Page 22 of Druid Cursed
CHAPTER
“Why do I have to go with you again?” Maggie asked, tugging halfheartedly on the steel grip Cara kept on her wrist. For a woman so delicate-looking, she was surprisingly strong.
“Didn’t you get the summons for the next ritual?
It’s at dawn. I don’t know about you, but I need to rest up and be ready. ”
And find a key in the library.
“Yes, I received the summons, and my answer isn’t going to change, no matter how many times you ask the question.
I need a partner for the pajama party.” Cara’s perfect curves were draped in a white silk robe that barely reached her thighs and glowed like moonlight.
Her long black hair was twisted and piled on top of her head, as if she’d been getting ready for a hot, luxurious bubble bath. “And we’re late.”
“But I’m not dressed for it.”
Voices and laughter drifted through the open doors ahead, Cara’s apparent destination.
Maggie was running out of time—and excuses—to get out of an awkward social event.
Luckily, she’d tucked the notebook from Kellen’s tower into her back pocket.
When things got ugly, at least she’d have something to read.
“You’re better off as is. What you brought probably consists of flannel cat pajamas.” Cara’s gaze swept over Maggie’s jeans, sweater, and scuffed ankle boots, and she sniffed. “Am I wrong?”
She wasn’t, not that Maggie intended to confirm. “But—”
“I waited for you outside that godforsaken castle for over an hour.” Her pace quickened from a relentless march to a speed-walk.
“Didn’t I tell you I had to shoo off a squirrel, a skunk, and two feral cats?
A bird flew over and nearly bombed me with droppings that landed on the very log I sat on, mere inches away. You owe me.”
Before Maggie could make another useless response, Cara hauled her between the open doors and out into a conservatory.
Hundreds of lanterns hung from the black iron frame of the domed ceiling high above, glinting off glass wet with rain like fireflies, and cornering shadows of the indoor rose garden.
Dozens of tents were scattered among the dormant bushes, and not the kind of tents one used for camping or even a circus.
These structures were of deep, rich colors that blended with the night, embroidered with metallic thread into archaic designs that shimmered in the low light.
A heat source she couldn’t see warmed the air enough that even Cara in her skimpy nightdress wouldn’t be cold.
Maggie finally managed to wrench herself free of Cara’s hold and rubbed her wrist. She scanned the crowd for Wendy.
If she hadn’t appeared and assigned her the scavenger hunt, if it hadn’t been Halloween at Ravenwood Estate, Maggie would be freaking out.
While the contest cash had been the reason she came here, this was also Wendy’s well-deserved dream vacation.
Halloween was her favorite. She’d jump into each activity, take in every ounce of fun.
She should be here…unless she was involved in a different sort of activity including her businessman sans suit and tie.
She kept telling herself there wasn’t any reason to worry.
The Ravenwoods wouldn’t let anything bad happen to their guests—Kellen was protective to a fault.
The entire grounds were gated and private.
They knew exactly who attended their gathering and would presumably not invite murderers to ruin the occasion.
Wendy was fine, probably having the best time up to her eyebrows in the Halloween happenings.
Not influenced by any ancient witch of a grandmother.
Maggie trailed Cara. “If you needed a partner, you should have brought someone along with you this week. You were allowed a plus-one.”
“I think not.” Cara smiled at another guest, who nodded in passing. “If anyone suspected I’m here for anything but a diversion, I’d be disowned.”
“Why?” The scent of sage laced the air, and a melody of bells drifted from afar.
She lowered her voice. “My grandma is our family’s dirty secret, kept hidden at all costs. She believes in…things the rest of my family doesn’t—things that could tarnish my family’s reputation—and refuses to pretend otherwise.”
“And you believe.” Maggie glanced at Cara, surprised. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here, hoping for a boon that might save her ill grandmother.
“Doesn’t matter what I believe. If I don’t participate in all the festivities, someone will notice. You’re the only one here who isn’t known in my social circles, so you’re safe. If you decide to betray me, no one will believe what you say.” She winked. “Or I could just pay you off.”
Maggie snorted. “This isn’t my definition of safe.”
The same elegant people from the opening dinner strolled along the pavestone paths, the women in sleek nightgowns similar to Cara’s, some more revealing, the men in lounge pants, some in shirts, some not.
Others waited in lines before the tents, talking, cocktails in hand.
Cara breezed by them all like royalty, acknowledging the greetings with a regal nod of her head.
Maggie received no more than a dismissive glance, if that.
Pillows large enough for two people to sit comfortably on were nestled in dark nooks between statues or shrubs.
More than a few were occupied with couples, lips and limbs tangled.
Still no Wendy in sight, though she could be on one of those pillows in the dark.
“Are you sure this is just a pajama party?” Maggie whispered.
“A pajama party full of adults with zero inhibitions. Let’s start here.” Cara lifted the flap of a tent emblazoned with frost-blue swirls and nabbed Maggie’s arm before she could sneak away. Her smile was sharp. “Come along, Maggie. You’re okay with an adventure, right? You said so yesterday.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like you.” She was only half teasing.
She ignored Cara’s laugh and stepped inside as the heavy tent flap fell down behind them, shutting them in.
A single candle on a table offered light, allowing shadows to curl and snake along the tent walls and ceiling.
A woman with straight, inky hair to her shoulders, her clothing hidden by a thick red cloak, sat on the other side of the table.
“Greetings, wanderers.” She gestured to two empty chairs. “Please sit, and I will read your fortunes.”
Maggie shook her head, unease worming through her. She was required to participate in the rituals for the contest, not anything else. “Go ahead, Cara. I’m good.”
As Cara settled gracefully into one chair, Maggie found a pillow close to the exit.
She pulled out her cell phone and the borrowed book from Kellen’s tower, pretending the goose bumps on her arms were from a draft of chilled air, not the setting.
Aunt Maeve had been into readings of all kinds—palm, psychic, aura.
No way did she want to know what hers or anyone else’s future held.
She’d much rather bumble ahead, ignorant of what horrors awaited her.
With the fortune teller’s raspy voice a lulling backdrop, she opened her cell phone’s flashlight app and traced the scrolled leather of the book with her finger.
The design was a masterpiece, the Tree of Life, its limbs and roots entangled in a decorative knotwork circle, unbroken.
She let out a reverent sigh. They just didn’t make books like they used to.
She unraveled the cord holding the book closed and gingerly opened the cover. The first page was yellowed and brittle, the ink faded, clearly a diary written by a feminine hand. The words were beautiful, neat, delicate…and all in Gaelic. She couldn’t translate a single sentence.
What a disappointment. But she could still admire the book itself.
Carefully, she flipped through a few pages, and as she did, the words became progressively blurred, the ink smudged. Maybe the preservation powers of Kellen’s tower diminished outside the castle’s stone walls—but then her breath caught. The author had switched from Gaelic to English.
Maggie leaned forward, reading.
Long have I waited for your return, my cherished poppet, and yet when we pass on the street, you pretend as though you know me not.
I smile your way and receive naught but coldness for my warmth.
Were your kisses transitory, your passion so fleeting?
I cannot believe ’tis so. I will await your return, for your love to burn anew. I will not live without you.
She closed the book, feeling like she’d invaded someone’s privacy.
Kellen had said it wasn’t his, but he’d referred to the tower room as “his chambers,” so who had left it there?
It reminded her too much of her years with Darren.
Besides the waiting for him part. She was completely over that, but the words transitory and fleeting hit too close to home.
She’d always imagined she’d have one wedding, one marriage, one lifetime love.
“Come, child.” The fortune teller bent near and pressed an apple into Maggie’s hand. “Join your friend. Surely it would do no harm to learn the initial of your future love?”
“Already know it. Z. As in zero.”
The woman’s dark eyes sparkled. “Then confirm it.” She handed Maggie a paring knife, handle first. “Skin the apple slowly, creating a single peel. When finished, throw the peel over your left shoulder and read the shape. Harmless, aye?”
Maggie hesitated. Maybe it was harmless. Maybe not. After Aunt Maeve, even something so simple as peeling an apple was suspect.
“So you’re telling me you’re good with exploring crumbling castles but are too scared to peel an apple?” Cara arched an eyebrow. “What a grand adventurer you are.”
“Fine.” As two other guests entered the tent, Maggie swiped the knife from the fortune teller and carefully set about carving the peel from the apple. The red skin coiled, growing longer with each rotation, releasing a sweet scent. In a couple minutes, the peel dropped to the pillow, free.
“Go outside.” The fortune teller waved her and Cara out as she settled her next victims into chairs. “Remember, throw over your left shoulder.”
“This is so dumb.” Maggie stood beside Cara in an empty nook between a rosebush and a faun statue, the apple peel dangling between her pinched fingers.
“Just throw it.” Cara tossed hers over her shoulder and looked expectantly at Maggie.
Rolling her eyes on principle, she followed suit.
“Well, look at that.” Cara leaned over the peels. “ S . Always knew Sam Heughan and I were meant to be. And yours?” She gasped, her eyes going wide. “I didn’t know an apple peel could even make that shape.”
Maggie hadn’t intended to look, didn’t want to. “ Z isn’t that different than S .”
“Which is why it’s so remarkable.”
She turned, unable to deny curiosity. The peel had fallen into the rosebush.
By some fluke, part of the peel had curled in different directions around a branch, the ends impossibly snagged on several thorns, a red ribbon pinned among the leaves.
A perfect, cursive letter K . She ignored the fine tremor that zipped through her veins. Didn’t mean anything.
“I may be mistaken, but isn’t Kellen spelled with a K ? Or is it a C ?” The sparkle in Cara’s dark eyes was decidedly mischievous.
“ C .” Maggie plucked the peel free and tossed it under the rosebush, out of sight. “Definitely a C .”
A smile started on Cara’s face and slowly spread. “Quite certain it’s a K . And he did seem to be interested in your welfare as we walked back from the castle. One might say… overly interested? Maybe even fascinated ?”
“Making me not like you again.” She summoned a scowl even Kellen could appreciate, but Cara kept smiling, unaffected. “Let’s move on, shall we?” Maggie insisted.
After the apple-peel business, an unfortunate game of apple-cider pong that Maggie and Cara lost to Patrick and his gloating partner, and a slice of barmbrack cake that she nearly broke a tooth on, thanks to the golden ring hidden inside, Maggie was out.
She told Cara at the create-your-own-curse tent that she was going back to her room, then slipped out of the conservatory to freedom.
A glance at her phone showed it was almost midnight.
She’d waited for Kellen too long already and was through waiting on any man, no matter how dark and delicious he may be…
or how an apple peel managed to miraculously form his initial.
The sooner she went to the library and found this clue, the faster Wendy would be back to reassure her that absolutely nothing was wrong.
Keeping her steps soft, she slipped through the hallways, on a lookout for Jeeves. The butler undoubtedly had all sorts of duties with the pajama party going on, but she hadn’t spotted him once. He was as absent as Wendy.
The manor itself felt empty, not counting the shadows crowding every corner. Once again, Ravenwood Estate had kicked off the electricity and went old school. As she borrowed one of the fat candles lighting the way, a sweet lavender scent infused the air, easing the ominous aura.
Amid the gloating, Patrick’s partner had mentioned the library, and Maggie had sucked it up and asked for directions. If Cara hadn’t been with her, he would have blown her off for sure. But the contemptuous sniff and a snide comment had been worth it. She got what she wanted, saving precious time.
Past the dining hall, through a corridor to the left, last door ahead at the dead end of a cemetery-silent hall.
It would have been easy enough to find from her room.
The conservatory? Not so much. But after a few wrong turns, Maggie found herself in familiar territory once again, with no babysitting butler in sight.
She ignored the sense that invisible eyes watched her every move and she’d stepped into a B-rate Gothic flick.
At last, she slipped between the library’s double doors, turned, and slowly closed them behind her. The last thing she wanted was to let the doors bang shut and announce her arrival to the rest of the world.
Releasing a long breath, she faced the library darkness. Only an armlength away, someone in white whirled, so fast the breeze blew out Maggie’s candle.
She wasn’t the only one sneaking into the library.