Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (11 page)

Then there was the fact that she
had
brought it to him in the first place…she could have left him to die.

That meant something. But what?

It could also be nothing more than a ploy to gain his trust. The gods were tricky like that…

Ní thuigim déithe!
Of course, that was nothing new.

He watched Lacey, still curled up with her eyes tightly closed. As if by shutting everything out, she could put off dealing with it. She looked pitiful. But still too damn lovely to be allowed. His throat worked when he saw her tears, wanting to reach for her.

He reached for his power instead, his head bending toward Lacey as he focused every pore, his heart starting to race. When he raised his head, the whole yard glowed with cobalt light. If Lacey had lifted
her
head, the backyard would have appeared normal, but he was using his power to scan the grounds, even the parts he couldn't see from here.

Nothing. Ronan bit back a sigh of relief. Aillen really
wasn't
too bright. Having somehow launched the first attack in daylight ever (and wasn't he going to bust some heads figuring out how they'd managed
that
little trick?). Aillen should have immediately overwhelmed him with numbers.

Instead, just the two.

Maybe it was just a trial run. Ronan considered that, letting his gift drift back down, until the vivid light of healing drenched his fingers.

Still it had been stupid. Now he'd be forewarned.

He brought his hands to Lacey's head, straining to focus. It was harder for him to heal injuries he hadn't caused, but he could still do it, if they weren't too severe. Ronan wondered where she'd gotten the bump.

She really
had
been magnificent, he thought with a smile as his fingers drifted down over her face, the intense cobalt illuminating her pale golden skin. Killing a Changeling, when she'd never even seen one before!

She had a lot more guts than he'd thought. She seemed so ready to give in all the time, to whatever circumstance demanded...including his treatment of her. His fierce little
luchóg….

The light from his hands died. She wasn’t his. He shouldn’t even think such things.

Stars were just beginning to appear and their light was almost too dim to make out her features now. But Ronan remembered how angry...and hurt she had looked when he dismissed her assistance. Not that she
had
saved his life, of course. Though she had brought him the sword and without that...

Okay, so maybe she’d saved his life. A little.

Ronan frowned.

"I shouldna have called you a mouse," he said quietly. Lacey made a sound of agreement.

"Nope, not a mouse." she agreed firmly, her eyes still closed. She sounded beyond tired.

With a sigh, Ronan slid his still-swollen arm gingerly beneath her and gripped his sword in his right hand. He stood, his lips pressed tightly together as his body screamed in protest. Lacey's head lolled gently and bumped his shoulder. He winced and looked down at her.

His eyes rested on the shadowy sweep of her cheek, the lush outline of her slightly parted lips. Hell, she really was falling asleep! What a way to deal with stress, he thought in amusement, though he knew his healing was part of it. Healing made both giver and recipient relax. Then her lips moved against his shoulder and Ronan froze at the feather-light contact. He realized she was saying something.

"What was tha', lass? I dinna hear ye." Ronan's voice was gruff.

"Lioness!" she mumbled and the silky brush of her mouth was a small torture.

His brows came together in puzzlement, then smoothed.

"Oh, aye, Lacey. You certainly were a lioness." Ronan said with a smile. No harm in soothing her ego now—she probably wasn't going to remember this conversation.

He considered that briefly, then dipped his head and captured those torturing lips of hers. A soft sound escaped her before his mouth cut it off. Unlike before, there was no battle of wills, no clash of energy.

But there was heat.

Damme, but there was always heat here! It flowed over him as he claimed her mouth, ravaging every sweet corner with his tongue. Her hand came up languidly to curve over his neck and he felt a delicious shiver as she threaded her fingers into his hair. She tugged him down, her mouth soft and utterly pliable under his. Ronan's arms tightened—

—and the kitchen light flickered on.

He groaned at the cacophony of voices coming from inside, his mam's loudest of all, saying they'd all played the day away, they could help with dinner or starve. Ronan reluctantly lifted his mouth from Lacey's and looked down at her. Her arm was still curved around his neck, but her eyelashes were a thick gold smudge against her cheek. Her breathing even and quiet. Even though he'd used her exhaustion to his advantage, he couldn't help feeling a mite insulted that she had fallen asleep
while
he kissed her. He glanced toward the doorway of the bustling kitchen, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

Ronan stepped forward and entered the house. There was an immediate up-swell in the level of noise as a dozen voices cried out in alarm. Lacey sat up abruptly in his arms, her eyes wide, her fingers flying to her lips.

Ronan gave her an impassive look.

Next time he kissed her, she
would
be fully awake for it.

And even if it killed him, that was going to be soon.

Aine was amused it had been so easy to convince Aillen to overplay his hand.

Sitting on the fountain in the star gardens of Tir'na N'og, Aine felt satisfaction trump bitterness once again. She had kept insinuating to her dear brother that they had to know if the Changelings could actually handle this new 'power' he discovered. If they were functional enough under its influence... and it had worked.

She snorted as she watched Fand prance past, her half-sister's long blonde hair sparkling in the fragile light. Aillen had dismissed her concerns...at first.

Then the worry had ate at him. As she had known it would. Ronan had been warned something monumental was up, just as she had wanted. And like the clever wolf he was, he'd track it down.

Straight to Aillen. Rage made her fingers tremble and she dipped them into the fountain, wishing it were full of her brother's blood—

"Hmmm, tha's a rather nasty look, little one. Thinking of a lover, are we?" Aine glanced up and had to school her expression immediately before it could blank out to fear.

Bav.

Damme! She had been dreading this, but she hadn't expected it so soon.

Aine turned her voice to ice. "No' even close, I'm afraid. Losing yer sight? Getting older is such a bitch, isn't it?"

"Aye, ye’d love to think so, wouldn't ye?" Bav laughed, throwing back a magnificent tangle of bright red hair. She had three forms—not just disguises as the other gods used them—but three distinct goddess entities, together known as the Morrighan.

Like
The Three Faces of Eve
, only in spades. The maiden, Anu, the crone, Machu—and then there was Bav, the form she was taking now.

A woman in her seductive prime, the prophetess of death and patroness of vampires. She drew flocks of ravens on earth in this form, trailing her to feast on the blood they knew would follow.

"Unfortunately for
ye
, dear heart, I see as well as ever. I see death for…"

Aine grabbed Bav's arm, pulling her into a crouch so that they were face to face. "Donna say it," she hissed.

Bav watched her with dark amusement. "Why ever would I listen to ye?"

"Because ye're wrong."

Bav raised her strong eyebrows. "Is tha' so?"

"Yes, it is. I'm on top of the situation. Ye know visions change, Bav. This one
will
change...trust—oh, screw that! I know ye donna trust me, but just do me this one favor, just one. Damme, Bav! I'll owe you."

Bav watched her with eyes like green ice. Aine could feel her considering the offer. Bav loved manipulation, she was an artist of it. And she appreciated the skill in others—not to mention she could get very creative with favors owed.

She might let Aine off just to see what her plans were.

Then again, she could just as easily blow everything right now...and if Lugh found out....
Aillen would kill her.
Aine had already seen her own death and it was not pretty. She shivered and waited for Bav's answer with forced patience. It was never a good idea to rush the goddess of death.             

Then finally…

"I don't know why I indulge the likes of ye, but..."

"I'm thankful ye do." Aine said fervently, meaning every word.

Until Bav smiled. Sharks had smiles like that.             

"Very, very thankful, I hope. I have an idea in mind for that favor, or I wouldna be so indulgent. I'll be calling on ye—soon."

Aine swallowed and nodded. "Whenever ye're ready."

She hopped off the fountain and exited the garden, not wanting to consider what she might have gotten herself into. In addition to the shite she was
already
in. Her shoulders hunched as she walked away, her triumphant mood had evaporated completely.

Aine didn't notice the way Bav’s eyes narrowed and followed her. "Ye're nervous, little one. And scared, scared right down to the bone. Not yer usual MO at all."

She pulled the hood of her robes up, covering her red hair with the white silk that she favored in her current incarnation. "'Tis a good thing I always hedge my bets. Because I'm afraid tha' right now, Aine dear, ye’re no' a very safe one."

The children had finally been coaxed to bed, after trying to personally inspect each and every one of Lacey and Ronan's wounds.

Ronan definitely won the
ohh
and
ahh
factor there. Especially since he'd already healed the worst of Lacey's. The bump on her head and her lacerations on her feet had vanished, so she knew he had healed her. She even had a vague memory of cobalt light glowing over her closed eyelids, but other than that Lacey couldn't remember much after being knocked to the ground.

Only a tsunami wave of exhaustion before she'd woken up in the kitchen—and Ronan's taste on her lips. Lacey didn't care to think too much about how
that
had happened.

She had a fair idea, of course. She just wasn't sure whether confronting him about it was a good idea or not. Especially since the way that he'd looked at her when she woke up suggested he would
welcome
such a conversation.

Now, she sat on a rust-colored couch on the main family room of the house. It was a big, comfortable room, with lively landscapes on the walls and a pleasant scattering of cozy furniture.

The large glass window to her right was draped against the night, covered by cheerful mauve and white striped curtains. If Lacey glanced over her shoulder, as she had several times since sitting down, she could look through a wide archway, opening directly into the dining room with its huge rectangle of a table glowing warmly in the yellow light coming off the kitchen behind it.

Ronan and Moiré were still in there. Lacey and Ronan had had back-to-back showers, which was good enough to clean the scratches Lacey had sustained, but Ronan's ribs needed to be taped, and worse, the bite from that thing had to be lanced. A process he had refused to have her watch, not that she was at all anxious to.

Changelings.
That's what he had called those hideous things that could mimic human form, and human faces. Lacey had heard of changelings, of course. Ugly fairy children exchanged for human ones. But those old fairytales were a joke against the real thing.

Michael had told Lacey while Ronan was showering that that was the way of the old stories. They seemed tales told to frighten children, but the truth of it was they were watered-down versions of an all-too horrible reality. As if the tales could somehow diminish the power of the nightmarish truth.  Of course, very few humans ever encountered it. So much the nicer for them.

Lacey wished she could be so lucky. Everyone had seemed okay with having their secret out, though they did treat her like a china doll. Even the children showed extraordinary care about her. Afraid she might break if one more stone was thrown at the shiny veneer of her reality, but Lacey had just listened as they discussed the attack, and worried about its ramifications.

When he had first entered the kitchen with her in his arms, Ronan had laid out the facts for them in black and white. There was no pain, no color and no fear in his version of events. It was cold and succinct.

Moiré had quickly bustled her off to the bath then. But once she'd finished, dressing quickly in a soft cream knit dress that she favored for its comfort, and Ronan had took his turn under the water, the conversations that she had heard should have made her brain implode.

Instead, Lacey found herself taking the barrage of surreal information rather well. Maybe killing a soulless zombie had toughened her up.

That’s basically what Changelings were. She pieced together that much from what she had heard. People who died and lost their souls due either to the evil they had done in life, ill-considered bargaining with the gods or other means unknown, became slaves to this demon Aillen guy. They were called the Sluagh. All of the Sluagh were not Changelings, but all Changelings were a part of the Sluagh.

The Sluagh were what had killed Ronan’s father. Michael had told her that. Which explained what Ronan had meant when he said he went a little mad after his father’s death. According to Michael, Ronan had single-handedly, in his wolf form, gone after the creatures that torn apart his father. He had killed a nest of nearly three dozen of the nasty creatures.

In one night.

Daire had said that as soon as Lugh had heard what Ronan had done, he charged him with hunting and keeping in check Aillen and his minions. The god gave Ronan his own sword and had finally made good on his promise to Ronan’s father to find a way to keep the Fitzpatricks together. Lugh cast the spell he had been avoiding for almost twenty years.

Lugh had been trying to keep the Changelings and their master at bay since time immortal, bascially. Since he was the sun-god, and these things creatures of the night, Lugh had found himself at a disadvantage. He had few warriors that could walk the night and tangle effectively with demons. Until Ronan came along. Cursed by Aine to stalk the night, loyal by blood to Lugh.

It was just as Ronan had told her earlier—
too perfect
. She hadn't understood it then. Understanding it just made her feel worse, for him and his family. He was absolutely right about the gods and their games, and she understood now why he was so bitter.

She still wasn’t seeing where she came in, though.

Sure there was a connection between them, if you could call dreams and mutual lust and irritation a connection...             

Michael and Shelagh were curled together, across from her in a small divan. Her long legs stretched over his thighs, their heads touching, his golden-brown, hers a deep red. They were conversing in low tones, their eyes intent on each other. Love shimmered almost visibly around the two. Lacey sighed softly, watching them.

No,
that
was a connection. What she and Ronan had wasn't anything like that. And it would never be.

It just a crazy tangle of mistrust, fear, anger, confusion—and a burning desire to get each other naked.

Not a healthy mix. Lacey wiggled deeper into the couch. She had to get Ronan to tell her why he was so interested in her dreams, and why he had tried to kill her that first night...
God, was that only last night?

And why he'd stopped—
and
why this goddess Aine had sought her out. Lacey remembered the voice she had heard in her head, before she picked up the sword. Why had Aine spoken to her? To get her to save Ronan was the obvious answer. Though the damn man refused to admit he'd been saved.

Ronan hated Aine, and so didn’t it follow that she must hate him? He’d said as much, after all. So why did Aine care about saving Ronan—a man she had cursed? So many whys and what the hells! Lacey groaned and squeezed her aching head.

To her left, settled into his own squishy gold armchair beneath a shaded lamp, Daire gave her a sympathetic look. "Donna force it, lass. Ye've been asked to take in a powerful lot that's hard to swallow. Take care you donna choke on it."

Lacey considered him—this handsome man who by all rights ought to have fallen in love, married, had a family and died—centuries before she'd even been born. What must it be like, to be him? She hesitated, but Daire's temper was much easier to risk than Ronan's, especially since as far as she could tell, he didn't have one.

"How do you deal with it all, anyway?" Not only Daire's, but Michael and Shelagh's eyes as well turned her way.
Great, now I've offended everyone.

But no one looked offended.

"'Tis rougher on Daire, than us." Shelagh offered when Daire remained quiet. Her fingers found her husband's, and intertwined. Lacey understood that, they had each other and the children. Daire had all of them, of course, but it wasn't the same as being able to make family of his own.

She wondered if he had ever been in love. Surely during all this time, he must have been. But that really would be an awful thing to ask…

"Aye, it's rough. Terribly rough." Daire finally said, his voice so low Lacey could barely hear him. "But it's none of us tha' have the worst of it." His eyes flickered over her shoulder to the kitchen.

To his brother.

Her mind had a hard time wrapping around this family and how much love they were able to carry. Love that bound them so tight that even after centuries trapped in a curse, there was no whisper of guilt, of recrimination or blame. Just a lot of tried and true love.

It made her ache. She'd always had Kate, then Kate and Heather, whom she'd been best friends with since the moment they met at college. Lacey didn't make a lot of close friends, but she'd always had
someone
to love her.

But she wanted
this
: acres of love, oodles of it, an excess of love, so you could be sure if one source was cut off by fate, you wouldn't be left alone. Her eyes started to sting. She would not think of her parents. She would
not
. Lacey blinked determinedly, ducking her head just a bit to hide her face. Then asked another question that had been burning in her mind.

"What was he like...before? Ronan?" She'd definitely never get the courage to ask Ronan that one. And she was just as sure he would never answer it anyway. At least not honestly.

The reactions to her question were surprising and varied. Daire laughed, Michael shook his head and Shelagh gave an unladylike snort.

"Aye, wasn't he just the devil in britches?" She said, her eyes twinkling.

“Gods truth, he was," Daire said. He leaned out of his chair, his hands on his knees, smiling at her. "It was Michael who was always the responsible one, even though Ronan was the eldest by a scant year, and me being the dreamer, but Ronan... Damme! Ronan never met a dare he wouldna take, a joke he dinna like or a girl he wouldna kiss. Full to the brim with life, he was, fair bursting with it."

Lacey's eyes were flying from one fondly amused expression to the other, her mind reeling. Ronan? They were talking about the same Ronan? The dark glowering menace who—

"Tha' was a long time ago." The words were quiet, but Lacey jumped as if Ronan had shouted. Why did he always have to come creeping up behind her like that?

Daire leaned back in his chair as Ronan walked around the couch. "Aye. Tha' it was, brother." He gave Ronan a sad look as he got to his feet. "Well, it's been a night, if ye're all stitched up then, we should hit the hay."

Ronan nodded calmly, but Lacey saw a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Ye'd better. I need a word with Lacey.”

Daire looked as if he might protest this. But he glanced at his brother's hard face and shrugged in resignation.

"Ye'll do what ya must, and I canna stop ye. But take care, big brother. Ye push her anymore and they'll be naught left."

With quiet smile that belied his concern, Daire bid Lacey goodnight. Michael and Shelagh, as well, Shelagh giving her hand a squeeze before they walked out—and left her alone.

With him.

Lacey felt a shiver work its slow way down her back, as she looked up at Ronan. He hadn't taken advantage of his shower to shave and the shadow on his jaw made him look even more dangerous than usual. His black hair was damp and curling. She could see the bandages winding up his left arm, from his wrist to under the loosely rolled up sleeve of a blue flannel button-up he had thrown on over another pair of worn jeans. He hadn’t bothered to button the shirt completely and she could see a smattering of wiry dark hair over his deep chest before more bandages hid the rest of that tantalizing view. Even injured, unshaven and obviously exhausted, he made her throat go dry. Lacey swallowed when Ronan reached out a hand, but he only flicked off the lamp, casting them both into darkness.

"We'll go somewhere more private," was all he said. His words drifted to her through the shadows and Lacey stood up, somewhat shakily at the thought of going somewhere 'more private' with Ronan.

He navigated the dim interior of the house easily, threading around furniture and leading her through a doorway she hadn't noticed before. He moved aside to let her pass, though not far enough to keep her hip from brushing his thigh as she moved by, the slight contact almost like an electric shock.

Then he shut the door.

Lacey heard the unmistakable click of a lock as she stood, trying not to ignore her pounding heart in the now total blackness.

A candle flared and the sharp tang of sulfur filled the air. The wavering golden light danced across rows and rows of books, shelves stacked clear to the ceiling behind the small table Ronan was placing a tall candle holder on.

His shadow rippled across the hundreds of bindings, distorted by their shape and candlelight into something eerie. Lacey wrapped her arms around her chest. The rest of the long, narrow room included an unlit fireplace, a roll top desk and a couple of low couches. She sank into one immediately. Her legs didn't seem very trustworthy at the moment.

"I'm nae planning on attacking ye." Ronan was leaning against the wall of books, his expression amused. He seemed as relaxed as she was tense.

"Well, that makes for a nice change." Lacey said, irritation replacing some of her nerves. "But forgive me if I can't get all warm and cozy at the prospect of being alone with you. Nothing good has come out of that yet."

“Tha's a matter of opinion." He gave her a glance out of those smoky eyes and Lacey's felt heat steal along her spine, turning it liquid and warm as she remembered the rough feel of his hands on her body.