From The Mists Of Wolf Creek. Rebecca Brandewyne

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      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      A Spell Is Cast

      Meadowsweet Farm, Wolf Creek, The Present

      Death drew ever closer.

      With her heightened senses, always so keenly attuned to her surroundings and her own being, Henrietta Taylor had discerned its inexorably nearing presence for some time now.

      At first it had only lurked in the shadows and hovered at the edges of her consciousness. She had caught only occasional glimpses of it then—a fluttering of its amorphous cloak, an inscrutable glance from beneath its voluminous hood.

      Sunlight and her sheer strength of will had held it at bay for a while.

      But eventually over the passing months, Death had grown bolder and less patient.

      Now, sometimes late at night when she lay sleeping, it slipped into her old Victorian farmhouse, into her bedroom, and sat upon her shallowly rising and falling chest, peering down impenetrably into her slumbering face, as though to steal away her last breath finally and forever.

      No doubt, with these tactics, Death hoped to frighten her, as it did so many others.

      But unlike them, Henrietta was not afraid. She had lived too long and seen too much for that. She knew Death was but the guide to another dimension, another plane of existence not yet fully understood by those who dwelled in the physical realm.

      When she passed beyond the door through which Death would lead her, she would see her parents and Jotham and Rowan again, and she would be glad of that.

      But before then, she must do everything in her power to protect those she would be leaving behind—especially her namesake and granddaughter, Hallie.

      That was the reason for the ritual Henrietta was undertaking tonight and why she had gone to such great lengths to prepare for it.

      For months, she had befriended the huge wild black wolf around which her ceremony would center, gradually gaining its trust and confidence. For weeks, she had gathered the herbs and other plants she intended to employ, neatly cutting them with her bone-handled boline, then drying and preparing them for grinding with her mortar and pestle. For days, she had consulted her almanacs and correspondence tables to ensure that her timing would prove auspicious and her tools appropriate to her spellwork. Earlier this evening she had bathed in the nearby creek in order to cleanse and purify herself, then carefully dressed in her best witching clothes and flowing cloak.

      Now Henrietta was ready.

      Above the sweet meadow in which she stood—and for which her farm had been named—the moon shone bright and full, a gleaming silver orb in the black-velvet night sky. From the creek that wound through the woods encompassing the meadow, wisps of mist drifted ghostily, enshrouding the gnarled old trees and blanketing the gentle hollows of the land.

      With her black-handled, double-edged, singing arthame and the carefully knotted cingulum she took from around her waist, Henrietta began the casting of the magic circle she required for this night’s work, marking the perimeter with small stones she had collected some days before and set to one side for just this purpose.

      When she had finished, she approached the round wooden table she had set up as her altar. There, she took up a little bowl of finely ground sea salt and, walking deiseil or clockwise, scattered it along the circle’s boundary, chanting as she did so. Next she lit a cone of incense in her thurible and waved the smoke from the ornate brass burner around the circumference, continuing to chant softly. Then she set a candle aflame, anointed it with oil and bore it clockwise along the ring’s edge. Last but not least, she uncorked a small bottle of holy water and sprinkled that around the periphery, so the magic circle had been cleansed and consecrated with all four elements: earth, wind, fire and water.

      After that, Henrietta ignited the bonfire she had laid earlier beneath the large iron cauldron that hung from a tripod she had placed at the heart of the meadow, inside the circle she had cast. Then she called the Quarters and welcomed the God and Goddess she had worshiped for many long years now.

      Finally, taking a deep breath, she beckoned to the great wolf, which had been watching her curiously, intently, from the bank of the misted creek. As he loped toward her, she used her arthame to cut a metaphysical door into the circle for him to pass through, then closed it securely behind him.

      No more than she feared Death did Henrietta fear the wolf. He was a creature of nature, and she had always shared a special affinity with those, frequently finding them far preferable to people. Indeed, the older she had grown, the less tolerant she had become of the latter, until, now, with the exception of a chosen few, she was virtually a recluse.

      Still, Henrietta never felt a lack. Her life at the farm was rich and full in all the ways that mattered to her. She knew what was important—and what was not. It seemed to her that the world was an increasingly cruel, vicious place, of which she no longer wanted any part. For her, life began and ended at Meadowsweet—which was why it must be protected.

      As the massive wolf prowled restlessly around the magic circle, Henrietta determinedly set to work, lighting several more candles and, with her mortar and pestle, grinding the herbs and other plants she needed for her powerful spell. She knew what she hoped to achieve this night would take every ounce of her strength, will and faith.

      Still, in the end—the God and Goddess willing—she would succeed.

      Once she had all the necessary ingredients together, Henrietta put them into the cauldron over the blazing bonfire. As the big kettle began to bubble and smoke, she rang the pewter bell that sat upon the altar. Then, with her left hand, she took up her bejeweled pewter wand and, with her right hand, drew her arthame from the cingulum now wrapped around her waist.

      With the wand, she struck the arthame just so, making it sing—pure, sweet notes that echoed melodiously across the meadow into the swirling mist and caused the wolf’s ears to prick forward attentively.

      Then, starting once more to chant and summoning her vast power born of the blessed Earth Mother, Henrietta began to work her elaborate spell of enchantment, calling the immense wolf to her СКАЧАТЬ