Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Fifty-Two: Brotherly Advice

The vampire stared at the cigarette in his hand, watching the smoke curl back upon itself in obscenely sensual shapes. Ceciliadh had told him in her time few mundanes smoked anymore. Fear of lung cancer, she had said.

He scoffed and took a slow, satisfying drag. Tobacco smoke was one of the few things he could put in his mouth that gave pleasure instead of pain, and he feared nothing anymore, except losing his wife.

Even as he stood moments from an informal handfasting with Ceciliadh, he couldn't help but think of her as his wife, although he knew there was some debate upon the matter, metaphysically speaking.

There was the argument that they were not married because she had not yet participated in her half of the vows. A very valid point, and yet there was also another impediment to the continued existence of a marriage between them.

He had been human when he married her. Sworn "until death do us part." Technically, he had died to become a vampire. One so inclined might propose that his mundane death had released Ceciliadh from her vows. They had never even considered such a line of logic at the time of his making, however. Despite the fact that he had not consulted her when he decided to become a vampire.

He shook his head and took another long draw, imagining the modern young woman he had met a few months ago by the pond reacting to the knowledge that her husband had gone a long trip and returned as a volunteer vampire, without so much as a "by your leave." He grinned, imagining coming home to Celie in some modular, light, futuristic home, fangs dripping blood, and announcing that he'd become an immortal monster so that he could defend her from her fucking ex-boyfriend. That modern witch from a few months ago would have staked him on the spot.

But she was changing, and so was he. He was almost shocked to realize that now, he couldn't imagine making a life-altering decision without her support. Almost as shocked as when he recently realized the reason his Liadh had met his making with such calm, pragmatism in the past.

His Liadh had once been the Celie he now loved. She'd always had a sneak preview of the entire life they had had together. She had known his making was going to happen all along. Celie loved him now—the vampire him. And so when he became that—in their past—she had never feared him. Only loved him all the more.

He took the last drag off the cig and crushed the butt underfoot, shaking his head in defiance of his fears.

It wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going to lose her again. No matter what she believed, no matter how circular and obvious the events became in his mind, he wasn't going to let her go back there, to be shot through the throat with an arrow by her faerie mother and disappear from his life all over again. What if, when she had shot Celie with that arrow, she had dragged Celie with her—back to some earlier time? What if Celie found herself too far back= and moving ever backward?

His Curse was a time gift—a gift he might share with her, if she wanted—but if her path moved her backward in time, away from his adult life altogether? That would be the most disastrous curse of all.

Forever was a promise of the future, not the past.

He exhaled the cigarette smoke with determination as Alistair joined him on the terrace of the building all the vampires called The Look Out. A semicircular stone structure that nearly blended into the cliff face of the eastern ridge. It stood sentry over the valley and, more importantly, it overlooked the woods, pond, waterfall, and western slopes as well. A Livingstone—either mundane or vampire—always kept watch here. For the wolves, but also for the Dark Fae that infrequently but unpredictably emerged from the Source Spring.

Well, almost always. He had learned that their vigilant rotation had lapsed during his long absence, and Tavish had been the Livingstone that kept watch most nights. That was how Tavish had seen Orla go to the woods with Maeve's infant and had gone to investigate what she was doing there. That was how he came to find Orla dead, but he did not see the Goblin come, who would later feed on her. That was also why Tavish had become so upset that he lost control of his magic and had practically obliterated himself on the very night that Ceciliadh had been delivered to them through the portal.

Ceciliadh thought it was some magical manipulation of Danu and Abraham that had brought her to this time, but Evander suspected it was Tavish's pain on that particular night that drew her like a moth to flame. Her child in need, and her, falling through time, turning her head and her heart and her magic toward that pain she sensed.

Yes, it was Tavish that brought her here.

And it was Tavish that would eventually draw her away from here, he suspected.

She was so young. Twenty-five. And he was old, and he was wise enough to know that some things, even a vampire cannot fight.

What fangs and claws might he employ against Mother Nature herself? What magical weapons would a dead, barren man have when a witch felt the call of her soul to spark new life, new magic?

Celie was terrified to love Tavish, just as Evander himself was terrified to lose Tavish. But when Tavish left them? He was very afraid that Liadh would experience a grief that Celie could not yet even comprehend. A grief that would drive her beyond all reason, all sense of self-preservation.

A grief that would send her running to the past, to create the child she lost before she could truly learn to love him.

Alistair frowned, pawed in his jacket pocket for his own cigarette case, and lit a match against the sole of his shoe. "You're a solemn bastard tonight. I thought this was a wedding, not a funeral."

Evander faked a grin. "Christ, don't say the W-word or the M-word to my skittish little witch. 'Handfasting' and 'commitment ceremony' are, however, apparently acceptable to her modern, pagan sensibilities."

"Ah." Ace scraped a tiny piece of tobacco from his lip and continued smoking. He said nothing else, merely waited with an older brother's insufferable confidence that his "younger" sibling would confess his troubles.

Evander growled, and then he sighed, and then he lit another cigarette himself. "Tavish is dying. He's dying before our eyes, day by day."

Ace nodded. "I know."

"I can't let it happen. I can't let him go."

"You must, Evander. He will never take the Curse willingly, you know that. He saw too much of Abraham's horrors in his first fifty years as a vampire."

"It might be different for Tavish."

"It might," Ace agreed. "But I doubt you will convince Tavish to bet on the chance."

"If Tavish dies, the grief will take Celie unawares."

"Of course it will." Ace waved his cigarette in dismissive agreement. "She'll want him desperately, when he's gone, and she doesn't even know it yet." He stared at the cigarette as if debating whether to take another drag. He did so, then added hastily. "I reckon the need of her child is what drives her back to the beginning. I'm sure you've worked that out, too, Brother?"

Evander growled again. "I can't let it happen."

"And you can't stop it. Not without killing your own son."

"I would be giving him immortality," Evander reasoned. "You have certainly never regretted your making. You have never once accused me of taking your life."

Ace shook his head. "But Tavish doesn't want it. Just like Abraham didn't want it, though we had no way of knowing that at the time. If you make Tavish against his will, whatever rises from his deathbed will not be the son that you loved.  At best, he will be your biggest regret. At worst, he could very easily be your insane and uncontrollable enemy. Could you destroy a vampire Tavish if you must?"

Evander said nothing. There was no need. They both knew the answer.

Evander tossed the cigarette away into darkness, a helpless fury choking him, gripping his lungs, fouling his heart. "What am I supposed to do, then? Can you tell me that, Big Brother?"

Ace slapped him hard on the shoulder, and the sound cracked like a ball meeting a bat. "You're supposed to do the same as any fool in love."

"And what is that?"

"Hold on tight and hope for the best," Ace grinned as he held up a length of black, silken rope. "Come. Perhaps I can tie the knot well enough so that your skittish witch does not wander too far too soon."

Then Ace straightened Evander's tie, patted his jaw lightly, and jerked his head toward the interior of the Look Out, where the Sept awaited their once and future queen.