The Witching Hour (The Grim Reaper Saga (Urban Fantasy Romance)) Page 3
Metal exploded against flesh. The sickening crunch of bone and tearing muscle warred with the scream of tires braking. The man was dragged under the car. She was flung aside, her limbs at odd proportions.
Cian’s heart clenched painfully seeing her ravaged body lying so helpless on the ground. She looked like a morbid porcelain doll. Beautiful and broken.
Blood spattered everywhere. All over the windshield--even the neighboring vehicles in the next three slots. The overwhelming, metallic stench was all around.
The car squealed to a halt, slamming against the side of the sedan. The shattering of glass echoed through the garage with an eerie finality. It was done, their bodies slowly dying, their souls waiting only for him to harvest and carry them on to the appropriate afterlife.
The driver, a pimply-faced redhead emerged. “Oh no! No!” he sang the litany over and over as he ran a trembling hand through his hair and glanced up. A family--the next row over--stared back in open-mouthed shock.
“Get back in the car, Derek!” The girl in the passenger seat screamed.
The wind picked up flurries of snow, enclosing them in winter’s peaceful embrace. An ironic scene, at odds with the gruesome sight of death.
The kid jumped back in his car and squealed off with one last bump-bump in his wake.
Cian closed the gap between himself and the victims. First the male, he didn’t trust himself going to her just yet. The man’s face had been nearly sheared off. His forehead was cracked open and a constant stream of blood gushed from the wound. The sickeningly sweet metallic waft of so much blood had a small child puking in the corner. Kneeling, Cian extended his skeletal hand, ready to harvest the soul and carry it safely to the afterlife.
The man moaned and opened green eyes glittering with pain. The man could see him now because he no longer belonged to the land of the living. He didn’t question why Cian was kneeling over him; instead he parted ruptured lips and croaked, “Save my wife.”
Cian glanced over at her prostrate form for a brief second, and then shook his head with a sad, bitter twist to his lips. He hadn’t expected the pain of seeing her ravaged body to torment him like this. He’d seen many broken bodies in the past, never feeling more than quiet detachment. But seeing her now, hearing the wet gurgle of her breaths, it was like razor sharp spikes driving through his heart.
He closed his eyes, chanting over and over in his mind: This is the order to life. Without order there would be chaos. To prevent the chaos there must always be order.
Taking a deep breath, he plowed on, finishing what he started. “Find your peace, human...” for us both. Then he gently ran a bony finger along the length of the man’s shredded cheek.
The light of death filled the man’s eyes, a single tear slipped down his cheek. The mask of pain relaxed, and a soft mist exploded from the caved-in chest. The soul pulsed with energy and differing shades of blue, a hot tingling shiver ran up Cian’s arm when he grabbed hold.
A glowing portal of brilliant white opened before him. The melodic song of a bubbling brook and rustling grass momentarily made Cian forget. Forget the pain and loneliness.
He released the soul, it glided toward the light. Shimmering as a bright white flame as it stepped through the portal. Then the soul was gone. The light went too, and with it the temporary peace Cian had sought his entire existence.
One left. The thought was a needle stabbing into his brain. How could he face her now? How could he take her life? She’d seen him, for however brief it’d been, she’d seen him. But it was like any compulsion, the more he fought it, the harder it became to ignore. He looked.
He tried to remain clinical and study her, not as a victim--or even as the incessant thoughts of his heart--but as a task and a duty to fulfill.
She wasn’t in nearly as bad a shape as her husband had been. Both legs were broken at the hips. One foot was pointed north, the other south. Besides the obvious injuries she also suffered a ruptured spleen and would soon die from internal bleeding.
Short, shallow breathing turned his gaze to her face. Thin and heart-shaped, with full pink lips, and almond-shaped eyes--for him, she was beauty personified. Even broken and bloody he’d never seen anything so lovely.
His hands trembled.
Her eyes snapped open. The familiar lioness gaze ensnared him. Her bloody hand grabbed his fleshy one, and his world turned upside down. Instantly images and thoughts came to him--the face of her husband, a sensation of overwhelming, heart-rending love, the pain, the fear, the hope. Her hope exploded inside him like a seedling shooting through black earth.
His brows dipped, and his breathing spiked. He continued to share her emotions. Where yesterday’s emotions had been warm, these were filled with despair and rage. He bit the inside of his lip, and the bitter taste of blood pooled on his tongue as he fought off the onslaught. Her powers were intense.
Cian took slow breaths as he pushed his will against her own in an attempt to extricate himself from her furious assault. His will was like talons ripping and clawing at her insides; the back blast resonated through him. He reeled from it, but couldn’t block himself off. She whimpered, moans spilled from her lips. Still she fought him.
He could break her wrist, force her to let him go. Force her to end the emotional battering. So why wasn’t he doing that?
Because he just couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough.
For the first time he wanted. He felt. Because of her. His beautiful, gothic rose. And he’d betrayed her in the worse possible way.
Her eyes, glazed with pain, held his own. Defying him to take her life. She wanted to live.
Another shot of emotions slammed him. They felt like churning waves of angry sea crashing against him, stripping the flesh from his bones. Her anger beat at him, clawed at his throat with desperation.
Right then he made a decision. In defiance of his Queen… he let her live.
Cian opened the portal between the here and there with a swipe of his hand and stepped through. None witnessed the shimmering disturbance of air, the growing crowd still entranced by the grisly scene before them.
He crossed the threshold, and an immediate soothing heat engulfed him in an explosion of sifting colors. Reds melded into gold, greens into blues. The dizzying array of shifting lights blurred, until suddenly it opened, revealing a shrouded gray and misty isle.
He stepped through and studied the familiar surroundings, inhaling the sharp tang of salt in the breeze and allowing the awareness of home to ease the worry from between his brows and the throb of pain from his heart.
Algae-tinted water crashed against rocks, and foam bubbled up looking like a witch’s frosty brew. The wind shrieked--its tone almost magical in quality. If one listened closely one could hear the voice of the land and its children speaking. Hence its name: Isle of Whispers.
But the locals knew the isle as something else. Alcatraz. The island had a history all its own. First a garrison for the military, then the home to some of the world’s most notorious criminal masterminds. Al Capone, the ‘birdman’, Whitey Ford...and the list went on. Depraved souls eventually lost to the madness imbued within the island.
The atoll had been home to fae long before any human had dared to step foot upon it. There’d always been a hint of danger settled within the foundation of earth and stone. A natural fallout of magick linked to the long time association of fairy.
The island had now become a human commodity. Used for the sole purpose of commercial gain, it made traveling between the realms a nightmare. Too many tourists, too many prying eyes.
But in truth, the island itself was not home, rather, only an entrance to the sithen. Alcatraz was actually one of many openings to the Kingdom. The entrances were scattered throughout the globe. But any fae who had ever existed, or would ever exist, resided within the realm.
Cian bowed his head against the whipping winds and walked toward the tree. An old oak, its limbs twisted by age and roots gnarled and curled out the ground, was the
life-sustaining mother of them all.
After centuries of cohabitating with magick and immortality, the tree had begun to take on a life of sorts. Every immortal born under its boughs would forever be linked to the spirit of the oak. And that made it impossible to stay away for too long; it was a quiet yearning that gnawed away at the insides.
He leaned into the wind, his mind consumed by the twisted woman he’d left behind. She would live. Eventually she’d find herself another mate, marry, and maybe have children.
The thought was like a red-hot poker to his chest. He snarled and marched faster.
He’d made his choice, knowing the consequences of his actions. He had no regrets.
The shrill scream of twin crows forced him to glance up.
So she knows.
The knowledge did not come as a surprise.
The birds circled him twice then landed silently by his feet. They cocked their heads in unison, their hard glares bored into him. Cian clenched his jaw and waited for the summons.
Follow us.
He didn’t hear the words so much as feel the push of their will against his mind. After what the witch had put him through, this push felt more like a stab. He winced.
The birds winged toward the tree, their large bodies gradually shifted from normal to diminutive. A golden quickening surrounded the crows, the crackles of light appeared as a sunburst--variegated colors of red and gold cut through the fog.
The magick of the tree was that any fae could pass through its portal with the aid of its accommodation spell. Only the wee ones were exempt from the fiery display.
The birds landed before the entrance of the tree and passed their feathered wings across the bark in unison. A loud creak, similar to the groaning of shifting earth, rumbled through the air, then smooth as silk the center of the tree separated.
An enchantment wrought by the fae, the hollow tree encased a trove of glorious splendor-- rolling emerald hills, meandering streams of liquid crystal, and craggy cliffs. Thick, billowing mists sheathed the surroundings.
This was truly a world within a world. To travel through the entirety of the kingdoms would take years. To the east lay the pigwidegon stronghold, to the west the sprites, to the south the brutish ogres, and to the north the docile hamadryads. A variance of other fae were scattered throughout.
At the very center of the realm the Queen’s castle rose through the mists as a spiraling steeple.
The crows cawed. Haunting, wispy calls echoed in return. The sylphs--winged beings resembling angels--flew overhead. None but immortals could ever see them. Their butterfly-like wings were a splash of glorious color against the gray of the sky.
The closer Cian drew to his Queen’s side, the more he felt it--her fury. It boiled inside him like a festering wound. He grimaced, tasting the blood from where he’d bitten his cheek earlier and knew that bit of spilled scarlet would not be enough to assuage her thirst for revenge.
He went now to plead his case for the witch. She was still far from safe, he’d only granted her a temporary asylum. The Queen could chose at any moment to send another reaper out there to finish what he hadn’t. Whether the beating stripped all the flesh from his body or not, he meant to see her safe.
***
“Well now, this has been a most interesting turn of events. Wouldn’t you agree, Chaos?” Dagda, king of the faes, said.
The Morrigan narrowed her eyes at him. “I despise that name.” The air quickened with the sharp nip of frost.
Oh yes, his queen was in a fury. He ignored her typical protest of his pet name for her with casual cool.
“You do revel at my misfortune, ugly bastard.” Though her words were harsh, they were laced with a thread of humor.
Dagda chuckled. The thunderous boom of his voice filled their antechamber with resonance; it echoed off the high ceiling, causing gold dust to shower down upon them.
Despite the fact the fae god seemed merry, his voice held the power to kill if he so choose. He’d done so on rare occasions. Though he found he didn’t have the same taste for blood as his bonny Chaos.
He covered her ivory hand with his dark one and proceeded to run his thumb along her knuckle. “Chaos, you old hag, calling your king a bastard. I take offense.”
A swift smile played on her blood red lips. Then the humor was gone, replaced by an immediate, unnatural calm.
“Frenzy, bring me my cat o’ nine tails and sharpen the blades on the ends until they gleam.” The Morrigan’s voice was a calm monotone.
He, however, was not deceived. Dagda had seen her like this many times; this mood never boded well. She was as the eye of a hurricane, merely an illusion of quiet, peaceful tranquility.
The stealthy figure of a reaper emerged from the shadows of the wall. Frenzy dipped low to his queen, his long crimson hair trailing along the stone floor like a sea of blood. Straightening, his silver eyes flashed with a hint of madness.
Normally, Dagda would not interfere in The Morrigan’s punishment of Death. But he must find a way to temper her; far reaching works had been set into motion and she was not to do anything with lasting consequences. An oracle to the Chosen Ones had warned him long ago this day would come.
Though it grieved him to do so, he must now assume the role of order to his queen’s chaos.
“Chaos,” he said.
Her eyes flashed with annoyance, their normal icy blue changing to the ruby red of her crows, Badb and Nemain.
Dagda drummed his fingers on his armrest. “What do you propose to do with Cian?”
Her nostrils flared, and the fire and shadow of her hair swirled as she cocked her head. “Ten thousand lashes for his disobedience.”
Dagda stroked his smooth chin. “And the mortal? What of her?”
“I’ll send Frenzy. She will not escape her fate this time.”
“I see.”
She lifted a curved black brow, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Dagda,” she cautioned, “do not interfere.”
His lip curved at the corner, but he didn’t say another word.
Cian entered the castle gates and immediately he sensed all was not well, it was like a rush of ice down his spine. He scanned the dimly lit corridor noting how the inhabitants shuffled here and there, never glancing up, and unnaturally quiet. An expectant hush filled the stone keep.
He narrowed his eyes, studying the retreating figure of a maid. She didn’t acknowledge him, but he knew she felt his gaze like the press of heated tongs. It was in the way she held her spine stiff, how she walked with an awkward gait. Her mahogany braid, reaching well below her knees, barely moved with her steps. But no matter what, she didn’t turn.
The only eyes that stared back at him came from the skeletal heads affixed to the walls as candelabras. Golden flames flickering inside empty mouths cast strange and undulating shadows down the hall.
The Morrigan, goddess of strife and war, kept tokens of all her conquests. The leering bones meant nothing to death. He knew all these bones by name and who’d they’d been in a former life, farmer or great hero, it didn’t matter. Now, be they humble or famous, they were resigned to an eternity of being little more than decoration.
At the end of the hall sat The Morrigan’s crowning jewel, Cu Chulainn’s skeletal head dipped in purest gold. In her own fashion the Queen had loved the fearless human warrior, her more eccentric method of preserving his head was proof of that.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the delicious aroma of roasting meats and baking breads. Warriors sat at gnarled oak benches, heads bowed over their chipped bowls of stew. They whispered amongst themselves. Hundreds of voices buzzed in his ears. He could only make out snatches of conversation.
“Live...”
“...death.”
“Foolish...”
He ground his jaw, knowing they spoke of him. Rumor traveled fast, and The Morrigan’s rage was a living entity within every crevice of the castle. It was a choking sensation, stealing the breath and lying heavy on the lungs.
He turned left, right, left; losing count of the many twists and turns he’d taken as he headed deeper within the castle proper, and closer toward the Queen’s chambers.
The uneasy quiet settled within the keep made him intensely aware of the pounding of his heart and tension tightening his back.
He glanced up, studying the flight of The Morrigan’s crows. The red and black banners of the royal court affixed to wooden beams on the ceiling fluttered at the birds passing. The Morrigan rarely sent her crows, preferring instead to use other methods of contact--a clap of thunder, a whisper in the wind. She saved her crows only for the direst of circumstances. He knew then. And if he were honest a small part of him had expected this. They’d laid a trap. The unnatural stillness of a bustling, active castle could mean only one thing.
He ground his jaw, tightening his hands into fists by his sides. She’d sent the nobles away--anyone who might have contested whatever tender mercies she had in store for him, would be gone. Somehow the goddess had foreseen his return and had made the necessary arrangements of turning a crowded castle into a veritable haunt.
Cian would not be allowed to approach her as a man, she’d force humiliation upon him, perhaps even a beating by her guards, and likely he’d be dragged to her torture chamber below. All of the kingdom would know of this by now. He clenched his jaw. If she expected him to grovel she could not be more wrong.
Polished doors of silver grew from a mere speck in the distance to large arches the closer he drew to the royals’ private chambers. The ground beneath his feet shifted, a vibration traveled up his soles as if from the pounding of several trampling feet.
How many had she sent?