Once Upon a Castle Read online

  He had to capture it. Now. Immediately. Surely such magic couldn’t last. He bolted out of the room, clattered down the short flight of steps, and burst out into the gentle sun with the cat scampering at his heels.

  He grabbed the Nikon off the front seat of his car. His hands were quick and competent as he changed lenses. Then swinging his case over his shoulder, he picked his position.

  The fairy-tale cottage, he thought, the abundance of flowers. The light. Oh, that light. He framed, calculated and framed again.

  3

  Bryna stepped through the arched doorway of the ruin and watched him. Such energy, such concentration. Her lips bowed up. He was happy in his work, in his art. He needed this time, she thought, just as he’d needed those hours of deep, dreamless sleep.

  Soon he would have questions again, and she would have to answer. She stepped back inside, wanting to give him his privacy. Alone with her thoughts, she walked to the center of the castle, where flowers grew out of the dirt in a circle thick with blooms. Lifting her face to the light, raising her arms to the sky, she began her chant.

  Power tingled in her fingertips, but it was weak. So weak that she wanted to weep in frustration. Once she had known its full strength; now she knew the pain of its decline.

  It was ordained, this I know. But here on ground where flowers grow, I call the wind, I call the sun. What was done can be undone. No harm to him shall come through me. As I will, so mote it be.

  The wind came, fluttering her hair like gentle fingers. The sun beat warm on her upturned face.

  I call the faeries, I call the wise. Use what power you can devise. Hear me speak, though my charms are weak. Cast the circle for my own true love, guard him fast from below, from above. Harm to none, my vow is free. As I will, so mote it be.

  The power shimmered, brighter, warmer. She fought to hold it, to absorb what gift was given. She thrust up a hand, the silver of the ring she wore exploding with light as a single narrow beam shot through the layering clouds and struck. The heat of it flowed up her arm, made her want to weep again. This time in gratitude.

  She was not yet defenseless.

  Cal clicked the shutter again and again. He took nearly a dozen pictures of her. She stood, still as a statue in a perfect circle of flowers. Some odd trick of the wind made it blow her hair away from her glowing face. Some odd trick of the light made it beam down on her in a single perfect diagonal shaft.

  She was beautiful, unearthly. Though his heart stumbled when her fingers appeared to explode with light, he continued to circle her and capture her on film.

  Then she began to move. Just a sway of her body, rhythmic, sensual. The wind whipped the thin fabric of her dress, then had it clinging to those slim curves. The language she spoke now was familiar from his dreams. With unsteady hands, Cal lowered the camera. It was unsettling enough that he somehow understood the ancient tongue. But he would see beyond the words and into her thoughts as clearly as if they were written on a page.

  Protect. Defend. The battle is nearly upon us. Help me. Help him.

  There was desperation in her thoughts. And fear. The fear made him want to reach out, soothe her, shield her. He stepped forward and into the circle.

  The moment he did, her body jerked. Her eyes opened, fixed on his. She held up a hand quickly before he could touch her. “Not here.” Her voice was raw and thick. “Not now. It waits for the moon to fill.”

  Flowers brushed her knees as she walked out of the circle. The wind that had poured through her hair gentled, died.

  “You rested well?” she asked him.

  “What the hell is going on here?” His eyes narrowed. “What the hell did you put in my tea?”

  “A dollop of Irish. Nothing more.” She smiled at his camera. “You’ve been working. I wondered what you would see here, and need to show.”

  “Why did you strip me?”

  “Your clothes were damp.” She blinked once, as she saw his thoughts in his eyes. Then she laughed, low and long with a female richness that stirred his blood. “Oh, Cal, you have a most attractive body. I’ll not deny I looked. But in truth, I’m after preferring a man awake and participating when it comes to the matters you’re thinking of.”

  Though furious, he only angled his head. “And would you find it so funny if you’d awakened naked in a strange bed after taking tea with a strange man?”

  Her lips pursed, then she let out a breath. “Your point’s taken, well taken. I’m sorry for it. I promise you I was thinking only of giving you your ease.” Then the humor twinkled again. “Or mostly only of that.” She spread her arms. “Would you like to strip me, pay me back in kind?”

  He could imagine it, very well. Peeling that long, thin dress away from her, finding her beneath. “I want answers.” His voice was sharp, abrupt. “I want them now.”

  “You do, I know. But are you ready, I wonder?” She turned a slow circle. “Here, I suppose, is the place for it. I’ll tell you a story, Calin Farrell. A story of great love, great betrayal. One of passion and greed, of power and lust. One of magic, gained and lost.”

  “I don’t want a story. I want answers.”

  “It’s the same they are. One and the other.” She turned back to him, and her voice flowed musically. “Once, long ago, this castle guarded the coast, and its secrets. It rose silver and shining above the sea. Its walls were thick, its fires burned bright. Servants raced up and down the stairways, into chambers. The rushes were clean and sweet on the floor. Magic sang in the air.”

  She walked toward curving steps, lifted her hem and began to climb. Too curious to argue, Cal followed her.

  He could see where the floors had been, the lintels and stone bracings. Carved into the walls were small openings. Too shallow for chambers, he imagined. Storage, perhaps. He saw, too, that some of the stones were blackened, as if from a great fire. Laying a hand on one, he swore he could still feel heat.

  “Those who lived here,” she continued, “practiced their art and harmed none. When someone from the village came here with ails or worries, help was offered. Babies were born here,” she said as she stepped through a doorway and into the sun again. “The old died.”

  She walked across a wide parapet to a stone rail that stood over the lashing sea.

  “Years passed in just this way, season to season, birth to death. It came to be that some who lived here went out into the land. To make new places. Over the hills, into the forests, up into the mountains, where the faeries have always lived.”

  The view left him thunderstruck, awed, thrilled. But he turned to her, cocked a brow. “Faeries.”

  She smiled, turned and leaned back against the rail.

  “One remained. A woman who knew her fate was here, in this place. She gathered her herbs, cast her spells, spun her wool. And waited. One day he came, riding over the hills on a fine black horse. The man she’d waited for. He was a warrior, brave and strong and true of heart. Standing here, just here, she saw the sun glint off his armor. She prepared for him, lighting the candles and torches to show him the way until the castle burned bright as a flame. He was wounded.”

  Gently she traced a fingertip on Cal’s thigh. He forced himself not to step back, not to think about the hallucination he’d had while driving through the hills toward this place.

  “The battle he had fought was fierce. He was weary in body and heart and in mind. She gave him food and ease and the warmth of her fire. And her love. He took the love she gave, offered back his own. They were all to each other from that moment. His name was Caelan, Caelan of Farrell, and hers Bryna. Their hearts were linked.”

  He stepped back now, dipping his hands into his pockets. “You expect me to buy that?”

  “What I offer is free. And there’s more of the story yet.” The frustration at having him pull back flickered over her face. “Will you hear it, or not?”

  “Fine.” He moved a shoulder. “Go ahead.”

  She turned, clamped her hands on the stone balustrade, let the
thunder of the sea pound in her head. She stared down at that endless war of water and rock that fought at the base of the cliff.

  “They loved each other, and pledged one to the other. But he was a warrior, and there were more battles to fight. Whenever he would leave her, she watched in the fire she made, saw him wheel his horse through smoke and death, lift his sword for freedom. And always he came back to her, riding over the hills on a fine black horse. She wove him a cloak out of dark gray wool, to match his eyes. And a charm she put on it, for protection in battle.”

  “So you’re saying she was a witch?”

  “A witch she was, yes, with the power and art that came down through the blood. And the vow she’d taken to her heart, as close as she’d taken the man she loved, to harm none. Her powers she used only to help and to heal. But not all with power are true. There was one who had chosen a different path. One who used his power for gain and found joy in wielding it like a bloody sword.”

  She shuddered once, violently, then continued. “This man, Alasdair, lusted for her—for her body, her heart, her soul. For her power as well—for she was strong, was Bryna the Wise. He came into her dreams, creeping like a thief, trying to steal from her what belonged to another. Trying to take what she refused to give. He came into her home, but she would not have him. He was fair of face, his hair gold and his eyes black as the path he’d chosen. He thought to seduce her, but she spurned him.”

  Her fingers tightened on the stone, and her heart began to trip. “His anger was huge, his vanity deep. He set to kill the man she loved, casting spells, weaving charms of the dark. But the cloak she had woven and the love she had given protected him from harm. But there are more devious ways to destroy. Alasdair used them. Again in dreams he planted seeds of doubt, hints of betrayal in Caelan’s sleeping mind. Alasdair gave him visions of Bryna with another, painted pictures of her wrapped in another man’s arms, filled with another man’s seed. And with these images tormenting his mind, Caelan rode his fine black horse over the hills to this place. And finding her he accused her.

  “She was proud,” Bryna said after a moment. “She would not deny such lies. They argued bitterly, tempers ruling over hearts. It was then that he struck—Alasdair. He’d waited only for the moment, laughing in the shadows while the lovers hurled pain at each other. When Caelan tore off his cloak, hurled it to the ground at her feet, Alasdair struck him down so that his blood ran through the stones and into the ground.”

  Tears glinted into her eyes, but went unshed as she faced Calin. “Her grief blinded her, but she cast the circle quickly, fighting to save the man she loved. His wound was mortal and there was no answer for him but death. She knew but refused to accept, and turned to meet Alasdair.”

  She lifted her voice over the roar of the sea. It came stronger now, this story through her. “Then the walls of this place rang with fury, with magic loosed. She shielded her love and fought like a warrior gone wild. And the sky thundered, clouds dark and thick covered the full white moon and blotted out the stars. The sea thrashed like men pitched in battle and the ground trembled and heaved.

  “In the circle, weak and dying, Caelan reached for his sword. But such weapons are useless against witchcraft, light and dark, unless wielded with strength. In his heart he called for her, understanding now his betrayal and his own foolish pride. Her name was on his lips as he died. And when he died, her heart split in two halves and left her defenseless.”

  She sighed, closed her eyes briefly. “She was lost without him, you see. Alasdair’s power spread like vultures’ wings. He would have her then, willing or not. But with the last of her strength, she stumbled into the circle where her lover’s blood stained the ground. There a vow she made, and a spell she cast. There, while the walls rang and the torches burned, she swore her abiding love for Caelan. For a thousand years she would wait, she would bide. She sent the fire roaring through her home, for she would not let Alasdair have it. And the spell she cast was this.”

  She drew a deep breath now, kept her eyes on his. “A thousand years to the night, they would come back and face Alasdair as one. If their hearts were strong, they would defeat him in this place. But such spells have a price, and hers was to vow that if Caelan did not believe, did not stand with her that night as one, her power would wink out. And she would belong to Alasdair. Pledging this, she knelt beside her love, embraced him. And vanished them both.”

  He waited a moment, surprised that he’d found her story and the telling of it hypnotic. Studying her, he rocked back on his heels. “A pretty tale, Bryna.”

  “Do you still see it as such?” She shook her head, her eyes pleading. “Can you look at me, hear me, and remember nothing?”

  “You want me to believe I’m some sort of reincarnation of a Celtic warrior and you’re the reincarnation of a witch.” He let out a short laugh. “We’ve waited a millennium and now we’re going to do battle with the bad witch of the west? Come on, honey, do I look that gullible?”

  She closed her eyes. The telling of the tale, the reliving of it had tired her. She needed all her resources now. “He has to believe,” she murmured, pacing away from the wall. “There’s no time for subtle persuading.” She whirled back to face him. “You had a vivid imagination as a child,” she said angrily. “It’s a pity you tossed it aside. Tossed me aside—“

  “Listen, sweetheart—“

  “Oh, don’t use those terms with me. Haven’t I heard you croon them to other women as you guided them into bed? I didn’t expect you to be a monk waiting for this day, but did you have to enjoy it so damn much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, never mind. Just never mind.” She gestured impatiently as she paced. “‘A pretty tale,’ he says. Did it take a millennium to make him so stubborn, so blind? Well, we’ll see, Calin Farrell, what we’ll see.”

  She stopped directly in front of him, her eyes burning with temper, her face flushed with it. “A reincarnation of a witch? Perhaps that’s true. But you’ll see for yourself one simple fact. I am a witch, and not without power yet.”

  “Crazy is what you are.” He started to turn.

  “Hold!” She drew in a breath, and the wind whipped again, wild and wailing. His feet were cemented to the spot. “See,” she ordered and flung a hand down toward the ground between them.

  It was the first charm learned, the last lost. Though her hand trembled with the effort, the fire erupted, burning cold and bright.

  He swore and would have leaped back if he’d been able. There was no wood, there was no match, just that golden ball of flame shimmering at his feet. “What the hell is this?”

  “Proof, if you’ll take it.” Over the flames, she reached out a hand. “I’ve called to you in the night, Calin, but you wouldn’t hear me. But you know me—you know my face, my mind, my heart. Can you look at me and deny it?”

  “No.” His throat was dust-dry, his temples throbbing. “No, I can’t. But I don’t want this.”

  Her hand fell to her side. The fire vanished. “I can’t make you want. I can only make you see.” She swayed suddenly, surprising them both.

  “Hey!” He caught her as her legs buckled.

  “I’m just tired.” She struggled to find her pride at least, to pull back from him. “Just tired, that’s all.”

  She’d gone deathly pale, he noted, and she felt as limp as if every bone in her body had melted. “This is crazy. This whole thing is insane. I’m probably just having another hallucination.”

  But he swept her up into his arms and carried her down the circle of stone steps and away from the Castle of Secrets.

  4

  “Brandy,” he muttered, shouldering open the door to the cottage. The cat slipped in like smoke and led the way down the short hall. “Whiskey. Something.”

  “No.” Though the weakness still fluttered through her, she shook her head. “I’m better now, truly.”

  “The hell you are.” She felt fragile enough to dissolve in his arms. “Have you got a do
ctor around here?”

  “I don’t need a doctor.” The idea of it made her chuckle a little. “I have what I need in the kitchen.”

  He turned his head, met her eyes. “Potions? Witch’s brews?”

  “If you like.” Unable to resist, she wound her arms around his neck. “Will you carry me in, Calin? Though I’d prefer it if you carried me upstairs, took me to bed.”

  Her mouth was close to his, already softly parted in invitation. He felt his muscles quiver. If he was caught in a dream, he mused, it involved all of the senses and was more vivid than any he’d had in childhood.

  “I didn’t know Irish women were so aggressive. I might have visited here sooner.”

  “I’ve waited a long time. I have needs, as anyone.”

  Deliberately he turned away from the steps and started down the hall. “So, witches like sex.”

  That chuckle came again, throaty and rich. “Oh, aye, we’re fond of it. I could give you more than an ordinary woman. More than you could dream.”

  He remembered the jolt of that staggering kiss of welcome. And didn’t doubt her word. He made a point of dropping her, abruptly, on one of the two ladder-back chairs at a scrubbed wooden table in the tiny kitchen.

  “I dream real good,” he said, and she smiled silkily.

  “That I know.” The air hummed between them before she eased back, tidily folded her hands on the table. “There’s a blue bottle in the cupboard there, over the stove. Would you mind fetching it for me, and a glass as well?”

  He opened the door she indicated, found the cupboard neatly lined with bottles of all colors and shapes. All were filled with liquids and powders, and none were labeled. “Which one of these did you put in my tea?”

  Now she sighed, heavily. “Cal, I put nothing in your tea but the whiskey. I gave you sleep—a small spell, and a harmless one—because you needed it. Two hours only, and did you not wake feeling well and rested?”