Magic Undying (Dragon's Gift: The Seeker #1)(50)

“Ah, I’ll take the rocks,” I said.

He grinned wickedly, as if he knew my thoughts. “Suit yourself.”

I smiled weakly, then hurried to the rocks and hopped over, wobbling occasionally. Roarke followed behind, graceful as usual. When we reached the other side, my dragon sense went off like an alarm in my chest.

“We’re super close.” I squinted into the distance, doing my best to see through the semi-darkness. Dusk had fallen fully, and the moon was only partially full.

A small copse of trees sat alone in the valley. I hurried toward the little forest, shivering at the sickly sensation that welled over me as I neared the trees.

“Del, there’s something wrong with that forest.”

Roarke’s voice snapped me out of my focus on the trees. He was right. There was a charm of some kind trying to repel us.

“We should turn back,” Roarke said. “This place is evil. Dark.”

“No.” But suddenly, I couldn’t agree more. This place was terrible. I shivered and turned, ready to race back to the car.

Roarke had already turned around and was heading back to the river. The sight of him walking away from a challenge shocked some sense back into me.

“Roarke! It’s an enchantment.” A strong one. My feet were still moving toward the river even though my mind knew that I wanted to get into that forest.

I hurried toward Roarke and grabbed his arm, pulling him to a halt. He turned to me, his dark gaze cloudy.

“We must go.” His rough voice sounded a bit drunk.

Hell, my head felt a bit drunk. I shook it, trying to clear my mind. It worked a little. I bit my tongue hard enough to send a streak of pain through my mouth. It kept me in the present, at least.

“It’s an enchantment, Roarke. It’s protecting the grove.” Which meant the clue was definitely in there. “Come on.”

He resisted my tug on his arm, so I reached up and slapped him. The crack of my hand against his cheek echoed through the valley. The fog in his gaze cleared and he stiffened, then shook his head hard.

“Strong enchantment,” he muttered.

“Try biting your tongue.” I tugged on his arm. “Come on, let’s run for it. Try to be quick. Once we’re inside, it might fade.”

He nodded and held out his hand. “If one of us falters, the other can lead.”

I nodded and gripped his hand, no longer surprised at the shiver that ran up my arm. I liked holding his hand, and I always would because I was an idiot with a poor sense of self-preservation. But he was right—we’d do better as a team.

We set off, racing hand-in-hand across the grass toward the forest. As we neared the oaks, the sense of foreboding grew.

We had to turn back. We shouldn’t enter.

This place was haunted.

Which made it perfect for me.

I bit my tongue harder and pushed forward, fighting the compulsion to retreat. When Roarke slowed, I glanced over. His gaze had turned cloudy once again. My own head was foggy, the desire to turn back welling even stronger.

Fight it.

I embraced whatever haunted force lurked in the woods and clung to my dragon sense like a lifeline. It pulled me forward into the forest, so I squeezed Roarke’s hand as hard as I could and tugged him. He shook his head, and his gaze cleared. We set off again.

By the time we crossed into the forest, the horrible sense of foreboding was nearly enough to send me to my knees. But I kept going, winding through the stunted, twisted oaks that had no doubt stood here for hundreds of years. Clinging to my dragon sense was the only thing that kept me going. As long as I could focus on that tug, I could just barely ignore the repelling charm that tried to evict me from the forest.

Once we were deep into the trees, the sense of foreboding fell away. My shoulders relaxed.

“Feel that?” I said.

“Yeah.” Roarke’s voice finally sounded normal. “That was an excellent repelling charm.”

“No kidding. I doubt anyone has been in these woods since it was enchanted.” Only my dragon sense had kept me going. And we were close now. Really close.

A clearing ahead held a group of stones that protruded from the ground.

I pointed to them. “There!”

“I see them.”

We hurried across the grass. When we neared the stones, I raised my hand to ignite the magic in my borrowed lightstone ring. The glow illuminated the three large, flat stones that stuck up out of the ground. Almost like gravestones, but not quite. They were nearly as tall as I was, each carved with beautiful, ornate scenes. They were stele, not gravestones, and their style was familiar.

“They’re Pictish stones,” I said. “The Picts lived in this part of Scotland in the late Iron Age, early Medieval period. They made stones like this between the sixth and ninth centuries AD.”

Roarke leaned close to study them. “They tell a story.”

“Yeah.”

In between the ornately carved swirls were figures. The detail was extraordinary. Many Pictish stones were decorated with beautifully ornate designs. Yet, stories of this detail were unusual.

My gaze raced over the three stones, trying to figure out where the story started. On the left, I thought. At the top was a man. Concentric circles appeared around him, like they represented magic. In the next scene, he was standing over a large cauldron, his hand hovering over the top.