“There’s always somebody who just has to screw up the good stuff, and find other somebodies to help them do it.”
“I can hear them,” she whispered.
“Who?” His eyes widened as he stared at the ruin. “In there?”
“They’re stirring. I can’t hear clearly, but … Wait here.”
“No way, no way. You’re not going in that place.”
“I’m not going in.” But she got to her feet. “They’d like me to. They think I’m not ready to stand against them. They’re probably right, so I’m not going in.”
“Let’s just stay away from it.” He jumped up, took her arm.
“I can’t hear clearly, not from here, and I need to. I swear I won’t go a step farther than I know is safe. Stay here. Bollocks, stay with Marco. Stay here.”
She broke away, hurried through the graveyard, dodging the stones, moving closer to the ruins. And to sounds, the thrumming coming from it.
She stopped when she felt the air change—from light and fresh to heavy and dark. And she saw movement through the slits of windows, through the wide opening that had—she knew—once held thick wooden doors carved with holy symbols.
Like thin shadows shifting and sliding.
And like an echo—dim but not distant—she heard voices, the chants, the screams, the calls to dark and damned gods.
On the fresh autumn air, she smelled warm blood and the burning of human flesh.
Bells tolled. Drums beat.
Very slowly, she lifted her hand, pressed the air. And felt the pressure of what pushed back.
She started to reach for her wand, unsure if it would be enough, if she would. Then turned at the sound of a horse coming fast. She watched Tarryn ride straight to her, eyes fierce, hair flying.
“Get back from there. Foolish child, get back!”
“They can’t reach me. They can’t get out. Yet. Can you hear it? Can you see?”
Tarryn leaped off the horse, gripped Breen’s arm. “Not another step. Aye, I can hear them, I can see them. It’s too soon, and too much. This is Yseult’s doing, by the gods, her and her twisted coven. Do you have anything with you?”
“A few things, just some stones and charms in my saddlebag. My wand, my athame.”
“Get what you have and make it quick. I would wish for five more, or Marg at least to make us three, but we’ll make do.”
She turned to her horse, opened her saddlebag. “Go now! Be quick about it. Minga, you stay there with Marco.”
“What are you doing? What are you guys doing?” Marco demanded when Breen rushed by him to get to her saddlebag. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know exactly. But I’m going to do whatever she tells me. And you stay here.”
After slinging her saddlebag over her shoulder, Breen ran back, and up the rise across from the ruin where Tarryn stood. Bollocks charged after her.
“Go back,” Breen ordered, but the dog stuck by her side and bared his teeth at the ruin.
“No, let him stay. He’s connected to you, so makes us three. We cast the circle—then he must stay in it. Nothing breaks the circle until we’re done. Cup your hands.”
Tarryn poured salt from a bag into Breen’s cupped hands. “We ring with salt. I brought no candles. Draw them in the salt, north and west, south and east, and say the words.”
They poured the salt, etched the symbols. Each spoke the words for protection from evil.
Though the sky held blue, Breen heard the rumble of thunder. She felt the wind rise, and the smell of sulfur carried on it.
Bollocks growled low in his throat.
“Protective stones, north and west, south and east, over the symbols in the salt,” Tarryn told her. “Say the words.”
Breen felt powers rise, felt the storm gathering in the perfect blue sky over the ruin. And as she joined Tarryn in the center of the circle, saw ghostly fingers grip the edge of the stone at what had been the doorway, as if struggling to hold on, pull out.
Screams slashed through the swirl of wind, some hot with rage, others iced with pain and fear.
“Hear us,” Tarryn called out. “Know us. Fear us. We hold pity for those imprisoned by the dark, and when at last the key turns in the lock, your spirits rise free to walk into the light. We hold contempt for those who embrace the dark, and you will know the torment you brought to innocents.”
A figure, insubstantial as smoke, tried to claw out of one of the slitted windows.
“Yseult and the corrupt god she worships won’t free you, not this day, not any day. Hear my name! I am Tarryn of Talamh. I am mother of the taoiseach. I am daughter of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and you will not pass into the world of life and breath.”
She gripped Breen’s hand. “Draw out what’s in you. Release it. Give your name.”
Through their joined hands, Breen felt the electric jolt of power.
“I am Breen Siobhan O’Ceallaigh. I am daughter of Eian, granddaughter of Mairghread. I am blood of man and god and Sidhe and Wise. I am daughter of the Fey, and you will not pass into the world of life and breath.”
With her hand clasped in Tarryn’s, she laid the other on Bollocks’s head as he snarled.
“A spell for a spell, a rite for a rite,” she called out as the power and the words poured through her.
“From circle cast on holy ground, we lock the dark with light. No matter Yseult’s charm or token, by our power her spell is broken.”
Lightning flashed across the sky, shooting a bolt to scorch the ground between the rise and the ruin. Smoke, black as ink, blanketed the openings, pulsed there.
“Draw the bolts, shut the locks against whatever spirit knocks.” Breen’s heart hammered as she heard the snick and thud as if physical. And with Tarryn spoke the final words of the spell.
“No spell but ours can set you free. As we will, so mote it be.”
Though the smoke thinned, the wind whirled still. “Close the circle.” Tarryn picked up the bag of salt. “And keep the dog close. Tell him he must not go inside.”
“He knows.”
“Bring your athame.”
With the circle closed, Tarryn walked down the rise toward the opening in the stone.
“She’s skilled, and she’s powerful, Yseult. And for her spell, innocent blood spilled. One day, the depths of the dark of her own power will consume her. But today, we lay one more defense against it.”
She poured a line of salt, then laid her athame over her palm. “You must do this, and also to our third. Blood of power against blood of the damned.”
Ignoring the smoke, the stench of it, the cries it couldn’t muffle, Breen crouched and took Bollocks’s paw. “It’s only for a second, and I’ll fix it. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t flinch when she drew his blood, only looked into her eyes. She drew her own, clasped hers to his paw, then rose to clasp it with Tarryn’s.
“With salt we bind, with blood we sign, this spell to wind.”
On either side of the opening, they drew signs against evil in their joined blood.
The cries died to murmurs, and the smoke to a haze.
“It’s done, and well.” Tarryn bent down to Bollocks. “What a fine one you are. As fine as ever born.”
She waited while Breen healed the cut in Bollocks’s paw, smiled as Breen lifted her hand and took that little pain away before healing herself.
“Marg’s taught you well. We’ll stop by and tell her of this, and get word to Keegan.” She walked up the rise again as she spoke to gather what she’d left there. “Odran will be displeased with Yseult when he learns her plans failed.”