Haunting Warrior (27 page)

“She brought me, but not my dad.”

“Why? Did she not love yer father?”

Rory blinked, surprised that the question had never occurred to him before. He and Danni never talked about their dad, and he really didn’t know why. Maybe, some part of him had always associated his father with a night that had traumatized them all. Maybe there was another truth deep in the pit of denial that he couldn’t ever face.

“I don’t know if it was intentional—not bringing Dad. But . . .” He moved away, unable to continue with her peering into his very soul. As if he hadn’t a care in the world, he sat on the soft mulch cushioned by dead leaves, using the fallen log as a backrest. Quietly she sat beside him, her body close enough to feel, close enough to touch. He couldn’t have stopped himself from reaching for her, from pulling her to his side, even if he’d tried. She stiffened for just an instant, and then she let herself relax into him, taking his warmth, giving some back.

“What happened then, Ruairi?” she asked softly. “What happened when yer sister brought y’ back?”

His mouth worked for a moment before words emerged. They came slowly, painfully, clawing his throat as they fought to stay inside.

“She left part of me behind.”

Saraid said nothing, but he felt her attention, her absolute focus zeroed in on him.

“I mean, hell, I don’t know what I mean. But somehow I have—
had—
an identical twin living here with my dad at the same time I was living there, with my mom and my sister.”

“Like you were split in two?” she said simply.

“Like I was split in two,” he repeated, finding a strange relief in speaking the words he’d always felt. “I was just pieces of a person.” Never whole. Never complete.

“Do y’ think the Bloodletter felt the same?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Perhaps that is why he was so vicious and cruel. Like a wounded animal.”

She spoke so matter-of-factly, unaware that her words cleaved something open inside him. Something hard and festering, something that needed to be chopped to bits and vanquished.

She shifted, lifting her head from his chest to look at him. “What we saw earlier, when yer . . . twin . . . died. We saw him become a boy. Was it yer sister who called to him?”

Rory nodded. He couldn’t have spoken, not when he felt like everything he was, everything he’d believed himself to be, had just been overturned.

“Do y’ think he switched places with y’? That he is now in this cavern y’ talk of? Living yer other life?”

He hadn’t considered it for an instant, though it made sense. He shook his head and said, “I don’t think so.”

“Why, Ruairi?”

The answer formed like a blinding message written on the darkest screen, rolled off his tongue before he’d even acknowledged what it said. “Because I feel whole again.”

It had been coming to him in stages, incomprehensible but undeniable. And now that he’d shone this light on it, he could see that it was true.

Saraid stared at him, her dark gaze glittering over his face. It seemed she saw it, too, everything he’d spent his life hiding. And he was embarrassed by how raw and exposed it made him feel. He took a deep breath, looking away.

After a moment, she said, “I’ve not met yer sister, but she sounds very powerful. Powerful enough to take on a force so dark and immense that it’s survived hundreds upon hundreds of years.”

Rory frowned, not liking the turn she’d just taken. “I don’t know that I’d call her powerful. She’s not a witch.”

“Isn’t she? Well, that may be a matter of words, not deeds. But for all I do not know about the Book of Fennore, one thing is thought to be true by all. The Book does no good. I don’t know why yer set to have it, why Cathán has destroyed so many to find it. But do not let it fool y’ into believing it can be used like a tool. It has no purpose but to serve itself. Whatever promises y’ made it, it will expect to be fulfilled. No matter if it takes a second or a thousand years.”

“I didn’t promise it anything. And I’m not here to use it.”

Her gaze was skeptical. “Have y’ ever thought that while yer sister was pulling y’ back, the Book was holding on? That the reason y’ were torn in two was because y’ were in the middle of a battle of rights? And in the end, each side won only a piece.”

The blood drained from his face, but he said nothing.

“And yesterday, when y’ returned to this place, the two halves were made whole.” She paused, watching him closely.

“And you’re wondering whose side I’m on now, is that it?”

“I don’t know what to wonder when it comes to y’, Ruairi who is not the Bloodletter. Y’ are a mystery to me, but I no longer think y’ are a monster.”

He snorted a breath of laughter. “Well thanks for that, I guess.”

She smiled back, though he saw the shadows in her eyes. “As y’ say, now y’ are whole.”

Again, there was subtext in her words that he heard but could not understand. He stared into her eyes, feeling as if he fell into them. Feeling that he would never find his way out.

“You’re pretty much a mystery to me, too, Saraid who is now my wife.”

He’d meant to play on her own words. He’d wanted to lighten the mood, to tease a real smile from her. To turn that torch she’d shone on him another way. But somehow his voice hitched with emotion and it came out as a declaration. A pledge.

She stared at him, her expression one of shock, confusion . . . acceptance . . . all of it there in fleeting glimpses. And then he was leaning closer, her features blurring as he neared, hoping she wouldn’t pull away.

He felt her soft breath of surprise and then the silky warmth of her mouth beneath his. Their first kiss had come through the shield of his twin and had not prepared him for the blast of heat that jolted every sense, every nerve ending now. His arms closed around her, binding her to him even as hers curled around his neck in the sweetest surrender he’d ever known.

She wasn’t shy or coy, nor was she brazen and bold. This time, there was nothing practiced in the brush of her lips as they moved over his mouth or the slide of her fingers through his hair as she pressed closer. Nothing contrived about the sound she made when his hand trailed from her jaw to her throat to the fine bone of her chest, his palm just over the swell of her breast. Her heart pounded furiously beneath it.

She was everything and nothing that he had expected, perfect in her simplicity, pure in her complexity. She’d had him in knots for weeks, and now he was taut and drawn and in her hands, willing to let her mold whatever shape she desired.

He kissed her mouth, the hollows of her eyes, the sensitive skin between her brows, the satin slope of her cheek. Then her mouth drew him back and he cupped her face so he could deepen the kiss, die in the sweet taste and wonder of her. Her lips were soft and full and when he ran his tongue across them, nipping gently at the corners, she opened for him, shy but willing. He became completely absorbed in the sensations, the heat of her mouth, the velvet softness of her tongue, the intimacy of exploration. It seemed so much more than just a kiss and he thought that if all they did for the rest of his life was this, he would be satisfied. But even as the realization filled him, he knew he wanted more—more of her, more from her.

He shifted, urging her onto his lap, straddling his outstretched legs. Through the tangle of her skirts he felt the soft heat of her against the hard length of him and he shuddered. His hands searched for the hem of her dress, seeking a way under the garment to the warmth of her skin. Her fingers tangled with his as she tried to help him. Still the kiss went on like a dream, taking all his fears, his pointless insecurities, his selfish and destructive tendencies and turning them into something so insignificant they could blow away.

He heard the voice from somewhere in the distance and tried to block it out. Wanted to pretend it was only he and Saraid left in this crazy world. But he knew that was foolish. This was a dangerous place, and he should never have let down his guard, never given into his need to touch her. He should have known he’d never want to stop.

Saraid lifted her head, her face level with his, and stared into his eyes. For a moment their breath mingled in the small space between as they each strained to hear beyond their labored breathing.

The man’s voice came again and others responded. Rory thought there were three, maybe four of them. He listened, but now their conversation grew fainter. They were moving away. A few more minutes and they were gone.

“Jesus that was close,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

Whoever was out there, it was doubtful they were friends. They could have easily stumbled over Rory and Saraid making out like teenagers in the backseat of a car.

As if reading his mind, Saraid slid from his lap. Her face was red, her eyes averted. He wanted to pull her back, to say to hell with the consequences. Instead he tilted her chin and gave her one last, gentle kiss. Her lips clung to his when he pulled away.

“Probably not the best time and place for that, huh?” he said.

“I don’t suppose it was,” she murmured.

“We better give whoever that is a chance to put some distance between us before we start moving again,” he said. “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to get some sleep.”

“I could not sleep,” she said.

“Then just close your eyes and pretend.”

She shot him a startled look, but before she could argue he tugged her hand, pulling her back down against his thumping heart.

“Just for a little while,” he said, his breath fanning the silky hair at her temple. “I’ll keep watch. I’ll keep you safe.”

For a moment, he thought she might argue, might point out that he was the last person she’d feel safe with. He braced himself for the rejection, knowing it would cut deep. But instead she gave a tight nod and obediently closed her eyes, trusting him to take care of her in the big, bad fairy woods.

S
ARAID felt the shift in the air and recognized it for what it was even before she came awake. Someone was coming. Someone not of this world. Would it be Colleen of the Ballagh again? Returning to finally answer the questions that had plagued Saraid since her first visit?

Slowly she sat up, realizing as she glanced at Ruairi, that it was only her dream-self who moved. Her body still lay sleeping in the circle of his arms.

Her face looked peaceful, secure in sleep. Sure that this man she barely knew—this man who had kissed her until she had no awareness of time or place—would protect her. He was awake, as he’d promised, though he looked tired. He scanned the woods around them, ever vigilant.

She stood, leaving her slumbering self behind, and Ruairi’s head suddenly turned and he stared right at her. For a moment she froze, watching his gaze shift back and forth from her corporeal body to the ethereal one that stood beside it.

He could see her. The realization frightened her at the same time it brought a queer sense of comfort. Ruairi could see her. She wasn’t alone.

She heard her name called from somewhere deep in the forest and she turned to it, wanting to deny the summons even as she heeded it. Surprised, she realized that she didn’t want to leave Ruairi behind, that somewhere, sometime in this long arc of sun to moon, she’d begun to feel safe with him.

But the dead did not like to wait, and so she forced herself forward, carefully picking her way through the underbrush, compelled to keep moving through the bracken and thorns that tore at her gown. She looked back at Ruairi and found him scanning the woods, searching for her. Most likely thinking he’d imagined seeing her step from her body and move into the forest.

Around her the thick trunks of oak and elm crowded close, heavy branches jostling to touch her and tear at her clothes. In the heart of the Dark Forest, Cathán had cleared hundreds of trees to build his fortress, but he’d left the surrounding woods to act as sentries. His men were known to be agile climbers, and they trained to use the forest as an ally when they fought. The strategy had proven effective.

Saraid hesitated now as the glimmer of moonlight vanished beneath the impenetrable wall of bough and leaf. Ahead a wraithlike form separated from the gloom, and she held her breath as it slowly took shape. There was a head, a torso, arms thick and corded, barrel chest, legs. As the features of his face filled in, she clenched her eyes and prayed it would not be one of her own brothers.

When she looked again, a man stood before her. He was older than her brothers, older than many of the men who had survived Cathán’s attacks, bigger and stronger than any of the elders. A stranger, then. That surprised her even as relief tingled through her limbs.

The dead were particular about who they spoke to, though, and the last stranger had brought change that Saraid had been ill prepared for. Her chest tightened with the certainty that this one brought an omen, as well, and not a good one.

The man’s features were obscured by shadow, but she could make out a thick and lush beard of copper streaked liberally with gray and waving hair the same shade. There was more gray at his temples, not so much to make him looked ancient, but enough to speak of maturity and wisdom. He wore a cloak that hugged his broad shoulders and fell gracefully toward the ground in a weave of blue and green, so artful it tempted the hand to stroke it. Beneath the cloak was a scarlet tunic that bore an intricate design of spirals, lines with no end and no beginning, linking without touching, turning with just a shimmer of thread in brilliant gold and silver, rich green and blue, startling purple. Cathán had tried to duplicate this very garb, but had failed in a way she knew mystified him. He had not earned the seven colors of a Celtic king. But this man, obviously, had.

A king. Her mouth went dry.

Strapped to the stranger’s hip was a sword with a long blade and a silver hilt. It bore the impression of a human head with dark gems glinting in the eyes. She’d heard legends about this sword and knew the skull topping its hilt was meant to hold the souls of its conquests.