Lord of Shadows (30 page)

“He could still be useful.”

“In what way?”

“He’s formed an attachment to the Douglas girl that could be valuable if played correctly.”

“Has he?” Máelodor’s smile stretched his sagging skin taut. “Perhaps his game may be deeper than we know.”

Leaning against his staff, he groped to rise, his frailties slowing him to a snail’s crawl. His body weakened, every day a new pain. Every night an empty hole where a piece of his soul used to be. It would all be worth it, though. When Arthur bowed before him in sun-rayed splendor. When the
Duinedon
scattered before the combined might of the
Fey
-born
Other
until surrender or slaughter was their only choice. When Arthur, with Máelodor at his side, presided over a new golden age, none of the aches and embarrassments of his broken body would matter.

He would succeed where the Nine had failed.

It would truly be his golden age.

But until then—“Assist me to my carriage.”

St. John hurried to his master’s side, guiding him down the narrow stairs. Across the hall and out to the waiting barouche. A break in the rain had thickened the crowds. Máelodor leaned heavily upon St. John to keep from being knocked down by the rushing passersby. Gentlemen with umbrellas, bundled against the damp. Women in dark woolens, their hats and bonnets drooping against the drizzle.

A woman in black, her face obscured by a heavy mourning veil brushed past him, shooting a tingle of mage energy up his arm where they touched. He glanced back, but she’d disappeared into the swarm of pedestrians, and then the coachman was there. Opening the door. Letting down the steps. Bundling Máelodor into the warmth of the carriage.

St. John bent close. “I shall not let you down.”

Máelodor let the full force of his power harden in his gaze. “See that you don’t.”

“You can’t, Sabrina. They’ll find out,” Jane pleaded.

“They won’t find out anything.” Sabrina turned a deaf ear and continued stuffing her satchel. Extra gown. Pair of slippers. Two shifts, a shawl, and a third pair of stockings. Looked around for anything she might have missed. “I’ve arranged it all.” Removed the shawl. No room. “Aidan and Cat think I’m leaving with Aunt Delia for Belfoyle. They agree I should get away and rest.” In other words, retire as far away from Dublin and any hint of scandal as soon as possible. “And Aunt Delia believes I’ve taken suddenly ill and must remain here. She’s leaving for Bray to visit a friend of hers.”

“You put that idea in her head, didn’t you?”

“I might have hinted, but she was more than happy to go. I think she’s had it up to her ears with Aidan’s black looks every time they meet. She’s never forgiven him for breaking that statue of Ares in the drawing room. Swears it was on purpose. I think she’s kept the pieces.”

Jane giggled before stifling it behind a suitably stern look. “I still don’t think this is a good idea. How will you travel? Where will you stay along the way? What will people think? Lord and Lady Kilronan will kill me when they find out. And I’m too young to die.”

Sabrina ticked off her answers on her fingers. “One—I’ll go by mail coach. It leaves from Sackville Street every evening. Two—I have money enough to pay the fare and extra for food and lodging. Three—People will think whatever they want to think. And four—I’ll write telling Aidan where I am once I reach Glenlorgan.” She huffed the hair from her eyes. Stood back, studying her satchel. Did she take enough? Too much?

“At least let me come with you. I can be ready in a half hour.”

“I need you to stay behind to allay any suspicions. Tell them I’m not well and need to be left alone.”

“And when they discover you missing?”

“Claim you didn’t know anything about it. Or that I threatened you with physical harm if you told.”

Jane twisted her handkerchief in her hands as if she wrung a neck. Probably Sabrina’s. “Can’t you simply ask Aidan to take us back himself and save all this subterfuge?”

“I have. And he refused. More than once. He’s said a return to the
bandraoi
is out of the question. He wants me at Belfoyle where I can be properly looked after. His idea of properly being a guard at my door, meals of bread and water, and Aidan prowling the house like a fire-breathing gor—dragon.”

Dragons breathe fire. Gorgons turn you to stone
.

She swallowed back tears. Ard-siúr had termed Daigh a wounded animal. Warned Sabrina what would happen if she followed her heart and tried to save a man who was beyond saving. She’d no one to blame but herself if her life lay scattered and broken around her.

She missed Ard-siúr, Sister Ainnir, even Sister Brigh. Her cluttered, crowded bedchamber. Long nights in the infirmary and long days in study or working. Her friends. Her life.

She wasn’t brave. Or independent. Or mature and worldly wise. She’d made a complete hash of everything. And now she just wanted to go home.

“He should be relieved if I retire into the order. All I’ve given him is trouble. He can write me off as another disappearing family member.”

“You can’t keep running away, Sabrina. From your family. Your past. It lives inside of you. They’re what makes you, you.”

“If you’re going to tell me I’m using the
bandraoi
as a way to hide from myself, join the queue. Why won’t anyone believe that the life of a High
Danu
priestess is what I want? Is it so hard to believe?”

Jane pulled a face. “In short—yes.”

Daigh slammed his knife back into its sheath. Breathed deep to allow himself space to recover from the crumbling cliff edge of insanity. He’d come here ready to free himself once and for all of St. John’s threats. After storming from room to room, it became clear he’d come too late. Furniture had been covered. Beds stripped. Hearth black and cold. The
Amhas-draoi
had fled. Yet his scent lingered in the air. Heavy. Musky. Stomach-turning. Just inhaling sickened Daigh.

He sank down on a chair. Dropped his head in his shaking hands. Fought back the nausea and the rage and the bitterness. Would these feelings end with St. John’s death? Máelodor’s? Or was he doomed to know only the darkest of emotions? Live only among the shades of his shattered past? A deathless specter unable to escape this world for the next?

The presence called to him. It locked onto his despair, feeding it with ever greater torment until his vision narrowed to a pinprick. His muscles twitched with denied violence. It would be so easy to allow Máelodor complete control. Lose himself in the mindless cruelty that was the master mage’s wish. It would be quick. Safe. Much less painful. Already his head pounded as the dark mage energy swam through his body. As the brutal
Unseelie
magics tried to take hold.

He drew in a ragged breath. Fought back as the old woman had shown him.

Offered up Sabrina.

Standing upon the rocks. The sea lapping at her bare feet. Hair loose and free of its kerchief. Head raised to the wind. She turned to him, smiling. Her blue eyes as clear as the sky, aglow as if someone lit a fire within her.

It had been a single second in time. But he remembered it. Used it to feed the beast rooted beneath his skin. Ease the jagged press of Máelodor’s possession.

There would be no more to take its place. He’d made sure of that with his cruelty. But better she hate him than grieve for him.

He hardened with newfound purpose. He’d turn his new knowledge back upon his tormentor. Use the very attributes Máelodor had gifted him to thwart the master-mage’s plans. The Rywlkoth Tapestry lay with the sisters of High
Danu
. He’d seen it, though he’d not understood its significance at the time.

But times were different.

He would retrieve the tapestry as originally instructed. But Máelodor would never lay hands upon it. Not as long as Daigh held to life.

And thanks to the dark mage, he always would.

He held his breath at the creak of the outer door opening. A squeaky floorboard. Quiet breathing.

St. John returning? Would Daigh have his chance at vengeance after all?

Unfolding from the chair, he took up position behind the door. Slid his pistol free. Cocked it.

In one gliding flow of motion, he swung around the door. Targeted the man in his sights. Leveled the gun. And squeezed off a shot, jerking the weapon aside at the last moment as the intruder spun around, his own pistol raised to fire.

Daigh’s bullet went wide, exploding into the wall.

Lord Kilronan’s aim was true. It slammed Daigh backward as it tore through his ribs.

He lay upon the floor, blood pooling beneath him, the fire of healing as painful as the wound itself. He tried breathing around the knifing pain but couldn’t bring his lungs to fill. His heart to beat.

“You.” A shadow loomed above him. Kilronan’s empty stare, a frightening reminder of how far the earl had gone to try and defeat him.

Would he take the final step? Would he succumb to the
Unseelie
magics to finally gain his revenge?

Daigh closed his eyes and waited for the answer.

“Where is he? Where’s St. John?” A sharp kick to the ribs that shocked the lightning burn along Daigh’s bones. Into his blood. His heart fluttered then settled into a steady beat. His chest rose and fell. “Where’s the
Amhas-draoi
? I’ve some questions for him.”

Daigh opened his eyes. Dropped his gaze to the spent pistol gripped in Kilronan’s hand. “This grows to be a habit with you, my lord.”

“One I’m happy to continue.” He pulled a second pistol from his coat. “Shall I indulge again?”

“Not if you want to learn what you came for.” He touched his side. Sticky with blood, but healed. As always. He climbed slowly to his feet. Straightened against the afterflashes of pain. All under the watchful, angry eyes of Sabrina’s brother. “St. John is gone. Otherwise he’d be dead by my hand.”

That obviously wasn’t what Kilronan had expected. His brows contracted on a scowl. “Leave none behind to lead us to your master?”

“My enmity is my own, not Máelodor’s.”

Kilronan cursed, stalking the room with angry, crippled strides.

“Be warned,” Daigh said. “Máelodor hunts Brendan Douglas.”

“For what reason?”

“For the stone. The Sh’vad Tual. Douglas hid it. Máelodor seeks it. The last piece in his quest to resurrect Arthur. The Great One will break your brother, and Douglas will give up the stone’s hiding place. He will have no other choice. Then, if he’s lucky, he will be allowed to die.” He clenched a jaw over the pummeling of recovered memory. The torture. The brutality. Never ending no matter how much he screamed. “If he’s very lucky.”

Kilronan’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. “Why tell me this?”

Daigh spread his arms in a surrender gesture. “My own reasons.” He allowed himself a wry twist of his lips at Kilronan’s snort of disbelief. “Believe me or no. It matters not.”

Kilronan’s voice came low and caustic. “The
Amhas-draoi
think Máelodor is fiction. My attempt to distract them from Brendan’s plotting.”

“Máelodor has done well in concealing himself. Throwing Scathach’s army off his scent. If Douglas dies, the
Amhas-draoi
will believe the threat is over. None will question how he died. Nor what information he surrendered before he was killed.”

The two remained locked and unmoving. Neither one prepared to attack or give way. Cold frosted their breath. Rain beat against the windows. Shadows moved across the floor.

Kilronan spoke first. “You tried to murder me. You did kill my cousin.”

A man’s hatred. A woman’s pleading.

Jack O’Gara didn’t deserve to die the way he did. He shouldn’t have been trying to play hero.

Daigh’s hands shook as blood roared in his ears. Drowned out the evidence of his crimes. “I was not free to resist. But that is little comfort against your loss.”

“And you and Sabrina . . .” Kilronan’s words caught in his throat with a strangled oath. “For that alone, I should—” His hand jumped on the trigger, his whole body crackling with violent energy.

“If it eases your pain.” Daigh closed his eyes in expectation of yet another display of Kilronan’s hatred. Conjured again the image of Sabrina standing welcoming and warm upon the shore. Instead he saw her lost in pleasure, her face tilted up to his, the silky feel of her skin, the sweet of her lips, the beauty of their joining. The exquisite pain that followed ripped through him as sharply as the earlier pistol shot.

“I don’t care how Sabrina defends you, I don’t trust you or your motives.”

Sabrina defended him? What was wrong with her? He’d worked to earn her hatred. Why wasn’t she behaving as she should? Damned infuriating, pig-stubborn, brave-hearted, gallant woman.

“What the hell are you grinning at?”

Daigh opened his eyes on Kilronan’s expression of frustrated temper. “Paradise denied.”

“You’re mad. I’d kill you if I could,” Kilronan ground out through clenched teeth.

“And since you cannot?”

“Stay away from my family, Lazarus. Far, far away.” Kilronan’s gaze flickered and went black, the
Unseelie
within so close to the surface, the man seemed to almost shift with a gruesome light. “I’ll do whatever I must to protect them.”