Page 6 of To Wed a Highlander (A Highland Magic Collection #3)
Chapter 6
T he three Wyrd Sisters huddled around their cauldron in a dank Highland cave of black stone. The cauldron’s fire illuminated a still grotto, but the sound of roiling ocean echoed off the narrow, high walls.
“Thrice the raven hath devoured his mate.” The first witch, Badb, tossed in a disembodied raven’s wing.
“Thrice the dead tree bloom’d ‘neath a blood moon.” The second witch, Macha, stirred the brew with an unnaturally gnarled branch.
“Because there are four, Death must rise soon.” The third witch, Nemain, passed a hand over the cauldron and the unmentionable putridity coalesced.
They chanted together:
“Awaken the demon of lust and blood.
And the world will end in fire and flood.”
Badb pulled a claw from her decrepit robes, her crone’s voice rasping off the smooth stone walls.
“Edward the Confessor died, and his throne is cold.
A foot of crow to ensure King Harold won’t grow old.”
All chanted:
“Awaken the demon of lust and blood.
And the world will end in fire and flood.”
Macha produced what looked like a small piece of raw meat from the pouch hanging from her generous hips.
“The Norman Bastard William sails in two weeks time.
The liver of this fen rat to ensure his troops do fine.”
All chanted:
“Awaken the demon of lust and blood.
And the world will end in fire and flood.”
Nemain lifted a bundle above her head, and pulled a knife from beneath her flowing blue gown. Her young, angelic face twisted with triumph and malice.
“We gave the Pict throne to Macbeth, but thereon he was slain.
The blood of this stillborn druid babe will make it ours again.”
Morgana let the pool of water—through which she watched her enemies—stream through her fingers with a cry of distress. She couldn’t bear to see. Her empty stomach churned and she gagged.
Blood magick . The Wyrd sisters were using whatever Druid blood they could find to regain their power. They had to be stopped. She met the gaze of the Berserker, who crouched beside where she knelt next to the stream. The whites if his eyes gleamed in the bright moonlight, though she couldn’t make out the color of the irises. She could, however, feel his disgust mirroring hers, and from that she took hope.
“You see what manner of evil I’m up against, warrior? None of us can stop them on our own. I need to return to my brother, and find my cousin, Kenna, or all is lost.” She felt his hesitation underscored with curiosity. “This is why I need you.”
“I was told Druids do not have magick as powerful as this.” He gestured to her hands which she had cupped to create a seeing pool. “I thought they were alchemists and astronomers with simple magicks drawn from the earth and elements.”
“That is true of most Druids,” she explained. “But in every generation, there are three born to the Druids of Moray who are granted great powers by the creator, the Goddess. They are guardians of the earth and elements, protectors of the people, and keepers of the sacred Doomsday Grimoire.”
“And you are one of the three?”
“Aye.” Morgana scooted closer to him, not missing the way he tensed. “Like I said before, I’m the Autumn Druid. My element is water. Then there’s my brother, Malcolm, he’s the Spring Druid, his element is earth. And my cousin, Kenna, she’s the Summer Druid, her element is fire.”
The Berserker was silent a moment before asking, “What about winter? What about air?”
A familiar pang of fear sliced through her as she thought of the three Wyrd sisters who’d once been ancestors, but had become their enemies. “It is said that the Gods believed that all four Druids with magick such as ours would be too much power for us mortals to wield all at once. And so there have only ever been three, with a season rotated out of commission from each generation. You see, the Doomsday Grimoire prophesies that when all four seasons and elements are represented on the earth at once, then the end must surely follow.”
“The end of what?”
Morgana swallowed around a lump in her throat. “Of everything . The end of days.”
The direness was apparently lost on him, as he just lifted the shadows of his wide shoulders in a careless shrug. “And now there are four?”
“ Yes .” She held up her hands, as though the pool was still there. “These women, they call themselves the Wyrd sisters. Malcolm and Kenna found a record of them in the Moray archives. They were supposed to have died two hundred years ago. They are of a generation long past. And Badb, the crone, she is a winter witch. Her element is air. So like they said, now there are four. According to the prophecy, this will bring about the end. All they need is the Grimoire.”
“Why not just keep the Grimoire from them?”
“We’ve been trying, but the Wyrd sisters are powerful adversaries.”
The Berserker scoffed, “They did not seem so frightening.”
“Do not underestimate them,” Morgana warned. “They are the reason this isle is in turmoil. They brought about the deaths of Edward the Confessor. It is because of them King Harold and his brother, Jarl Tostig are fighting on opposite sides. In my Kingdom in the North, they prompted Macbeth to kill my father, King Duncan, and while the usurper Macbeth sat on the throne, he banished us all and tried to assassinate my brother. I was sent to the Saxon King Harold and Kenna escaped with the book. No one knows where she’s gone.”
“Can’t you see her in the water?” The Berserker motioned to the stream.
Morgana shook her head. “Nay, I’ve tried. She’s hidden herself, somehow. And while that protects her from the Wyrd Sisters, it also conceals her from me.”
He was silent a long time as he stared at the brook which bubbled happily over stones, the sound incongruous with the ominous moment. The moon cast his brutal profile in shadow, and Morgana was again impressed by the sheer size and strength of him. He really was a magnificently rendered warrior, if a bit suicidal. If only she could convince him to help her.
“What else can you see in the water?” he asked finally, remaining utterly motionless. “Can you predict the future? Could you—foresee my death?”
“You’re rather preoccupied with dying, aren’t you?” she snapped, irritated that he still didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the circumstances. Just her luck that she would be stuck trying to avoid the Apocalypse with one of the only people alive who couldn’t care less.
He didn’t answer her question, and so Morgana answered his on a beleaguered sigh. “I can see the past in a mirror pool. I can see what has transpired and what is transpiring at this very moment. Kenna, only she can see what is to come in the flames. Though, that power is less definite.”
He grunted and stood, securing his axe to the leather strap on his back.
“Where are you going?” Morgana demanded pushing herself up and following him toward the trees.
Again he didn’t answer, but she could read a conflict inside him. Anger, need and loneliness amalgamated with arousal, awe, and something she couldn’t quite define.
“I’m your mate ,” she called to his retreating back, fighting an incredible surge of desperation. “Aren’t you supposed to, I don’t know, protect me, or love me—or something?”
He froze, but didn’t turn around.
Oh, drat. The anger she’d read spiked within him, underscored by a cavernous pain so intense it took her breath away. Morgana knew she’d said the absolute worst thing possible. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Don’t leave. You’re my only hope.”
His head turned to the side, and she could again make out the profile of his brutal features in the moonlight. “It is I who am sorry, Princess ,” he sneered. “For if that is the case, then all hope is lost.”
Morgana opened her mouth to beg, to berate, to seduce him into action if she had to. But all that escaped her was a gasp of shock and pain as an arrow whistled through the darkness and lodged itself in her shoulder.