Awen Rising Page 12

“All flats,” she ordered, with a withering stare. “Get rid of these and bring my order.” Shalane tapped the face of her wrist unit. “And bring a glass of merlot on the house.”

  The girl paled and gasped, “I can’t do that.”

  “But you will. Or call the manager. I ordered twenty minutes ago and will be waiting twenty more. This drink is on you deary, whether you like it or not. And be quick about it. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” When the waitress hung motionless, Shalane looked down her nose through the gem-encrusted readers she’d begun wearing that year. “Chop, chop. Pace, pace. Tick tock.” At the last, she clapped her hands.

  It was enough. Marilyn high-tailed it to the kitchen, leaving Shalane chuckling behind the napkin in her fist. It felt good to be wicked.

  For the first years of her life she’d been a whipping girl, a misfit, and never-chosen pariah. All because she heard voices and saw dead people. That, plus Shalane knew things. Things that guilty people didn’t want others to know. Even in a witches’ coven, it was taboo.

  Shalane learned at a young age to keep her abilities quiet. It disturbed her parents when she spoke to people they could neither see nor hear. But Camille, Shalane’s grandmother, had encouraged her. And, in spite of her parents’ wishes, taught Shalane everything about magic—and the Otherworld from which it came. Grandma Camille also shared secrets of the Underworld, warning Shalane to stay away from that realm. Shalane sipped her wine and watched the waitress handle two drunken sailors.

  They looked too young to be out of high school, much less toting guns. Each sported a fade-haircut and dress uniform. Both attempted to play grab-ass with the Marilyn-wannabe. The girl sidestepped to snake the money out of one’s hand, while backing out of the other’s range. All with a smile on her face. The move was a good one.

  The wings were perfect the second time around. But Marilyn’s mouth-watering cleavage arrived first. The thin tee hinted at erect nipples, cradled by a sheer, pushup-bra. Alarm registered in the girl’s eyes when Shalane lifted her gaze from her tits to wink. She stammered when Shalane leaned near to order an Erlanger and squeaked when she bent closer to stroke the erotic point behind the girl’s knee. Pink-faced, Marilyn hurried off to get her drink.

  That decided it. Shalane would stay till the girl finished her shift. The hotty had fanned the flame the sailors ignited. The warm glow spread as she found her treasure spot beneath the table and dug in discreetly to relieve the unbearable pressure. Not that Shalane cared if anyone saw. Hell, she could buy the joint if she wanted to. She orgasmed twice, then made short order of the wings and the frosty Erlanger.

  When she was done eating, she switched back to merlot, a little bit tipsy and a lot horny. It was Shalane’s curse. Not even God had been able to curb—much less stop—her insatiable sexual drive.

  Shalane settled deeper into the corner booth to nurse her wine. The Marilyn interrupted Shalane’s thoughts. “Would you like your check?”

  “No. I’m good.” Shalane breathed deeply of the girl’s scent. “Unless it’s time for you to get off. I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  The girl blushed a delightful shade of pink and shook her head. “No, um, I’m here a while yet.”

  “Then I am, too.” Shalane tipped her glass to the confused girl’s receding tush and sipped her grandmother’s favorite wine. Swishing the merlot around her tongue, she went back to reminiscing.

  **

  Nergal broke free from the military briefing and ducked out of the command center to cross the compound to the lab. Like most Draconians, he was a loner and preferred his own company to that of the lowlifes inhabiting Xibalba IX. Nergal had thought transferring back to California might improve the caliber of companions. So far, that had failed to be the case.

  He stood at the console to study his protégé. “Display primary target,” he grunted, then waited for the main brain to access the Fomorian’s.

  “Displaying data,” the androgynous computer voice replied.

  Nergal’s eyes narrowed. The woman on the screen looked different. For a moment he thought he’d gotten the wrong feed. Then she spoke and he recognized the sultry lips. They were painted ruby-red and her hair was a rich shade of brown. Voluptuous breasts overflowed a low-cut peasant blouse pulled down at the shoulders.

  Nergal licked his thin lips in anticipation as the target signaled to a blond waitress. He watched their exchange with growing excitement. This woman could be Nergal’s shill. Preparing a directive, he sent it to the main brain, knowing that within minutes it would identify the waitress and download any information Nergal might want or need, pertinent or otherwise. Soon the girl’s file appeared on the screen.

  Patrika Danner Tolbert was eighteen, barely turned, and had worked as a waitress even before her birthday. Enrolled in the Coachella Valley Beauty College, Patrika Tolbert’s listed major was Aesthetician, with a minor in Massage. The touchy-feely type. Reading the rest of the file, Nergal searched for a key to unlock the girl’s secrets. Born and raised in La Quinta by a single mother who worked two jobs, no mention of a father. No father.

  He stopped reading to observe the interaction between the humans. The girl wasn’t responding well to the reverend’s advances. She was coming on too strong. Sitting down at the console, Nergal tapped the keys. He accessed the Fomorian’s direct link, inserted two instructions, and sat back to watch.

  This time the Draconian leader wasn’t disappointed. The blond returned to the table, where Shalane rested her head on her arm. Crocodile tears dripped from the half-closed eyes. Instantly concerned, Patrika Tolbert squatted beside the woman and leaned close to put her hand on the petite shoulder.

  A Rocky Start

  T he temperature plummeted, carried on a wind that buffeted the house and whined of snow. Emily woke, curled in a ball on the wrong side of the bed. The cats slept back to back, taking up most of the available space.

  She reckoned it was a fitting ending to a dream-filled night in which she had slept without peace. But at least her head felt better. She wiggled and rolled over, claiming enough room to lie on her back.

  The Awen dream had taken a weird turn and morphed into a surreal parade of animals led by a mouthy raven. Now that she thought about it, Emily was pretty sure they were the same animals whose ghosts she had seen in the park. One by one, they had tromped through Awen’s glade, introducing themselves as druid Elders.

  Each demanded something of Emily. Art the bear insisted she remember an important prophecy. He’d said it was about her, but try as she might, Emily couldn’t. What she did recall, in vivid clarity, was the stone left for her on the shore of Awen’s pond by Dobhran the Otter, and the feel of the duke’s mouth on her lips.

  Clad only in a cotton T-shirt, she steeled herself for the icy blast and shivered when blanket-warm skin met morning air. Shrugging on the robe, she relaxed as the fleece enveloped her body and calmed the chills. She fished for her Uggs, found one and put it on. The other was missing. Annoyance flared. Emily fumbled for the lamp and flicked it on. No boot. Only four sleepy eyes blinking back in protest.

  Getting down on both knees, she lifted the bed skirt with puckered distaste. Murky shadows and a trail of dust bunnies greeted her. The annoyance festered. Her druid training started this morning and she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to partake. Why couldn’t she find her stinking boot? Flopping on her belly, she peered into the darkness, ear smashed against the prickly wool rug in an effort to avoid the cold bedrail.

  Near the footboard, Emily detected a variation in grays. She stretched until her fingers brushed the boot and pulled it toward her, dislodging something cold and hard. Recoiling, she hit her head on the frame. Squealing in righteous indignation, Emily heaved her torso out of the confined space and rubbed the goose-egg forming on her crown.

  “Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!”

  That rousted Ralph. He hit the floor and scurried from the room, used to his master’s mercurial moods. Hope, on the other hand, yawned and stretched,
circled in place, and flopped to the quilt. She, apparently, was going nowhere. Fat paws mushed the spot Ralph had vacated and the blunt-tipped tail swished the air. Wide amber orbs stared at Emily.

  “What?” she snapped, yanking on her boot. Hope folded her feet and tail under in what Emily thought of as Buddha pose and pretended to doze.

  Emily snarled at the insufferable cat and fetched a long match from the hearth. She lit it and kneeled at the footboard to peek under the bed, only to be accosted by an acrid puff of smoke when a dust bunny burst into flames. Coughing and retching, she patted out the fire.

  Not an auspicious start to her first day.

  Rubbing her sore head, Emily scooped up what appeared to be a small, round stone. The polished surface was transparent and as smooth as glass. She cradled it in her palm. The stone warmed and something extraordinary happened—its interior melted. Emily stared as inky inclusions appeared in the liquid. They floated and swirled in no particular pattern, like black snowflakes on a still winter’s day.

  As she watched, her frustration drained away, taking the anger with it. Puzzled, she held the stone to the light and marveled when the black spots fizzled to nothing. New, snowy inclusions took their place, drifting on the invisible current. A shuddering sigh of release shook Emily’s body. The flecks flashed and vanished, leaving the stone clear and quiet.

  Emily shook the stone, but it looked again like an ordinary lump of glass. She slid the talisman in her pocket and closed her eyes. The anger was gone. Not even a trace of annoyance remained. Instead she tingled with anticipation, a lightness of being that was almost euphoric.

  Remembering Dobhran the Otter, Emily thanked him for the mysterious gift.

  She dressed as Hope had previously instructed, layering against the cold. Morgan and Mitch would be here soon, along with her teacher. The otter stone warmed her thigh where it nestled in her pocket beside Aóme.

  In the kitchen, she ate some raw cashews and grabbed a Granny Smith apple. The outside lights kicked on. Peering through the peephole, she saw a determined Wainwright climbing the steps, followed by Morgan, Arthur, Becca and Dana, and several others Emily didn’t know.

  Why so many people? The doorbell trilled and Emily jumped. A loud knock followed—three raps, a pause, and three more. Was it druid code? How would she know?

  A sudden urge to escape gripped her. On the other side of the peephole was a small druid army. She shrank away. Hadn’t her mother taught her that leaving was always an option? That she could always disappear? That she could always run?

  The doorbell trilled and the raps came again. She peered around the cozy cottage. In three short days it had become Emily’s home, enveloping her in safety, warmth, and family. Belonging. The realization had her reeling. She had never belonged. Not anywhere. Not that she could remember.

  She put a hand against the wall, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore a new flurry of raps and muffled exhortations. The image of her mother appeared behind her eyelids. Obsessed with her own needs, Alexis Mayhall had never lifted a finger for anyone else. It was her downfall. She died a horrible death. An alcoholic alone in her cups.

  Shuddering, Emily shut the flashback down. It was time to let go of that wretched legacy. Time to grow up and stop running from her mother and her fears. Something cold and leaden stirred inside her. Primordial and deep, it wrapped in a tight ball at the base of her spine and went back to sleep. Emily fished in her pocket for the heirloom. The silver gleamed. Touching the emerald to her brow and heart in an unconscious act of reverence, she slid the ring on her forefinger. The stone sparkled, a flash of green that lifted her spirits as Awen’s amulet worked its magic.

  Calm strength replaced the fear. Courage and confidence, two things Emily hadn’t felt in ages, surged and filled her being. She inspected her reflection in the hall mirror and fluffed her saucy red hair.

  She really did like the color. Seeing her great-grandmother’s picture might be the reason. Weird, but she was beginning to like the thought of that, too. Emily tucked Aóme back in her pocket. Until she was worthy. She winked at her image winking back in the mirror and opened the door.

  Making It Official

  W ith a stiff nod at Emily, Mitchell Wainwright strode past her to the living room, where he took a position in front of the blazing hearth. The druids assembled around him.

  “Coffee anyone?” Emily asked.

  Several nodded, including Wainwright. She poured generous cups of the strong, steaming brew and handed them out. The druids thanked her and returned to the living room, chatting quietly amongst themselves. The attorney cleared his throat and they looked up with expectant faces. He motioned Emily to join him at the fireplace and watched as she picked her way across a sea of legs and feet. She reached the hearth, rolled her eyes at him, and faced the group.

  “Order,” the attorney paused for dramatic effect. “Meet your new Grand Druid, Emily Bridget Hester. Emily, meet your governing body.”

  A sharp rat-tat-tat peppered the front door, followed by three successive raps. Emily moved to open the door to the latecomer, but Mitchell’s arm snaked out and held her in place. She yanked her arm away and rubbed her elbow, glaring at the attorney. He glared back.

  Hands on hips in designer jeans, Morgan got in Wainwright’s face. “That will be our Priest. You do remember our High Priest, don’t you Mitchell?” Ice radiated from Morgan’s calm exterior. What was going on?

  Allowing the man no time to respond, Morgan ranted, “It’s the Priest’s duty to oversee events of importance. Yet, for some reason, he wasn’t notified. You may be Ham’s attorney, but you do not have the right to circumvent our laws. As Head of Security, I am responsible for the wellbeing of this clan. Our customs will be obeyed. The priest will perform Emily’s initiation.” The doorbell warbled.

  Initiation? Emily had been told today was her first day of training. What the hell?

  “Sorry I’m late.” Lugh swept through the door opened by a woman she didn’t know. “What did I miss?”

  Hope materialized from the corner to weave through the legs of the gypsy priest. But his dark eyes devoured Emily.

  “Hello, Hope. Welcome back,” Lugh crooned, still ogling Emily who reeled in disbelief. The handsome manager from Jocko’s Pizza was in her living room. And he was a druid Priest.

  “Hello, Lughnasadh,” the cat purred. He stooped to lift Hope in his arms, like she was a feather weight instead of a solid forty-pounder. Good-looking in the dark roguish sort of way Emily admired in a man, she tingled at the very thought of him. Now here he was, a druid Priest. Her druid Priest. Holy cannoli.

  Hope abandoned his arms and sauntered across the living room, black-ringed tail high and twitching. The druids crowded around the talking tabby, plying her with questions. In typical cat fashion, she ignored them all and waded through the druids to vault to the top of the cherry armoire. Emily hid a smile behind a sleep-starved yawn.

  From her prominent perch, Hope announced, “During Hamilton Hester’s reign, the duties of Grand Druid and High Priest coincided. But no longer.” She gazed at each druid, ending with the attorney, who squirmed beside Emily in some obvious distress. “In Mr. Wainwright’s defense, he knew no better. After all, he is not druid trained.”

  Emily straightened. Why was she defending him?

  “Without this man, Emily Bridget would not be with us today. Mitchell is responsible for bringing her home. For that, we owe him a debt of gratitude. Thank you, Mitchell.” From atop the cupboard, Hope dipped her head ever so slightly to Wainwright.

  The others followed suit, adding reluctant thanks. He nodded around the room with a tight smile, managing to keep his chin aloft. He didn’t deign to look at Emily, though her own thanks were sincere.

  Hope harrumphed loudly. She turned to the handsome newcomer and purred, “Lughnasadh MacBrayer, meet your new Grand Druid, Emily Bridget Hester.”

  Emily extended a shy hand to acknowledge Lugh’s well-wishes and had to tear her gaze from
his lopsided grin to focus on Hope.

  “Lugh has trained for the priesthood,” the cat was saying, “working with Hamilton Hester and the Eastern Order in preparation for this day.”

  Emily was having a hard time concentrating. The man was too virile, too rugged to be a Priest. Clad in jeans and leather jacket, he oozed pheromones that made Emily’s tummy churn in a most delicious way. A yowl from Hope interrupted her musings.

  “We will attend to Emily Bridget’s initiation, but first I have vital news from the animal Elders.” That got everyone’s attention. “A Darkness broods beneath our feet. A force that will soon be upon us, whether we’re ready or not. There is a veil beyond which the Elders cannot see. But the head of the Awen nation is failing. Haste is critical in getting our new Grand Druid up to speed.”

  The somber announcement landed on Emily like a bucket of ice. Six months earlier, she had tried to convince her boss of the same thing. That, and losing Trey to the cyclone, had gotten her fired. Morgan and Da had spoken of imminent danger. Now, Hope confirmed Emily’s fears.

  In a French accent smattered with Southern, Hope declared, “I, for one, am not willing to let that happen. Are any of you?” As a unit, the druids’ heads wagged. All but the attorney, who was looking a tad green. Peering down upon them, Hope continued, “On behalf of the Elders, I am here to take charge of—and accelerate—Emily’s training.”

  Hope’s tone brooked no argument, but the moment was broken when she twisted away to lick her shoulder. Gasps and hallelujahs filled the air, along with the fragrant scent of fruit wood burning. Beside Emily, the lawyer twitched. A sideways glance at his red, contorted face told her Mitch was in the throes of some intense, inner battle.

  A gurgling croak escaped his tight lips. “Excuse me. But who the hell are you?”

  “Silence!” Hope roared in a booming voice too large for her body. The room stilled. “Hold your tongue, young mouse, or I shall tie it for you.”

  In the flickering light of the morning fire, the wild-eyed attorney shrank. Fright flickered across his handsome features before the lawyer mask clicked into place. Hatred poured from him in waves. To escape the vitriol, Emily stepped to the armoire and bowed in deference to Hope.