Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 31
Aunt Mo's scars come across more vividly in the soft lighting of the kitchen. It’s difficult to tear my regard away, but as my fingers finally obey, I’m drawn to the deck.
The first turn of the velvety card reveals artfully arranged swords, nine in all. In clear, bold black the words Nine of Swords is written. The second turn reveals a gangly skeleton. It leans heavily against a scythe that is larger than its body. Death is printed below the image.
With my heart skipping a beat, my fingers linger along the soft edge of the last card I am to turn.
I exhale slowly and flip the last card. A pentacle stares back at me. The star and circle are simple in design, but surrounding the pentacle are embossed flowerlike shapes, connected through winding lines. The Ace of Pentacles.
“Finished?” Aunt Mo asks.
“Yes.”
“And did you turn the nine of swords, death, and the ace of pentacles. In that order.”
I swallow and lick my lips. “Yes.” My pulse thumps loudly in my ears as I seek out the last card. The ace of pentacles is eerily mesmerizing with its pearly white lines so stark against the velvety black surface of the card. “What does this one mean?”
Aunt Mo's lashes sweep open, and dull blue eyes stare back at me. “In due time. We begin with the swords. From the start, I found it peculiar that it should be dealt first.”
“Why?” I ask anxiously. Aunt Mo smiles back at me, taking a sip of her tea.
“I’ve beheld it many a time as a companion to death. As a symbol of mourning and grief to the period of time after someone is lost. But to start the reading, it gives a different impression. It means the reader hosts concerns about death. They have it on their mind. And if this is the case, then it is on the mind for a good reason.”
My gaze darts nervously around the room, expecting to find some eavesdropper. No one is there.
“Before you came to me, I didn’t have it on my mind. What do you make of that?” I ask.
“Didn’t you?” she retorts coolly. “Perhaps not death, but a punishment worse than it?”
I inhale quickly with a gentle hiss accompanying the action. Our eyes colliding. Desperately, I wish to lash back as fear spikes through me at her strange magic and insight. How can she possibly know such things about me? Hadn’t I thought of the worst with my mother’s threat?
“Fine,” I relent, albeit shakily. I jab the middle card with an accusatory finger. “And this? This represents someone's death?”
“It does, but it is the ace which speaks of its truer meaning. Always look to the card following death to read it correctly. If the card following is positive, it represents a new beginning. A metaphorical death.”
“And if it’s not?” I ask, already knowing the answer as a hollow feeling grows inside of me. I finger the soft surface, a shiver dancing up my spine.
“If the card is negative in nature, the card will represent a physical death.” Aunt Mo reaches out across the table, her hand reaching for death’s card before shifting sideways to the ace of pentacles. “The ace of pentacles is highly regarded as a positive card, Winter.”
A sob of relief bursts past my lips but ends almost as quickly as it arrives. Aunt Mo’s eyes hold a distinct sadness to them as she peers at me and not the card beneath her withered and scarred hand.
“We must not read the cards as a whole. The swords represent the coming of death, confirmed by the card itself, and reinforced by the ace of pentacles.”
My jaw drops open. “But you said it’s a positive card. You said it represents a metaphorical death.”
Her hand stretches out further until it encompasses my own. “Though the death of a loved one is a heartbreaking experience, not all that is rote from it is bad. Good may come from death. At times the ace of pentacles represents inheritance. You may find yourself in possession of your loved ones most treasured possession—”
“I don’t want that!”
I jerk my hand out of her empathetic touch and topple my chair backward in my hasty retreat. Standing on shaky legs, I hold my hand protectively to my chest.
“I don’t want an inheritance. I don’t want anyone to die.” My voice cracks, and I struggle to hold back the new wash of tears that surges to block my vision. Aunt Mo’s tea is losing out to my turbulent emotions.
“It will all be over soon,” Aunt Mo soothes.
For a moment I do nothing. Then a keening noise breaks the tenuous silence between us. My lashes shutter closed as my lament ends.
“How soon?”
Her hesitation draws my questioning gaze. I watch as a shudder ripples over her body, her eyes lost to some void beyond once more.
“The full moon will bring the packs suffering to an end,” she says. Her words come out as little more than a husky rasp. It brings my own turmoil out of focus as I take in the next raking shudder that overcomes her body.
“Maureen?” I question gently, shuffling to her side and taking a knee as she sucks in a ragged breath. “Are you all right?”
She pats my hand, the movement providing little comfort as it's intended. “Aunt Mo, dear, call me Aunt Mo.”
“Aunt Mo… should I go fetch someone? You don’t seem well,” I say carefully.
Her ivory hair accentuates her sudden pallor. And if I'm not mistaken, her eyes remain slightly out of focus, even as she continues to steady her breathing.
“No, child. I’ve merely exerted too much energy. We are not meant to see all, only blessed to see what is meant to be.”
“And you see a death caused by my hand,” I murmur. Her hand squeezes mine. I cannot help but stare at the vivid red scars that decorate it. “Do they hurt?”
“Ah… yes. Pain is my constant companion.” She grimaces as her sight clears and focuses on my deferential form. Though she makes a motion to usher me up and back to my seat, I remain. This time, it is my hand that squeezes hers.
The scent of magic still lies heavily in the air, but there is so much more to detect from the room beside this unearthly energy. A waft of something unpleasant drifts past my nose. It bites at my olfactory epithelium and makes my nose wrinkle at the smell of musty mothball and sour rot.
It takes a long minute for me to realize the smell comes from Aunt Mo. Aunt Mo who typically wears her obnoxiously heavy perfume. Aunt Mo who seems to be in a constant state of fatigue.
“You’re sick,” I say. She scoffs. This time it is Aunt Mo who tugs her hand away, but I remain bent at the knee and study her sudden scowl. “I can smell it. There’s no point in trying to deny it.”
“Oh, sit down, child. You make me feel old when you pose like that. Go on now, sit.”
I do so reluctantly and without taking my eyes off her once. Her features have lost their severe cut and are rearranged into something far more tired. It drags down her cheeks and the corners of her soft pink lips.
“How long have you been this way?” I ask, eyes roaming freely over what scarring shows. “What happened?”
She lets out a plaintive sigh. “A deal gone wrong is the sole reason for my state. That, and my slow feet. I’m not as spry as I once was. These scars are the aftereffects of a curse I was unable to dodge. One day they’ll be the death of me, but I don’t need the cards to tell me this.”
My hands curl to fists in my lap. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Aunt Mo smiles softly back at me but makes no reply otherwise.
“How can you be so calm about it?” I ask, unnerved by her acceptance. “After what I did today, I can barely stand to look at myself in the mirror. And now these stupid cards are saying I’m going to get someone killed? I won’t be able to live with myself if it comes true.”
“There is good that comes from death,” she reminds me, reaching out to tap the ace of pentacles. “Don’t forget that.”
We sit quietly for a long time. Aunt Mo’s worrying gaze drills into me from across the table as I stare at the cards.
“What’s on your mind, child?”
My lashes fall to rest against my cheeks. “What isn’t?” I respond weakly. “What I want most at the moment is to find some way to fix what I’ve done to Zoelle, but each idea I come up with is pointless. If I ask my parents, they’ll only use the circumstances as leverage against us. They don’t want me speaking or questioning Lucy—not that she’d be of great help anyway because it's clear my parents deliberately gave her a limited amount of information.
"I don’t know where to go from here. Sometimes I wish Atticus and I had never met. If I had never come here, I wouldn’t have had to split my loyalties between the packs—”
Her loud snort stops my lament. My eyes snap open to see her bemused expression.
“If one thing is clear about this mess, it is not in concern to what pack has your loyalty, but what person. Your soulmark or the girl whom you so clearly love like a mother would a daughter. Your parents were very clever in pitting you against your heart. And very cruel.”
I duck my head, and my hair comes down to shield my face from the world. “I don’t think that’s how people will see it.” No matter how right her words are.
“In time they will.”
In time they will… I release a hollow laugh and shake my head from side to side as I raise my gaze back to the elderly witch. Letting my shoulders drop back, I rest against the back of the chair. A laden sigh follows my odd burst of laughter.
“Time isn’t exactly on my side. The full moon is in ten days. Ten days, and then someone is going to die because of me.” My hands cup my face as a noise of frustration gurgles up in my throat. I am completely fucked. “If I don’t manage to fix Zoelle by then, I’ll have another person’s blood on my hands. And I don’t think any amount of time can fix that.”
“Good can come—”
“From death,” I finish. Aunt Mo arches a brow at me as I finish her sentence. With my insides twisting and bunching in indecision, I snatch up the ace of pentacles. My forefinger traces the lines of the star.
“You worry far too much for things that lie out of your control,” Aunt Mo tells me. “We’ll discover the means to reverse the tonic’s effects in due time. Right now, we must celebrate and acknowledge of our small victories. We have one of theirs and can question him about his knowledge, such as why they came after you again.”
I frown and set down the card. “I don’t know how much information you’ll be able to get out of the Wselfwulf. At least not in regards to the tonic,” I reply with a frown. “They wanted my necklace.”
Aunt Mo stares inquisitively back at me. “What necklace, dear?”
I pull the necklace out from my shirt, tipping my head down slightly as I raise the long chain over my head and place it on the table beneath us. The moonstone is not out of place among the tarot cards. Indeed, it seems to fit right in with the witch’s tools.
“It’s a family heirloom. My mother gave it to me as a gift for my wedding. We’ve had it for ages.”
A hum of interest purrs from Aunt Mo’s throat. She reaches for the necklace, then pauses. “May I?”
I nod and fold my arms over my chest, looking thoughtfully at the opalescent surface. “They said something about payment, but I—Maureen!”
The older woman’s fingers grace the moonstone’s smooth surface, and she instantly goes still. Her eyes roll back in her head, and a delirious moan erupts from her lips.
I dart to her side, knocking the necklace away from her tentative touch. She slumps against me, and I cast a furtive look over my shoulder. No. Not Aunt Mo. I can’t kill her.
“Please don’t die. Please, please, please don’t die,” I beg as I gently shake her.
“Oh, tosh, child,” she mutters. “My tea,” she croaks, trying to right herself.
I fuss about her, helping her to sit upright even though my hands shake. When I’ve successfully passed the tea into her hands, my shaking subsides… some.
“What just happened?” I ask breathlessly after she downs her tea.
Aunt Mo takes a long minute to respond. “I’m not entirely certain,” she responds. “But one thing is clear. That necklace is far more important than you give it credit for. I’ve never felt such magic from a singular object before. And never one so well cloaked.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“You family necklace is more than it seems,” she continues, eyeing the jewelry with a wary eye. “We’ll need Diana to look at it. I’ve not the strength for the task.”
We’re too busy taking in the enormity of the moment to notice the goings-on around us. In the time it takes for Aunt Mo to gather her wits, and me to calm my racing heart, a throat clears noisily from the hallway entryway. I spin to face the witch in question… and Atticus. Both wear matching frowns at our figures.
“Need me for what, exactly?” Diana asks, her brows pinching even more tightly together.
Warrior’s Words
Chapter 18
Aunt Mo and I share a look, our consternation shared at being interrupted. Heaving a sigh, Aunt Mo hauls herself up. At my vantage point, I see the way her hands strain with the action. I’m tempted to help, but I catch the subtle shake of her head just before she tilts her chin up.
“There’s been a development,” Aunt Mo says. Diana takes a step into the kitchen, the bell-shaped ends of her peasant top sleeves billowing as they move to cross over her chest. She doesn’t take her eyes off me when she answers.
“Do we have another comatose witch on our hands?”
“Diana.” Aunt Mo’s rebuke is far sharper than I expect. Diana’s dark eyes shift to her cohort, and the harsh lines about her face soften. “Be thankful it wasn’t lesser hands who attempted to deliver the tonic, for the situation we are in would be far less manageable.”
Diana gives a stiff nod. It is clear she is unused to such reprimands and tries to regain her imposing stance.
“What is it then?” she asks, instead of offering an apology. I step out of Aunt Mo’s way as she edges forward from the table to stand at my side.
“The girl’s necklace. It hosts powerful magic. One I’ve never felt before,” Aunt Mo explains.
Both Atticus and Diana’s eyes widen at the revelation, but only Diana comes forward to inspect the piece of jewelry lying precariously at the tables end.
“Don’t touch it!” I warn as Diana reaches out. She glares at me but stops at my warning. “Aunt Mo did and… and it did something to her.” I look back to the other witch for confirmation of my statement, and she nods.
Aunt Mo sends the necklace a hearty glare.
“The magic is well masked by dark intent. I barely touched the moonstone, when it reacted. It caused momentary paralysis, and a pain inside that made every nerve ending feel as if it was being seared. Yet, when Winter knocked away the necklace, it was clear the pain had been an illusion.” Aunt Mo touches her temple tentatively. “I’ve not had a headache this terrible since my antics in the 70s.”
“You need to rest. You’ve pushed yourself too hard today,” Diana says, her frown back in place. Although this one holds a motherly edge to it.
“I know my limits,” Aunt Mo gripes and hobbles forward. “Which is why I’m going to bed. Don’t let anyone touch that necklace… no witch at least. You’ve never felt pain while wearing the necklace, have you, Winter?”
I shake my head. “No. Although, I don't always feel comfortable wearing it,” I admit. “It's difficult to explain the feeling, but perhaps it was the magic?”
My skepticism shows in the high-pitched tone I take, but Diane and Aunt Mo give an acknowledging nod at my thought process.
“I’ll make sure the necessary precautions are taken. It might be best to take it to a different location for examination. In case anything were to go wrong, I don’t want Zoelle and my grandbaby to be in the near vicinity.”
“Diana, I’m—” Her scowl almost stops me, but I plow forward, faltering only slightly “—sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do everything I can to help make this right.”
“We’ll see,” she says tersely. Diana’s nose thrusts up into the air as she places a protective hand on her friends back and guides her away. “You two know where the door is.”
I watch them go with a sigh. My energy is fading from the long day's events. But the weight of Atticus's regard draws my spine up straight. I turn my gray eyes to him. His face is carefully blank as he looks me over.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shifting my weight to my other foot under his scrutiny. “I didn’t plan on leaving—”
“You’re hurt.”
I freeze at his interruption, then nod dumbly in return. Blinking owlishly at him, I soon set my sights to my offended hand. “It’s healed now,” I tell him mechanically. “I just haven’t had the chance to clean it up yet.”
“You’re all right?”
My eyebrows shoot up as my heart gives an unexpected jump at his concern. An undeniable longing strikes at my center, urging me to say no. Because nothing is all right and absolutely everything is wrong. But maybe if he would just hold me in his arms—
I shake away the thought and the hot flush that stains my cheeks at my impractical thoughts. Get a grip, Winter.
“Just a bit shaken, is all,” I mumble and give a cracked smile.
My weak smile slips away as his eyes stay steadfast on my bloodied hand. I itch to place it out of view—behind my back or in my pants’ pocket perhaps—but instinct tells me the idea is foolish. Instead, I clench the hand into a tight fist, hiding the worst of the dried blood. Atticus’s nose flares, and his stormy eyes drill into me. Their depths are unfathomable.
“Atticus, I—”
He approaches with a suddenness that makes me take a step back. My shocked gasp sounds loudly in my ears I eye him with slight dismay. Atticus's dark gaze tapers under the slant of his eyebrows. I swallow.
There is something animalistic in his approach, and so I don’t expect him to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me into him. His other hand roughly dives up the back of my neck to grab a fist full of hair. With another tremulous gasp, I allow him to tilt my head back, and his lips take mine.
