Concentric Circles Part 8

Her face actually hurt from the frown puckering and pulling at her tense muscles. Syther? She sized him up. Frigid demeanor, dressed in black and accessorized with a blood red tie, he made a formidable figure. Meekal had spoken about this man. The other man, Shayla recognized as the one who attacked them earlier.

Syther growled deep in his throat and raised a wand.

The man, magically compelled to his knees in sub-service, cringed visibly, nodding his head like a demented bobble-head doll.

"Well, Dragar?" Syther's voice grated across the chamber, echoing through her senses, like ice falling into a gla.s.s.

Shayla clinched her fists. Empathic anger began to well within.

Syther, apparently milking the experience for all he could, threw out his full range of emotions, allowing them to encapsulate the other Thyrza. "Do I need to repeat?"

Her breath caught when he paused in his speech, eyes black pools of hatred, and stared at the man kneeling in front of him.

Nervous agitation twisted Dragar's body, hands moving over his chest defensively.

"You're a worthless wizard." Syther tapped his fingers restlessly on his mahogany desk, studying Dragar, as if trying to figure out the next move. His look of thoughtful contemplation turned into a vile sneer.

Shayla experienced a sense of foreboding as she stepped away from her hiding place. No one noticed her. She waved. No response.

Dragar gave a disgruntled sound like an abused animal and flinched backward. He raised his head. Half his face in shadow, she saw terror clearly etched there. In slow motion, he rose to his feet, shaking his head in adamant denial.

This is not a movie. Not a movie. She pinched herself, trying to come back to reality or at least back to the Tor Sunset Inn. It didn't work. The scene still played out, except now its intensity increased.

An oily unctuous voice, somehow laced with the potential of horrendous pleasure, drawled, "Scathergal."

Screams erupted, distorted within the throes of agony. Dragar hit the floor hard, writhing as blood pooled on the marble tiles, glossing over their shine with a new dimension of color. He looked inhuman, hands scratching at the curse effects. The cries he emitted, bounced off the walls around them.

Shayla shivered, the hairs p.r.i.c.kling on her neck. Neither fiction nor the widescreen prepared her for the vision of Dragar's frenzied expression of pain and blood. A new physical sensitivity spread through her, intensifying like fiery needles in her skin.

Empathy for an enemy. The thought ground through her mind. She rubbed her arms in an attempt to stop the surging sensation and closed her eyes to block the sight of the h.e.l.lish caricature. It didn't work, she could still hear.

Syther's mask changed from pleasure to utter boredom. After a few minutes, he pulled the wand from his hapless victim, stood and sneered at the crimson staining his floor. "Clean this mess up. When you've finished, go to Zubird. Tell him, I want him here, yesterday."

Dragar tried to rise. The curse left him feeble. He moaned and stumbled, falling onto his elbows and knees, face contorted in pain.

Syther swung his leg.

The kick hit Dragar hard in the ribs. The sound of breaking bones commingled with a manic scream, echoing its horror.

The muscle constriction of Shayla's frown extended to the top of her head where a dull ache began. Okay, she didn't like the wicked Thyrza, but enough is enough.

Syther puckered his full lips in a peculiar manner and whistled.

She shivered, the sound went down her spine, and then she gasped, covering her mouth quickly.

A sleek black panther entered through the wall. The cat paused and looked up at her.

"Silence," she said with a hiss through her teeth.

The panther blinked emerald eyes, and then continued to Syther.

"Ooh. h.e.l.lo, my sweet," he crooned. "Sheitan is my wicked black angel, aye?"

Sheitan licked his hand playfully and purred.

The only other sound in the room, Dragar whimpered while he finished cleaning blood from the floor.

What an odd dichotomy, both pleasure and pain expressed. The nauseating thought induced more apprehension.

"Well," Syther said, shaking his head. "Finish up and be gone. Don't dally. When you arrive, tell Zubird the bezoar stone is where we expected. Be gone." He stood, flicked his wrist, flashing the bone wand and expelled Dragar through the door.

Dragar landed in the exterior corridor with a thud, more mournful sounds escaping his mouth. He stood and stumbled out another door.

By now, Shayla realized her presence was unknown to Syther. She stepped closer, crinkling her nose when she pa.s.sed the fireplace. The noxious odor became more pervasive when she stood before it.

The panther ignored her. Syther played, tossing a ball for her to chase. Obviously, Sheitan was still a kitten, but her size belied that fact.

The strangeness of seeing the large cat after learning about Meekal's shape shifter form made her pause to compare its size. A large, powerful paw pushed the ball toward the door. The panther returned to Syther, ball between her teeth. Shayla moved closer to get a better look at Syther.

"We will succeed, my sweet," he said, voice taking on a wicked purr while he rubbed soft black ears.

The large cat nipped him playfully. Syther chuckled and gave her a treat from a tin on his desk, and then leaned back on the edge to watch her savor its crunchiness.

Shayla studied him. He had probably once been a nice looking man. She could not put a finger on exactly what had happened. Syther had good bone structure. Of indeterminate age, his features were strong and well proportioned. He was clean-shaven and trimmed. Even his black clothing reflected stylish wealth. However, something about his countenance radiated evil. Its aura had changed him, corrupting his former good looks into something twisted and frightful.

"Are we ready for our next plaything?" he asked, standing away from the desk to regain a more businesslike demeanor.

Sheitan licked his fingers in appreciation. Purring intensified in response to his question. "Meow."

"Why you b.i.t.c.h. Eat humans?" Shayla growled under her breath, understanding Sheitan's comment though their magical Fae and creature connection.

Sheitan hissed at her, showing white fangs, emerald eyes narrowing to slits.

Pin p.r.i.c.kles of irritation ran under her skin, aggravating persistent unease. She glared at the panther and tensed in antic.i.p.ation of another horror.

Syther, oblivious of their interaction, said, "Seamus!"

She turned in time to see the Thyrza who had felt her up during the attack. Letch. Anger roiled in the pit of her stomach, culminating as a growl. "You go, girl." As an afterthought, she shuddered. Ugh! Shouldn't think that, Shay.

The man, dressed to perfection now, fidgeted and dragged his feet in fear. A whimpering sound surrounded his entrance. He stopped several feet from Syther and bowed his head in deference.

"What's your report?" Syther raked him with smoldering eyes, shaking his head in obvious disgust. "Maybe," he said with a vehement sneer, "I should say excuse?"

Shaking like a leaf, on a cold fall breeze, Seamus whispered in a barely audible tone, "He wasn't alone, Your Grace."

Shayla stiffened, hair standing up on her neck. Grace?

In an abrupt motion, Syther sat in a wing chair before the fireplace. He crossed his left leg over the right knee and began tapping his boot with the bone wand. Black brows came down in wrath. Tap...tap...tap. Tension presaged each impact with a threat of malice.

Like a roaring waterfall, dread crashed in an overpowering sensation. She was sure this scene would play out in repulsiveness.

Those infernal taps, ominous in their resonance, reverberated in the chamber.

Seamus, gaze focused on the wand, breathed raggedly, following its dance conducted by ringed fingers against a black leather boot.

His voice riddled with imminent threat, Syther said, "I've already been told this, Seamus. Perhaps you could enlighten me further?"

Still mesmerized by the wand's movement, Seamus nodded eagerly. "Woodard was with him and..."

"And?"

Seamus took a deep breath. "A girl. A Fae."

Shayla crossed her arms to keep from trying to hit the berk. Not just a letch, but an idiot, too. She growled at the frustrating situation.

Sheitan yawned and rested her large head on large front paws, blinking up at the humans.

Apparently, the news incited more anger; it oozed from Syther like venom.

Seamus stepped back, sweat beading on his forehead.

Like a spectral demon, Syther rose from his seat, casting a menacing posture and shadow over the chamber. "There are no Fae left. Only Chilkwell! You lie!"

Seamus, shuddering and shaking his head rapidly, insisted, "No. Never. She could move fast like lightning. She was strong. Ask Dragar!" Seamus' voice trailed away on the incense-filled air.

"Dragar said nothing about her prowess or being Fae. You lie!"

Shayla could see the aura of terror overcoming Seamus, almost a black, hazy mist. Never having seen someone's aura, she studied it curiously. It pulsated around him in high energy, spiking outward at the edges. She blinked, trying to eradicate the vision. No, still there. A quick shake of her head didn't change the situation.

Booted feet shuffled back even further. Seamus sent a fearful glance between Sheitan and Syther. "Never, I said. Why lie about that? Dragar lies by omission," he insisted, hands flashing in nervous energy as he spoke. "She is Fae. I swear."

"That's impossible!" Syther lost his cool, strode across the library and pulled an old tome from a high shelf. Irascible muttering came under his breath. The large volume landed on the desk with a heavy thump. Syther's nimble fingers flicked the bone wand, twirling it like a baton. Pages flipped in fast motion.

Her eyes locked on the motion of flashing bone. The firelight gave it an eerie glow. The action almost hypnotized her until she realized Syther was reciting a list. Her lips tightened, teeth grinding in stubborn concentration trying to hear.

"Altheworld, de Portham, Radfourd, Blankenshippe, Hayes." He stopped pacing, hand now gripping the wand and turned to Seamus. "What else can you tell me?"

"She-sh, ugh." Seamus swallowed audibly. "She had the-the nimbus."

The white wand came up. Syther's lip rose in an angry sneer. "Scathergal."

Seamus screamed and clutched his stomach.

"Live with that!" Syther roared. A satisfied cackle charged forth, accompanied by horror.

Seamus' eyes dropped. Blood glistened on his fingers, black and red in the firelight. He yowled the cry of utter devastation. Clutching his crotch, he fell writhing to the floor. Sorrowful lamenting filled the chamber. Kicking and flailing on the floor, Seamus moved in a circle of demented pain.

Shayla turned away from the sight. A groan of utter nausea twisted from the inside, and then a sudden gust of wind spiraled around her. Awareness of the bathroom in her suite at the Tor Sunset Inn blended into her mind. The porcelain throne gleamed as she threw up the contents of her stomach.

Meekal's voice came through her retching. "Shayla, where were you?" She moaned, and then slid to the cool floor with a shudder.

Motion, vaguely outside her awareness, pulled her into a tight embrace. Meekal crooned softly in her ear, holding and rocking her. "It's okay, love. You're back safe and sound." His fingers brushed through her hair.

"Syther," she whispered, moving down against his chest. She clutched his warm skin, seeking grounding. He tensed beneath her hands and cheek. She pulled back, searching his face. "Kal, is Harry, Woodard?"

"Aye."

The feel of her lower lip between her teeth did nothing to soothe her. "I don't know how, but I was in Syther's," she said, pausing and searching for the right word. "Lair?"

He took a deep breath. "You could call it that."

The memory flashed through her mind in an instant and she tried to shake off the sense of foreboding that had blanketed the room. "Dragar was there. Syther cursed him with a wand that looked like a bone." She scrunched up her face. "Scathergal?"

The breath he had been holding came forth. "To harm, damage, injure, hurt, waste or cause misfortune. That's what scath means. Pretty extensive. Adding ergal to the curse intensifies and focuses its power."

Instant rolling in her stomach came up, groaning, she made a fast move to the toilet again. She retched while he rubbed her back in an effort to soothe her. At last, she pulled away, coughing and moaning from the pain from throwing up.

"Come on, love. Maybe a shower would help you feel better?"

She cuddled against his chest, his heartbeat rea.s.suring her with every thrum. Time stood still while she tried to reject the horrible experience. Finally, she whispered, "Kal, Syther dismembered Seamus." She shuddered, closing her eyes trying one more time to erase the memory.

"You saw that?" Meekal, already tense, swallowed.

"Yes. I didn't like Seamus, but that's no reason to be so hideous."

"Aye, I know what you mean. Come on love. Let's get you out of these clothes." He helped take her jeans and sweater off, and then laid them on the counter. Gentleness emanated from his simple moves.

"Throw them away."

"I'm going to the manor. Mum has something that'll help. Be back soon." Meekal left, closing the door with a gentle click.

She shivered at the sound and stood silently in the center of the bathroom. Quiet on the other side of the deeply carved wood indicated he had gone. Hands shaking, she reached for her toothbrush and overloaded it with toothpaste. She brushed with fierceness, trying to eradicate the taste and memory.

She stepped under the shower's warm cascading water, allowing its sounds to wash away the remainder of the abhorrent experience. Something began to grow within. A seed of resolve took root and sprouted. She washed her skin with fierceness, and then stepped out to dry. The sound of movement from the other room caught her attention.

"It's me," Meekal said, from the other side of the door.

"I'll be out in just a sec." She wrapped a terry robe around her, tied it securely. Next, she twisted a towel around her wet hair and stepped into the bedroom.

He gave her an easy smile. "Hey, are you doing better?"

She tried to carry over her sense of resolution now that she was no longer in the sheltering warmth of the bathroom. "Yeah," she answered in a low voice. "Kal, what's a bezoar stone?"

Meekal unpacked a covered basket containing a carafe and two mugs. "Sit down and drink this tea, it'll help." Amus.e.m.e.nt crossed his face. "It isn't chamomile."

The soft, flowered chintz wing chair hugged her with comfort. She pulled the tea pot and a mug closer. The tea smelled heavenly. An aura of relaxation spread through her. "What is this?" she asked, pouring some into the mug.

He handed her a napkin. "Spice tea. It's mostly cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves with a few other herbs mixed in. Mum buys it at a health food store in Shepton Mallet. It's great hot." His face shifted to mischievousness and he sat opposite her. "We'll try it frozen later."