Pizza ordered, she grabbed the current book she was reading and stretched out on the plump sofa. Nobody would ever accuse Brenna of being an interior designer or anything, but her living room was one of her favorite places to be. The coolness of the rustic floorboards was offset by a large Persian rug. The far wall was lined with shelves overflowing with books and treasured trinkets. A modestly-sized television that didn’t see much use sat atop a distressed cabinet in the corner beside a well-used fireplace. The best feature, in her mind anyway, was the overstuffed floral sofa she currently slouched on. So far, she had managed to stop Tiddles from scratching the velour fabric with a few scratching posts scattered about the place.
A loud crash upstairs made her jump. She flew off the sofa and raced toward the stairs then stopped. Was it wise to run toward the sound of an unexpected sound when you were alone in the house? She looked around for something to use a weapon. Among the plethora of books, cushions, and knick-knacks, the poker beside the fire looked most promising. Hefting it with both hands, she crept up the stairs and peered in each room she passed. Tiddles weaved between her legs as she walked, almost tripping her up with each step. “Tiddles, gimme a minute. This could be serious.” She kept walking, cat still underfoot, toward the end of her hall where her bedroom was. Images flooded her mind of shadowy figures hiding behind doorways, waiting to pounce. She looked into her room, held up the poker, then lowered it. The box had fallen off the bed and emptied its contents on the floor. Dried herbs surrounded the box, along with something she hadn’t seen earlier. A large leather-bound book and a small black pouch. A large leather-bound book and a small black pouch identical to the ones from her dreams. It couldn’t be true… Could it?
Brenna stared at the book, her mouth agape. A lightness floated from her stomach to her chest, then hung around in her throat where it sat like a bubble. She saw her hand reaching for the book. It felt like she was watching somebody else. Like she was watching somebody on television. None of what was happening made sense. How could she have dreamed about something she had never seen before? If the book from her dream existed, did that mean the people did too? And if so, why was she dreaming about them?
She picked up the book and hefted it. It felt about as heavy as a sack of spuds; it must have been about five hundred pages long. She tried to open the cover and froze. A hot bolt of energy sizzled up her arm and the cover slammed shut. What in the world? She put the book back into the box along with the dried herbs. Brenna scratched her head. Could she be dreaming right now? She didn’t think so. You didn’t usually feel pain in dreams, did you? She wasn’t an expert on such matters but Maggie would surely know. She decided against calling her; she needed time to process all of this herself.
She bent down, lifted up the small leather pouch and pulled out a shiny round moonstone. The smooth stone pulsed in her hand with rainbow-tinted flashes. She gasped, dropped the stone, and watched it roll under the bed. Brenna dropped to her knees. She peered underneath the bed, expecting darkness, but was able to see her lost hairbrush and running shoes illuminated by the shining stone (she hadn’t been too worried about losing the running shoes). She stayed down on her knees staring at the glowing stone. She reached under the bed and wrapped her fingers around the stone. With the stone enveloped in her hand, darkness returned under the bed.
She dropped the smooth stone back into the pouch and returned it to the wooden box, carefully shutting the lid. A yawn crawled its way out. How could she be tired at a time like this? An almost absurd thought struck her. Could she be tired because something was wanting to communicate with her through her dreams? Whatever the reason, it was a good idea to get to bed if she wanted to get up early in the morning.
Brenna placed a glass of water next to her lamp on the bedside cabinet then slid into bed. She laid her head on the soft pillow and pulled the covers up to her chin. Thoughts of the old Book of shadows ran through her head along, with the last conversation she ever had with her grandmother, Annwyn Ravenwood. Annwyn had been lying on a white uncomfortable hospital bed where she’d been for weeks. Brenna had entered the small ward and immediately had started to cry. Annwyns’s white hair was hanging loosely at her waist and her face was paler than usual. Her Gran had put up a fragile hand as if to say not to cry for her because she was fine but Brenna had cried even harder.
She’d sat next to her grandmother, taking her hand and noticing how thin and transparent her skin had become. Annwyn then smiled the happiest smile Brenna had ever seen and laughed. Brenna could not understand what was so funny, so she asked her why she was laughing. All that Annwyn would tell her was she wasn’t dying, only her body was. Those words were like a slap to the face. They hurt but they woke her up. Death was natural; it wasn’t something to be feared. Still, it hurts like hell to lose somebody you love.
Brenna had sat in silence with her grandmother for an hour hugging her until Annwyn whispered her last words. Brenna tried to recall them now. “Brenna, just because I am your last living relative does not mean that you are alone. One day you will learn that you belong to a large family who all love you.” Then she had said how a box would be delivered to Brenna, and that when the time was right, she would know what to do with it. The time might have been right, but she had no idea what to do with it.
Brenna turned over and sighed. Her eyelids grew heavy and she could barely keep them open. She slowly drifted off to sleep, wondering what on earth was awaiting her in her dreams tonight.
Chapter Three
Just outside of Oakwoods 1645
Rowena tried to move but was frozen to the spot. It was too dark for her to see the man’s face, but she gleaned he was much larger than she and perfectly capable of overpowering her delicate frame. She tried to keep her teeth from chattering, but it sounded like there was a tiny band of people in her mouth using her teeth as drums. The hooded man held out a lean, well-muscled arm toward her. The big horse snorted, blowing hot air onto Rowena’s cold face. She kicked Buttercup gently and whispered, “Come on, Buttercup, move.” The stubborn old mule stayed put. Running crossed her mind, but she knew the hooded man could move much faster than he could right now; her legs felt about as nimble as rocks.
Suddenly the hooded man leaned forward and grabbed Rowena around her waist. He placed a gloved hand over her mouth and pulled her onto his horse. She tried to wriggle away, but the hooded man kicked his horse into action and sped off through the thick forest, dodging trees and giving her no choice but to hold on to whatever she could. All she managed was a fistful of her abductor’s coat. She hoped Buttercup would find her way home.
They rode for what seemed forever through the dense forest. Rowena screamed as the horse galloped straight for a tree and dodged it at the last second. The hooded man brought the horse to a stop. He petted the horde on the mane and whispered soothingly in its ear.
“What’s going on?” Rowena asked, her voice shaky.
“Don’t say a word, they are right behind us. If they find you, they will surely kill you,” the hooded man said. Although his words terrifying, his voice was warm.
Rowena nodded. She leaned back against the man’s chest, leaned into his warmth. He smelled of leather, musk, and horses. A good combination. The sound of men shouting and horses trotting. Rowena held her breath. She peered in the direction of the noise.