Chapter 6
Whether it had been hours or days, Ruairí had not a clue.
All he could be certain of was that the silver and lead coffin that had been his prison for so very long was moving upward- and the Black Magic and Sorcery that had been a part of every minute of his captivity was increasing exponentially with every inch it moved.
Opening his mind to his Mate, he was sure there was no way to penetrate the thicker, murkier, more heinous, and blacker than sin wall of Devilry, but he had to try.
If he didn’t, he would never know. There would be regrets-and that was something the Guardsman could never condone, especially not from himself.
Focusing on the only spot of Light left in his soul, the Bond he shared with Tamsyn, Ruairí was just about to call to her when gut-wrenching pain attacked his body.
Blanketing him like wet wool, it was everywhere- outside, inside, millions upon millions of the tiniest and sharpest teeth, like that of the piranha bit and tore, trying to rip him into millions of pieces.
Unable to hold still, needing to move even though he knew that would tighten the silver shackles around his neck, wrists, and ankles, he jerked and pulled against the invisible enemy, cursing the Elven bitch and everyone who came after.
Searing agony, worse than anything he’d ever experienced, convinced Ruairí that he was being shoved into the Pits of Hell rather than the serenity of his Mate’s arms, as he had been promised by the Ancients.
“But I am rising…”
The thought flashed in his mind as his jaw dropped open to scream, and another wave of torture rolled over his brutally battered body.
Stealing the breath from his lungs and the words from his lips, it was relentless in its assault, feeling as if the flesh was slowly and brutally being flayed from every part of his body.
Struggling with wild abandon against his bonds, the reality of his situation eluded his consciousness.
There had to be something he was missing, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t find even a split second of relief to allow his mind to clear.
He was being bombarded by so much evil Sorcery that every cell of his existence was wracked with utter anguish.
Why at this moment in time was the Black Magic multiplying? It had never done so any of the other times he and his prison had moved or been moved. What was different?
“NO!” They roared in the confines of his mind.
Did his captors know about his Mate? Had they seen him trying to reach the woman made for him by the Universe? Was Tamsyn in trouble? Was she being tortured?
“No-no-no-no…” His denial played on a loop, the only thing cutting through the pain. “The Powers That Be would not let that happen.”
The words lacked confidence, but he held onto the thought even as the darker side of his soul taunted, “They have given up on you, Storm.” His nickname was sneered at and spat.
“They wasted enough time on you. You couldn’t or wouldn’t help yourself, so they have left you to the machinations of those of the Dark Order. ”
“NO! They would…”
“YES! You are nothing but a worthless waste of Their time. Enjoy languishing in the deepest Pits of Hell. Your chains, shackles, and silver coffin as your only companions.”
“It is not real. It cannot be real. Fate and the Universe would not have allowed me to find my Mate only to abandon me.”
Shutting out the dark voice and the self-doubt it brought along with it, Ruairí reached for the only solace he had known since that fateful day all those centuries ago.
Cobbling together the precious images of his Mate, he allowed the tiny Light within his heart and soul to slide them together.
A single glimpse of Tamsyn’s lovely face created the tiniest buffer between his flesh and the throbbing, biting attack.
All he could do was pray to the Heavens and the Ancients that he had not doomed his beautiful Bobcat to the same fate.
A blinding assault of bright light and thick, black smoke assaulted his sensitive eyes from the inside out.
It was filling his mind’s eye, his soul, every fiber of his being.
Deep red flames, tinged with opaque black- nothing like any fire he had ever seen, stole what little breath he had left and seared the flesh of his throat.
Dorman roared, the sound more beastly than kingly.
Slashing through the bewitched Devilry and the chaos of Ruairi’s overloaded and agonizing mind, the Winged Warrior fought the unseen enemy with the fiery fury of his kind.
Reaching for the Dragon King, praying Dorman had risen from his Healing Sleep, the Guardsman only found more darkness and discordant silence.
The fit of anger, the roar of the Dragon, had not been real.
It couldn’t have been. Had King Dorman been alert enough to bellow with such ferocity, he could not have fallen back into his Healing Sleep so quickly.
It had merely been a figment of his Ruairí’s Sorcery-poisoned psyche.
An attempt of his unconscious to offer him hope where there was none and soften the blow that his existence was about to become utterly unbearable.
Unable to use the enhanced senses he’d been blessed with to find anything that would tell him who or what had launched the attack against him, Ruairí attempted to turn his head.
From one beat of his heart to the next, his head fell forward.
His chin touched his chest. His forehead had not banged into the closure of his coffin.
It had been removed. How had he missed that? When had it happened?
Instinctively, he inhaled deeply. The air tasted of fresh turned soil and cool, damp air.
He was still in a hole in the Earth, but no longer buried.
Gone was the dank, rotten stench of rotting skin around his throat, being eaten away by the thick silver shackle that had encircled his neck for hundreds of years.
Unwilling to trust his own instincts, the Guardsman held completely still. Attempting to open his mind, he found every pathway blocked and locked tight. There was no escape. His mind was held in place with the horrible taint of Black Magic and pure evil.
Another breath and his senses were overcome by a bitter and rank odor that reminded him of rotting tomatoes left too long on the vine. “Deadly Nightshade,” the name floated through his mind.
A quick inhale through his nose, and he was subjected to the oppressively sweet, almost sour stench of what he immediately recognized as Mandrake.
The Elven bitch had used it when she and her minions attacked Ruairí and the other Enforcers.
He would never forget that horrid stench, nor the way it invaded his mind, allowing the Sorceress to manipulate their minds and force them to hallucinate whatever she desired.
But she was dead. He knew she had been killed at the hands of her own Cabal because of her greed and lies.
He had heard the Wizards and Hunters on the ship that brought him across the ocean laughing about it.
They celebrated until the sun came up, singing, dancing, and drinking to the demise of the Elven bitch.
“So, who is doing this? Who knows the ways of the Bitch? It cannot be the other members of her Cabal. They were massacred several days before I was lowered into the ground. It was another celebration that lasted nearly two days. Who could it…?”
Another flash of light, more thick black smoke, and then came the foul, thick odor of decaying peanuts. Whoever was digging him up was most definitely trying to mess with his mind, and they were using the most potent of all plants- the Thorn Apple.
Ruairí would never forget the hours he spent with his mother in her greenhouse learning the ways of Herbology to heal and protect. Maimie O’Clery had not only been a Dragon Queen, but one of the most skilled Botanists the Paranormal world knew at the time.
Trying to remember the ways she’d taught him to combat an onslaught of evil Herbology, images of his dear, sweet Tamsyn flashed front and center in his mind.
She was beaten and bruised, lying in a pool of her own blood.
Her chest was barely rising and falling as she struggled to breathe- and her sister was lying beside her.
Figures in long, black robes, their faces covered just as they had been on that fateful night so long ago, stood on a circle made of black ash while holding black candles and swaying side to side.
Their taunting chant was spoken in the language of the original Shifters, of the Blessed Ones who built the Refuge on the Isle of Skye, the Founders.
“NO!” The word reverberated and shook the confines of the Guardsman’s mind. It had come of its own volition, from the depths of his heart and soul. There was no way the Founders would be attacking Tamsyn and Peaches, or any Shifters who were not a threat. It was simply impossible and unfathomable.
“Trickery…”
But that was as far as he got before all thought was once again driven from his mind as another wave of agonizing pain tore across his chest. Mouth flying open, the sound of the bones in his jaws cracking and breaking as a wordless scream flew from his lips.
Eyes flying open, he was immediately blinded by a flash of light rivaling what he vaguely remembered to be the rays of the sun.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Ruairí opened and closed his mouth, trying to catch his breath.
Ignoring the wretched pain of the jagged edges of his broken bones rubbing against one another, he searched for air to soothe his burning lungs.
Little by little, he found scant whiffs of precious oxygen.
It didn’t matter that it was polluted with more of the Herbal Black Magic.
He had to breathe to survive, and he had to survive to kill whoever had dared to hurt his Mate and her sister.