The Dark Desire of the Druids # 4 Temptations and Treachery

The Amymone
Atlantic Ocean
June 1884

Questioning her ability to remain standing, Lady Isadore Harrington steadied herself against the railing of her brother’s steamship. Heavy eyelids closed as she leaned forward, breathing in the sea, grateful for the wind that distracted her senses.

She’d been sick the last few days, unable to leave her cabin. Her traveling companion, Irisi, didn’t know how to help her and that more than anything else scared Isadore. Until now, Irisi had never been at a loss when it came to matters of health.

Isadore knew this wasn’t a matter of health, but rather magick plaguing her. Though supposedly a seer, her powers ran more along the instinct lines. She knew when someone lied or told the truth, when they were scared, when their course of action was a good one. Carnival gypsies had nothing on her talents.

Until three days ago, she’d never had a vision, a true vision that went beyond a vague feeling. Now they wouldn’t leave her alone.
In addition to enabling her to see a possible future, they made her physically ill. Even now, she trembled as the images of what she saw haunted her. Her breath short, her forehead and hands clammy, she gripped the side of the railing as this sick feeling passed through her.

“Come inside,” Irisi said to her. The older woman spoke in her native Egyptian, concern etched harshly over her exotic features.
“In a minute,” Isadore said quickly in the same language before bile rose in her throat.

“Child, this is not normal.” Her hands ran over Isadore’s forehead. “You shiver in the heat. Perhaps we should return? I’ll speak to the captain, telegraph Lord Granville at the next opportunity.”

“No.” Isadore shook her head. “It’s probably the restless seas that affected me.”

“Do not lie to me,” she snapped. “You’ve never dealt with such visions. Lady Granville has spoken of her powers and what you experience is not the same.”

No, it wasn’t. For Isadore’s sister-in-law, Morgana, visions came in a dreamlike state. What Isadore experienced wasn’t anything like a dreamlike state.

“Isadore,” Irisi repeated, and Isadore nodded.

Her legs could barely hold her and her stomach threatened to rebel at the few bites she’d managed. Shivering, she allowed Irisi to help her back to her cabin. Passengers littered the deck on this warm night and Isadore could hear, but not acknowledge, their concerns.
While she’d been on deck, someone had aired out her cabin: Fresh sheets, the soothing scent of lavender, and a fresh pot of ginger tea—the only thing she’d managed to keep down—greeted her. Irisi guided her to the bed, but Isadore shook her head.

“The desk, please.”

Sitting, she took out pen and paper with shaking hands and tried to transcribe her thoughts. Her visions. Though jumbled, several stood out in stark contrast to the morass of images she didn’t understand.
“Drink.” Irisi instructed. The cup of hot tea tempted Isadore, but she shook her head.

“I need to do this first,” she whispered, already doing so.
Like a woman possessed, she wrote.

She wrote of blood and gore, of heavy magicks that suffocated her even as she tried to push past the images. Of battles she didn’t understand with forces she didn’t know. Shattered glass and charred ruins.

These visions haunt me. I can’t see them clearly; they’re jumbled and chaotic. I see blood, some fresh, some dried as if from long ago. Years ago. Bodies charred among ruined buildings.

I sense magick, the suffocating weight of it. Strong magicks. Embattled. The wake of another magick, dark and foul. Much like Beckett’s. His magick was weak, and either Lucien or I could overcome even his artifact-enhanced powers. This is different. More powerful.
I knew Beckett was no match for one of the masters. I fear this current is stronger.

Bodies, shapes, forms, faces. None I could clearly discern, save one.
His face was as handsome in my vision as in the photograph Morgana showed me of her dear cousin.

Isadore stopped, tried to remember more. To articulate what she saw, to find the words. Words escaped her, though the images did not. The feeling weighed heavily on her chest, and it hurt to breathe.
I see him, but as I move closer, as I see him fully, he disappears. There is no blood and I sense no magick. All I can see, feel, is him pulled away and then I wake.

“Come to bed,” Irisi said. Isadore nodded, the cooling cup of ginger tea tempting.


As she lay down, she hoped they docked soon. She didn’t know if the visions would stop once they reached Philadelphia. And James Blackthorne.