to look at her reflection in profile. She couldn’t have children. Doctors—second and third opinions even—had told her that.

  She’d had unprotected sex three times. Stupid. Stupid. The first time was…well, she didn’t know how to categorize that. Imbued by spirits, she couldn’t even bring herself to say it out loud because it made no flipping sense, but if anyone could say that they had no control over what happened it was her…somehow that seemed like a cop-out too. She was a responsible woman, and if she could remember the encounter, certainly she could have made sure that precautions were taken.

  The second time was all her fault. Ill-advised certainly. She was scared. She needed reassurances. She needed something normal, and whatever else sex might be, it has a normalcy to it. She wasn’t thinking with that encounter. Maybe it was a need to strengthen the attachment to the only person who knew what the hell was happening.

  The third time was definitely that. She had vowed to accept the mantle of priestess, to forego all she knew, to leave her loved ones behind, and go keep the balance from a disintegrating covenant and assassination attempts by the Coven who wanted her power. She wanted sex from Alex. She used him to center herself, to feel the immediacy of the act and block out all else. It was a primal and pointed need of satiation and gratification, to serve and be served. The need made sense to her, the lust for his body, what it could do to hers, and how she responded. She had intentionally been reckless.

  Pregnancy was not a possibility, or so she thought. She had only conceived the one time and then…the miscarriage and the doctors had told her there was too much scarring and trauma done to ever hope for another. There was a whole host of infections and diseases she could contract, too. Pus-filled images of infected sores from herpes, gonorrhea, and chlamydia floated to the surface of her mind burned there from high school health classes. Then there were scarier things like syphilis and HIV, without the presence of antibiotics in 1457, meant a prolonged and probably painful death.

  Stupid.

  But if he were here, she knew she’d want him to fuck her. She needed him inside her, filling her.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  Brenawyn brushed the hair away from her face and stepped out from behind the screen. The tea and pastries had been taken away and what was left was a bowl of what looked like oatmeal, a hunk of bread, its crust crisp and flaky, a small round of cheese, and an earthenware pitcher.

  Mistress Fordoun looked up after smoothing the bedcovers one last time. “Are ye sure yer aright? I can send up a physic if ye ken t’will help.”

  “No, thank you, but could you tell me the date?”

  “Oh!” Fordoun’s eyes went directly to Brenawyn’s abdomen, “t’is the eighteenth o’ September, my lady.”

  Brenawyn must have made a small noise, because Fordoun flew over to help her to the edge of the bed. “Are yer courses late, then?”

  As tears spilled over, Brenawyn only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Och, lass, ye’ll no’ be the first woman who was brought ta tears o’er it, but I can tell ye from experience, havin’ six o’ my own living, that bairns are worth all the trouble and worry they cause. Ye’ll see.”

  Brenawyn was in shock. A baby. Could she be pregnant? How did they tell here, besides the obvious? There was no early detection test that a woman could go purchase at the pharmacy. Did they just assume until it was beyond doubt?

  And if she was? Not ideal circumstances, but a baby!

  If she were home, she’d be able to support herself without a husband. She’d have to apply for a teaching job for the benefit of health insurance, paying for a college education eventually, and providing a financial future beyond what Liam’s death benefit left her.

  Shit, Liam.

  He was alive and here. How would he react when he found out? She needed to get out of here immediately, before he came back. There was no telling his reaction. He left her and even faked his death, true, but coming face to face with her pregnancy by another man? He would not react well, just based on her own reaction to the news that he had a wife and child here. Having her mind cleared of the memory bindings just days ago, Brenawyn remembered every abuse, bruise, and broken bone, as if they had been just inflicted, but still, his domestic arrangement stung, and a small part of her, the part that was beaten in submission by an abusive man, thought herself undeserving and flawed to even have that.

  She was in real danger here, and although she might not be able to assimilate to life here in the long term, submissive and dependent on a husband as expected of women in this time, she knew that she needed the protection of one now more than ever. She might make herself useful as a teacher, or work in the kitchen, gardens, or as a maid; but she couldn’t support herself on her own. She’d have to live at the mercy of a man like William Sinclair if Alex didn’t come back, and while William seemed to be compassionate to her plight; it wouldn’t necessarily be the same with all the men in this Keep.

  The magistrate, this Amergin, needed to get here now. The sooner he came, the sooner Brenawyn could leave with him. Once she did, the sooner she’d be able to think beyond the immediate.

  Chapter 10

  Maggie awoke to loud noises. The floorboards above groaned as heavy items were dragged across them, raining particles and imagined spiders unseated from their webs on her person. She sat up, but there was nowhere for her to go to escape the deluge. It stopped as soon as the cellar door swung open and something metal, by the sound of it, was dragged down the stairs. There were murmured curses, a fumbling, and a loud crash as whatever it was, was heaved the rest of the way. A second set of feet came rushing down as a result.

  “How do you expect me to get her out of here if I don’t bring her up in the wheelchair?”

  “If you’d listen to me in the first place, and drug the bitch. It wouldn’t be such a problem.” This was a new voice.

  “No, then she’d only be dead weight, and harder to bring up. Why were you so insistent that she’d be kept down here anyway? It’s not as if she be able to escape with her leg the way it is.”

  “No, but she could have seen something to give her an advantage.”

  “Such as? There’s no one around for miles. She could scream until she had no voice left for all the good it would do her.”

  “But to allow her to orient herself is advantage enough.”

  “Well, you would know being the expert on kidnapping.”

  “Damn, Andy, do you want me to call Cormac and let him deal with you and her?”

  There was a sigh, “No, of course not, Linda. Please, let me handle this. Let me prove myself.”

  “All right, but Andy, don’t disappoint him again. I’m getting tired of paying for your mistakes.”

  Maggie had to feign disinterest when Andy appeared at the door, luckily that wasn’t too hard to do since the pain was still so acute. He left the wheelchair just beyond the opening since the doorway wouldn’t allow for the width of the chair. “Hello, Maggie. It’s time to go. Are you ready?”

  “To get out of here? Yes. Where are you taking me?”

  “Upstairs. That’s all I know.”

  “All you know or all yo
u’re willing to share?” Maggie immediately regretted asking because the look he fired at her was daunting. Gone was the gawky awkward boy; this man was determined. He meant business.

  He stalked over to her, grabbed her under the arms, and hoisted before she was ready. She collapsed into him and stumbled when he stepped away. He caught her and exhaled loudly, expressing his impatience, but he slowed nonetheless and started helping her to the wheelchair with a firm arm around her waist. It made him awkward since he was so much taller, so he stopped her to sweep her up in his arms and take her the last twenty feet to the doorjamb. He had to readjust, holding her closer to his body and walk through the door sideways to allow for the casted leg. He sat her down but stepped back quickly, running his hands through his hair as he paced away.

  Maggie situated herself, sitting back more firmly for the ascent he’d soon make with her poised precariously on two wheels, completely helpless if he were to lose his grip. She’d fall and there would be little she could do to protect herself from further injury—best to make nice and appear helpless. He’d respond to that. She’d have to keep reminding herself of that, too. It was too easy for her to slip into sarcasm. It marked her personality, but it provoked him.

  Andy circled back and took the handles without saying a word, and pushed her toward the stairs. Maggie didn’t remember this part of the cellar because the only time she had passed through she had been drugged. It was expansive, much larger than the room in which she was kept. She could make out outlines of furniture under white tarps, piled like jigsaw puzzle pieces. There was a crystal chandeliers wrapped in clear plastic hanging off to the side on a hook. Neatly piled boxes with their contents listed in the same slanted print lined the far wall perpendicular to the stairs. The sight made Maggie think of curated museum storage or police evidence rooms, an image she must have gotten from a TV show or movie. She hadn’t seen either of those places in person.