Chapter Five—Foul Deeds #3
“It’s an old medieval remedy, isn’t it? Something that maybe Nimue would have used in King Arthur’s days?”
Beside her shoulder, the faerie stilled and stared at him.
Sara didn’t notice, for Lucas still embraced her hands and the warm, fuzzy feeling was quickly turning into something more like flaming heat.
Heat that pricked at her nipples and seared through her belly and kindled a throbbing between her legs.
Maybe something in her face gave away her lecherous thoughts, for Lucas suddenly dropped his hands.
“You’ve got quite a collection of unusual herbs,” he said.
What to tell him? She could just about imagine his reaction if she told him she was a practicing witch. There were few people who understood white witches followed the Goddess way and didn’t go around casting spells or curses.
“I’m into holistic healing,” she said. “I prefer natural remedies to drugs.” He lifted an eyebrow, but remained silent and Sara prayed that he hadn’t found the baneful packets.
They were only used for protection and, sometimes, for clairvoyance, although that wasn’t really her thing.
The vision in the cup two nights ago had been enough.
“Interesting décor, too,” he said as he got up and moved across the room to study a painting over the fireplace.
The setting was a lush, grassy hill dotted with grazing sheep and resting dogs.
A dove sat in the single hawthorn tree that stood at the base of the hill, almost lost in the snowy flowers.
A circle of standing stones crowned the summit.
Inside that circle a woman stood, clad in a simple, sleeveless gown of white, a small golden sickle hanging from a silver belt.
Her bright red hair cascaded down her back and her arms were raised in supplication.
Lucas turned to Sara questioningly. “Brighid,” she said. “Goddess of Eire.”
He turned back to the painting. “Aye. It looks verra like her.”
“Pardon me?”
He seemed to give himself a little shake and then he crossed the room to sit in a chair close to the sofa. “One of my ancestors had a likeness of her,” he said. “She is the Goddess of the Highlands, too.”
“Is” not “was.” Interesting. “The Christians even adopted her as St. Brigit, the midwife to the Virgin,” Sara said and watched for a reaction.
“When they couldn’t eradicate pagan beliefs, they simply converted them into Christian practices, like they did with Samhain and All Saints Day or Eostre and Easter. ”
Lucas glanced again at the picture. “The important thing is that she’s remembered, don’t you think?”
All Goddesses are One. Sara took another sip of tea. “I suppose so.”
He looked around the room and Sara suddenly wondered if he’d recognized any of the symbology spread about.
None of her Three Losers had. On the side wall, encased in a silver frame, were three pictures of the moon in its waxing, full, and waning cycles against a night sky.
Maiden, mother, crone. Behind her and above the sofa was an intricate wooden carving of vines and roses, signifying the blending of the masculine and feminine elements of the Blood Royal.
A figurine of Venus, holding the five-pointed morning and evening star in her hand, stood on the coffee table.
And, on the fourth wall, a painting of gypsies gathered around a night fire, the wagons behind them, while a girl with long black hair danced for them, her skirts swirling above bare feet.
Lucas pointed at the picture and smiled. “That looks like you. St. Sara is the patron saint of the gypsies. Are you named for her?”
She stared at him, wondering if he really did understand what he saw. The darker-skinned Sara that Mary Magdalene brought with her to the south of France had been her daughter and the Rom were indeed descendants. And they were her ancestors.
“Actually, I was.” She noticed a fleeting look of surprise in his golden eyes and wondered what he’d think if he saw the Black Madonna that was in her bedroom.
Thoughts of him actually being in her bedroom—and naked in her bed, with maybe just a tiny bit of sheet covering him—caused all the butterflies to start fluttering again, not to mention an anticipatory tingle she was beginning to identify as sheer lust when it came to thinking about the man.
Better stay focused. Think about Madonna—not the current Material Girl—although the statute in her room didn’t have anything to do with the Virgin Mary but spoke of an entirely different bloodline.
My bloodline. But how much can I tell him? Be safe. Keep it casual.
“My mother always admired the gypsies. Their freedom to roam and their closeness of family.”
“I can understand that,” Lucas said. “Do your parents live nearby?”
“No. They were both killed in a car accident when I was eighteen.”
Lucas got up and moved to sit beside her on the couch. “I’m sorry to hear—” he started to say when the doorbell rang. Then, “Do you want me to get that?”
“I’ll do it, thanks. I’m feeling better.” She went to the door and opened it. “Michael! What are you doing here?” Had he been that serious about tracking down Caldwell and Lucas?
“I called Mr. Smith,” he said as he stepped into the living room, “but he said you’d gone home.” He stopped at the sight of Lucas sprawled on the sofa, the blanket in a heap beside him. “Am I interrupting something?”
I wish. She felt herself blush, even though nothing had been going on other than in her mind. “No. I just got ill at lunch and Lucas drove me home.”
Lucas came forward and extended his hand. “Lucas Ramsey. And you are?”
“Michael McCain,” the warlock answered as they shook hands, but his dark eyes scrutinized Lucas.
“He runs the agency for me,” Sara said quickly as the two men stared into each other. “So what brings you here? Trouble with one of the temps?”
He shook his head. “Nothing wrong there, but I’ve got bad news.”
“What?”
“Maybe you’d better sit down,” Michael answered and took her arm to steer her toward the sofa, where he sat down with her, only to find Lucas already in place on the other side of Sara. His eyes widened a little.
Even Sara wondered how Lucas had moved so fast. But Michael’s serious expression took precedent. “What?” she asked again.
“It’s Professor MacDonald. He’s dead.”
Sara gasped. The poor old man had been in rather frail health, but he had seemed okay when she left him on Friday. “How? Did he fall? Have a heart attack?”
Michael fidgeted and looked away. Then he took a deep breath and turned back. “He was shot. Multiple times.”