Ghosts of Albion: Witchery Read online

  Witchery

  A Ghosts of Albion Novel

  Amber Benson and

  Christopher Golden

  Ballantine Books • New York

  For my dad, who always wants to know “Why?” And to Beverly, Adam, Diane, and Danielle— my family.

  — A.B.

  For my daughter, Lily Grace. Always.

  — C.G.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors would like to thank Tim Mak and Steve Saffel, the editors who have shepherded the Ghosts of Albion novels, and the entire team at Del Rey for their tireless work. Thanks, also, to Peter Donaldson, Adam Rosen, Bill Schaefer, Timothy Brannan, and Rob Francis, for their support and assistance, and to all of you who’ve helped spread the word about GoA from the very start. Chris would also like to thank Connie and the crazy kids, without whom life would be boringly sane.

  Cloaked in shadows, Aine skulked through the orderly corridors of Stronghold and slipped past the guards, out into the wild wood in search of love and magic.

  Oh, there was magic aplenty within the walls of that gleaming citadel, and in the spire that thrust upward from the heart of the forest, but it was a pale shade of the passionate magic she dreamed of, and knew existed. All she had to do was take that first step, beyond this world, into Faerie, the land of her birth.

  The sisters of Stronghold still held to the old ways, but the ordinary world had begun to influence them so that this outpost between the worlds had become tame.

  Aine yearned for wild magic, for unfettered love. She withered from the taint of the humdrum.

  No longer.

  Tonight she would embrace the wild of the wood and the chaos that true magic was meant to unleash. If she could not cross back over into Faerie, then she would find that magic here. The moment she passed through the door and moved into the trees beyond the walls of Stronghold she began to run, laughing softly, her heart exulting in this freedom. Her long, royal blue cape was clasped firmly, with the hood pulled low over her head, to obscure her face and disguise her from anyone she might pass. The color was deep enough to hide her as she moved through the shadows. The night was cloudy, so shadows were plentiful.

  Aine had left her bedchamber dark, with two large pillows forming a soft outline under the thick bedclothes. She knew the ruse wouldn’t fool anyone who came too close, but there was no reason for anyone to seek her out this evening. Unless the winds of fate blew ill and by some coincidence one of her sisters or cousins sought her companionship, all would be well.

  There was a chill in the air that touched her face with cold breath and tried to slide its icy fingers inside the folds of her cape. The garment had been a gift from her aunt Giselle, a member of the council that ruled Stronghold. She wrapped the woolen drape more tightly around her shoulders, grateful for its warmth, as well as its cover.

  Now she came to a small clearing and paused in the dim moonlight. She slid her fingers along the cape’s hem, until she found the hidden pocket that lay within, and produced a tiny whistle. Aine put the whistle to her lips, tasting it, but did not blow. She was only supposed to use the instrument when she reached the safety of the sacred circle of rowan trees, in the woods south of Stronghold. There she would play the haunting melody that the sprite Serena had taught her.

  A mischievous grin touched her lips as she thought of Serena. Though fairies and sprites were kin, Aine had been taught all her life to avoid her people’s tiny, capricious cousins. Sprites visited Stronghold from time to time on one bit of business or another, but rarely were they welcomed within the outpost’s halls. Aunt Giselle had tried to discourage Aine’s friendship with little Serena, but the sprite had become her dearest friend. She was pure emotion, and entirely honest, and Aine loved her for it.

  “Sprites may be kin, but they are better allies than neighbors,” Giselle had often said.

  Aine always nodded gravely, long having realized there was no point in arguing against this prejudice. And if her friendship with Serena had made her more mischievous herself, in truth she cherished that part of her heart.

  Magic was meant to be wild.

  Like love. Love, which had driven her out into the forest tonight. The melody she would produce with her whistle was a powerful Calling. It would create a phantom manifestation of her true, destined love, no matter where he might be. Aine so longed for love that she was determined to discover what the future held for her, what man would hold her, and take her, and want her forever.

  So she walked on, continuing southward.

  It was strange to think that she didn’t know his name or even what he looked like. She imagined that his hands would be strong and warm, burning his touch into the soft skin of her shoulders as he pulled her ever so gently toward him, their lips brushing in that first magnificent kiss. It was all childish fantasy, of course, and she knew that it was only his image she would summon, not the flesh and blood man.

  The crunch of dirt underfoot yielded to the soft hush of dew-touched grass, and soon Aine found herself surrounded by the majestic ring of ancient trees. Their beauty took her breath away. The others in Stronghold rarely ventured this far south. There was many a tale told of human girls— and fairies, as well— being captured by the ghostly Wild Edric and ravished by his retinue of huntsmen, undead creatures that roamed the woods, embroiled in an eternal hunt.

  Aine paid no heed to these tall tales. There was no creature, human or magical, that could frighten her away from her destiny. She wouldn’t allow it.

  Something shifted in the woods nearby; a tree branch cracked, and the leaves rustled in the rowans. She squeaked, startled, and turned her head toward the sound, but saw nothing. Aine listened intently, but after a few moments of silence, she shook her head, assuming that her fright had been prompted by the prowling of some nocturnal beast.

  I am not afraid.

  She had work to do, and she wasn’t going to let some woodland creature chase her away. She slipped off her cloak, setting it carefully in the grass, and went to stand in the middle of the grove. She took a piece of bloodred ribbon from her dress pocket and pulled her straight, chestnut hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. At her shoulder blades she could feel the tickle of magic, the place where— if she wished it— gossamer wings might emerge.

  But that was for another night.

  Aine knew that most considered her pretty. Of course, humans could not be trusted to view the creatures of Faerie objectively. Magic clouded their vision, so that they could only see great beauty or abject terror when looking at fairies and sprites and their like. But all of her friends at Stronghold assured her she was beautiful. In a mirror, Aine might admire her own face. Her eyes were soft and brown, ringed by a fringe of dark lashes, and her lips were pink and fetching, forming a perfect bow. When she smiled, her eyes crinkled up at the corners, and the sprite Serena had once said that her laughter was like the sound of a thousand tiny silver bells, all being rung at once.

  Yet Aine never felt beautiful. At sixteen, her gangly body often seemed beyond her control. In her mind, she moved with the awkwardness of a newly born colt. Her body felt cumbersome, causing her to continue to see herself as a child, rather than the young woman she had become.

  The wind picked up, and Aine wished she had not taken off her cape so quickly. She ran her hands briskly over her exposed forearms, trying to warm her chilly body, but only managed to bring out more gooseflesh.

  She looked up, her eyes scanning the cloudy heavens. A patch of open night appeared as a large cloud was shifted south by the whim of the wind, revealing the full moon that the sky chart had promised her.

  If she did not complete the Calling before midnight, she would be forced to wait anothe
r month before she could try it again. That would be an eternity. No, tonight had to be the night.

  Another loud crack filled the air, echoing around the sacred circle. The sound came from somewhere behind the trees. She felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and a cold shiver spread down her spine and into her back. She turned, her eyes wide with fear— and saw

  Nothing.

  Aine slowly released the breath she had not known she was holding, her eyes refusing to believe what they saw. She could sense something large watching her from behind the thicket. Yet, the fact that she saw nothing actually frightened her.

  She began to understand why people told ghost stories about this place. She took a deep, calming breath and felt her heart skipping double-time inside her chest. The moon disappeared behind another cloud, throwing the little grove of trees into darkness.

  Aine almost screamed as she heard a low rustling to her right. Peering into the shadows, she saw a large, flowering shrub begin to shake.

  “Who’s who’s there ?”

  Her voice was shrill, even to her own ears.

  Something erupted from inside the bush, bulleting toward her. Aine did scream this time, the sound ripping from her throat as terror seized her.

  She spun and began to run, but immediately lost her footing on an exposed root and fell hard onto her hip. She cried out, pain shooting down her side, and squeezed her eyes shut against the oncoming tears.

  Frantically she pushed up onto her hands and knees. She bit her lip against the hurt, and began to crawl as fast as she could away from her attacker.

  Aine put the tiny silver whistle to her lips and blew furiously on it. She was no longer focused upon her original purpose, instead merely hoping that someone would hear, and come to her aid.

  The entire grove was overtaken by the sound. It filled the air, suffusing the forest with the tintinnabulation of a thousand ordinary whistles. The sound was accompanied by the scent of crushed rose petals.

  As she drew in a shaking breath, the whistle fell from her lips, and she sank to the ground. She looked up and stared at the beast that had frightened her so, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

  The fawn stood, trembling, in the middle of the grove, its liquid brown eyes locked on the terrified girl who lay sprawled in the grass. It shook itself, and bits of shrub still attached to its tail fell softly to the ground.

  Aine began to gulp air, and that became a giggle, shock causing a mild hysteria to overcome her. She pulled herself up into a crouch, careful of her injured hip, her heart drumming loudly in her ears. She reached out with a tentative hand.

  The fawn took off like a shot, the scent of fairy magic frightening it into action.

  Something behind the fawn caught her attention and her heart seized in her chest. Then she remembered the whistle, and the magic she had set out to perform this evening, the purpose of that Calling.

  Apparently, it had been successful.

  “Hello, there,” she whispered, the words still etched with a trace of giddiness.

  The young man blinked, his silvery face contorted in confusion, as he stood before her in a pair of loose-fitting britches and a longish nightshirt.

  Aine moved closer, letting her hand touch the translucent outline of the young man’s figure. It was cold and clammy, and she immediately pulled her fingers away from him.

  “You’re so cold,” she said, but the young man did not reply. His gaze was far away.

  Aine sat back on her heels, wincing at the sharp pain that shot across her side, and took a better look at the man she had called.

  She felt a pang when she realized he was really more of a boy than a man, with longish dark hair that curled in hanging coils, framing his face. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were dark or light, but there was a kindness that emitted from them that warmed her heart, and chased away her fleeting disappointment.

  He had a nice face, his aquiline nose holding court over a smallish mouth and high, patrician cheekbones. He sneezed, and his thin shoulders shook, making Aine laugh.

  I wish you could hear me, she thought. Or, at least, tell me your name.

  Slowly, the apparition began to fade away.

  “Please, don’t go!” Aine called, but it was no use. After a few moments, the vision of the young man disappeared entirely.

  More saddened by the experience than comforted, Aine used the trunk of one of the rowan trees for support as she pulled herself to her feet. She reached for her cape, draped it over her shoulders, locked the clasp, and was immediately enveloped in its warmth.

  Her hip hurt when she put her weight on it, but it was sturdy enough to hold her up. Her eyes on the ground in front of her, she took a step forward, then stopped, as a long shadow crossed her line of vision.

  She looked up, expecting to see the fawn again, or perhaps the phantom young man. Instead, she found herself face to face with a stranger.

  “Oh,” she stammered, and she froze.

  The figure wore a heavy brown cloak, its hood pulled low enough to hide its entire face. It stood less than three feet away from her, but made no move to close the gap between them.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, emboldened by the fact that it made no advance.

  The creature offered no reply. Instead, with startling speed, it reached out a gnarled hand and grabbed her by the throat, cutting off any cry for help.

  Aine fought desperately against the creature’s hold, raking her long nails across the heavy fabric of its cloak, trying to claw at the flesh beneath. The thick garment protected it, but still she lashed out, again and again, trying to hurt it, to break its hold on her.

  The world began to swim around her as its grip on her throat choked off her air. She struck out with her fist, knocking its hood back, revealing its long, twisted face, and eyes that gleamed in the pale glow of moonlight.

  Aine raised her hand to strike again. The creature gave a shrill cry, mouth cruelly contorted, and with its free hand it grabbed her arm, stopping the blow before it fell.

  With a quick twist, it shattered the bones in her right forearm.

  Its grip on her throat tightened, closing off her scream. Glaring into her eyes, it intoned a spell in an ancient, barbaric tongue. If only she could breathe, she thought she could have made out the words, understood that old, dead language.

  The flesh of her face rippled with magic. Needles of agony shot through her mouth, and then she understood. But Aine could do nothing as tight little stitches threaded through her lips, suturing her mouth closed.

  Blackness pooled in her peripheral vision as the last of her strength began to leave her, only the pain in her shattered arm keeping her from losing consciousness.

  Now that she was unable to scream, the creature released its grip on her throat. She breathed desperately through her nose, the threat of suffocation receding with the blackness around her vision.

  Wildly she searched her mind for some magic that would not require words or the gestures of both hands. She could think of nothing.

  A single spark of hope remained.

  With a thought, she summoned her wings. Diaphanous and glittering with vivid color, they unfurled instantly from her back.

  Aine reached deep within herself for a single, last drop of strength. With her good hand she hammered at the creature’s grip even as she raised her legs, propped her feet against its torso, and pushed.

  She broke its grasp. Hope blossomed and she spun desperately in the air, wings beating, driving her skyward. She could see the moon and the stars through the opening in the trees above, and flew toward the dark, velvet sky.

  A hand caught her by the wing and pulled her back down. The creature got a fist tangled in her hair and held her fast. With the other, it ripped her left wing from her back.