Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (24 page)

Again, the arrow hit her target on the first try. The thrill of triumph spread through her, making her tingle all over. Her improved skill was as amazing as it was satisfying. Normally, she was good, but not that good, leading her to conclude she’d absorbed some of Axel’s archery skills along with his knowledge of Gaelic and runes.

The barn owl, roused by the assault on his companions, spread his huge white wings and flapped wildly. Quick as wind, Jenna pulled the third arrow from her quiver, took aim, and released the taut string. To her dismay, the arrow only grazed the barn owl, which had just achieved lift-off.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she set another arrow, drew back her bowstring, and took aim at the owl’s white chest. “Bull’s eye,” she whispered as the launched arrow found its mark. The mortally wounded owl screeched and plummeted downward, landing hard on the bonnet of her car.

Three for three. Were they still alive? If so, they wouldn’t be for long. While making her preparations, she’d done her homework and made a plan. First, she’d use a butcher knife to decapitate the birds. Then, she’d bury their bodies in the churchyard of St. Peter and St. Boniface’s, the Roman Catholic Church in Fortrose. While she was there, she’d take the holy water she’d need to form a protective circle around herself on Halloween.

Afterward, she’d move to the old crofter’s cottage off the highway. Much as she’d like to, she couldn’t stay here. To be safe, she needed to move somewhere farther afield—somewhere Morgan’s vampires wouldn’t find her again. She’d hole up there until Halloween, and then come back to Faery Glen to free Axel.

Staying in the abandoned dwelling would be cold, rough, and inconvenient. There would be no running water and no electricity, meaning she’d have no bathroom, no lights, and no refrigeration. She’d have to go without washing, do her business in a bucket, and survive on oatcakes and Highland hard cheddar for several days, but at least she’d be out of harm’s way—or so she hoped.

She’d also have to quit her job, as she could hardly show up to work without showering for days on end or risk being tracked by more vampire owls. But, if all went as planned on October 31, she’d be quitting anyway, since she and Axel would thereafter be hiding from Queen Morgan.

With worry and hope combating inside her, Jenna patted her belly. It looked like they were going to be a fugitive family after all. Still, she’d much rather be on the run together than be separated forever. She just prayed, when the moment of truth finally arrived, she’d find the courage to do what she must.

Chapter 17

A knock at the door of the guest cottage drew Axel from his trance. Rising from the chair in which he had been meditating, he crossed to the door and pulled it open, expecting Bran. The younger druid had promised to take him to the other side of the forest that morning to show him the construction site for the rebel camp.

Tingles of mild surprise washed through Axel when he found Sir Leith and a petite, chestnut-haired lass on his doorstep.

Before Axel could recover his wits enough to speak, Sir Leith said, “It’s good to see you. I’ve come to apologize for the position I’ve put you in...and to present my wife, Gwyndolen MacQuill, the Second Baroness of Glenarvon.”

The very pretty baroness smiled up at him as she attempted an awkward curtsey. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Axel. Leith has told me so many wonderful things about you.”

“Has he? How good of him.” Turning a steely gaze on her husband, Axel added, “Though perhaps you ought not to be so quick to believe everything you hear. You might find you have been fed a pack of lies that will get you into trouble.”

Leith coughed into his hand. “I’m sorry about the way things went down, Axel. Truly. And, for what it’s worth, I swear I had no intention of deceiving you when I asked for the favor.”

Keeping up the pretense of censure, Axel deepened his scowl. He had already forgiven Leith—for the most part, anyway—but still wanted his friend to feel bad for leaving him holding the bag.

“You should know she sent me here to bring you back—and the cup you stole,” Axel said dourly. “And to kill your wife while you watched.”

The faces of both MacQuills grew pale and took on worried expressions as they looked first at each other and then back to Axel.

“Is that still your intention?” Leith asked, pinching the skin at his throat.

Axel withheld his answer to let his friend dangle on the line a few extra moments. He should not be enjoying this, but he was. Leith’s self-centeredness had brought him grief. If he went too easy on him, neither of them would learn the spiritual lesson the situation presented.

In Axel’s case, the lesson was the same one as always: forgive and forget. For grudges and resentments only clogged the pipe through which serenity flowed. And he would much rather have peace than revenge. He had also reached the point where he would rather have freedom than enslavement—even if death was the only way to break his bonds.

“I have decided to offer myself as the tithe instead of you,” Axel said simply.

“But…” Leith began, then cleared his throat. “Why not stay here and join the rebellion?”

“For two reasons.” Axel moistened his lips. “The first is that I was forced to drink a potion that will kill me if I do not return to Avalon within three days. The second is that I left someone behind. A lady I know I love, but cannot remember, thanks to another of Morgan’s charms. Cathbad has been trying to help me remember—to no avail so far, sadly.”

Earlier that morning, the old druid had given Axel an antidote to try, but the door blocking the red-haired lass’s memory remained locked. Would he ever remember the woman he loved? He was beginning to despair of the idea.

Leith put his arm around his wife and pulled her closer. The gesture aroused Axel’s envy. Somewhere out there was a woman he knew well enough to share such an intimacy. A woman he could not remember, despite missing her terribly.

If only Cathbad could concoct the right anti-spell, so Axel could take the memory of her with him to Helheim. He would much rather go to Valhalla, of course, but that seemed impossible now—unless he could find a way to join the rebels. Though he did not see how, the gods might yet find a way. They had shown him
Teiwaz
and
Gebo
, after all—two runes whose promises had not yet come to fruition.

Seeing that Lady MacQuill was uncomfortable standing, Axel considered inviting his guests inside, but decided against it. The cottage—sparsely furnished with a double bed, night table, bookcase, and chair—offered nowhere for three people to sit.

“Have you seen Bran this morning? He promised to show me the site of the rebel camp.” Axel chuckled. “But only after he and Cathbad extracted my solemn vow to reveal nothing about it or their plans once I return to Avalon.”

As if he would—even under the duress of torture, which he fully expected the duke to inflict upon his return.

“I wish you didn’t have to go back.” Leith looked miserable.

“So do I,” Axel said, heavy hearted. “Believe me.”

“We could show you the construction site,” Lady MacQuill chimed in. “I’m sure Bran won’t mind.”

Still nestled against her husband, she barely came up to his armpit. Axel wondered abstractedly how they managed the standard position of coitus. As he began to imagine her on top of Sir Leith, the picture changed.

Now, it was he being ridden by a woman—the red-haired lass. The scene was so real, he could actually feel the sublime sweetness of her lush, enveloping heat. As his passion for her combusted within him, he blinked the image away. It would not do to sprout an erection while in company with the MacQuills.

Looking past the couple, he saw the raven-haired druid coming through the trees on a black horse, leading another pony by the reins. “I appreciate the offer…but here comes Bran now.” Axel pointed, drawing their attention to the approaching druid. “Perhaps if we round up two more horses, we all can go together.” Dropping his gaze to the baroness’s swollen belly, he added with a qualm, “Unless, of course, Lady MacQuill is unable to ride in her delicate condition.”

Leith grinned. “I’ll fetch a carriage, and we’ll meet you there. How does that sound?”

Axel returned his friend’s smile. He had missed Sir Leith and was pleased they had buried the hatchet. “That sounds good.”

* * * *

Jenna, toting a shovel and the rubbish bag containing the decapitated owls, crept toward the roofless brick ruin of Fortrose Cathedral. She’d decided to bury the owls inside, where she’d be hidden from view, before visiting the newer church next door to complete the second part of her mission.

As she walked, icy cold wind swept through her hair, blowing a loose strand across her cheek and into the corner of her mouth. She tried to push it out with her tongue. The air tasted of frost. Up high in the branches, the leaves rattled like bones. Those at her feet swirled and crackled in little flurries. Her fingers ached from the chill and twitched with impatience. Tension pounded in her temples and, beneath her sweater, her nipples were as hard as hailstones.

Needless to say, she was eager to put this grim task behind her.

A spiked iron fence protected the ruin. When she arrived at the gate, she reached for the handle. Searing pain shot up her arm. As she drew back her hand, she remembered reading that iron burned faeries. Using her cloak to protect her hand, she broke the lock. The stiff hinges screeched in protest as she hustled through and scouted for an unoccupied spot of floor among the tombs. Finding one, she hurried to it, dropped the bag of dead birds on the cold, hard earth, and began to shovel. Had the blood exchange not increased her physical strength, she might not have managed to dig a deep enough hole, given how hard the earth was from age and the cold.

Within a few minutes, she’d completed the job. Setting the shovel aside, she rubbed her hands together and looked around. In the dark, the crumbling ruin was eerie in the extreme. Looking up at the star-dusted night sky, she thought of her father with a pang. He’d hated Catholics as much as he’d hated Pagans. Never mind that the
Bible
specifically stated judgment was the exclusive province of the Lord.

As a cold shadow fell across her heart, she heaved a sigh. She loved her father because he was her father, but she also hated his narrowmindedness and hypocrisy. Like many so-called Christians, he was forever quoting the Good Book while twisting its creeds to justify his hatred.

Jesus said, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”

He did not say to point the finger of judgment at all who make different choices and torture and drop bombs on your enemies. As far as she was concerned, anyone who did the latter—her father and William included—had no right to call themselves Christians.

Shaking the thought from her head, she looked around at the desolate interior, suddenly missing Axel so much she could barely breathe. With any luck, their story would end like Tamlane and Janet’s, not Brunhilde and Sigurd’s.

Taking a deep breath, she kicked the bag of vanquished owls into the hole and replaced the dirt she’d just removed.

There. That was done. Now, to score some holy water…

* * * *

As Axel and Bran rode eastward, away from the druid enclave, the forest grew denser, darker, and cooler as the towering canopy formed by the tallest trees screened the sunlight. Bright green moss covered the north side of their enormous trunks. Twisted vines hung from every limb like climbing ropes. Ferns and dead leaves carpeted the floor around their ancient gnarled roots. The air smelled richly of moist, fertile earth, making Axel homesick for the glen.

“What is this place?”

Bran rode a wee ways ahead of Axel on a stallion as black as the druid’s hair. “This is the Forest of the Nine Sacred Woods. If you ever wish to return to Brocaliande through the Hitherworld, you must enter through the standing stones at Callanish on the stroke of midnight with the help of a nawglen.”

Though Axel could not imagine he would ever be blessed with the chance to return to Brocaliande, he welcomed the druid’s conversation. For the past hour, they had ridden in silence, and he’d had his fill of birdsong, buzzing insects, and his own depressing reflections. “What’s a nawglen?”

“A powder made from the ashes of the nine sacred woods: rowan, birch, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, oak, hazel, and holly.”

Axel was well acquainted with the sacred woods and their properties. Rowan and holly had protective powers; birch governed regeneration and rebirth; ash and alder were associated with knowledge, prophecy, and divination; willow was a healing wood; hawthorn attracted good spirits while deflecting bad ones; oak, the tree of Thor, was associated with masculine power and fertility; and hazel aided divination, dowsing, and dream journeys.

In his time, all nine woods were used in ritual bonfires, but he could not recall their ashes being kept for magical purposes. So, he was extremely curious to know more.

“How does one use a nawglen to cross through the vale?”

“By walking widdershins around the stones while pouring the ashes on the ground to form a sacred circle. Then, at the stroke of midnight, the parties who wish to cross over must join hands and recite an incantation.”