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“I cannot see the Wyrd Sisters, Malcolm.” Morgana grasped his elbow. “Something’s not right. Where are they?”
Turning to search, Malcolm noticed the Four Horsemen had begun a slow and steady advance down into his valley until they stood at the edge of the battle.
Apart from it, and yet an inevitable part of it.
Conquest, with his white stallion and silver armor looked like an archangel sent by a vengeful god. Whereas War, with his horse almost the same color as his blood-red breastplate resembled some kind of Hell spawn.
Next to them, Pestilence, his visage hidden in dark robes, perched atop his nightmare steed more regally than Malcolm would have imagined. And Death, his horse pale and dappled, his armor dark and antiquated, surveyed the carnage with a relentless power that could only belong to an immortal such as him.
“Ye will not have this day,” Malcolm vowed at them, in a voice too low for anyone but him to hear.
Death’s head turned slowly toward him, far enough away that Malcolm barely marked the movement.
The question is, will you?
The words were not spoken, and yet Malcolm heard them clear as day.
Death lifted a finger, and pointed to the edge of Malcolm’s land, where Dun Moray’s keep was buffeted by craggy Highland peaks. At first Malcolm saw nothing. Then a shimmer of disturbance in the air around his wards caught his eye the moment before lightning flashed, and two women straddling broomsticks flew through the air and pierced the protection of his magick.
“Nay,” he growled. “How is this possible?”
“The Grimoire!” Morgana pointed. “They have it.”
That had to be how they got through the wards. Cradled under Badb’s left arm was the book filled with all the secrets of his Druid family since the beginning of time.
We’re after you both now… Badb’s eerie voice brushed past his ear on a chilling breeze. Even as he watched her hag’s robes draping below her as she circled his keep on her broomstick, it was as though she whispered right next to him.
Fear sliced through him, followed quickly by a cold fury the likes of which he’d never before felt. Moray Village, full of innocent souls, separated the space between his walls and the castle. Could he get to them in time?
A sister for a sister… Badb’s cruel winds hissed. With a deafening crash, she called down a silver fork of lightning. It struck his parapets and half the roof of Dun Moray gave a great shudder, and then collapsed.
With a harsh sound of strain and rage, Malcolm did all he could to keep the stones from crushing any of the inhabitants of the castle, but knew that from this distance, he had to have failed.
Come to us and we’ll let the wee Moray babes and their mothers live...
Malcolm hesitated, though his heart bled. Of course, it was a trap. One that, if sprung, could seal the fate of the entire world. And yet, what of his people? How could they make him choose between those whom he loved most dear, and—everyone who was or would ever be?
Bring Morgana, and we’ll give you what you want, or should I say who you want…
Sean.
The thought of him locked away in their hellish void nearly drove Malcolm to his knees. The sounds of the battle receded into the background. Though Sean had been the one imprisoned all these decades, Malcolm felt as though he had found deliverance through him. He’d felt more wealthy in that hovel in the forest than he ever had in the halls of his own castle. A chance to be who he truly was. No pretenses, no expectations, and no barriers. He wanted nothing more from this life than to be given the chance to show him the same kind of freedom.
A love that never bound, but liberated.
Cursing the prophecy, the Fates, the Wyrd Sisters and the fucking gods, he turned to his beloved sister, a void of his own opening inside his heart.
“Keep me strong,” he ground out a command and a plea in one breath.
She met his gaze with her soft blue eyes, clarity and determination sparking in their depths. “Nay,” she murmured.
Malcolm flinched, and then glared a warning at her. “What are ye saying?”
Grasping his elbow, Morgana turned them both toward his keep, where Badb and Nemain touched down on the flagstones of his home. Lightning sheeted across the Highland sky, warning that their time was running out.
“We take the fight to them, Malcolm,” Morgana said, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his shoulder as though gathering strength.
Gritting his teeth, Malcolm nodded, lowering them to the ground on his piece of earth. “It’s time we end this,” he agreed. “One way or another.”
