The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love Page 2

  Fitzgerald had done it. Of that, he was certain. He just didn’t know why. Now, it looked as if history was about to repeat. And what could he do about it except tear out his hair, beat his fists on the walls, and cry to heaven, “Why? Why give her back to me only to take her again?”

  Grief closed around his throat like a strangler’s hands. Coughing to ease its grip, he overturned the card of his future. Surprise stung his heart when he saw The Fool. Squinting, he studied the image of a gaily-dressed youth whose open arms seemed to embrace the world. His right hand held a knapsack, his left, a single white rose. Nipping at his heels was a wee white dog. The Fool, fearing nothing, looked skyward with a dreamy expression as he strode toward the edge of a cliff.

  Bewildered, he shook his head. What could it mean? The Fool stood on the threshold. He was the protagonist of the tarot, the archetypal hero embarking on his quest, the soul starting its journey toward atonement. The Fool, in other words, was the polar opposite of the hopeless, faithless tightrope walker Fitzgerald’s dark curse had turned him into.

  * * *

  “Just so you know, vampires don’t kill, except by accident or to commit deliberate murder.”

  The sound of his deep, musical burr made Cat’s pulse race. It could only be the good-looking Scot who’d been checking her out from the stacks for the past twenty minutes.

  “Sorry?”

  She raised her eyes from Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, but didn’t turn around. There was no need. She’d already memorized every detail of his appearance while he skirted her gaze. Each time she’d tried to catch his eye, she found him conveniently reading the book in his hand. Each time she returned to her work, the prickling hairs on the back of her neck gave away his game. He also seemed familiar. Uncannily so, in fact. The proud stance, powerful build, and thick copper hair all struck a deep chord.

  “The average adult has five liters of blood,” he began to explain, “and the average stomach can hold fewer than two.” He paused to shift gears. “She’s also wrong about the coffins. And the impotence, though the book remains one of my favorites of the genre.”

  “Mine too.” She set the gold-clad novel on the table beside her laptop. “Do you go here? You seem familiar.”

  “Nay. I went to Saint Andrew’s ages ago.”

  She still didn’t turn. “Oh? Then what brings you to Wickenham University?”

  “I just moved to the village and heard the library here had an impressive collection of vampire literature. So, I thought I’d see for myself, to kill a wee bit of time. But it seems you’ve beaten me to it.”

  “For my dissertation.”

  As she spoke the words, guilt squeezed her chest. Her faculty contract hinged on her finishing her Ph.D. before the term ended. That gave her just three more weeks and she was hopelessly behind. Not that she was about to tell him that. If she did, he might leave.

  She didn’t want that, and not just because he was handsome. Though handsome he definitely was. Bodice-ripper, book-cover handsome. Straight nose with a slight flare at the end; strong jaw and jutting chin; prominent brow and cheekbones; intense, deep-set eyes that turned down ever so slightly at the edges; and an inviting mouth whose tucked lower lip made it at once boyish and sensual.

  Apart from the biker jacket and boots, he might have stepped out of one of the Highlander romances she read every chance she got, a longstanding guilty pleasure. For some inexplicable reason, she’d been attracted to all things Scottish for as long as she could remember.

  He reached past her, selected Dracula off her stack of reference material, and began looking through it. Though she could hear the pages turning behind her, she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. If she met his eyes, she would melt.

  “He was lucky to have no reflection to forever fuck with his head.”

  His voice brought her back, but only partly. “Who?”

  “Count Dracula.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment scorched her cheeks. “It was meant to symbolize he had no soul.”

  “I ken that. But is it true, do you think?”

  She knew the word “ken” meant “know” in Scots, but was otherwise confused by his question. Why did she find his closeness so discomposing? Men, even good-looking ones, rarely had this effect on her.

  “Is what true?”

  “That vampires have no souls. That they’re eternally damned.”

  “I don’t believe in—” She stopped, having second thoughts.

  “You don’t believe in what?”

  She was going to say “eternal damnation” before remembering it was never a good idea to discuss religion, especially her religion, with any but like-minded practitioners of the craft. Even then, it could lead to heated disagreements.

  Turning at last, she met his eyes. They were like topazes or whisky backlit by the sun. They also were so gnawingly familiar she wanted to scream. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to look away. I mages of heather and bracken, of mist y hills and crystal lochs, washed over her like a dream. Who was he? How did she know him? What was he doing to her?

  Unable to bear his riveting gaze any longer, she turned back to the table. As she struggled to regain her composure, he reached past her to return Dracula to its place. Her eyes followed his hand, a sculptural marvel with long fingers tapering from furrowed knuckles to lustrous nails. Imagining those fingers traveling over her flesh in sensual ways, she shivered. He smelled good too. Natural and woodsy. She drank in the familiar scent. It was like coming home, though not to any home she’d known in this life.

  “How do I know you? Have we met before?”

  “Oh, aye.” His breath brushed her ear, making her shudder. “A couple of times.”

  She spun in her chair, ready to press him for answers. He wasn’t there. The surprise she felt quickly gave way to disappointment. She glanced around, jaw clenched, chest tight, mind racing. Where’d he go? Who was he? How did they know each other?

  One day soon, you will meet a handsome stranger who will not seem like a stranger.

  Her mind jumped back ten years to the afternoon when, on a lark, she’d paid a gypsy to read her cards while shopping on Carnaby Street in London. The scene was as vivid as yesterday. The tiny incense-scented tent. The onyx-eyed woman sitting opposite. The cards spread out on the exotic scarf between them.

  The Six of Cups, something from the past.

  The Wheel of Fortune, destiny.

  The Two of Cups, the joining of soul mates.

  The Knight of Cups, a love interest.

  Interpreted collectively, their meaning was undeniable. But if the Scot was the familiar stranger the cards foretold, why had he taken off like that? It didn’t make any sense. Neither did anything else about their bizarre encounter. She shook her head. Best not to think on it. She couldn’t afford to squander the rest of her free period trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

  Picking up Interview, she thumbed through it. Try as she might, her mind refused to reengage with her research. When her cell began to buzz on the table like machine-gun fire, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Snatching it up, she checked the caller ID. It was Avery Thatcher, the young woman with whom she shared one of the low-rent university cottages. Avery worked as an events coordinator in the alumni office. The housing office had paired them when Cat moved to the village to start her new position.

  “Hey, Cat. Fancy going down to the Cauldron later? I’ll wager you could use a night off.”

  “Gosh, Avery. I don’t know. I really should stay in and keep working on my dissertation.”

  There was more fueling her reluctance than guilt over her unproductive afternoon. Whenever she went out with her friend, she felt invisible. Actually, she almost always felt invisible. Except when she was teaching, of course. The thought brought to mind her next class with a pang.

  She shot an anxious glance toward the clock on the wall above the reference desk, cursing under her breath when she saw the time. Her next class started in less
than fifteen minutes and the lecture hall was all the way on the other end of campus. Luckily, Wickenham was a small university, so she still might make it if she hustled.

  “But I can’t go down to the pub alone,” Avery complained in her ear. “I’m really hoping Benedict O’Lyr will be there. I think he just might be my Mr. Right.”

  Rolling her eyes, Cat stuffed her laptop into her padded satchel. Avery had met Benedict, the new tenant of the manor house edging the village, a week ago at the wine shop on the High Street.

  “So, will you come?”

  “Hang on a minute, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  After setting her mobile on the table, Cat loaded her arms with books and toddled toward the reserve desk. She still wasn’t sure she was up to going out, but couldn’t shake the feeling he might be there. If she didn’t go, she might never know if he was indeed the familiar stranger foretold by the cards. Besides, she’d hit a wall on her research and a night off might be just the thing to get her scholarly juices flowing again.

  Her gaze roamed over the reserve librarian, a stern-looking woman with suspicious eyes and a helmet of dark hair. With a tight smile, she set the books on the desk. “I’m Professor Fingal. Can you hold these for me until tomorrow?”

  The woman reached for a reserve slip. “Of course, professor.”

  After signing the form, Cat hurried back to the table and slung her overstuffed satchel over her shoulder before retrieving the phone. “All right,” she agreed, a little out of breath. “I’ll come with, but only if you promise not to ditch me the minute we walk through the door.”

  “Ditch you?” Avery sounded affronted. “When have I ever done that?”

  “When have you not?” Cat lumbered down the library steps under the weight of her bag. “Promise, or you’re on your own.”

  “Fine. You have my word. I’ll stick to you like glue, all right?”

  “All right.”

  Ending the call, she picked up the pace. As she crossed the quad, she attempted a mental review of the lecture she was about to give on the history of the tarot, but her mind refused to let go of the stranger. His body might have vanished, but his essence lingered in her senses like haunting perfume. Was he the one she’d been waiting for? If so, it would explain a few things. Like her inexplicable attraction to all things Scottish and that deep-down feeling she’d had all her life that something was missing.

  Chapter 2: The Cinderella Spell

  Mayflower Cottage was a classic storybook Tudor with dark timbers, rustic shutters, and leaded windows. A meandering brick path led to a rose-covered front door. On the other side were beamed ceilings, wood floors, an eat-in kitchen with an Aga cooker, a cozy living room with a wood-burning stone fireplace, and two decent-sized bedrooms with their own vintage baths.

  The back garden, though on the smallish side, was charmingly landscaped with rambling beds of cottage flowers. In the center stood an enormous hawthorn tree. It being mid-May, tiny white blossoms covered the tree, making it look like an earthbound cloud.

  Cat found Mayflower Cottage so idyllic, she still had to pinch herself every time she came home at the end of the day. This evening, still smarting from the pinch, she grabbed a glass of wine from the under-counter fridge in the kitchen and headed for her altar, an old table she’d decorated with pentagrams, Celtic knots, and crescent moons.

  The altar displayed the standard objects in a white witch’s arsenal: a pair of candles, figures of the god and goddess, a wand, a bowl filled with salt, an incense burner, and a ritual knife, bell, and cauldron. To these, she’d added the rosary from her First Communion, a small crystal ball, assorted power stones, the velvet sack containing her runes, and the tarot deck she used most often. Just above, a wall-mounted shelf held her grimoire and other reference books, along with the various candles, herbs, and oils commonly needed for rituals and spells.

  Setting her wine on the altar, she reached to the shelf above, taking down her jar of consecrated witch hazel, a small ceramic bowl, and her book of spells. She shook some of the dried herbs into the bowl, opened her spell book to the charm she had in mind, and memorized the brief instructions.

  She’d never cast this particular spell before, mainly because she’d never had occasion to, but also because she didn’t believe in using magic to fulfill trifling desires. In this case, though, she didn’t think the goddess would mind. Why would Hecate give the herb the power to make women irresistible if she didn’t want them to use it?

  After carrying the bowl down the hall to the bathroom, she set it on the chair beside the claw-foot tub, and turned on the taps. As the water heated, she lit the candles and incense she kept on the counter and turned off the lights. She then stripped off her matronly work clothes: a gray pencil skirt, cream blouse, and sensible underthings. She took a moment to study her reflection in the soft candlelight. Perhaps she wasn’t as pretty as Avery, but there was nothing wrong with her body. She was trim, her breasts and buttocks were firm and round, and her stomach was nice and flat.

  Taking a fresh towel from the cupboard, she set it on the floor beside the tub and stepped over. The water felt warm and soothing as she immersed the lower half of her body. Picking up the bowl of herbs, she began to sprinkle the leaves into the water, speaking the incantation as she did.

  Letting her body sink into the magic-infused water, she visualized herself at the Rusty Cauldron, a goddess of beauty and grace in her favorite black dress, talking to the handsome Scot as if she owned him and the room. The spell, of course, would make her irresistible to every man present, so she’d need to be on her guard.

  Despite being almost thirty, she still had her hymen, a reality she found harder to justify with each passing year. When she was younger, it was easy to make excuses: she was on the paper chase, studying English literature first at two rigorous universities. Now, she was teaching full time while trying to finish her doctorate.

  She might be a virgin, but she was far from a prude. She simply valued sexual intimacy too much to squander it on someone she didn’t love. She was a witch, for pity’s sake. She wanted magic. And she’d rather take her maidenhead to her grave than dispose of it casually. Besides, she was saving it for him.

  Her absent other half.

  When she was a girl, she used to wonder if she’d been adopted. It didn’t help that she looked nothing like either of her parents or any of her other relations. They were all fair-haired, short, and big-boned, while she was a willowy brunette. Her personality was nothing like theirs, either. She was curious, open-minded, and tolerant while they were closed-minded bigots. She was liberal, they were conservative. She was spiritual, they were religious. She was magical, they were, well, muggles to the nth degree. When she was sixteen, she found her birth certificate, which proved she wasn’t someone else’s child. The sense of incompletion, however, persisted. Then, she’d had her tarot cards read.

  Closing her eyes, she sank deeper into the water and steered her thoughts back to the Scot. What might his name be? What might his story be? Had he felt the connection between them as strongly as she had?

  A smile twitched on her lips as she summoned from her memory the strange things he’d said about vampires. That the really existed she already knew. Maud Edenfield, another witch on the faculty, had told her as much after she’d arrived in Wickenham. Talk about reality-bending discoveries. According to Maud, vampires weren’t only real, they also could be summoned as magical helpers and lovers.

  “Just be sure they’re thoroughly spellbound,” the elder witch had warned, “so they can’t use their powers against you. Vampires are crafty buggers, but the sex is beyond compare.”

  Different kinds existed, apparently. Not all drank blood. Some could shape-shift. Others could travel through the ethers. Most were of the Unseelie Fae.

  Tired of thinking, she emptied her mind and concentrated on soaking up the magic while the water relaxed her muscles. When she felt sufficiently infused, she climbed out, scooped up the t
owel, and dried off. Heading back to her room, she went to the closet and pulled out what she’d pictured herself wearing. A vintage cocktail dress circa 1950, it was black with a silk chiffon overlay and a tasteful band of rhinestones around the neckline.

  Slipping it on over her head, she zipped up, pulled on a pair of fishnet tights, and stepped into a pair of pointy pumps. When she checked her look in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, she liked what she saw. She looked sophisticated yet edgy. Audrey Hepburn goes Goth. Just what she was going for. Very different from the frowsy schoolmarm he’d met in the library.

  Returning to the bathroom, she flipped on the lights and hung the damp towel over the curtain rod before pulling out her cosmetics bag. She rarely wore much beyond a dash of eye shadow and a brush of black mascara, but tonight called for the heavy artillery.

  Would he notice the transformation? Would he even be there? Her intuition told her he would and, while it was seldom wrong, she still had her doubts. She’d never felt this kind of connection with any other man. He had to be the familiar stranger the cards foretold. Had to. She’d waited long enough, dammit.

  The thought warmed her face. She couldn’t believe she was having such depraved thoughts about a guy she barely knew. She didn’t even know his name. Or if he was dating someone or—goddess forbid—married. But he couldn’t be, could he? Because he was her soul mate. And Hecate wouldn’t send him after he’d committed to someone else.

  The goddess might be mercurial, but she was never mean-spirited. She refused to worship any deity who was or to practice any faith promoting fear in the guise of love. Hence, her rejection of Catholicism, the faith into which she’d been baptized, and the estrangement from her parents. Whatever they might say, her beliefs were not satanic. What was evil about the magic of love and the natural world? Nothing whatsoever, that’s what.