Briar watched Avery manifest in the middle of her herb room situated at the rear of her shop, and hurried to Caspian’s inert, pale body lying twisted on the floor, quickly assessing his condition.
“By the Goddess!” she said, falling to her knees and examining his wound. “He’s lost a lot of blood!” She held his wrist, feeling for his pulse.
“He’s been stabbed by a ghost!” Avery looked beside herself, her green eyes wide with shock. “How can a spirit do this, Briar?”
“I’ll worry about that afterwards. I want him on the table. Can you lift him?” She needed to keep Avery focussed.
“Yes, of course.”
They both stood as Avery summoned air, sending it under Caspian and lifting him gently until he was deposited in the middle of Briar’s large, wooden table that she’d dragged to the middle of the room. Avery had arrived so quickly that Briar had only had time to boil water, but she had more than enough herbs to deal with this situation. She rolled him gently onto his back and eased his t-shirt out of the way to inspect the wound. The knife was still embedded in his side.
“It’s an old knife. It has a weird hilt,” she observed.
“But his wound? Is it deep?”
Briar glanced up at Avery’s pinched expression. “It’s hard to say until the blade is out.”
It was low on his left side, and caked in blood, but there was only one stab wound. He was lucky there weren’t more. But as her eyes travelled across his hard, muscled physique, she noted a myriad of cuts and bruises across his chest and face. He’d been beaten severely.
She pointed to his throat. “Finger marks. It tried to strangle him, too.” That was odd. “I don’t understand why they left him alive.”
Briar heard the door open and shut as Eli came in, crossing quickly to her side. “I’ve locked up,” he said, his tall frame dwarfing her. “What do you want me to do?”
“Make a poultice using yarrow and shepherd’s purse,” she instructed him. “When I pull the knife out, I want to be able to fill the wound with it. Avery, pour some hot water from the kettle into a bowl, grab the cotton gauze, and bring it here.”
Within moments, the hot water appeared next to her, but rather than use it straight away, Briar wanted to scan Caspian’s body first and assess his energy levels. However, Avery’s anxiety was washing off her in waves, and Briar looked at her, perplexed. She knew her and Caspian’s relationship was complex, and respected her silence on it, and her wish to keep Caspian as a friend. It was pretty obvious to all of them that Caspian wanted more than that. But Avery’s mood wasn’t helping now.
“Where is Alex?” Briar asked her.
“Still at Caspian’s. I need to get back to him.”
Briar smiled. No wonder she was anxious. She was worried about Alex, too. “Go. I have Eli now, and we’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
After a moment’s hesitation, in which Avery cast another worried look at Caspian, she disappeared in a swirl of witch-flight, and Eli crossed the room to stand in her place. Eli was one of the seven Nephilim, with honey brown hair and gentle brown eyes, and was charm personified. He was also a very good apothecary, and had taught her things about herbs that had long been lost to time. That was one advantage of working with millennia-old Nephilim. He was also calm, competent, and kind.
He reached for Caspian’s wrist, taking his pulse. “It’s weak. He could have internal bleeding. I’ll prepare a herbal drink when we’ve finished.”
Briar nodded, pleased with the suggestion. “I’m going to scan him now.”
She held her hands over Caspian’s abdomen. She could feel his blood flow as well as energy levels, but she needed to concentrate, and she fell silent for a few minutes as her hands travelled across him, inches above his skin. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his breathing shallow and quick. She detected swelling around his windpipe, and could feel the sluggish flow of blood around the wound where it had already clotted. His energy was low, too, his natural magical powers stunted somehow, and that was just as worrying as his physical injuries.
She dropped her hands as she glanced across at Eli. “He’s weak, but I don’t think the wound is deep.” Briar dipped the cloth in the hot water and started to wipe the blood away. “I don’t understand why the spirit attacked him, and once it did, why it didn’t kill him. From what Alex told me, it sounded like he’d been lying there for hours—with the spirit still there.”
“It is odd,” Eli admitted. “Maybe it’s a warning.” He took the bloodied cloths from Briar, and moved next to her to inspect the wound. “It’s a dirty knife, too—old and tarnished.”
Suddenly fearful for all of their safety, she asked, “Do you understand how a spirit can manifest with a weapon?”
He shook his head. “I can only presume it’s very powerful.” He must have picked up on Briar’s hesitation because he looked at her, eyes narrowed. “Why don’t I pull the knife free? I’ve done this before.”
“You have?” Briar prided herself on being level-headed, but she also hated violence, and the thought of pulling the knife out of flesh and muscle made her feel nauseous.
He was already gripping the bloodied hilt. “Too many times. You stand ready with the poultice.”
“Okay, but I have a spell to say first. Wait one moment.” Briar dipped her hands in the bowl of hot water, cleansed them with a spell, and then placed them either side of the knife. “I’m ready.”
As Eli carefully withdrew the knife, Briar uttered a spell to clean the wound and reduce inflammation, speeding up the healing of flesh and damaged blood vessels. The knife was about four inches long with wicked-sharp edges that had been buried to the hilt, and she sighed with relief that it was a short blade. Fresh blood welled as the blade exited the wound, but Briar continued the spell, watching as Eli pressed hard with thick cotton cloths. They both worked calmly, full of intent, and when Briar nodded to say she’d finished the spell, satisfied that flesh had started to knit together, she reached for the poultice and filled the ragged hole. Then, for the next half an hour, they worked on Caspian’s neck, reducing the swelling there before moving on to the other cuts and bruises covering his battered body. Eventually, they both sighed and stood back, Briar happy to see that Caspian already looked better.
She gave Eli a grateful smile. “Thank you. You were fantastic. Can you carry him to the sofa?”
She had a small couch in the corner of her room, under the window where it caught the afternoon light, and Eli nodded, scooping their patient up effortlessly and then gently positioning him. Briar wrapped a blanket around him, anxious to keep Caspian warm, before turning to boil the kettle once more. She leaned against the counter, watching Eli clean his hands at the sink, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Caspian is a powerful witch, Eli. He has strong protection on his house. This shouldn’t have happened.”
Eli shrugged. “We’re all caught unawares sometimes. Maybe he has a weakness that someone knew about.”
“Maybe. Mind you,” she said, recalling the events at the barbeque, “it happened at Avery’s place, too. A spirit appeared in her garden, bursting through the protection spells.”
Eli dried his hands and threw the cloth into the basket of dirty laundry. They were both scrupulous about cleanliness. He leaned his hip against the counter, mirroring her actions, and folded his arms across his chest. “Sounds to me like the ghost—or ghosts—have something to prove.” He jerked his head at Caspian. “He’s been beaten up! I think whoever did this wanted him to remember it.”
“Like a warning?”
“Exactly. Maybe there’s more violence to come.” Eli’s gentle eyes darkened. “Maybe he’ll target someone close to him next. His sister? Avery?”
“Avery’s not his girlfriend, Eli.”
“But he loves her.”
Briar jolted in shock at his words. “I’m not sure it’s love.”
“You’re brighter than that, Briar. Of course it’s love—as much as he tries to hide it and she tries to ignore it. I’ve seen enough of that in my lifetime. But, we should warn Estelle.” And then he grimaced. “We need to tell her about Caspian’s injuries, too. She might want to be here.”
“I haven’t got her number,” Briar admitted, now worrying about Estelle, even though she didn’t like her.
“We do. I’ll get one of my brothers to call her. But what are we going to do with him?”
“I’ll stay here for a few hours,” Briar said, watching Caspian’s deepening breaths. “I think he’s stable, but even so…” She looked at Eli to find that he was staring at Caspian, too. “You can go. I can get Avery to take him to my spare room later.”
“Oh, no,” he said, grabbing some cups and starting to make tea. “I won’t let you wait alone. I’m waiting, too. But I’ll call Gabe first. He can have the pleasure of finding Estelle.”
Briar smiled, relieved. She was used to being the healer in the coven, and was happy to do it. It gave her great satisfaction to make someone well, and she enjoyed drawing on the Earth’s power to do so. But, it was nice to have someone to bounce ideas off. “All right, thanks Eli. I hope you’re not disappointing any ladies tonight,” she added, teasing him.
He winked. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Reuben stood at the threshold of the cave beneath Gull Island, his heart pounding, as he wondered what had possessed him to come here.
His mouth was dry and he felt dizzy suddenly as grief threatened to overwhelm him. Almost one year ago they had been searching for his family grimoire when Gil died. No, when Gil had been killed by Caspian Faversham.
Reuben’s legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed in a heap as he surveyed the gloomy cavern. He’d thrown a couple of witch-lights up, and they faintly illuminated the old crates stacked at the side of the cave and the stones strewn across the hard ground. Opposite was the lip of rock that hid the entrance to the passage leading to the narrow rocky strip of beach on the far side of the island.
He leaned back, feeling the cold stone behind him, and remembered how optimistic he had been when they first arrived here, sure that he and Gil would find their grimoire and their old family spells. Instead, there had been disaster and death, and his life had changed forever. Now he was the head of the family business, Greenlane Nurseries, and the owner of the family’s manor. He had responsibilities he’d never wanted but had assumed anyway. And sitting in the dark, damp cave, all of his doubts about his abilities were magnified. He wasn’t doing any of it as well as he should be.
He looked at the spot where he had found Gil’s crumpled body. After all that violence, the grimoire hadn’t even been there. And if it wasn’t for Avery taking Caspian unawares, there might have been more deaths, too. He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to be rational and reminding himself that Caspian had apologised, that he had been under as much pressure from his father as they had been to find their grimoires. But he couldn’t subdue the sharp spike of anger that was always so close to the surface. Yes, he tried very hard to bury it, and most of the time he did, but now wasn’t one of those stronger moments.
Bollocks. He was being morbid. He needed to get out of here. This wasn’t the way to remember Gil’s life. He was also being unnecessarily negative. The business was fine, and he had El, who despite everything had stuck with him. What was bothering him more than anything was his magic. Hundreds of years of the Jacksons’ magical legacy was swirling within him, and he wasn’t doing it justice. Rather than go to work that day, he’d popped in for a couple of hours and then left, heading straight home, where he’d immersed himself in both grimoires, familiarising himself with the magic that resided in their pages. El had been right; he was improving, and had pulled off a couple of great spells when pushed, but he generally lacked discipline…for magic, at least. He had plenty of discipline for surfing.
The cool stone against his back was soothing, calming his thoughts as he regarded the jumble of old crates and barrels. Another of his ancestors’ secrets was smuggling. Maybe his subconscious had known what he needed after all. He remembered the coins that had been thrown at Avery on Sunday, and the death of the man on the beach. Were those events really related to smuggling?
Reuben stood and headed to the old wooden crates, lifting the lids on a few to find nothing but dust and sand. These would have been here since the late 1700s or early 1800s. His family must have been heavily involved in the local smuggling industry; after all, the access to this cave was under the glasshouse. They’d joked about it last year, and then he hadn’t really given it a second thought. But now he wondered who was involved? It would be easy enough to find out. Anne Somersby had done the family trees of all the witches. He could match up the dates to known names.
Seized by a sudden urge to look at the sea, he left the cavern and trudged up the narrow passage to the smaller cave. No one had been down here since the events last year, and he could still see the jumble of footprints in places in the earth. He quickly found the mechanism that released the door into the next cave and pushed it open, stepping onto soft sand. A strip of daylight pierced through the gap in the wall opposite him. The sound of crashing waves reverberated in the bare space, and he inhaled the strong smell of the sea, smiling as it lifted his spirits. He felt his magic respond to the water, his natural element, and was about to walk to the beach beyond, when he felt something.
Reuben paused, feeling as if someone was watching him. He pressed his back to the rock wall behind him, scanning the space, but there was no place to hide here.
His peripheral vision picked up a flicker of light to his right, and he whirled around, seeing the faintest outline of a lantern containing a warm, yellow flame before something struck his chest. His head cracked off the wall and he fell, winded, to his knees. A strong, weather-beaten hand materialised in front of him, grabbing his t-shirt at the throat and lifting him up so that Reuben’s feet were swinging off the ground. Bad breath hit him like a punch, and without waiting to see what happened next, Reuben lashed out with his magic, sending a blast of pure energy at his unseen attacker.
It retreated, and Reuben fell awkwardly. Remembering one of the basic banishing spells Alex had taught them, he cast it at the shadow that hovered on the far side of the cave.
Unfortunately, the spell wasn’t strong enough, and the spirit hadn’t finished with him yet. It swelled, broad-shouldered and malevolent, and from the middle of its bulk, Reuben saw a flash of steel as a weapon came whirring across the cave.
Reuben rolled and tried to cast a circle of protection around him, but he wasn’t quick enough. The dagger embedded in his shoulder, skewering a tattered, ragged piece of paper. The blade burned like fire, and gritting his teeth, Reuben wrenched it out of his flesh to use in defence.
But before the shadowy figure could advance any further, another figure manifested between them, a shape so familiar to him that Reuben froze in shock.
Gil.
He swiftly advanced on Reuben’s unknown attacker with a whirl of darkness and magic. They clashed, melding into one, the fury of their encounter reverberating around the cavern. Stunned, Reuben struggled to identify who was winning before they suddenly vanished, leaving only a scattering of gold coins behind in the sand.
Reuben just sat there, wincing with pain and breathing heavily, adrenalin keeping him poised to attack, but only the sound of the distant surf broke the silence. Blood poured from his wound, but he ignored it. The pain in his chest was far worse as the tightness of grief took over, so powerful he suddenly couldn’t breathe. When he did finally inhale, it was a shuddering, ragged effort that shook his entire body.
For what seemed like endless minutes, he just sat there, shaking. Gil had saved his life. And he couldn’t even thank him. As he wrested control of his body, Reuben took deep breaths to steady his nausea, and then leaned forward to pick up the paper that had fallen next to him. A wave of dizziness dulled his vision, but he staggered to the far exit that was bathed in daylight. Inhaling the fresh sea air, he looked at the blood-stained paper in his fingers.
Written in an ornate script were the words: Blood will be my vengeance.
Newton shone his torch along the dark tunnel and frowned.
“Inez, I’m not sure we should go on. The walls are crumbling quite badly here.”
She paused next to him, her own torch flashing around the roof and along the ground. “But look, footprints. This is the way they came.”
He turned to look at her determined face. “That doesn’t mean it’s safe. They were after treasure. We aren’t. I quite like being alive.”
They had been walking through the uneven, musty passage for about five minutes, moving steadily inland from what Newton could tell. The tunnel turned in places, disorientating him, so he wasn’t completely sure, but the slope was ascending, hopefully towards a near exit.
“But Newton, it can’t be much further,” Inez argued. “This could give us a real clue as to who broke into these chests.”
“Could it? Or will their transport and any sign of them be long gone?”
“Yes, that’s likely, but they might have left evidence at the other end. We might even get a clear footprint! Not like these sludgy ones that we can see here. They’re so trampled, they’re unusable.”
Inez slipped past him, taking the lead, and although Newton felt he should order her back, he was also torn. He liked Inez’s enthusiasm. She was very different to Moore’s calm and even-tempered approach.
In places there were trickles of water down the tunnel walls, and the air was damp and stale. Newton couldn’t help but wonder how often this place had been used in the past. At intervals he paused to examine the thick, wooden beams overhead, and the sturdy supports along the side. This passage had obviously been shored up at least once. But, he also thought that it had started out as a natural rock passage that had been enhanced over time.
The sound of Inez’s footfalls vanished, and he shouted, “Inez, wait!” He hurried to catch up, noting the passageway had turned up ahead. He couldn’t even see Inez’s torchlight.
A scream broke the silence and Newton ran, forgetting any pretence of being careful. He rounded the corner, but the passageway snaked onwards, and over the sound of his pounding feet he heard an ominous thump and the slither of falling rock.
Shit. Had she triggered a landslide? Had the tunnel collapsed? Suddenly wary of being buried alive, he slowed, rounding the bend ahead cautiously, and then blinked with shock.
The passage had widened, and outlined in the bright beam of light from Inez’s fallen torch, something small dashed across his path, rasping and wheezing in a distinctly non-human way. He whipped around, trying to see the figure. It leapt at him and he instinctively swung his torch, his only weapon, connecting with something hard. He heard a solid crack and the impact shuddered up his arm. An anguished grunt and hiss made his skin crawl, and then the figure skittered away. Without stopping to think of what he’d just encountered, Newton dashed forward, seeing Inez’s body lying on the ground beyond her torch.
He crouched over her, shouting her name. But as her head flopped heavily towards him, he saw that her skull was crushed and her eyes were lifeless.
Inez was dead.