Magic Binds (Kate Daniels #9)(18)

Three women walked out of the woods to the right of us. Evdokia came first; plump, middle-aged, her brown hair reaching to her midback, she moved along the path to the water, her simple white tunic brushing at the leaves. Roman did resemble his mother. It didn’t seem like it at first, with his mustache, beard, and the long horse mane of hair along his scalp, but there was a lot of Evdokia in him. It hid in the corners of his mouth when he smiled and shone from his eyes when he thought he said something funny. I’d met his father. He was a rail-thin, dour man. If Grigorii ever smiled, his face would crack and fall off his head.

Behind Evdokia, Sienna led Maria down the path. In the few years I’d known them, Maria had gone from a fierce ancient crone to simply ancient. She used to remind me of a raptor, gaunt, harsh, her claws poised for the kill. Now she emanated age the way very old trees did. The white tunic hung off her shoulders, the wide sleeves making her bony arms look fragile enough to snap with a squeeze of your fingers. Sienna, on the other hand, had changed for the better. No longer sickly, she moved smoothly now, her body lean but curved where it counted. Blond hair cascaded from her head in rich waves.

The three witches reached the water and I realized they were barefoot. They turned and followed the barely visible path toward the wall of rock.

“Come on.” Roman rose.

We trailed the witches around the stone fall to a small fissure in the granite, barely wide enough for two people to pass through shoulder to shoulder. The witches went in one by one.

“After you.” The volhv nodded at the opening.

Great. Come down to the witch forest, enter a deep dark cave. What could go wrong? Just once I would like to have an important meeting in a happy little meadow or an orchard.

I ducked through the opening and closed my eyes for a few moments to get them accustomed to the gloom. A small cave lay before me, almost perfectly round. A pool of water filled most of it, except for a narrow rim of dark boulders by the walls and a small wooden deck with some benches. Above us, the dome of the cave split and a waterfall cascaded into the pool, backlit by sunshine.

The older witches arranged themselves on the deck. I picked my way toward them, Roman behind me.

Sienna waded into the water. It came up to her hips and her white tunic floated around her.

She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Cold.”

“You wanted to do this,” Maria told her.

“I did.” Sienna reached for a dark object floating in the water and pulled it to her. A wooden bucket. She dipped it into the water and poured it over her head. “Oh Goddess.”

“Is the turtle sick?” I asked to needle them.

Maria gave me a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Hold your tongue, evil spawn.”

There’s the old harpy I know. All is right with the world.

“This is a sacred place now,” Evdokia told me. “It’s easier to summon the visions here.”

“I’ve been looking into your future.” Sienna moved toward the waterfall.

“I don’t want to know.” I didn’t. Once you knew the visions, they chained you, forcing you down a predetermined path. It was best to make my own road.

“You do.” Sienna turned to me, her back to the cascade.

I sighed.

“Tell her,” Maria snapped.

“If you marry Curran Lennart, he will die.”

Someone reached through my chest and stuck a long needle into my heart. Sienna was almost never wrong.

“Show me.”

The young witch stepped backward into the waterfall. Magic moved around Sienna, like an engine turning over, and a light slowly appeared to the left of the waterfall, opening up like a fast-blooming flower. A battlefield. Bodies collided, some armored, some furry. Weapons clashed, arrows hit home with the shrill whistle of torn air, and magic boiled flesh. A din hung above the chaos, the kind of cacophony only a battlefield in the middle of a melee can produce: screams and wails, grunts, metal screeching against metal, shapeshifters snarling, inhuman shrieks, all blending into an overwhelming cry that was the voice of war. It hit me, visceral and raw, and suddenly I was there, in the heart of the chaos, gripping my sword and looking for a target. The air smelled of blood and smoke. Ashes swirled around the combatants.

Beyond it all a tower rose above a castle, the familiar half-finished structure I had seen this morning, now whole. A huge gray creature, half-man, half-beast, knocked vampire bodies aside as he charged toward it. Blood stained his fur. He didn’t roar. He just ran, pushing his body to the limit.

Curran.

The tower loomed. My father stood atop it in a crimson robe, holding a spear made from his blood. My heart skipped a beat.

Curran leapt, channeling all of his speed into a powerful jump. He shot up, finally snarling, his fangs exposed, claws out.

My father thrust the spear. It was an expert thrust. It punched through Curran’s chest.

Blood poured.

He didn’t grip the spear. He didn’t try to free himself. Why wasn’t he trying to free himself? I’d seen him take wounds that almost cut him in half. Why wasn’t he fighting?

Curran’s body collapsed into human form but instead of its normal color, his skin turned the dull gray of duct tape.

Oh dear God. The Lyc-V saturating his body had died. All of it. At once.

My father gripped the spear and turned it. The perspective of the vision shifted and I was right there, standing next to Roland. Curran’s face was slack, his eyes empty. The ground disappeared from under my feet and I fell down into a cold pit. I fell and fell and couldn’t stop. Dead. He was dead.