Stirring Up Trouble: A Warlocks MacGregor Novella

S
tirring Up Trouble
(Warlocks MacGregor) © copyright 2015 by Michelle M. Pillow

First Electronic Printing Dec 2015, The Raven Books

This book originally

Cover art © Copyright 2015

Edited by Heidi Moore

ISBN-10: 162501130X

ISBN-13: 978-1-62501-130-5

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

All books copyrighted to the author and may not be resold or given away without written permission from the author, Michelle M. Pillow.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any and all characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events or places is merely coincidence. Novel intended for adults only. Must be 18 years or older to read.

Published by The Raven Books LLC

www.TheRavenBooks.com

The Raven Books and all affiliate sites and projects are © Copyrighted 2004-2015

P
eople know magic is fake
—card tricks and illusions, magicians and entertainers. But there is an older magick, a powerful force hidden from modern eyes, buried in folklore and myths, remembered by the few who practice the old ways and respect the lessons of past generations.

The term “warlock” is a variation on the Old English word
waerloga
, primarily used by the Scots. It meant traitor, monster or deceiver. The MacGregor Clan does not agree with how history has labeled their kind. To them, warlock means magick, family and immortality. This book is not meant to be a portrayal of modern-day witches or those who have such beliefs. The MacGregors are a magickal class all their own.

As with all my books, this is pure fantasy. In real life, please always practice safe sex and magic.

* * *

A
uthor recommends reading
series in order of release for the simple fact it’s more fun that way, though each book can be read as a standalone if you prefer.

W
inter
, 1591, England-Scotland Border

“Do not leave me.” The pain was unbearable in that moment of waiting, of knowing the end was near, knowing these were the last seconds he would have with his Elspeth. Tears streamed down his love’s face as he reached for her in the snow. This was not how their life together was supposed to go. They were supposed to be immortal. They were supposed to have each other forever.

All of Fergus MacGregor’s warlock powers could not make time last. That didn’t mean he didn’t try. He cast every spell he knew, and even some he didn’t. He willed time to stop, and for a short while, it stalled.

The trickle of blood streaming along her pale cheek slowed until it barely traveled over her flesh. Her eyes shone with pain. To keep her in this state was too cruel. She was locked in agony. There was no spell he knew of that could transfer her death into him. Yet he tried to do that too.

“I’m coming with ya, my heart,” Fergus said, more like a plea. He let his powers slip from her, unable to prolong her suffering any longer. He felt around for his sword only to discover he’d dropped it several feet away. He reached his hand out, using his magick to call it to him. The blade began to slide in the snow only to stop when his wife’s voice interrupted his action.

“Malina,” Elspeth whispered, making him think of their niece. The baby was silent, her cry bound with a spell. “Protect.”

How could he deny the desperate need in her gaze? Fergus nodded. “Aye.”

“Whatever is beyond, find me again,” she whispered. Her bloodstained lips opened a few times as if she would say more, but the life ebbed from her.

“Elspeth?” Fergus stared at her chest, waiting for it to rise. Just one more breath. One more word. One more kiss. One more moment. One more…

She didn’t move.

Pain racked over him, crippling him with death’s cruelty. This was not how it was meant to be. Seven years. That’s all they’d had. They were supposed to have eternity.

“
Gráim thú.
I promise, Elspeth,” Fergus whispered, gathering her into his arms. “Whatever lies ahead, I’ll find ya.”

G
reen Vallis
, Wisconsin, Modern Day

“Take cover, lads. We’re under attack!”

At his nephew’s shout, Fergus paused at the top of the broad marble staircase, looking down over the mansion’s front hall just in time to see Euann darting in the front door. Euann was a young warlock, only four-hundred-and-some years old, so Fergus didn’t take his nephew’s warning too seriously. This was probably just another of his nephews’ pranks.

“What have ya boys done this time?” Fergus asked. “Ya did not try to cast a snowball-fight spell again, did ya? Have ya learned nothing from the time ya enchanted the villagers?”

“It’s worse.” Euann dramatically latched the door shut and pressed his back to the wood. He wore a thick coat though one would hardly recognize it was winter by the consistent temperature inside the mansion home. “And for the record, that snowball fight succeeded. They worked out their demons and were too tired to start a war by the time it was over.” Gesturing with his hands, he magickally forced the window shades to close without touching them.

“Date not go well?” Rory’s voice drifted up from below, apparently unconcerned with Euann’s plight. “We warned ya that girls don’t like it when ya peep in their windows. They don’t see it as charming, cousin. Now they call it stalking.”

“It’s Belladonna,” Euann whispered. He held his arms out against the door like the devil might try to gain entrance. “She’s back, and she’s carrying.”

Fergus frowned, wondering what could possibly cause a member of his clan to project such fear. After centuries, there wasn’t much that could rile them—even when perhaps it should. They had just moved to Green Vallis, and the place did seem to be an epicenter of both power and danger, but all the real threats had been dealt with. They’d killed the
lidérc
threat and the local
bean nighe.
One was a psychic vampire. The other was a bringer of death. The odds that a third threat resided in mid-Wisconsin were highly unlikely.

He waited, listening and watching to see if he could detect trouble. The skies did not darken. The weather did not change. He leaned over the hundred-year-old oak banister and found Rory holding completely still midstride. Curious, he asked the boys, “Who is Belladonna?”

“Shh!” his nephews hissed in unison. Rory frantically waved his arms, as if doing so could force his uncle to remain quiet.

Seeing the look on Rory’s face, Fergus relaxed some. After centuries of living, he was used to his family’s antics. Unconcerned, he made his way down the stairs. The familiar feel of his leather satchel pressed against his hip like an old friend, gently reminding him of what he must do.

The centuries had turned his grief into a hollow pit inside his soul. A constant ache radiated from there, and time had not lessened his love or the depth of his loss. It had, however, lessened his hope. It was his family that kept him going. His nephews, representatives of the sons he would never have. His brothers and sisters, pains-in-the-arses who didn’t let him disappear into a magickal vortex. Malina, the niece he’d promised to watch over.

“What are ya doing?” Euann whispered.

Fergus frowned. The answer should have been obvious. He was doing the same thing he’d done every day, every night, for over four hundred years. He was going to call his Elspeth to him. Someday, her soul would hear him. Someday, he’d find his answer. Someday, he would be with her again. He had to believe it because he had nothing else to believe.

Whatever is beyond, find me again.

He’d promised her.

Euann glanced down to the bag carrying the latest of Fergus’s magickal concoctions as if answering his own question.

“Euann, why are ya trying to block your uncle from leaving?” Angus appeared carrying a giant roasted turkey leg. He pointed it at his son. “Stop playing around and pack a bag. You’re going to New York to check our assets there.”

“Why me?” Euann dropped his arms.

“Ya wanted to start the tech-whatever company,” Angus said. “Their robots are sick, and they gave the workers a hacking cough. I will not be responsible for the end of mankind because ya want to play with—”

“Sick?” Euann frowned for a moment. “Hackers gave us a virus?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Angus took a bite of the turkey leg. “Go and make sure everyone in the office has medical care.”

“Computer virus,” Euann stated.

“And shut down the cyborg army,” Angus ordered. “If we want to end mankind, we’ll use magick like respectable warlocks.”

“I’ve told ya, they are not those kinds of robots. They are prototypes. We are designing medical equipment for third-world countries, and trying to develop lifelike cadavers for—” Euann attempted to explain.

“Hey, where’d that come from?” Rory interrupted, nodding at the turkey leg.

They all knew what the medical research lab was working on, but it was entertaining to frustrate Euann. At their age, they took their fun where they could get it.

“Malina is materializing food with Jane out of a Renaissance Faire catalog,” Angus stated. “I’ll tell ya lads one thing is certain. Dinner is much better now that we have Iain’s little battery.”

Angus referred to his nephew’s new wife, Jane. She was a natural power source for their magick. Magick had to come from some place. That kind of energy didn’t just appear out of nowhere. Although sex would work for a power surge, it wasn’t a steady source. Typically, they borrowed energy from the environment. It was why they had moved to Wisconsin. Green Vallis was a strong place filled with nature. However, since Jane was half
bean nighe
, she acted like a power conduit, which kept them from killing trees, and enabled them to replenish nature.

“Belladonna comes. Hold down the fort, Euann, we’re counting on ya to protect us all.” Rory smirked and hurried into the dining room.

A soft knock sounded on the door. Angus again motioned for his son to get out of the way and moved as if he would open the door. Euann shook his head in denial and refused to leave his post.

The knock sounded again.

Angus zapped a little stream of magick at his son, shocking him just enough in the hip to get him to jump aside.

“Ow!” Euann protested. He returned fire, shooting a tiny stream of magick at his father. Angus laughed and darted from the room, still carrying the turkey leg.

Fergus sighed, curious to see the creature at the door.

“Uncle Fergus, no,” Euann warned. “Do not let her in.”

Drawing his hand behind him, he let a concentrated ball of magick equip his palm. His body tensed as he reached for the doorknob.

“It’s your funeral,” Euann said before running from the room.

Fergus wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t the lovely woman holding a basket. He glanced behind her, confused. No zombie army. No hoard of bees. No legion of stray cats. Just a hillside covered with snow.

“Hi, neighbor.” Her bubbly voice was incredibly pleasant. The sound took him by surprise. As did her smile. She looked nothing like his Elspeth, except for the line of her jaw. A lot of women had that jaw. He’d seen it numerous times over the years as he’d looked for pieces of Elspeth in every woman he came across. And each time he wanted to touch whatever piece of her resemblance he thought he’d found, just to see he if could feel his wife again. He refrained, not touching the visitor.

The jaw is where the similarities ended. The basket-wielding threat in front of him had dark auburn hair, not brown sun-streaked with blonde. Aye, hair could be dyed, but eyes could not. Her eyes were dark brown, not green. Plus, she was shorter and not willowy. No Elspeth here. Again. Even if his wife came back as someone else, he’d sense his magick inside her radiating back at him. He would know her soul. Of that, he was certain. Elspeth was his heart. He would know her when he saw her.

Fergus slowly squished the energy ball and drew his empty hand from behind his back. The cold winter air circled his naked legs beneath the kilt, but it didn’t bother him. Behind him, the house stayed warm, the invisible barrier not letting the cold air in even as he held the physical door open. He again glanced over the expansive front lawn and long cobblestone driveway, trying to see why Euann had run. He sensed nothing in the outbuildings, nothing in the woods beyond the curve of the hill.

“I, ah, wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the woman said. She lifted the basket. “I hope your family is settling in nicely.”

Fergus turned his gaze back to her. They had been in the neighborhood for months. It seemed a little late to have a welcoming committee stop by, and she was hardly the first to show up at their doorstep. Many of the townspeople were curious about the new Scottish clan living in the mansion on the hill overlooking Green Vallis.

Knitted gloves matched the woman’s scarf and hat. Pink tinted her cheeks. She had nice eyes and an open smile. He found himself studying her face, wondering at the mystery behind her. How could she possibly be a threat? She seemed so genuine and kind. And lovely. Very, very lovely to look at.

A siren, perhaps? Fergus inhaled deeply. No, they were too far from Greek waters, and she didn’t smell of saltwater and fish.

“Are those bagpipes I hear?” she asked, leaning to glance inside the home.

Fergus didn’t hear anything. He gave a small shake of his head.

“Oh.” She gestured the basket toward him. “So, ah, welcome?”

Slightly confused, he lifted the cloth napkin to look inside. Her smile widened, and he found himself reaching in to take out a small cookie.

“I baked them last night,” she said. “I hope you like cookies.”

There was something about the way she watched him, her eyes glancing from his hand to his mouth and back again. What else could he do but place the morsel in his mouth?

The flavor was unbearable. She’d somehow managed to combine salt, sugar and garlic with the texture of burnt and raw dough. His mouth full, he mumbled, “What kind of cookie is this?”

“Shortbread,” she said.

“Shortbread,” he mumbled in clarification, unable to force himself to swallow. It didn’t taste like shortbread. The longer it sat in his mouth, the worse the flavor became.

“Oh, what a cute dog!” She leaned sideways to look past him at the staircase.

Fergus took the opportunity to turn and spit the cookie behind the front door where she couldn’t see. He’d thought launching the food from his mouth would take care of the problem, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. The horrid cookie was gone, but the salty-garlic-sugar taste remained in full force. In some ways, the air seemed to make the taste stronger.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

He turned his attention to the out-of-breath English bulldog who labored his way down the stairs. “Traitor.”

“Excuse me?”

“I call him Traitor.”

There was a drawn out silence before she began to laugh. “Oh, Traitor, because you’re Scottish, and he’s English. How old is he?”

“Fifty-six,” he stated.

“So…eight?”

“Fifty-six,” he repeated, trying to lessen his accent for the American.

“People years. That makes him eight in dog years.”

Fergus had no idea what she was talking about. He’d had Traitor for fifty-six years and was very attached to the creature. Traitor moved over to the discarded cookie and made slobbery noises as he licked at the floor.

“I love animals. You know, when I was a kid I used to have dreams that I was a dog chewing on leather. It was so real I’d wake up with the taste of it in my mouth,” she said, conversationally.

Fergus arched a brow, unsure how to answer the comment. “I don’t dream like that.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess that’s a weird anecdote to tell people when I first meet them.” She gave a soft laugh and looked at him expectantly.

He found he didn’t want to disappoint her. Unsure what he was supposed to do and fearing she just might try to feed him another of the monstrosities she called cookies, Fergus abruptly took the basket from her. She gasped softly in surprise but let it go.

“I guess I won’t keep you,” she said, her words measured and questioning, as if she wanted him to do something more.

“Aye,” he answered.

“Oh, my name is Donna Montgomery. I live about a half block from the bottom of the hill. It’s the house with the portrait studio sign out front. That’s me. Local photographer.”

Fergus could see why his nephews called her
Bella
Donna. She was very
bella
, beautiful. But since when did any single male member of his family run from an attractive woman?

He continued to stare at her. She didn’t look like a succubus or an
empusa
, and the conditions were not right for her to be a
dziwozona
.

Donna gave a deliberate nod and inched away from him. “Have a great day, neighbor. Welcome, again, to the neighborhood.”

“Aye,” he repeated. He slowly shut the door on her.

As soon as the door latched, he dropped the basket and ran toward the dining room. He passed the long oak table where his nieces were magickally procuring festival food from magazine pictures. He hurried toward the library where the liquor supply was kept. Drinking whiskey straight out of the decanter, he let it burn the awful taste from his mouth.

“Wow,” Euann said from behind him. “You’re a smooth one, Ferg.”

Fergus turned, still gulping down the hard liquor while he eyed his nephew. He pulled the decanter away from his lips. Breathing hard, he asked. “What do ya mean? I waited until she wasn’t looking before I spit—”

“Belladonna clearly likes ya,” Rory stated, joining Euann. “That was called flirting.”

Fergus frowned. “Donna is
bella
, but I don’t think—”

Rory laughed. “No, we call her
Belladonna
because she’s been trying to poison us for two months with her cooking. Trust me, when you’re expelling your guts in the bushes, her pretty loses its charm quickly.”

“It is kind of her to try,” Fergus defended, unsure why he bothered. He didn’t know this woman and her cooking was indefensible. He took another swig of the whiskey, letting the liquid fill his mouth before swishing it between his teeth.