Chapter 8 #2
She hurried downstairs with Esme to the laird’s chamber, nearly colliding with a group of guards armed not with swords but hammers, pry bars and picks. Inside Tasgall stood at a table with Farlan marking a map that showed the inside of the stronghold, and didn’t look up when they joined him.
“That covers the east passages, and ’tis only a few on the west side. Which of them works in the north side?” he asked Farlan.
“Healer Miller and Hunter Ulf.” The seneschal glanced up when Esme cleared her throat. His shock showed plainly. “How did you free yourselves from imprisonment?”
It was just as she’d dreaded; all of the outsiders were being walled up by the enchantment.
“Lady Esme helped me out before the stone could seal me in.” She related what they’d found at Benedict’s workroom and how they’d confirmed the two men were uninjured. “May we borrow some men and tools to free them?”
“I cannae spare the men, but I’ll accompany you myself.” Farlan handed them some hammers and pry bars, taking his own before he regarded the laird, who was doing the same. “My lord, you should remain here under guard.”
“Those days, they’re over, lad.” Tasgall beckoned to one of the senior men who had just come in with two patrollers, and put him in charge of organizing the rescue efforts according to the map. To Farlan, he then said, “Lead the way.”
Elspeth and Esme ended up sandwiched between the two men, both of whom walked at such a quick pace she and the petite woman had to trot to keep up. When they reached Benedict’s work room the entire wall had been built out in a second layer, and more bricks had begun to stack themselves in a third.
“Fack,” the seneschal said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I might secure and lower a rope from the rooftop, but the window slits, they’re too narrow for them to climb out. I fear we must leave them until we may bring more tools and men.”
What he wasn’t saying was the enchantment might continue building wall atop wall until they filled the passage, or even caused this part of the stronghold to collapse.
“I brought them food and drink just before the enchantment sealed them inside, so they shallnae suffer for a time,” Elspeth told him. “If I ken Healer, he’s reckoning what gadgetry he may build to dig a way out.”
“We need magic to fight the crazy magic,” Esme put in. “Maybe we should ask Rory to help.”
“We must move everyone out of this side of the stronghold first,” Tasgall said. “The enchantment, ’tis in confusion here and choosing outsiders. Esme, you and Elspeth bring all the female vassals down to the great hall. Seneschal, come with me.”
Bodach looked in on the revenants he’d ordered to wait in the old dungeon cells, which he had locked to prevent them from wandering off.
His fading magic and the poor quality of the last spells he’d cast didn’t guarantee the dead men wouldn’t take it upon themselves to leave the castle, march on the town of Monterey and start rampaging and pillaging.
“Go to sleep, boys,” he told them, although he knew they were no longer capable of slumber. “I’ll go and check on our destination with my destiny.”
Leaving the dungeons and making his way through the passages to the spell trap’s entry left Bodach dragging with exhaustion.
He had never needed sleep in the past; he could feign it when convenient, of course.
Often when he used mortal women for sex, he tested his hold over them by pretending to fall asleep after the festivities.
Nearly all of them cuddled up to him, even the ones he’d bruised and bloodied, as if he’d draped them in diamonds and silk instead of violating them.
Bodach missed those days, although soon he’d have every female in existence fawning over him.
Rather than murder the dark Fae Queen, he considered enslaving her.
Watching that evil condescending bitch go down on her hands and knees to lick the filth and gore from his boots would be vastly entertaining.
Only one female had ever possessed enough will to resist his control, and she had been a mortal he’d ended fifty years ago.
You’re doomed, old man. Just like I was.
At the time he hadn’t considered anything wrong with abducting a middle-aged tribal woman from the reservation.
He had been bored, and her dark eyes and resting bitch face had been an immediate challenge.
In those days no one cared what happened to any Indians.
She’d come with him willingly enough, which had fooled him into believing he’d held her in his sway.
When he’d beat her, she’d taken every blow in silence without shedding a tear, as if it had meant nothing to her.
She hadn’t fought him off when he’d used her as he pleased for three nights, leaving her tied up in the cheap motel room while he went home to bathe and change.
On the fourth night she had watched him come in and lock the door, her eyes glittering not with fear, but an odd kind of malice.
As he’d walked toward the bed he saw the dried blood on her mouth, and that she had chewed through the ropes binding her to the bed.
She climbed off, gathering her garments as if she had to dress and leave.
What do you think you’re doing? Bodach demanded.
I’ve used you to pay a debt to the old Gods and avoid my fate. The shaman said to be redeemed I must endure one night of torment for each man I betrayed. There were three of them. She reached into her jacket and drew out something that she tucked under the clothing in her arms. I can end this now.
He laughed at her. If you think you can kill me, be my guest and try.
That was when she had given him that eerie warning. You’re doomed, old man. Just like I was. You need to find a way to pay your debts before your fate comes hunting you, because with all the wrong you’ve done you will suffer forever.
Bodach couldn’t believe a female mortal had the nerve to portend to him, the son of Goblin royalty, and gathered his power to tear her apart.
Before he could, she’d crumpled to the stained carpet.
When he’d kicked aside the clothes she’d been holding he saw the hunter knife she’d buried in her thigh, severing her femoral artery.
By then it had been too late to heal and revive her; she was already dead.
That the mouthy bitch had killed herself didn’t bother him as much as her forewarning.
Suffer forever my ass. I’m a dark Fae Goblin. I make others suffer.
Bodach had rolled her up in the cheap comforter from the bed so he wouldn’t have to touch her again.
He didn’t burn her corpse but instead took her out into the desert, where he dumped her where he saw plenty of tracks in the sand.
He’d enjoyed imagining the animals feasting on her for months after the encounter, but what she’d said to him also echoed in his memory.
When I’m crowned King of All Fae, no living being shall dare do anything in my presence but bow down and beg for mercy.
The pull of melia magic dragged Bodach’s thoughts out of the abyss of his desires, and he stopped in front of the barrier between the mortal realm and the spell trap imprisoning the McKeran Clan.
The shimmer of the enchantment containing a duplicate of the original twelfth-century castle he owned had an odd apricot tint to it, which made him frown.
He had seen that particular color somewhere else, but that had been long ago in another life.
The breakdown of the enchantment must be causing it.
He dropped his Beaumont guise, assuming his true form as he pulled on the chain mail glove he used to penetrate the barrier. Once he had his hand inside, he used his own magic to keep the small opening in place, and then touched the flow of the power on the other side.
What had always been like a steady river current had evolved into invisible rapids, some turning back on themselves in an attempt to flow in the opposite direction.
It seemed a little improved since the last time he’d checked, however, so perhaps the enchantment would last longer than he’d anticipated.
Right now it had only drawn very close to the final stage of the event cycle, which was when he would take his army into the spell trap and destroy anyone who got in his way.
Tomorrow morning, Bodach thought, pleased. That would give him some time to replenish his power, and invigorate his revenant army. He withdrew the glove, which also glowed with the odd color for a moment before it went dull and dark again.
“Don’t fall apart yet,” he muttered as he peered inside the opening. On the other side he saw no guards left posted to keep watch; the clansmen had to be too busy dealing with the fallout of the failing enchantment to worry about intruders. “Good. Time to create the back door.”
Rory accompanied Harper to a room filled with shelves of parchment scrolls, which Ava explained was the archive Tasgall had created and maintained to document all the events in the spell trap.
He’d also written about the various ways in which they had attempted to escape over the centuries, not that any of them had worked.
Cut to the chase, lady, Harper thought, but kept her expression bland. This was her hubs’ thing, and she could be nice about it.
“Neat library.” She walked around the archive’s front room, and then saw all the other shelves behind the front cases. Taken aback by the size of the laird’s collection, she asked, “Your guy wrote all of these, Ava?”
“Most of them.” The laird’s wife went to a shelf near them and took down a scroll wrapped with a golden cord. “You said you were abandoned by your mother when you were eight, and she was killed soon after that.”
“I’m not sure she abandoned me. She never left me anywhere for more than a couple hours.” She sounded a little testy now, but despite her flaws Cheryl had been a good mother to her. “I think the reason she didn’t come back to get me was because she was murdered.”