by Dawn Madigan
Rowan Mackey, dressed in naught but his pelt, had Dara Neilan locked in his embrace, her back to his chest, her shirt riding high above her breasts. She didn’t seem to mind. She was wearing nothing but Mackey’s hand over one aroused breast, and his face on hers. Oh, and that mean-looking ritual dagger of hers.
Dara was staring speechless at the banshee, her eyes wide, pupils still dilated. She slowly ran her tongue over her misted, swollen lips.
Rowan was catching his own breath, giving Brighid a harsh once-over. He released Dara’s shirt, allowing it to slide back down over her nudity. “Nice of you to have joined us again, Brid,” he said pointedly, his “nice” emphasis clearly conveying his feelings regarding the rude interruption.
Brighid beamed with an elfin smile. “Later you can wear each other’s faces for breakfast, lunch and dinner, for all I care! ‘Tis not the right time now. We should start moving.”
“Oh, should we?” Dara muttered, at last regaining the power of speech.
“Aye, Dara. We should be moving like our arses are on fire.” Brighid glared at her. “I’ve been touring the land and spotted no trouble—yet. For now we have an open road all the way to the Connachta border.”
“Hmmm.” Rowan’s deep-throated rumble vibrated against Dara’s nape, where his mouth had come to rest. Gently, he released her from his passionate embrace, brushing his mouth against her mussed hair as he stepped away from her.
Her eyes shot his way, heated and anxious. What was he up to?
She understood quickly as he knelt once more amidst the fresh greenery, his handsome features assuming a look of intent concentration.
Damn the stubborn Irishman, he was trying transformation again!
Mists were swirling around Rowan’s naked, crouched form, a product of the connection between his own life force and the Power he was drawing on.
He was manipulating the energies in silent concentration, slowing the shapechanging sequence down to a crawl. Haze shimmered and flowed, thickening to milky-white, blurring his features beyond visibility.
Dara’s nails burrowed into her flesh as she watched. Why was he playing with the Powers again, and so soon? The first time had literally brought him to his knees. If she spoke now she might break his concentration, boosting the odds that things would again go wrong.
Dara held her breath as the fog slowly stripped away from Rowan, melting into the air. A mild slapping noise sounding from the still fog-solid core startled her into a yelp. Water splattered over her already wet shirt, legs, arms and face. She yelped again and leaped back. She attempted to drill through the cloudy essence, tracing a movement, something resembling a huge—dog?—vigorously shaking water out of its fur.
No, it was a huge mac’tir.
Brighid’s silvery laughter rang close by. “Aye, Rowan, that’s the way to handle the Powers!”
Rowan’s beastly incarnation took a smooth, flowing step towards Dara, shedding the last bit of mist from its fur. He trampled over his shed jeans. Almond-shaped amber eyes shone with a familiar roguish glint. Dara gasped, tentatively extending fingertips to the rich flow of tawny, copper-streaked fur.
I won’t bite.
She caught his golden gaze, dazzled, searching. Was that Rowan speaking to her? His voice had echoed clearly in her mind, even though she could swear her ears only heard a soft growl emerging from his throat.
I won’t bite, unless you insist, his voice whispered in her mind, spiced with familiar mischief.
His maw held a smile, if a maw could ever hold one. Dara broke into laughter, ringing boundless and carefree in the open air. She was able to understand him! He truly remained himself inside that mac’tir beast! She sank her hands fully into the thick, warm silk of Rowan’s neck fur. Her palms found the soft skin beneath and waded towards his flanks. His rib cage swelled and eased beneath her hands with the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
“Our first stop will be at a friend of mine’s,” Brighid announced. “He’s a Lúracán.”
“He’s a what?” Dara blurted.
“A fairy shoemaker,” Brighid supplied helpfully, “making his living on the border between Mumha and Connachta. We need help in the crossing, and he might know some ways.”
Hop on, then, sweetheart.
Rowan’s voice was an enticing whisper in Dara’s mind. It was an offer she could hardly refuse.
Chapter Nine
“Stop.”
The man gave a gentle tug to his horse’s reins as he uttered the soft command. The massive white horse halted with a snort, its nostrils flaring. His escorts did the same a short distance behind him, the crunch of leaves dwindling into silence.
A dark, slender figure slid out from behind a curtain of shadows and leaves. The prowler went down on his knees in the forest’s dark flora.
“Prince Donn.”
“You may rise, Adhamh.”
Adam flowed back to his feet with a predatory grace.
“’Tis good to hear my true name spoken again.”
Donn leaned slightly over the braided reins. Velvet clung in deep indigo waves to his olive-brown skin. His hair was pulled back from his sharp-angled face, woven into sepia braids. His saddle’s high pommel gleamed silver between his thighs, the saddle’s soft leather-covering heavily embroidered with silver knotwork and triskeles.
He crooked one dark brow.
“Is that what you came here for, Hound? To hear me speak your name?”
Laughter rose in a soft hum from the Prince’s entourage. Leaves crackled again as horses rocked and huffed with unease beneath their shadowy riders.
Adam’s gaze stayed on the prince, dark and impassive. “I am honored to be addressed by Donn of Truth, Prince of the Knockfierna Mound, son of King Miled. I came here, Highness, hoping you’d grant me your gracious help.”
Donn straightened in his saddle. The hushed laughter behind his stiffened back abated almost at once.
“There is no need to summon my pedigree to your aid, Cú. I remember well who gave me a second life here…and who cost me the first one.”
He hopped down from his horse and strode to Adam. Well-tanned deerskin boots hugged his calves and were tied at the knees with silk cords, each wound three times about his legs. A short, cruel-looking sword was secured against his left thigh. He halted a hairsbreadth from the motionless Hound, staring him in the eye.
“If you are here, so are they,” the Prince said softly. “How many?”
“A couple of Upper Realm dé-Danann shifters,” Adam answered. “Kanjali—a man and a woman. They have a bean-sidhe with them for a guide.” The Hound’s blank gaze dropped to Donn’s sword. It was iron, double-edged, with a long tapering point. Weapon-wise, the Prince had obviously stuck to his old Celt-Iberian heritage.
Donn nodded thoughtfully. “You know the Sidhe’s identity?”
“She goes by the name of Brighid.”
“Brighid…” Donn paused. “Isn’t she the solitary banshee? The one with no Mortal family attached?”
“The Prince remembers well.” Adam held Donn’s hot gaze, his own face blank of expression. “But I’d like to set straight a misguided assumption. There is no such thing as a ‘solitary banshee’.”
A hint of darker color tinted the Prince’s olive cheeks. “This ‘misguided assumption’ is considered common knowledge. Brighid is the only one of the six guardian Sidhe with no Mortal family to tend.”
“I believe this specific piece of knowledge has been spread around for a reason.” Adam wore a thin smile. “To protect the mysterious Mortal family that is truly under Brighid’s care. And such a family does exist, I vow it.”
“An intriguing thought.” Donn scrutinized Adam’s face. “Is there any special reason for bringing this up now?” His mind tried to reach deeper into Adam’s thoughts, but tumbled into an impermeable shield. Behind him he sensed his escorts soothing their horses with a blend of muted murmurs.
“Four thousand years is time enough for anyone to come up with i
ntriguing thoughts,” Adam said, giving Donn a slight nod. “Indeed, there is a reason. I think that even as we speak Brighid is doing her duty, loyally serving her Mortal family. I think…” He was purposefully drawing out the words, and Donn gritted his teeth. “That one of the two Kanjali shifters traveling with the banshee is a descendant of her Mortal family’s lineage.”
“One of the shifters is a mixed-breed, then,” Donn said. “Mortal and dé-Danann?”
“I believe so.”
“Which suits Eriu’s prophecy well,” Donn’s voice darkened. “It mentions a mixed-breed, doesn’t it?”
“If I recall the ancient prophecy correctly,” Adam’s voice slithered like a snake brushing velvet, “Eriu’s exact words were, ‘a seed from a union above and below’.”
“Enough.” Donn’s whisper breathed fury. “If all your guesses so far have been accurate, then I can make another one. I think I can safely guess the identity of Brighid’s Mortal family.” His lips tightened into a crooked, wry smile. A name slipped from his mouth with a hiss, and his right hand brushed his sword’s pommel as he uttered it. “Amergin. Brighid’s Mortals carry Amergin’s blood in their veins.”
Adam nodded. “It appears that your younger brother didn’t die heirless after all. Though someone went to great trouble erasing that fact, along with others, from the ancient texts. I do believe that the mixed-breed shifter traveling with the banshee can be traced straight back to your brother, Amergin.”
“The mixed-breed, is it the man or the woman?”
“I don’t have this knowledge, Prince.”
“So,” Donn’s tone was acrid. “My pious little brother left a bastard behind, did he? I can’t stand such inconsistencies.” The Prince was still smiling. “The ancient texts should always mirror the actual truth, don’t you think?”
“I would be glad to set it straight if the Prince would be kind enough to lend me his aid.”
“Why do you need my help, Cú?” Donn’s smile dissolved. “Silence!” he barked abruptly, half-turning his face towards his muttering escorts. Quiet spread beneath the dark-barked, gnarled trees of Kilduv, the Black Forest. Unappeased, the Prince turned his sizzling gaze back to Adam.
“Knockgreany’s borders are guarded, Prince.” Adam’s tone was as stolid as his face. “When I followed the Sidhe through the Gateway she’d opened, I was sidetracked here by protective wards. Else—” he gave an unpleasant smile, tugging at the bow slung against his back, “—they all would’ve been dead by now, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Knockgreany,” Donn repeated. The Hound’s smile caused a chill even in his bones. “I’ve been thinking for some time now to pay the sweet Grian a courtesy visit.”
Adam waited silently for the Prince of the Knockfierna Mound to make his decision. Of course, hunting down the two Kanjali shifters and evening up an ancient score with a long-dead brother would make too-tempting a trophy for the Prince to refuse.
Adam’s silence had been honed to perfection by nonstop tracking of endless prey in search for the right kill, followed by lonely stalking, then silent killing from afar. Always the same means, when it came to the Kanjali—his silver-tipped arrows, their tail etched with his name. He couldn’t choose any other way Up there. The Law had been set by Her long ago, compelling him to use no other weapon but this one.
Kanjali. There had been so many of them, and so few such as him. But only a handful of Others, those born Guardians, had been able to kill his kind. Kanjali and Cú, Bound-Ones and Hounds, their deadly game had always had rules, an ancient Law carved in stone and water and trees, enacted by She who had borne the Kanjali, and He who had conjured Adam’s kind. Their arena had always been Up there.
And now that he was the last of his kind, the game was about to end.
He could smell it, could feel it like an ache deep in his bones.
The arena had finally changed, and here they seemed to have no rules.
Chapter Ten
Dara squeezed her bare thighs on Rowan’s hot flanks. His muscles flowed beneath her flesh as he tore through the meadow, making sky and grass swirl into a blur. She twisted her fingers within his tawny mane, clutching fistfuls of his fur. Having nothing on but a borrowed shirt, Dara was completely bare against Rowan’s lithe body—nothing shielded her cunt from the feel of silky fur and velvety skin, the raw energy unleashed in the muscles rippling beneath her. Dara suspected that Rowan rather liked her riding style.
Well, she didn’t exactly dislike it, either.
High above them circled and crowed an oversized raven with a blazing feathery tuft topping its head. It alternated between smooth soaring and deep dives that could put to shame a preying hawk.
Brighid makes an interesting bird, aye?
“You could say that again!” Dara yelled her reply against the wind and ate a mouthful of her own hair. Rowan’s answering bark of laughter rippled beneath her, and she tightened her arms and legs on his undulating muscles. Those delicious ripples sent a white-hot frisson of pleasure right through her pussy.
Indeed, Brighid had changed into quite a unique raven. The banshee had been right to suggest they shapechange—in a short time they had covered an incredible distance.
“How long to the Mumha–Connachta border?” Dara dared another scream, her cheek pressed tight against Rowan’s neck. His scent assailed her senses, tangy and bestial and male. His reply drifted almost immediately into her thoughts.
Brighid says not long now. I could use a short break. Toying with this place’s Powers nearly squeezed me dry.
Dara still couldn’t shake the odd feeling of hearing Rowan’s voice within her head. Funny, it seemed as though Rowan in his mac’tir form could communicate with Brighid on some level Dara couldn’t detect, somewhere way off her scales. She wondered if she could do the same if she shapechanged. Straining to see through the dark tresses tumbling over her face, she managed to trace a large black bird surfing the airstreams. Brighid was guiding them towards a group of white-clad trees.
Soon Brighid’s raven form disappeared as Rowan slipped into the cool shadows of the blooming trees. He slowed down to a trot and then to a weary amble, wading deeper into the grove through the undergrowth. A babbling brook split the wood’s lush earth. The mac’tir crouched beside it, letting Dara slide down from his back. He was panting heavily. A couple more minutes went by before he rose and lowered his muzzle to the stream, downing the cool water in big gulps.
“You okay?”
Rowan’s beastly form turned away from the water to meet her gaze.
“You haven’t changed back yet to your man-form. Is everything okay, Rowan?” Dara repeated, absently stretching his sweat-soaked shirt over her thighs.
Rowan’s amber gaze scanned her face.
‘Tis a place of strange Power, he whispered in her mind. Playing with it has been far from easy. First times are always the hardest. I will change back soon.
“Oh.” Dara studied him as he drew near, dripping water all around him. He looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. His intense golden gaze made her blush. “Everything’s fine with you, then.”
Aye. Everything’s fine.
Dara gasped as Rowan exhaled a soft, warm breath that stroked over her breasts. Her nipples instantly obeyed the gentle caress, tightening against her thin shirt. She froze, taken by surprise, and he inched yet closer. Dara sucked in another sharp breath as his tongue thoroughly laved one peaked nipple through the shirt’s sodden cloth. Her hands rose with a will of their own and dipped into Rowan’s silky mane, pulling his magnificent, large head closer by fistfuls of his fur. One wet nipple was teased to an aching hard knot as Rowan’s tongue moved to tend her other breast. She gave a soft, lingering moan.
I really liked that ride, sweetheart, his voice teased in her mind.
“Rowan…”
Her other nipple grew pebble-hard, too. Rowan’s large, tawny head butted gently against her tummy, a wet muzzle touching the shirt-covered juncture bet
ween her thighs.
“Oh Goddess, Rowan, we shouldn’t… Rowan!”
His gentle shove sent Dara stumbling back. She landed on her butt in the cushioning grass, the oversized t-shirt riding high up her thighs. The large, exquisite beast lowered its head, breathing a gentle, hot line from Dara’s neck down her quivering body. She shuddered as Rowan’s breath hovered between her spread thighs, the shirt making a flimsy barrier between the rough tongue and her sodden cunt. Was he a wolf indeed, or was he more like a very big dog? Dara couldn’t tell anymore, but she loved that recipe’s winning result. Goddess, she was wet for him. Wet and aching inside.
Another moan escaped her mouth.
The large head rose from between her legs, golden gaze centering on her face. Rowan’s seductive whisper, full of dark, sultry promise, penetrated her thoughts.
Would you like me to stop now, sweetheart?
Rowan scanned his mate’s face. Dara’s pupils were huge, making her brown eyes seem almost black. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps. She didn’t, or couldn’t, answer.
He took in a whiff of her arousal, pungent and tantalizing. That was his undoing. Nothing, absolutely nothing could stop him now. He had to taste her, fully, deeply. He bent his head again and shoved a questing muzzle beneath her shirt.
Dara yelped. She sank to her back as the large, rough tongue swiped over her cunt. Her shoulder rig’s straps etched into her flesh, the dagger beneath her left arm scraping the grass. She dug her fingers into the ground, looking for something to hold onto. Anything.
Rowan washed Dara’s pussy with a long, leisurely lick, starting at the puckered tight ring of her anus. His limber tongue plowed up to the damp, dark fuzz of curls topping her mound. Her nether lips were swollen and glistening with her juices and his tongue’s wet work. She wanted him just as badly as he lusted after her. His sensitive tongue found the slick nub of her clit and lingered there, circling and exploring. By Danu, having a long, thick tongue was proving to be quite handy!
