The Props Master Prequel: Behind The Ivory VeilChapter 16: Violent Gifts free porn video
Even with the shock and daring of The Blade, Rebecca considered her first gathering with the full circle on Lughnasad to have been a high point of her life. There were more celebrations, dancing, and even couples slipping into the shadows of the huge stones to make love.
After the circle had dispersed, Rebecca and Mrs. Weed made their way back to the Bed and Breakfast in Keswick. Breakfast Sunday morning was a typical English affair with boiled sausages, beans, soft boiled eggs, and dry toast. Rebecca looked in vain for a salt and pepper shaker.
The trip back to Edinburgh in Mrs. Weed’s old vehicle seemed to take forever, but the two had a lively discussion about Rebecca’s impressions of the ritual that kept her from car sickness most of the way. Mrs. Weed had been careful to fill the car’s tank on Saturday when they got to Keswick because no petrol would be available on Sunday.
“Study the wheel of the year,” Mrs. Weed suggested. “No other place is the combination of male and female so well represented. You will discover that the festivals of the combined circle are based on the solar calendar while the rituals of our smaller circle are based on the lunar cycle.”
Rebecca had been to only two rituals of the minor circle of Braithwaite with Mrs. Weed. There was very little to differentiate them from an evening social gathering of friends. In fact, Rebecca thought of the spontaneous card parties her parents hosted or went to while she was growing up. It seemed no one really planned them. Friends simply dropped in for a cup of coffee and ended up at the table with a fistful of pinochle cards. The kids, if there were any in the company, would settle for playing Crazy Eights or Euchre. Later they graduated to Rummy and Canasta. The adults almost always played pinochle.
The gatherings of the lesser circle of Braithwaite were much the same, but getting to them required a bit more planning. Mrs. Weed attended only the Full Moon celebrations as it was quite a drive to get down to Northern England to ‘drop in’ on the host for the evening.
So, Monday morning, Rebecca was back at work in the library examining various plots of wheels within wheels. It was very difficult to plot on a chart. There were 360 degrees in a circle, but 365 days in a year. She consulted an almanac and discovered thirteen full moons in the year. Yet there were twelve zodiacal signs. And eight pagan holidays. She consulted an ephemeris but even that was only partially helpful. It did, however, show the lunar cycle within the solar cycle.
By the end of six hours in the library, Rebecca’s head hurt. The only thing she had conclusively settled on was that her own monthly cycle was roughly in tune with the full moon. She considered the implication as she pedaled her bicycle back to Mrs. Weed’s cottage. If she bled on the full moon, then by the standards of women everywhere, she should be fertile on the new moon. She filed this information away, knowing that when she was reunited with her husband, new moons were going to be very active times for them.
Rebecca arrived at the cottage exhausted and sweaty from her ride. She could think of nothing better than a relaxing bath when she saw the note from Mrs. Weed on the kitchen table indicating her landlady was having tea with a friend. Rebecca would have a pleasant afternoon.
Fixing herself a cup of tea while the bath ran, she hummed to herself light-heartedly. Wesley would love to visit here. It so suited his eclectic tastes. Turning off the water and placing her tea next to the tub, Rebecca stripped off her clothes as she entered the bedroom. She was removing her panties when she glanced at the bureau.
The dresser had been cleared of its normal knickknacks. Instead, a red sweater lay on the surface. On the sweater lay her walking stick. She fondly remembered cutting it with Doc before she left on her trip and his instructions on how to care for it. But the scene was not a pastoral tableau. Instead, a short knife impaled a note on her staff. Next to her pewter chalice, a red candle burned, trailing wax across the note, staff, and sweater. Rebecca moved cautiously, glancing around her to see if the intruder was still present. The sweater was ruined with red wax embedded in the fibers, but that disturbed Rebecca less than the note.
“Unfinished business, Hart of my heart.”
The stiletto was easily recognized as the same one The Blade had used to feed her cheese just two nights ago.
Panic gripped her as she stood staring at the tableau, unable to move away. She wanted to run, feeling the presence of the sinister soul who had done this—believing he was still there watching her—still in the room, ready to bend her to his will.
Why? Why did he even care about her? It should be obvious that she did not know where the team was digging for their lost goddess. Somewhere in the middle of Greece. She knew only that her letters were addressed to a monk who delivered them. There could be only one thing he wanted from her and it turned her stomach. She voided herself uncontrollably.
How dare he?
Rebecca rebuked herself for her panic, ignoring the vomit and focusing on the staff and note. Panic receded in the face of a shaking rage. She had been violated! This was worse than the attack in Indiana when he had dared caress her and squeeze her breast. He had handled her cup! He had created a sacrificial altar of her staff and sweater. The thought of having him near her filled her with such anger that the room disappeared from her vision. She could see only the violation. She would not live with this. She would burn it all and wish him in the flames.
Even at the thought of fire, Rebecca could see in her mind the wall of light that had surrounded her at her dedication of her cup. Hebe’s words rang in her mind. “The witch’s tools are the knife, the wand, the cup, and pentacles. Each of your tools will come to you from the hand of someone else. Dedicate each to the service of the goddess.”
Her rage, in its turn, dissolved into something more closely resembling madness. Tools received from others. The Flame Keeper from whom she had received her staff and The Blade from whom she had ‘received’ this knife were members of her own coven—the great circle of Carles Castlerigg. She would purify them and make them into her Athamé and wand. Her dawning resolve outweighed Hebe’s admonition against working alone.
Her tools would be the gift of her coven brothers. She hoped they would be pleased when they saw them again. The wand would rule the fire and the Athamé would fan it with wind. At the thought, fire flared in her mind and she turned instinctively to the east to invoke the powers and cast a warded circle. She could not remember precisely the words she had used the last time, but she supposed it really didn’t matter. It was the mind that counted, not the words, and Rebecca’s mind was firmly set. She completed her circuit of the directions seeing a living power in each of the watchtowers and returned once more to the east. The wall of light flared into existence with an intensity that temporarily blinded her. She did not bother, however, to moderate it. She wanted all the protection she could muster.
Now she faced the dresser that would be her altar. She had not and would not touch the items laid out there until her ritual was complete. She was not concerned whether the words that came to her mind were audible, but they rose in pitch as she spun in place gathering power and echoed from the walls of light she had built around herself.
“May you find pleasure in my act, oh most high ones. May you see a tool of good sanctify and purify a tool of evil and turn it to your service. I name this wand Pele! Firerod, flaming beauty, angel of fire, purifier of the unclean. Brigit, goddess of fire, to you be this rod sanctified.”
Rebecca, now fully the witch Sadb, raised her hands to the East and began slowly turning clockwise, gathering into her more power as she commanded the blessings of the powers of all the elements on her wand.
“May this wand be consecrated to your service in the East, oh Arianrhod of the air. May this wand be consecrated to your service in the South, oh Brigit of the fire. May this wand be consecrated in your service in the West, oh Mariamne of the water. May this wand be consecrated to your service in the North, oh Rhiannon of the earth.”
Sadb stumbled a little as she came back to the East and saw the sacrificial tableau again. She could feel a crackling surge of power all around her and faltered beneath the influence of the assault on her senses. She was filled with strength and power that she was not sure she could control. Her eyes focused on the mock sacrifice, the stiletto still protruding from her sanctified wand. Rage overcame her doubt as she glared at the scene.
“How dare you!” she screamed. “I will not be intimidated by you. You will be pure. You will be free!”
Sadb raised a hand to point at the dagger without touching it. She could feel the force gathering behind her for what she intended. She spun, gathering the powers of the elementals together again and felt another surge in her hands.
For a moment, she lost the object of her focus and set herself adrift on the tidal wave that threatened to wash her away. At the same instant, she felt hot and flushed while still fighting off a chilled shiver that tore through her already wavering concentration.
So, this is power, she thought as she drifted once again around the circle with arms outstretched, collecting more strength as she passed each point. This is what Phaethon felt when Helios handed him the reins of the Sun Chariot and told him to drive the horses of dawn. No wonder Zeus struck him down. Such power could destroy the earth. And I am the focus of the cone of power. It lives in me. I can do whatever I will.
Sherry
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