Temple of Indra's Witch Page 16

  And in an instant I was back there, strolling through the forest; rowing a boat in the river with a boy; brewing tea for a tall, red-haired woman.

  Outside my memories, off in the distance, the shuffling of feet and voices grew unbearably loud. Someone shouted the name “Mum” repeatedly. Smells of incense and smoke wafted at me.

  “Yes. Yes. It’s working. Keep going.” Sandra Brun’s words turned into a deep chant and then a screech. Through a bleary haze I saw a girl running at us from a hole in the wall. Her eyes wide with fear. She was carrying a large brass candle holder and she swung, clubbing Móraí in the head with it. Móraí went down like a sack of potatoes, knocking another candle over behind her.

  Alana. My baby girl. She’d come from one of the underground passages. The house and church were connected by a series of them.

  I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might crack, and yanked my hand away from Sandra Brun. She had set the dagger down and I picked it up. The handle felt cool, solid in my hand. I had to get out of there, had to get Alana away. I couldn’t risk Sandra Brun hurting her.

  A loud bang, the clattering of footsteps on the steps. Who else was here?

  I would gladly die if only my baby girl was saved. The candle had caught on the drapes and the flames were now spreading at the far end of the room. Every breath I drew burned in my throat and lungs. Sandra slammed the book down over Alana’s head from behind and she went down.

  As I held the dagger, the room spun around me, whirling on its side like an amusement park ride. Vomit rose up in my throat climbing higher and higher in an attempt to escape. Escape—that was what I needed to do. Someone was shouting at me to run. I held the vomit down through sheer force of will. Beyond the smoke and dancing tongues of ravenous fire, I could see Sandra Brun. Cullen’s hand was on my sleeve, urging me to get to my feet, but I couldn’t move. When did he arrive?

  “Cullen—Get Alana out. She’s over there unconscious on the floor,” I shouted. My voice sounded deep and distorted, as though it were in slow motion as well. It was a nightmarish sensation.

  My eyes widened as he hurried to pick her up. It felt like I was being run through the wash. I knew the sensation. The time portal was opening. What were the chances we’d all be transported? I held my breath for one heart-stopping moment as I realized there was no water nearby.

  Sweat ran into my eyes. Bitter herbs bubbled in my stomach. This wasn’t normal, time travel had never felt good but it had never felt this bad either.

  Sandra Brun jumped to her feet. I waved the dagger at her. I’d killed before. Well sort of. Liam had fallen to his death but it had been my fault. I’d watched him fall, praying for his death because it would mean my freedom, and now they were trying to ruin everything. Send me back to save him? Hell no! I let the anger wash over me and crystallize in my head until it became something solid and hard.

  Behind me all was chaos. The room was spinning like a tornado and I was at the center. I could hear Cullen shouting at me to follow him. Alana was unconscious in his arms. Leslie was pointing a weapon at Sandra Brun’s husband who had morphed from bird to man and now he just stood there with his hands up. The scent of sage and hemlock rose thick in the air. I ignored it all and stared at Sandra Brun. She was fighting me for control of the knife. I stared, and I believed, deep down, that I could drive the knife into her. At last, Sandra let go of the knife and disappeared almost immediately. Through the swirling tornado, I shifted my gaze about the room and searched for Cullen, Alanna and Leslie. They were gone. They’d been there only moments ago. I could no longer make out the anything through the thickening smoke. It was over. I was trapped and I would die of smoke inhalation alone. If only I’d had the chance to say goodbye.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  An Affair to Remember

  Dublin, Ireland, Four Months later

  Dinner was a gloomy experience, which seemed a fairly normal occurrence these days. Alana dried the last plate and placed it in the press, watching the colorful leaves through the kitchen window as they tumbled across the lawn.

  Da had moved to the sofa and was already back to work. On top of the steamer trunk sat a half empty glass of whiskey. She made herself a cup of hot chocolate and stood in the doorway, watchin’ the auld man tentatively—his eyes had lost their sparkle. It sounded cheesy but it was true. She couldn’t blame him, at least not totally. There were no more smiles over Lyons tea, lazy Saturdays spent outside, or laughter from the kitchen as her mum sipped wine while Da chopped praties. His relationship with Leslie, if ye could call it that, couldn’t hold a candle to what her parents had shared. Not that Leslie or Da admitted to being a couple but why else was Leslie here?

  This was the time of night her mum would usually wet the peppermint tea and they’d all have a cup. She looked down at the worn paperback on the counter. Leslie must be reading it. It was a classic tale about a family that stuck together through difficult times. Like that really happened—she picked it up and tossed it into the rubbish.

  Every good tale needs an evil step-mother. Her mum always used to say that. Cinderella, Snow White, Giselle—those girls had all lost their mothers and gained an evil step-mother in the process.

  Alana could hardly claim Leslie was wicked. She was actually wildly helpful, but she wasn’t her mum and Alana didn’t want her to be. At least Da and Leslie still slept in separate bedrooms—although surely that was just an illusion, since Leslie was about to go away with him.

  She strode across the hardwood and joined Da in the living room, curling her feet beneath her in the oversized chair. Daphne jumped into her lap as she took the first sip almost knocking the cup from her hands.

  “Daphne!” Alana exclaimed, licking the whip cream from the top of her lip. The cat just purred and rubbed herself against Alana’s chest. Alana smiled, thinking somehow Daphne always knew when she needed comfort. She stared at the oil painting of the castle that hung over the fireplace as she stroked Daphne’s fur. The painting was not her mother’s favorite—she’d shivered when Alana painted it, but she hung it anyway—she used to tell Alana all kinds of stories about castle life—which reminded her that she should get to work on her history assignment.

  Alana cleared her throat. Her father was still staring at his computer screen, obviously trying to avoid the fight they were having.

  “Ah c’mon will ye…”

  “No. The schoolhouse bell may sound bitter in youth but its sweet, I tell ye, in old age.”

  “Oh, my actual god, Da. That’s exactly why I should tag along. I don’t want to miss the opportunity…”

  “For the last time, sixteen is too young for a lass to be bunkin’ off and trailin’ after her Da on business. End of discussion, so crack on.”

  Alana let out a frustrated sound akin to “Unnrrggghhh” and shooed Daphne from her lap.

  “Don’t forget yer book bag. Leslie is not your maid.”

  Climbing the stairs, Alana was sure to thump her book bag against each step as loudly as possible.

  “Don’t get cute with me!” Da’s voice boomed from below.

  Alana dropped her bag to the floor, ignoring the reprimand. She loved Da’s study, a peaceful room on the upper floor that housed the overflow from Mysterious Adventures in Ink.

  She’d spent hours browsing the shelves that lined the back wall after her mum’s death as a way to feel closer to her.

  She shook the melodramatic thoughts loose and pulled one of Da’s architecture books from the shelf, thumbing through the pages until she found the section on Medieval Castles. Maybe it was because Da was an architect, or because Mum was always after reading fairytales, but either way, it struck her that she’d become obsessed with the 15th century. She was actually excited to write this paper.

  She set the book down. Plane tickets and an itinerary glared up at her from the mahogany desk. The itinerary was filled with castles, museums and libraries—business trip her arse. He and Leslie were obviously going on holiday without he
r. Again.

  Alana told herself not to bother—she was sixteen and needed to be independent—but she couldn’t help but feel unloved. Her mother had wanted her, had always loved her no matter what.

  A tear escaped but she wiped it away before it could roll down her cheek, shutting away the pain.

  “Stuff it!” she said aloud.

  All mothers died eventually, they even died in fairytales. She remembered crying the first time she’d learned that lesson. Poor Bambi.

  If only she could stop her thoughts and memories—she’d been replaying her mother’s death for the last four months. That wretched black bird circling the room so fast that it whooshed out the candles and flipped the pages of the book. It was all a hazy dream. Leslie had told her it was because Móraí and some Sandra lady had drugged her. Still, it had been all her fault. What kind of monster killed her own mother?

  She dwelled on the image of the leather spell book from that night. She’d been dreaming about it again—and not just about the book, but of Mum reading from it. Alana closed her lids, picturing her mother’s slanted, blue cat eyes crinkling in the corners as she kissed her good-night.

  She couldn’t remember much else about the night her mother died—just a dark and scary basement with candles and skulls and that book. Why had she given her mother such a hard time at dinner? Now her mother would never know...

  “Everything all right?” Leslie asked, popping her head through the open doorway.

  “Brilliant.” Alana answered petulantly, glancing in the mirror that hung to her right. A delicate pink blush around her eyes was the only sign she’d been crying. She licked her lips and did her best to smile.

  “Just sortin’ out a topic for my history paper that’s due next month.”

  “I thought I heard you and your father having words again.”

  Alana wanted to confide in Leslie. They used to be besties, but these days it seemed like a betrayal to her mother.

  “I know things are tough right now but I swear to you that your Da has the best of intentions. He really loves you…and he does want you around.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” Alana retorted. “Girls belong in school not trailin’ after their fathers.”

  Leslie touched Alana’s hand. “He gets grumpy when he misses your mother.”

  “He never speaks of her and he turns away if I ask questions.”

  Leslie gave an exasperated huff. “I know. Believe me I understand. So what’s the argument about—the trip?”

  “Aye, the trip.” Alana rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “The two of ye are goin’ off. Mum’s barely been in the ground four months. It’s not decent, and on top of that, ye’re leavin’ me behind with Grand-da like I’m a wee child who needs a nannie—just so the two of you can disappear off to yer kinky holiday.”

  “Alana, it’s not like that.”

  “Whatever. Mum’s gone and she aint comin’ back. I know that, and I know ye both have needs…blah blah blah…I’ll learn to deal.”

  “Alana,” Leslie reached for her but she pulled away.

  “Please, leave me be—I don’t feel like gabbin’ anymore.”

  Leslie nodded, her eyes shimmered with tears and Alana felt a twinge of regret. She knew Leslie was sad, too. They’d shed tears together plenty.

  Alana looked up sharply. “Wait. I know it’s not yer fault and I’m actin’ cheeky. Forgive me.”

  “Of course, sweetie.”

  “Do ye think ye could get him to come ‘round?”

  Leslie seemed to consider the question seriously. “He would need a good reason,” she said finally.

  “Ah yeh, and sure don’t I have one—my history assignment. I’m to write about castle life in the 15th century.”

  Leslie didn’t look convinced.

  “Deirdre’s mum is taking her to France to research the Louvre. It’s the same thing; Mrs. O’Harris would be fine with it. Please, Leslie. Ye’ve no idea how lonesome I am. Sometimes, it hurts to go on.”

  Manipulative, Alana knew but as her mum had once said, desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Leslie steeled her shoulders and closed her eyes as if the words had caused her physical pain.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said and left the room.

  Alana smiled to herself. Leslie might be after replacing her mother – but sure if the woman didn’t genuinely love her.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Come Spell or High Water

  Hunedoara, Romania, 1494

  I was sure that my hair smoldered and my skin blistered. I would have screamed in anguish if I had a voice, or even a breath left in me. But I didn’t. Then something rose up inside. I was not going to just lie here and let that horrid woman, Sandra Brun, win while I burned to death in this god-forsaken basement.

  I tried to get to my feet but could no longer feel solid ground under me. I was floating, tossed up and sucked down by cold water. It was as if I would never be warm again. And it was getting colder. I spun, caught in that familiar whirlpool, sucked deeper and deeper into the frigid waters. It was so dark and I couldn’t remember what I was doing.

  I opened my eyes and jerked away. Water blurred my vision. There was a young man holding me. I gasped and gulped in water. Oh Lord, he was trying to drown me.

  I caught the glint of sunlight on steel as I raised my hand and realized I held a dagger. It gave me a small measure of satisfaction to know I had a weapon.

  “Sophia!” The boy looked horrified as he caught my wrist in his hand, exerted pressure. He eyed the double-edged dagger as if I’d damn near plunged it into his chest, which I might have. Who knows? I didn’t know this person and I wasn’t letting go of my only weapon. I’d rather drown.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Give up the Ghost

  Dublin, Ireland, 2031

  The girls had gone to bed, but Cullen sat on in the study, watching the glow of the flames cast shadows about the hearth. He could almost picture Sophia’s ghost curled up in the window seat, reading one of her paperback adventures. This was the reason he kept out. Her book was still in the window seat where she’d last left it. Alana refused to put it away, and while the lass practically lived in here to feel closer to her mother, he stayed away to avoid just that. The thought of his neglect maimed his heart. This had once been his favorite room, he could remember the sip of apple cider, hear the rattle of a newspaper, and smell the aroma of Sophia’s perfume as if she were once again bringing him a tray of those pumpkin spiced cookies she liked to bake. The month of October had always seemed a restless time to him but it was his Aeval’s favorite, buzzing with mystery and stirring spirits. Tonight even more so, he thought turning his gaze to the jack-o’-lantern on the desk. Samhain wasn’t for another month but Leslie had insisted on getting into the spirit early just as Sophia always had. The pumpkin she and Alanna had carved grinned eerily at him, as if it too shared the knowledge of what would happen in the coming weeks.

  The sound of floorboards creaking roused him from his thoughts and the smell of candle wax, strong in the restless air, replaced the smell of perfume as he was brought back to reality. The creaking grew closer; he thought it might be Alana, returning to argue about his upcoming trip, but the visitor was Leslie.

  She was carrying a draw-string bag.

  “Cullen, what are you still doing awake?” She pulled the belt of her robe tight, a pale glimmer of pink satin against the dark hallway. She was petite like Sophia and they’d often shared clothes but her hair had more reddish tones and her skin was much more fair. Still sometimes if he squinted or got really drunk, he could pretend Sophia was still roaming about the house. Leslie paused, and hung the satchel on a small nail in the window frame.

  He smiled and stretched out a hand, inviting her in. “An empty bag won't stand.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “I don’t need much sleep, besides it’s too hard to wake up and remember...”

  “I know.”

  “What a
re ye doin with the wee baggies?”

  He’d noticed the little pouches all over the house since Sophia’s death.

  She smiled, coming into the firelight. “Nothing. Just a bundle of stinging nettle to keep us all safe—an old wives tale is all. So what’s got you up—the trip?”

  “Aye. Will we be all right, do ye think?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Leslie said in a reassuring tone.

  “Maybe ye shouldn’t come—maybe this is all a bad idea.”

  “Cullen. We can’t just sit and wait forever.”

  Cullen nodded reluctantly, the firelight dancing before his eyes. “I suppose ye’re right.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” Leslie said.

  “Do ye think Alana will forgive us?”

  “Of course she will, but maybe there’s another way.”

  “Lord preserve us, she talked ye into something, didn’t she?”

  “She knows just which heartstrings to tug, that’s for sure, but there’s no reason we can’t take her. She’s sixteen and its time she knew.”

  “Ah hear now, yer makin’ me the bad guy again. What the ear does not hear will not worry the heart.”

  “Cullen, think about it. She’ll find out eventually and she’ll be furious we kept the truth from her for so long.”

  “She’ll hurt all right,” Cullen said quietly.

  “Well, I hate to be the one to tell you but she’s hurting either way—the truth will at least allow us to quit with all the sneaking and the lying. She deserves to have some hope, just the same as we do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Things Will Get Letter

  Hunedoara, Romania, 1494

  He jerked away and stumbled back, nearly tipping the small boat over.