I bit my lip hard, stilling the scream of fear. I was aware that my next contact with the wall would kill me. The agony would obliterate my mind. But what could I do? There was no way to scale the wall!
The thought crept in unerringly; did I have to scale it?
I froze, then looked at my feet. Where once there had been a concrete floor, there was now nothing. No wall. No floor. Thoughts churned in my mind at a frantic pace.
Was the answer that simple?
The walls moved again, now within a hair’s breadth of my shoulders. I didn’t take a moment to reconsider. Without another thought, I dove head-first into the floor.
My body slipped through the floor as if it were an apparition. One second I was in a jet-black room, the next I was falling. Everywhere was darkness. I swiveled my head left and right, searching for the wall, wondering if it extended down beneath the floor. But I couldn’t see it anywhere. I also couldn’t see Gage; he wasn’t in sight.
My braid streamed behind me, a sharp tug against my scalp as I continued to arrow down. Tears streamed out of my eyes, but I refused to close them. I would face my death with eyes open.
Then, I saw it—a faint prick of light in the darkness. A speck that grew with each passing second.
The light changed, morphing from a shiny speck of light into a golden hue. And as I arrowed closer, I saw it became a golden pool of water.
I felt it then, a blazing intensity of raw energy. I recognized it because I’d felt this before, from the pendant, from Gage.
It was magic.
But it felt different from Gage’s and McKenzie’s. This felt raw and jagged, as though it hadn’t been polished. My body responded, an arrowhead of elation hitting my chest because I knew what it was—it was mine.
In the next breath, I was suddenly above that glowing golden pool. I didn’t hesitate, arrowing straight into its depths, entering the bright waters with a splash. As soon as I touched the cold water, I felt a keening agony like never before. I screamed, water filling my mouth. As the liquid infiltrated every opening, the pressure burned. My eyes burst open, panic enveloping every pore. Just as I recognized this was it, there came a loud thunderclap of energy so brutal it whiplashed throughout my body.
Then all I knew was silence.
20
Talorgan
3rd Century BC, Ancient Scotland, One Month Later
Talorgan’s eyes flew open as he jack-knifed into a sitting position.
He noted that the sun, no longer high in the sky, had dwindled down to its last remnants. Dusk beckoned, along with the cooler temperature. At that awareness, gooseflesh raced across his naked skin.
He shuddered, and not just from the cold air. For he still recalled those pulsating red eyes inside that devastatingly handsome face; recalled those vicious, pointed teeth that glinted with a hard edge as the Dark God Arawn smiled at him. And he still recalled that overwhelmingly cruel, yet melodious voice that had assaulted his senses. But more damning than anything was the deep, raw cut in his palm that throbbed with savage agony.
A cut that had cemented the exchange of his soul for the power that now resided in his veins. He felt it whisper then, akin to a lover’s caress. Arawn’s gift in return for his soul.
Talorgan swallowed past the hard lump that threatened to choke his breath. He forced himself to lie back down on the bull’s hide, no longer sticky with fresh blood but now stained and pungent. He considered what had been foretold. His racing thoughts settled on the three main points he had learned from the Dark God during his journey into bull sleep—a journey that had cemented his new parasitic relationship with Arawn.
One, it was Tritus who had gotten Cailleach with child.
Two, Arawn would raise the demon, Falin, to help him kill Tritus.
And three—here he shivered, because the third point meant that his memories would be forever stained with the murder of a child—and an unborn one at that.
“Please!” the woman pleaded hoarsely, a word she’d repeated a thousand times already.
Her feet kicked ineffectually as she twisted her bloodied wrists against the knotted rope that fastened her arms to the wooden mast behind her.
Talorgan ignored the virgin’s whimpers. She was now the Dark God’s. He knelt to brush the twigs and grass away from the base of the mast. It needed to be clear of any obstacles, the perfect canvas.
Satisfied that the area was well-prepared, he stood fluidly, careful to ensure the hood of his red robe remained on his head, maintaining his face in shadow.
He felt comfortable in this new color. The brown robes he’d previously worn had not felt right after his move to the darkness—they’d been too neutral, too weak. The deep red of his robe was a symbol of his power, a clarion call that heralded to all what he had now become—master of his own destiny, goaded by the image of Cailleach’s rounded belly.
Then, she would have considered him as nothing more than another Druid, powerless and weak. Now, as a result of the power that resided in his veins—a power that had rooted for purchase so deep within his soul that it could never be eradicated—Talorgan knew without question that she would consider him an equal.
And he reveled in it. In his newfound strength, in the power that enriched his existence—an existence that, following his bargain with the Dark God, was now immortal.
He’d previously dabbled in the Dark Arts, participating in a virgin sacrifice around the time the Gauls had invaded their village. Talorgan had been surprised at how unaffected he felt as they’d stripped the skin off that virgin’s body, how her cries had not moved him to free her from the bonds of torture. For she had served the gods, served her life’s purpose.
Returning to the village to delve further into the Dark Arts was a natural course of action, especially after Arawn had claimed his soul. For when he manipulated the forces of energy around him, he felt a strong affinity to cause pain, to hurt and destroy. And if he was honest, Talorgan also knew that he had never been satisfied simply to gather herbs, mix potions or attend to the sick and needy. Master Girom’s tutorage had stifled his energy and creativity. He had always known he was made for greater things.
Talorgan didn’t know when it all started to change. He only knew why. When the Gauls had come to their shores and plundered what was not rightfully theirs, Talorgan had soon realized that his people were the weaker party. That his people would eventually lose the battle and succumb to the Gaul’s demands for a joint settlement. He had hated it. Hated being on the weaker side. Just as he hated their strange gods, sneering at the possibility that they believed in only two deities who ruled them all.
Like that first virgin who had been sacrificed, Talorgan knew his path was similarly set. Knew his gods had pushed him onto the path on which he now stood—the path he couldn’t get off, even if he wanted to.
Yes, this path felt right. It was where he was meant to be. Right here, right now.
Reinvigorated for the task at hand, Talorgan reached into his robe and firmly clutched the handle of his ceremonial knife. He whispered a short prayer to Arawn under his breath, asking for his divine guidance. Then, readying his arm for the thrust, he drew breath and lunged. The knife plunged directly into the virgin’s chest; its edge honed to a sharp point through hours of care. He relished the pull of sinew, the crunch of bone.
The virgin jerked back from the force of the thrust, her terrorized screams ending in a choked gargle. Her eyes were wide, white opals, staring in open horror at his hooded face.