Malevolence: A Legacy Novel

By Roxanna Rose

An Immortal entombed in the depths of an ancient bog;

his soul condemned to spend eternity bound to the essence of a tormented goddess.

Consumed by the nightmare of insanity;

all that remains is a Goddess' killing rage.

Finally, after two thousand years, evil has been released.

Will the Mortal Realm survive what

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roxanna Rose
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998280158

Roxanna Rose

Roxanna Rose lives in California with her family and a menagerie of animals. Fascinated by myths and legends from cultures around the world, uses them as a base for Young Adult Paranormal/Fantasy novels. "Desires," "Malevolence," and "Sacrifices" (to be released in 2017) her Legacy Novel series are based on Celtic legends. "She Who Watches (Evil Unleashed)," also released in 2016 is based on the Native American legend. Roxanna divides most of her time between her writing and her career as a veterinary technician and rehabilitating native wildlife.

Book preview

Prologue

The darkness of insanity is unknown except to those

trapped within its nightmare. – Roxanna Rose

Darkness…Greagoir loathed it. That mental coldness that felt like death. There was a time when he desired the ebony domain. Its obscurity concealed his heinous deeds from the eyes of mortals. That feeling changed when he was murdered. Perhaps not murdered; it was getting harder to remember. Can you murder an immortal being? Destroyed was a better description…for that’s what two mortal warriors had done to him…they had destroyed him. Not a fate he deserved. His body mutilated, and his mind driven beyond the reaches of sanity until all he desired, all his mind begged for every day, was the sweet peace of death. Yet they were determined to deny him that one desire for eternity.

Greagoir remembered Eléan. She was Leannan Sidhe, the Goddess Brighid’s heir and Queen of the Nine Glens. Her beauty surpassed any found in the mortal realm with the courage to rival even the goddess of killing rage. If only she’d chosen him as her warrior mate they would have been invincible; a legend of power for the ages.

Yes, he’d tortured her, but only to force her to surrender her body & soul to his desires. Ah yes, his desires and that of Morrigan the goddess of uncontrollable lust and killing rage. Instead, she drove a dagger coated in her blood into his immortal heart trapping Morrigan’s essence, her very soul, within his body. Seething with rage, Morrigan took control of him.

Eléan’s true warriors arrived, but with Badhe the war fury and Amadan of the Sidhe at his side Greagoir was confident of victory. Confident right up until they separated him into three pieces.

Given time the damaged tissue would heal and be whole again; however, armed with this goddess-given knowledge the warriors wrapped the pieces of his body along with the heads and bodies of his companions in strong linen and sunk them into the putrid blackness of the bog.

An immortal being, Greagoir’s mind remained conscious and trapped within the withering confines of his detached head along with the soul of Morrigan. Five hundred years of agony he suffered as the tannins of the bog desecrated his remains. Forced, through magic, into an unending nightmare of excruciating pain. Morrigan, who never had experienced pain as a goddess, was cursed to feel all that Greagoir’s body experienced. Her inhuman screams invaded every corner of his mind. By the time Morrigan’s killing rage had begun to consume him, Greagoir’s descent into madness was complete. His desire for revenge entangled his mind like silken webs. Visions of his enemy’s blood coating his body as he watched the life fade from their eyes poisoned his mind like the venom of a deadly spider, reveling in the fear as it fed on their terror. Those that had wronged him—his enemies—won’t live to regret the malevolence they have created. To Greagoir, with Morrigan’s killing rage burning inside him, that meant everyone. He wanted to see the entire mortal realm destroyed as he had been destroyed. But none quite so much as the keeper of the flame, the bloodline of Leannan Sidhe that bore the spark of the Goddess Brighid’s soul in this realm; those that descended from Eléan and her warriors.

Greagoir’s shriveled head tightened into to what appeared to be a grimace, its leathery lips having long since lost the ability to smile.

Terrifying in its intention though unseen in the bog’s blackened depths. Morrigan would stop him if she knew of his plan. She wanted to use the heir to make Brighid mortal and kill her; the act of a scorned and vengeful goddess’ attempt to destroy the great God Dagda for denying her demands. If there was one thing Greagoir had learned in the last two millennia of tormented exile, it was how to keep his mind silent. Morrigan would think herself in control; that is until Greagoir’s dagger found the throat of the last of Brighid’s heirs…then the mortal realm would fall at his feet.

Chapter One

Near the ruins of Ballybog

in the Nine Glens of Northern Ireland

October 1911

Crack! Feeling the shudder through their shoes, embers and debris exploded from the splintered limb that narrowly missed the two men. Ozone charged the air like dark magic run amuck as the wind whipped the gnarled branches of the forest trees into a frenzy.

Bloody hell! That was too close, Nathaniel. We need to make camp before that storm fully hits. Oliver restlessly shifting his pack to his other shoulder.

Relax old bean, according to the map the ruins of Ballybog are just up a bit. We can make camp there.

Fine, but it is getting dark, and I want to be in the tent wrapped in my bedroll when the rain starts. Are you certain you are correctly reading that map? I thought there was supposed to be a dirt path that led to the ruins. We have not seen one sign of civilization, new or old since we left the deep forest. Nate…I swear…if your shoddy map reading skills have us flittering around all airy-fairy.

Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Oliver. You do go on like my old aunt Edna. Look up there—that clearing has got to be it, Nathaniel folded up the map and shoved it in his pocket. Yes, I will accept your apology at any time and be most gracious about it. Oliver rolled his eyes at his companion before picking up the pace to reach the clearing.

Over there, Nathaniel pointed to a large cleared area outlined by the bits of crumbling wall. It’s higher ground. This area looks a little flooded, but it appears to be a bit drier there. I’ll go find a proper spot to set up the tent. Be a good chap and fetch us some firewood before it gets any darker.

I didn’t sign on to be your bloody chambermaid.

"Fancy just chewing your oats over a steaming bowl of porridge, do ya?

Oliver glanced at the ominous black clouds that were quickly rolling in their direction.

You can be a bloody obnoxious git, Nate.

He adjusted his pack and jogged into the copse of trees.

Nathaniel hopped from patch to patch, each one feeling like a spongy island until he reached the ruins. He knew he was a complete shite for lying to his friend. In all honesty, he had no idea where they were only that there had been some kind of village here. According to all he had learned, the village of Ballybog should still be standing. The stories had said that it had been reclaimed by the surrounding forest, the entire village being overgrown with brambles. No brambles here, just a musty smell that tickled his memory, but he couldn’t fully recall its origin. Those same stories had claimed that in ancient times, the village clan had been the protectors of a great treasure, one gifted to them by the great God Dagda. He felt certain it meant they had unearthed a large deposit of silver or some other rare ore. Obviously, ancient villagers would think that to be a gift from their great god.

Rubble from a stone wall crunched under his boots as he followed the edge of what appeared to be an island of raised earth. Another crack of lightning flashed across the darkness, Nathaniel ducked at the nearness of it. A misplaced step on the stone debris that littered the ground caused his foot to slip off the edge into the foul-smelling water. Not the ideal bath water, he thought. This spot should afford them a high enough location for their camp. He glanced at the ominous sky, soon he would be shrouded in darkness. They could make camp and wait out the storm here. In the morning, he would figure out where they were in this forested hell. He pulled the hand torch from his pack and lit the wick. Instead of climbing over the crumbled stone barrier, Nathaniel shined the light out into the surrounding darkness that had descended. Possibly they could find enough relics around here to keep this little detour from becoming too big of a disaster.

A bright flash caught the torchlight and Nathaniel passed the light back over the area again. There, not more than fifteen feet from him, the object sparkled in the light of his torch. He stood on the deteriorated wall and leapt for the nearest raised patch. Two more leaps and he stood over the shiny object. Reaching down, he picked up the silver bead. Silver, just as he had suspected. Wiping the water droplets on his shirt, he examined the bead more closely in the beam of the torch. How could it still shine after being exposed to the elements?

Large drops of water fell from the sky. The sizzle as they landed upon the heated metal of the hand torch drew Nathaniel’s attention. Oliver will give me hell if I don’t have the bloody tent up when he gets back. He dropped the silver bead into his pocket. Rain beat down in a staccato of sound on the surrounding bog. Nathaniel heard a rustling, not unlike the flapping of wings. As he looked up, he was drawn to the glowing red eyes that were coming straight at him. Ink black feathers were the last thing he saw before the crow’s clawed feet blinded him. Horrific screams rented the night air, but it took a moment for Nathaniel to realize that they were the reason for his sore throat. Stumbling back, he fell hard upon the brackish peat moss, the reason for the smell was now so clear in his mind. Nauseated by the taste of blood that coated his lips, he gagged. Flapping broke through the deafening sound of the wind as it carried on it the smell of wet feathers. Before he could raise his arms in defense against an enemy he could not see the crow was upon him again, his flesh torn as it clawed deep into his face. Nathaniel opened his mouth, blood filled it from everywhere, but before he could utter a single sound the crow struck downward. Pain ripped through his skull as its beak plunging deep into his eye. Nathaniel fell silent...the only movement was a slight twitching of his hand. Death claimed him without ceremony as the crow withdrew its bloody beak from his eye socket; wiping it uncharacteristically against his jacket.

Oliver dropped the stack of wood he had been collecting when he had heard Nathaniel’s pain-wracked scream. Could he have broken his leg in this uneven terrain? That would be just like Nate, drag them into the bloody wilderness on one of his treasure hunting schemes and break his leg. I best not need to carry that wanker’s arse out of here. not in this weather.

Oliver drew his sleeve across his forehead. Meant to repel water, it did little to wipe away the rain that now streamed down his face. Gusts of wind blew the brim of his hat back and the icy liquid ran in rivulets down the back of his jacket. Ducking back into the trees he pulled out his hand torch. After three attempts, and with no help from the wind and rain, he got it lit. Grabbing a glance at his pocket watch before it got too wet, he had to check it twice. Only two in the afternoon and yet it’s dark as midnight. In the distance, Oliver could see the beam from the hand torch where Nate had dropped it. Not far from the torch lay a silhouette of what could very well be his friend.

Nate! What did you do this time? I’ll be very brassed off if you’re having me on, his shout swallowed by the increasing howl of the wind.

Oliver kept his eyes on the ground in front of him; a wrongly placed step could be disastrous. Icy rain pelted him, cracking the heated glass of his hand torch. Unable to see through the fogging of his spectacles, he shoved them into his jacket pocket. Not much better, I’ve traded foggy for blurry. I’ll just have to focus on Nate’s beam.

After a few detours around some suspicious looking puddles, he stopped on the solid patch of ground where his friend lay. Rain stung his eyes, he raised his torch illuminating the large black crow that stood upon Nathaniel’s chest. As if in defiance, it continued to mutilate the remains of what was once his friend’s face. Bile rose in Oliver’s throat as he staggered backward and dropped his hand torch. Hunched in the darkness he dispelled the contents of his stomach in gut-retching heaves. His sudden action made the heinous bird take flight and left him an unobstructed view of what remained of his friend. There was no doubt in his mind that Nate was dead.

Chilling rain soaked his shirt and broke his morbid stare. His skin prickled as lightning cracked overhead, grabbing for his hat as it blew off into the storm. Oliver moved toward Nate’s body, his first big mistake. He’d stepped from his solid piece of ground in his earlier shock and was now ankle-deep in a puddle. His toes numbed as the water flowed over the top his hiking boots. Now knee-deep in a large puddle of water…he was sinking. He struggled to free himself; it had the opposite effect and he sank deeper into what he realized was a bog. Panic will only get me dead. Keep a clear head, Ollie. He stopped his struggles. Waist-deep in water, he removed his pack, tossing it onto the ground next to Nate’s body. Hope that the rate at which he was sinking would slow coursed through him. Leaning forward, he moved slowly toward the patch of stable sod. Mud sucked at his boots, the effort to dislodge his foot and take a step was futile. Instead, he did his best to relax his legs letting his arms do most of the work closer to the surface. By the time he was able to reach his patch of sanctuary, he had already sunk chest-deep into the muck. However, to his relief, it appeared he had stopped sinking.

Digging his fingers into the earth, he began to drag himself from the deadly bog. Stinging pain tore into the calf of his leg. I must have scraped it on a sharp limb that had been sucked under the surface long ago. Thankful that the medic kit was in his pack, he dug his fingers in again. More pain tore through his upper thigh…it felt like…a bite. Bloody hell, that was a bite! Something…no some things were living in this rot, and they were trying to eat him…alive.

I will not die out here like Nate. Bite after bite ripped through his clothing before piercing his flesh. Oliver screamed at the searing pain as a large chunk of flesh was ripped away. Make it stop! Please, no more! Reaching under the surface of the water, he tried to push at whatever was attacking him. He found one as it chewed relentlessly through the clothing over his stomach. Grabbing it with both hands he pulled it away from his body. Oval…leathery, yet slime coated…holes…no, not holes exactly…no…it can’t be…eye sockets…bloody hell, it’s a head! Frantically Oliver pushed it away, his mind refusing to acknowledge the horror of what was happening. It was too late, he realized his second mistake was letting go of the small patch he had been clinging to earlier as he started to sink again. The ravenous attack continued, Oliver thrashed wildly as relentless gnawing ripped through his clothing and ravaged his flesh. His panic-filled screams were lost to the thunderous storm. Life faded from his eyes moments before his head sank below the murky surface. As the rain continued to fall; three sets of glowing red eyes shown from the depths of the bog.

Chapter Two

Máire jerked awake, she struggled to slow her breathing as her heart raced. A glance at her husband sleeping peacefully next to her, she realized it had only been a nightmare. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she felt as if a great weight kept her lungs from filling. Sitting up, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Chilly night air made her shiver slightly—or was that still the effects of the dream?

Another one?

Niall’s deep voice broke the silence, startling her.

That is why I dinna try to surprise you…ever.

She was Leannan Sidhe and the heir of the Goddess Brighid. He was her chosen warrior mate sworn to protect her and the spark of the Goddess’ soul that she bore. He would have felt her distress and been on alert. That he was so attuned to her feelings made her breathe a little easier.

Forgive me for waking you; it was not a nightmare as much as an ill omen…a feeling of wrongness.

Never apologize for waking me, Máire. I am your warrior. It is my job to vanquish your demons whether they are in the mortal world or the dream world. I am certain the Goddess would not be pleased if I squandered the gifts she granted me on sleep while you were in distress.

The warmth from his hand on her back comforted her.

This is the third time you have been awoken with this feeling. We need to pay heed to it.

Aye, that is what has me worried.

Máire slipped from the bed, the cold floor caused her bare feet to tingle. Concern knotted in her stomach as she wrapped her wool shawl around her shoulders.

I am going to check on Caitliń, she whispered as she moved toward the door. Niall, teach her how to use the dagger…start today. Leaving the room, she closed the door softly behind her.

Niall tossed back the quilts. Outside the window remained dark, the sun was not yet adding its golden glow to the autumn morning. Goosebumps rose on his arms and the chilly air assaulted his bare chest and feet as he crossed the room to the wardrobe. He pulled on a soft linen shirt covering the tattoo of the hounds of the Otherworld that marked him as a warrior for the Goddess, before adding the heavier wool one. Warm pants, thick wooly socks, and he’d nearly completed his attire for what he had planned for the day. Moving the quilt on the bottom of the wardrobe aside allowed him access to the hidden panel. He removed the silver dagger marked with sigils and infused with magic; a dagger passed down from mother to daughter in Máire’s family for the last two thousand years. If the Goddess was sending his wife a warning, then he needed to find out more about what she was seeing in her nightmares and be prepared for what might be coming.

When Máire did not return to their bedroom he gathered the heavy quilt from the bed. Niall knew where he would find her. Quietly he opened the door to their daughter’s room. His wife was curled against Caitliń with her shawl draped over them both. Niall gently covered them. Making his way toward the kitchen to stoke the wood stove, his fingers moved over the intricate markings that decorated the dagger. Later in the day, he would train his thirteen-year-old daughter how to wield the dagger with deadly accuracy, but first, he would make a journey to the bog.

Chapter Three

Caitliń sat on the stool helping her mother prepare the herbs for drying. It was her lesson time. Tying a bit of string around a bundle of feverfew, she leaned back to look out the window at the woodpile.

Out on a bit o’ hunting, is he?

Máire grabbed the last of the bundles giving her daughter a raised eyebrow.

Aye, and to check on our neighbors at the bog.

Aaarrrgh, da should not have gone without me, she grumbled as she scrambled from the stool.

Stop, Máire said softly. Your da will not be needin’ your help. He’s a warrior of the Goddess.

But I am…

Stayin’ here. Now fetch me some water from the rain barrel. She set a pot on the table in front of her, before carrying the bundles out to hang from the eaves of the roof.

Caitliń folded her arms across her chest in frustration. Her father knew how much she wanted to explore the crannog to look for old bits and baubles. She started to reach for the pot but stopped short as a sly grin crossed her face.

Elements of water— the lifeblood of the earth—share with me your gift, she whispered.

She concentrated on water filling the pot, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Peeking with one eye, she watched a fat sphere of water as it floated in through the open door. Crossing the room, it hovered over the pot for a moment before dropping. A little water splashed onto the table and Caitliń reached for a tea towel.

Not with that, her