Celtic Moon (29 page)

“I know. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.” Dylan began to walk, carrying her in his arms. She told him about Math, about Siân, how Rosa had helped her escape. She gave him Rosa’s message. He remained silent, listening.

“Where are we going?” she finally asked.

“Home,” he said. “We’re going home.”

It wasn’t until they cleared the trail that she realized they were not alone. Too tired to ask questions, she tucked her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled the scent of safety.

T
HE PAIN WAS LIKE A FISTFUL OF HEATED NEEDLES
shoved under her skin, greater than anything Merin had ever done to Elen in her childhood. Power did not like to be contained. It wanted release. Unfortunately, her body was the vessel that held it. Her nerves screamed with its force.

Elen winced as she undid the latch of the iron gate Koko had designed for her, an intricate weave of faeries on lilies that offered both beauty and privacy. Following the stone path, she stumbled toward the hidden gardens behind her beautiful little house. She regulated her breaths through clenched teeth, much like modern childbirth techniques.

With a broken moan of relief, after a day full of suspicious glances and avoidance from the villagers, Elen finally allowed the power to consume her. She collapsed in a bed of anise hyssop and let its vengeful pressure bleed from her skin and into the ground. Purple flowers bloomed around her and a licorice scent filled the air like a basketful of candy, offering treats and bellyaches of a more noxious variety.

The villagers thought she was this power-hungry freak, when in fact she was only a conductor, a mere rod of transference. She was a puppet of a merciless master, no more in control now than when it had first begun, when the gods had reached out their hands of vengeance with their unwanted gift.

Afterward, when the transference passed, she wept. If the villagers knew how much it hurt, would they be more understanding?
Doubtful,
she mused bitterly. Francine and Taran were dead because of her. And Cormack . . .

A ragged breath fell from her lips.

An ivy leaf broke ground through the hyssop, nourished by her tears, and reached for her cheek as if to console her. She ripped it from the earth until life drained from its roots. She knew when it died, because she
felt
it.

She
was
a freak. But not a power-hungry one. Never that. If possible, she would give her gift away, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to curse another soul with this burden.

Melissa is alive,
she reminded herself, because of her ability to take life and transfer it to another source. Her ability had its purpose, a purpose she had just begun to learn. Still, Taran’s mate had refused to see his child until Elen left the clinic, more afraid of her than a Gwarchodwyr. They had been frightened of her before, and now . . .

Even Cormack refused to see her. He had changed back to his wolf form and growled every time she approached.

She had never felt more alone.

A brush of movement caught her eye. Before she could react, warm arms enclosed her. For a moment she was hopeful, for a moment she thought it was Cormack until ebony hair cascaded around her, distinctly familiar and
brotherly
.

“Luc, what are you doing here?” She tried to push him away but he only gathered her closer.

“Tell me what I can do for you, Elen.”

Shaking her head helplessly, she said, “There is nothing.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“You’ve been avoiding your family,” he accused softly. “Sophie’s been asking to see you.”

Knowing her new sister was safe and home gave Elen some comfort. She snuggled closer to her brother’s warmth. “Does she hate me?”

“Hate you?” She heard the frown in his voice, the confusion. “No, Elen, Sophie doesn’t hate you. Your actions saved her son. You did what you had to do to save our nephew. You are not to blame for the actions of the Guardians. Sophie knows that.”

Elen rubbed her sleeve across her face, drying her tears. Her brother thought like a warrior, not a healer. Still, his words soothed her. “I’ll come to the house tomorrow morning.”

“Come now,” he coaxed, tightening his arms. “Or Dylan will return to get you himself. His wife is grieving. Don’t make him chase after you when he should be with her.”

Guilt was a powerful persuader. “Fine.” She stood, bending forward to brush dirt off her slacks, a well-used trick to hide a sudden twinge of discomfort. She felt bruised internally, never before having pulled the life-force from another living animal. It had taken its toll on her body. “I’ll go see them now.” She hid the weariness from her voice. “Have you seen Cormack?”

A slight hesitation. “I have.”

“Is he well? Every time I go near him . . .” Her voice broke, revealing her emotions.

“Cormack needs time. He needs to learn how to be a man. He doesn’t know how to walk on two feet, let alone speak.”

“I don’t care about him being a man.” She sounded like a pouty teenager but she truly didn’t care. She missed Cormack. She missed her friend more than the air that she breathed.

“He does,” Luc said with an odd tone to his voice. “For you, sister, he cares.”

 * * * 

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT, WHILE HIS WIFE SLEPT IN THEIR
bed, exhausted with grief, Dylan returned to the White Mountains alone. Normally, it was a four-hour drive, but on this night he didn’t obey traffic rules, and it only took three. Math’s home was located in Avon, New Hampshire, an hour north of the more touristy areas, and, unfortunately, closer to Maine. Dylan often sent one of his guards to Avon to pose as a vacationer, to fish and secretly gather information. In passing, the townspeople described Math as an “eccentric recluse” and “a generous man”—meaning he donated large sums of money to the local government and charities to be left undisturbed.

The Guardian’s home, aptly named Castell Avon, or the River Castle, sat in a section of forest effectively surrounded by two separate rivers. Unlike the rivers in Maine, these were shallow but wide. Only one bridge allowed pedestrians access to the island. A carriage house built of stone and iron secured the entrance to the bridge, guarded by Math’s men.

Dylan traveled farther north, where he had found Sophie, and crossed the river on foot. He carried an oblong pack that held his sword and a change of clothes. Once dry, he discarded his pack and wet clothes within a rotting stump. With sword in hand, he finished his journey in the shadows of trees. Castell Avon soon came into view. It sat within a section of cleared forest, as ostentatious as the Guardian who lived inside its stone walls.

Too easily, Dylan found the graveyard his wife had described with the hidden passage. A foreboding chill crawled over his skin while skirting around the rows of neglected tombs, like the hands of a dark witch bartering potions for a favor. Bodies of dead slaves, he assumed, were massed in the unmarked graves—poor souls who had suffered under the Guardian’s control, only to end up rotting above ground in their afterlife.

A dull ache began to form around his joints and limbs as his inner wolf growled, sensing danger or, more likely, the residual of misused power.

Focusing on his objective, he gained access through the concealed tunnel, wary once again that Rosa had shared this weakness of her home. Not for the first time, he questioned what Math’s wife was about, what her demands would be for freeing Sophie, and how she had known of the gathering. He suspected one of the leaders had leaked her information, but did not discount the possibility of a spy among his people. Either way, he wasn’t pleased and would uncover the traitor.

The air inside the castle reeked of mildew and discontent. Guards in street clothes walked the halls, eyes heavy and easily distracted, faithless and uncaring of their master’s safety. Complacent.

Only a single woman noticed his approach, cleaning before dawn, pausing as she swept below the staircase. She wore modern clothes but watched him with the eyes of a slave, hooded yet sharp. She had survived a fire or something worse, unable, he assumed, to shift and heal afterward. Scars ran along her face and neck. Her hair grew in clumps, exposing bare patches of scalp with knotted flesh over destroyed follicles. She quickly looked away, too broken to shout an alarm, or too afraid of being the bringer of bad news.

Inwardly, Dylan sneered at the very idea of keeping slaves, the
Hen Was
, descendants of their kind who couldn’t shift, as vile in modern day as in medieval Cymru.

The bedchambers were easy to find. Sounds, sexual and aggressive, came from a door at the end of a long corridor.

“It’s locked,” a feminine voice whispered.

He turned to see the slave lurking in the shadows, having followed him in silence and without detection. His initial assessment of this woman immediately changed. If she was going to raise an alarm, she would have done so by now. Yet, if her spirit was broken, she wouldn’t have followed.

He shrugged. This was a minor obstacle for what he’d come to do. “A single slave and a locked door won’t hold me.”

“You are Dylan ap Merin.”

“Yes.”

A curious glint sharpened her glare. “I see death in your eyes, warrior, but also honor. Is it Math you’ve come to claim, or our Rosa?”

“Math.” Denial, he sensed, would only delay his intent.

A contorted smile turned the unscarred side of her mouth. “Then you are correct . . . this single slave and a locked door won’t keep you from your task. But I will have your word you’ll not harm our mistress.”

“Or what?” he challenged.

“
For
what,” she corrected, holding up a stainless steel key, an oddity amongst a manufactured illusion of medieval grandeur. “Take who you’ve come for, warrior, and leave the others be.”

“Agreed,” he said, and accepted the key as the slave hurried away. The lock was new and well-oiled, turning without detectable sound, even to his ears. The visitors to this room came often and were not meant to be heard.

Dylan slid into the chamber, not overly surprised by what he found. With Rhun now gone, Math was one of the eleven remaining Original Guardians; old when he’d been gifted by the Goddess and even older now, with a rumored preference for beautiful men.

Those rumors were correct, it seemed, since it was a young man, and not Rosa, who was being thoroughly and joyfully buggered by Math.

The young man, thin and elegant, was bent over the back of a chaise longue, his eyes squeezed shut and his head thrown back in openmouthed pleasure. Math knelt at the foot of the chaise, gripping his lover’s long red hair like reins, his eyes glazed and unfocused in feral joy, pounding, bare-assed, pasty and wrinkled and unaware.

Without remorse, Dylan used their distraction to his advantage. Walking silently behind Math, he raised his sword, balanced his weight, and swung.

“For my wife,” he said as the Guardian’s head toppled to the side and his body remained suspended until his lover fell forward, tangled in hysteric disbelief.

With a gurgle of horror, the man scrambled to the floor, wide-eyed and knees drawn, trying to hedge backward like a spider without its web. He opened his mouth, chest rising with frantic breaths.

Dylan pressed the bloodied sword to his throat. “Make one noise to alert the guards and you will die.” The man swallowed his scream. “Give the Guardians a message. I am Dylan ap Merin, leader of the Katahdin territory. Whoever comes to my territory with ill intent . . . will die. Whoever brings danger to my family . . . will die.”

Dylan left without further incident. The lover did not scream nor did the slave hinder his departure. He arrived back at Rhuddin Village around seven in the morning, with his wife still abed. He settled in next to her, molding her soft body against his chest, and placed a kiss on her exposed shoulder.

She sighed, half awake, snuggling into his warmth. “Where have you been?”

“Fulfilling a promise,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep, my love.”

T
HREE DAYS LATER, ON THE FIRST CLOUDLESS MORNING
since the gathering, Dylan stood next to his wife and son as Francine’s casket was lowered into the ground next to her husband’s. Dylan shook his head with reverence, wondering if the woman had convinced her angels to harness the sun to shine down upon her own service.

Luc had remained at home, as did most of the other guards, but Enid, Porter, and the parents of the children from the village had traveled to Massachusetts, Sophie’s place of birth.

The minister had long since said his blessing and left. With Sophie’s permission, some of his people dropped treasures next to the grave for Francine to bring to her afterlife. Enid gave a golden spoon, placing it gently in the roses that covered the casket, with a blessing for Francine to “Wield it well.” That spoon, Dylan knew, had been the only treasure Enid had carried from Cymru.

“I’m going to wait in the truck,” Joshua said after the others had returned to their cars for the journey home, leaving his parents alone.

“Okay.” Sophie squeezed his hand as he passed. “We’ll only stay a few more minutes.”

Shaking with what he was about to do, Dylan wrapped his arms around his wife and kissed the top of her head. “Taliesin came to see me this morning.”

“He did?” He heard the frown in her voice. “What did he want?”

“Your forgiveness, I think.”

“Then it’s me he should be visiting, not you.”

“He’s here, Sophie.”

Her head shot up, scanning the cemetery, stopping when she found the lone figure in the distance. “Has he been here this whole time?”

“Yes.” Dylan briefly closed his eyes, unable to watch her face when he made the most difficult offer of his life. “Taliesin has agreed to reopen his home where you and Joshua once lived.”

“For what?”

“For you.” His throat thickened, choking on the words, not sure if he could finish this but knowing he must. “And Joshua, if he wants to go. Taliesin has agreed to stay with you, to continue Joshua’s training. If you wish, you can leave with him now.”

“And where will you be?”

“Rhuddin Village.”

“What is this about?”

“It’s a choice, Sophie. A choice to leave now before the Council decides our fate.” Opening his eyes, he waved his hand toward her mother’s grave. “This is only the beginning. One of four lives we’ve lost. Others
will
follow.”

Understanding hardened her features, like snow over a mountain, insurmountable to the weak of heart. But he wasn’t weak, and neither was she. “And you would do this? You would allow me to leave?”

He leaned his forehead against hers. “If it will keep you alive, Sophie, I will do more than you know.”

She wiped at her eyes as fresh tears began to fall. Amazing, really, that she had any left when she’d shed enough over the last few days to fill a river in autumn, enough that his heart had bled a bit with every single one, drop for drop.

Darkness closed around him. “I’ll do my best to stay away from you—”

“Stop.” A watery smile turned her lips. “
Please
, just stop this right now! Thank you, Dylan, for giving me the choice.” She lifted her hands and cupped his face. “Do you want to know something my mother said to me a few days before she died?”

He didn’t respond, not sure that he did.

She continued anyway. “Mum told me she’d rather live her life to the fullest, around the people she loved, than fear the unknown alone.”

He frowned. “What are you saying?”

“It’s not the Council who’s going to decide our fate. It’s us, our family, and our people.
Together
we will decide our fate, while we live our lives around the people we love most. And for me, Dylan, that’s you. I choose you.”

Robbed of breath, he kissed her because he could do nothing else. “I won’t ask you again,” he warned against her mouth. It was a long while before he lifted his head, shaking with emotion in a bloody graveyard no less, with a demi-god pouting in the distance.

“So,” she said, resting her face against his chest, “did our son put you up to this?”

He smiled against her hair. “He told me you wouldn’t agree to it.”

“That little shit.” Then she laughed her first genuine laugh in three days. “Did that make it any easier for you?”

“Maybe a little,” he said, though serious. “But I’ve learned not to predict how your mind works,
wife
. I would have honored your choice. Well,” he amended, “I would have
tried
to the best of my ability.”

And to prove that he may never know how her mind worked, she stood on her toes and planted another kiss on his lips. “Will you marry me again?” she asked softly. “With a minister this time. I want our family there as well. Invite the whole town if you wish.” She reflected quietly for a moment. “My mum would have wanted that.”

His throat tightened. He had to swallow twice before he found his voice. “Is today too soon?”