Vengeance of a Queen: The Resurrection of Queens, Book 2

The silence that follows is almost deafening. I find it disconcerting not being able to see or hear anyone. I can feel them all through my bonds, however, and while there’s a lot of shock going around, everybody seems to be fine.

“Everyone okay?” Caleb’s voice booms through the darkness. Ayla murmurs that she’s fine, followed by Malcolm’s affirmation that he’s okay.

“Yeah. I’m good. What about everyone we left outside? What the hell just happened?” The darkness around me is so thick it seems to swallow my words, and for a moment, I’m afraid the others can’t hear me. Malcolm brushes his fingers against mine, quickly taking hold of my hand, and I squeeze his fingers. I’m surprised at how reassuring his touch is.

We’re in the darkness for a moment longer before harsh light floods the room. My pupils contract painfully at the sudden attack. I’m disoriented for a moment as I take in the small cottage.

We’re standing on a packed dirt floor, and there’s a large fireplace that takes up the wall to the right. There are three beds tucked into the corner, and a handcrafted wooden table in the middle of the room. A door directly across from the main entrance leads into another room—I assume it’s where Ayla’s parents slept. It’s cozy and fits with how people lived five hundred years ago.

When my gaze falls on Ayla again, she’s staring intently at the fireplace mantel. Malcolm and Caleb open the door to assure themselves everything is fine, and then they speak to the people we left outside.

“It must have just been whatever security spell was placed on the cottage.” Malcolm’s voice drifts over to me, but I’m not really paying attention to the men. Ayla won’t take her gaze away from the fireplace.

I move to stand next to her, turning my gaze in the same direction. Carved into the mantle is an intricate design of the waxing, full, and waning moons with a representation of the goddesses through the full moon. It’s all done in delicate Celtic knotwork. I kind of want to touch it. The scene from Finding Nemo, where Dory wants to touch the baby jellyfish, comes to mind, so I keep my hands to myself.

Ayla doesn’t seem to have the same hesitation I do. She steps closer to the mantel, gingerly running her fingers along the carving. It glows softly and I step forward, reaching out to touch the figure as if my hand has a mind of its own. There’s a thrum of power in the air as the space between my finger and the mantle dwindles.

I finally make contact, and a strong bolt of magic flairs around us. My gasp is caught in my throat as the world goes dark. Mierda.

In the next heartbeat, we are standing in the middle of a vicious battle. My hand is already closed around the necklace Kelly gave us, and both her and Darcy shimmer into being beside us. Screams rend the air and the scent of blood clogs my nose. I stiffen, ready to defend myself, but Ayla puts a hand on my arm before I can act.

“Do you recognize anyone?” I ask her. Since the magical Celtic knot was in her old cottage, it’s safe to assume that even though I’m along for this magical ride, I’ve got no horse in the race. I look over at Kelly and Darcy. I can see their mouths moving, but I can’t hear them. Odd. It seems like they can hear us though.

“No.”

That’s odd. Why would the magical design show us something that isn’t related to Ayla? I’m scanning the battle when I catch sight of someone familiar. “Look!” I point. “Brigid!”

I haven’t had the chance to meet the goddess in person, but everyone knows what Brigid looks like. We all know what all of the gods and goddesses look like. Brigid is clashing swords with a tall male, and the visual differences between them are startling.

Dios Mío.

The male is well over seven feet tall with skin so dark it seems to absorb the light around him, and his eyes are gold with blood-red irises. He’s got horns, similar to an archdemon’s, that wrap around his skull and end in lethally sharp points by his chin. His stark white hair is shorn close on the sides and braided into intricate knots on the top of his head, the color providing a staggering contrast against his skin.

Brigid, on the other hand, seems to emit light. Her skin is so pale and fair that I can clearly see her golden veins, even from a distance. Her fiery red hair is braided down her back with beads. Unlike most depictions of her, her eyes are currently gold as well, but with bright blue irises.

The two trade blows that ring above the battle raging around them, both completely focused on the other. I’m so engrossed in their fierce fight that for several moments, I don’t notice Ayla gently tapping my arm.

“Liv…” Ayla’s voice is quiet, shocked. “Focus on the battle. There are only seven of the dark ones. The gods and goddesses are teaming up to battle seven.”

That snaps me out of my intense focus. I quickly glance around and realize she’s right. There are only seven dark beings, all surrounded by multiple gods and goddesses, save for the solo fight between Brigid and her dark entity. Ice drips down my spine as my eyes continue to bounce between the seven dark creatures and the divine surrounding them. These seven creatures can hold off a small army of gods and goddesses.

Santa Mierda. What the hell are they?

Dread makes my stomach churn as the scene continues to unfold. My attention returns to Brigid, and I notice she’s struggling more than she was a few minutes ago. What on earth are we watching?

The scene fades and is replaced with a large hall, with the gods and goddesses sitting around a long rectangular table. They are bickering, and I can’t make out any of what they are discussing.

Odin stands, slamming his fists against the table. “Enough!” His voice rings around the room, causing everyone at the table to fall silent. “We all know what has to be done. We need to banish the Härja. We have to pool our powers and create a prison strong enough to hold them.”

“But that will require a sacrifice.” Isis stands, her expression livid as she glares at Odin. “Not only would one of our guardians have to sacrifice themselves in an abhorent manner, but one of our own would also need to be banished to this prison.”

“I’m well aware of what is at stake. There is no other choice,” Odin argues.

“I will go.” A quiet voice causes all heads to turn in its direction. A stunningly handsome man with bright white wings stands. “I will anchor the prison.”

“Lucifer,” Isis starts, but a shake of his head silences her.

“Odin is right. This is the only option. It will take our guardians many years to banish the Härja to the pit. It will be ready for them. I will see to it.”

“Then it is done.”

The world once again goes black.

Now, the four of us stand beside a woman who looks a lot like Ayla. She’s kneeling before an altar dedicated to Brigid, her head bowed.

“Mum,” Ayla murmurs, the Irish accent I know she’s worked hard to get rid of coming back full force. She raises her hand as if to touch her mother but stays rooted to her spot.

“Please.” Her mother’s voice is thick with tears. “Please, do not make my babes go through such trials.”

A shimmering female figure steps up beside the altar—Brigid. The only thing that has changed about her appearance since the last vision is her hair, which is now loose about her shoulders.

“Aine,” Brigid begins, her tone musical, “I do not wish to cause you harm, daughter.” She kneels beside Aine, taking Aine’s hands in hers. “But your daughters are Fates. They are a necessary part of the balance we have strived so hard to maintain.”

“I do not mean ye any disrespect, milady” —Aine bows her head—“but I cannot allow my children to go through such horrors. I have heard the prophecy. They are but babes. To have such responsibility thrust upon them…”

“And that is why we shall do all we can to keep them safe.”

“But what of the prophecy? There is no way they can truly be safe.”

“We know not its origin, but we have put fail-safes in place to ensure they will not fight alone.” Brigid sets her hand on Aine’s cheek, gently tilting the other woman’s face up. “We are blessing three new Fates who will fight alongside your daughters.”

The scene once again changes, but Ayla and I are frozen in place before the hearth. Now, Aine and a man I assume is Ayla’s father are huddled by the door of the cottage. The night is brightly lit by both the full moon and the Milky Way galaxy shining overhead.

“My love,” Ayla’s father rumbles, “do not fret. We have been given guidance. Our daughters will be safe until their time comes.” He tenderly presses his forehead to Aine’s, and my heart squeezes at the intimate display.

“Cillian. We are merely buying them time. The war that is to come—”

“Is theirs to fight.”

A sob pierces the still night, and my heart breaks as I watch them discuss the fate of their beloved children. Ayla knew nothing about any of this until recently. My gaze flicks to her, and the longing evident on her face causes tears to sting the backs of my eyes. I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it gently. She doesn’t take her gaze away from her parents, but her fingers curl against mine, clutching them as though they are her only lifeline.

“We will hide one in the new world, one in the old world, and one where life began.” Aine’s voice is stronger, and determination illuminates her eyes as she pulls back from Cillian and meets his gaze. “I will not make them vulnerable by keeping them together.”

“It’s a good plan, love. How will they wake?”

The world goes dark again before we’re able to hear her answer. Mierda.

Malcolm grips my shoulders as I’m flung out of the vision. My breaths are coming out in soft pants as my eyes roam his face. He’s worried about me. Everything about his body language screams it at me. My heart stutters before pounding loudly in my chest. I’m surprised he can’t hear the damn thing.

“What the hell happened to you two?” Caleb’s voice rips my gaze from Malcolm’s face. I glance over to see him cradling Ayla’s cheeks in his hands, his eyes frantically examining her.

“We…” Ayla pauses. “Saw my mother. The symbol on the mantel…” She glances over at it, causing the rest of us to look over as well. “It showed us things.”

“And you were pulled into this vision too?” Malcolm questions, drawing my attention back to him.

“Yeah. The magic called to me.” I shake my head. “I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t have fought it even if I wanted to. Everything about the magic just felt right.”

“I didn’t feel the magic,” Ayla interjects. “There was just a sense of home.”

“This is the second time you’ve felt magic like this.” Malcolm’s brow creases with concern. “I’m worried you’re pushing your new powers too fast.”

“What?” I look at him, confused. How does my ability to feel magic relate to overusing my powers? “Witches have different abilities. It stands to reason that different queens will have different abilities also.” I take a step back from him, giving him a look that clearly says I think he’s slightly brain damaged. “Ayla can read auras, and while I get hints of them, more so from demons and people who have been tainted, I can feel magic. It has nothing to do with how I’ve been using my new powers.”

“How can you be so sure?” Malcolm challenges as he starts pacing, running his hand through his hair and fiddling with his large framed glasses. “You’ve only had your powers for a short time. You haven’t mentioned feeling magic like this before.”

“Because we haven’t dealt with anything as strong or ancient before.”

Hun. Ayla nudges at my bond. He’s worried about you. Take it from me, being rational with him isn’t going to work right now.

Aren’t men the ones who always claim women are irrational when they’re upset or worried?

Hypocrites, the lot of them. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s had his feathers ruffled.

He’s a big boy…

Who needs a hug.

Mierda. She’s probably right. Malcolm is my mate, and every instinct inside me is screaming for me to comfort him. He’s concerned about my wellbeing, which is touching and sweet, but beneath that it feels as though he doesn’t genuinely think I am coping with everything that’s been thrown my way lately…or maybe it’s that I’m not coping the way he wants me to.

I know the man has faith in me. He wouldn’t have offered to train me himself if he didn’t think I could hold my own. I cock my head as I watch him pace and continue to rant. I know I’ve questioned his feelings lately, but that kiss outside the cottage and his actions now suggest he does have feelings for me—I think. Men are confusing as hell.

I mentally nudge Ayla to drag Caleb away for a minute, so Malcolm and I can be alone. He doesn’t notice, still too caught up in his ramblings. It’s kind of cute. He’s gotten himself all worked up because he’s worried about me. It’s needless, but I haven’t had anyone worry about me like this before, and despite the independent woman in me that wants to be offended, it’s still sort of sweet. I watch him for another few seconds before placing myself directly in his path.

“Malcolm.” He stops moving and ranting and just stares at me. “You’ve been training me for a while now.” I gently take his hands. “I need you to trust me when I say I’m not overusing my powers. I promise I’m fine.”

His shoulders sag increasingly the longer he stares at me. “Damn it, woman. I know you’re fine.” His hand whips out and snakes around the back of my neck, pulling me against his chest. “You’re too important.”

My heart slams to a stop and my body freezes against his. Too important? Does that mean…?

My thoughts scatter as Malcolm tips my chin up and molds his lips to mine.