“And finally, dragon ascending, Mason Forge, son of Roger Forge, grandson of Beckett Forge of warrior blood, replaces Solomon Chirag in the position of Pisces.”
As soon as Mason steps on to the symbol of two koi fish circling each other, the entire field lifts and rays of blinding light radiate in a pulse from the twelve. I blink when it hits me and I can feel it flow through me, hot and foreign but somehow familiar, as if I’d felt this power in some incarnation of a past self.
“Go forth, Zodiac Dragon Brotherhood. Your time is now.”
Chapter Forty
CONNOR
The Sisters of Mercy abbey is an ancient brick building in upstate New York, four stories with white framed windows that watch us through centuries-old forest as we breeze by. It was Fiona’s idea to visit Marion’s chapel again. She still calls it that—Marion’s chapel. I would have never suggested this visit, considering how raw Marion’s death still is for my mate, but I’m glad she decided to go back. Roman originally pursued Fiona for the property. There has to be a reason, something about it the Order desperately wants back.
I need to know that reason. I need to know if the next grandmaster is going to come after Fiona. I’ll kill as many Order members as I have to to keep her safe. But understanding what this is and why it’s valuable to the Order is the first step in knowing where to direct my energy.
“You can park on the street here. We’ll have to take a trail to the chapel. We can only get there on foot.” Sheruns her hand along my thigh, and I pull my Land Rover over on the shoulder to park.
“You keep touching my thigh like that and I’m going to do something to you that shouldn’t be done within driving distance of a convent.” I flash her a lascivious grin.
She grabs my jaw and kisses me firmly. “I’m not against that idea, but let’s explore Marion’s chapel first. I have to get this over with while I’m feeling strong.” She cocks her head toward the woods.
We both get out of the car, and she takes my hand and leads me along a narrow path. I don’t think the rut we’re following is human made based on the size and simplicity. More likely forged by the migration of deer. I walk behind her, pushing branches out of her way by reaching over her shoulders as necessary.
“You said Marion died in the car crash that gave you your scar.”
“Yeah. She was driving and too close to the steering wheel. The impact from the airbag killed her.”
I squint into the sun. “You met her here, all the way back here, once a week. Why were you in the car at all? And why was she driving?”
Fiona grows quiet, introspective. “The doctors tell me that my memory of what happened may not be completely accurate because of the trauma, but on that day, Marion met me at the car. She was afraid. Someone or something had frightened her to the point she was shaking.” Her eyes meet mine, and the memory turns them dark and stormy. “I’d been driving, but she shoved me toward the passenger’s side, and she was so insistentI didn’t argue, just shifted over. She said she had to take me somewhere safe and then she’d tell me everything. She floored it, and that’s when we crashed.”
“Crashed into what?”
Fiona frowns. “That’s just the thing. I have no memory of hitting anything. They told me that it looked like the front of our car had wrapped around a utility pole, but there wasn’t one. They found the car in the middle of the road, wrapped around… nothing. They believe it must have been a large animal that ran off after we hit it.”
I’m glad I’m behind Fiona, because the story has left the hair on my arms standing on end. It’s odd, and I wouldn’t put it past the Order to have used magic to cause the accident if they wanted this land. Maybe one of them approached Marion. Maybe they threatened her. If both women had died that day, the land would have gone up for sale again. I keep these thoughts to myself though. It’s in the past. It’s done.
About a mile into the woods, we come to a clearing. Wild violets form a carpet of purple flowers around a small chapel whose white paint has almost completely chipped off. The roof though looks like it’s made of slate and appears to be intact.
“Wait until you see. It was Marion’s favorite part.” Fiona leads me toward the doors, which look like they were once red, and enters. Inside smells of dust, candle wax, and wood polish, but it’s in perfect condition. A plain wood cross hangs at the front above the altar. Hand-fashioned and polished wood pews line up on both sides of the stone-floor aisle. Candelabras,frothy with cobwebs, line the walls and front of the church. There’s no statuary or stained glass, just plain glass windows, left dingy from age and inclement weather.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she asks.
It is and I tell her so, but I feel no magic here. I can’t see where this would invite Roman Cifarelli’s attention. She gestures toward the front of the church, and we walk out into a small graveyard. The stones are so old the names and the dates are worn too thin to read. Still, we walk through the graves, noting the size and shape. A long rectangle of marble appears to mark the grave of a small child.
I reach out with my mind, with the essence of my dragon self, and find we’re alone. I don’t sense Order magic or dragon magic. This is only a sweet chapel with a graveyard that, by the looks of it, will one day be overrun by nature and the ravages of time.
“Nothing?” she asks me.
I shake my head.
“Maybe they only wanted it as a buffer between the estate and the abbey.” She toys with the lock on the wrought iron gate.
“What’s that?” I ask, noticing a partial stone fence in the distance.
“A well. It’s in terrible condition though. All boarded up.”
I stride to her side and kiss her on the cheek as I push through the cemetery gate. The well is indeed boarded up, the circular stone wall that surrounds it crumbling with age, but when I reach it and take a long, full breath, I can’t hide my excitement. It smells of sweet water andsunlight, of something not quite dragon, but undeniably celestial. I start pulling up the boards and casting them aside.
“What is it?” Fiona catches up to me and looks down into the well.
