Return of the Light. Maggie Shayne

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      Return of the Light

      Maggie Shayne

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Prologue

      The candles were the only light in the room. They glowed from every quarter, painting the faces of the men and women in a golden light. Incense smoke hung in the air; sandalwood and myrrh, mingling with the seasonal aromas of pine boughs, holly and ivy.

      In the center, she stood with her arms upward and outward, head tipped back as the High Priest knelt before her, completing the fivefold kiss by pressing his lips briefly to her feet.

      She opened her eyes and spoke to the gathered assembly, spoke the words of the Goddess according to Leland, who said they were given to him by an Italian Witch named Maddalena more than a hundred years ago; and to Gardner, who adapted them from Leland, adding his own touches; and to Valiente, who made them beautiful and must have been truly inspired; and according to Dori, Lady Starfire, who had made them her own.

      “Hear my words and know me! I shall be called by myriad names. I am the Maiden of the Moon, I am Mother Earth. And I am the Crone, who holds the keys of life and rest. I am an unknowable mystery and yet known to every soul!”

      She lowered her arms to her sides, moving her most penetrating gaze from one face to the next, meeting their eyes so they would feel touched by the Goddess.

      “Hear my words and know me! Whenever the full moon rises, come to me. Gather in some secret place, such as this…”

      Not much of a secret place, though. Not really. Her penthouse apartment in Manhattan. Still, it served the purpose.

      “And adore the spirit of your Goddess, who is Queen of all Witches.”

      Speaking the words of the Goddess felt a little phony tonight. Something was wrong; something was off. Dori wasn’t sure what. And yet she felt that spirit wasn’t speaking through her, hadn’t in quite some time now. The Charge had become rote, recited from memory. And while those standing in a circle around her seemed awestruck and mesmerized when she met their eyes with her own, she didn’t feel the magic.

      “I shall teach you the mysteries of Nature, and the ways of Magick!”

      Not much nature, here. Not in the apartment, aside from her plants and her cat.

      “All that is hidden shall be revealed. Even the secluded soul shall be pierced by my light.”

      She didn’t really teach anymore. The priestesses she had trained did that, ran their own covens, taught bright-eyed beginners, organized social functions and rituals and performed weddings and funerals. But in this particular branch of the Pagan community, she was queen. The ranking elder, the most honored Witch in town, and a coveted special guest at many a Pagan function. She was even respected and a bit famous in non-Pagan circles, having successfully worked with the police on several missing persons cases. The press loved that kind of crap. It was a damn good thing she saw no reason to be secretive about her beliefs. They wouldn’t have stayed secret long.

      “I do not demand sacrifice, for I am the mother of all living!”

      She moved around the circle now, speaking to each individual.

      “Create and heal!” she told one. “Be strong yet gentle,” she said, touching the cheek of another. “Be noble yet reverent,” she instructed a third. “Bring forth and replenish.”

      She returned to the center. “And just as the moon moves through her cycles, waxing and waning and beginning again, and just as seasons flow from birth in the spring to life in the summer, to aging in the fall and apparent death in the winter, so shall you—in both worlds.

      “And you will say these words—I will love all, and harm none. For the free will of all, and with harm to none, as I will, it now is done. So mote it be!”

      And with that, she moved to the seat of honor that had been placed in the North quarter of the circle and sat down to enjoy the rest of the Winter Solstice Ritual the priestesses had planned. She’d done her part, ensuring those gathered that the Goddess was indeed present to join in their rites. She sat and watched the elaborate procedure unfold. There were songs to celebrate the return of the light. There was a dance performed in its honor. The freestanding silver candelabras she had bought for ritual use really made it special, she thought. Each held seven candles—she’d spent a fortune on them, but it was well worth it. Some of the less-experienced priestesses still had to read their parts, and the light was extremely helpful.

      The entire group began the circle dance, which usually generated such a rush of energy that Dori tingled from head to toe. Tonight it felt off.

      Something was up this Winter Solstice. All week long, she’d been thinking that once again, she’d come through the darkest season without experiencing any real darkness at all. Her life was perfect. Tonight, though, she felt the sword of Damocles dangling overhead. Every nerve in her body was tensed as if expecting a blow.

      She broke her train of thought long enough to wince when one enthusiastic dancer bumped into the altar. That was a Tiffany chalice, for Goddess’s sake!

      Luckily it didn’t fall off, just wobbled dangerously.

      The dancing grew faster and faster, until the High Priestess shouted, “Release!” Then all the dancers in the room went still, relaxing their bodies to let go of the energy they had raised, while the woman in the center lifted her hands to send the magic off to its goal. Its goal tonight was to bring back the light, to help it grow within every one of them and help them through their own dark times, whatever they might be.

      The ritual was finished and the circle taken up as Dori rose again, lifting her arms in silence to bid farewell to the Goddess, then lowering them and crossing them over her chest, bowing her head.

      As those gathered rushed into the next room, where snacks were piled high and wine was chilling, she quickly cleared her altar, lovingly wrapping each tool in silk cloth and tucking each back into the trunk in the corner. The Tiffany chalice. The crystal-tipped wand she’d had custom-made by an artisan in Greenwich Village. The statues of Pan and Diana, replicas of ancient artifacts. She’d bought them in the gift shop at the Met. The dagger, with its double-edged silver blade and onyx handle, slid neatly into its sheath. It was worth a small fortune. She was especially careful with the giant quartz crystal ball on its elaborate СКАЧАТЬ