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“Who? Me?” Siobhan asks, resting her hand right below her neck and doing a remarkably good job of feigning surprise. What do I know, maybe she is surprised. She does seem self-aware enough to know she’s a mean girl.
“Yes, Siobhan,” Dugald says.
“Please,” Moira adds.
Siobhan looks at each of them in turn but then her eyes lock onto mine. Waiting. I know what she wants and every fiber of my being revolts at the very idea. I can’t. Nope. Not going to do it. No way. Let the world burn.
Ach, I love you, lass. We’ll make the most beautiful bairns together.
Duncan’s voice smashes through any and all objections. I’m not doing this for me or even the world. I’m doing this for him. Whatever it takes, right?
“Please, Siobhan. Will you assist?”
Her smile is smug, self-satisfied, and bordering on maniacally evil. Or maybe I’m projecting the last part. Maybe not, she is a vampire and in all the lore they are inherently evil creatures. It doesn’t matter because she moves in and closes the circle by taking Moira and Dugald’s hands.
An electrical tingle passes from Moira’s hand, across my chest, and into Dugald’s. I gasp in surprise. It’s cold and thrilling and on some level, it’s arousing. My nipples respond instantly, rubbing painfully against the rough cloth of my blouse.
What have I gotten myself into?
I can’t back out now. Duncan needs me. I grit my teeth and try to prepare myself mentally for what’s about to happen.
ChapterNine
A cool breezeslips around us, curling icy fingers as it tries to slip into any unprotected area. My heavy skirts and blouse keep most of it out, but not completely. Dugald closes his eyes and his brow furrows, but nothing more happens, yet.
I look at Moira but she’s watching Dugald. Siobhan, though, is watching me. I can’t get a good read on her. Her eyes seem interested, but her face looks like something between boredom to mild amusement. It’s like she’s in on some secret joke that she won’t share. She puckers her lips and blows me a kiss. Frowning, I look away, unwilling to give her more ammunition to taunt me with.
I close my eyes and focus my awareness beyond sight. A soft tingle in my hands grows stronger. I try to imagine it as something more. One thing I’m figuring out is that if I visualize things around magic, it helps me to control it.
Magical energy I imagine as a river, which works well because it kind of is. Or maybe more accurately it’s like the electromagnetic flows of the earth itself. At least as far as I understand it, but one way or another it’s a workable visualization. This, though, isn’t a river or even a stream. It’s a trickle of energy flowing from Dugald. The thing I notice though is that it’s clean. Pure. Untainted with the dark shadows.
I can’t see a way to contribute to this. I feel it, it flows through me and around the circle, but I don’tfeelit like regular magic. Regular magic fills me, this is passing over. I try to bring it in, but I might as well try to grasp the wind.
“This isn’t working,” I say at last, pulling my hand out of Moira’s.
“Quinn, no!” Moira exclaims, then it hits.
My head explodes and the world disappears. Images flash across my thoughts, dozens, no hundreds in a second, more coming with each passing moment. Lifetimes slipping in and flittering away so fast I can’t latch on to anything. I’m falling down a long, dark tunnel and the images play around me.
I would scream but I have no voice. I try to latch on to something to stop my fall, but as soon as I grab anything it turns ephemeral, as if nothing is real. Everything is thin, unreal, and impossible. As the images flash, in the instant I see them, I know I’m in them. I recognize them, no I remember them. They are memories, but as soon as the next comes I forget the last.
It’s as if I’m looking at a series of vintage kinetoscope films from different movies all badly spliced together into a hodgepodge mess. Different people, different actors in each set of scenes, and not a complete idea in any of them. They’re moments in time and I’m looking into an instance of a life. Glancing at a singular occasion as I sample hundreds if not thousands of lives.
Waves of dizziness and nausea collide, leaving me reeling until I see an image I recognize from this life. My mother. She’s beautiful. I’m lying swaddled in her arms and she’s staring at me with an angelic smile, then she looks up and frowns. She’s looking at me, me now.
“Quinn,” she says, but her lips don’t move. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Mom?”
“No, I don’t want this for you,” she says, looking down at the babe in her arms. “This isn’t the deal. They promised.”
“Mom, it is me. I’m in Scotland. Are you okay?”
She blurs as if I’m looking through a lens covered with Vaseline.
“Damn it, Dugald, you promised,” she swears, anger twisting her features as she locks her eyes past me, over my shoulder.
I turn to look but the image flits away and again, I’m falling. Images, scenes, miniature movies passing so fast they become nothing more than a blur in my peripheral vision. Dimly I’m aware of Dugald and Moira’s hands in mine; they’re an anchor and I clamp tighter, but the falling sensation doesn’t stop.
