When Darkness Comes Read online

  The weekends and evenings away from home while Officer Marshall was mastering daddyhood were another matter. He’d be glad to get back to a regular five-day shift that allowed him to spend evenings with his family.

  Staring off into the distance, he thought about the Facebook e-mail he had received from Galen. Never in a million years would he have thought the two of them would develop a friendship. The fact that it was a Christian one, was even more amazing. He shook his head with a laugh. The memories…

  How far they had all come. He thought back to college and the events that had led to marry a former black-magick-practicing witch. A grin lifted the corners of his mouth. Who could have seen that coming?

  How he loved that woman. Outside of my salvation, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  His other college friends had moved on. Eric had moved to California. Terry had accepted a job transfer to Cincinnati. Karen met a guy just prior to graduation, got married, and moved to Wyoming, of all places. And, Marta… he didn’t really know. He kept up to date with the other three through Facebook, but try as he may, Brent could not find a Marta Liliana Rosales Rivas, or any combination of those names that turned out to be his old friend.

  She probably married, he mused. The name change is making it impossible to locate her. He’d thought about using his resources in law enforcement to track her down. However, not only was that illegal, but a breach of her privacy as well. So, he let it be.

  The last time he had seen her was immediately following their graduation ceremony. The months prior had made it obvious that things were starting to get serious between Tara and him. Marta had never shown the slightest twinge of jealousy, only sincere friendship to both of them through their entire final year of college.

  After the diplomas had been presented and the mortarboards had been thrown into the air, Marta had caught up with him while standing outside in the plaza with his parents and sister.

  She approached them with a big smile on her face and tears welling up in her eyes. Walking directly up to him, she gave him a big hug, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “You two are going to be so happy together, and I need to respect that.” When she pulled back he could see a tinge of sadness touching her eyes. She turned from him and walked away. Though he called out after her, she didn’t stop.

  He never saw Marta again.

  When he had told Tara later that day, it had brought her to tears. Oh, how things had changed between the two women. They were more than friends, they had become sisters.

  What a great reunion Heaven will bring, he contemplated.

  The thought of Heaven brought his mind back to what he and the pastor had talked about earlier: A demonic force; a prince and power of the air.

  I sure hope not.

  5:18 P.M.

  BRENDAN, STEPHANIE, AND David sat around the kitchen table of the large farmhouse, drinking coffee. Decisions needed to be made regarding the upcoming gathering at the farm of the recently-established Society of Bridei.

  David McNeill had been a member of the Home Coven since 1985, at the age of twenty-two. He had been eager from the start. A graduate from Oberlin College, he had already earned two bachelor’s degrees; one in archeology, the other in anthropology.

  Based on Brendan’s genealogical research, the probability had been strong that David’s roots ran back to the Picti people. The final proof had come through the discovery of a distant relative that connected his mother’s heritage to one of the known bloodlines.

  After being inducted into the coven—he was the fourth member by that time—David had been groomed for a specific task within the group: Find both the scattered pieces of the Picti Key Stone as well as the Key of Bridei, itself. No small task, even for the self-described “research nerd.”

  He and his work had proved invaluable, not to mention that he was extremely faithful to the cause. His twin sister, Donna, though, was an altogether different story.

  She was the big question mark. Brendan thought she was a risk, while Stephanie thought of her more as just an “aloof nuisance.” Either way, she didn’t want anything to do with her Picti heritage, though her brother never seemed to stop trying to find ways to create an interest within her.

  The Village of Pittston, where the Home Coven was based, was not the ideal location to gather, but it was the best that could be arranged without raising suspicion.

  The influx of people into the U.S. for vacations in the warm months would draw less attention than groups of foreigners flooding into some small village in Scotland.

  The less that the local authorities knew about their gathering, the better. Travelers flying into Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport would be common-place come June. Lake Erie, the islands off of Sandusky Bay, and Cedar Point amusement park always drew large numbers of international visitors. The half-hour drive to Pittston would also prove convenient for most of those arriving.

  So far, 221 of the 325 current members had confirmed their attendance. Flights were being booked, as were hotels throughout the surrounding area. It would be ideal if all of the members would attend, but Brendan knew from a purely logistical standpoint that it was unlikely. Some of the members had not yet received their passports and others just didn’t have the financial means or the time to travel abroad. The latter two, in Brendan’s opinion, were damned-poor excuses.

  Getting people onto the farm without raising suspicion was really going to be the trick. Fortunately, though, the local police issue was already handled, and they still had a couple of months to consider how to disguise the gathering.

  The discussion this afternoon centered on ceremony. How much was too much or too little? From a practical standpoint, the core of the Society knew that little-to-no ceremony was actually needed in order to conjure spirits or conduct spell casting.

  The practice of true magick only required a few consecrated tools and materials, the proper environment, correctly-recited incantations, and discipline within the members present. These things would garner the attention of the ancient gods of the Picti.

  For many of the members, though, practicality was not going to cut it. The resurrection of the old religion almost begged for ritual ceremony. Brendan had a flashback to the movie, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. That ridiculous headpiece and stupid costume of the high priest were, more than likely, nothing at all like the clothing of those who had actually worshiped the Goddess Kali.

  He sighed.

  “Yes?” asked David.

  “I’m still torn. Will we really be disrespecting the ancient gods by not wearing some sort of historical garb? Would we truly be disrespecting our people? I’m very close to deciding that we just go with blue jeans and T-shirts. Forget trying to meet people’s preconceived ideas.”

  “Our forefathers were mostly naked for ceremonies,” countered Stephanie.

  “Yes, and ideally that would work for us, as well,” responded Brendan. “But, even if we did do that, what of our plain skin? Do we ceremonially—obviously temporarily—dye ourselves blue? Do we ink our skin with tattoos? I must admit, if there is anything that I don’t like, it’s the idea of unnecessary additions to what should be the simplest of ceremonies.”

  “I say we go all the way,” said David. “Give them what they’re expecting. I can’t imagine traveling thousands of miles to just hang out in summer clothes.”

  Brendan’s face pulled into a deep-seated frown. He was frustrated. “I don’t want a carnival event!” He slammed a hand down on the table and got up from his chair.

  Startled, Stephanie and David watched as Brendan began to pace with his right hand at his forehead.

  “This is not for entertainment,” he continued, reigning in his emotions. “This is to be taken with the utmost solemnity.” He stopped pacing and looked at the two, still seated. “We respect the old religion. We do not mock it. Those in attendance must be warned of the sanctity of the gathering. We are going to be resurrecting a religion that has bee
n dead for almost twelve-hundred years. If any of the attendees do anything to mock this, I will deal with them most severely.”

  Stephanie stood and approached her lover, her long blonde hair highlighting her statuesque frame. Though they never married—something too Judeo-Christian for either of them to stomach—they had become “sealed” in their relationship; a covenant relationship, that was the first of what would soon be many dozens in the Society.

  “Brendan.” She reached up with her left hand and caressed his face. “We are behind you completely in this. We make sure that all who attend know how hallowed the event will be.” She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. “David is right, though. While we honor the gods in our hearts and with our words, we must do our best to show them with our practices, including our appearances. To that end, allow me to propose an idea.”

  Stephanie guided Brendan back to his chair. He sat. She did not. With both men staring at her, she suggested, “Prior to the Appeasement Ceremony, we shall have a tattooing ceremony involving only the leaders of the twenty covens. With ink or another substance that can later be easily removed, we will take time to cover one another’s bodies in Pictish symbols. Those who wish to be naked may do so, while those who are reluctant may remain clothed, exposing more modest areas for the ink. It will be a quiet ceremony. No words spoken.”

  Brendan looked to David who smiled and nodded.

  He looked back at Stephanie. “Ailene, my love, you prove to me again the smart decision I made to make you mine. Your thoughts are inspired.”

  As the conversation continued, they agreed that the amount of ceremonial formality would be dependent on the wishes of the priests of the varied covens around Europe and the U.S. As long as the gods were respected and the beliefs were held in common, they would not allow the small things to distract from the larger picture.

  The Olde Faithe of the Picti people had been deeply ingrained in the worshipers of antiquity. The power that they held in common had been the glue of their society in the northern regions of Pictland, where the Christlings had not yet violated the land.

  Brendan’s belief, based on his years of research, was that the rift between the Picts of the North and the South were along religious lines more than a desire for self-governance. Somehow the true faith had been laid down for a lie in the South. No wonder MacAlpin had been able to trick the Picts into offering up their king. A cancer had begun to spread throughout Pictland making them unsure and weak. They gave up true power for an impotent god who died on a cross. A criminal, of all things!

  What they had set aside for their repugnant god of “peace” was peace in their own lands! It should be a lesson to all people; kneel before Jesus of Nazareth and lose your ability to reason! The Picts of the South had once had the same power of those of the North, and that they had traded it in for weakness… It was beyond Brendan’s ability to comprehend.

  The Picts were hardly immortal, to be sure, but they had immortal power; power beyond anything that had been seen anywhere else in the world. They had power over the elements. They could cause the weather to change at will. They had the power to keep the mighty armies of Rome from conquering the North of Britain!

  Rome had been forced to end the seizing of new territory because of the Picti people! What did that say about their strength? Raw, unconquerable power!

  That power would be known again.

  That power would be unleashed again!

  And the only thing required to move toward that day was a little bit of sacrificial revenge; just a one-time spilling of “special” blood.

  Drosten stood atop an as-of-yet unfinished stonework defensive tower, part of what was once the hill fort of Ceanannus. Leaning against a makeshift wood railing, he surveyed the campus of this, renamed, Abbey of Kells. It was obvious to him, now, why this place had been selected to protect the Key of Bridei.

  Selected outside of my control, he thought. Why here, amongst the Scotti? How could this have been the solution to keeping the key safe?

  His body ached. It was difficult to believe that his journey of more than a month had come to an end. What was he to do with himself now? He could go back to his homeland and... He sighed. Could he? This abbey may well be the place where he would die. He could not foresee another end.

  Pictland was grieving the loss of a king. The Scotti were certainly, by this time, amassed for a push north, and the Pexa were in chaos.

  The infighting to determine a new king of the Pexa was already raging by the time he had left Loch Ness for Inverness. By the time he had boarded a boat to travel north in Moray Firth, to the Tarbat Peninsula, the heaviness in his heart had convinced his mind that he would no longer have a country, a people, to return to when his mission was complete.

  The boat ride to Tarbat was uneventful. The owner of the boat, in fact, was of good cheer, reassuring Drosten that things would soon return to normal. “That Scot king will soon find that retribution is both painful and final,” he quipped. Oh that it could be true, he’d thought. But what he already knew—with certainty—was that a new normal would overtake the land; a normal that would shatter everything that the Pexa held dear.

  Drosten’s eyes hurt. It wasn’t a typical soreness from lack of sleep; this pain came from behind his eyes. It hurt to move them. Closing them didn’t help.

  He heard footsteps approaching from the stairs inside the tower. He turned to see a monk, many years older than himself, appear in the sunlight. The sight of the man reignited a curiosity within Drosten. The monks of Scotia had taken on a different form of tonsure from their brothers in Britain and Pictland.

  When Drosten was a youth and had first seen the oddly-cut hair, he had been told by one of his elders that it had become the mark of priests within the Roman religion. The design of the hair seemed to have been formed by placing a small bowl on the crown of the head and the only hair that was allowed to remain was that which was not hidden under the bowl.

  These monks in Scotia, though, along with the monks he had met at Iona during his journey, had done something different altogether. The hair was left on the back of the head, but starting with one ear, they shaved an arc forward, still leaving hair above the brow, then arced back toward the other ear. It was like a quarter moon had been shaved onto the front half of the scalp.

  “Greetings, friend! Pax vobiscum,” said the monk.

  Drosten bowed, thinking that some outward sign of respect was due. “Greetings, …” He realized that he didn’t know this man’s title, so responded in kind. “… friend.”

  The man smiled. “I am Abbot Conall.”

  Drosten dipped his head in acknowledgment, now realizing that he stood before the man in charge of this abbey.

  “So, then, I am told your name is Drosten.”

  “It is, your… your…” Drosten sputtered to a stop again. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t know how to respectfully address you.”

  “Tch tch. Let us not get wrapped up in pretense, young man. I am not royalty. You may call me abbot or simply, Brother Conall.”

  Drosten dropped his eyes. “You ask me to call you brother, but I cannot. After all, it is your Scotti cousins who are at this moment killing my true brothers.”

  The abbot dropped his eyes, as well. “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.”

  Drosten looked up again. “In fact, I do not even know why I am here, or where, for that matter.”

  “First, the where,” replied the abbot, meeting Drosten’s eyes again. “You are in the Abbey at Kells, within the boundaries of Airgialla. You have heard of it, have you not?”

  Drosten shook his head.

  “Ah, well… we are about two days north of the Hill of Tara.”

  “My people know of Tara. It is where your kings are made. An ancient place of power, akin to that of Scone.” Dreadful flashbacks of his one visit to that ancient place of kings began to flood Drosten’s mind. He shook the mental images off. Somewhat off the subject, he asserted, “I
have seen the power of our religion strike men down and even raise them back to life again. The right words, the right time, the right stone. You, too, have a stone at Tara that provides power to the kings of this land.”

  “You, of course, speak of Lia Fail, the ‘Stone of Destiny.’” Again the abbot clucked his tongue. “That pillar of stone has no true power. Its only ability is to keep people blind to truth.”

  Drosten stared at the abbot. No power? But before he could bring the question to his lips, the abbot continued.

  “Now, why you are here... you are here to be saved,” said the abbot. “You have come for protection, and so it is offered.”

  Fatigue, combined with growing frustration, began to peak within Drosten. “Yes, it is offered. But, why? We are enemies! You are Scotti! I am Pexa!”

  “You, Drosten, are a man!” chided the abbot. “You may be someone’s enemy, but you are not mine!” He huffed and turned around to find a bench, and finding it, sat down. “Good.” The older man nodded. “We speak plainly from the start. This is good.”

  Drosten stood looking at the man. He was perplexing. The ‘brothers’ at the abbey on the Isle of Iona5 were perplexing, as well, but at least they were known to have befriended the Pexa generations ago. Some of the Pexa who had converted to their religion—about some god who died and came back to life—had even become part of their order. In fact, they had built a building to worship this god on the peninsula of Tarbat. But after generations of having stood, it was violently destroyed by the Pexa King Caustantín some fifty years prior so as to reclaim their original spiritual heritage.

  Caustantín wanted to wield the legendary power of their own Pexa gods. It was said that this power had kept the Romans at bay for hundreds of years, and the king was not going to be denied his place among the legends.