Pagan Fire (14 page)

“H – a – l – l – o – o! H – a – l – l – o – o,” Dylan shrieked.

Eugis spun around, just as Dylan whipped by him, a cloud of dust following. Eugis sputtered and spat as it whirled around his head.

Dylan grabbed Maere’s hand and dragged her along with him. Laughing and screaming, they left Uncle Eugis behind to shake the dirt from his robe.

Once they were clear, they fell to the ground, landing in a soft bed of moss. Maere rolled and giggled so hard, her side hurt. “Why’d you do that? We’ll both be in trouble now.” She smiled despite the punishment she knew would be coming. “Did you see how he looked at you when you were running? He must’ve thought you were a wild and dangerous
phouka
coming to claim him as your own.” Maere rolled over onto her stomach. “Why’d you save me like that, Dylan?” she asked, growing serious. “It seems like you’re always saving me.”

Dylan let go of the memories, pushing them aside as they threatened to overwhelm him. But Maere’s observation lingered. Always saving her. And here he was, saving her from Eugis again. Or was he? Why had he stolen her away from her quiet life at the abbey? To get to her power before her uncle could. He’d used the betrothal as a ploy to get what he wanted, which was to keep Eugis from getting what he wanted. While he did believe in honoring the vows their families had made when they were betrothed, that was secondary to beating Eugis at his own game, secondary to vengeance
.

Dylan shook his head. There was no time for emotion right now. Maere needed to get her mind back and he feared it would take more than her stubbornness this time. It would take determination on both their parts, and a little luck couldn’t hurt either.

He rubbed his arms and blinked hard, turning away from her. He couldn’t deny there was a part of him who longed to hold her and push away her pain, to push away the demons that stirred her even in sleep. She had grown into a handsome woman. Even so, he knew the impish child was sleeping there, waiting to be rediscovered. But how? She acted so frightened of him. What was it she had said? “You’re the son of the devil and I can see it in your eyes, man.”

Dylan set his mouth in a straight line and picked up the stick he’d dropped earlier. Whether she remembered him or not made no difference now. It would be nice, perhaps, but it didn’t change anything. There would be time enough later for the pleasantries of betrothal. Eugis was undoubtedly pursuing them by now. He knew the bid for Maere’s power was coming. And Dylan vowed to win.

Maere was slipping into another dream. She felt her eyes flutter and a sigh escape her lips. It was so strange, the clear state of mind she experienced while sleeping. It made it harder and harder these days to tell where the dreams – nay, nightmares – ended and wakefulness began. Her entire life had become an event from which she wished she could awake. If only she could. If only . . .

A man appeared, bathed in the indigo light of the night. He stood in front of her, his hands on his hips, a beautiful black steed behind him. The long white robe he wore billowed around his thin form, though Maere felt no wind. Dark hair hung loosely about his neck. He lifted a hand toward her, moving with such grace she felt certain he must be an angel of the Lord, sent to offer comfort in her time of distress. She reached out for him.

In a series of slow, fluid movements, the man’s hand fell to his side. He turned and grabbed a fistful of the horse’s mane, pulling himself onto its unsaddled back. Sitting astride the animal, he smiled and beckoned to her again.

“Maere,” he called in a lilting voice, gesturing her to come forward. “Maere.”

Her body began to move, though her legs remained still. Suddenly frightened, her bare feet scraped against the ground as she tried to stop herself. “What is happening?” she cried out.

The man began to laugh as she came ever closer to his mount. He nodded his head and the dark hair faded to gray. The wind blew stronger. It whipped the white robe and bloody red splotches appeared on the fabric.

Maere raised her arms in an effort to shield herself from the apparition. A branch slapped against her face and she grabbed for it, hoping to halt her journey. Still, her body was pulled toward him. Then, just as quickly as her journey had begun, it ceased.

The man urged the horse forward; it stared at her with hard silvery eyes that reminded her of those of Dylan’s raven. As the horse took a step, it sprouted black wings. Another step, and the man scooped Maere up and deposited her in front of him on the steed’s back. The creature began to trot and, within moments, was airborne.

As the horse rose into the sky, Maere’s eyes widened. She looked down: The mellow landscape shifted from shades of blue, to green, to brown, and to black. Her stomach rose to her throat and she swallowed hard. This was no angel, but the demon returned to claim her. Of this she was certain. She raised her eyes heavenward and began to pray. Overhead, the stars spun in circles around a big yellow moon. Billowy clouds moved with lightning speed across the dark blue sky.

Sweet Jesus, she was so dizzy. Maere cradled her forehead in her hand. “Who? Who are you?” she finally managed to ask. “Where are you taking me?” When no reply came, she glanced behind her. The man’s face had grown thinner, the hollows of his eyes and cheeks shaded in the night. He simply smiled a toothy grin. Was this death?

Maere forced herself to look down again. Below her was an abbey compound. As they flew lower, she recognized it to be Saint Columba’s. The rectangular stone fence was visible from on high, as well as the orderly layout of the buildings. As the rider urged the horse into a dive with his heels, flames began to explode from the chapel roof. They sizzled and popped, licking the night with bright sparks that rose and became stars themselves.

The winged creature hovered over the fire. The rider grabbed Maere’s arm, pulling her. She slipped from the saddle as easily as if she weighed no more than the clouds themselves. They hung there, suspended in the air, as the horse flew toward the ground. The heat from the chapel scorched Maere’s feet and perspiration broke out across her forehead as she stared below. “Please,” she pleaded. “Take me home.”

The demon–angel began to laugh. Maere looked up. His face was gone, replaced with a black void that blocked out the stars. She frantically shook her head. “No! No!” His laughter grew louder as, one finger at a time, he released his grip on her arm. “Don’t do this!”

Down to just a thumb and forefinger, she could feel the vision slipping away as well. “No!” she screamed again as her body plummeted toward the flames.

“Maere,” a voice called from beyond her range of vision. “Maere.”

At the moment of impact, Maere felt surprisingly calm. But then, it was always that way when she saw death. When it came to claim the old nuns, they went very peacefully, no difficulty whatsoever. Perhaps it was wrong to struggle against the inevitable. Perhaps a quiet acceptance was all that was required.

“Maere? You must wake up.”

Strong fingers dug into the tender flesh of her shoulder and she realized she welcomed the pain. It was a sensation she could focus on and served to draw her away from the abyss into which she’d descended.

“Maere?”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. That man – the one who called himself her betrothed, called himself Dylan mac Connall – was hovering above her. His face was so close she could see the reflection of her own image in the black depths of his eyes. His breath was hot on her, suffocating in its intensity as she struggled to pull free of his grip.

He held tight to her. “Tell me what you were dreaming,” he demanded. “What did you see?”

Maere twisted sideways, rolling away from him. In a quick movement, she was on her feet and ready to run.

Dylan dove and grabbed her by the ankle, pulling the young woman back to the ground. Maere gasped, the wind knocked out of her. Dylan forced her onto her back and pinned her down with his hands, bracing himself over her midsection.

“Let go of me!” she said, grinding the words out through the pain in her chest. “You have no right to treat me so!”

“I have every right, as your betrothed.” He leaned forward and stared hard into her eyes. “Now, I won’t ask you again: What did you see?”

Maere struggled against him, but it was no use. He was so much stronger. And it was this strength that she found so infuriating. Oh, to be a man for a brief moment.
I’d teach him a lesson or two!

“Tell me and I’ll let you go,” he said, quieter.

Resigned, she closed her eyes, and began to speak. “There was a tall, thin man. First he had dark hair and then it turned to gray. It was this long.” She tilted her head toward her shoulder. “He wore a robe. At first it was all white. Later it was stained with blood.” Maere scrunched her face as she struggled with the memory.

“There was a black winged horse,” she continued. “The man grabbed me and put me on it. We flew to Saint Columba’s. I could see it all, from high above.” A tear rolled down the side of her face. “The chapel was burning. Then he dropped me into the flames. Dear Lord.” Maere quietly cried. “What does it mean?”

Dylan’s expression softened and he released her arms. “In dreams, fire is cleansing. Being dropped into it means you’ll face a rebirth.” Maere looked skeptically at him. “I believe the Christians call this baptism? You will go into the flames as one person and emerge as another. Based on the description of the man and horse, I believe your Uncle Eugis will be involved. He might even instigate these events.” Dylan kept to himself his belief that the winged black horse likely meant Morrigu would have a hand in events as well.

“Uncle Eugis? How can you be so certain? He’s been nothing but kind to me.” Maere’s words tumbled out as if she were repeating them by rote. “He took care of me after my mother and father were killed by the Northmen. He put me in the abbey so I would be safe.” She looked at Dylan earnestly now.

Dylan’s face darkened. “Not killed, Maere. Murdered. And not by Vikings, but by Eugis’s own hand.”

“You lie.” Maere turned her face away. “I won’t listen to you.”

“This is not a lie, Maere, but a forgotten truth.” Dylan cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He was so close, their lips were almost touching. “Do you know what it means to be betrothed?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “It means you must obey me and honor my wishes. It means you are bound to believe all I tell you as the god’s own truth. We’re as good as married already, with all the rights contained therein.” As he spoke, his breath caressed her mouth.

Maere’s body tensed as she stared at his lips. Her stomach quivered. Her heartbeat pounded out an ancient rhythm in her ears. Her blood burned as it ran through her veins. She licked her lips, unintentionally drawing Dylan’s focus, and she immediately wished she hadn’t.

Dylan brushed his mouth lightly against hers. She trembled beneath the caress and a pleasant tingle filled her belly. She searched his lips with her own. He pulled back a few inches, studied her face for a moment, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Perhaps a thought to ponder?”

As she watched him walk away, Maere fought back the empty ache that filled her the moment he stood up. She wiped at her mouth as if to cleanse the memory of his touch.
Blast him to the devil, anyway
. As far as she was concerned, there was no betrothal. She was sworn only to Christ.

Maere sat up, fingering her stone necklace through the cloth of her gown. On impulse, she yanked it out and off and threw it at Dylan with all her might. It hit him squarely in the back of the head before bouncing to the ground.

Dylan spun around and spotted the offending object. With a scowl, he bent over and scooped it up. “What is—”

Maere scrambled to her feet.

“You still have this,” he said, looking at the stone, his anger quickly turning to wonder.

Maere hurried toward him, her hair flying wildly about her. “Give it back,” she snapped, her fingers grasping for the disk.

He held the citrine high, dangling it just out of Maere’s reach, a smile playing about his lips. “Have you seen them lately?”

“Seen who?” she asked, leaning into him as she stretched on tiptoes. Why wouldn’t he just give it back to her?

“The Fays, girl. Who else?”

Maere blanched. She took a step back and crossed herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Dylan smiled. He held the stone between his thumb and forefinger, level with Maere’s eyes, the hole pointed toward the deep green of the forest. “Look through the opening.”

She took another step back. This seemed so familiar. What did it mean? She felt a pain in her head, a clear warning. There would be more pain, in the remembering. “I won’t!”

Dylan grabbed Maere’s arm and dragged her toward him. “I said look!”

Maere looked up at his face. The smile was gone, replaced with anger and frustration. She sighed. Would it hurt to humor him? She leaned forward and focused one eye through the hole. “So much for your little game. I don’t see a thing.” She took a step back.

Dylan sighed. He pulled her forward. “One more time.”

She hesitated, then looked again. After a moment, the citrine began to glow, concentrating her attention more directly on what lay beyond, in the forest. At first, she detected only a small movement, a rustle of ground cover. And then it appeared. Sweet Mother of God. A small thing – nearly a person – with long blonde hair and a dress fashioned from moss. Maere watched, transfixed, as it stepped forward. The miniature woman smiled and waved.

“Oh, Maere, I’ve missed ye.” She jumped up and down in delight and clapped her hands together. “It’s so good to be seen by ye again, child.”

Maere’s mouth fell open. She jerked her head back. “It can’t be!” she exclaimed. She grabbed the stone away from Dylan and held it out in front of her, horrified. “All these years, I had no idea. I’ve carried a tool of the devil with me.”