Awen Rising Page 10

  “That’s her.” Should Emily mention the talking part?

  “Hope died twenty years ago. Maybe more. She was old, even then. It can’t be Hope.”

  “But she comes and goes like she belongs,” Emily insisted, keeping the rest to herself.

  Morgan hesitated, as if choosing her words. “Then, it’s not outside the realm of possibility.” A smile broke across the regal face. “If Hope is back, good fortune may be with us.” The grin widened as they rounded a curve. “Yes, that would definitely omen well for our side.”

  Emily’s flesh crawled. “Our side?” She flinched and waited for another grenade.

  “You will know soon enough. It is not my place to share that information. But I will tell you this. You’re with family, Emily Bridget, and for now you are safe in Druid Hills. Wren’s Roost is well protected.”

  Her words held no comfort. Instead dread trickled through the holes the past hour had torn in Emily’s new-found security.

  Dusk threw a golden sheen over Emory as they drove through the campus. Imposing high-rise buildings, some brick, some marble and limestone, graced landscaped grounds and manicured lawns. Here and there, an ancient oak spread naked limbs over sidewalks crowded with students on the way to and from class.

  They passed beneath an old railroad trestle that looked vaguely familiar. Had Emily seen it on the internet? Or was it another missing piece of her childhood? Two blocks later they arrived at the hospital.

  Exiting the car, Emily smoothed the hip-length coat her aunt had talked her into buying. It had been a wild splurge, even with someone else’s money. But it flattered Emily’s figure, and was a chocolaty shade of brown that was hard to find.

  The kiwi trim was a perfect frame for her fiery hair and the reflection of it brought the green out in her eyes. The soft, luxurious material caressed her sensitive skin.

  “I’m so glad you got that coat,” Morgan said on the walk to the elevator. “It couldn’t be more perfect if it had been tailored for you. Is it as warm as it looks?”

  “It is, Aunt Morgan. And thank you. Thank you for everything. For the shopping trip and your warm welcome. You’ve made me feel at home. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Oh, honey.” Morgan stopped to take Emily’s hands and leaned close, till they were eye to eye. “You are so welcome. If you knew how much I have wanted this, to take my niece shopping or anywhere else, every day for the past twenty-six years, you would know it is my pleasure. Now,” Morgan steered her toward the hospital entrance, “let’s find your daddy and my son.”

  **

  Emily despised hospitals. Had ever since her mother was in one, face beaten to a purple pulp, one eye swollen shut, the other a slit. The man Emily had called her father had done that to her, a too-common experience until he finally stopped drinking.

  They followed the signs to her birth father’s hospital room, dread congealing in Emily’s gut. “No Admittance” announced the placard on the closed door. Undaunted, Morgan shoved it aside to enter.

  Stepping over the threshold behind her aunt, Emily paused. The group around the bed turned, faces lit. All, that is, except Mitchell Wainwright, whose lips curled in a sneer. She clung to the door handle, legs refusing to carry her any closer.

  Morgan had no such qualms. She marched to the bed and squeezed between her son and her husband Don, whose arm snaked around her and drew her near. Behind them, an IV dripped, and electrodes communicated with monitors beeping quietly overhead.

  Hamilton Hester lay unmoving in the bed, tanned, muscular arms at his sides. Was this the father she’d yearned for? He had a fine, chiseled face with a strong chin and high forehead. It was the face from the picture in her mother’s box.

  A headful of dark hair threaded with gray was framed by a slightly-receding hairline. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady beneath a beige blanket.

  Finn murmured something Emily couldn’t hear and her aunt’s demeanor changed. She grew taller and her shadow stretched up the wall, consuming the others.

  Towering over the bed, Morgan commanded in the tone she had used earlier on the phone, “Hamilton, wake up. Emily Bridget has come home. Open your eyes. Look upon your daughter.” Morgan beckoned her to the bed.

  Emily clung to the door.

  Morgan shook the man’s lifeless shoulder. Nothing happened. Finn brushed a thumb across Hamilton’s brow. The lids quivered and opened, revealing sleep-vague eyes the color of a Wyoming morning.

  Emily gasped and stole a glance at Mitchell Wainwright, whose own blue eyes peered down at her birth father. Please, God, don’t let them be related. The man in the bed lifted his head, searching.

  Without thought, she let go of the door handle and moved into his line of sight. A duplicate of Emily’s smile broke over the wan face, lighting it from within.

  When he reached for her, the need to connect overrode her fear. She went to his side and the others moved to let her. Finn stayed put, thumb and forefinger resting lightly on Hamilton’s brow.

  “Emily Bridget.” The whisper was hoarse. The hand that closed on Emily’s felt cool.

  “Sir?” she croaked past the lump in her throat.

  “It’s Da, a ghrá. Remember?” His eyes probed the web of Emily’s thoughts. It tickled at first, then increased in pressure when she resisted. Overcome by a compulsion to let go, Emily relented.

  A dam opened and memories flooded in. Of Da bouncing a giggling Emily on his lap to Ride-a-Pony. Da chasing Emily through the back yard. Da catching lightning bugs. Da tucking Emily into bed, singing in an off-key, narcotic tone. Here were her memories of the man with the laughing eyes.

  Her heart overflowed with love remembered. Here was the father for whom she had grieved.

  “Da,” she breathed through tender tears.

  She wanted to touch him, to know he was real. Careful to avoid the tubes and needles, Emily leaned closer and laid her face on his chest. His heartbeat was fast and thready against her ear.

  His free arm drew her closer, holding on as if afraid she might break instead of the other way around. When he nestled his cheek on top of Emily’s head, the tears gathered around the lump in her throat. He couldn’t die now, he just couldn’t.

  “Welcome home, my child.” His whisper tickled Emily’s scalp.

  “Da,” she sobbed and clung tighter. He stroked her shoulder and made sweet, shushing daddy sounds.

  “I hate to break up another family reunion.” Mitchell tugged Emily’s shirt, dragging her from the embrace.

  Her father’s hand closed on hers and tightened. He was stronger than she would have thought, given the circumstances.

  She swiped at the tears with the back of her free hand. “Yet you did anyway. Thanks for nothing.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the infuriating attorney said without a trace of sarcasm. To the room, he announced, “In case y’all haven’t noticed, keeping Hamilton conscious is a heavy load on Finn. Since you insist on this installation, let’s get it done. Visit afterward, if you must.”

  Her father glared at the attorney. Emily felt somewhat vindicated.

  Mitchell’s hard expression softened, along with his tone. “This is apparently life or death, Sir. And not just yours. I’m sorry.”

  Lines curved around her Da’s mouth. Even ill, his face was more tanned than sallow, evidence he spent long hours in the sun. Gunmetal peppered the stubble on his cheeks and dimpled chin.

  He winked at Emily and her belly flopped. Something big was about to happen.

  “Emily Bridget?” The reverence in her Da’s tone sent chills up her back. “Emily Bridget,” he repeated, voice stronger, “it is my duty and privilege as Grand Druid of the Awen Lineage to pass my station on to you, my worthy heir.”

  There was that name again. Emily’s internal alarm clanged and her heart pounded. Who was this Awen? And what was her Da talking about?

  “As the last in a long line of druid princesses hailing from Awen, you are my rightful heir and next in line t
o be Grand Druid.”

  Sweat beaded on Emily’s brow.

  “Our line is matristic and matriarchal, meaning leadership resides with, and passes to, the feminine progeny, rather than male. Our grand druids are typically female.” Hamilton glanced at the attorney, whose lips were pressed in a stern line. “I am a rare exception.”

  Her Da pointed his chin at a nodding bear of a man. “Arthur Creeley there, reports directly to the Grand Druid. That will be you.”

  Emily’s vision went fuzzy and the contents of her stomach inched toward her throat.

  “Arthur will oversee your training and act on your behalf until you are ready to assume your duties. Then he will continue as your second in command. Do you understand, Emily?”

  Hamilton’s hand was her only anchor in a world that tipped sideways, a world in which Emily did not understand anything her birth father had uttered.

  “No. No, I don’t,” she all but wailed. “What is a grand druid? And why would you want me to be that?”

  Hamilton frowned and locked eyes with his sister before returning his gaze to Emily. “You know nothing of your heritage?”

  She shook her head, looking to her aunt for help. Morgan shrugged.

  “You know nothing of your powers?” Hamilton Hester demanded, agitated.

  At the familiar sting of shame, Emily wagged her head slowly from side to side.

  Her father’s demeanor hardened. “You are a druid princess and destined to be the leader of the most powerful druid order in the world and you know nothing of what that is? Or what it entails?”

  She hung her head, angry at being put on the spot, and being in trouble for something she knew nothing about. And…wait, what?

  Her head snapped up. Princess? Druid? What?

  Hamilton Hester swore. “What’s done is done. There’s no undoing it now. Sink or swim, you are a druid princess and only you can lead our order. Failure is not an option. You will have to work harder.”

  Goosebumps, the universal harbinger of truth, crawled Emily’s skin and a shudder passed through her. She stared at the man lying in the bed and swallowed back her ready rejoinder.

  She glanced at Finn Foster. Sweat beaded on his scrunched forehead. His eyes were closed. The doctor was obviously suffering. Well, dammit, so was she. Arthur Creeley placed a hand on Emily’s back and a surge of energy spread through her.

  She found herself saying, “I’ll do my best, Da,” then hastily added, “but what if I’m no good at being a druid? Much less, what did you call it? A Grand Druid?”

  The blue eyes softened and Hamilton squeezed Emily’s hand. “The year you were born, a prophecy was uncovered in Norman ruins near the home of our ancestors. Fear not, sweet child. You are heir to Awen’s throne. And also, to her powers.”

  Her stomach churned and the sick feeling worsened. Powers? What powers?

  “It is the belief of the Elders, that you, Emily Bridget, are the one to whom the prophecy refers. It is you who will avert Earth’s coming disaster.”

  A wave of nausea washed over her. Wainwright cleared his throat.

  Hamilton held up a hand. “Please raise your right hand and repeat after me. I, Emily Bridget Hester.”

  To a numb and nauseated Emily, it was all mumbo jumbo. But if it would make her Da happy. She held up her hand. “I, Emily Bridget Hester.”

  “Do accept the position of Grand Druid.”

  Emily choked out loud. Every eye in the room was fixed upon her and a thousand invisible eyes watched from the ceiling tiles. The weight was palpable.

  She couldn’t do it. These people needed a hero, but she wasn’t it. She was sensitive, not strong. She had proven that when Charlotte ripped Trey Serra from her arms. Emily knew how to run. That was her programming, courtesy of her mother.

  Features straining, Hamilton repeated, “Do accept the position of Grand Druid.” Sweat dripped from Finn’s ashen brow.

  “Say it, Emily!” Morgan hissed.

  Her voice faltered, but the words came out. “D-do accept the position of Grand Druid.”

  “I will uphold my position to the best of my ability.”

  Finn sagged against the bed, but his hand maintained contact with Hamilton’s brow.

  This time, Arthur Creeley spoke in a buttery voice that belied his bearish stature. “Short version, Ham.”

  In spite of the fear crushing the breath from her, Emily squeaked, “I will uphold my position to the best of my ability.’

  “So help me, goddess.”

  “So help me, g-goddess.”

  “I now pronounce you Grand Druid of the Awen Order. May your days be long on this blessed earth and may the line of Awen ne’er be broken.”

  Hamilton extended an open palm on which Morgan laid an antique ring. An exquisite emerald flashed in the center of a band of etched silver.

  Extending it to Emily, Hamilton pronounced, “This is Aóme. I present her to you. May she serve you well, dear daughter.”

  Taking the proffered ring, Emily slid it on the forefinger of her left hand. It was a little large, so she transferred it to the right where it fit perfectly. A frisson of energy shot through her, invigorating every cell.

  She was ready to take on the world and wondered why she had been so afraid. It was just a title. Just a ring. Everything would be fine. Her Da was strong. He wouldn’t die.

  A vision flashed before her and was quickly gone. One of a verdant glade, with water flowing from the face of a rock wall.

  Hamilton barked, “Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third?”

  “Yes.” The attorney leaned toward the bed.

  “Record these proceedings. Make sure all the legalities are covered, as previously planned and agreed.”

  Mitchell’s voice sounded strained. “I will.”

  Hamilton stared at him for a long moment, as if reinforcing some previous understanding. Emily thought she saw a flicker of distaste in Hamilton’s eyes when the attorney looked away.

  “James Arthur Creeley,” Hamilton said.

  “Yes?” An animalistic power oozed from the big man, despite his soft voice.

  She studied the round face. Like his voice, it was gentle, and framed by shaggy, espresso hair that ended above his broad shoulders. A patch of fuzz rode his lower lip, making Arthur resemble an aging rocker. His chocolate eyes peered past Emily to her father.

  “Do you declare fealty to your new Grand Druid, Emily Bridget Hester?”

  “I do.”

  Shockwaves passed through Emily, but something kept her knees from buckling. Was it Aóme? She caressed the ring with her thumb, grateful for its presence.

  “Do you swear to fulfill your duties as Arch Druid and to support Emily Bridget Hester?”

  “I do,” Arthur answered. “Sir, Finn’s failing. We can do the rest later.”

  “So, you can.” Hamilton reached for Emily’s hand and nestled it in his. “Emily Bridget, my precious daughter.” His blue eyes misted. “In case I don’t make it out of here alive, Wren’s Roost and the bulk of my estate goes to you.”

  Behind her, sharp intakes of breath echoed hers. Apparently, the Fosters hadn’t known about this.

  Hamilton ignored them and continued, eyes on Emily. “It is the least I can do. I loved your mother, but I’m sure she made your life hell. That I cannot change, but I hope this is some small recompense for the years you were denied your heritage and your gifts.”

  Hamilton peered at his sister and then back at Emily. “The rest of my family is provided for. Now my daughter is, too.”

  Emily wept.

  “I love you, Emily. I always have and I always will. I only wish I had more time to show you.”

  She threw her arms around the man she had once adored, the man who loved her still. He had shielded Emily as long as he could, and now lavished upon her that which she craved—a real family and a home of her own.

  “Oh, Da. Th-thank you.” Her tears flowed freely and her heart opened wide, receiving the love her father channeled.r />
  There was a thud as Finn crumpled to the floor. Her father went still, damp lashes resting on tanned cheeks. She wept, willing him to live.

  But he didn’t rouse. His lips didn’t move, but inside her head Emily heard, “Get me out of this hospital, little wren. Wren’s Roost needs me, as do you.” Then even his velvet voice was gone.

  She hugged the silent man whose love had opened a wellspring within her. Pressing her face against her Da’s chest, she let the ragged tears flow.

  Behind her closed eyelids, an image formed. Emily stood upon a hill, crimson hair billowing in a moody wind and arms thrown wide to a heaven that rained fire. For a moment it appeared she would be overcome, then the earth rolled beneath her and the heavens calmed.

  Slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, she became aware of the others working to rouse Finn.

  She cradled her father’s face in loving hands and gave him the kiss from her dreams—on the forehead, nose, chin, eyes, cheeks, and a butterfly kiss to the lips.

  Nothing happened. Emily traced her thumb along his furrowed brow and searched his face for some flicker of life. “Da?”

  No answer.

  She screamed it inside her head, where he’d spoken moments before. Still nothing.

  “I won’t give up,” Emily whispered. “I will get you home. Rest and recover, and don’t even think about dying. I need you—” her voice broke.

  Finn roused and shot out of the chair to muscle past Emily. He took Hamilton’s hand and scoured the monitors, then announced with relief, “Uncle Ham’s vitals are stable.”

  Everyone cheered, including Mitchell.

  “We’ll keep him in ICU again tonight and continue our tests tomorrow.” Finn turned to Emily and bowed. “Well done, cousin. Let me be the first to offer my congratulations. Along with my allegiance.”

  A sob slipped out before Emily could bite it back. She cupped her hand around Aóme and tried again. This time her voice barely quivered.

  “Thank you, Finn. Da wants to go home.”

  “He can’t yet, Emily. It’s too soon.”

  “But he made me promise to take him to Wren’s Roost. So unless his life is in danger, we must.”