Awen Rising Page 11

  An Odd Question

  M itch ripped through the gears and peeled rubber leaving Emory’s parking deck. The bitch was useless. How Hamilton could even consider naming her as grand druid was beyond Mitch.

  It was irresponsible. And extreme. He wasn’t the only one who thought so, either. The old man had exceeded his limits this time, putting a trainee in charge. Emily Hester would be the death of them all.

  She’d been so lovey-dovey, too. Mitch’s skin had crawled. He’d wanted to grab her by the throat and shake her for making Hamilton mad at him. Fucking cunt. If she turned Hamilton against him there would be hell to pay. But the codger would probably be dead soon anyway.

  Flicking a button on his steering wheel, Mitch spoke out loud. “Call Mother.”

  “Calling Mother.” The computer was programmed to mimic Latoya Cloud, the sultry-voiced actress for whom Mitch had the hots. After two rings, Rona Barrett Wainwright’s face appeared on his instrument panel.

  “Mitchell dear, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mother. How are you?” He could tell his voice sounded strained. Fat wonder. Hopefully, his mother wouldn’t notice. Mitch got lucky.

  “I’m good. But your father’s not feeling well. He threw out his back playing golf today. You know how he gets when he’s in pain.”

  “Yeah,” Mitch said, “even more insufferable.”

  “Mitchell. “That’s not nice.”

  “But true.”

  “Nonetheless.” There was a stretch of silence. “Did you get the Hester girl installed?”

  “Um, yeah.” Since when did his mother care about Hester family business? And how did she know about Emily? Or the hastily-called meeting?

  “Good.” She promptly changed the subject. “Tianna called us yesterday.”

  Mitch made a mental note to pursue her odd question, but for now he let his mother gossip. Anything to take his mind off the hate curdling his stomach.

  Swerving to avoid a scruffy kid panhandling a little too close to the road, Mitch checked his rearview mirror. The kid and his gang of ragamuffins scrambled back to the pavement, shaking scrawny fists at the Beemer’s hind end.

  Mitch chuckled, feeling slightly better.

  **

  When her son was done venting his troubled spleen, Rona Wainwright replaced the phone in its cradle. Emily Bridget was alive. And in Druid Hills. She caught her reflection in the mirrored cabinet. The oft-reinforced mask had crumbled. Dare she hope?

  Her eyes filled with unshed tears and a smile broke through the fog that had defined her existence for too long. Rushing to the secret office in the back of the house, she fumbled for the concealed drawer in her desk and popped it open.

  Trembling, she removed a small oaken box and cradled it to her breast as she sank to the chair. She gently placed the box on the desk, then sat frozen. The box had done its job. Maybe Rona should let it be.

  She glanced around the only room in the vast mansion that reflected her druid roots. “If not now, then when?”

  She stared at the box for another minute, then whispered an incantation, pouring all her love and longing and hope into breaking the seal. The lid sprang open, revealing a perfectly-preserved photograph of the baby she’d let go.

  Rona lifted the picture from the velvet-lined case. The emotions she’d buried with the portrait caught in her throat on a sob. Her eyes feasted on the tiny, oval face framed by wisps of scarlet-gold hair. Joy pierced her heart as she gazed at the smiling eyes.

  Clutching the photograph of her baby to her chest, she waltzed around the soft rug. Her long-lost daughter was back in Druid Hills, and though Rona had promised to make no claims, and to never reveal the truth, her mother-heart was light, nonetheless.

  Druid Library

  A fter Emily had demanded they bring her Da home from Emory, she removed Aóme and slid the ring in her pocket for safekeeping. Not being a druid, she felt unworthy to wear such a precious heirloom. But the tears began pouring and refused to be staunched. Everything else was a blur.

  She was aware of Morgan bundling her into her new coat and leading her to the SUV, then helping her into the carriage house. Once inside, her aunt settled her on the sofa in the living room and swaddled her in a woolen throw. Morgan laid a fire in the hearth and disappeared.

  Emily stared at the blazing fire, dabbing at her tears with a wad of crumpled tissue. Ralph roused from his cushion to climb in her lap and bump her chest with his head. She hugged him close and let her tears dampen his silky fur.

  Morgan swept back in, carrying a cup of steaming liquid.

  “Drink this, Hon,” the matriarch commanded. “It’ll put fire in your belly and warm your bones. It might even help with those waterworks.”

  The tears leaked from Emily’s swollen eyes at a steady, though lessening, pace. She blew her nose before taking a tentative sip and gagged on the bitter brew.

  “Urgggh. I’d rather have liquor,” she shuddered and pushed the mug back at her aunt. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yes, it is,” Morgan chuckled. “But you will drink it, nonetheless. No mixing it with alcohol, either. I tried that once and you don’t want to go there. Trust me. Now drink up. It will help you sleep.”

  Hearing the magic words, Emily made a face, held her nose, and chugged. Gasping, she thrashed about on the sofa, dislodging Ralph and barely keeping the noxious liquid down.

  “God, what is this?” she sputtered. “I damn near barfed.”

  “Damn-near being the operative words. How much did you get down?”

  Emily held the cup for Morgan to inspect.

  “One more swallow. A big one.”

  “You know,” Emily sniped over the smelly decoction, “you must be family. I officially hate you now.”

  Holding her nose, she took another swig and shuddered as the liquid met her protesting taste buds and seared all the way from her throat to her belly. She stomped both feet, quivering and wiggling all over.

  Morgan was right about one thing; a fire set up in Emily’s solar plexus and radiated outward through the rest of her body. Her hands and feet, cold since she’d stepped from the Atlanta airport, warmed. Her face flushed, her ears burned, and her nose watered.

  But the tears ceased and for that she was thankful. A peaceful calm descended upon her. The burn died away. She sighed and hiccupped. Her body relaxed.

  Sensing her aunt’s scrutiny, Emily looked over at the stately woman. Morgan stood outlined in the amber glow of the hearth, a fire-angel warming her backside. She stared at Emily as if waiting for something. Hope the tabby watched her, too.

  “What?” Emily demanded.

  “Better?” Morgan’s brown eyes glittered.

  Emily checked herself to see. “Why, yes,” she giggled.

  “Good. It’s late and I need to get home.”

  Morgan bent to speak quietly to Hope, then moved toward the door. “Hey, why don’t you have dinner with us? It’s close and you won’t have to be alone.”

  But that was exactly what Emily wanted, and she said so. She wasn’t used to all this family stuff. The day had taken its toll.

  “Then, how about I pop that lasagna in the oven for you? Mary’s cooking is superb.”

  “No, thank you.” Emily rose on slightly wobbly feet to see her aunt out. “I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll just rest.”

  “Emily, you don’t have to do this alone. You have a family and a whole community of druids standing with you. We are many, and we are powerful. You will do just fine.” Emily wasn’t so sure but kept silent.

  “Promise you’ll call if you need anything? I’m five minutes away. Literally.” Morgan’s brow creased, in spite of her cheerful tone.

  Emily couldn’t stand it anymore and had to ask. “Morgan, what the heck is a grand druid? My knowledge of druids is foggy. From fantastical tales, mostly.” She thought of the books in her mother’s box. They contained druid lore, but Emily didn’t get their meaning or relevance.

  “I know th
is is a lot to digest.” Morgan shrugged. “The simplified answer to your complicated question is that grand druids are the heads of druid orders. In our case, the Order of Awen.”

  “And druids? What are they?”

  Morgan’s brow knit. “Druids are peacemakers, shepherds of the earth. We care for the planet and all she sustains—the trees, the flowers, the birds, bees, and other creatures, including humans. We draw our magical powers from the Earth and that within her dominion—”

  “Like the Jedi!” Emily interrupted.

  “Kind of. Yes,” Morgan chuckled. “We do use our powers to foster peace and harmony on Earth and in the rest of the universe.”

  “The universe, huh? That sounds pretty lofty.”

  Morgan ignored the remark. “Follow me.”

  Emily trailed her to a room tucked in the back of the house. She had explored the carriage house over the last two days but had somehow missed the library, accessible only through the turquoise bedroom.

  Stepping inside, Emily drew a sharp breath. It was a wonderland of trinkets, relics, and artifacts. Spinning to take it all in, she glided about the room, indulging her urge to touch everything.

  “Are these druid made?”

  Morgan nodded.

  There were paintings, bronzes, and figurines, along with carvings from every rock imaginable. Most works depicted animals, birds, or trees; the oils lush, the landscapes inviting.

  Crystals of every shape and hue glinted in the light of a Tiffany chandelier that commanded the center of the enchanted room. Beyond it, Emily recognized a boulder of rose quartz.

  “Ooo look!” The hunk of crystallized earth occupied an entire corner. Only once had Emily seen a crystal this large, enshrined in Bade Baba’s temple in upstate New York.

  Arms wide, she hugged the pink boulder, awed to find something so magnificent here. Breathing in its energy, she settled on one of the cushions arranged in a semicircle around the quartz.

  “Are these here for meditating?” she asked.

  “Or just hanging out,” Morgan replied, lighting the fire already laid in the fireplace.

  Becoming aware of the chill, Emily wrapped sweatered arms around her shoulders and inspected the wall adjacent to the quartz boulder.

  An eagle headdress was ringed by bright-colored paintings of animals in their native habitat. A few stood by caves, but every picture boasted a body of water: a pond, spring, waterfall, or ocean. A padded bench invited one to linger.

  Emily crossed to a glass-front curio in the opposite corner. The top shelf was full of priceless antiquities, the likes of which she had seen at the Getty Villa in Malibu—voluptuous feminine forms and flinty males with erect penises.

  The middle shelf was lined with wooden wands displayed on tufted green velvet, while the lower shelf held larger items of gold and silver, encrusted with gems that glittered in the dragonfly chandelier’s glow. Among these were a bronze horn in the shape of a boar’s head and a helmet with an eagle’s stern visage.

  In the far corner, a cherry highboy overflowed with scrolls and charts. Its rich, mahogany veneer was burnished to a sheen around drawers of tiger maple. Adjacent bookcases built in the wall were crammed to capacity.

  On the wall between them hung a map of the world. From the shape of the coastlines, the map was old, depicting the oceans before they had risen. Would the Celtic lands she read about be listed?

  Resolving to investigate later, Emily joined her aunt by the now-crackling fire. She traced a finger along the tangled vines carved into the ebony mantel and leaned closer to study the design. It was similar to the ones in the other rooms, but with its own distinct pattern.

  Above the fireplace hung a large painting she hadn’t noticed on entering. Leaning back for a better view, Emily nearly choked. The woman in the portrait could be Emily. The same unruly hair blew about the same oval face.

  The locks were longer, like in Emily’s dreams, but the fiery tresses were shot through with gold—the same as hers. Arresting green eyes sparkled down at the room and the same lopsided grin Emily saw daily in the mirror rode the woman’s lips.

  Slack jawed and heart racing, Emily backed away and collapsed into a plump chair. She stared up at the painting, fingers digging into the tufted arms as her last shreds of denial were ripped away.

  Raw and exposed, she cowered in the chair. There was no escape. Her ancestry was unmistakable. In the recesses of her mind a door clanged shut, sealing her fate.

  “You see it, don’t you? We did, too. At the hospital, the moment you walked in. That’s why we all acted like idiots. Emily, this is Awen Brigid Hester, your great-grandmother. Gram lived here when you were a baby. This is her carriage house.”

  Morgan leaned close and added with a twinkle, “Gram was a dead ringer for the Awen. Some say she was the Awen incarnate. Some think you are, too.”

  A chill crept into the room. Awen. Like in Emily’s dreams. “Ahh-wen,” the voices had cried.

  “Holy shit,” was all she could say.

  “Yeah. Holy shit,” Morgan repeated. “Literally.”

  The last slipped out on a snicker, followed by a snort. Her aunt clamped a hand over her mouth, but the laughter won. The regal woman collapsed in the second armchair, cackling and snorting.

  Emily jumped to her feet, not getting the joke. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “You,” Morgan hooted, swiping at tears. “You. Holy Shit!”

  Had she gone mad? Emily stared.

  Morgan dragged the heels of her hands across her face. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m terribly punchy. It’s been a long few days and I’m beside myself about your Da.” She stood to peer into a nearby mirror and dab at her eyes, then looked through it at Emily.

  “What I meant to say is that you, my dear niece, are the real deal.”

  Emily shook her head. She didn’t feel like a real anything. Except a real fraud.

  “Now I really must go. But everything you ever wanted to know about druids or druid magic,” Morgan spun in a tight circle, arm sweeping the room, “you will find right here. And now that you know about Brigid’s Library, you will be allowed entrance. If not, ask Hope. Right, Hope?” The cat had wandered into the library and settled in the seat Morgan had vacated.

  “It’s been a long time, my furry friend. Welcome home.” The cat continued her bath. Morgan didn’t notice, having swept from the room chuckling.

  Emily stared at the painting for a long beat, then flipped off the light to follow. “Goodnight, Aunt Morgan. And thank you for everything.”

  Morgan pulled Emily close, rocking her in a warm embrace. After a hard squeeze, she let go and opened the door to a blast of cold air.

  Emily watched the SUV drive away, slammed the door against the night, and pressed her brow to its frigid pane. Her head swam and her belly was hungry, whether she liked it or not.

  From the kitchen she scrounged a handful of almonds and a small apple. She thought of going for a jog, then dismissed it as too cold, too dark, and too soon after last night’s ordeal. On top of that, Emily was too-too exhausted. Too many too’s.

  Thoughts of her birth father crept into her head. She shoved them aside, not ready to think about Da yet. She focused instead on the bungalow. He’d said it was hers, this grand old house with all its belongings, including the one-of-a-kind antiques.

  Emily roamed the rooms, crunching the sweet-tart Fuji while Ralph ran ahead, joining the celebration. At the library, she leaned against the door frame and traced the room with aching eyes. She peered at the painting of her great-grandmother, Awen Brigid Hester.

  Butterflies burst into flight in her gut. Emily’s double. Awen’s double. The butterflies did a loop-de-loop. Hamilton Hester. Grand Druid. Awen. Ahhh-wen.

  Flipping off the lights, Emily raced through the house, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t do this. They were asking too much.

  In the red-room, she hauled her suitcase from the
closet and threw it on the bed. Without regard for wrinkles, Emily crammed new clothes on top of old. When the teal sweater hit the pile, she faltered.

  Her aunt had bought the sweater. And helped pick out the rest. With money from her Da.

  Fingering the soft fabrics, Emily gathered an armful of the clothes to her chest and absorbed the scent of family-found. Slowly, the band around her chest loosened until her breath came easier.

  Gut queasy and heart still racing, her voice sounded semi-calm when she declared to the room, “There is nowhere to run. Tonight, we are safe. We have a roof over our heads. A comfortable bed. Let’s give the rest to God.”

  Shoving the half-packed suitcase to the floor, Emily climbed into the tall, four-poster bed and pulled the covers over her head. She’d had more than enough drama for one day.

  After Hours

  W hen on the prowl, Shalane hid behind an alias. Tonight, she was Magdalena, a tart chica from Spanish Harlem with sassy, brown hair and black, flashing eyes that dared anyone but the invited to come near.

  She frowned at the drummette she’d fished from the basket. Fresh from the fryer and piping hot, the chicken wings were crispy the way she liked them. But she’d ordered flats. She always ordered flats. Disgusted, Shalane signaled the waitress.

  The young Marilyn Monroe look-alike ignored Shalane to flash a flirtatious grin in the direction of the bar. Shalane had cast enough glances in that direction to know it was packed with a full complement of Pendleton sailors in all their studly glory. Her crotch twitched at the prospect of finding at least one convert in the lot.

  But first things first. She snapped her fingers. The Marilyn-wannabe scurried to her side, a bemused smirk riding luscious lips that said she would rather be dealing with the bar boys. Fighting the urge to slap some manners into the pouty girl, Shalane shoved the basket of wings under the girl’s nose.

  “There are drums in this basket. I ordered flats.”

  The Marilyn look-alike batted long lashes that needed no mascara and did a perfect imitation of a curtsy. Shalane restrained another urge to smack her.