By the Blood of Rowans by Xan van Rooyen

Author:Xan van Rooyen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skolion
Published: 2021-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

19

Rowan

What I’d asked of Ash wasn’t fair, but it was all I had.

Hawthorn. Ash. Only oak remained to complete the ritual. An O’Donnell would die next, unless I stopped it, unless I confronted the shadow creature trying to claw its way into the realm of the living. Ash was an unlikely victim, given the previous two, but they were still an O’Donnell, and that made them vulnerable. I didn’t want to dwell on Ash, on what they must now think of me.

The rain continued to hammer against the roof, the island still lamenting the loss of Andy and Patrick, its sorrow soaking into my bones and sousing my veins. The ghosts screamed inside my head, a singular voice begging me to make it stop.

Three trees. Three sacrifices. Blood.

Blood spilled, soaking into earth, through stone, down into the bedrock of the island.

A spell, a ritual.

The knowledge was buried within the borrowed memories, if only I could burrow deep enough into my own mind to retrieve the answer.

The wound in my arm brought me back to the present. It was already starting to blacken and smolder again. The cleansing effect of the rain offered a temporary reprieve from the magic infecting my flesh. Now black tendrils reached toward my shoulder, skirting the wards, sending questing fingers down my back. Resolved, I quickly gathered what I thought might aid me in the Otherworld, and perhaps provide a tether to the living realm, a lifeline home should I fail to defeat the shadow.

From the drying shack, I gathered agrimony and burdock, sage, chamomile, and a preparation of belladonna in case pain alone was insufficient for me to bridge the worlds. I lit my sisters’ candles, the scent of ginger and thyme, orange, valerian, and cinnamon filling the storage room as I shut the door. I filled my pockets with the herbs and hoped it would be enough. Without any magic of my own, what I knew of rites and rituals had been gleaned only through wary observation. I knew no incantations, no spells, or sigils.

As ready as I could be, I pressed a piece of old saddle leather between my teeth, rolled up my sleeve, and held my knife in my right hand, fingers squeezing the hilt. A single deep breath made my head swim with the dizzying fragrance of herbs, quietening the multitude within me. I closed my eyes and pressed the blade against my arm, silver parting skin.

It wasn’t enough.

Even when my blood soaked the straw-strewn floor, even when I twisted the blade and thought I’d snap my teeth as I screamed against the leather—it still wasn’t enough.

With trembling fingers, I reached for the bottle of belladonna, a preparation reserved for rites of transcendence. Perhaps it would aid me now, allowing me to slip into the Otherworld.

The potion tasted bitter on my tongue, and I waited until the edges of my vision grew dark and hazy before picking up my knife again. This time, the pain bore me like a wave, sweeping me far away from myself toward a comforting blackness.

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