Magic Binds (Kate Daniels 9)

“It’s not the Covens. It’s the Oracle. And especially you coming to see the Oracle. Turn off here.”

I turned right onto a dirt road and the Jeep rolled and careened its way to a small parking lot. I parked and got out.

“We go on foot from here,” Roman announced, and started down a narrow trail.

Around us the forest was filled with sound and light. Birds chirped, sang, and warbled, squirrels chittered, and foxes barked. A wolf howl soared to the sky, too distant to be a threat. A fat badger wobbled out into our path, looked at me with small eyes as if offended I dared to intrude into his domain, and took off, unhurried. This was a witch forest. It belonged to animals and those whose magic was attuned to nature. Normal humans didn’t visit often and weren’t welcome.

“Cheer up,” Roman said. “The sun is shining and the air is clean. It’s a nice day for a hike.”

If only I could get my father and the crosses out of my head. I really hoped I didn’t start a war this morning.

The trees parted, revealing a rocky basin of clear water, framed by huge boulders and cushioned with emerald-green trees. A sixty-foot wall of rock jutted above it. Atlanta didn’t really have mountains, with the exception of Stone Mountain, which was basically a huge boulder that had somehow gone astray from its friends, the Appalachians. This place looked like it belonged in northwest Georgia.

I glanced at Roman.

“It used to be less impressive,” he said. “During the next-to-last flare there was a magic explosion here. A mountain thrust out of the ground, and cracks traveled all the way up to Little Bear Creek, opening it up. Now it’s Little Bear River.” He pointed with his staff at the rocks. “We wait here.”

We sat on the boulders. I watched the water. The pool was crystal clear and small waterfalls skipped down the rocks at its far end. So beautiful and serene. Roman was right. It was a good day for a hike.

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.