Heart of Darkness (19 page)

For himself, as selfish as it was, he wanted
to feel the light upon his skin once more. Wanted to revel in all
that was right and bright. Revel in that which he had been borne
to.

Was that so much to ask?

He did not think so.

He had been in the wrong to try and force
Isabeau's compliance. He knew that and regretted it. But now he had
her agreement, it was not that he would take advantage of it.
Merely, that he would be grateful for the freedom she gave him.

And would always be forever grateful to and
for her existence, for through her, he could live again.

Such a gift was priceless and he would
forever be in her debt.

Of that, he was fully aware.

Chapter Eight

“Look what has happened to your slut of a
mother,” one of the men in black robes spat and grabbed the boy by
the shoulder, jerking him upright and to his feet.

The boy's slight, small frame was rocked back
and forth harshly as the man in the robe forced him to stare down
at the dead woman on the floor.

In the now glowing light of the orbs floating
about the Great Hall, the child could no longer look away from the
sight of his mama's vitality spilling from her body and out on to
the stone flags of the floor. He did not realize that those orbs
were being powered by him. That he had raised the glittering balls
of flame and for the first time in his young life.

No, his attention was more on the blood that
eddied and swirled as it hit the various curves and rough, coarse
chunks of stone within the flags and the boy knew, that if he
continued to look upon...the body...he would surely vomit
again.

Twisting his head away from the sight, he did
so with such force that it startled the man holding his shoulder.
The momentum pushed him forwards and had him almost falling flat on
his face! He managed to right himself and quickly rushed away from
the body and down to the salon at the very end of the hallway. His
papa had shown him a secret passageway that led deep into the heart
of the forest.

His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest
and his lungs burned as he tried to escape. His nanny had told him
of the Milesians. Of how the Sidhe had tried to con them into
defeat. He could remember nanny telling him of the Milesians
intentions of invading and ultimately ruling Ireland and their
eventual landing. The battle had taken place in the water. Past the
magical ninth boundary, where the Milesian ships had set
anchor.

Nanny had always said that there was some
misunderstanding about the next part. But as a Sidhe and Sinclair,
he could well believe that the Kings would behave dishonorably.
That when they had agreed that the Milesians could honorably win if
they once more sailed out to sea and then could land upon the
shores of Eire once more.

He had always thought it a quaint story and
had begged to hear time and time again as the Kings of the Tuatha
De Danann had gathered their power and that of the druids and their
warriors and sent a magical storm to push the Milesian's invading
navy out to sea. When Amergin, a druid on the sides of the Tuatha
De Danann's enemy, had sung an invocation that had parted the storm
and sailed them onwards to safety.

Until today, the ferocity of bitterness that
was still held close to the Milesian's hearts had never touched
him. His papa, upon learning of his nanny's tendency to tell him
stories about the Tuatha de Danann, had discharged her
services.

“The Milesians are not to be discussed in
this house.”

The boy's ears rang with the memory of his
father's ire. Hiding behind the door to the nursery, he'd heard
every word of the argument between his father and the only woman
who had ever shown him love.

When he'd rushed out and started to kick at
his father's shins, yelling that he wanted his nanny, that he
didn't want to lose her, he'd been backhanded. The force of which
had pushed him to the floor and had made his lip bleed.

That had been a year past. He'd lost his
nanny, now his mama and more than likely his papa.

Sobs escaped his throat and even though he
remembered his papa, telling him not to be a baby, that only babes
and little girls cried, he could not withhold the misery that
ceased him as he ran down the corridor.

When he finally reached the door, he pulled
it open and rushed inside. Grabbing a chair, he dragged it
squeaking and scratching against the floor and hooked it against
the doorknob.

Looking around with wild eyes, his gaze
sought out the bookcase in which one pressed a book and a priest
hole would appear as though from nowhere.

When his glance cast over one of the
armchairs, the boy's knees caved in. He stared blindly at the body
of his papa and was too stunned to even react, when the door burst
open and the chair was spat out almost halfway across the room.

Lifting an arm and pointing it at the corpse
of what had once been his boisterous, heavy-handed and gruff
father, he sobbed, “Papa! No!”

In his mind, he heard his papa grunting,
“You're too old to call me papa. It's father now!” Which had always
been preceded by a hand rubbing through his hair and a slight grip
of his shoulder.

It was almost as real as to be ridiculous. He
was sure that he heard and felt his father near and almost jumped
out of his skin as his mind played tricks on him. When a harder
hand grabbed a hold of his shoulder, it jolted him from his stupor.
Yelling, he tried to tug away and free himself from the man in the
robes' hold.

This time, there was no shock or surprise to
his advantage. He couldn't get free and although he'd known that if
they had killed his mama, then they had most certainly ended his
papa's life, to see it and so brutally done with his neck severed
and his blood copiously pouring from his throat. The red still
gleaming with freshness. And his eyes so vacant and not filled with
the life and brittle gleam to which he was accustomed, was almost
too much to bear.

He wanted to fall to the floor and start
sobbing. Ram his fists and feet against the floor and rail against
life in a temper tantrum that ended all temper tantrums. But he was
a Sinclair.

If he could remember nothing else from his
father, then that would be it.

He was a Sinclair. He would be calm and
calculated and ever ready to seek out their weak spot.

The child in him cried, but the Sinclair
would not let those tears fall from his eyes. They remained there,
stuck in his tear ducts, and would never fall if he had his
way.

No matter what they did to him or with him.
He would remain strong and proud and be a true Sinclair.

For that seemed to be the only way in which
he could make his papa proud.

As he was jerked into moving, he ducked his
head and turned his face away from his mama as they passed and
walked out of the castle that had been his home since he was
nothing but a babe.

“Who are you?” he asked sullenly.
“Milesians?” he spat.

There was laughter and as it came out of the
hoods, there was an eeriness about the sound that sent shudders
crawling along his spine.

“So the Sinclair told you about us, did he?
Was he pissing himself as he did? Terrified about what we might do
to him?”

The accent was modulated and well formed.
He'd expected a rough Irish brogue, not someone who could have fit
in amongst his papa's friends, like Lord Hemp who always snuck him
some licorice, whenever he came to visit.

“My father feared no one!” the boy seethingly
cried out.

“Well, he should have done. If not for you or
himself then for the tasty piece that was your mother.”

Hearing enough, the boy yelled and started to
tug from the grasp of the Milesian who was holding him. He pulled
and scratched and tried to defend his poor mama, but he was just
jeered and laughed at.

“Enough!” the leader of the motley crew
screamed and grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and shook him.
“Be quiet. We are your enemy and worst nightmare rolled into one.
That is all you need to know.”

The boy, so obviously a man now, with the
shape and structure that made it impossible to deny it was Wolfe,
stood before a desk. A letter in his hand and a crystal tumbler in
the other.

The tumbler was gripped fiercely and the
white of the bone could be seen through the ruddy brown of his
hand. His face was thin and his hair lank. The rest of his body,
while richly dressed, was terribly underweight.

As the glass soared through the air and
smashed against an obviously expensive tapestry, a dry voice came
from one of the armchairs that faced the fire.

“Not good news, I take it,
mon ami
?” The voice was obviously
French, even without the foreign addendum and young with it. At the
same time, there was a maturity at the very back of the words that
bespoke of tough times and a determination to pull through, no
matter the odds or the situation the man found himself
in.

“The stupid bastard. He knew! He
fucking
knew they were
coming!”

To say Wolfe's voice was filled with outrage,
was an understatement.

The French man's soothing voice merely added
to Wolfe's growing ire, it was easily visible in the vein atop his
forehead that pulsed angrily and the tightly clenched jaw that
looked as though in any given moment, the teeth would simply
snap!

“Of course, he knew.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“We all know the Milesians are coming.
It's whether or not we manage to conquer or if it is they. In our
cases,
mon ami,
we were the
losers.”

“But still! He says that he knew they were
coming and when! Why the hell did he not run? Take my mother and I
and flee? Surely we could have outrun them?”

The French man snorted. “A Sinclair?
Run? You, Wolfe, were exposed to a mere handful of years of being a
Sinclair's heir and more determined a fellow I have ever to meet.
Well, there's Jaegar but he was in the same position as you, a
Sinclair heir, so that merely strengthens my argument. Sinclairs
do
not
run, they face their
enemies and they vanquish them.”

Growling, Wolfe spun around and raced towards
a brandy decanter. Filling another tumbler with the liqueur, he
slammed it back and coughed as it burned a fiery trail down his
esophagus. “Fuck being a Sinclair! And fuck our pride! What use is
pride if we are dead!”

“You can't fuck something that is integral to
your very sense of self, Wolfe!”

“Do you have to be so damned logical,
Gerard?” he retorted with a deep, despondent sigh.

“You know what I say is the truth. That's why
you have not threatened to garrote me. Look, be grateful that he
managed to send you a letter. You have something of your father.
Many of us do not. Apart from a headstone to visit that is.”

“Oh, yes, how wonderful! A letter where he
doesn't tell me he loves me and is proud of me. Oh, no, nothing
like that! Merely that he knew the fuckers who were coming to kill
him and my mother were on their way and that he also knew they were
after me! Bastard!” he finished on a hiss. “Where was the Sinclair
integrity then? No fucking where! That's where. Love them or hate
them, you do not put your child through...” His voice broke.

“The torture of a child of the light being
turned into that of the dark,” Gerard finished softly. “You have to
say it, Wolfe. The more you say it, the less pain it can
bring.”

“I shouldn't have had to say it. I shouldn't
have had to live through that torture! If my old man,” he spat.
“...had given a shit about me then I wouldn't have had to!”

“When the
Sluagh
calls...”

“Don't even start to spout that nonsense at
me. No spirits came to take my mother and father away. Those
bastards did the job for him.”

“There's no point in even thinking about any
of this, Wolfe! Move on, live your life.”

“How can I live my life when this is how I'm
meant to exist from now on?”

Wolfe looked down at himself as though he
were repulsed by what met his eyes. He looked thin and lank and
generally, in a state of poor health, but there was nothing hideous
about him. At least, not to the naked eye.

“Then do something about it.”

“Oh, Gerard, I intend to.”

“You mean you have already discovered
something?”

A slow nod. “A legend. From one of the books
in the library.

“The midnight ring belongs to the vivacity of
light.

The light can only be held by one whose heart
is pure.

Magic lies and twists. Corrupts.

One luminescent soul who can yield the
Cimmerian power and purify it.

Cleanse it of misdeed.

Can hope for those dwellers of the shadows
bring.