Tormented by Darkness (14 page)

Understanding, she nodded. If Mick never spoke to her again, it would be worth it. She’d save him from certain death, and while Drandar would still hunt him, she could protect him through magical means. He wouldn’t even have to know she had.

Cian exhaled heavily and caught Mick by the wrist. His gaze rested on those dark, enraged portals, meeting defiant challenge. “Forgive me,” Cian muttered.

Then, he jerked the sharp blade across the back of Mick’s forearm. As blood surfaced, steadily dripping down the length of corded muscle, Cian withdrew a small glass vial. Holding Mick’s arm level with his shoulder, Cian allowed the blood to drip and collected the ten necessary droplets.

When he had gathered all that the ritual required, he passed Rhiannon Mick’s arm. She closed her eyes, summoning all the scattered particles of her mother’s healing power. “
Rosc síor sláinte.
”

Eternal health.

****

Fury blistered through Mick, deadly and all-consuming. If he could have moved, he would have flung Rhiannon across the campsite. The story she fed him—did she really expect he’d believe such obvious bullshit? Good God, he’d been a fool. Good? She was no better than half the insane freaks he locked away.

He stared at the bleeding wound on his arm, unable to even flinch as pain crept slowly through his veins. Her words whispered through his ears, a sound that would have resembled a kiss from heaven only a few short hours ago. Now, her voice only stirred deeper anger.

As he watched helplessly, she pressed those soft, sweet lips to his skin, and heartache surfaced. He’d hoped. Longed for this to have some favorable outcome. Yearned for things he knew couldn’t be. He had known she would scar him. He’d just never dreamed it would end up like this.

He breathed out, wishing he could turn away before she observed the shameful mist that turned his vision to a blur. Praying the fist around his lungs would loosen.

Another sensation filtered through his awareness, a soothing caress that didn’t belong. It crawled from the place where her lips touched his skin, filtered into his blood, and worked its way deep into his heart, balming the ache there as well. Through his bleary vision, he witnessed the slowing of his blood flow. Mick blinked, clearing unwanted tears away, and squinted at the cut on his arm.

Before his astonished stare, his skin pulled together, narrowing the gash until all that remained was a bright pink line of new flesh.

Fucking impossible.

He lifted a questioning gaze to Rhiannon, but she had already turned away. Ancient papers held at her side, head bowed under her own sorrow, she walked to the crackling fire. Dáire held out his hand, and her fingers twined with his.

For the first time since he’d found himself unable to move, Mick allowed himself to consider his circumstances. Nothing had pricked him—not until Cian sliced him open with a box cutter. He didn’t feel lightheaded or disoriented, and aside from the brief close-encounter with tears, his vision was unhindered. He heard, felt, and rationalized everything. He just couldn’t move. Couldn’t do a damn thing but breathe and blink.

And he’d just witnessed his skin mend itself.

Voices drifted from the fire in a language Mick couldn’t recognize, Rhiannon’s husky alto blending with her brothers’ deeper baritones. Miranda sat on the ground, apart from the standing trio, her gaze resting heavily on Mick. As if she understood but didn’t quite know what to say. She gave him an apologetic smile before turning her attention back on her fiancé.

A hint is sufficient for the wise
. Rhiannon had been trying to tell him something.

His heart kicked against his ribs—hard. A voice he didn’t want to acknowledge whispered through his head. Grimacing, he blocked it out. This was impossible. Magic didn’t exist. Neither did demons. Or curses. But what was it he had said? Only the sane came up with crazy stories like this…

Rhiannon’s voice rose above her brothers as a stiff breeze filled the campsite. Overhead branches swayed. Leaves rustled. Her unfettered hair danced against the backs of her thighs. Damned if she wasn’t a beautiful vision.

With a
shoosh
, the fire rose to the tips of the birch’s lowest leaves. A shadow fell over Mick’s face, and he slanted his gaze upward, taking in Miranda’s worried frown. She gnawed on her lower lip as she took a seat at his side. “You look pissed as hell.”

Brilliant observation. He gave her a scowl.

“This can only be done on the Sabots.”

She nodded toward the fire, drawing his attention back to Rhiannon. Standing apart from her brothers, she held the old papers in her hand and recited words he recognized as the same language she’d spoken on several occasions today. Her voice faltered, and she stumbled. Dáire rushed forth to steady her.

“I suspect you aren’t going to like this part.”

This part? Mick’s eyes skipped back to the woman at his side. Though she set her hand over his, her stare remained on the trio near the jumping, yellow-orange flames. As the intonations filled his ears, the strange sense that he was being watched settled around his shoulders. He itched to twist around and search the trees for the culprit.

“Are you hearing any voices?” Miranda asked.

Mick closed his eyes long and slow and willed his head to shake. When it refused, he let out a frustrated sigh.

“If you are, if it’s feminine, it’s their mother, Nyamah. She’s around us. Her spirit won’t rest until Drandar is destroyed. If it’s a man…well…let’s hope it’s not.”

Falling to her knees, Rhiannon cried out in pain. The sound cut through Mick, infuriating him even more. Though he couldn’t remember ever being this furious with someone, he still ached to go to her. To do whatever necessary to stop her from hurting.

“She will be judged,” Miranda murmured.

Dazed by the sounds of Rhiannon’s anguished voice and the absolute impossibility of what he was witnessing, Mick struggled to focus on Miranda’s words. Her voice drifted in between the whimpers that rose near the fire, pulling him back and forth like the swaying branches above.

“Her immortality has been taken from her. What she’s done in the past will be weighed against a potential mortal life. If they are found to be in balance, she will live again. If not…” Miranda gave Mick’s hand a squeeze.

If not…
No
. He wasn’t hearing this. Rhiannon couldn’t…

Before him, she crumpled to the ground in a motionless heap. Dáire fell to his knees. Cian clamped a hand in his brother’s shirt, halting him from joining Rhiannon near the fire’s edge.

The same terror Mick had known when he found her in the woods possessed him. With everything he was, he surged forward, needing to go to her, needing to hold her in his arms and prove what he observed, what Miranda claimed wasn’t true. He remained rooted in place. An anguished roar built with no outlet.

Overhead, the trees stirred more gently. That strange sense of peace and comfort that hit him when Rhiannon kissed his arm enveloped the clearing. Miranda straightened. Cian released his hold on Dáire, and Rhiannon’s twin lifted his face skyward. Mick followed his stare, sucking in a sharp breath at the gathered mist of white that loomed overhead.

Swirling like petals in a gentle whirlpool the particles converged, interlacing until a woman’s form took shape. The campsite pulsed with energy that lifted the hairs on his arms. Before his disbelieving eyes, long golden hair cascaded from an ethereal body of white, and light as bright as sunlight radiated forth.

“You must go,” a melodious feminine voice ordered. “He is here. I cannot shield them. Take them and go, Dáire. Save the one who shares your soul. Cian follow my light to your destination.” A beacon of white streamed down the dark pathway leading to the backwoods road. “I will distract my mate.”

That was all it took to send the campsite into frenetic motion. Dáire gathered Rhiannon’s motionless form in his arms and carried her to his pickup. A shout built in Mick’s throat, fresh new rage engulfing him as he was forced to remain behind. Was she hurt? Was she dying?

Son of a bitch! When he got his hands on her brother, he was going to beat him to a bloody pulp.

A strong hand grabbed Mick under the shoulder and hoisted him roughly to his feet. He stumbled, unable to steady himself under the spell’s paralyzing effects. Cian wound an arm around his waist, as did Miranda, stabilizing his balance.

“C’mon. Let’s get you out of here. The birch is strong, but I don’t trust it.”

Helpless to his circumstances, Mick found himself shoved into the SUV’s backseat, his bag, his
gun
, still in a heap on the ground.

Chapter Sixteen

Rhiannon opened her eyes to quiet, both surrounding her and inside her soul. She took in her surroundings, observing the comforting lavender of her bedroom walls, the ceiling fan that ticked with each slow, steady revolution.

Home.

Tears pricked her eyes. She was home, and the ancestors had seen fit to grant her life again.

Turning her head, she found Dáire dozing in the chair beside her bed. He opened his eyes, sensing her in the same way he always had. Rhiannon smiled. Nothing had changed. At least not in that respect.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmured as he bent to push her hair away from her face. “How are you feeling?”

“Odd.” She looked behind him at the drawn curtains and the moonlight beyond. “What time is it? Where’s Mick?”

“It’s just after two. Cian and Miranda took Mick to his place on Watson. They’re downstairs on the pull out.”

They’d left Mick alone. Panic drove Rhiannon into action, despite the heaviness in her limbs. She struggled to sit. “I have to go to him.”

“Easy.” Dáire chuckled. “That spell won’t wear off until dawn. He’s not going anywhere.
You
need to get your strength back.” He gave her shoulder a gentle push.

Rhiannon twisted free of his hand. “You didn’t release the spell?” Kicking at the covers, she swung her legs off the edge of the mattress. Dizziness hit her, forcing her to drop her head to her knees until it passed. “Oh, ancestors above, Dáire, what have you done? He’s helpless against Drandar.”

“Mother came. She intercepted Drandar.”

Dáire stroked her back, his caress soothing despite the relentless voice that urged her to get out of bed. She had to get out of here. Had to get to Mick, even though she suspected she was the last person he’d want to see.

“You don’t understand.” Shaking her head, she forced herself to her feet. “Drandar found us. I don’t know how, but he attacked me before you showed up. He swore he’d take Mick.”

Rhiannon stumbled as she reached for her sweatshirt. Dáire clutched her elbow, holding her up, aiding her through the sudden spinning of the room.

“You’re not in any shape to go anywhere, Rhi. And I hate to point it out to you, but you’re just as vulnerable as Mick now.”

Numbly, she nodded. Mortality made her weak—all the more reason to hurry.

She yanked the sweatshirt on, unmindful of the bits of leaves and grass that clung to the fabric. Frowning, she pulled the heavy cotton away from her body. “Where’s the blood?”

“Blood?”

“Cian bled.”

Dáire shook his head. “You didn’t. I guess that’s why we had Mick’s.”

“Help me downstairs.”

“Rhi…” Sighing, Dáire gripped her elbow more tightly. He offered no further protest and helped her through the door, down the short hallway. At the top of the stairs, he paused. “I hate this, you know.” His quiet voice held anguish.

Hurt pummeled into her, wrapping its fist around her heart. She turned to face him and placed a hand against his cheek. “You’ll always be the other half of me. But I had to do this. No matter what happens from here, I’ll have done the right thing.”

Jaw tight, Dáire nodded. His throat worked as he swallowed. “I know. It doesn’t mean I like it any more. We’ve always been a team, Rhi.”

A smile drifted to her mouth. “We still are. Besides,” she forced out a bitter chuckle, “I don’t think you have any need to worry. Whatever changed before you slammed your fist into Mick’s face is gone now. He looked at me like he despised me.”

Dáire frowned. “Then why are you going?”

“I have to protect him.” She nodded at the stairs. “Help me to the kitchen.”

Silence enveloped them as Dáire guided her down the stairs, through the living room where Cian and Miranda slept, and into the kitchen where the stove light glowed. Rhiannon shook off Dáire’s steadying grip and stumbled to the cabinets. She gathered a handful of small glass jars filled with various dry matter and yellowed liquids—angelica, betony, birch bark, celandine oil, and pennyroyal essence.

As she blended pinches and carefully measured drops into a glass bowl, she called over her shoulder, “I need one of those crystals in the jar under the bathroom sink.”

Shuffling footsteps told her Dáire went in search of the necessary item, allowing her to focus on the incantations she’d memorized centuries ago. Years had passed since she’d encountered a true need for magical protection, and she willed all the power she could gather from the atmosphere into her whispered incantation.

Dáire appeared at her right, the crystal in his outstretched palm. For once, she didn’t curse his habit of touching her vessels—a touch of his immortal strength couldn’t hurt this concoction.

She dropped the crystal into the mix and covered it completely. “Pluck three leaves of dragons blood from the plant on the back porch.”

With a grunt, her brother opened the porch door.

“While you’re out there, grab a sprig of elecampane too.”

He returned in minutes with the offering. She squeezed the stem of elecampane, pressing out two vital drops of fluid, then crushed the dragons blood until it resembled a wad of chewed gum, its potent essence added to the bowl.

Holding the glass dish in both hands, Rhiannon closed her eyes and concentrated on the conglomerated power between her palms. She willed it into the crystal, directed the tiny particles that held true protection through the pores and around the rock-hard fibers.