Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (52 page)

Elizabeth slipped off her shoes and moved around the sofa in
her stocking feet. She understood now, bare feet helped the priestess connect
with the earth and draw up the powerful energies within it into her body,
enabling her to cast the circle and perform magic.

She held the dagger straight out before her as she
approached Fletcher.

“Ach, you mean to come after me with that knife, little
girl?” Fletcher scoffed. He still held Michael on his lap, unconscious, propped
in front of Fletcher’s torso so the men could not fire at him without hitting
Michael. “It’ll take more than a scrawny girl to bring me down.”

Elizabeth ignored Fletcher. Donovan was right to tell her
not to listen to him. He was a master at intimidation. He knew just what to say
to hurt a person, and he used that talent to strike an emotional blow on his
enemies. She kept her right arm extended in front of her and held the dagger in
a horizontal line. She walked in a circle around his chair, keeping out of his
reach.

“Here is the boundary of the circle of stones. Naught but
love shall enter it, naught but love shall emerge from within. Charge this with
your power, ancient ones . . .” She repeated the chant in Gaelic until she
completed the circle by returning to the starting point. Once there, she sealed
the sacred circle and called the guardians by rote, as Sheila taught her years
ago.

She could only hope Donovan didn’t drag her away before she
opened the Veil and released the power of the ancients. Kieran couldn’t hold
him off indefinitely with his false groaning. And there were Donovan’s men at
the door. Elizabeth turned, realizing Ambrose or one of the others might decide
to come after her with the notion that they were helping her spouse by protecting
her, and thus prevent her from working her magic.

“Maureen! Secure the doors.” She commanded. The twin doors
to the salon slammed shut and the lock clicked. Maureen’s spirit materialized
before them. She nodded for Elizabeth to proceed.

 “Lizzie?” Donovan shot up from behind the couch, the
machete in his upraised hand. “Come here, now. Come back to me.”

Kieran’s coppery head rose from the back of the sofa. He
pulled himself up and hung over the sofa by one arm, looking pale and
exasperated. He lunged forward and clutched his arms about Donovan’s waist.
“Stay out of this. Elizabeth must fulfill her destiny. Don’t make me summon a
Fetch to restrain you. They’re obnoxious and very hard to control.”

If not for the dire circumstances they found themselves in,
Kieran’s remark might be humorous. As threats went, it wasn’t much. Donovan had
no idea what her brother was talking about, and would assume a Fetch was an
imaginary creature Kieran made up to scare him.

“Trust me.” She said, turning to glance at Donovan. “As I
trust you.”

She shivered violently. Cold enveloped her body. She felt as
if she’d just been plunged into an icy sea. A queer feeling swept through her,
the bizarre feeling of being inhabited.

When she spoke it was not of her own accord. “Trust us, Lad.
We will not harm the seer.”

*******

Donovan choked back a shriek. His wife just spoke to him
with a man’s voice.

And her eyes were . . . strange. Shimmering, glowing in a
most unnatural fashion.

Kieran was hanging on him like a leech and chanting in
Gaelic. A very heavy leech, Donovan thought, as he felt the Irishman’s weight
pulling on his hips and torso.

Damn. It was impossible for that skinny Irishman to weigh so
much.

What was that revolting smell? Rotten eggs, sulfur, and
vomit? Donovan scrunched up his nose, gagging from the sudden stench rising
from O’Flaherty.

He tried to move. He could not. He couldn’t make his legs
budge. He twisted his upper body, but he could not move his feet away from
where he was standing. Something was restraining him and it was not Kieran
O’Flaherty. He felt hot, noxious breath on his neck. It was real, because it
was moving his hair with each intake and outtake of breath.

“Do not interfere. Let her summon the ancients. The judgment
is overdue.”

 Donovan turned his head toward the throaty feminine voice
to his right. As he feared, his dead grandmother was standing next to him,
talking to him--again. When had the twin pillars of logic and reason shattered
in his mind? This wasn’t real, she wasn’t real. She couldn’t be. Yet, his
mama’s long deceased mother was here, speaking to him! He looked down at
O’Flaherty hanging upon his waist and felt as if the gravitation pull of the
earth was holding him in place. He was trapped, a useless statue still
clutching the machete in his sword hand.

He looked desperately to his wife, fearing for her life if
Fletcher released Michael and grabbed her. She held the dagger aloft. She had
her eyes closed, and was chanting in the language of her ancestors. The room
was becoming thick and oppressive. The hair on his arms was lifting, as were
the hairs on the back of his neck. It was the same feeling he had on the
voyage, when Miss Pemberly’s ghost appeared in his cabin to harass
Elizabeth---only this time, the heavy, oppressive atmosphere was much more
intense.

He watched Lizzie fearfully, and then looked to the men at
the door, hoping for help.

What? The door was closed? How did that happen? He heard
Ambrose shouting and the men banging on it. He saw Ambrose peeking in the small
hole made by the ball Fletcher fired at him earlier. Ambrose was trying to see
what was going on.

As Elizabeth chanted, a curious black mist began to swirl
and wend gracefully about her body. “By the power of three, my blood, Kieran’s
blood, O’Flaherty blood . . .” She spoke now in English and her voice was her
own. Her hand was bleeding, he noted, as the scarlet jewel of bright
translucent fluid sluiced down her upraised forearm.

He didn’t understand what was happening.

But make no mistake, whatever it might be, Elizabeth was at
the heart of it.

*******

Elizabeth was between the worlds. She stood inside the Veil,
yet she was also still in the salon. She could see it beyond the protective
circle she created. It appeared as if a sheer curtain of black lingered between
her and the room at large. She could see Michael clearly, propped on Fletcher’s
lap. He seemed to be unconscious. He was bleeding from his hip, bleeding all
over Fletcher as the man held him upright across his lap, a fleshly shield
against the men gathered to conquer him. Looking at Michael’s crimson soaked
thigh she realized she had a second triad of power to call upon that would
strengthen first triad.

“By the power of three, bound by blood; my blood, Kieran’s
blood, Michael’s blood--Wentworth blood, I call forth the spirits beyond the
Veil. I ask you as the seer and high priestess of Clan O’Flaherty to come to me
and assist me in this time of great crisis. I call you to witness these rites
and to judge the violent soul before me. I call those of O’Flaherty blood and
those of Wentworth blood . . . as I will it, come to me, come to my aid and set
us all free.”

The Veil was opened, she could feel it leaking into the
sacred circle she’d created to contain the spirits. The black mists grew
heavier as they swirled around her. She felt the cold, damp, cloying air of
that place Kieran had taken her to two weeks ago filling the room. She did not
know what or who would emerge at her summons. She could only sense that
something was coming, more souls were slipping through the Veil, filling the
circle, coming at her summons.

Coldness swept through her. She could see her breath. She
was no longer alone before Captain Fletcher. She felt them hovering behind her,
waiting for her to direct them.

Fletcher’s face became grey. His eyes were the size of
shillings and his mouth was agape with horror. Good! It was time this wretched
fiend tasted the fear he inflicted so often on others. Elizabeth swallowed the
sudden gorge that rose in her throat. It was an acid bitterness. She felt as if
she might become violently ill. She stiffened, fearing Donovan’s admonitions were
about to come true; she was going to have a seizure, a nasty one, in full view
of her stepfather, when she was trying to use magic to conquer him. It would be
utter humiliation.

*******

Kieran released his hold on Donovan. The Fetch had him
secured and would keep him restrained until Kieran dissolved the spell. He
needed to go to Elizabeth. He could feel her strength wavering. She was
overwhelmed by so many spirits crowding about her. She was powerful, but still
a novice in the art of necromancy. Supernatural power, undirected,
uncontrolled, could be lethal to both the practitioner and to those within
close range of the circle should it collapse and release the souls of the dead
into the world of the living. Kieran was weakened from loss of blood. He’d have
to crawl to get across the room to his sister. And it was draining his meager
energies keeping the Fetch here so Donovan would not interfere.

Kieran watched and listened, adding his will and his power
to Elizabeth’s.

The circle Elizabeth cast was no longer invisible to the
human eye. The outline was obvious; a swirling, transparent, smoky black mist
contained within a curious bubble in the center of the room, much like a
smoking pipe under a glass bowl. The Veil was leaking into the circle. His
sister was bringing the souls of the dead to confront Fletcher.

“Captain Fletcher, we meet again.” Their father, Shawn
O’Flaherty, spoke through Elizabeth’s vocal chords for a second time. “You have
much to answer for among my people.”

Fletcher seemed paralyzed with fear as he gazed at
Elizabeth, who was not Elizabeth just now but their father, speaking through
her so that the condemned could hear the proceedings of his own tribunal.
Fletcher was about to be judged by the dead; specifically those he had killed.

The noise to his left distracted Kieran. The men were
hacking away at the salon doors with an axe, trying, like men of any age, to
storm the castle and save the day.

Or so they believed, in the physical realm. In the spirit
realm, interference by mortal men could cause many deaths. The spirits were
churned up, lusting for blood, and if Donovan’s men interfered, they would die,
plain and simple.

“Stop them.” Kieran said, directing his command to his
brother-in-law. “Tell them to be still and wait for your signal to advance.”

Donovan, the stalwart warrior in the physical realm, looked
at Kieran with panicked eyes. “What have you done? Why can’t I move? We must
protect Lizzie. Let me go to her.”

“Do it. Give the order.” Kieran insisted, tired of having to
deal with the uninitiated when so much was at stake. “I will release you if you
do as I say.” He added, knowing he must release the man soon anyway as his ability
to control the Fetch was waning.

“Duchamp, wait. Do not enter until I give the word.” Donovan
commanded.

Kieran nodded and summoned the last of his strength to chant
the releasing spell.

Donovan stumbled as the Fetch let go of him. He righted himself.
His sides heaved, and he leaned forward on the sofa, breathing heavily. “What
the hell did you do to me?”

“I summoned an elemental to restrain you. Elizabeth needs
help. I can’t go to her.” Kieran paused, feeling as if he might pass out. He
clutched the sofa, struggling to remain upright.

Noting his waning strength Donovan gestured for his butler
to assist Kieran. “Put him on the sofa. You can sit down, can’t you, while my
wife opens the floodgates of hell?”

“Yes.” Kieran held his blood slickened shoulder and allowed
the two men to bring him around to the front of the sofa. They assisted him in
reclining on it. “It is not hell.” He corrected as Donovan pulled the saturated
wad of shirt away from Kieran’s wound and replaced it with a discarded shawl one
of the ladies had left on the sofa. “It is the Celtic place of the dead. Not
evil, a sacred place where souls wait to converse with the seer. You must go to
her, but first listen.”

Donovan nodded, white faced, no longer the arrogant warrior.
He was a man of logic, and at this moment he must be frighteningly aware that
he was well out of his depth.

“You cannot cross the circle’s boundary, not with anger or
violence in your heart. Only love can enter, pure love. And only love can
emerge. That is a protection spell to keep the angry souls from breaking free
and wreaking havoc on the world. Believe me, tracking malicious souls of the
dead released from the Veil and returning them there is no easy task.”

“What should I do when I reach her?” Donovan asked.

“Trust her. And remember your love for her. That will be
your shield. Step into the circle slowly. You’ll feel a pull. It’s like
stepping through a waterfall. And focus on love, only love.” Kieran shivered
and licked his lips. He was incredibly thirsty. “How long does Michael have?”

“Not long unless I can stop the bleeding.” Donovan rose from
Kieran’s side, clutching the machete in his fist. “May I take this, in case I
get close enough to strike Fletcher? I’m not one to go in unarmed, spirits or
dark magic beside the point. Fletcher is near my wife and he’s armed.”

“Yes, but you must focus all your energy on love, not
vengeance in order to penetrate the circle’s boundary.” Kieran insisted,
wearied by the question. “Don’t distract her--with anything--that is imperative.
She must finish this. She needs your strength. She needs support from those who
love her to be able to complete her task. Go, help her, and give her the
strength of your love. Naught but love shall enter in, and naught but love
shall emerge from within.” Kieran repeated.

Donovan bowed his head. He took a deep breath, and stepped
toward the circle.

*******

Elizabeth felt herself weakening. She was going to swoon. It
took so much strength to keep the circle charged, control the spirits and
remain aware of everything going on around her. Added to that, a spirit had
slipped inside her body, seeking to use her energy to speak to the accused. Please,
she pleaded, trying to reach the entity, Let me go. I can’t do this with you
here.