Chapter 17: Compulsion

Monday, 8 August 1955, Edinburgh, Scotland

There were not enough tears that could be shed for the pain that laced Rebecca’s palm and right arm. Mrs. Weed still held her head in gentle hands, but Rebecca was oblivious to the sterile surroundings of the hospital. At least the salve the nurse applied had begun to numb the pain.

“And how did you manage a burn like this?” asked the nurse.

“I grabbed a hot ... pan from the stove,” answered Rebecca at last.

“Now what do you suppose they make potholders for?” chided the nurse. “I imagine you won’t attempt that again soon.” The nurse finished with the salve and turned away. “I’ll be back to wrap that for you in just a minute.” When she was gone, Rebecca looked up into Mrs. Weed’s eyes and tears began to roll again.

“Alice, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Gently, child. Never mind. You work a powerful magic, but should really not work alone.”

“What happened to my wand and my Athamé? They didn’t burn up, did they?” Rebecca was near panic to think of her new tools being destroyed.

“The Athamé is in your handbag, Becca. So watch where you open it. The wand is beside you.”

Rebecca reached for her staff with her uninjured hand. She gasped as it came into sight. The rod had been silky white, cut from a white ash at Brown County State Park in Indiana. She had stripped the bark from the staff and carefully sanded it and oiled it, adding a rubber tip from the leg of a card table to the end so hiking would not damage it. Doc’s staff had an iron cup on the foot and one day perhaps she would do that as well. But the pale wood of what was now her consecrated wand had been changed. A deep red burnished the wood and seemed to glow from beneath its surface. The fire was contained within the rod. But it was scarred. The Blade had stabbed the knife just below a spot where she had trimmed away a small limb. There was a hard knot in the wood at that point. The gash beneath the knot was a deeper mysterious red dropping to black at the depth of the scar. As Rebecca stared at the gash, it seemed to pulse and her own body responded to the sexual awareness. It was as if her female parts had been engraved on the staff. Far from appearing blemished, however, the rod had taken on an appearance of great depth and intense power. The wood seemed harder, tempered, strengthened. It slid beneath her fingers sensually and she could feel the heat deep inside it, waiting to burst forth.

This shall be my symbol, she thought. The Sigil of Sadb.

“It was a foolish thing to have done,” Mrs. Weed intruded into her thoughts. “It is a wonder I ever got through to you.”

“The power. It was ... such ... seductive...”

“It was enough to do a fair-sized coven credit. Becca, you must learn to work tandem with someone to draw you back. I almost didn’t reach you.”

“To tell me to ground the power.”

“Aye. So that part did get through to you. Good. So much gift I have never seen in one person in my life.” The nurse returned with fresh wraps for Rebecca’s hand and cut off Mrs. Weed with her good-natured chattering.

“Well,” she said, “there’s a rash of empty heads a’loose today. Would you imagine that on the same day someone else would reach to a hot pan without a potholder? Of course, he’s a man, but even a bachelor should have common sense.” The nurse rambled on as she wrapped Rebecca’s hand. The pain subsided to a constant throb. Rebecca closed her eyes and could still see the flames and the hot stiletto she had grabbed so desperately protruding from the gash in her walking stick. When she opened her eyes, the flames faded gradually behind the throbbing. Through the open curtain, she saw a man pulling his jacket over one arm, draping the other side over his shoulder. His short blond hair and fair skin reminded her of some...

... one! Rebecca sat straight up with a startled exclamation that drew everyone’s instant attention and sent a bowl of water spilling out of the nurse’s hands. The nurse left to find a mop for the spill and left Rebecca face-to-face with Ryan McGuire, The Blade. He wore a pained but sadistic smile of recognition and moved toward Rebecca a step.

Rebecca watched the grin fade as comprehension and then apprehension swept across his face. He raised his bandaged hand as he looked at hers.

“You?” he said in consternation.

“Stay away from me!”

For the first time, Rebecca saw a genuine hesitance in the man whose cold confidence had unnerved her so easily. It seemed almost as if someone else ... or other ... looked out from behind his eyes. He treated her with the same vulnerable respect that she unwillingly felt toward him.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Not again,” Mrs. Weed interrupted. “You’ve already done your share.”

“It was a mistake.” Ryan stepped closer. Rebecca sought and clutched her purse. She could feel the tempting shape of the knife beneath the soft fabric of the bag. “I don’t know what came over me. We needn’t be enemies. We are cildru of the same ... of the same Mother. We could be partners.”

“I would never be your partner,” she snapped.

“You need someone,” he answered. “Tell her, Water Maiden. She doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. Look at this,” he finished, holding up his bandaged hand.

“She is beginning to understand,” said Mrs. Weed. “I don’t think she needs further instruction from you.”

“Mrs. Allen ... Rebecca. I can help you master the power you hold. I can work tandem with you. Show you ways to raise power you can’t imagine. And control it. Power, Hart. Our own coven. You as high priestess.”

The pleading seduction in The Blade’s eyes threw her. He was a lovely man, very much like Wesley, though harder. She had seen him naked in the coven circle—had been so herself—could still feel the touch of his thigh against her own. Sadb as priestess in a new coven and as priest ... what was his name? She had a name she would only use to work magic with one she trusted utterly. Would she give it to him? She felt a heat rising to flush her cheeks. Even the sensitized nerves of her nipples flared to the remembrance of his knife pressed against her chest. The power exceeded flames. It was a seductive vortex calling her to plunge deeper into the source itself. The same power was in The Blade—power to fill, to flame, to burn.

“Blade!” The word cracked across the room from Mrs. Weed’s mouth to echo like the sharp snap of a lightning bolt. Rebecca froze. Ryan McGuire’s face was inches from her own, motionless, poised at the point of her stiletto beneath his chin. She could not remember how it came to her hand—could not remember Ryan moving so close—could not imagine why. She eased the pressure of the blade and he moved back stiffly.

“Very pretty work, Hart. There is, indeed, a blade between us. You can feel the power. We would make a perfect team.” He turned on his heel to leave, but stopped at the edge of the room to turn back. The secondary glint of his eyes faded.

“You should be interested in a bound manuscript in the library archives by a Ben Wills. I’m sure you will make the connection. When you do, I’ll be waiting.” His casual smile returned. “Waiting for you in Greece.”

Wednesday, 10 August 1955, Edinburgh, Scotland

Hiding. Waiting behind one of the great columns that supported the rotunda of the library—Rebecca could feel his sinister presence. Her footsteps echoed in the hollow chamber beneath the great domed ceiling. Some elderly librarian would surely come running up to shush her for disturbing the peace. She didn’t mean to be so loud, but the library was so quiet—so empty. And waiting for her in the quiet empty room ahead was the gatekeeper of Carles. Perhaps he was only there to watch her make her discovery—a manuscript by an unknown author. Perhaps he had some other motive. Perhaps it was only her imagination.

The worst was that it didn’t make a difference. He was there, even if he wasn’t there. His presence filled Rebecca with a mad desire to run and never look back—run until she knew he was no longer behind her. Run to Wesley’s arms.

But he would always be behind her—maybe one step, maybe five, maybe a mile or a year. He might precede her and still his presence would haunt her. He seemed always to know where she would be before she did. So, he arrived ahead of her—following nonetheless.

Her hand ached and she paused to hold it close to her breast, biting back a tear that forced its way through the fear and pain. What kind of bond had she forged between the The Hart and The Blade with her ritual? She forced him to feel the pain of purging his own knife. Had his hand spontaneously blistered like hers? Or had he, indeed, coincidentally reached for a hot skillet at the same moment she chanted her curse? How long would their bond last? If the knife between them was pure, what were they?

She concentrated on Wesley’s image in her mind and felt the warm calm she always associated with being with him. The rising sense of passion was a more recent addition. The image wavered with the close cropped blond head of Ryan McGuire forcing its way back into her consciousness.

Rebecca was exhausted; that was the trouble. The enormous expenditure of energy Monday coupled with two almost sleepless and painfilled nights had left her emotionally and physically drained. Mrs. Weed strongly suggested that she stay in bed. For the first day, that had been fine. But on Wednesday, when Mrs. Weed went to market, Rebecca dressed and slipped out. She had found a black cab and made her way to the library. Curiosity drove her to find what was in the manuscript that Ryan had called her attention to.

It was likely a trap and Rebecca fingered the charred handle of the stiletto in the seam pocket Mrs. Weed had sewn for her. He might simply want to get her alone again for god-knew-what reason. Few people at the university are admitted unaccompanied to the archives, but Ryan McGuire held a doctorate in archaeology. He could be sitting up there waiting. She didn’t care, damn him! Let him try something. She would match him blade to blade.

Rebecca began to chuckle out loud, then caught herself short. This was, after all, a library. But the realization of what she had done sparked hysteria in her that she could scarcely contain. She had neutralized his most deadly weapon against her. The memory of the knife coming to her hand in the clinic burst on her. It jumped to her command involuntarily. It would probably do no good against any other assailant, but Ryan McGuire triggered the response and she could match him move for move with his own weapon. That was the nature of the link she had forged between them. They were unable to oppose each other unequally.

Of course, he would know it, too. That was why the turn from fear to fascination. Rebecca could no longer imagine an attack from him. To attack her would be to attack himself. He would find another, more subtle, more sinister way to get to her. She felt a sexual shiver flood her core. Catching her breath, she strode confidently into the archives.

She expected a bound volume of immense weight and length, like the writings of Professor Weed she had waded through. It would be just as likely for The Blade to have left her a fruitless task that would simply delay her from her research and writing. Instead, she found a folio of papers torn from several loose-leaf notebooks. The folio bore the appropriate catalog numbers and the title, “Assorted Papers by Ben Wills Leading to the Creation of his book, The Last Gift.”

Fiction, Rebecca thought as she began to read. A child’s fairytale, complete with “Once upon a time...” It was a neatly penned manuscript, but rife with line-outs and additions. Occasional margin notes indicated questions and references. She read through the story about a young magician and a Gypsy healer in fifteen minutes. She could see no relationship between the story and her research. Just like Ryan McGuire to send her off on a wild goose chase just to irritate her. She turned to the notes.

At first, there seemed no special order to them. Then Rebecca ran across a page noted in the margins with a number of odd symbols. Symbols like the notations Wesley used for his music language! As she turned to the next leaf, two folded pages slid down. She unfolded the paper to discover the title, “Music of the Gods”. In Wesley’s neat penciled writing at the upper right corner was the catalog number from the college library in Indianapolis. Rebecca let it soak in. Ben Wills had to be the same as Dr. Benjamin Wilton. No wonder the handwriting was so familiar.