Page 27 of Druid Cursed

’Twas as if he no longer gazed into its likeness, but truly walked within the walls of his castle.

The change of temperature, from chilled to warm, as he drifted past the huge hearth toward the stairs brushed his skin.

Even the scent of lavender laced the smoke, and the soft tread of his boots joined the crackling flames as he climbed the circular stairwell to his tower.

He stepped onto the landing and entered his workshop, where Caedmon kneeled on the stones, leaning over—

Hissing, Caedmon tore the book from his grasp and hurled it into the flames.

“What are you—” Kellen sprang up, too late to save the tome. The ancient vellum disintegrated beneath the fire’s heat and the scent of scorched leather curled in the air. “That was my favorite book, you dolt.”

All anger died as he faced his brother. Caedmon’s eyes were wild, his face ashen.

“A black widow spell, a nightmare brought to life. If we’d continued watching…

” His throat bobbed. “My apologies for the book, but I prefer to stay sane, not lost in whatever twisted dream-trap Sorcha left for one of us.”

“ Cacamas. What if Maggie had been ensnared?” Kellen gazed again at the fire, where his book was naught more than a crisped lump.

Had Sorcha intended to trap Maggie there, leaving her physically sound, her mind ensnared?

Nay, Caedmon had to be her target. Eliminating his brother would aid in her goal greatly.

If the witch brought any harm to his brother, he would not rest until her spirit burned eternally in Ifrean.

“We can’t let fear influence us. I’ll study the key, see if it gives us any advantage or clue to your curse, figure out how the hell Sorcha slipped a black widow spell through the wards.

” His tone determined, Caedmon plucked the key from Kellen’s loose hold and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“The next ritual is in a few hours. I’ll make sure the witch can’t steal the power gathered from it. ”

“And I will meditate in the garden, restore my energy, and revive the second ward. I will also reinforce the spells around the main grounds, alter them to warn both of us as well as Jeeves whenever her essence comes within a mile of the boundaries. Maggie’s room will be shielded with every spell and charm I know.

At least she’ll be safe while she sleeps. ”

Caedmon nodded. “We’re all on high alert. She’ll always be protected.”

Aye, she would. Even if the curse prevented him from harming Sorcha, he could still protect Maggie with all he was.

“I know you’ll perform as much of the harvest ritual as you are able to alone,” Caedmon continued. “And with my own separate rite, our bond with the land will strengthen doubly. No one, not even a witch with the power of the new moon backing her up, will steal our birthright.”

“Agreed.”

Caedmon turned back to the flames, to where Cara lay prone like a bronze sacrifice before a fiery god. When next he spoke, his words were soft, as if making a pledge to a darkness only he could see. “And you, my brother, will be free.”

…

Maggie gave the oversize turnip in her hands a glare.

It had been carved jack-o’-lantern style into a face, withered and wizened.

A squat candle scented with sage sat on its head, a delicate flame waving gently in the nippy air.

It wasn’t the turnip’s fault that she stood squeezed between Cara and Patrick before the sky turned a decent color of morning.

Never mind that this was a round of the competition, participation necessary to be ente red to win the cash prize.

Druids should pick a less-ungodly hour to conduct their rituals.

Bright-eyed, her black hair loose and straight now, Cara seemed fully recovered from inhaling unidentified herbs last night. What had caused her collapse, Maggie hadn’t had an opportunity to ask. She was okay now, and that was all that mattered.

If only she had the same good news about Wendy.

Jeeves had assured her that Wendy was safe and healthy, that the Ravenwoods would never allow any harm to come to any of their guests.

Those promises couldn’t untangle the knots in her stomach.

It would be easier to believe if she could have an actual, rational conversation with Wendy—her best friend, not the wild-haired sorceress sprinkling suspicious herbs over books.

But the competition stalled for no woman or her reasons.

Kellen and Caedmon had led her and the other contestants in the near dark through a trail of blackberry bushes and brambles to a place too spooky to deal with this early in the morning.

Or ever. Hazel trees and bracken crowded close, offering little room to move and almost zero light.

The tight weave of their branches allowed only gloom and clawing shadows.

It wasn’t the trees that sent shivers down her back.

They’d fanned out around a giant stone well.

Moss oozed from the cracks and crevices, threaded with ivy.

Dead leaves clung to its base by silken spiderwebs bejeweled with husks of unfortunate insects.

Glyphs crawled over the weathered rocks.

If either druid removed the iron top closing the well, she just might freak.

“Today we call upon the spirits of our ancestors.” Caedmon, looking like a true druid in a black hooded cowl, a twisted wooden staff in one hand, addressed them from across the well.

“It’s crucial that you remain silent and shield the light you hold.

It must not go out. We are all links in the sacred circle.

If one link breaks, the protective ring will shatter.

” His gaze fell on her. “You are the guardian of your flame. Do not fail.”

Maggie gripped her turnip tighter, a chill seeping through her jacket, sweater, and jeans. He gave every impression that the ritual was serious, real, not a game. Real or not, letting her candle get snuffed out wouldn’t help her odds of winning.

Caedmon nodded at Kellen, who had taken his place on the other side of Cara, directly across from his twin. Even with another body between them, his heat branded her skin, and a hint of lemon-licorice reminded her how electrifying it had been in his arms, his mouth possessing hers.

Last night, when sleep had finally overtaken her, her dreams had involved a certain dark druid, mind-blowing kisses, and tangled limbs.

Without even trying, he made her body hum, invaded her thoughts.

If she didn’t regain control soon, she might drown in him.

No matter the man, she wouldn’t let that happen again.

Her trust and control would not be so easily given away.

“We summon our ancestors to join us in our sacred rite.” Kellen’s hushed voice rolled through the sudden stillness. “Our kinsmen, whose tears and blood, joy and pain have seeped into this land, whose songs and magic course through our veins, we call to you.”

Wind stirred the leaves to shift and mutter, and Maggie shuddered. She had the strangest sense that if she focused hard enough, she’d understand the voices in the trees.

“The circle is cast.” Caedmon lit the wick of his own candle, and fumes billowed up to the limbs, the heavy fragrance of incense overpowering the air.

“We stand on hallowed ground, in the space between the seen and unseen. We send our intent by smoke into the sky. We summon those whose blood we share, whose energy feeds our marrow, like the roots of old. May the bones of the earth be clothed again in life.” He struck his staff on top of the ancient well. “Let the gates be open!”

The second his last word ended, the symbols on the well flashed silver, so bright Maggie squinted.

A gust of wind swept between the tree trunks, sharp and icy, and she cupped her hand over her candle.

The flame fluttered madly but didn’t go out.

Static prickled over her skin. Beside her, Cara sucked in a sharp breath.

Patrick pressed closer, his arm against hers stiff.

With the wind’s passing, a silence fell over the clearing, so deep and aching that she could hear her own rapid breaths and those of her companions. A far-off drumming vibrated in her limbs. Oh…wait. That was just her heartbeat.

The tiny hairs on her arms bristled, and the air dropped from autumn’s chill to a winter frost. Kellen stood as still and silent as a cemetery gargoyle, towering over Cara as she hunched in her fur coat.

The druid cloak must be made from some seriously thick wool.

Maggie’s sweater and jacket weren’t cutting it.

Her skin pebbled, and she clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering.

Caedmon muttered beneath his breath and lifted his staff. Then everything seemed to happen at once.

The iron cover sealing the well flew straight off and flipped into the tree branches like it was no heavier than a plastic Frisbee.

A rush of scorch-scented wind roared free, whipping clothes and hair into a frenzy.

Several candles blew out, and Maggie tried desperately to keep hers from dying, too.

The soil buckled, as if an army of moles dug for the surface. A scream echoed to the sky.

Something cold and hard grabbed her ankle, and Maggie’s pulse lurched.

A bony hand, the body it belonged to rising slowly from the soil, held her tight.

Fear froze her as the skull broke from the earth, the black pits of its eyes on her.

Stringy red hair clung to the bone. Several strings of beads rattled around its neck.

“Maggie,” it rasped, the voice shockingly familiar. Aunt Maeve had been dead for over a decade, buried across the sea in a quaint barrow that suited her strange soul. That didn’t stop her voice from echoing beyond the grave, slithering through her blood. “Run, Maggie. Run while you still can.”

Panic burned away any thought other than escape. Struggling to free her ankle, Maggie dropped her turnip and candle. The skeleton’s second hand emerged and clawed at her leg. She frantically stomped on it with her other foot. Bones cracked and shattered beneath her heel, but the hold didn’t loosen.

Kellen was suddenly there, his face fierce, eyes flashing.

He grasped her wrist and uttered a word she didn’t know.

Fire shot up her arm from his fingers, a storm of electricity through her veins, and for an instant, a whispery power pulsed along every nerve, as if claiming her, inch by inch. With a hiss, he released her.

Maggie leaped back, shaking, blood thundering in her head.

Her turnip lay crooked on the undisturbed earth, face up, the candle extinguished.

Ragged breaths and a few curses broke through the settled quiet.

All traces of the skeleton had vanished.

For a full second, Caedmon beamed like a silver glowstick.

She blinked and the light was gone. What the—

“I didn’t sign up for Morning of the Walking Dead.” Patrick tossed his turnip aside. “I’m out.” He sprinted into the woods before anyone could stop him.

“I’ll accompany him back to the mansion.” Caedmon’s usual suave and carefree features frayed at the edges. With his hood down, his black hair spiked in every direction. Lines bracketed his mouth.

Three more contestants joined him as he headed after Patrick, their turnips abandoned next to the well.

A zing of pride shot through her—so brief she almost missed it.

Patrick and the others had called it quits, yet she, while scared and shaking, stuck it out.

Three fewer contestants vying for the prize. Her odds of winning just went up.

She was still in the running… But at what cost?

Maggie hugged herself, her throat sand-dry, unable to escape the sense that icy fingers still wrapped around her ankle. Run while you still can . Only Kellen’s close, steady presence kept her from collapsing. “What just happened?”

Kellen’s jaw clenched. “An uninvited guest.”

“Obviously.” Her voice barely counted as a whisper.

“My candle didn’t go out.” Cara held her turnip toward Maggie and Kellen, her brown eyes wide with either wonder or shock. Maybe both. In the chaos, no one else had managed to hold onto their mini jack-o’-lantern, let alone keep their flames alive. Including Maggie.

That flash of pride she’d had in herself was completely unwarranted. She may still be here, but she’d also failed. And she couldn’t even be sure if the only reason she hadn’t quit and run like Patrick was because fear had frozen her in place.

Whatever the Ravenwoods orchestrated, whatever they planned next, she wasn’t sure anymore if she’d survive long enough to win the grand prize.

She muttered a congratulations to Cara along with the other remaining contestants.

Losing her flame was the least of her problems, really.

Now she got why participation in the rituals had been a requirement.

No one in their right mind would volunteer to battle bones using the voices of deceased family members.

“Maggie,” Cara said, “are you all right? That was…”

She couldn’t find the words to answer.

It was real. Other people had seen it, not just her. That’s why they left.

Her heart pounded so hard in her chest it felt as though her ribs might crack, and she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

My God… All of it was real .