Destined

by Dawn Madigan

  “Did Aidan ever take you to Tara?” Rowan spoke again after a slight pause. “To the Destiny Stone—Lia Fáil?”

  “Lia Fáil… Oh, you mean that dick-shaped stone?”

  Rowan flinched at that one. “The Speakers will be fascinated with your description of Lia Fáil.”

  “The Speakers?” Dara frowned, rocking her bare feet against the crate. “That sure sounds like one of those wacky, uh, spiritual terms. Who are they? Some circle of demented elders channeling higher entities and doing Chakra workouts?”

  Rowan fought back a smile picturing Bantiarna Niamh’s exact expression should she hear this conversation. A longtime leader of the Speakers circle, she would have cocked a sandy brow at Dara’s “demented elders” designation. Niamh, his godmother, didn’t look her age one bit. But what was an over nine-hundred-year-old lady supposed to look like? She certainly didn’t look the motherly type, or the godmotherly type, if there was such a thing. Short-cut sandy hair and almond-shaped eyes, silvery-blue as cobalt, came to mind when he thought of the Bantiarna. She’d always been spoken of that way—as Bantiarna, the Lady—though there was no permanent Lord, or Tiarna, in her life. According to the strict Gaelic feudal system, women could not hold nobility titles in their own right. Their titles were a courtesy only, while the men were the actual titleholders. But then again, the Kanjali shifters had never claimed to be true Irish Gaelic.

  Dara was eyeing Rowan with a curious stare. “So, are we done here?”

  “Not quite.” Rowan leaned back and watched her, his face in shadows. “Your parents were…?”

  “Killed in a car accident three years ago,” she answered faintly after a long pause. “I lost Aidan a couple of months later that same year. Look, I’ve had enough small talk, Romeo. Open the damn door!”

  Dara hopped down from the crate, long past caring what the sudden jolt would do to her breasts. A soft groan coming from above told her that Rowan had noticed the way her breasts had just jiggled. Sliding down smoothly, he towered above her. She could sense his gaze roving over her body, warming her to the core. Her treacherous nipples came to attention.

  Again.

  “Let’s cut a deal.” His eyes were still somewhat shadowed, but she could swear they held a roguish glint. “Deals, that’s the American way, aye? I’ll open the…er…damn door.” One side of his mouth shot up in a slanting grin. “But you’ll let me accompany you. I’ll eventually get out of your life, but first you will indulge me with a small trip.”

  “I’m not playing quid pro quo with you.”

  “Of course we could just as well stay here, sweetheart.”

  “Goddess, you can’t be serious!”

  “Oh, you just watch me,” he retorted.

  Dara gave an incoherent scream, her hands balling into fists. She swiveled a hundred-eighty degrees and took a few fast strides away from him, then skidded to a stop and thought the better of it. She whipped around and marched back, halting no more than a few inches from Rowan.

  “This is blackmail, Mackey,” she growled. “A very, very primitive form of blackmail!”

  He watched her face with stoic amusement, again neglecting to respond to the obvious.

  Dara’s fists itched with the desire to pound against his chest, but his nudity made her aim higher.

  Goddess, how she ached to wipe that tiny smug smile off his face!

  Her right fist flew of its own will and slammed into his hard, arrogant jaw. He gave a slight groan, but his stance didn’t waver.

  “I guess I deserved that.” The Irishman flexed his jaw, rubbing his hand against it.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mackey.” She assumed a calm voice, her teacher’s voice.

  “And you’ve got one mean right hook, sweetheart.”

  Rowan ambled towards the door, his back turned from her, so she could only guess as to his expression. He sounded suspiciously as if he were speaking through one of his impish grins. She silently wished him all kinds of nasty things, most of them unfortunate mishaps involving his family jewels. Her gaze betrayed her, falling to the muscles flexing in his tight buttocks as he walked. Arriving at the entrance, muscles rippled in his upper back and shoulders as he lifted the hefty bolt and lowered it to the concrete with a grunt. Dara felt her treacherous tongue run over her dry lips in keen admiration for the show, and she pinched herself once, hard.

  “Oh, that trip you mentioned,” Dara spoke, mainly to stop herself from thinking. “Where are we heading?”

  “To the dick-shaped stone, I believe,” Rowan answered calmly as he stepped naked into the late morning’s sun.

  “Oh, no! No, no, no! No fucking way, Mackey!”

  Dara stormed out after him, and froze as bright sunlight washed down over her naked skin. Of course, Mackey was already lurking out there, leaning against her Silverado. As if to add a bit of panache, he was also ankle-deep in mud-drowned grass.

  “Now that’s just fucking lovely,” Dara bit out, raising furious eyes from Mackey’s feet to his face. “That’s just fucking grea—”

  She was arming her tongue with an exceptionally sarcastic remark when the words wedged in her throat.

  For a frozen moment it seemed as though an Irish Apollo had alighted his sun-chariot for a brief visit.

  Rowan’s still, nude form was displayed against the softly rounded roll of dark green hills, and beyond that rose Mount Hood’s snow-clad, sharp-angled peak, majestic and ethereal. Both Rowan’s rowdy hair and his eyes were ablaze. He wasn’t wearing his usual grin. Not a tiny smile, even. In truth, he’d been watching Dara so intently she thought his gaze would burn right into her.

  * * * * *

  The rain had rinsed clean even this forsaken patch of untamed land in the farthest outskirts of the city. The foreign soil now oozed a familiar, fresh smell—it made Rowan’s thoughts drift back home, to Ireland. As Dara charged after him, the morning light showered her pale skin with a bright luster. Caught by surprise, she stopped dead in her tracks, failing to latch her hands over her breasts. Rowan looked his fill at her creamy body, from the patch of black pelt at her thighs’ juncture to the round, pink nipples jutting from her lush swells.

  And then she lifted fuming dark brown eyes, her gaze lashing at him from behind her tumbled raven locks. Her cheeks were an intense red. When their gazes met, his heart skipped a beat for the second time these last twelve hours.

  Dara found her tongue first.

  “Anything I can help you with?” she snapped.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

  “Oh.” She shifted uneasily from one foot to another, averting her eyes from his furious erection, finally remembering to cross her hands over her breasts. Which left her crotch bare. Which made her frown and drop her hands to her hips while glaring menacingly at Rowan.

  “Look, I’m not flying to Ireland with you.”

  “I said nothing of flying.”

  “Maybe I should rephrase that. There’s absolutely no fucking way I’m leaving U.S. territory with you. Hey, what the hell are you doing? Move away from my truck!”

  Too damn late.

  His upper body disappeared behind the Chevy’s front door as he leaned into the driver’s seat. She’d left her car keys jammed inside.

  “Just a precaution. ‘Tis not safe taking your car. The Hound obviously saw you arrive.” Rowan slid back out and slammed the door shut, her keys jangling in his hand.

  “Let me guess.” Dara’s eyes were shooting daggers again. “You’ll ‘hold on to my car keys for now, since we’re sharing a common destination’. Just like you borrowed my dagger. Say, Romeo, where are you planning to hide all these pretty metal objects, you being naked an’ all. Up your ass?”

  His brow quirked. “Such words from the mouth of a kiddie teacher!”

  “I’m a swimming teacher,” she snapped. “I care more about keeping the ‘kiddies’ heads above the water than my exact choice of words!”

  Rowan clicked his tongue with mock reprimand
as he strode straight towards her in what appeared to be a direct collision course. She scowled, deciding she wasn’t going to budge for him, and he brushed just past her, skin barely touching skin.

  “Our ride’s just around the back, along with some food and clothing. Unless you feel you need neither.”

  Dara found her hands instinctively balling into fists again.

  Goddess, but the guy was an impossible jerk!

  An impossible, gorgeous jerk.

  A loud yelp from the warehouse’s rear startled Dara into finally following Mackey to the back of the squat building. She thought she heard him roaring something about “bold brats trying to lift a fella’s motorcycle”. Quickening her pace, she ran straight into the show.

  A GSX-R 600 white and blue Suzuki, presumably the aforementioned ride, stood against the back of the storehouse next to a tumbledown shed. Its tires were mud-tarnished and its smooth frame still glistened with raindrops. Had Rowan actually been insane enough to ride his bike here through last night’s storm?

  The source of the shrieks was writhing wildly in Rowan’s steely hold. His arm muscles swiftly jumped to attention as he held his captive a good few inches above the ground. It fell and curled into a scruffy bundle as Rowan abruptly let go, waving one of his hands with a curse.

  “She bleedin’ bit me!”

  “Good!” Dara lashed out.

  The bundle uncurled and leaped to her feet, swiping angrily at the mire pasted to her butt. Her hands patted and tugged, smoothing down her green woolen dress and gray cloak. She then gave a fierce shake to the golden-red mane that cascaded over her shoulders.

  “I didn’t bite you!” The girl brandished a condemning finger at Rowan’s chest. She had obviously meant to wave it in his face, but was far too short for that. “And I wasn’t stealing your metal junkpile. I was just trying it on for a fit!”

  Something flashed within her gaping cloak.

  “Silver,” Rowan growled. “You’re wearing silver in there. You didn’t bite me, you just bleedin’ burned me!”

  “Well an’ who told you to shove your hands down my dress?”

  “Are you two related?” Dara interrupted.

  “Related?” the girl chirped with an Irish flavor. “To this bucket of snots?”

  Rowan’s nostrils flared.

  Dara groaned and took a step that placed her between the two. She laid a restraining hand against the fuming Irishman’s chest. Goddess, his skin did feel velvety smooth, and beneath that smoothness rippled perfectly hard muscles…

  She shook her head, hoping to shake out each and every sassy thought involving Rowan Mackey.

  She felt ridiculous, attempting to stop the Irish version of the Incredible Hulk from swooping down on a sneering Thumbelina. Not to mention that both Dara and the Hulk were butt-naked.

  “’Tis nothing but a birth charm.” The girl closed her fingers around the silver amulet dangling from her slim neck. “A Celtic birth charm.”

  “May I see it, then?” Dara hoped she managed a friendly, candid smile while trying to ignore Rowan’s disgruntled rumble beneath her palm. She staunched a barely controllable urge to grit out, down, boy.

  The girl gazed back at her with light gray teacup eyes. Dara stifled a faint shudder. Within the face of a young woman, those huge eyes of shifting smoke and clouds shone with ancient wisdom. The girl shrugged, snapping Dara out of her spell. The amulet’s delicate silver chain stretched as she carefully extended her cupped hand and unclasped her fingers.

  “A raven,” Dara mumbled, as she cautiously leaned forward to take a closer look.

  Even saying the word felt like an understatement. The amulet gleamed with a silver so rich its surface seemed to flow, flashing a dazzling white with the slightest hint of sunlight. It almost hurt to look at it. The engraved bird, the work of a master craftsman, gave the disturbing impression that any minute now it was about to flap its wings and soar off its metal platform.

  “’Tis my sign, since I was born on the first of November,” the girl cheerfully informed Dara.

  “Oh! Happy birthday then.” The increasing pressure against Dara’s palm told her that Rowan was taking an interest in the silver amulet as well. Her fingers fluttered against his strong heartbeat, infusing warmth up her arm. Her betraying nipples demonstrated acute awareness of the man’s closeness.

  She sneaked a downward glance.

  At least part of him demonstrated—quite visibly—a similar, keen awareness of her.

  Dara snatched her hand from Rowan’s chest, her face glowing scarlet.

  A miscalculation.

  With the obstacle of her arm removed, Rowan inched closer. Much closer. Touchy-feely close. Dara bit her lip while trying hard not to look down. Her eyes whipped sideways in search of escape.

  Rowan draped an arm around her shoulders, the surprise move briefly stunning Dara into immobility. He bit back a smile, letting his fingertips roam back and forth along his willful mate’s arm.

  “The sign of Samhain,” he said at length as he studied the crafted silver, his sizzling senses finally gaining focus. “Who, by the name of the Great Mother, are you, lass?”

  “Should’ve asked me that before you ate the head off of me!” The girl slipped her pendant back beneath her cloak and fastened the gray cloth over the shifting glimmer. “I’m Brighid. With an ‘H’ and a ‘D’, mind you.”

  “And what are you bleedin’ doing here, eh, Brig-Hid?” Rowan pronounced the “H” and the “D” in a way that made the petite redhead frown deeply.

  “Getting sick and tired of tracking the two of you down across two continents, both Above and Below,” she growled in response.

  “Hold on a minute there, Brid.” Rowan’s nimble fingers had just dipped into the soft, inner hollow of Dara’s elbow. “Why were you tracking us down? And what’s this ‘above and below’ rubbish?”

  “Well, I was trying to warn you two against a possible Hound hit,” Brighid admitted sheepishly.

  “You sure blew that one,” Dara mumbled. She let out an involuntary yelp as Rowan traced a particularly sensitive spot inside her elbow. Twisting desperately, she managed to break free of his embrace.

  “I’m aware of my disgraceful failure.” Brighid meanwhile had the decency to appear embarrassed regarding the overall state of affairs. “See, I—uh—‘blew’ it ‘cause I miscalculated my slip Up,” she supplied helpfully.

  “How can you miscalculate a slip-up?” Dara wondered aloud. Her fingers absently skimmed over her abandoned elbow.

  Rowan took notice, concealing a soft grin.

  “I believe she means something a wee bit different than you, Dara.” He brushed his hand through his hair, increasing the fiery mayhem. “She might mean she miscalculated the time, or the place, of her slipping Up here from her world Below.”

  “You don’t mean she came from…” Dara’s eyes darted to Brighid, who now bore a look of growing impatience.

  “Aye, from the Otherworld. She’s Sidhe,” Rowan said softly. “I think she’s bean-sidhe, judging by her looks—the cape, the green gown. Aren’t you, Brid?”

  “Rowan, did you just say banshee?” Dara sounded alarmed. “Let’s put aside for a sec the fact that I do not believe in fairies. Being tracked down by a banshee is supposed to be good, how? Isn’t she a foreteller of death? A bad omen?”

  “Could you possibly be more insulting?” Brighid stomped a booted foot against the sodden grass, splatting mud in an impressive arc. “And ‘tis truly grand hearing a shifter claiming not to believe in fairies!”

  “Americans.” Rowan rolled his eyes. He quickly raised both palms in a gesture of mock surrender as Dara opened her mouth to retort. “No harm meant. Listen, Dara. According to Irish tradition, a banshee is much more than a warning of a person’s death. ‘Tis a family’s guardian spirit, an ancestral spirit bound to a Mortal family—an old aristocratic Irish family, such as the O’Neills, the O’Briens, the O’Connors—”

  “I don’t need a lecture i
n Irish genealogy, pal!” Dara was close to stomping her own foot.

  “And when one of the members of the family she’s attached to is dying, and she can do nothing to save him, then you can hear the banshee’s piercing cry on the night air, rolling over the hills of Ireland. That’s where the ‘bad omen’ legends are rooted.” Rowan lowered his voice secretively, deliberately stretching the last words.

  “Moron.” Dara suppressed a shudder. She hugged herself, drawing in a lungful of chilly air. The sunlight was dimming, and the skies were piling up rain clouds.

  “Clothes,” she growled with menace. “This has all been soooo much fun up ‘til now, but it’s starting to rain, dammit! I don’t want to get wet until I’m wearing some fucking clothes!”

  “So, that’s what turns you on, eh, sweetheart? I’ll try to keep it in mind for our next special time together.” Rowan flashed one of his roguish smiles.

  Dara flushed angrily and finally stomped her foot, lacking a matching verbal response.

  Brighid threw her head back and laughed, her gray cloak ballooning about her in the mounting wind and rain.

  Rowan reached for the knapsack secured to the back of his Suzuki and fumbled in its depths, fishing out a rolled-up t-shirt and throwing it at Dara.

  “You must be kidding.” She’d slipped Rowan’s shirt over her head and was struggling to find where the sleeves were. As expected, the XXL-sized shirt hung low, brushing her lower thighs. “That’s it? You expect me to frolic around in this?”

  She swiveled just in time to catch Rowan pulling a pair of jeans up his naked ass. He half-turned to face her and zipped his jeans up with a devilish smile. His glorious upper torso remained naked. Raindrops dripped from tangled, dark copper locks, hit Rowan’s chest, and engaged in a slow, sinuous slide to sneak beneath the denim’s waistline.

  Dara found herself wanting to follow the sneaky raindrops with her tongue.

  She drew in a shaky breath, clenching and relaxing her fists.

  “’Tis only a fair split, aye?” Rowan said, not missing Dara’s mesmerized stare. “I don’t carry more clothes than this. So you get the upper part, and I get the lower. My jeans are much too large for you anyway.” With a devilish grin he added, “Not to mention you’re used to frolicking around in a swimsuit in your line of work.”