AI Aurora ducked beneath the gnarled branch of the final ancient oak, its bark rough against her palm as she steadied herself. The standing stone loomed ahead, etched with spirals that twisted under her torchlight like veins pulsing in stone. She gripped the Heartstone Pendant tighter, its deep crimson gem warm against her chest, a steady throb that had drawn her here through Richmond Park's deer paths after her shift at the Golden Empress.
The pendant's glow flickered, brighter now, casting ruby shadows on the mossy boundary. She stepped over the threshold. Wildflowers erupted around her boots in defiant bursts of violet and gold, petals unfurling as if she'd woken them. No frost clung to the grass. No chill nipped her skin. She swung the torch beam across the clearing, the light slicing through mist that coiled low like breath from the earth.
Her pulse matched the pendant's rhythm. Brendan had always warned her about places like this, old Celtic boltholes where the veil thinned. But the gem pointed here, insistent, after weeks of faint pulses in her dreams. A Hel portal, maybe. Something to unravel the nightmares since Evan. She knelt, fingers sifting soil soft as velvet . Too rich. Too alive. Roots tangled her knuckles, warm and slick, withdrawing as if reluctant to let go.
A rustle stirred the undergrowth to her left. She froze, torch beam snapping sideways. Brambles shivered, leaves quivering without wind. Deer, probably. Richmond teemed with them. She rose, boots sinking into loam that gripped like wet clay. The air thickened, carrying a scent of crushed honeysuckle laced with something sharper, metallic, like blood left too long in a chalice.
She pressed on, circling the grove's heart where a massive oak throne dominated, its trunk split into antler-like boughs. The pendant burned hotter now, chain biting her collarbone. She yanked it free, holding it aloft. The glow pulsed in time with her breath, illuminating carvings on the throne: faces half-human, half-beast, mouths stretched in silent screams. Her scar itched on her wrist, the crescent from that childhood fall suddenly raw.
Footsteps echoed behind her. Soft, padding thuds on the grass. She whipped around, torch carving arcs through the dark. Nothing. Just flowers swaying in unison, petals nodding as one. Her heart hammered. Imagination. The park's edge blurred paths played tricks after midnight deliveries.
She edged closer to the throne, pendant swinging like a divining rod. The mist rose to her knees now, tendrils brushing her jeans like curious fingers. A whisper slithered through the leaves overhead, too melodic for wind, repeating a cadence she half-recognised from her mother's Welsh lullabies. Isolde's grove, the old tales called it. Fae-touched. Time bent here. An hour inside, days out.
Her torch sputtered, beam dimming to a sullen orange. Batteries low. Perfect. She slapped it against her palm, light flaring back. Shadows leaped across the standing stones, stretching them taller, their spirals writhing like smoke. She swallowed, throat dry. The metallic tang intensified, coating her tongue.
Something skittered at the grove's rim. Claws on bark? She spun, beam catching a flicker : pale limbs darting behind an oak, elongated, wrong-proportioned. Child-sized, but no child moved like that, joints bending at impossible angles. Her breath caught. She backed towards the throne, pendant scorching her palm.
"Rubbish," she muttered, voice swallowed by the hush. Quick thinking. Assess. Exit points: the stones she entered through, or skirt the boundary oaks. But the pendant tugged her forward, towards the throne's split heart.
The whispers multiplied, layering into a chorus, words forming in lilting Gaelic. *Tá sí ag teacht. An mhaighdean dorcha.* Her mother's tongue, twisted. She clapped hands over ears. The sound burrowed deeper, vibrating in her skull.
Torchlight grazed a shape in the mist: a figure hunched by a wildflower cluster, plucking blooms with spindly fingers. It turned, face obscured by curtained hair, but eyes glinted, milk-white, unblinking. Rory's stomach lurched . She retreated a step, boot squelching into something yielding. Petals? No. Fleshier. She didn't look down.
The figure rose, unnaturally tall now, joints cracking like dry twigs. It tilted its head, sniffing the air. Honeysuckle and blood flooded her nostrils again, stronger. The pendant throbbed in sync with the whispers, gem flaring to illuminate veins beneath its surface, pulsing like a heart ripped fresh.
More shapes emerged at the edges. Three, then five, circling the clearing with predatory grace. They moved in unison, skirts of leaves and thorns rustling, bare feet silent on the grass. One giggled, a sound like glass shattering underwater. Rory's scar burned, skin splitting anew, warm trickle down her wrist.
She bolted for the throne, clambering onto its roots for height. The bark pulsed under her grip, sap oozing sticky between fingers. From up here, the grove sprawled wrong: flowers blooming in reverse, petals folding inward, colours bleeding into the mist. The standing stones leaned inward, forming a cage.
The figures closed in, faces lifting. Hollow cheeks, jagged teeth filed to points, eyes like polished bone. One extended a hand, nails black and curled, offering a bloom that dripped crimson nectar. The pendant screamed heat now, chain melting into her skin.
Time stuttered. Her watch hands spun backwards. Minutes? Hours? The mist climbed to her thighs, cold fingers stroking her calves. A face pressed close to the throne's base, nostrils flaring. It mouthed words, lips peeling back: *Malphora. An cuimhin leat?*
Her name. Not Rory. Not Aurora. The old alias from Evan's taunts, twisted into something ancient. She kicked out, boot connecting with yielding flesh. A shriek pierced the air, high and keening, scattering the others momentarily.
But they reformed, tighter circle. Whispers swelled to a roar, drowning her thoughts. The throne's carvings animated, faces mouthing the Gaelic dirge. Roots snaked up her legs, coiling ankles. She slashed at them with the torch, beam wild.
A central figure detached from the pack, taller, crowned in thorns that wept red sap. It glided forward, hand outstretched, palm upturned to reveal a mirror of her scar, crescent weeping blood. The pendant matched its rhythm, gem cracking with inner light.
Rory wrenched free, leaping from the throne. She sprinted for the stones, mist parting grudgingly. Shapes lunged, claws raking air inches from her back. The boundary oak rushed up; she vaulted it, pendant searing .
She landed hard outside, torch dead. Silence crashed in. Richmond Park stretched normal, dew-kissed grass, distant traffic hum. Her watch read 2:17. She'd left Silas' at eleven.
But the whispers lingered in her ears. Footprints marked the boundary: hers alone. No others. The pendant cooled, glow fading.
Then a twig snapped behind the oaks. Close. Too close. Milk-white eyes peered through the leaves, multiplying.