Page 8 of A Circle of Uncommon Witches

SEVEN

The morning sky was a wicked shade of violet fading into a rosy hue. It reminded Doreen of the color of wisteria. A creeping vine flashed before her. It trailed up and over the side of a castle, wrapping around an arched stone doorway that led into a courtyard filled with decaying trees in bloom, flowering rotten teeth that dripped to the ground, creating pools of a black primordial ooze where they fell. In a blink, the vision was gone.

She shivered in the chill of the sharp breeze, banishing fears as they drifted in. Her mind was simply in overdrive. She studied her feet, ignoring how her gaze kept drifting toward Ambrose. His dark hair and shuttered expression were a magnet, pulling her attention even as she told herself that having curiosity for the witch was akin to having a craving for a poisonous apple. No good would come from being drawn to such a man, and such a man was created by the gods to draw one’s attention.

The problem was he simply was not affected by her. The curse was his, and he was the first man in a long time who couldn’t have cared less if she existed. To be fair, he’d likely prefer she didn’t exist, along with her entire line. He’d certainly have an easier time of it.

Still, he couldn’t suffer her thrall. Instead, it was as though he found her an inconvenience and had decided to tolerate her like a grumpy cat abides a curious puppy. She did not know how long their truce could last. Not with his barely concealed disdain and her reluctant but growing interest.

She kicked at the root of a tree as she crossed over it. She promised herself that she would not look at him again unless he spoke to her. It was an asinine thing, to have to make such an agreement with oneself, and yet it was her best defense. Which was to say, not much of one at all.

The countryside of the Isle of Skye was littered with moss-covered and oversized stones, and they’d happened upon a pocket beset with aging trees. And as she climbed over root after root, telling herself not to look at Ambrose, cursing herself when she did, the wind kicked up. A feathery tingle brushed against her cheek. She knew that sensation. Margot.

Doreen looked down. There, beneath her feet, overlapping in a wild sort of cursive, were roots spelling out her name. She knelt, and a spray of lavender floated up, the scent engulfing her. It was Margot’s signature scent, one she regularly cloaked her spells in. Lavender had natural healing properties and Margot used it to soothe the mind of whoever would be on the receiving end of her magic. She was a conscientious witch if nothing else, and Doreen’s stomach squeezed at the relief of Margot seeking her out.

Doreen whispered her cousin’s name and ran her fingers over the bramble. Her breath caught as the bark unfurled and rolled into her hand, creating a single sheet of parchment. Here was a nearly forgotten memory, a way that the two had communicated in secret when they were children and wanted to keep something hidden from the prying eyes of Aunt Stella. Doreen unrolled the scroll and blew at the bark, the words rising one by one as if a typewriter were keying out the text.

T h e

s i g i l

i s

r a i s e d.

R U N

Doreen’s heart dropped into her stomach as the parchment furled back in on itself and dissolved once more into pieces of bark, crumbling through her fingers. Adrenaline hit her first. Her heart galloped into action, her stomach flipped, and she forgot how to breathe.

Fear slunk along her spine in the next breath. Unwelcome tears tracked down her face before she felt them, drops falling on her fingers, into the palms of her hands, dripping to the earth. If the sigil was raised, if Margot wanted her to run, it could only mean one thing—Doreen was being hunted.

There was no one so formidable as her aunt, and there was no place she could hide should she want to. Doreen had known it was only a matter of time, that her betrayal would strike into the heart of her bond with her aunt, but she had not expected her to raise the sigil. To call forth the surviving members of the family line.

They would come for her, and soon.

She could abandon Ambrose, return home, and beg forgiveness. But the curse would remain unbroken, her life unchanged, and they would force her to help them capture the man standing before her and punish him.

Before they punished her.

Doreen knew in the depths of her soul that she could no more abandon him than she could stop loving Margot. She wasn’t the type to run, not even with Margot telling her to, but they needed a plan. A cold certainty settled into her bones. She wiped her face clean of tears and swallowed hard. Her gaze shifted to Ambrose, the man stubbornly marching ahead of her, who was clearly battling demons of his own. The way he had spoken of his home, of his father, left Doreen with an uncomfortable truth. They were not so dissimilar. She thought that, perhaps, he was as unloved as she. And now they were cemented as a team. One she had chosen without thinking the consequences through. It was one of her oldest problems; Doreen acted on impulse. When it felt right, she did what she knew she had to do. She didn’t always look down the road farther than the next stop, and now that she was seeing the long and winding road ahead, she realized how twisted it was.

“We have a problem,” she called out to him, forcing herself to climb over the rest of the boulders and roots to reach him. He waited, arms crossed, body poised as though prepared to strike. Ambrose was slow to meet her eyes, his expression hooded. She thought if he could, he’d wrap himself in a perimeter with a label that that read Keep out to hold her at bay.

“One besides the dead witch wanting to eat your soul and the trials destined to destroy us?”

“You’re overreacting about Ada,” she said. Men were often so quick to think the worst of powerful and misunderstood women. But, sometimes, they were also right. “My aunt has raised the sigil.”

He lifted both brows. “The one that calls your coven back from the circles of hell they inhabit so they can all convene?”

“They’re in different parts of the world, not the underworld.”

“So you say.”

She mimicked his posture and crossed her arms over her chest. “This isn’t a little nuisance I am sharing with you. They’re coming for us. ”

“They’ve always been coming for us,” he said, dropping his arms and turning to walk away. “You’re only just now realizing it.”

She wanted to throw a rock the size of her foot at his back. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” he asked, continuing to climb the hill.

She opened her mouth to argue, because it simply felt good to have a place to put her anger, and immediately shut it. He wasn’t wrong. He was right, but she still wanted to slap him for it.

“My cousin got a message to me,” she said, her tone defensive, the tears rising once more into the back of her throat.

“Then you have one relative who isn’t worthless.”

Doreen cleared them on a growl, and the corner of his cheek twitched.

“We need to move, then,” he said, glancing back, the almost grin dropping like the upturn of his lips had burned his cheeks. She wondered if he knew how much it changed his face, the near smile, then reminded herself she didn’t care about his stupid face.

“They can track us anywhere.”

Ambrose shook his head. “No, Doreen. Where we are going, no one can track us.”

“We don’t know how to enter the trials.”

“Not yet.” He glanced further up the hill, his brows knitting together. “But we know where we’re going.”

“To your home,” she said, watching as his shoulders rose and fell. Doreen was gripped with an overriding urge to reach for him, to offer comfort. He looked back at her, and the intensity in his eyes had her stepping back instead.

“Yes.” He pressed his eyes shut with a sigh, and she wondered what returning to it would cost him. Slowly, they cracked open, and he offered her a cold smile. “I must return home, and lucky you, you’re coming with me.”

The way to the MacDonald fortress, which was how Doreen had chosen to think of it, led them into town first, where they purchased clothes, ate Brie-and-tomato sandwiches on thick crusty bread, and had their fill of pastries. Doreen learned Ambrose had a sweet tooth and was a vegetarian. Both details surprised her. With his size and hostility, she’d thought him the type who would hunt and kill his own dinner before picking his teeth with its bones.

The café they sat in was quiet, and somehow Ambrose had managed to pay for their food, as he’d done for the clothing. If Doreen hadn’t been so hungry, she’d have grilled him about how he, a witch who had spent centuries trapped, had come by the coin. Perhaps he had an unlimited purse like Margot, the container the source of a family mystery, one of many the MacKinnon family lived with, and one of the better ones too. It was a blessing to have such a purse, unlike the MacKinnons’ cursed hammer that never hit its mark (and nowhere near as enjoyable). But as it was, she simply ate and tried not to get lost in the false sense of peace the town afforded them.

The town of Portree was like a song you whistled because you couldn’t quite remember the lyrics. It was quaint and lovely, and if you blinked, you’d miss it. Any other time Doreen would want to spend days soaking up the atmosphere of the jumbled downtown (that wasn’t really a downtown as there was, in fact, no uptown). It offered two galleries—an art gallery and pottery shop—coffee shops, and a pub. Each discovery was lovelier than the next.

A dense fog was rolling in, bringing with it the smell of brine and the sea and a hint of cloves.

Underneath trilled the soft notes of a violin, warning of a coming storm. It started with a single note. A strong plucking of a string, the warble of a lift of song that led into the tripping of notes one after the other, clamoring up like the rise of a sleepy sun. A sweet tickle of a melody. It might be the sort of tune to send a person reaching, stretching for the day. As the notes settled back and dropped off, the final note rubbing too close to the one before it, Doreen gave a whole-body shudder. It was a happy tune with a sour ending, and it was the start of the MacKinnon Sigil. The command had been raised.

Ambrose could not hear the hunt of the minor chords, and he did not know to be afraid. He might not have been regardless, as little seemed to terrify him. She supposed if you could survive centuries of torture at the hands of some of the most powerful witches in existence, you developed thick skin.

“We need to move on,” she said, standing and wrapping her arms around her middle, trying to ignore the tapping of the notes. It was as if they were knocking at her shoulder.

Ambrose surprised her by nodding. “It is a short distance by car. The barista is loaning us hers.”

Doreen raised her brows. “Oh, really? She volunteered her car, just like that?”

He looked out the window, running a hand through his dark locks. “I can be convincing.”

“Putting the whammy on a civilian is a bit icky, so I guess that tracks for you,” Doreen said, opening the door.

“Says the woman who has been putting the whammy on people her whole life.”

“Thanks to you,” she said, waving him out ahead of her.

Ambrose glowered at her. “You’re making it easy for me to see how disposing of you when we are done with this will be advantageous.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said, a frisson of fear sparking along her spine as she followed him out.

“Don’t be such a witch,” he said, and flashed a half smile. Doreen nearly stumbled at the sight. The curve of his lips had her shivering. She told herself it was not the stirrings of desire. Her reaction was a flame of irritation, not a spark of lust. He was teasing her, not propositioning her.

Doreen stretched out her fingers, and he tracked the movement with his eyes. Ambrose MacDonald felt like a bad habit she needed to be rid of and yet they were stuck together.

“I once read a spell on how to transform a human into a scarecrow,” she told him. “I’ve always wondered what that would look like.” Doreen started the incantation under her breath. She wasn’t going to follow through with it, not really; she just needed to shift the power balance back. She refused to feel even the slightest bit out of control around him.

“Stop,” Ambrose said, his voice a low rumble. His hand came down over hers, gentle but firm. He pressed his palm to Doreen’s. A jolt of wanting lit along the path where his touch lingered. She jerked away and his eyes widened.

Ambrose swallowed and released her. “If we’re going to succeed at this and not kill each other,” he said, “you’re going to need to stop acting like a child.” He raised a single eyebrow.

“It’s rude to touch people without permission in this century,” she said, annoyed her voice came out breathier than intended.

“Noted,” he said.

She blew out a flustered breath. “You have to promise to have the car back to the barista, with a fresh tank of gas, and to restore the balance with a payment of sorts.”

“What kind of payment?” he said, his long legs eating up the length of the road as she hurried along beside him.

“You’re a seer, right? Try to see a way to bring something good into her life. Peace, happiness, prosperity.”

Ambrose stopped and stared at Doreen for a long moment. “Is that how you usually operate?”

“Of course,” she said. “An ye harm none, do what ye will.”

“Not very MacKinnon of you,” he said, resuming walking.

“It’s very much an honest witch of me.”

He ran a hand through his long dark strands. “There’s a fine line between harm and help.”

“Maybe, but this MacKinnon witch harms none.”

After a moment he nodded. “I’ll return the car.”

“And?”

“And decide on the rest in time.” He headed for a black sedan. “Though if you prefer not to ride with me, you could walk the five miles and meet me there after sundown, when the vampires come out.”

“Ha, ha,” she said, before hurrying down the sidewalk. “Vampires don’t exist.”

Ambrose unlocked the doors and climbed in. He didn’t bother to look at her. “Don’t they?”

“You can’t drive. You have no license.”

“No,” he said, shifting in the seat. “I have magic.”

“But I do not have a death wish, as we have established,” she said. “Trade with me.”

As he stared her down, she sighed. “Please.”

He opened the door and exited the car, and she slid into the driver’s seat. Then she was turning the engine over and rolling the windows down. She could feel his gaze on her, and it sparked something in her spine, making her want to sit up straighter. She pulled out of the parking lot, trying not to give credence to the idea of vampires or any other things that went bump in the night. Ambrose sighed, and she turned her attention to the witch who was directing her onto what she could only think of as a picturesque road to hell.