Destined

by Dawn Madigan

  “Americans…” There was an obvious grin in his voice.

  She squatted beside Rowan, staring into the cave’s darkness, and then swiveled to look at his face. She found him watching her. His stormy green eyes held a sudden, striking clarity.

  Like an invisible sun had lit up everything from the inside, she thought.

  When he leaned down and tangled a hand into her hair, sweeping her head closer, she opened up for him with unreserved hunger. His tongue stroked in and out of her mouth, emulating the intimacy they had shared in Medb’s bedchambers. Finally, winded, they detached their swollen lips.

  “What we had in there—that was real,” Rowan said gruffly. “That was no drug, Dara, that made me take you as mine. That made you have me.”

  “I know that now.” She lightly touched his arm. “What about Brighid? Think she’s okay?”

  “Well…” He smiled. “I think banshees have their own ways of getting by.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  They had to crawl on their hands and knees against the rock-studded earth floor, rough stone slabs pressing low above their heads. Rowan had insisted on going in first, relying on Fergus Mac Roich’s promise that they wouldn’t be followed from this end. He didn’t like it. Trusting others, anyone not kinfolk, went against his nature. True, Mac Roich was dé-Danann, thus sharing a common, deep-seated link with the Kanjali. But still…

  Soon the ground became mostly rock. Dara was close behind, finding it easier to move within the narrow confines. Her breath came soft and uneven behind him, interspersed with small sighs and half-moans that made his blood seethe even within this viscous blackness.

  The light designating their entry point had gradually shrunk to a white dot and had soon been swallowed by the dark. As they moved deeper into the cave they were both able to walk upright, compressed between the narrow walls. The stone was coarse and clammy against their palms and cheeks, nearly the only solid sensation to hold on to. Rowan felt for jagged edges, alerting Dara with soft, terse whispers. They seemed to be advancing endlessly, losing the feel of time, their pace excruciatingly slow. Rowan found himself frequently reaching behind him, making sure Dara was still there. He needed the fleeting brush of warm skin against his fingers—the curve of a shoulder, the silken smoothness of a cheek.

  Little by little they realized that their eyes could separate black from blacker. Soon they were actually seeing the play of shadows against the uneven, serrated stone.

  “Getting near,” Rowan said.

  “Must be day outside,” Dara whispered back.

  To her surprise, Rowan halted and turned from the feeble evidence of daylight ahead. She bumped into him within the slowly fading darkness, and he caught her in a firm embrace. Puzzled, she squeezed him back, skimming her fingers from the small of his back up the mild bow of his spine. Their mouths fumbled in the dark and found each other, lips clinging. Dara’s low moan slipped into Rowan’s mouth, and he answered with a stifled groan from deep in his throat. His hands pressed her against his solid chest, against his rampant cock. Their shared breaths and tongues entangled until it was no longer clear in whose mouth each moved, licked and sucked. At some point, they both went up for air.

  “Will you be mine in this Realm as well, sweetheart?” Rowan’s raspy, warm whisper breathed over Dara’s mouth.

  “Do you still need to ask?” she mumbled back, and her tongue flicked across his lips, a gentle tease.

  Still, that wasn’t a yes. Rowan squeezed her one last time and released her, letting the question go for now.

  They had to crouch as they went through the final passage, and soon there was an earth floor beneath their feet. Scanty daylight illumined slabs and blocks of pale limestone. The passageway abruptly opened to a low chamber, and bright sunlight burst in through the opening ahead. The entrance had been framed with massive blocks of limestone, creating a stone lintel. Wild grass thrived close to the sunlight, lapping the stones’ base with green tongues.

  “See those shallow, vertical grooves carved in the horizontal slab?” Rowan pointed to the low-hung stone lintel.

  “Up there, close to the stone’s lower edge?” She huddled close, daylight warming her face.

  “Aye, there. It’s an Ogham inscription.”

  “What does it say?” She crouched closer to the opening.

  “’Tis just a name, one of Medb’s sons,” he replied. “She has many of those. Many husbands, too, not counting her lover, Fergus Mac Roich. Stories say she used to bed thirty men each day, or go with Fergus once.”

  “You’ve made a narrow escape, then.” Dara giggled and turned, now granting him a generous view of the soft rounded mounds packed tightly in her corset. The creamy breasts jiggled with her laughter. “The way Her Highness was ogling you back by the river.”

  She yelled as Rowan grabbed one of her ankles, exerting a soft, firm pull.

  “Wait, Dara, let me go out first.” He grinned. “Who knows what might be lurking out there, patiently waiting to ambush a luscious lass such as you.”

  “Go knock yourself out then,” she retorted with a sweet smile. “Don’t complain later that a certain luscious lass and her faithful, very sharp dagger weren’t there for you just when you needed them most.”

  “Point taken,” he nodded as he watched her, his stirring cock stealing the blood supply needed for his brain. He had to get himself out of there, fast, if he wanted anything done soon.

  Rowan brushed past her a bit closer than necessary as he climbed out of the cave’s mouth. Even the fleeting rub of their bodies made Dara’s skin feel charged. She watched Rowan’s receding back, thinking his ass looked good enough to eat in the tight buckskin breeches. She gripped her dagger’s hilt, just in case something nasty was indeed waiting to ambush them.

  Shouts from outside the cave made Dara curse and leap towards the entrance, dagger in hand. “Dammit, Rowan, what did I just tell you?”

  She pressed hard against the chilly stone, partly hidden behind it, an assortment of terrifying visions playing in her mind. Her heart pounded like a caged bird. She strained to listen, to make something meaningful out of the jumble of sound.

  Come on, Dara, while you’re standing here wondering, something horrible might be happening to him!

  She tensed, getting ready to throw herself into whatever was going on out there.

  A head dipped into the cave, and she screamed.

  “Just me, lassie. Get yourself up here, come meet a friend of mine.” Rowan’s laugh echoed and bounced against the small chamber’s walls. “And put that knife of yours away, he might get the wrong idea!”

  “Oh, yeah?” She shoved the dagger back into its sheath and climbed out of the cave, ignoring Rowan’s offered hand. Her eyes squinted against the bright sunlight. “Goddess, I feel like I’m in a trashy vampire movie!” Her eyes widened at the sound of a soft, appreciative whistle. Slowly, she turned to face its source.

  “A fine thing, she is!” The whistler watched her with a devilishly charming smile. He was about Rowan’s height, his tangled hair a honey-colored havoc lightly streaked by the sun.

  “Oh, it talks!” Dara crossed her arms, her gaze spearing the impertinent blond.

  “Dara—” Rowan grinned, “—this is Teague, Teague O’Rourke. Teague, this ‘fine thing’ here is Dara.” His voice softened as he added, “The one I went away looking for.”

  Dara’s breath caught at Rowan’s words. Teague’s sky-blue eyes darted between the two of them. Finally he shook his head and lowered his amused gaze, hiding a broadening grin.

  “Uh, I was sent here by the Bantiarna.” Teague finally broke the stretching silence.

  “Bantiarna?” Dara arched a questioning brow.

  “The Bantiarna Niamh,” Teague replied, his gaze flicking briefly back to her. “Bantiarna means Lady, Dara. She’s the one giving the orders around here.” His blue eyes went to Rowan again. “Since you disappeared, bud, many of us have been positioned at certain points, ones assumed to be�
�Gateways.” He squirmed uneasily, adding, “Not that all through these bleedin’ hundreds of years we’ve ever managed to go through one.”

  “How long, Teague?” Rowan demanded. “How long have I been away?”

  “We’re celebrating Beltaine in three sundowns.” Teague’s tone was cautious.

  “Six months.” Rowan’s lips twitched in a soft, bitter laugh. “Six bleedin’ months!”

  “But it felt like a few hours, just a little more than a day.” Dara paled and turned to look at the cave again, as if its black mouth was holding back a secret. “A couple of days, maybe!”

  “Time trickery. It’s been known to happen before,” Teague told her softly. “You know the legend of Oisin, Dara? The bard who traveled to Tír Na nÓg?”

  “Better take us to the Bantiarna now, Teague, there’ll be time enough for stories later,” Rowan intervened. “I need a word with her, and there’s a bleedin’ Hound out there, very keen on biting our arses!”

  “A Hound?” Teague shot a quick glance in Dara’s direction. “That’s what we figured when we found the bike you rented, along with her monster truck, deserted by that Portland warehouse. Not to mention the blood on the rug.”

  “Hey watch it, pal, that’s my Silverado you’re badmouthing.” Dara glowered at Teague, suddenly missing her big, trusty Chevy. “What have you done with my truck, anyway?”

  “O’Rourke.” Rowan scanned his old pal with a sinister look. “By now you should be walking us to Bantiarna Niamh fairly lively.”

  “Aye. Care if we drive over there instead of walking, though, boyo?” Teague appeared unruffled by his friend’s harsh demeanor. “’Tis a bit hard to go by foot from Roscommon to Meath.”

  “You still driving that oul’ Bronco?” Rowan teased as the three of them ambled away from the narrow cave’s opening. “I think that oul’ banger is the only car in Ireland with a left-hand drive.”

  “You off your nut, bud? My Bronco looks much hotter than that outfit you’re sportin’.”

  Dara grinned to herself, eavesdropping on the prickly exchange. She wondered if the two of them had known Aidan. He’d grown up in these green hills, they had to have known him. Had the three of them been buddies? She lifted her eyes from the grass and took a sweeping, hungry look around, curious to see bits and pieces of this land Rowan called home.

  Aidan’s home.

  They were strolling through a broad, grassy plain, with three large, green mounds rising from the fields. The wide-open landscape was studded with rounded hillocks, ring forts and ring-shaped barrows. Distant, shallow mountains with mist-shrouded tops crowned the far-reaching grassland. She paused in her walk, taking a slow, deep breath. The two Irishmen halted and watched her, similar looks on their faces.

  “A beauty, isn’t she?” Teague grinned softly, his smile very much like Rowan’s. “The land. All of these acres are Cruachan Aí, the Plain of the Mounds.” He swung an arm towards the highest of the three mounds jutting from the plain. “There is Rath Cruachan. Legends tell that’s where Queen Maeve’s palace once stood.”

  “He means our High Princess Medb,” Rowan told Dara. “The folktales transformed her into Queen Maeve. Her palace is still standing, Teague, only not Up here.”

  “Yeah, it stands where it has for thousands of years—Rath Cruachan of Lower Realm’s Connachta,” Dara’s gaze stroked over the sights. “Strange, Rowan, many place-names here seem to be identical to Lower Realm ones, or at least they’re sounding very close. Like there’s a ‘Rath Cruachan’ both Up here and Down there.”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “There are many overlaps between the Realms. Mainly around Gateway points, I think.”

  “By Great Danu,” Teague muttered. “I’m still trying to convince myself you two did show up from the bleedin’ Otherworld!” He shook his head, exhaling a morose sigh. His expression brightened as they finally stopped by a pampered Ford Bronco gleaming in deep maroon and chrome, its side striping a blazing tricolored orange. The fiberglass hardtop was off, and there was no rear seat installed.

  Someone obviously loved this car, Dara thought. “Hey, nice Bronco!” She ran appreciative fingertips over the truck’s frame. She’d picked up her own love of trucks from Aidan. “It’s a seventy-eight, seventy-nine?”

  “A seventy-nine, all original, except for the tires,” Teague eyed her curiously. “You like a good ride, lass?”

  “Watch it, bucko!” Rowan growled.

  Teague threw his head back with a warm, rolling laugh.

  Rowan clamped his hands on Dara’s waist. “We’ll be riding in the back,” he announced. He lifted her with ease into the Bronco’s open trunk before she managed a protest, then leaped in after her.

  “Suit yourself.” Teague’s laughter rang clear as he shuffled his car keys in his hand.

  “What was that all about?” Dara demanded of Rowan, her face flushed.

  Goddess, could Rowan be jealous?

  Turning the thought over in her mind, she missed Teague hopping into the driver’s seat and shutting the door behind him with a gentle slam. She also tuned out the Bronco stirring to life with a healthy roar. The truck’s forward surge and immediate side-swerve took her completely by surprise, throwing her straight into Rowan’s arms. They both fell onto the trunk’s platform in a heap of arms and legs.

  “I swear he did that on purpose!” Dara panted, squirming above Rowan. Another light bounce of the truck threw them both off-balance again, sending them rolling against the bumpy platform.

  “You bleedin’ mule!” Rowan bellowed, veins cording in his neck. He pounded with his fist against the truck’s wall. “Teague! You want your teeth in a bag?”

  “He can’t hear you,” Dara groaned beneath him. “Mackey, move your hand off of my ass!”

  The ride had seemed calmer for the last minute or so. Rowan managed to climb to a crouch above Dara, just enough for her to roll over to her tummy. She propped herself against the platform, trying to crawl out from beneath him. She made it to a squat before the Bronco bounced gleefully over some obstacle, throwing them into a wild bundle again.

  “Let’s just…lie down for a bit…” Dara begged over the Bronco’s roar. Once more she’d found herself lying on top of Rowan.

  “That’s Teague for you,” he growled from beneath her, locking his hands over her ass. “You just wait ‘til I get my hands on him.”

  The truck slowed down again. This time they didn’t dare climb to their feet. Dara lifted her eyes to Rowan, wringing his soft vest in her fists for support.

  “Nice pal you have there,” she told him.

  He grinned down at her, shaking his head. “He’s truly a harmless bastard,” he said. And then they both burst into a fit of laughter, gasping and panting with tearing eyes.

  “This is going to be a long ride,” Dara giggled.

  “No, sweetheart,” Rowan laughed. “He’s going to have to take the N-5 soon, and then it’s almost a straight, smooth road from here to Meath.”

  “Where are we heading?” she mumbled, her breath hot against his neck. She was heavy in his arms, swaying between wakefulness and sleep, with the sun warming her back.

  “To a Lady,” he answered softly, his enfolding arms roaming up and down her back. “A Lady living in a wood castle on the river Boyne.” Nodding slowly, Dara curled up like a cat in his embrace. Rowan saw her eyes grow hooded, narrowing to slits, as she sank more heavily in his hold and fell into a carefree slumber.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Tonight’s all taken care of, then?” Niamh inquired without turning away from the broad window. Her gaze surveyed the endless stretch of intense blue and green, the river Boyne winding its way through the lush, sun-bright foliage. Small doll-like figures dotted the riverbank, mostly fishermen after wild brown trout.

  “Aye, Bantiarna,” Aislinn replied, taking another cautious step among the hall’s shadows. “The Speakers have all been informed of tonight’s Gathering.”

  “Good,” Niamh gave a small s
igh, finally turning to look at her protégé. “You did good, Aislinn.”

  The young woman returned a hesitant smile. She looked the picture of bottled-up tension. Niamh smiled inwardly, appreciating the girl’s excitement. Her two foundlings, Rowan and, a while later, Aislinn, had been raised like true brother and sister. While red-haired Rowan Mackey had grown to be a big, sturdy man, with an energetic, confident manner, Aislinn had remained a petite, fragile brunette, tending to keep to herself. An air of insecurity seemed to cling to her every action even as she matured, leaving the past behind.

  However, the difference between the two ranged further than appearance and demeanor. Aislinn was a mere human…a Mortal. Rowan was Kanjali, and further than that, he was the last of the Guardians born. The most powerful shifters among the Kanjali, Guardians were the first to hold back Hound attacks, and their slow disappearance along the centuries was a true loss.

  Years back, chiding voices had been raised among the shifters, ill at ease with Niamh’s decision to rear a Mortal amongst them. Niamh would have none of that, firmly hushing them all. She’d taken both children, Rowan and Aislinn, to her estate—a manor overlooking the river Boyne and fringing the small market town of Trim.

  “The Castle”, as Rowan had fondly named the estate, though it was built out of wood, not rock, held no turrets or trenches, and was enclosed by tall, clipped hedges of beech and yew instead of a high stone wall. Anyone keen on the dark gothic look could find it in the true Castle of Trim, built on the Boyne’s opposite bank.

  “Is there anything else?” Niamh quirked a sandy brow, seeing Aislinn hesitate.

  “Well,” Aislinn mumbled, and then the words poured out in a flood. “Has Rowan found his Chosen One? Is he bringing her over? Will she come?” she asked, eyes eager. “Is he all right?”

  “Rowan is grand.” Niamh bit back a grin. “Now, don’t you have something better to do than stand there?”

  Aislinn gave her a brief, hasty nod, retreating back to the hallway among the room’s shadows. Niamh turned back to the window, her eyes readjusting to the day’s brightness. She was no less keyed up than the girl, only far better skilled at concealing it.