Concentric Circles (21 page)

“Our Father who aren’t in heaven…”

Shayla lowered her eyes, allowing the minister’s voice to blur into one long tonal drone. Thinking of Gail, renewed moisture escaped her eyes. Rudeness from the mourners toward Gail reflected uncharitable attitudes. Amethyst would never have approved. Related through only one commonality, Syther, Amethyst loved Gail as the daughter she never had, Syther’s wife.

She had not known this information herself until Meekal told her late last night in his moon-silvered bedroom. The vision of Gail kneeling next to Amethyst between Syther and another Thyrza had reared its ugly head.

“That’s why he didn’t kill her?” Shayla had asked.

“Aye,” Meekal said, nodding mournfully. “There’s always the chance for reconciliation in Syther’s point of view. He will want an heir.”

Bile roiled in her stomach. She knew her face was twisted in horror. She could feel every little energetic molecule of it. Its pain riddled her to the heart. “Poor Gail. In my point of view there’s no way to make up. She loved Amethyst dearly. That I could see. Besides, witnessing such horror changes a person.”

“Syther’s mind is twisted, Shayla. Don’t ever expect to understand it.”

Memory vanished within the drone of the minister’s voice. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, as it is in heaven…”

The warmth of Meekal’s hand in hers vibrated to her heart. She squeezed in response and began walking the main isle to exit at the back of St. Mary’s.

[13] Separate Ways

Soulful eyes gazed at him. Meekal swallowed the lump in his throat along with his pride and raised a hand to wave.

Shayla tucked a loose strand of wayward hair behind her ear, smiled sadly and blew him a kiss. As though moving in slow motion, she turned and stepped through the door leading to the concourse and her flight back to the USA.

His heart contracted. The distance separating them grew. Stiffening in resolve, he left Bristol Airport, stepping into the night and got into his car. Although the Jaguar was a prized possession, he didn’t usually drive it. Somehow, in some manner, he had wanted Shayla’s departure to bear a fragment of normalcy.

He pressed the smart key button on the console, allowing the engine’s roar to calm his frazzled senses. Some classic rock-n-roll inserted into the player, he pulled out of the car park to the rhythm of Eden Mystic’s ‘Everywhere With You, Baby.’ Memory of Shayla’s glowing face at Harry’s Pub propelled his foot to the floor. The Jag shot out into traffic. He drove as if he were the only one on the road.

Heading north on A38, he wasn’t in the mood to drive south toward Glastonbury and home. Right now, the memories were too new, raw and debilitating. He knew his family would be worried.

His voice activated communication system remained connected at all times. “Chilkwell Manor,” he said and waited as the phone rang on the other end. “Hey, Mum.”

“Are you all right?”

He smiled, understanding the concern in her voice. “Aye. I’m not coming straight home.” He hesitated, gnawing on his lower lip. The action gave his heart a twist. Mirror, my love. He released his lip and a held breath. “Thought I’d go north. Well, it’s been awhile, you know.”

“That’s fine, dear. Just be careful.”

Silence came across the airwaves.

“Mum?”

“Call me when you get there?”

He stopped for a red light, staring at the glaring orb impeding his forward progress. “Aye,” he answered low-voiced. He gunned the car forward, the light changing with a blink of an eye. The night scenery flashed by him in patches of human existence. He ignored it all for the sake of driving fast along the northbound lane of A38.

An hour later, he zipped through the roundabout and slipped off A38 into the next exit to B4053, Victoria Street.

“Separate ways,” he muttered, spurring forward to a higher speed. “Put distance between us. Sort things out. Don’t you know your own heart, Kal?”

He ground his teeth and passed a slow moving Morris. The small auto blurred in his rearview mirror. He could travel the Semple Folk way and journey to his destination five hundred thirty-three miles in about eight and a half hours.

Instead, he used a tricky charm, passing everyone so he could arrive in half the time. “Adaptive cruise control tweaked with a little Fae based magic.”

“Okay, so magic is kewl. Life is too short to do without.” He pushed the button to roll the windows down, allowing the cool night air to bustle through the Jaguar’s interior. Having the auto persona of a black cat around him suited him to a T.

Blackpool, Gloucester and the Kincardine Bridge at Glasgow were all a blur. He slowed down and paid the road toll at Erskine.

Thoughts about the last few days banged around in his head like a hyperactive fidget. He laughed roughly at that realization. “Mental,” he grumbled. “Maybe that’s what it takes to put down Syther’s evil plot. Hyper insanity.” He pressed the accelerator roughly and angled into a sharp turn. “Meet wickedness with a headstrong highlander charge. To hell with this!”

He slammed on the brakes and pulled into a roadside car park, squealing the tires. A tree loomed grotesquely, bare limbs swaying in the night air. His breath came fast as he stared at the tree’s broad trunk only inches from his car bumper. “Bloody hell, you’re radgie, Kal.”

He shoved the door open and stepped out. The empty car park, wind whistling through bare branches and moon glow, all combined to squeeze him in insurmountable loneliness. He kicked the curb. “Dammit!”

The echo, pounding his ears, multiplied heart-splitting anguish. Angry about his inability to push desolation aside, he reached between the driver’s seat and boot, grabbed his coat and yanked it on. He closed the door gently, refusing to take his rage out on his car. Passing his palm over the warm front hood, he murmured, “Miniature.”

The Jaguar XK morphed into a pocket sized black ebony beauty. He bent, picked her up, and placed it protectively in his inner coat pocket.

A truck rumbled past, the only other night traveler. Meekal glanced at his watch. “Three twenty-three a.m.” He sighed. “Must’ve been driving slower than I thought.” He closed his eyes against the empty countryside and spun on his heel, arriving in Fiunary Forest on a chilled wind. He stumbled slightly when his shoe bumped a tree root.

Tucked up in the northern reaches of the Fiunary Forest, Raven’s Gate remained hidden centuries after it had been deserted. He stared at the twin megaliths guarding the sequestered lands of his ancestors.

Cell phone in hand, he dialed. The line buzzed with residual magic projected from the towering stones. He clasped the device and faced south, hoping for a clearer connection.

“Meekal?”

“Aye, Mum. I’m here.”

Crackling static and the line went quiet. He gritted his teeth and closed the phone. At least she knew he arrived safely.

Once more, the towering stones loomed, beckoning him to journey through their magical portal into the mythical land of Raven’s Gate. On the other side, he would be cut off from the dangers of the real world. He did not come here to hide. Instead, the call to the origin of familial roots shouted, demanding his presence.

He tapped his forehead just above the center of his eyebrows, and then over his heart. Made the sign of the eight points of truth star and moved forward. The sensation of heavy pressure on his ears, tightened like a band when he stepped through the portal.

Normalcy dissolved, revealing a moon-kissed glen and stretching black waters of Loch Dhu. He released an elemental breath and stepped toward the water’s edge.

The moon reflection shimmered like a million sparkling diamonds on the wet surface, guiding his eye to the man standing, at water’s edge waiting. “Figured you’d be here, Grandfather.”

“Chaeli said the line on yer phone went dead. She’s worried.” Black Bryan’s voice had a distinct sadness to its timbre. He stopped speaking and sent his gaze around the glen. “Why come here? We could have met in Annwn.”

“Compulsion.” Meekal stared at the bastle on a slight rise of land. The old house, a cross between a large cottage and a castle, stood in perfect condition, magically preserved for all time. “What if I don’t survive?”

Black Bryan began the trek up the path to the stone house. “Ye must maintain faith. We should go in.” A highland wind pushed his kilt into a plaid dance.

“Cold, Grandfather?” Meekal asked, jesting.

Baritone laughter and deep dimples expressed his humor. “Never.” He opened the door to a dark interior, but then stepped aside allowing Meekal to enter first.

Meekal paused, and then stepped forward, initiating the inner magic. Flames ignited in sconces attached to the stone walls of the center hall. A split down the chamber’s midpoint housed a whispering burn, running water in the ancient stone structure. The stairs on the right rose to the upper level. On the left, a wide archway opened to the combination kitchen and common room. Meekal led the way across the wooden footbridge and headed straight for the larder.

He pulled the wooden knob to open the door. Its hinges squeaked in protest, sending waves of unpleasant vibrations up his arm. “Ugh.” He jiggled the door, loosening the mechanism and retrieved two tankards from the interior. Passing the wall shelves on his way to the long oak table, Meekal grabbed a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt Scotch whisky. With a grunt, he plopped on the bench and poured.

The golden ambrosia spilled into the antique tankards, filling the air with the scent of potent Scottish history. Meekal shoved one drink across the table to his many times great grandfather, and then buried his face, drinking deeply. He refused to choke on the brew, allowing its burn to pass over his tongue and down his throat. “Ah!” he said, gasping with the last swallow. “How many ways can a Scot say pished, Grandfather? Let’s count them.” He poured another round.

Black Bryan’s brows came down into a tight furrow. “Blootered? A dinnie ken,” he answered, slipping into a wide brogue for full effect. “Nev’r counted. Yer mum’ll flay us both if ye get drunk beyond reason.”

Meekal snorted, tossed back the tankard and emptied it. “That’s two. Safe here.” He hiccupped, stood and shook his jacket off, allowing it to pool in the floor before the fire. “Ole Syther the Quitch can’t pass through the megaliths to get in here. You know that.”

“Aye,” Black Bryan said, sternly. “That’s still no reason for recklessness. Steamin will be another one.”

“Never heard that one.” A flash of heat raced under his skin. Meekal pulled his shirt apart and added it to the coat on the floor. He turned and passed a hand in front of the flames, lowering the fire’s potency. “Hot,” he muttered and belched. A rough chortle escaped. “Rec’n I see your point,” he slurred. “Steamin. Pished.”

Black Bryan rolled his eyes and stood. “Ye should eat something. Drinking fine Scottish whisky on an empty stomach, yer already pished. Two tankards. Where’s the family resemblance?” he teased, walking around to the magically supplied larder.

“Resemblance is here,” Meekal said, pointing to his face. “And here.” He held his palm over his heart. “When it first happened, I wanted to kick your arse for not telling me.” He eyed his grandfather while he threw some food together. Fresh baked bread and rabbit stew warmed with a charm.

Black Bryan set a steaming bowl and plate with slices of bread in front of him. “Eat. Ye’ll feel better.”

“Might still do it,” he grumbled, wavering over the food. “Not hungry. Thirsty.” He reached for the tantalizing green bottle.

It vanished.

“Dammit!” he roared, rising with furious anger, ready to retrieve another bottle. The bench legs scraped the stone floor, grating on his spine.

A strong hand stayed his progress. “Not now. Ye need to eat and get some sleep.”

“Why’s it like this?” He tapped his heart in rhythm to the pulsation racing within. “Separate ways. That’s what Shayla said. We need to go our separate ways to make sure this bond is real? Why’d she say that, Grandfather?” Despite life’s experiences, magical or otherwise, he felt like a kid. The sound of his own voice didn’t change the initial impressions stirring in his heart and mind. “I love her. Why doesn’t she understand that?”

“She understands, son. Ye have to remember, everything happened in rapid succession. Chaeli told me Shayla grew up without being taught her magical heritage. I believe that’s the real source of her leaving. Magic, death and love. It’ll take some time. She’s bonded to ye, just as ye are to her. It’ll come together when the time’s right.”

“Pish.” Meekal snored, face flattened against the tabletop into an opened mouth caricature of himself.

* * * * * *

“Ah, my son. The forlorn heart. Love is a splendor, once ye accept its potency.” Black Bryan tapped his own chest, and then rested his fingers on the pendant under his shirt. “I never told ye because I could only hope ye’d be so lucky.”

The concentric circles sterling piece against his skin marked him as Fae royalty and provided the only means for separation from his soul love that proved bearable.

He shook Meekal’s shoulder. “Up ye go, son. A man must walk to his own bed regardless of how buckled he gets.”

Meekal shook with drunken laughter, momentarily coming out of his stupor. “Buckled? Geez Bry, you’re a walkin’ thesaurus.” He belched, sending the recycled aromatic Glenfiddich outward.

“Regardless, it’s still just plain ole drunk. Chaeli will flay us both.”

Meekal grinned drunkenly and pressed an index finger to pursed lips. “Our secret.”

Black Bryan pulled Meekal’s arm over his shoulder and hauled his grandson upward and toward the footbridge. “One foot in front…”

His toe caught on the wood planking, Meekal nearly toppled into the burn.

“Ho no! I don’t desire a bath,” Bryan growled, bracing them against near disaster.

“Luv her. Gonna kick yer arse. Mornin’. After sleep.”

“Fine. It’s a date, as they say.” He braced them at the bottom of the stairs, gazing upward, calculating the hazards of dragging Meekal aloft.

“What cha waiting for?” Meekal took the first four steps fine. On the fifth, he teetered and grabbed the rail with one hand while the other clasped Bryan’s plaid draped over his shoulder.