Concentric Circles (9 page)

Shayla could see the aura of terror overcoming Seamus, almost a black, hazy mist. Never having seen someone’s aura, she studied it curiously. It pulsated around him in high energy, spiking outward at the edges. She blinked, trying to eradicate the vision.
No, still there
. A quick shake of her head didn’t change the situation.

Booted feet shuffled back even further. Seamus sent a fearful glance between Sheitan and Syther. “Never, I said. Why lie about that?  Dragar lies by omission,” he insisted, hands flashing in nervous energy as he spoke. “She is Fae. I swear.”

“That’s impossible!” Syther lost his cool, strode across the library and pulled an old tome from a high shelf. Irascible muttering came under his breath. The large volume landed on the desk with a heavy thump. Syther’s nimble fingers flicked the bone wand, twirling it like a baton. Pages flipped in fast motion.

Her eyes locked on the motion of flashing bone. The firelight gave it an eerie glow. The action almost hypnotized her until she realized Syther was reciting a list. Her lips tightened, teeth grinding in stubborn concentration trying to hear.

“Altheworld, de Portham, Radfourd, Blankenshippe, Hayes.” He stopped pacing, hand now gripping the wand and turned to Seamus. “What else can you tell me?”

“She—sh, ugh.” Seamus swallowed audibly. “She had the—the nimbus.” 

The white wand came up. Syther’s lip rose in an angry sneer. “Scathergal.”

Seamus screamed and clutched his stomach.

“Live with that!” Syther roared. A satisfied cackle charged forth, accompanied by horror.

Seamus’ eyes dropped. Blood glistened on his fingers, black and red in the firelight. He yowled the cry of utter devastation. Clutching his crotch, he fell writhing to the floor. Sorrowful lamenting filled the chamber. Kicking and flailing on the floor, Seamus moved in a circle of demented pain.

Shayla turned away from the sight. A groan of utter nausea twisted from the inside, and then a sudden gust of wind spiraled around her. Awareness of the bathroom in her suite at the Tor Sunset Inn blended into her mind. The porcelain throne gleamed as she threw up the contents of her stomach.

Meekal’s voice came through her retching. “Shayla, where were you?” She moaned, and then slid to the cool floor with a shudder.

Motion, vaguely outside her awareness, pulled her into a tight embrace. Meekal crooned softly in her ear, holding and rocking her. “It’s okay, love. You’re back safe and sound.” His fingers brushed through her hair.

“Syther,” she whispered, moving down against his chest. She clutched his warm skin, seeking grounding. He tensed beneath her hands and cheek. She pulled back, searching his face. “Kal, is Harry, Woodard?”

“Aye.”

The feel of her lower lip between her teeth did nothing to soothe her. “I don’t know how, but I was in Syther’s,” she said, pausing and searching for the right word. “Lair?”

He took a deep breath. “You could call it that.”

The memory flashed through her mind in an instant and she tried to shake off the sense of foreboding that had blanketed the room. “Dragar was there. Syther cursed him with a wand that looked like a bone.” She scrunched up her face. “Scathergal?”

The breath he had been holding came forth. “To harm, damage, injure, hurt, waste or cause misfortune. That’s what scath means. Pretty extensive. Adding ergal to the curse intensifies and focuses its power.”

Instant rolling in her stomach came up, groaning, she made a fast move to the toilet again. She retched while he rubbed her back in an effort to soothe her. At last, she pulled away, coughing and moaning from the pain from throwing up.

“Come on, love. Maybe a shower would help you feel better?”

She cuddled against his chest, his heartbeat reassuring her with every thrum. Time stood still while she tried to reject the horrible experience. Finally, she whispered, “Kal, Syther dismembered Seamus.” She shuddered, closing her eyes trying one more time to erase the memory.

“You saw that?” Meekal, already tense, swallowed.

“Yes. I didn’t like Seamus, but that’s no reason to be so hideous.”

“Aye, I know what you mean. Come on love. Let’s get you out of these clothes.” He helped take her jeans and sweater off, and then laid them on the counter. Gentleness emanated from his simple moves.

“Throw them away.” 

“I’m going to the manor. Mum has something that’ll help. Be back soon.” Meekal left, closing the door with a gentle click.

She shivered at the sound and stood silently in the center of the bathroom. Quiet on the other side of the deeply carved wood indicated he had gone. Hands shaking, she reached for her toothbrush and overloaded it with toothpaste. She brushed with fierceness, trying to eradicate the taste and memory.

She stepped under the shower’s warm cascading water, allowing its sounds to wash away the remainder of the abhorrent experience. Something began to grow within. A seed of resolve took root and sprouted. She washed her skin with fierceness, and then stepped out to dry. The sound of movement from the other room caught her attention.

“It’s me,” Meekal said, from the other side of the door.

“I’ll be out in just a sec.” She wrapped a terry robe around her, tied it securely. Next, she twisted a towel around her wet hair and stepped into the bedroom.

He gave her an easy smile. “Hey, are you doing better?”

She tried to carry over her sense of resolution now that she was no longer in the sheltering warmth of the bathroom. “Yeah,” she answered in a low voice. “Kal, what’s a bezoar stone?”

Meekal unpacked a covered basket containing a carafe and two mugs. “Sit down and drink this tea, it’ll help.” Amusement crossed his face. “It isn’t chamomile.”

The soft, flowered chintz wing chair hugged her with comfort. She pulled the tea pot and a mug closer. The tea smelled heavenly. An aura of relaxation spread through her. “What is this?” she asked, pouring some into the mug.

He handed her a napkin. “Spice tea. It’s mostly cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves with a few other herbs mixed in. Mum buys it at a health food store in Shepton Mallet. It’s great hot.” His face shifted to mischievousness and he sat opposite her. “We’ll try it frozen later.”

She quirked a brow and pulled the mug up, sniffing the heavenly aroma. “Yumm.” Delighted, she closed her eyes. “Heavenly. Ambrosia of the gods.” She took another sip and sighed.

The corner of Meekal’s mouth rose, but then he became serious. “You’ve never rode the wind solo before have you?”

“What?”

“Wind-riding,” he said, matter-of-factly. “That’s what happened to you. The ancient Picts perfected the experience. In modern times, it’s often referred to as astral projection. “It’s actually how we traveled to the Tor. This time you went alone.”

A turmoil of emotions rose in quick succession heading straight for her throat. She coughed and sputtered, choking on the tea. Her breathing quickened and she set her mug down with a clang, glaring at him.

He shook with silent laughter and shrugged. “You apparently followed the Pictish method, expertly, I might add, because you left completely. There was no body or essence left here. I heard you call out, and then you were gone. Not bad for a first-timer.”

She felt her glare slide off her face. The sensation pulled her fingers to her forehead. She pressed hard and rubbed in small circles, trying to alleviate the tension. She didn’t even do astral projection in the typical way. “Okay, if that’s what it was, then why start now?”

“Shayla, it’s like I said, you’ve been attuned. Your magic will begin to peak. Just because you’ve never used it with intention before, doesn’t mean it hasn’t always been there.”

“Well, that makes sense, I guess. What’s a bezoar stone? That’s what Syther wants.”

He lowered his eyes and studied his fingers, moving them along the wood grain of the table. He chewed his bottom lip. “Well…”

“Kal.”

“A bezoar stone is a stone from the belly of a goat. It can protect you from poison.”

Disbelief squeezed her eyes shut while furrows appeared and marred her forehead. “That’s what I thought. Myth.” 

Meekal leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He touched her hands as they clutched the warm mug. “Shay, it isn’t a myth. Most of what is true in the magical world is considered a myth by the Semple Folk.”

A knot of unease twisted between her shoulders. She shook them in an attempt to relieve the tension. “Semple Folk?”
Damn, just when I think I get it
.

“Yes,” he said, emphasizing the point with a nod. “Semple Folk are non-magical. It’s another Pictish concept. You need to learn as much as you can about them. Their beliefs and practices will help in adjusting to your gifts.” He pulled a small green book out of his pocket and caressed the leather binding. It enlarged.

She rolled her eyes. “Showoff.”

Meekal simply shrugged. “Here you go, ‘‘The Mys'terius Ways of the Fae.’ However,” he said, pausing with the book between them. “We won’t begin your training just yet.”

“Why?” Shayla reached for it. On brief contact, a tingle of mystic surprise shot up her arm. The leather cover was old and well worn. But the gold and silver lettering still blazed across its front, entwined with a blossoming holy thorn branch and an asp. She started to open it.

“Wait,” Meekal said, his hand stopping her. “We will begin your training later. First, there are some important things I must tell you.” He surprised her by taking the book and setting it to the side.

Curiosity compelled her gaze to lock on the green enticement. Something under her skin said reach for it.

 Meekal leaned forward, tapped it, and then said, “Aye, it’s archaic. It’s the best resource because it was written by someone who knew the truth about the Picts.”

“Brenna Ena Mavelle Branbalder-MacKinnoch?” She looked from the book in time to catch an amused look on his face.

His features changed to a nonchalant calm. “Later. One thing at a time.” He leaned back in his chair. “The bezoar stone that Syther wants is significant because it contains the soul of an evil Thyrza. Remember what I said before about people trying to steal the Power of the Well?”

[6] Lord Malvenue:
Evil Comer

Meekal went into bard mode. This was a time to be a storyteller and offer an eloquent explanation. Settling himself into the chair comfortably, he knew his voice took on a different timbre.

“Lord Malvenue was the wickedest wizard of the twentieth century. Malvenue literally means, evil comer. Absolutely no one knew where he came from.” Memory surged through him. He pulled his brows into a tight frown.

“Wait a minute.” Shayla said, disbelief crossing her face. “It was the twentieth century. Somebody can’t just appear from nowhere. Even if they did, technology would help find where they came from.”

“Shayla.” He allowed his voice to resonate with gentleness, frown blending away with patience. “You need to remember that where magic is concerned,
anything
is possible.”

Intriguing black brows puckered as she pulled her lower lip between white teeth. “Anything?”

“Some people believe magic has limits.” He shook his shoulders, releasing the growing knot of stress pressing against his neck. “Knowledge is power. That’s the common perception. That’s true as far as it goes. It’s important you understand this because until you do, you’ll have a block in learning magic.”

“You’re saying magic doesn’t have limits,” she said, in a thoughtful tone.

“Aye. Einstein said, ‘Imagination is more important than knowledge.’ Magic follows the limitations of human imagination.”

“Boundless,” she murmured.

He inhaled sharply, absolute beauty washing over him as he watched her face change while working through some issues in her head. “That’s right. There are ways.”

He stood and began to pace between the queen-sized bed and bathroom door, adding hand motions for affect. “Maybe Malvenue just killed everyone who knew him. At least that’s the speculation. Even amidst his followers, no one knew his origin.”

Shayla took a sip of her tea, listening.    

His pacing always helped him focus.
Start at the beginning
. The thought came through his mind in Black Bryan’s voice. He turned back to her, pushing a hand through bed-mussed hair, wincing as he caught a knot.

“The first anyone knew about Malvenue, he raided and took over a wizarding village on the Isle of Rhum. The Isle of Rhum is part of the Hebrides. It’s just south of Skye. Anyway, Gehenna is unseen by the Semple Folk. There’s a range called the Cuillin on the Isle. That’s where Gehenna is. The reason he chose that spot was because of the volcanic rock in the area. It has great power from the Fire Element.”

Shayla took the towel off her head and shook her hair out before standing to retrieve a comb from her bag. “It’s a lot to absorb,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed. “History of magic, one-o-one.”

He scratched thoughtfully at his jaw where the morning’s growth irritated. “Aye, I know. Problem is, you need to know everything.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve always been fascinated with history.” She paused to focus on a tangle in her long hair, grunting painfully.

A thrill went through his heart at her simple motions. He approached with a smile and took the comb. In a brief moment, he ran a finger over the end of the tines, whispering a soft incantation, and then handed it back to her. “Now try.”

Shayla looked at the comb, shrugged and started. “Ooh!” Her hair not only came untangled with ease, it became drier with each stroke. “Wow, I could get used to this.”

“I can’t believe your mum wouldn’t let you do something like that. I guess it’s just the difference of growing up within the magical world.”

“Mom grew up in a convent.” She pulled the comb through her hair once more and released a sigh. “Several families took her in as a foster child, but when she did something they didn’t understand, back she went. I think that’s why she was always against me using magic.”

He sat down and leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees, nodding. “That’d do it.”