Haunting Desire (33 page)

While he searched for the right words, Reyes blurted, “You were a fucking giant, man. Like eight feet tall, like a killing machine.”

Zac nodded and said, “You were ripping them apart with your bare hands. I thought Jamie was dead when you turned on him. I thought you were going to kill him, too.”

Tiarnan could feel his face growing hot with disgust. Was it true? Had he become
riastradh
? A mindless monster? He remembered looking down on his victims. He remembered the red-hot fury, the feeling that they’d threatened him. Threatened those who were his to protect. More than that . . .

“Is that what happened before?” Jamie asked Liam. “When he fought those other men, did he . . . grow?”

Liam looked at Eamonn. “I thought it was my imagination that changed him,” Eamonn said. “It was dark and it happened so fast . . . I couldn’t be sure that my eyes hadn’t tricked me. I convinced myself they had and I never mentioned it. Michael never said a word either, but I don’t think he saw—he was too busy trying to stay alive.” Eamonn made a small, choked sound. “To him y’ were always stronger than any other man could be. If he’d seen, it would have only confirmed what he believed.”

In the confession there was bitter truthfulness, the admission of jealousy, the shame of being the one who harbored it against his own brother.

“Do you remember what happened, T?” Jamie said. “Today, in the clearing?”

“No. Not really. Just bits. Pieces.”
Blood. Gore. Violence.
“If y’ say it’s true, then I believe y’, but do not expect me to explain because I can’t.”

Jamie nodded calmly. “Not looking for an explanation, my friend. Just want you to be aware that it happened. You saved all of our asses and so we’ll just tell you thanks, and be done with it. But the next time you feel that power coming on, you need to recognize it, you understand? I’ve served with some of the baddest motherfuckers to take a breath and I know there’s a fine line between being the best fighter and the most dangerous one. You just remember who your friends are.” Jamie paused. “And we’ll do the same. We got your back.”

The lecture might have sat irritably on his shoulders if he hadn’t sensed the sincerity and the honest compassion in Jamie’s tone. They weren’t afraid of him, though he thought that Reyes was right and he might have easily murdered Jamie when they’d come upon him.

Moved by that pledge of friendship, Tiarnan nodded. In his arms, Shealy sat less stiffly. Ellie was looking at him over Shealy’s shoulder. The thumb was still in her mouth and her eyes were solemn. He brushed a finger over the soft petal of her cheek and she sighed, the small sound anchoring him to this moment, stripping him of any defense he might have once possessed. These two females were his ballast, and if being
riastradh
enabled him to protect them, then he would embrace it.

“I will not forget who fights with me,” Tiarnan said softly. “I will not forget who I fight for. And I will not forget my friends.”

“Excellent,” Jamie said. “Now, let’s talk about the other thing. Let’s talk about where you went and how we save Shealy’s father.”

And with those simple words, Jamie made clear his position. No matter that Tiarnan was a creature, not unlike those of Inis Brandubh, Jamie would follow him into battle. Tiarnan couldn’t fathom what he’d ever done to deserve such a friend, but that is what Jamie was. A friend. A comrade.

“So tell us what you’re thinking, T. You know what we’re up against better than any of us. How do you want this to play?”

Still overwhelmed by the myriad of emotions tightening his chest, Tiarnan looked over each of their faces and saw the absolute trust in the eyes that looked back. In that moment, he saw his vow to remain in the background, to avoid stepping forward and taking charge for what it was—an act not of wisdom, but of weakness. If he was ever to be the man that Shealy needed, he must move beyond the fears that had crippled him for so long. He must shed that weakness like the stained and tattered rag it was and be strong.

And he must do it now.

Decision made, Tiarnan took a deep breath and did what he’d been born to do.

He led.

C
ATHÁN stood on the balcony overlooking his
kingdom
and glared at what he saw. He’d thought nothing could be worse than the hell he’d been thrust into all those years ago when his own children had cheated him. He’d thought the life he’d been condemned to live a nightmare beyond imagination. Still he’d thought it would all be temporary.

He’d been wrong.

He recognized now that in those days, there’d still been enough man, enough
humanity
inside him to hope. But that, too, was gone now. He could see it clearly, like watching a film of someone else’s life, where the steps and missteps could be appraised and disparaged from afar.

He didn’t know what was left of the man he’d once been. A man like any other, with dreams and desires. With fears and cares. Did enough of that person exist to return to the real world? Or would they recognize that he’d become
Other
and shun him?

He could pinpoint exactly when the change that had transformed him from man to
Other
happened. He’d been fleeing the battlefield on horseback, flying across the open land when an explosion had shaken the earth, knocked him from his horse. He’d seen a wall of blinding white rushing at him. A mushroom cloud stretching out before it rose above and then he was inside the white, being sucked into the aftermath of the detonation. Spinning and falling and screaming. He was alone. Stranded . . .

He’d felt the brush of another in that thickened mist. He’d recoiled, floundering as he tried to understand what was happening. But it had curled around him, sucked him down, and he’d heard that voice, so compelling, so seductive. It called him closer, as it had years ago when he’d been a young man searching for his way.

Disobeying it was not an option.

He recognized the voice and knew it belonged to the Druid Brandubh, the entity that controlled the Book of Fennore. Even as he feared it, he felt something change in that swirling white miasma. He knew that the Druid shared this strange fogged space with him and he’d felt a give and take, an exchange of consciousness. For a moment, he’d seen the Druid’s thoughts as if they were his own. He realized then that he’d been wrong. Yes, Brandubh had control, he worked from within the boundaries of the Book of Fennore, powerful and awe inspiring. But in the end, he was little more than a prisoner. The Book of Fennore controlled Brandubh as much as he controlled it.

And Brandubh was tired of being imprisoned. The Druid wanted out just as much as Cathán wanted to go home.

The knowledge was stunning. It blew away all of Cathán’s preconceived ideas. That the Druid might want for something had never occurred to him before. But now . . .

In those thoughts he’d seen images spanning years, decades, centuries. He’d absorbed the knowledge like a sponge. It was only later that he realized that while he’d been soaking up the Druid’s memories, the Druid had been sucking Cathán dry of the last of his humanity.

They’d emerged from that white mist together, for one moment facing each other, man to man. Then the moment was gone, and Cathán was alone in this hell that Tiarnan had named Inis Brandubh. He didn’t know where the Druid went. Had he escaped? Left Cathán behind to serve his life sentence?

After that, the changes began.

It was as if a siphon had come through with him, a siphon that tapped the power that was once the Book of Fennore and fed it directly into Cathán’s bloodstream. At first it was a high, a rush that had him shouting, elated, joyous. And then, by degrees, the rush began to wane. The high began to ebb, the thrill ceased. He’d leveled off somewhere between needing it and hating it—an addict in the constant throes of craving.

But oh, the things he could do.

He created the beasts of Inis Brandubh. He heard their voices, felt their needs. Slowly those voices became clearer until Cathán not only heard them, but he could speak to them as well. He could command them. He could call them out of nothingness and shape them. Now, when he called, they came.

That was not all he commanded.

If the Druid was still here, still somewhere in this twisted hell, he wasn’t running the show. Not anymore. Cathán was.

He stood in his temple, a creation that defied explanation. Made of stone and marble, it perched high between two rocky mountains, balanced precariously by massive boulders on each side. Disc shaped, one entire half opened onto a balcony that looked out over the endless miles of Inis Brandubh. It had no doors, no stairs leading up. Cathán could not recall how he entered or how he exited. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever left this place. Time and place had become a meaningless blur—a traffic jam of moments that collided and left wreckage behind without reason.

He moved to the wide balcony and looked out at the fields below, at the creatures waiting for his next order. There were
alkonosts
—enormous birds with the heads and breasts of women. Vicious and cruel, they laid their eggs on the shore and awaited his command. At the birth of their offspring would come storms that carried the strength to rip up trees from the earth and fling them into the sea. Darting through the shadows were the evil
rakshasas
, man-eating godlike atrocities with wicked, venomous nails and a hunger for human flesh, especially spoiled.
Chimeras
, fire-breathing monstrosities that looked like a nightmare from a sick mind, lounged nonchalantly, occasionally snapping at an unsuspecting passerby and killing it with a powerful chomp of jaws. They had more teeth than any of the rest.

And of course there was the
bahamut
that lurked out in the dark depths of the sea. A creature of water so immense that the sight of it alone was enough to terrify a man into death. The
bahamut
simply waited to appease its own hunger. There were other creatures out there, waiting for his call. Others that defied description or comprehension scuttling in the darkness, waiting.

And then there were the dragons . . .

All he had to do was call them, send them. But he’d nearly made a fatal mistake dispatching the
ellén trechend
to find the girl. He might command them, but control was another matter entirely. They’d almost killed her—might have if she hadn’t changed the game.

Pensive, he turned away and faced the chamber with its pure white walls and calming silence. To his right stood the pedestal where the Book of Fennore waited, looking like any other book in the world. Except this one had pages ripped from the center. And this one was evil.

He stared at it for a long moment before turning again to face the balcony. He’d learned about the girl, Shealy O’Leary, from that brief brush with the Druid’s consciousness. The Druid had been looking for her for an eternity. With his new power, Cathán had found a way to search on his own. That other world appeared to him like he was looking out a window. He could see it, but he couldn’t touch it.

He’d backtracked, revisiting the key moments in his life after the Book of Fennore had found him. And then he’d caught sight of Shealy O’Leary and he’d known . . .
known
that he’d found what he’d been looking for, had felt the power humming in the girl. As soon as he got near, the door had opened, like the electric doors in the market. And he had stepped out, but only for a moment. He didn’t know if it was Shealy, Donnell, or Tiarnan who had shoved him back in, but it didn’t matter. When he found her again, he would succeed. He would escape.

Angry with the knot his thoughts had become, he called to his guard.

“Bring me Meaghan Ballagh and the old man.”

He knew how Shealy O’Leary had come to this world, but she wasn’t the woman he had in his dungeon. The question was—why and how had Meaghan Ballagh come to Inis Brandubh and, more importantly, how could she be used? What gift did she bring with her?

I
T would be dangerous leaving at dark, moving through the treacherous forest with nothing but dim moonlight to guide them. But as Tiarnan had told Shealy once, what
wasn’t
dangerous on Inis Brandubh? As she stood to the side and watched the men packing up the camp, she felt cold to her very bones. Liam sat next to Ellie beside the fire, checking supplies and stuffing them into his bag. He sang to her sister and she almost smiled as she rocked back and forth in tune. They would be ready to leave soon.

Tiarnan stood nearby, watching Shealy with those enigmatic eyes. She was aware of his every breath, his every move. She knew he wanted to talk to her, just as she wanted to hear whatever it was he wanted to say. But the sketched drawing they’d seen felt like it was burned on her retinas. There’d been so many details that had been correct. Her face, her scars, her burned ear. And Tiarnan, puffed up like an action hero . . . How could they have all of those details right if the prophecy was a lie?

And what about the confession Tiarnan had made earlier? He’d chosen his loved ones over a woman once before . . .

Her gaze shifted to Jamie and the others.

Jamie didn’t care what the journal foretold. He didn’t believe it. He believed in Tiarnan and the heart and soul that made him the man he was.

So what did Shealy believe? What truth did she see when she looked into Tiarnan’s eyes?

How could she think that the man who touched her like she was a precious gift would ever hurt her?

He held his body still, his back straight as if braced for the heavy burden he was determined not to drop. His eyes glowed amber in the gloom. From the first moment she’d seen him, she’d thought he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. She could see it there now, precariously balanced. Too much for any man and she knew
she
had added to its weight.

He moved away until he stood on the edge of the camp where the forest crowded up to the clearing. Then he looked back, beseeching without words. He waited to see if Shealy would join him. She hesitated for only a moment. Life was short—hers might be very short. No matter what the outcome, she didn’t want to waste this minute with him.