Fiona cleared her throat. “Except the Picts.”
“Yes, except the Picts,” she replied with a half-roll of her eyes. “But they’re extinct.”
Fiona fidgeted. “Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“At one time Doon had a family who was directly descendent from the Picts. They kept all the old arts alive. They even taught their ways to some o’ the other womenfolk in town.”
“Are any of them still around?”
“They all perished, except one.”
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that I knew where this was going. Apparently, so did Vee. She paled as she asked, “Which family was it?”
With deep, grave eyes, Fiona replied, “The Blackmores.”
Vee and I spoke over one another. “As in Adelaide Blackmore Cadell?” “The witch of Doon?”
“Aye. The Blackmores had a growing coven — at least until
the church began to speak out against them. The legends say that Adaira Blackmore married Gowan Cadell, a boy from a respectable farming family, ta quiet the opposition. Shortly after their union, the lad died. Rumors began that Adaira had murdered the boy — sacrificed him to her dark lord. Nine months later she bore triplet girls. Villagers were convinced that the babies were not the issue o’ Gowan but o’ the dark lord hisself.”
As if just speaking of the dark lord made her susceptible to evil, Fiona crossed herself before continuing. “One night, a mob descended on their cottage demanding that Adaira hand over her babes. They took the infants to the lake, planning ta drown them, but the queen, being a mother herself, took pity on Adaira. She interceded with the king, gettin’ him ta promise to protect the children until they were of age. His guards rescued the babes, and they were restored to Adaira with the caveat that she give up witchcraft for good.”
A rude noise burst from my lips, one that would’ve been embarrassing if boys had been present. “Which she obviously didn’t.”
Tendrils of strawberry blonde hair bobbed around Fiona’s shoulders as she shook her head. “Nay. On the surface, the Blackmore Cadells were a picture o’ propriety.”
Fiona walked to one of the wingback chairs and perched on the edge. Vee and I settled on the couch as she continued. “They nursed the village sick back ta health and went to church on Sundays. The triplets grew into intelligent, lovely girls that seemed to be the embodiment of goodness. But secretly, they all practiced the dark arts.”
After a small dramatic pause, she continued. “No one in Doon saw the pattern at the time. Most o’ the males they nursed died, while the females thrived. Several o’ the women they healed joined them in their pagan worship.
“When the king fell sick, Adaira and her daughters were called to attend him. Whether they killed him or merely failed to cure him is a mystery but when he died the throne passed to his only son, Prince Angus Andrew Kellan MacCrae. Angus was a handsome and just lad. Before becoming king, he surprised everyone by naming Adaira’s daughter Adelaide Blackmore Cadell as his queen-to-be. This was how the Blackmores were ta get their revenge, by ruling Doon.”
I’d gotten a glimpse of all the junk that plagued Doon’s new queen on a daily basis. Her life of royalty seemed to be one mind-numbing blur of diplomacy and politics. No thank you. “That sounds like the stupidest revenge plan ever.”
“Not really,” Vee countered. “A ruler can regulate their country’s religion. They can force their subjects to comply with their beliefs or face execution. Continue.”
Fiona nodded. “Exactly. Addie would’ve murdered her bridegroom and then forced all o’ Doon to worship the dark lord. But the queen, whose suspicion had grown since her husband’s death, figured out the pattern — that the Blackmore Cadells were draining the life force out o’ the men they were supposed ta be healing. Unfortunately, before she could officially oppose her son’s choice o’ bride, she died.”
“Obviously of foul play,” I interjected.
“But it was never ta be proved. Adaira, who was the last person to see the queen alive, claimed the queen took her own life out o’ grief over her husband’s death. With the queen out o’ the way, there was nothing to stop the Blackmores from merging their line with Doonian royalty.
“At Prince Angus’s coronation, he performed the Completing by recording the name of his queen-to-be. That night at the coronation ball, Angus revealed that his parents had appeared ta him in a dream. They had come on behalf of
the Protector of Doon to intercede for the welfare o’ the kingdom. Next, he revealed that his choice o’ bride as written on the paper was not Adelaide but a pious girl from the village.”
A thought flickered across Vee’s face, and she gasped. “It was Lynnette Elizabeth Campbell, wasn’t it?”
“Aye.” Fiona’s wide, rounded eyes dominated her grave face. “Then right in the middle o’ the ballroom, Adaira tried to curse Lynnette. The witches were seized. Adelaide and her sisters pleaded for their lives, claiming their innocence — that they, too, were victims o’ their mother’s evil deceit. The young king believed and pardoned them. However, as a warning, he made the triplets bear witness ta their mother’s execution. And as Adaira’s body burned away, her girls began plotting their revenge, an unholy campaign that would eventually bring about the Great Miracle.”
The miracle she referred to led to Doon being enchanted — or blessed, whatever you called it. The Protector of Doon hid the kingdom from Addie and the rest of the world, so that it only appeared for one day every hundred years. But even when the portal on the Brig o’ Doon opened, the enchantment made it so the powerful witch couldn’t enter.
Vee twisted her hair until it was gathered into a knot, a sure sign the gears in her brain were churning. “How do you know all this?”
Fiona smiled. “My granny used ta tell it to me as a bedtime story. Scared the mischief outta me, it did.”
While I like a good campfire tale as much as the next girl, I failed to see how Fiona’s spooky soliloquy related to the little green book. Sure, we now had an origins story on evil Addie, but the bottom line was our best shot at deciphering the images in the book resided with the person trying to kill us.
Vee, who’d been cradling the book during Addie’s backstory, held it out to Fiona. “Can you translate the part that’s in Scots?”
Taking the book, Fiona sank back into her chair. Vee and I remained on the sofa, fidgeting as she read the first two pages. Three quarters of the way through, Fiona made an excited breathy noise, flipped ahead to one of the Pictish drawings and then back to the text. She scanned the last bit and then looked at us with bright eyes.
“This book pertains to the kind o’ witchcraft practiced by the Blackmores.” She held the book open to us like some twisted kindergarten story time. “The Pictish stones are spells . . . and the text below contains instructions ta break the spell.”
Vee leaned in. “So it tells us how to defeat the limbus?”
“I believe it does, but whoever created this book assumed tha’ the reader could decipher the Pictish symbols. I canna tell which o’ these is the spell responsible for the limbus.”
Indicating the stacks of books littering the floor next to the couch, Vee murmured, “Maybe there’s something in one of these others.”
“Nay. The only source I can think of would be the witches’ book o’ spells.”
“And where is that?”
Fiona frowned. “I presume it’s still in their cottage.”
Vee bounced to her feet. “So let’s go get it.”
As she passed, Fiona stood and grabbed her arm. “Nay, my queen. That cottage is the source o’ the witches’ evil. Granny said it was intentionally built over an ancient Pictish site of human sacrifice, and that every time the Blackmores slaughtered another innocent on the grounds, the dark lord hisself gave them a spell for their collection writ in their victims’ blood.”
The day’s snackage congealed in my stomach. We weren’t
dealing with some Scooby-Doo hoodoo; this was pure and terrifying evil at its worst.
Maintaining her death grip on Vee’s arm, Fiona explained, “There’s a reason that cottage is not protected by the Great Miracle — it’s a foul, unholy place. After Doon was saved, King Angus decreed it forbidden ta set foot inside the malevolent boundaries o’ the witches’ cottage. Breaking this law is an act o’ treason.”
Pulling away from Fiona, Vee crossed her arms. “I have to do what’s best for my people, even if it breaks the law.”
“There are those in Doon who would like nothing better than ta see you stripped of your crown and thrown inta the dungeons . . . or worse. If you’re found guilty of breaking that decree, Jamie or anyone else who defends you will be punished as well. What’s best for the people is for you to adhere ta the law.”
As Vee opened her mouth, Fiona added, “Your actions save or condemn us all. Promise me you won’t go after the witches’ spell book. Please.”
“Fine. I promise.”
“Thank you. Now, if ye have no objections, I’ll be taking my leave to tell Fergus the good news about my dress.” Fiona set the book on the coffee table and gathered her shawl. “We’ll find what we need. I do believe that. We just have to be patient.”
As soon as the door shut in Fiona’s wake, Vee grumbled, “I
believe
we already know what we need.”
For all Vee’s intelligence, she could be frustratingly short-sighted when she set her mind to something. “You heard Fiona. It’s against the law to trespass on the witches’ unholy ground. If you disobey, the villagers will chop off your head and burn you at the stake.”
Vee rolled her eyes. “I’m their queen. They’re not going to kill me.”
“Um, history would beg to differ. It’s full of royal heads that have been severed from their royal necks.”
Her brow lifted. “History? Really, Kenna? Would you care to elaborate?”
“Fine. HBO would beg to differ.” Before she could comment, I added, “I’ll go get it.”
“Stop. I’m not letting you go alone.”
“You have to. Don’t you get it? I’m the talent. I’m not under Doonian law, and I can see the limbus. This is probably what I’m here to do. So let me do it.”
“Fine. But I’m going too — at least to the borders.” She approached the large bay window, staring at the deepening twilight. “It’s too late to go now.”
She was right. By the time we got to the cottage, it would be pitch black. We wouldn’t be able to see a thing and we couldn’t risk using torches. Not that I was all that keen to go sleuthing around in the middle of the night anyway. “Let’s go at first light.”
“Perfect. I usually go for an early jog, so you can join me.”
Great. Not only was I intentionally going into the zombie fungus to some cursed cottage that may or may not contain a spell book dictated by Satan himself, but now there was jogging involved. Elphaba was right when she said no good deed went unpunished.
NARRATOR
“Once upon a time — ”
MACKENNA REID
“I hope . . .”
NARRATOR
“in a kingdom outside of time and place — ”
MACKENNA REID
“More than Broadway . . .”
NARRATOR
“lived a colossally stupid maiden,”
MACKENNA REID
“More than London’s West End . . .”
NARRATOR
“an equally idiotic queen,”
MACKENNA REID
“and a — ”
“Kenna, enough with the prologue!” Vee hissed at me over her shoulder without breaking her stride. “We’re trying to be stealthy, remember.”
Of course I remembered. Stealthy had been my word. Inconspicuous had been hers, but there was nothing inconspicuous about two Midwestern girls — one of them a newly appointed queen — jogging through Doon at the butt crack of dawn.
“To be continued . . .”
She shot me another dirty look. I gestured to my closed lips, and Vee returned her attention to the winding, overgrown path. “If you can’t help yourself, then sing in your head.”
Vee knew I was trying to keep my mind off the reason for our little journey through the woods. I wasn’t sure if I bought Fiona’s granny’s story about the witches’ cottage existing over a Hellmouth, but facing the zombie fungus again was terrifying enough. This time I would go through it alone. Would I be as brave when the life of the boy I loved wasn’t on the line?
MACKENNA REID
“I hope . . .”
An unhappily familiar stench warned me that the limbus was close. I rounded the bend and collided with my bestie’s royal backside. Vee stumbled forward but managed to stay on her feet. As soon as she regained her balance, she hopped in reverse. As she backpedaled, I caught sight of the obstacle in her path. If she’d fallen, Vee would have face-planted in a patch of black petunias.
Like every other time I’d encountered the limbus, the putrid smell threatened to drop me to my knees. The forest, which I remembered as skeletal from my previous visit, was overrun with black, slimy moss. Vee’d had the forethought to rub a pair of scarves with lavender. I pulled mine over my nose to ease the stench.
Vee watched me and then stepped forward right to the edge of the limbus. “Does it smell bad?”
I nodded and managed to croak out, “What do you see?”
Vee shrugged. “The same old creepy forest as usual. Bare except for the flowers.” The Ring of Aontacht blazed bright on her hand as she reached toward the nearest putrefied tree.
“Wait.” I batted her arm away. “Aunt Gracie’s ring didn’t protect Duncan.”
“I know, but the limbus didn’t hurt you. So we can’t draw any conclusions without more tests.”
“Tests? This isn’t an AP science fieldtrip. If you end up with a zombie limb, Prince Overprotective is going to kill me . . . and then you . . . and then me again . . . and then the world’s gonna end.”
“The world’s ending anyway, Kenna. Besides, Jamie and I have a new understanding. We’re playing to each other’s strengths. While he protects the kingdom, my job is research.” She reached tentatively forward. “This is just investigating a research theory.”
My hand hovered alongside Vee’s, ready to pull her back at the first shriek of pain. She reached into the limbus and then withdrew. “See? I’m fine.”