Forever Scotland

CHAPTER 1

ARDLAMONT, SCOTLAND, 1691

Rory, Chief of Clan Lamont, woke up feeling a stark coldness in the sheets where his wife had been. He glanced over at the fireplace and saw that her wolfhounds, Argyll and Cromarty, were gone from their rugs by the hearth. They must have gone with her to mooch breakfast.

“Ah well, ’tis time to be stirring my bones.”

Shivering from the Scottish morning chill in just his shirt, he draped the tartan plaid around his body, tightened his belt, and pulled on his boots. Following his nose, he eagerly moved to where his wife was making her culinary magic.

Mary was stirring the porridge pot, singing to herself in Gaelic. Rory smiled at the upsurge of joy upon seeing his red-haired wife. The two wolfhounds sat on either side of Mary like gray bookends, their heads level with hers as they begged for scraps with every bristly hair on their bodies. From that first day he met her in the Scottish hills, Mary had completely mesmerized both hounds. It was uncanny, her way with beasts.

His wife had worked the same spell on the Lamont chief as she had on his dogs. She always said she was no witch, but after five years of marriage he still wondered, for he stayed entirely under her power.

“Rory, I can hear you slavering all the way from over here! Are you going to just stand there and beg with your eyes the same as Argyle and Cromarty, or will you come in to get some breakfast?”

He came over and patted her on the backside of her pale linen dress.

“Do you have eyes in the back of your head, wife, that you could see me when you weren’t looking?”

She let him kiss her, then turned back to her stew. “You know that Holy Bride always has her eyes on you, man. She thinks you are fine.”

He blushed, trying to ignore her comment about the Goddess only Mary heard in her head. In five years of marriage to the High Priestess of Holy Bride, Rory had learned that the less he thought about that side of his wife’s nature, the more comfortable he was.

He changed the subject quickly. “Are we having tripe with supper, lass?”

She smiled up at him. “Aye, we are, lad. That old ewe we had to butcher will have us eating well for a while.”

She slapped his hand away from trying to fish a piece of tripe out of the stew. “No. Rory! There won’t be any for the rest of us if you start gobbling it up now. Here.”

Mary handed him a big bowl of porridge. “Eat your porridge now.”

He sat down at the dining table and started spooning the porridge into his mouth. No Highlander ever turned down food, because you never knew when your next meal might not come around.

Mary smiled at Rory, taking a crisply fried plate of tripe from where she had hidden it, as she sat down across from him at the table.

“I made a little treat for your breakfast, husband.”

He grabbed the plate of fried tripe, grinning at her. “Now I remember why I married you, Moire mo madadh- ruadh!”

She was sitting over there, grinning like the red fox he had named her as she watched him gobble the treat down.

“I think it was for more than someone to fill your belly, Lamont.”

She got up from the table, came around to him, and kissed his bushy red hair. “Though I’m surprised you keep me, what with me not providing you with a son to lead the clan.”

He put his blacksmith-sized arm around her waist and drew her to him.

“I ken your sadness that you haven’t quickened. Mary. But my brother Ewan will make a fine chief when I’m gone. I have never regretted the day you took me up to the stones and pledged to be my wife. I would have liked you to bear my sons, I admit that. But most of all I want to make you as happy as you have made me these past five years.”

“You have done that, Rory. These years have gone by like wildfire in the North!”

She smiled again, pushing him gently away. “We’d better be about the farm numbers, Rory. T’would not do to have you get distracted, eh?”

He grinned back at her. “You are right. We’ve got a lot of figuring to do today and had best get started.”

He got up from the table, grabbed her hand, and led her into the office. “I’m not a Lamont for nothing. I’ll just show you how strong willed I can be against your considerable charms!”

She giggled, sorely tempted to distract him, but they did have a lot to do today. It wouldn’t be as quiet for the rest of the week while they got ready to drive the cattle to the market at Crieff.

It was the end of the harvest, and most people were out cleaning up the fields, gleaning the last bits of edible plants, and setting everything ready for the long winter ahead. Rory and Mary had planned to go over the farm records today to figure out how much to sell in Crieff, how much to keep for the clan, and how much was needed to seed next year’s crops.

“Rory, we don’t have the MacGillegowie records here.”

“Didn’t Ewan stop over to get them, like I asked him?”

Rory looked through the heavy book that made up the Lamont home farm records. “That boy’s mind is like a sieve at times. I guess he got sidetracked.” He looked back up at her, a smile on his face. “What do you say we take a walk on this bonnie day over to MacGillegowie’s plot and get them, eh? ’Tis a shame to stay indoors and waste the good weather.”

She smiled back. “Aye, I have been getting the itch to go, I must admit. Look at Argyll and Cromarty! They’re just like pups again at the thought of a walk!”

The two wolfhounds were grinning and capering around the door, so there was nothing to do except go out and enjoy a walk in the cold Highland sunshine.

Rory was enjoying the rare autumn sunshine shining warm on his face as they walked towards the MacGillegowie’s farm.

“Come on, wife, let’s get those records, or we’ll never balance the books before winter.”

Suddenly Rory heard the distant clinking of metal, and he turned to his wife. “Mary, shst! I thought I heard someone in the glen beyond.”

“Ach. Rory, the lads would have let us know if someone was about. They don’t seem bothered.”

“I said be quiet! Lads, guard your mistress now. Stay here, Mary, while I check things out.” He drew his pistol and dirk and disappeared into the bushes in the way that only born hillmen can do.

Her good mood disappeared when the sound of shouting and fighting exploded from beyond the hill.

“Ach, some kine-thieving clansmen are playing with Rory. Humph. Argyll Cromarty, go, find Rory. Protect!”

The two dogs hesitated a few seconds, knowing that they had been charged with her safety. When Mary pulled her sword to follow them, they turned and bounded up the hill with the fierce howls that had often sent shivers down an enemy’s back.

The dogs’ reactions were unusually ferocious, and alarm shot into Mary as she scrambled up the hill. Those were the wolfhounds’ killing howls, not the cries of dogs enjoying one of the typical clansmens’ games.

“Rory!” She shouted, hurrying up the hill even faster, fear as her spur.

“Ne parcas nec spernas!”

Mary came over the crest of the hill just as she heard Rory yell the fighting motto of Clan Lamont. At the same time, she also heard gunshots and the cries of dogs in agony.

At least thirty Clan MacLachlan warriors surrounded her husband. He gripped his claymore in his right hand and his pistol in his left. At his feet lay the wolfhounds, both shot several times and barely moving.

She started down the hill. Out of the gorse bushes jumped another MacLachlan. He knocked her senseless with the pommel of his dirk, the blow coming before she even registered his presence, and the attack threw her into darkness.

_____________

Mary woke up with a start, her head throbbing from the blow she had taken.

Rory!

She shot up way too fast and threw up the contents of her stomach right there on the heather. Despite the pain and nausea, she forced her way down to where Rory and the dogs lay.

Her husband was barely recognizable, so many times had he been shot. The sturdy body didn’t have a single spot not bloody

“Oh, Rory, what have they done to you, lad?” She took his head gently and cradled him, refusing to admit what was obvious

Daughter he’s with me now.

The Goddess that Mary served, Holy Bride, crooned a wordless song of sympathy in Mary’s mind, but Her priestess refused the comfort. One thought sliced through her angry heart with a cry: retribution!

_____________

Clan Chief Ogdan MacLachlan heard that cry rolling over the hills as he rode away from the murder he had committed. He drew his plaid closer around him, crossing himself hastily to ward against evil.

_____________

A noise from one of the dogs broke Mary’s spell of grief. She went to Cromarty, realizing that he was still alive despite his terrible wounds.

“Eh, laddie, there’s a good dog now.”

The dog couldn’t lift his head, but his tongue reached out and weakly swabbed his beloved owner’s hand.

“Hey, boy, stay still now. Where did the bastards get you?” She examined him and saw that his spine was shattered by a pistol ball.

I can heal him for you, daughter.

If you do, what will his future be like, Lady?

Short. He will die bravely protecting you, but he will die again.

I will not ask that of him, as brave and noble as he is, for he wouldn’t understand the pain. Dying once is enough for his great heart.

She reached for the sword she had put down by Rory’s body.

“Cromarty, my love. It will stop hurting soon. Good boy.”

With an experienced flick of her wrist, Mary cut the brave dog’s throat, tears falling like rain from her eyes. She stroked him and spoke to him until the light left his eyes, and Cromarty joined his sire and his beloved master in death.

Wiping the dog’s blood from her sword, Mary stood up.

Mother, can you get one of the plough horses out of the paddock and send it here? I’ll not let their bodies lie on the cold ground for the crows and wolves!

Aye, daughter. It is done. She’ll be here soon.

Mary could feel Bride’s sorrow reverberate through her own body. She knew that the Goddess was familiar with death, yet the Lady still grieved when a mortal She loved left the earth.

Lady?

Aye my High Priestess?

Mary spoke aloud. “Hear my vow. I swear by the blood of my love Rory Lamont that Ogdan MacLachlan will die by my hand. I will revenge the dishonorable deed done here today. I swear this by my vows to you, by my MacNab name, and by the blood that courses through my body.”

She took out her dirk, sliced her palm, and moved the bloody and to lie on her husband’s chest.

“Let my blood mingle with my dead love’s and lend my arm the strength to get justice for Rory.”

She stood up, looked up into the hills towards the Maclachlan lands to the north, and spoke aloud, knowing that her Goddess would send the message straight to the heart of her enemy.

“Hear me in your heart and soul, you murdering bastard, Ogdan MacLachlan! You will die in shame and humiliation for the dark deed you have done this day, for the good man you have taken from the world!”

Exactly at that moment, Ogdan MacLachlan, Chief of Clan MacLachlan, felt the cold grue come over him, and he shivered.

“What’s the matter, Og?” His brother James asked, seeing his chief shaking in the saddle.

The chief laughed nervously. “I just felt a goose walk over my grave is all. Mayhap ’tis Lamont’s spirit going to Hell where we sent him, eh?”

James laughed. “Aye. That old bastard would let you know he is going, out of sheer hate, he would.”

The older man, a scarred veteran of many battles, said, “Don’t think too lightly of our work today, brother. Not until we know what the response will be.”

“Do you think those cowardly Lamonts will declare war? They didn’t when we hurt them before.”

“We haven’t butchered their chief before. Their new chief is only an untried boy. They might choose a War Chief and fight, but I think the witch that Lamont married will stop any war before it happens. She will want to keep her hold over the clan and will make sure the Lamont pup does her bidding. I expect we won’t be troubled any more. Our message was plain, even for the dumbest Lamont.”

“Why didn’t you have the witch killed, Og? She might curse us, or something.”

“The bad luck that comes with killing one of Bride’s women is naught that I would wish on my clan, lad. And she’s Bride’s High Priestess, which comes with even more risk. ’Tis better to leave her alive than to have Bride against us.”

James’s pox-scarred face looked worried as he replied, “Still, brother, I just hope that leaving her alive won’t come back to haunt you.”

The blond chief shook off the creepy feeling he’d had and laughed, slapping his brother on the shoulder. “You always were the worrier of the family, James. Don’t fash yourself. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

_____________

Young Jaime Dubh Macaldue was the first one to see Mary return. He was pouring some grain into the chicken coop, when the guard dogs started a weird clamoring. They didn’t bark as they would to announce a beloved master’s arrival or a stranger’s approach. Instead, all the penned wolfhounds sat back on their haunches and howled fit to wake the dead in their barrows.

As the priestess came closer, Jaime Dubh saw the look on her face, and the plaid-wrapped bundle draped over the back of the horse. A cold shiver ran down his spine. His balls shriveled up and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

The priestess’ face was devoid of color, despite the cold drizzle that usually reddened her face. Mary’s eyes, usually a gentle and laughing greenish gray, were the cold, whitish gray of a loch during one of the winter storms that killed whoever or whatever was foolish enough to venture out in it.

Scared, the teen turned and ran with the fleetness of a rabbit towards the home of Rory Lamont. He would get Ewan. Jaime’s friend, who was also the chief’s brother, would know what to do.

“Ewan, come quick man!”

Ewan looked up from where he was tying together sheaves of late wheat for storage. He saw his younger friend’s face and dropped the bundle.

“What is it, Jaime Dubh?”

“You hear the hounds? Mary is on her way in. She’s got Rory’s plaid draped over something on a horse.”

“Did you see what it was?”

“No, but from the look on her face, it might be a body. She scared me until I almost shit myself!”

Dread knotting his throat into a lump that blocked swallowing, Ewan turned towards the road.

“I’d better meet her, then.”

Mary walked along in an unseeing haze of grief. It was only when she felt the hand on her shoulder that she realized that someone had stopped the horse’s forward move hment.

“Mary, what have you got there, and where’s Rory?” Ewan asked her, his face white.

“He’s here, under his tartan, lad, with Argyll and Cromarty. The MacLachlans butchered him, shot him full of lead, without even letting him defend himself. There were thirty of them at least, against his one. He had gone ahead of me and I didn’t get there in time to help.”

He let out a breath in shock. “And you, Mary? Are you okay? You were wobbling a bit there as you walked.”

“The bastards knocked me on the head and rattled my brain is all. I’m fine.” The gray eyes had hardly any trace of humanity in them, and it was all Ewan could do to look into them.

“Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry, Sister.”

Her expression softened for a second as she saw the tears start on his young face. She reached into her pocket. then stretched out a bloody hand to grasp his. She dropped a weight into his hand; an object that had been warmed by proximity to her body.

“Here, Ewan, this is yours now. You’re the Lamont Chief.”

The fifteen-year-old looked down at the heavy silver ring in his palm. The blood-soaked, yellow cairngorm in the Lamont Chief’s ring pressed against his fingers as he closed them around it in a moment of denial.

“I guess I need to call up the Lamont. They’ve pushed us way too far this time! I’ll have Ogdan MacLachlan’s balls for this! But why didn’t they just ransom him, Mary? We would’ve paid.”

“I knew something like this would happen after your fool sister Berthilde insisted on wedding MacLachlan’s second son. MacLachlan is hoping to get control of some of our land, if not all of it, based on that marriage. Which is why he got rid of Rory first. He wants you to declare war against them. That would leave Berthilde’s son the closest in line for the Lamont chieftainship.”

“We need to call the clan for the funeral, so I’ll call them for a war counsel at the same time. Will you and Holy Bride speak over the grave, Mary?” Tears shone in the young man’s eyes and he manfully tried to hold them back.

“No, Ewan. I’ve sworn a blood vow of revenge. As soon as I’ve changed, I’m heading out to force McLachlan to the dubhlain. Rory’s bones will rest with God only when McLachlan’s scorch in Hell, or I will die trying. Holy Bride will be with you at the funeral, though. She mourns his loss, too.”

“But, Mary…”

“No buts, Ewan. I’ll negotiate a peace for us if I can before we fight, but that is the best I can do. Now let me go to do what I must

Mary turned around and headed to her bedroom to bathe and to change into traveling clothes.

Mary strode into the hall of Clan MacLachlan, breaking in upon a raucous scene of celebration. Beer and whiskey flowed freely as they celebrated the death of their enemy, The Lamont

The first to notice her entry were the MacLachlan stag- hounds. Sensing the anger in her and instinctively knowing the danger she posed to their master, the entire pack rushed her. The fierce haying silenced the conversations as all eyes turned to watch, hoping to see the dogs tear the trespasser apurt

Mary looked at the dogs and said in a ringing voice, “Sgur!”

In response to the Gaelic command to cease and desist, every dog stopped in its tracks as though hitting an invisible wall.

Ogdan MacLachlan got up from the table, pulled out his claymore and pistol, and walked up to where Mary stood waiting.

“You’re Lamont’s buitsich.”

“I’m no witch, MacLachlan, as you ken well. If I was such a one, I would be at home, cursing your clan forever. If I was one, you would have taken me the same way you took my Rory, dishonorly as it was. You ken well the Lady I serve.”

Breaths caught in the room, and the sign of the cross was made in several places as the clan heard Mary’s words.

MacLachlan nodded his blond head, never taking his eyes off her. “Aye. I know Her. ’Tis why you’re still alive, not burning on a pyre along with Lamont.”

“The only reason you let me live is because you feared what Bride and her Dark Sister would do if you murdered Her servant. Don’t try to appease me, or Her. She reads into men’s hearts, so She does.”

Mary took out her sword, slowly easing it from its scabbard to show she wasn’t trying to ambush the man in front of her.

The Priestess raised her voice so that every person in that hall could hear her words.

“I call caisil-chrò dùbhlain on you, Ogdan MacLach- lan! You’re an honorless ainmhidh who didn’t have the courage to fight my Rory one-on-one. You weren’t enough of a man to do that, to allow him to die with honor, facing your sword. Instead you had your bully-boys shoot him from afar. I call the blood challenge down upon you. Will you accept, or are you too craven to die with honor?”

“I’ll not fight a woman, not even one with a wee knife in her hand, waving it around in my hall. Go and grieve for your husband, woman, and let me get back to my meal.”

He turned his back on Mary, plainly showing his disdain for her skill with the sword. as the widow of the Chief of the Lamonts, no Lamont will revenge the death of my husband or me. Even if I lose, Holy Bride won’t turn her face from your clan.”

Daughter! Do not make promises that I may not keep. This animal and his clan deserve to be forsaken for what they did to our Rory!

Mother, I don’t ask you for much, but this I demand of you because of my long service. Keep your Dark Sister away during the fight - and afterwards, if I lose. Don’t turn your face from this clan. This bastard, in agreeing to my challenge, will redeem his clan in your eyes, whether he wins or loses. Promise me!

Mary could sense Bride’s reluctance, and in her mind could picture the angry narrowing of the leaf-green eyes. Finally, though, the Goddess acquiesced. She would honor Mary’s demand.

“So, if I kill you in a death challenge, Bride won’t turn against my clan as punishment?”

“No. She will abide by the laws of caisil-chro dùbhlain. If you live, She won’t seek revenge against you or pull Her blessed healing from you. Neither will the Lamonts come for you over killing their chief. If I win, the feud between our clans ends and young Ewan Lamont won’t have to deal with the likes of you. And...” She grinned at him suddenly. It was one of the most bloodthirsty grins the experienced fighter had ever seen, judging by the way his face blanched and his big knuckles turned white as he tightened the grip on his claymore. “...I get to send you to Hell, where you surely belong. Will you accept?”

“If I choose not to fight you, woman? What then?” “Then you’ll die anyway. I’ll die by the hands of your clan after I skewer you, and Holy Bride will turn Her healing face from your clan. After our deaths, the Lamonts and the MacLachlans will go to war. Many on both sides will die who won’t have to if you just do your duty as chief.”

She shrugged. “Tis up to you, MacLachlan. I’ll live again to serve my Lady. You will not. If you die with honor, your memory will be praised. Or you can be called a craven, who didn’t even dare to fight a woman.”

Mary’s sword went to his throat, again quick as a striking snake. MacLachlan didn’t move a muscle as the point pricked his neck under his beard. He just looked at her with his ice-blue eyes.

“I accept your challenge, woman.” In a louder voice, he addressed his kinsmen and womenfolk. “I agree to this caisil-chrò dùbhlain. If I should lose, I commit the Lachlans to a peace agreement. No one will avenge my death, and the Lachlan clan will no longer fight against the Lamonts, no matter who wins the day. Do you all hear my words?”

The crowd yelled out their acceptance, and the chief turned to his brother James. “James, you’ll be Chief after me. I want your word, brother, that you’ll not take arms against the Lamonts to avenge my death. You’ll let this woman leave freely, too. Do I have your word?”

The brothers looked at each other intently for a few seconds, then James nodded grimly. “Aye, brother. I’ll abide by your instructions if you should be killed. No feud will result from your death in this duel.”

Blue eyes met brown ones in a test of wills. It was obvious that James didn’t want to promise not to harm Mary if she should win. “And the witch goes free if she wins, James. Your word on it, brother. I’ll not be called an oath breaker from my grave because you decided to take her life.”

Finally, the younger man nodded, his blond beard jiggling. “Aye, though you ken my views on such as her, brother. She goes free if she should win.”

The chief turned to Mary. “Okay, witch, now we’ll see who’s got the stronger magic: Christ who I follow, or your Lady.” He held up his claymore and grinned. “You’ve finally met a man you canna tame, wench!”

With a powerful, two-handed swing, MacLachlan’s blade swept up and downward to the place where Mary’s head was attached to her body. His intent was to end this duel quickly by cleaving her head from her body. It was a good plan. Except for one problem: Mary wasn’t there anymore. She had jumped to the side as soon as his sword reached the apex of its swing.

The five-foot-long blade impaled itself in the wooden floor. The force of the jolt rippled throughout Ogdan MacLachlan’s massive shoulders and arms.

Mary saw her chance and moved in while the bigger man was recovering. She jabbed her sword in under his arm and sliced his exposed armpit above the boiled leather armor. Her intention was to impale him, but he was moving and the blow was on the wrong side. She would have to go through bones and organs to get his heart. Mary pivoted, pulled her sword from his flesh, and slapped him on the butt with the blade in a whipping motion. The sharp steel sliced his thick linen sark as though it wasn’t there, leaving a razor-like cut along his buttocks that quickly turned the yellow shirt crimson.

Anger made him clumsy as he pivoted, but it didn’t blunt the force of his next blow. His sword whispered whhhsht by Mary’s head as she ducked under the swing. She pulled her dirk and sliced his left thigh as she butted his nose with the hilt of her sword.

“Goddamn, you broke my nose, you wee monster! I hate getting my nose broken!” MacLachlan pulled out his sghian dubh from his stocking sheath.

“I’m through playing easy with you because of your sex!”

Before the priestess could get out of the way, the wily chief sliced across her middle, right below her breasts, with his sharp stocking knife. The pain of the cut didn’t faze Mary in her berserker fury, but she could feel the blood dripping warmly down her belly and knew that she had better wrap this fight up before she lost too much blood.

“You can do better than that, animal. My baby good brother fights better than you!”

Mary moved her arm over and down, cutting the tendons of his left wrist so fast that he didn’t notice the move until his useless hand dropped the knife. He tried to move his claymore around to counter, but she came up under the slower, one-handed swipe.

“I guess I’d better quit playing with you, MacLachlan. I’m getting tired of this game.” Her sword flicked redly in the torchlight, and the quiet group heard the characteristic bubbling whistle of a severed windpipe.

Like a great tree struck by lightning, Ogdan MacLachlan’s body hit the blood-drenched floor. The surprised look on his face as he stared up at Mary became the glazed look of the newly dead.

The priestess reached over and closed her enemy’s eyes, automatically saying a prayer for his soul as she would for any Gael who died by her hand. She got up, ignoring the dizziness the movement caused her, turned without a backward glance, and left the way she had come.

It was finally over, and justice had been done. Now her Rory could rest in peace.

The woman climbed the rocky hillock in Ballymeanoch, just south of Kilmartin in Argyll. She leaned heavily on her sword, using it like a walking stick so she wouldn’t collapse on her face. The red blood covering her bodice and shirt contrasted with the green, blue, and white tartan of her wool skirt. Sleety winds of autumn stung her cheeks like small knives, but she was grateful for the icy pellets now. The pain of them was the only thing that had kept her conscious long enough to stumble onto the summit of the hill and into the ring of ancient standing stones.

Only Highland stubbornness gave her the strength to stand up straight in front of the altar stone. The sword wound that ran horizontally along her lower ribs ached with the same rhythm as her laboring heart, and she could feel the sticky roughness of the blood- and sweat-soaked cloth she’d tied under her breasts to cut down the bleeding. The binding she’d tied it with had long since come undone and slipped down her shirt to wad up at her waist.

A wash of dizziness moved through her, and the granite guardians spun around. But she would not fall! By the Goddess, she was the Hereditary High Priestess of Holy Bride, a MacNab by birth, and the widow of a Clan Chief of the Lamonts. She would stand before her Goddess in order to die, even if it killed her!

Lady!

Green eyes opened in her mind, and Bride answered. Aye, Daughter?

“My revenge is done, but I’m sorely wounded, and I would that my soul go to its rest for now. May I bury the regalia here and come to your embrace?”

The green eyes looked at her compassionately and with sad regret.

I wish that you could, little one. But I have need of you still, and a part you must play before this life ends. You can’t come home just yet.

Mary Helen MacNab Lamont glared at the main stone with eyes the color of a loch in winter. She wasn’t pleased with that answer at all!

Rory’s dead!

The familiar mind scream went through her again, and tears fell down her cheeks suddenly. How could she go on without him?

“NO! I used my last strength to get to where I could safely hide the regalia until I come again. There’s naught but death that awaits me now, for my spirit has flown with my love. I’ll not go on without him.”

Aye, you will, Daughter. You must go on in this life. No more about dying, now. You must live.

Suddenly Bride shot her healing power through Mary’s head and body, finally pouring it into the sword wound under her breasts. Her whole body felt as though it was on fire inside, with the same tingly feeling that fills the air right before a summer thunderstorm. She knew agony, as severed nerves sucked Goddess energy into them greedily and revived with shooting stars of pain. Blood vessels knitted, muscles closed, and skin came together into the white scar of an old wound. The strength of it threw her to the cold heather, her body writhing to try to get away from what could not be escaped.

“NO!” she screamed again, trying through the strength of her indomitable will to send herself out of this life. As the blessed darkness overcame her, she thought she had succeeded.

She was wrong.