Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (10 page)

Ronan had said she had to get a sword. And since she was absolutely sure Ronan was the only one with a chance in hell of destroying that thing with Moiré's face. She was going to get the sword and he damn well better be alive when she got back.

Ronan could have cursed
himself
. He was that pissed off. How could he have allowed himself to be so unprepared? It was true, he'd never seen a Changeling in daylight. Ever. Not once in over a thousand years. But that was no excuse, to be just sitting there—completely distracted.

Distracted by Lacey. Just as he had feared. Though if she came back…

But there was no time to ponder his little gamble, the Changeling had nearly reached the wall. It was wearing his mother's face and for that the unholy bastard was going to
pay
.

Ronan roared in fury as the creature leapt, its’ serrated mouth gaping wide in the dying sunlight. His hands came up and he caught it around the throat. It laughed at him, that cackling laugh of madness all the Changelings shared, and the rotting body stench that flowed out with the laughter made Ronan want to retch. Instead, he squeezed.

The powerful muscles of his forearms and shoulders tightened and the Changeling whipped violently in protest. It was like trying to hold a huge snake. Even though their bodies appeared human, Changelings were not made of the same frail stuff. They were shifters, of a sort.

This one broke free and lightning fast clamped its’ mouth on one of Ronan's wrists. He yelled in pain and punched it in the face with his free hand. It was like punching a hunk of rubbery dead meat. Which wasn't far from the truth. It let him go, cackling again as it circled.

Ronan knew he hadn't hurt it. It was playing with him.

He'd been fighting Changelings since he was about thirty. In his world, that made for about 1400 years. He was very aware that he didn't have much chance of defeating one while he was in his human form, and almost definitely not without his sword. Lugh's sword.

The Changeling knew it, too. It danced nearer.

"Raw-nee-awn," it warbled, mutilating his name in that sawblade voice.

Changelings couldn't talk much, not with the monstrous mouths they favored. He'd cut one open once out of morbid curiosity and hadn't even been able to find a larynx...at least not before the corpse had started to smoke in the rising sun and Lugh's light ignited it into a dazzlingly pretty violet fireball.

This one had already elongated its head to better accommodate the teeth and its’ limbs were stretching now as well. It was growing some nasty ass claws. His left arm, the one it had bit, was swelling already and burning like hell's own fury. The blood flowing from the wound trickled down his fingers, smoking like acid. Ronan had been bit by Changelings before, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

The pain was only enraging him. He punched again with his right, what should have been a vicious uppercut to the chin. The increasingly grotesque version of a head snapped back like its’ neck was on a hinge and rebounded—a seriously ugly plastic punching clown.

The damn thing giggled.

Ronan suspected Aillen, the Changelings ringleader, had used some kind of demon mojo to force speech from a body that should have been incapable of it. Aillen was a sick bastard who would find the horror of the new effect quite appealing.

Without warning, the Changeling dropped to all fours and charged him. They hit the damp grass in tandem, but Ronan rolled over instantly, tossing the creature off him with the force of its own charge.

He was on his hands and knees when it hit him again. A splintering sound and a wickedly hot burst of pain informed Ronan he had acquired a broken rib or three. It had knocked him onto his back. This time he was pinned beneath the Changeling's far superior weight.

Ronan had his good hand round its’ muscled neck, his arm vibrating with the effort of keeping those teeth from gnawing his face off. He had a knee in its’ chest, and was trying to get a good enough purchase to throw it again. It kept shifting its’ form to prevent this and it was far too heavy to move with the strength of one arm alone. He grimaced as it tried to lower that serrated mouth to his throat.

Ronan locked his arm, refusing to let panic touch him, but wondering darkly just where in the hell Lacey was.

And if she was coming back.

Lacey had skidded down the last stretch of path and slammed into the stout, wooden door of a little cottage, unable to halt her momentum in time. Her head hit the frame and bounced off. Thankfully, the briefly blinding pain served to stop her sobbing and snap her, if not out of her terror, then at least out of the mindless, reactive state it had put her in. Lacey sucked in a shaky breath and pulled open the door.

She ran inside, ignoring the throbbing goose egg forming above her eye. The interior was filled with the long shadows of the setting sun, Lacey got the vaguest impression of Ronan's spicy-smoky scent, the sleekly dark wood of a cabinet, a fireplace facing her, unlit, and an enormous bed in the far corner of the one visible room. These shadowy images whirled as she spun around to look behind the door.

There was a scabbard there. 

A huge scabbard, cunningly sewn of various shades of leather that formed an intricately beautiful sunburst design. A braided belt that could easily wrap around Lacey twice was securing it to a hook near the top of the door. The jeweled pommel almost brushed the doorframe. No way she could reach that high.

She tried lifting it from the bottom. After long—terribly long moments of trying to slip the belt off the hook—moments where Ronan's face kept flashing in her mind, making her fingers wet with sweat, she finally succeeded in making the sword fall into her arms.

Lacey grunted and stumbled at the unexpected weight. Oh god, but it was
heavy!
She tried to sling it over her shoulders, the way Ronan undoubtedly would wear it. It promptly threatened to topple her over onto her back.

She could imagine herself, vividly, trapped on her back like a damn turtle. Unable to move while Ronan was eaten alive by some creature from hell.

That would be so
her
.

She shuddered, tears threatening again, when an idea seized her. Lacey kept the belt slung over her shoulder, but swung the weight of the sword forward, so she was cradling it her arms like a beloved child, the polished amber-colored jewel of the pommel tucked beneath her jaw, the rougher jewels of the hilt digging into her chest and the leather scabbard butter-soft and cool against her bare arms. She ran out of the cottage leaving the door wide open, tearing up the path where the sunlight was trickling away from her like an outgoing tide.

Lacey chased the waning light up the slope of the back yard, her head aching where she'd smashed into the door, her thighs and lungs burning, her shoulders cramping under the weight of the sword. The scent of roses grew stronger. The trellis's dark shape loomed ahead. Then she saw Ronan on the ground, that insane creature's mouth inches from his throat.

She ran forward even faster, evening dew soaking her feet as she left the path. Lacey stopped abruptly as she realized she wasn't exactly going to be able to just hand Ronan the sword while he was pinned to the ground. She’d have to free the blade first.

Oh, crap, oh, crap!
Lacey's chest rose and fell, the sword banging into her collarbone and hip with every harsh breath. Ronan was going to be killed right in front of her! And then that nightmarish
thing
would undoubtedly turn its wicked teeth on her...

No, NO!
Not even realizing what she was doing, her eyes fixed on Ronan's struggle, Lacey's fingers began to undo the thongs securing the sword in its’ scabbard. She dipped her head to let the braided belt slip free and the sword and scabbard quickly hit the ground. The ties undone.

Lacey looked down at it blankly, as if wondering where it came from. Her mind was shutting down in shock.

"Oh, pick it UP! You stupid chit, do you
want
to watch him die
?
"

Lacey's head whipped around, searching the shadows. That had been Aine's voice! She was sure of it. But no bird or dark-haired girl hid in the shadows.

There was only her.

Lacey's teeth snapped together and she bent, somehow freeing the sword with shaking hands that had gone ice-cold. She didn't think she'd be able to lift it—the damn thing was longer than she was tall—but Lacey wrapped both hands around the hilt and pulled.

It came up gracefully, flashing in her hands with a weight suddenly no more than light itself. A last sliver of sun illuminated the Changeling's hunched back, as if guiding her to her target.

Guttural, snapping sounds came from it, and she could hear Ronan's curses as she approached, her toes digging into the damp grass and earth. A moan of horror rose to her lips, but Lacey choked it down. That
thing
might hear her. Lacey lifted her arms, waiting for the perfect moment, knowing that she daren't strike until it lifted its head. Or the sword might plunge through and kill Ronan, too.

She bit her lip, not noticing in her concentration that she was drawing blood.

Everything happened in blindingly fast succession. Ronan made a low noise, almost of triumph, and the creature's whole torso lifted off him. In the same instant, Lacey plunged the sword, down and out, right between the monstrosity's skeletal shoulder blades. It screamed shrilly, horribly like a child, its’ death throes yanking the sword from her hands.

Lacey's empty arms began to shake and she sat down abruptly, not caring as the wet grass drenched her bottom. Ronan heaved and the whole quivering mass of creature and sword flew over his head. It continued to twitch. Ronan sat up, groaning.

"What in the hell did ye do tha' for?" He stared at Lacey in something like amazement, tempered with a healthy dose of irritation.

Lacey lifted her head, his words must not be penetrating her dazed mind. She had to be mistaken, because it almost sounded like he was pissed off at her. "Excuse me?" Her tone was incredulous.

"I had him. I was just going to throw him clear, ye should have waited a second." Ronan got to his feet. He turned and pulled the sword casually from that
thing
, that was now still. That thing that
she
had killed. Lacey's mind was unthawing fast in a wave of righteous fury.

She had saved his life!

"Really? I just saved your life, you stupid ass!"

"Is that what ye thought?" Ronan shook his head, his lips twitching. She suddenly wanted the sword back, so she could use it on
him!

"Oh!" Lacey found herself unable to articulate any more than that one syllable at the moment. All her fear and panic, and
pain
, she remembered, as the bruise on her forehead gave an almighty throb. And this jerk was acting like her act of heroism was merely an amusing foie paux.

She was so angry she didn't notice the way Ronan's head kept swiveling from side to side, his eyes racking the grounds.

Getting to her feet, her fists clenched at her side, Lacey started to stalk with slow dignity into the house. The dignity part suffered a bit as she slid on the grass and her arms briefly wind milled madly. Ignoring the chuckle behind her, Lacey got her limbs in order and moved under the trellis.

“Nae, wait!"  Ronan's shout of warning came just as something terribly heavy dropped onto her head.

Lacey barely got her arms up around her face, an instinctive reflex, before she was slammed down into the ground. Something babbled above her, its’ fetid breath surrounding her head.
Another one?
Lacey wanted to scream, but the weight of the creature was crushing her ribs. She couldn't breathe... Pinpoints of lights did a frenzied dance behind her closed eyelids. There was an odd whistling sound. Seconds later the weight was gone.

“Damme!" Ronan said. She could feel him standing above her, but Lacey refused to open her eyes. "Do ye no' have an ounce of sense?" He'd moved closer, she could smell the blood and the sweat, but underneath it was that cedary tang of his that pulled at her belly.

Lacey moaned in frustration and curled onto her side, resisting the urge to beat her head into the ground. How could her body to this to her, even now? It was crazy! Craving a man that treated her like either an entertaining sideshow, a vicious enemy to be attacked or a meal he wanted to devour. She was insane to feel anything remotely like desire for him. Especially after all that had just happened!

Her mind refused to go there—to rehash current events. It was simply too much. She just wanted to sleep, go to sleep right now on the grass and maybe find out this was all another scary dream. Tears trickled down her face, cutting tiny rivulets through the grass and blood and dirt.

Ronan knelt beside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, its tip a foot from the severed head of the second Changeling. He looked from his sword—the sword he knew very well could only be lifted by him—or at least by someone Lugh also looked upon with favor.
Or
because Lugh approved the action his sword would used
for.
Saving him was something Lugh would favor—at least Ronan certainly hoped so.

That is why he had sent Lacey after the sword in the first place. Not to mention that it had been his only damn choice. Still, the fact she had been able not only to lift it and bring it to him, but also to unsheath it—and
kill
with it….