Concentric Circles Read online

  | Overview |

  We've all seen it. The fragmented family line. It usually spells disaster. What does this have to do with Shayla Brinawell? Magic. Fearful of the dangers Shayla could face, her mother taught denial of anything magical with fierce, maternal protection. There are always consequences. What you don't know can hurt you.

  Shayla's world will be turned upside down and every which way. Witch way that is. Hyper drive doesn't begin to explain the casting of events that will shift her world.

  Meet Meekal Chilkwell, bloodline guardian of the Chalice Well.

  The magical waters have been threatened by evil before. Thanks to the Chilkwell family you have remained safe. However, in our shrinking world, today's new danger is global.

  Look out, non-magical world. Syther the Quitch is hell bent on wicked domination.

  The only thing standing between you and Syther's sadistic ambition are Meekal and Shayla.

  Why not take a peek between their shoulders?

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Aithne Jarretta

  Copyright — (c) 2011

  No part of this story may be used or reproduced without written permission of the author.

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  Deepest Gratitude

  Thank You

  Lisa MacDonald

  Bookplate

  "The most powerful symptom of

  Love is a tenderness,

  which becomes at times

  almost insupportable."

  ~ Victor Hugo

  [1] Circle’s Threshold:

  Hawthorn & Heart

  Nothing ever happened on Monday afternoons.

  Bored with work, Shayla opened the newest email from best friend Barb. "Whoa."

  The artistic vision of muscular shoulders dominated her computer screen.

  A quick look around. There was no one passing by her work station. But still, she winced. It was a good thing the blue wall behind her desk meant no one could sneak a peek.

  Beauty was definitely in the eye of the beholder.

  The male model stood with his back toward the camera. That was pretty basic, but what really grabbed Shayla was the rushing waterfall he stood under. Exquisite sensuality. From the curve of his wet, black hair to the blending tan line around his ankles... Bare skin and tight buns extraordinary.

  Mesmerized by the sexy image, Shayla Brinawell breathed deeply.

  Beneath the picture Barb had typed:

  “Just because you meet your soul mate, doesn’t mean your life will be a bed of roses. Or maybe it does—thorns and all. Don’t forget, that’s what you told me when I met Jeff. We just broke up.”

  Shayla stared at the red letters, stunned.

  Barb, her best friend since they were six years old, truly believed in love. Now, she was out of it.

  Shayla wondered briefly about life’s circumstances. Only face to face conversation could soothe this type of pain.

  She gnawed her lip and thought about skipping out on work. “Better not,” she muttered.

  A shiver raced down her spine. Was that a portent of things to come?

  She decided what she needed right now was a good dose of humor. That could help chase away the doldrums.

  She clicked the favorites file and scrolled down her personalized list.

  Tap the keys and move forward. Forget about love. Do what you are compelled to do for the sake of a good life.

  Answer questions, she thought. Laugh when you get the chance. Go for adventure and inner joy.

  That’s what she must do. Forget love.

  She needed something, a good laugh. She would think about Barb later.

  Maybe they would get dinner after work and Barb might be willing to talk about it. The Italian Garden, Barb's favorite, might be the key to helping get through this heartbreak. At least it could be a start.

  In the race of thoughts, she almost missed the link, but it grabbed her in an unexpected way and with mystical insistence.

  Shayla leaned forward for a better look. Something from the list caught her attention. It tickled a deep-seated, wonky sense of humor.

  Birl?

  Shayla laughed at the word. The online Scottish vernacular dictionary always proved irresistible and amusing—in a lifting of the spirits sort of way. Exploring language inspired her creativity to magical heights.

  Birl: To twirl or spin, particularly to the point of dizziness.

  Laughing, she clicked the back button. For quite some time she had postponed a longed for fantasy trip. She saved and pinched pennies, but had not taken action.

  Today, on a typical 'nothing ever happens Monday,' she made her decision.

  She would go on her dream vacation across the pond. The Atlantic Ocean beckoned her on a mission of personal adventure with the potential for self-discovery. At least that’s what she hoped it would be.

  Compelled toward destiny’s call, she opened a new Internet window to place her reservation for the tour.

  A portal to the future? Step through the threshold. The thought made her smile with anticipation.

  First stop would be Glastonbury, England where the history that fascinated her began.

  * * * * * *

  “It’ll be fun,” Barb coaxed. “Come on, Shay.”

  Coercion. Shayla stared at the shop window adorned with an assortment of oddments; green glass bottles, candles of various colors and ancient, well-worn books. “It isn’t really my forte. How’d you find out about this place?”

  “Gary. And besides, no one will know—about you.”

  “Figures it'd be Gary.”

  Barb snorted. “You don’t like Gary because he has a pink Mohawk and numerous piercings.”

  “No,” Shayla said, while trying to push the subject of personal, mysterious origins and funky happenings away. “I don’t like Gary because he tried to get me to drink a love potion. Who knows what was in that thing—maybe GHB.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “Right,” she growled, and shook off a sense of déjà vu that had blanketed her since parking the car. “As for no one knowing about me, it isn’t that simple, you know. My senses always go funky in these places. Is Gary's love potion the reason you wanted to come here? To buy one?”

  Tears threatened to spill over Barb's thick black lashes. She dabbed the corner of one eye, and blinked to keep the moisture at bay. “It wouldn’t do any good. Jeff’s history.”

  “You’re better off,” Shayla said. “He’s a cheating louse. A slug under a rock.”

  “Yeah, I realize that,” Barb said low voiced. “Come on. You'll be okay. You're strong. I really need this. Something to take my mind off Jeff. Let’s go in. Please?”

  “If you're sure this is what you really want,” Shayla replied, and tucked her cell phone into a pocket. “I can suck it up. Anything for my best friend. Hey, it's an adventure, right?”

  Barb's effort at a smile strengthened Shayla's resolve to help.

  When Shayla pushed the door open, delicate tinkles sounded from a chime. A welcoming atmosphere hugged them inside the small shop. Celtic music played softly and brushed the senses.

  A circular fountain dominated the center of the floor. Ancient Celtic symbols artfully embellished stone crafted sides, and moving water added musical harmony to the room.

  “Good evening,” a man said, and moved from behind the glass counter. “Welcome to Circle’s Threshold into Ancient Journeys. I am Connell. Is there something I can help you find?”

  “Elixir of Witch’s Grass,” Barb grumbled u
nder her breath.

  “We’re just looking. Thank you,” Shayla said, while elbowing Barb.

  “Take pleasure then.” Connell gave them a friendly nod and returned to his station behind the glass case. He began placing new items on the shelves that ran the breadth of the store.

  “Witch’s grass won’t lower libido,” Shayla whispered while eyeing one of the many candles on a table. There were also several ritual books and tools for every purpose. “I was just kidding about that.”

  “I know. Just wishful thinking.”

  “Find something else to take your mind off him,” Shayla said.

  It would take Barb awhile to get over Jeff.

  Shayla knew that because of her own twice broken heart. “Lots of books.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Barb disappeared toward the back into the small library where neatly stacked shelves hid her.

  Shayla stared at the place where Barb previously stood and shook her head. With a low sigh, she turned, and focused on the curious items in the lighted case.

  Small crystals cut in different shapes, made to carry in a purse or pocket, lay on black velvet and gleamed with mystic allure.

  She moved down further, past an assortment of wands, feather quills and parchment to the jewelry section.

  “I see the garnets draw you.” Connell smiled, and indicated a beautiful necklace. “It’s healing and protective properties will see you through your intended journey. Would you like to try it on?” Eyes, the palest shade of sky blue glistened in candle glow.

  “It’s beautiful,” Shayla answered. “But I’m sure it’s too expensive for my budget.”

  A bark-like laugh erupted from Connell. The sound was friendly and lines crinkled around the corners of his eyes.

  Shayla had the impression of mystical agelessness.

  “Perhaps,” he said kindly, “it’s something else you seek. For while the hawthorn and heart have powerful symbolism when combined with garnet, all that is in existence goes to whom it is intended.”

  He winked and opened the display case door. “It’s always free to look.”

  The heart shaped pendant warmed her fingertips when Shayla held the necklace. But, the warmth wasn’t enough. She passed a thumb over the garnet, held it up in the candlelight, and waited.

  It glistened and twirled in the ambient golden glow of the shop. The pendant, although beautiful, didn’t speak to her.

  She handed it back. “It’s exquisite, but I don’t think so.”

  “Ah. A young woman who knows herself. A true treasure.” The corners of his mouth tucked into a smile. He replaced the necklace on its velvet rest and smoothed the filigree chain to perfection.

  Shayla moved across the shop. Passing the stacks, she heard Barb muttering like a fiendish bookworm.

  “Typical. Naw, have that one. Just give me something different.”

  Shayla suppressed a laugh.

  Barb, always fascinated with magic, kept a veritable library in her closet and considered herself a closet witch.

  Shayla, however, wanted nothing to do with the hocus pocus found in those books. She didn’t have anything against the books. She had tried exploring there before, but nothing had come together in the clear-cut rightness she sought.

  It was just that she was different.

  Her magic came naturally. The whisperings in her soul guided her on a different path. Problem was, she didn’t always know the magical language spoken within her mind.

  If she could just figure it out, then perhaps the mystery that was her life could be resolved.

  Shayla shook the thought and feelings off and returned to the present moment.

  The display cases on this side of the shop housed various athames, an assortment of bolines, and other curious blades. The athames were the same models she had seen before.

  However, Shayla stopped and bent closer to study the curved bladed bolines. Only having seen them online, she wondered about their use.

  “Interesting specimen,” Connell said, indicating the knife. “British Sheffield Steel and hawthorn handle. I must say, you are definitely drawn to hawthorn. It’s your tree. When are you planning to leave?”

  Shayla straightened and forced away the frown pushing down her brows. “What do you mean, hawthorn is my tree?”

  “Everyone has one,” Connell said. “A species of tree that draws them. For some it’s oak. Others, pine.”

  He shrugged and pointed to the boline. “That particular boline is meant for ritual use when preparing your herbs. It’s custom made with a hand carved hawthorn handle straight from Glastonbury, England. The garnet necklace you admired a few moments ago was created by a former resident of Glastonbury.”

  “Is it coincidences in the items I like in your shop that makes you think I’m leaving?”

  “There are no coincidences.”

  “Yeah right.” She bit back a laugh because she had heard that before and never really believed it.

  “Mine is the apple tree.”

  Shayla choked. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, while shaking off the return of her previous sense of déjà vu. She turned, and stared at the glass case.

  The sound of water falling into the fountain carried her into a daze of jumbled thoughts. Apples? Avalon. Glastonbury. Hawthorn—the holy thorn.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Connel said, gently as though he did not wish to intrude upon her thoughts. “I believe your friend has found something.”

  “That's fine,” she said and nodded. Still slightly dazed, Shayla wandered around the tables.

  Although the shop offered many items from Glastonbury, the next case shifted geographically.

  Blood red velvet, laid over unseen boxes gave the interior of the next case a layered look. Highland tartan accented and dominated the vignette. Several handcrafted items drew her in closer.

  Shayla leaned forward, mind and heart racing. “There are no coincidences.”

  The reason for her sense of déjà vu glistened under the glass.

  There it is…

  [2] Concentric Circles:

  Joining

  Meekal Chilkwell bent over and grumbled under his breath, “Ungrateful.” The words stopped as he reached for litter mussing the garden path.

  The garden around the Chalice Well, Glastonbury, England, protected the sacred water spring in many ways. “There’s always one.” He crumpled the paper and rammed it into his jeans pocket.

  The airwaves along the ley lines shifted with potent magical force.

  A lifelong guardian of the hallowed ground, he knew power shifts along ley lines like the rhythm of his own heart. Something in the family garden had changed.

  Tingles journeyed along his arm, and heightened fine tuned senses. The breeze also shifted directions.

  A light, more radiant than the brilliant fall sunshine, encapsulated the area near the Vesica Pisces Pool.

  He squinted and changed course. Only moments before, he had heard Mrs. Amethyst Graham speaking. Now, silence greeted his ears. He picked up his pace.

  Rounding the hawthorn tree, he stopped with the realization of a divine presence.

  Amethyst Graham swiveled her head, eyes wide. She motioned toward the opaque whiteness.

  The sound of an osprey pierced the air.

  The White Lady, Celtic Goddess Warrior of Water, shifted from human form into her animal shape. A beautiful osprey hovered briefly, and then took flight.

  Flapping powerful wings, she blinked at him. The glance glistened with the wisdom of eons. With a wing snap, she vanished.

  Meekal waved his hand through the soft mist left behind by her presence and knelt on one knee.

  Beauty lay upon the stone path.

  “Miss. Miss?”

  “Her name is Shayla, Meekal,” Amethyst said.

  “Shayla, wake up. Come on, lass.” He took the woman's hand in his while shaking her shoulder with the other. “Wake up.”

  She wore a leather jacket, teased by long tresses of black hair which sh
immered like dark garnets in the sunshine.

  At first touch, the skin of his palm hummed with awesome joining.

  Black lashes fluttered. Full lips parted slightly, Shayla trembled and opened her eyes.

  His heart flipped. “Can you stand?” he asked, gripping her hand and helping her to sit.

  With her eyes falling shut, she moaned and clutched him.

  “You need to get off the ground,” he encouraged. Her breast brushed against him. He swallowed and shifted position to get a better grip and lifted her. “Up you go.”

  She stood on shaky legs. “That was weird,” she said, while looking toward Mrs. Graham. She moved away from him.

  Her sudden absence left an odd sense of separation cupping his heart.

  “Whoa.” Hand quivering, she tucked hair behind an ear, and gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. “Who are you? Thanks for helping. I’ve never…” An enticing blush spread across her high cheekbones and she dropped her eyes toward the path. “Fainted.”

  He lifted a shoulder while trying to give the impression of nonchalance. “You can probably thank the White Lady for that.”

  “Um, what do you mean?” She gave him the impression of secrets unready to share.

  Instead of answering her question, he smiled at Mrs. Graham. “Amethyst, please tell Gail that Shayla will miss the rest of today’s tour. She’ll be at the manor, resting.”

  “I don’t know who you are.” She radiated sudden stubbornness. “I’m not going to the manor.” She straightened the collar of her jacket. Her hand froze in mid-action.

  “What’s this?” she asked with bewilderment.

  He reached forward, wrapped fingers around her warm wrist, and turned it to see. A purple tattoo comprised of two concentric circles embellished the soft skin just above her thumb. “You don't recognize this?”

  “No. Where did it come from?”

  “I’m Meekal Chilkwell. I’ll explain everything when we get to the manor. This isn’t the proper place.”

  “I’m not going to this manor you keep talking about. I don’t know you.”