Plantation, South Carolina, 1836

 

The woman arched forward in attempt to escape the claws that tore at her insides, stifling her moan into the rolled cloth between her teeth. She saw the fire in the hearth leap, licking at the wood with its fiery tongue—in the same manner that pain scorched her womb—splitting her in two.

She couldn’t bear this, she thought. No, that wasn’t true. She would bear this. She must. What she couldn’t bear—was what must happen, after.

When her contraction subsided, the aged witch who worked over her brought cool water to her lips—before following it with a hot liquid that smelled of something strong. Simmone tasted the bitter herbs in the drink and nodded her thanks to the old crone who was her grandmother.

“You do well,” the old woman told her. “It won’t be long now, granddaughter.”

Tears sprung to Simmone’s eyes. For nine months, she’d carried her daughter under her heart, but now her time had come—and with it—a time when she must also let her go. She didn’t know how she would say goodbye to her baby girl. And she knew she had no choice in that—not if she wanted her to live.

“I’m so sorry. You know this must be, child,” her grandmother told her, pressing a cool cloth to her head. “The master will never allow you to keep the child. He always kills the half-breeds who spring forth from his loins,” she said bitterly.

“He’ll never believe she died on her own,” Simmone whispered her greatest fear out loud, not for the first time. Once spoken, her words took on a life of their own, squeezing her throat with terror.

“He must.” the old woman admonished, picking up her sage to smudge the little shack again. “A child of the Goddess cannot be allowed to be killed—or raised as his half-breed—even if he was inclined to do so.” She came back to the bed. “She must not be raised as a slave,” she reminded in a quiet, gentle voice.

Simmone nodded. Her grandmother was a healer, well-known and respected, both wise and kind. As hard as it was for Simmone to say goodbye to her daughter—she knew her grandmother spoke the truth. She must not live in a make-believe world, pretending the worst wouldn’t happen. She must be strong. She couldn’t allow harm to come to her daughter—even though that meant she’d never see her little girl again. She took a sip of the bitter brew her grandmother held to her lips, swallowing the hot liquid on a sob.

She gasped as another contraction hit her and put the rag back between her teeth. She dared not scream. She dared not even moan—in case one of their master’s spies heard her and reported them.

When the contraction passed, Simmone fell back, staring at the fire burning in the broken bricks of what lay left for fire within the hearth. She knew it wouldn’t go well for her. He wouldn’t believe their daughter had died. He wouldn’t take her rebellion lightly.

She didn’t care what happened to her—so long as they protected her daughter from her father, who intended to do her harm.

Her grandmother arranged for the babe to be taken into the deep South—to the bayou, to her grandmother’s people, where she’d be safely transported to a place to become the daughter of a powerful family. Simmone wouldn’t be told how far away her daughter was taken. She knew the child’s father might whip the answers from her. She couldn’t be told, for she couldn’t tell—what she didn’t know. But Simmone knew the story of her grandmother’s people well, and she knew of the home where they’d take her babe, knew they’d provide what she couldn’t give her.

She’d bring her daughter into this life. And it would be up to a family she didn’t know to save her.

She arched her back just as she started to doze, another contraction tearing through her insides, threatening to rip her apart. She managed to get the rag between her teeth, waving at her grandmother as a much stronger sensation gripped her.

Fear consumed her.

Her grandmother came to help her get down onto the dirt floor and turn over to lean over the bed, showing her how to grab the ropes, she’d provided for her to strain against. Simmone lost all connection with reality and time. She bellowed muffled pants and choked off screams into the rag. Neither of them paid attention to the fact that she wasn’t overly loud, yet neither was she silent as they labored to bring the babe safely into the world.

When her daughter sprung forth in a rush of fluid, the old woman gently cleaned her. Though healthy and strong, the babe didn’t cry, as if she knew to do so would place her life in peril.

“You are the daughter of the Goddess,” her grandmother whispered gently near her. “You have the power of the ravens.” She touched her brow again with the cool cloth. “You are protected by her power. For you—are the Witch of the Vampire.”

She touched the mark on the baby’s neck, looking up at Simmone. The babe’s mother leaned forward and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “One day, a daughter will spring forth from the loin of your loins,” her grandmother whispered. “The Goddess will come forth, once more, to take her place in a world, who has all but forgotten Her. A mighty nation awaits Her, and She will take her place amongst them. The time is at hand for the love of the Goddess to heal our great Mother Earth—and free her children from those who would rule her children with fear.”

Simmone fed her daughter and watched as she suckled hungrily, for what would be the first and last meal she would ever receive from the breast of her mother. When the babe slept, her tummy warm and full, Simmone watched her grandmother bundle her newborn babe and put her in a basket. Simmone sobbed as she placed a final kiss upon her daughter’s brow. She watched as her grandmother went to the door, to call out to someone who waited. There was no more time left to lose—and they were both well aware of the danger that had permeated the air with every breath, these past several hours.

When she’d gone, Simmone sank into a dark pit of despair, even as she fervently prayed for her daughter’s safe passage. The hours slipped by—and though they went by as she lay mostly unaware of their passing in her grief, the part of her which remained aware bitterly resented every moment lost to her—of what she could have spent with her babe—while being keenly aware that every minute that passed also took her little girl to safety.

Near dawn, they woke to a heavy fist banging on the door. The men didn’t wait for permission to enter but pushed the old witch aside as they stormed the interior of the small hut. They gave no care as they drug Simmone from her bed.

They didn’t stop, until they’d thrown her on the bare floors before her master. By then, she lay there, far too weak from blood-loss and grief to care that he’d have her beaten to death. When she told him that the babe died, he demanded to see the body. And when she refused to produce her, he had her strapped to the post that he was so fond of using for meting out his punishments, and he had her whipped.

Late into the afternoon, he finally realized she might be dying and had her returned her to her grandmother’s care—demanding the old witch save her life.

It was then the crone knew—despite his cruelty—somewhere in his icy veins, he had a speck of something in him—who loved her granddaughter….

ONE

TARA

 

Tara headed down the stairs toward the kitchen to make breakfast. She busied herself making oatmeal, coffee, and putting out fresh fruit for everyone in the house, for when they finally wandered into the kitchen to get something to eat.

She smiled as she worked. They now had quite a crew living in Ravenwood. What, with the sisters, the twins, Alex, Sophia and her daughter, Kira, and herself. Tara shook her head, smiling. She hadn’t planned on so many people moving in when she’d agreed to come and live at the Manor—but she didn’t mind. They all worked together, helping with the cooking and cleaning. And it helped that, together, they could cover the bills.

They’d been separated as children that fateful day while playing with magick, when Morgan accidentally called out the shadow, and they’d only managed to find each other this past fall. When they finally came against that shadow, as adults, they’d discovered that the winged one, who had also showed up when Morgan called out the shadow, had been there to protect them, all along.

She bit her lip, still feeling terrible for thinking he was their enemy. They’d only discovered that part of the story last fall, as well. His name was Thorick, and he and the other Gargoyles had protected their families for centuries.

As soon as they’d decided to move into the huge, old mansion, they started pitching in to restore the magnificent place to its former glory. Not that they’d gotten far. It would take years to do the work needed. But they’d made an excellent start.

Tara put coffee grounds into the coffee maker and poured in the water, closing the lid and putting the pot underneath. She turned it on, thinking about the magick that split them up as children. That afternoon, so long ago, when Morgan disappeared, they’d accidentally revealed a monster while attempting to perform a spell. Well, to be honest, they’d been looking for the monster. They just got more than they bargained for….

Last summer, the sisters had found each other, after being separated all those years. Now, Morgan was home—and they’d all accepted the destiny set in front of them.

When they returned to Red Bluff, that same magick brought their group back together. Now, Alex and Morgan found each other, again, too. Tara glanced down, putting the tip of her finger in the sauce she’d made to cover the eggs. She put a drop on her tongue, to taste it.

Morgan and Alex were in love, even as children. And, right off, Jake and Sophia hit it off, too. In fact, Claire was also getting to know the Gargoyle, Thorick. Tara shook her head, cutting up some strawberries. Now, that was quite the story, she thought, smiling. She’d never forget the first time they’d seen the actual statue, itself, shift into Thorick. Of course, part of his shifting ability, when they’d been children, was what scared the hell out of them to begin with.

Setting out some bowls, Tara went to prepare more coffee for everyone. When Jake and his twin brother, Jack, came down, they’d make eggs, bacon, and other more substantial things for breakfast, and they’d want sliced tomatoes for their eggs. Tara dug some out, now, taking them to the sink to wash.

As she worked, she thought about Sophia. She was happy for her and Jake. She deserved happiness in her life, after her abusive ex left her alone with her daughter, Kira. Course, he hadn’t known Sophia was born half-Faery. Sophia’s own father had raised her, and he’d been adamant about not allowing her near her mother’s people in the Land of the Fae.

All that changed, last fall, when Sophia and Kira were reunited with her people, and now she went to visit them whenever she got the chance.

Tara picked up the plate of tomatoes and set them on the table. She had the feeling Sophia felt divided, of late, and she was missing her people. But Tara knew Sophia also missed them, here in Ravenwood, whenever she went to the Land of the Fae. Tara grinned, again. Especially, Jake.

Tara looked up, glancing out the kitchen window, toward the meadow out back. The only one who didn’t have a guy to look forward to seeing—was her.

She could have—if that shape-shifter would come see her. But he hadn’t. Not since they’d lost the sister’s aunt, and Thorick sent a bunch of them off to try and rescue her. One of the Gargoyle’s, doing the searching—was Logan…. Drat Thorick.

She stared at the coffee mug she’d just picked up. Well, to be honest, she didn’t know Logan well enough to miss him. She scowled. At this rate, she never would.

When she finished setting out the stuff for breakfast, she dug out paper from the drawer, near the kitchen, and hunted a pencil. They couldn’t keep enough pens and pencils around. Finally finding one in the dining room, buffet drawer, she headed back to the kitchen, made herself a bowl of oatmeal and sat at the table with her food, paper, and her pencil.

When, a few minutes later, Morgan walked into the kitchen, Tara glanced up, from where she’d started to plan Claire’s birthday party.

“Morning,” Morgan mumbled, digging out a bowl.

“Morning?” Tara grinned at her. “It still looks like evening for you, dear. You look like you’ve spent the whole night awake.”

Morgan made a face, then laughed, getting a cup out of the cupboard and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I hope this is leaded,” she said. “I could use the pick-me-up.”

Tara smiled, hearing that. ‘It’s diesel,” she said. “Claire’s the only one who drinks unleaded.”

Morgan flopped herself onto a barstool at the counter, overlooking the little out-clove that held the kitchen table, dropping her head onto her arms and pushing her mug out in front of her.

Looking up, Tara stared at her. “What kept you up all night?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. She didn’t try and hide her thoughts. She grinned, instead, then looked at her list.

Morgan lifted her head and made another face at her, then ruined it by flushing and breaking into a smile. “It wasn’t like that,” she said.

Tara wrote another item down and looked up at Morgan. “Oh?” Tara teased. “What was it like, then?”

Morgan sat up, blowing a little puff of air. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about stuff. It wasn’t even important stuff—just stupid, mindless stuff.” She got up from her seat.

Tara laughed. “Well, then, you should help me plan for your sister’s surprise birthday party,” she finished the last in a dramatic whisper.

Morgan’s mouth rounded. “That’s right,” she said, glancing toward the door. “But it’s still like two months away.”

Tara grinned. “You know how things are around here. We can’t be too careful.”

Morgan slid off the barstool and came to sit in the chair beside Tara. “What are you planning?”

Tara looked up, grinning again. “I figured we’ve been working on the Manor all last fall, and now this spring, so we should spiff things up and invite most of her old friends.” She, too, glanced toward the door, lowering her voice. “You’ll take her out somewhere Saturday morning, tell her it’s breakfast or shopping or something, since this is the first birthday you’ve had together in years. That way you can use the time to celebrate, too, just the two of you. Then—when you bring her home….”

Morgan grinned, too, excited now. “I think I’ll do both—breakfast and shopping….”

Tara nodded. “I agree,” she said. “You two have missed out on much, over the years.” She hesitated, biting her lip for a long moment. She looked up at Morgan. “You don’t like the idea of gathering the Daughters of the Circle, do you?”

Thrown by the change in topic, Morgan glanced up from her mug, her eyes wide in question. “It’s not that I don’t like it, so much as it scares me,” she said, and looked down to stare blankly into her coffee. She winced. “Why do we have to do this? What’s so darn important that we need to find them all, right now?”

Tara stopped midway through writing, setting down her pen and tipping her head to look at Morgan. She gave her a gentle smile. “Right now, we don’t know the answer to that,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll know with time.” Tara waited, watching her for a long moment.

Morgan bit her lip. “I just wish we could live our lives.” She glanced at Tara. “At least, for a little while.” She shook her head. “We can’t even figure out how to rescue my aunt….” Morgan’s eyes filled with tears, and she closed them for a long second. Finally, she looked at Tara. “We know where she is—or at least the Gargoyles keep sending back messages saying that much. But we haven’t even figured out how to get to her.” Morgan stared at Tara. “So how can we concentrate on gathering the rest of these Daughters—instead of concentrating on how to rescue my aunt?”

“I know,” Tara said, recognizing the truth in that. “I understand, sweetie. I do,” she said, softly. “It’ll be okay.” She bit her lip, again, as an idea occurred to her. She shook her head. She had kinda told Sophia she wouldn’t say anything. She looked at Morgan.

She looked worried.

“If it helps—I know Sophia might have a lead. Someone who might be able to help with that.”

Morgan’s eyes lit up as she glanced at her.

Tara shook her head. “I can’t say more. I’ve said too much, already. I promised to say nothing, until she knew for sure.”

Morgan opened her mouth. Tara could see all the questions bubbling within her—it was written all over her face—but she agreed. She got up from her chair, instead. “I think I’ll try and take a nap,” she said, giving her a weak smile.

Tara got up, too, coming around to give her a hug. “I need to find Sophia anyway,” she said. “You have a good sleep.”

Morgan made a face, then nodded, heading for the stairs.

Watching her go, Tara folded her list. She turned, putting it in her jean pocket, opening the door out onto the back deck. Looking around, she didn’t see Sophia, so she went back into the Manor and went up the stairs to check her room. She didn’t find Sophia there either, but she did run into Claire, who was heading for the attic.

“Have you seen Sophia?” she asked.

Claire shook her head, and Tara, curious now, wound up following her, instead, as she headed up the stairs.

“Still searching for a way to find the Daughters?” Tara asked, wondering what had Claire thinking about magick. She couldn’t help it. Anything magickal caught her attention. If Claire had something in mind, she hoped she’d include her.

Claire went over to the herbs and spices, lining the shelves, picking out several, then went to sit at the table. “Yes,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. “I’m trying to figure out how to find the rest of the Daughters.” She glanced up at Tara and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t have any idea where—or even how—to look….”

Tara glanced over the herbs Claire had selected. “Have you asked the Elders in the Land of the Fae?” she asked. “Maybe they’d know where we could start.”

Claire glanced up at her, picking up a heavy pot off the counter and setting it on an electric burn plate. “That’s an excellent idea,” she said. “I’ll talk to Sophia about that today.”

At the reminder, Tara frowned. “So you haven’t seen her, at all? I was looking for her when I ran into you. I want to ask her something, myself.”

Claire shook her head. “Nope.” She looked at the book. “Not since last night.” She glanced at Tara. “Maybe she went to talk to Thorick,” she said. “Or maybe she’s off with Jake somewhere.” She wrinkled her nose at this, reminding Tara of Morgan, giving Tara an impish grin.

Tara laughed. “I think they’re cute together,” she said, smiling. “She deserves some happiness.” She turned away. Yeah, they all could use a little happiness….