Becoming Crone, page 15
And, splayed like a spatchcocked chicken on the couch, with one leg growing more numb by the second, I—a sixty-year-old grandmother who had just used her cat as a sledgehammer to run a gauntlet of gnomes—giggled, chortled, outright guffawed, and then dissolved into tears.
Oh, Edie.
Sunlight streamed through the window when I woke the next morning. It danced across the wooden floor and the foot of the bed, filling the room with a bright warmth at odds with the dreams that had plagued my sleep. And with the events of the previous day.
I pulled the duvet up under my chin and eased onto my side. My entire body protested. And my heart—oh God, how my heart hurt.
Edie.
Beautiful, vibrant, kick-ass Edie. I couldn’t believe she was gone. Because of me. The sheer volume of loss was overwhelming. Who would inspire me now? Who would waltz into my kitchen in the morning, uninvited and unannounced and—
A second wave of loss washed over me.
No one. Because my house was gone, too. Cheesy rice on a cracker.
I waited, but no Edie-voice corrected me. She really was gone, even from my head. I snuffled my despair—mixed with a healthy dose of self-pity—into my pillow. The Mages had killed my friend, and now they threatened my family, and I was the only one who could stop them, but I could only do that with magick, and I didn’t know how, and I couldn’t—
Panic bloomed in my chest, and I struggled for air. I squeezed my eyes shut. A glimmer of anger surfaced in me. God damn it, Claire, enough! my inner voice scolded. Your family is in danger—Braden is in danger. Are you really going to lie here whining about how hard your life is? Jesus Christ on a cracker, woman, get over yourself and do something!
I blinked into the duvet covering my head, swiped the back of my hand across my nose, and rolled onto my back. I stared at the ceiling. My voice was right.
The magick was in me. I knew that. I’d felt it. Seen it in action. I had no idea how to make it work for me, but I could learn. I had to learn. It was time.
Determination surged through my veins. I pushed back the covers, sat up, and swung my legs over the bed.
And that was it.
That was as far as I could go, because one leg simply refused to cooperate further. I stared down at where my nightgown—had I put that on?—had ridden up to reveal the bright red puffball that had replaced my thigh overnight. That couldn't be good. And if the front of the leg looked that bad, what on earth did the back and the actual bite from the Gnome look like? I chewed on my bottom lip and eyed the distance between bed and bathroom door. If I cruised the perimeter of the room and used various bits of furniture as support—
A knock sounded at the door, and I hastily pulled the nightgown down to cover myself as Lucan barged in.
"You could wait for an invitation," I grumped.
"I have been waiting," he said. "I've knocked five times over the day without response. The gargoyle told me I shouldn't wait this time. I'm to report back to her on your condition, on pain of bodily harm being done if I fail."
Despite myself, I found my lips twitching. Yes, I could imagine Keven issuing just such a threat. But wait—five times? I glanced at the sunlit window, trying to think which direction it faced.
"West," said Lucan, as if he'd read my mind, "and it's two o'clock."
Okay, later than expected, but not too bad, I supposed.
"On Friday."
My brain did a quick series of calculations starting with my birthday on Sunday, finding the house on Monday, the shade attacking my home on Tuesday, that same home burning down and the Gnome gauntlet on Wednesday, and—I gaped at him. "Friday? But that's—I slept almost two days? Paul will be frantic!"
And the police would probably have a warrant out for my arrest because I hadn’t turned up to sign that statement.
And the Mages. What about the Mages? Had they gone after anyone else? My family?
Cheesy—no, Jesus.
Sheer panic drove me to my feet, and Lucan caught me as I toppled. Strong, warm hands guided me back down to the side of the bed. He crouched in front of me and pushed the nightgown and my weak protests aside. His face turned grim.
"That doesn't look good."
It didn't feel particularly good at the moment, either, but I had more important things to worry about. I flapped an agitated hand at him. "It's fine. Just a bit swollen, is all. But Paul—Braden—"
"That's more than a bit anything," he retorted. He rose to his feet again and placed a hand on top of my head when I attempted to follow suit. "Sit still or I'll tie you to the bed." Seeming to take it for granted that I would obey, he pulled the bell-cord over the bed and then strode to the bedroom door and bellowed, "Gargoyle! You're needed!"
"You're making a fuss about nothing,” I said. “It's not even that painful anymore." Mostly because I couldn't feel it at all, but I didn't think I needed to add that part. Or the part about the fuzziness beginning to fill my head. I forced myself to focus. "My family—"
"I spoke to your son yesterday and again this morning," Lucan said over his shoulder. "They’re fine. I told him you were upset over the fire and your friend, but you were recovering, and that I'd keep him updated."
They’re fine. The relief made my bones turn to rubber. That was what I blamed it on, anyway. I pushed through the encroaching fuzziness.
"And he was okay with that? Paul, I mean?"
"I put on my best suit and gave him my business card. He seemed content with my... pedigree, so to speak."
Lucan had a suit? And a business card?
He turned back to the hallway. "Gargoyle!"
"Keep your shirt on, mutt!" came a distant return bellow. "I'm coming."
I opened my mouth to ask what, exactly, he’d told Paul, but my tongue seemed to have fused to the roof of my mouth, and I couldn't make it move. Or feel my lips anymore. Or either of my legs. Or my hands. Or...
Panic began a slow build in my chest, filling the cavities that should have held air but didn't.
Freaking hell.
I couldn't breathe.
Lucan looked around again, and his amber gaze narrowed as it met mine. Then went wide.
"Milady, are you—" He sucked in a quick breath, roared, "GARGOYLE!" one more time, and covered the distance to the bed in three long strides. He caught my shoulders and laid me back, then gently cradled my face as he stared down at me. At least, I assumed he was being gentle, because I couldn't feel his touch, either. Red crept around the edges of my vision as I watched his lips form the word 'milady' again. Watched, but couldn't hear, because the buzzing in my ears drowned out all other sound.
Good God, I thought with surprise. That nasty little Gnome had done it. I was dying.
The red around my vision turned black and became complete.
I slipped into nothingness.
If this was death, it was nothing like I had expected.
Darkness sat around me, quiet and still...but not empty. Disquiet crawled over my skin, but the panic I thought I should feel didn't manifest. Instead, my uneasiness faded and curiosity took its place. Something—or someone—was definitely here with me, but who or whatever it was, it wasn't threatening. At least, not yet. It just...waited.
I uncurled my fingers from my palms and flexed my hands. I cleared my throat and opened my mouth, but a sudden light flared in the inky blackness, cutting off my words. I threw up a hand to shield my eyes, squinting into the glare of a—torch? The reflection of flames danced across the dark granite ceiling and walls. Oh, yes. That was a torch, all right. In what appeared to be an underground cavern, no less.
Nope. Not at all what I’d expected death to be.
I blinked away the spots floating before my eyes. My gaze met that of a woman holding the flame aloft. A woman, but not entirely.
She had straight black hair, darker than the darkest corners of the cavern, that fell from a severe part in the center of her head to frame a narrow, sharply featured face with skin so pale, it seemed translucent. Beneath her chin, the skin gave way to what looked like black feathers, which in turn became a long gown made of the same feathers. She held a staff in one hand and torch in the other, and beneath the gown, her feet were bare.
I couldn't help but stare. And then stare some more. The woman was far from beautiful in the accepted sense, but neither was she ugly. She was too...commanding for that. Too present. Too powerful. My unease returned, and a shiver rippled over me as the woman tipped her head to one side and returned my study. There was something about her eyes...
"Crone," the woman said, her voice a harsh rasp.
"I—" I stopped. I’d been about to deny the title, as usual, but found I couldn't. Didn't want to. Something stirred deep in my center, wanting to accept the name. To own it.
I nodded.
The woman raised the torch higher. The feathers along her neck shifted with the movement, and I gave a start. Those weren’t feathers, they were crows. Beady-eyed, sleek-bodied, whole crows, clinging to her and—
“I am the Morrigan,” she announced.
I forgot about the crows. The Morrigan? The goddess Morrigan? The Morrigan Morrigan? The—
I slammed the brakes on my runaway brain and snapped my mouth shut. Was I supposed to curtsy? Bow? Kneel? How in heaven's name did one greet a goddess, anyway?
"Sit," said the Morrigan. She placed the torch in a holder on the wall and pointed the end of her staff at a rough-hewn table half hidden in the shadows. A wooden chair was drawn up to it and a single, carved wooden cup sat on its surface. "Drink," she added.
Sit before a goddess who was more bird than human? And accept an unknown drink from her? My sense of self-preservation didn't think so. "I—"
The table shot out from the wall, leaving the cup hovering in the air, and stopped in front of me. The chair followed, bumping roughly against the back of my knees.
"The Morrigan does not repeat herself," the bird-goddess rasped.
I swallowed hard and sat, then edged forward until the throbbing fire of the Gnome-bite on the back of my leg didn't rest on the chair. The pain wasn't altogether a bad thing, I supposed. It proved I was still alive. Or at least not altogether dead. Yet.
The cup floated over and settled gently onto the tabletop.
"Drink," the Morrigan said again.
I was just delirious, I assured myself, eyeing the cup filled with a dark, murky liquid. This was all in my imagination, a hallucination brought on by the infection in my leg, no doubt, and how dangerous could hallucinated poison be?
Or maybe I really was dead, in which case, poison couldn’t kill me again, so...
I lifted the vessel and put it to my lips. The stench of rotten flesh and vegetation permeated my nostrils and crawled down the back of my throat. I gagged and put the cup down, pushing it away. "That's awful!"
The Morrigan's thin lips curved beneath a beak-like nose. She studied me a moment longer, then nodded. "You'll do."
Eyes still watering, I held a hand over my mouth and tried not to puke. "Do?" I managed between clenched teeth.
The Morrigan reached out with her staff and knocked the cup against the wall. The stone swallowed it without a sound. "That was the Cup of Power," she said. "If you had been tempted by it, I would have let the infection take you here and now. But you weren't." She shrugged, the crow-gown moving with her, and tapped the table with the staff. A new cup appeared, its contents pale and clear. "And so I will save you that you may serve me. Now drink. Morok is rising, and you have much work to do. Your pendant is not—"
"Lady Claire, you must drink," a faraway voice ordered.
“—others,” the Morrigan finished. Her voice had gone hoarse, like that of one of the birds that made up her gown, and the edges of her form fluttered, like the flapping of wings.
“Lady Claire!”
I resisted the call. I’d missed the in-between part of what the Morrigan had said, and if a goddess spoke to me, I was pretty sure I needed to hear all of what she told me. “My pendant what?”
“Caawww!” she responded, her imperious black gaze fastened on me. Her entire gown moved now, a shifting mass of feathered bodies. She pointed at the cup with her staff and it rose to press against my lips. “Drink!” she commanded harshly. “You are not—"
“Drink!” the distant voice insisted. Hard fingers held my jaw, and liquid dribbled down my chin. I turned my head, but the cup followed.
“—others,” the Morrigan finished again, and frustration clawed at me. I needed to know what she was telling me. Needed—
“Lady Claire, please!”
Across the cavern, the Morrigan dissolved into a cloud of crows that exploded outward from her, filling the space with a rush of feathers and discordant calls. The torch dropped to the floor and snuffed out, plunging me into darkness. My chair toppled backward, taking me with it.
The Morrigan was gone. And I—
Was drowning.
I gagged on the liquid pooling on the back of my tongue.
"Swallow," the voice insisted, no longer distant but right beside my ear, "or I will have the mutt sit on you while I pour it down your throat."
I tried to comply but choked and sputtered, coughing up most of it again.
"Shall I hold her?" Lucan asked, somewhere near my head.
Yes, please, I thought hazily, but the other voice—Keven, I recognized now—said it wasn't necessary. Spoilsport.
"She doesn't need much in her. As long as she's swallowed some of it, it will work. The Morrigan's magic is strong."
The Morrigan—she'd been here, too? Was she still? Or maybe Keven and Lucan had found me in the cavern. No. No, this was a bed under me, not a stone floor. And I needed to get up because...huh. The reasons were hazy, but I was sure they were important. Maybe. I struggled to sit, but the hard hand moved to my chest and held me down.
"Rest," Keven said. "Let the potion work."
"But the Morrigan," I mumbled. I pried open my eyes and the gargoyle swam into view. "She said I have work to do. I need to ask her—"
What? What did I need to ask her? She’d said something was coming, but I couldn’t remember. She’d said something about my pendant, too, but I couldn’t remember that, either.
The gargoyle looked at something behind me, and I tipped back my head to find Lucan standing on the other side of the bed. I scowled at him.
"You said gnomes weren't poisonous," I mumbled.
"I also said the bite did great damage," he reminded me. "The gargoyle’s healing powers are less effective on a human. Your leg was infected."
I considered this. Then frowned again. "I can't feel it. My leg, I mean. Is it—did you—"
"Your leg is intact," Keven assured me.
Well, thank the goddess for that.
I blinked at the odd turn of phrase that popped into my head. Despite my brief dalliance with Wicca, I had never been able to embrace the idea of a goddess—too stuck, I supposed, in a lifetime of societal teachings. But the thought just now had been...organic. As natural as breathing.
Which made it weird.
It also reminded me again of the Morrigan. I tried to push aside Keven's hand, but it was like shoving aside a large boulder. As in not happening.
I scowled at the gargoyle. "I need to find her."
"And so you will," Keven assured me. "When she wants you to do so. Until then, you sleep." Unperturbed by my sputterings, she rolled me over, straightened out the sheet beneath me, rolled me back again, and tucked the covers around me. My eyelids drooped and the memory of the Morrigan started to fade. What had been in that potion of Keven’s? Or had it been in the Morrigan’s?
"Maybe just a short nap," I whispered. Then, with an effort, I opened one eye to find Lucan again. "You can, you know."
"Can what?"
"Hold me." I smiled, closed my eye again, and drifted off, humming Love Potion Number 9 under my breath.
Morok.
The name returned to me the instant my eyes opened the next morning. And with it came a sense of foreboding unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
“Morok is rising, and you have much work to do."
I shivered within the fluffy warmth of the duvet at the memory of the Morrigan’s words—and the dozens of questions ricocheting around the edges of my mind, each breeding more. Keven had pulled me away from her too soon. Far too soon.
So many questions. Would Keven and Lucan have answers?
I sat up in bed and examined my leg. The color and size were back to normal, the gnome bite had healed to an angry scar, and most of the pain was gone. The rest of my body, however, was another story, and getting dressed and down the stairs became an exercise in sheer determination.
I made it, however, and eased myself onto the bench opposite Lucan at the kitchen table just after seven, trying hard not to whimper as both he and Keven watched.
“You’re still in pain?” Keven frowned.
“Not from the bite,” I assured her. “Just some stiff muscles.”
And ligaments. And joints. And was that a twinge I felt in my baby toenail? The gnome gauntlet had just about done me in, even without the bite. Apparently, I wasn’t thirty anymore. Or forty or fifty, for that matter.
Lucan poured a cup of tea from the pot near him and pushed it across the table toward me. I winced as I reached for it. Goddess, even my fingers hurt. And there was that goddess thought again. Ever since my visit with the Morrigan—imagined or otherwise...
But no. I hadn’t imagined it, because if Keven’s healing didn’t work well on humans, as Lucan had said, then my encounter with the goddess had been no dream. The Morrigan had healed me, and her warning had been real. “Morok is coming."
“The mutt told me about your friend.” Keven set a plate of eggs and sausage in front of me. “I, too, have lost friends. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I picked up a fork and pushed the eggs around, wondering idly how the gargoyle kept producing food when I had seen nothing but the herb garden as a source. Then wondering what kind of friends a gargoyle would have had. The sense of foreboding that had followed me downstairs prodded me into setting down my fork. No more wasting time. I looked across the table at Lucan. “Who—or what—is Morok?”
