He stopped well outside the copse of trees which was meant to be the place of their demise, if the woman named Sibyl (a witch’s name if he ever heard one) could be believed.
But he felt… nay, he knew he could believe her.
He alighted from Mallory’s back and again pulled Beatrice down.
“Run, just as I told you, straight to the witch’s cottage. Explain and she’ll keep you safe.”
He had no way of knowing this but he felt it to be true.
She nodded, got up on tiptoe to press her lips against his and without hesitation, she ran.
He watched her go, watched her out of sight then mounted his trusted steed.
He made a clicking sound with his teeth and the horse moved forward.
Unbeknownst to Royce, once out of sight, Beatrice changed directions.
Something sinister was afoot and Royce might need her, after all, and she was Beatrice Godwin, now Morgan, and Beatrice Morgan was certainly not the kind of woman who would desert her beloved new husband when there was a possibility her strong warrior might need her.
Not a chance.
The locked door to Sibyl and Colin’s bedroom flew open with such violence, it crashed against the wall.
With a strong jerk, Sibyl was yanked straight off her feet by Colin’s arm at her waist and nearly thrown behind his back as the figures drifted through the door.
The dark, faceless, shifting figures from their dream.
She felt a scream surge up her throat.
“Run to the sanctuary. Now!” Colin thundered.
She couldn’t move; she couldn’t leave Colin alone to face those things.
“Now!” Colin roared.
And then the figures attacked.
Marian watched the words in the next paragraph forming, read them quickly and gasped.
“What is it?” Phoebe broke the chant.
Marian slapped the book shut again and threw it on the counter.
Without answering Phoebe, she rushed from the room.
There were four of them, five with the figure standing outside the trees watching.
The rain was driving down and the wind was whipping through the trees. Royce had more than enough experience to battle four opponents; he had done it in the past. But these seemed to be filled with otherworldly strength and he didn’t have his sword. It was his wedding day; he didn’t think he’d need his sword. If he’d had his sword, he’d have mowed them down like just as much wheat in a field.
He only had the dagger he carried at his belt.
And his strength.
It served him well but it was the battle of his life.
With a fierce roar, he surged up from the crouch they’d forced him into and he threw two off his back, exposing his belly. A third came in for the kill.
At that moment, Mallory drove forward, head bent low, scattering the others, knocking Royce aside and taking the dagger that was meant for Royce through his own throatlatch.
The warhorse went down with a mighty crash.
There were four of them and three of them were on Colin while one of them dragged Sibyl away.
She struggled, hissed, spit and kicked.
She saw through her battle that Colin had managed to get a hold of one and, with a fierce roar, he threw it flying through the air.
He shrugged off the other two as if they were merely annoying gnats and surged toward Sibyl.
But the wraiths quickly recovered and pounced yet again, stalling his progress and beating him down.
It was then that Sibyl felt the blade at her throat.
Even with Mallory’s sacrifice, Royce was losing.
He felt it.
He knew it.
The strength was leaving him, draining out of him. His attackers seemed without limits, relentless. It was almost as if they were sucking his own power from him and using it against him.
And still the figure watched from the trees.
He knew with a certainty that he was going to die.
But he would do it like a warrior and go down fighting. This he vowed.
And it was then the strangest thing happened.
Colin vaguely noted the figure standing in the door watching the scene. He could not take the time to process it; he was too busy fighting his way to Sibyl. And the beings, whatever the hell they were, were unnaturally strong.
The blade was at her throat and any second it would tear across it and he would lose her.
He knew it.
He felt it.
The agony of the thought shot through him, searing to his very soul.
He opened his mouth, just like he did in the dream, to roar his denial.
Then, in that moment, the strangest thing happened.
Old Lady Griffin dashed into the clearing, wielding her cane like a battle axe and screaming like a banshee.
Everyone, even the figure standing and watching, even Royce himself, stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at her in stupefaction.
With an almighty swoop of her arms that was borne half out of fury, half out of terror, she crashed the cane against the face of one of Royce’s attackers.
Instantly smashing his jaw and his cheekbone, sending shards of bone into his brain.
Instantly breaking the dark soul’s dark spell.
From the other side of the clearing, the town’s midwife and resident witch, Esmeralda Crane bounded forward and moved her arm before her in a downward slash. With a flash of green-white light, the watching figure flew across the clearing and slammed against the trunk of a tree. There it stayed frozen, invisibly pinned.
Royce broke out of his stunned freeze and dispatched two more attackers, one with a blade to the heart then he whirled expertly and took out the other one with a slice across the throat.
Then Beatrice surged into the clearing with what could have been credited as a pretty decent war cry (if Royce hadn’t been so infuriated by her very presence) and she jumped on the back of the last of the attackers. She pulled at his hair as he blundered about in vicious circles, trying to dislodge her.
Royce, with immense patience and controlled anger, strolled up behind them. He grasped Beatrice by hooking an arm about her waist and pulled her from the man, calmly setting her down behind him.
He then buried his blade in the man’s gut and yanked it savagely upward.
Before the attacker had fully fallen to the ground, Royce whipped around to Beatrice. “I thought I told you to go to the witch’s cottage!” he barked.
“I couldn’t leave you out here by yourself!” she flashed back, her eyes, even in the darkened, rainy evening, he could see were emerald green.
He looked to the heavens, praying to the good Lord above for patience.
The wraith slashed the blade against Sibyl’s throat and Colin let out a ferocious roar as Sibyl emitted a blood-chilling scream.
But instead of penetrating, the blade glanced off her throat in a magical shower of green-white sparks, leaving Sibyl untouched and alive.
Then Bran flew from the curtain rod, a low, frightening, continuous growl rolling from his feline throat. He landed on the spectre that held Sibyl. The phantom gave a start at this turn of events, its hold loosened on Sibyl and she tore free.
Hissing and spitting, Bran slashed at the spectre with his claws and the ghost struggled to fight back against this strange, unexpected aggressor.
Then, the figure that Sibyl had seen watching from the doorway all of a sudden, with a flash of green-white light, flew across the room. It slammed against the opposite wall and was pinned there, frozen and held captive by invisible shackles. Marian, her arm lifted and pointing at the figure, calmly walked in the room.