The Serpent in the Stone - By Nicki Greenwood Page 0,69
fairy tale books. Which don’t mention anything about druids, anyway.”
“I know that.” Faith stood up. “Dad knew something about all this, but where are his sources? He doesn’t reference any in his journal.” She paced the length of the room, holding the book close. “He doesn’t say how the ceremony goes, either. I’ll have to try to reach Hakon again.”
The mention of the Viking’s name brought the sword back into Sara’s thoughts, and then Becky’s recent confession. Her stomach turned over again. “Faith, Becky’s a conduit.”
“She’s what?”
“A conduit, she’s a conduit. She amplified me when I was trying to use telekinesis to steady the boat. She saw what I was doing, and wham!”
“Conduits don’t exist. They’re just a theory!”
“So are we,” Sara reminded her acerbically. She sobered, grasping at the last threads of her focus and self-control. “I told her to go to Holly as soon as she’s out of that hospital. She needs to be somewhere safe.”
Faith began to look frantic, pacing faster around her tent, scanning the interior as if looking for an emotional anchor.
“There’s more. Faith, sit down. I’m still tapped, and you’re making it hard to think.”
Her sister dropped onto the cot’s edge, but her eagerness for action screamed from every muscle.
Sara drew a long breath. “Tom Callander is a telekinetic. He used Becky to push that scaffold down and kill Cameron. Ian thinks Lamb is behind it.”
Faith froze. “How are we going to prove any of this? What do we do?”
Sara fought a surge of anger. Could Faith believe so readily that Lamb might be involved in Cameron’s death? There had to be an explanation—any explanation—to absolve the man who’d been a second father to them all these years.
As bitter a task as it was, she forced herself to consider the possibility. “We need to keep this quiet. Until we’re off this island, everyone is suspect.” She swayed, and propped herself up where she sat.
Faith laid a hand on her arm. “God, you’re like ice. Get out of those wet clothes. You’re going to get sick.” She reached for the blanket at the end of the cot and shook it out over Sara’s lap, then rummaged through her trunk for a clean, dry sweatshirt.
Sara took it and peeled off her soaked shirt. “You can stay here,” she heard her sister say. She gave a groggy nod, only half hearing, and lay down. Faith pulled the Viking sword out from under her cot, and Sara fell fast asleep.
****
Faith turned her lantern down as low as possible. She sat at the table and laid the oilcloth bundle across her lap, then unwrapped it ever so gingerly. When she drew back the last layer of cloth, the sword blade shone in the dim light.
She stared at it, holding her breath, sensing the anger flowing from the weapon without having to touch it. She lifted her hand and let it hover over the blade with a frown, dreading what she’d see.
No help for it...and no choice. She let her hand fall on the sword hilt, and released her power.
Fury like an ice storm swept all around her. Shuddering, Faith clutched at her power with single-minded determination. I am here, and you will not push me out, she ordered the maelstrom.
As if just now sensing her, the anger subsided. The presence inside the sword darted around her, questing, wondering who she was and what she was doing there.
Then it swallowed her.
Longing gripped her, so fierce that it forced the breath from her body. Tears stung her eyes.
Love. Aching, desperate, passionate. Any emotion she’d ever had felt hollow and soulless by comparison. The sword hilt sizzled under her fingertips. She warred with the need to let go of it. There was bitterness, too, that a sword—an artifact of action—had been made useless by becoming its own wielder’s prison. “H-Hakon?”
The tempest of emotion lifted. She stood at the edge of the dig. The night sky draped its velvet cloak overhead. Light from the moon and stars enabled her to see a man approaching. For the first time, she looked on the face of the Viking warrior.
He was tall, broad-shouldered and clean-limbed, with a catlike surety in the way he carried himself, even in a worn tunic. His long, blondish mane was tied back, drawing her attention to the strong edges of cheekbone, jaw, and nose.
As she approached, she saw him more clearly, more brightly, as if he glowed, himself. His eyes broke her heart. Clear blue-green, like the warm southern seas. In