by A. S. Green
“But the threat is increasing on these shores,” Cormac said. “Our new shores. And has recently become more imminent. In the last two months alone, I’ve discovered and buried the mutilated remains of two daoine youths from Grand Marais.”
There were some gasps from the crowd, but Declan noticed others nod. Rumors had spread. Perhaps that was why so many had come.
“You hunted for fifty years and have nothing to show for it,” Ian said, sounding both patronizing and disbelieving.
“The enemy was never one person,” Cormac explained. “As soon as I caught the trail, another would take his or her place. They are diversified and well organized. I called this council because we need to be the same. Right now we are divided, which is why they have the upper hand.”
“Why should we listen to you?” Ian asked, leveling his gaze on Meghan. “You’ve brought one of them into our midst, right into the ring. It’s blasphemous.”
Instinctively, the other cú sídhe closed ranks around the MacConalls, sensing things already deteriorating. A threat against an anamchara was not to be trifled with, and Declan’s gaze shot reactively to Rowan, whose head was bowed.
“No one speaks ill of my wife,” Cormac said, his voice tense but still somehow holding his shit. “She has defended the sídhe by killing the one who’d been terrorizing the North Shore all summer.”
“Says you,” Ian snorted.
Declan was beginning to hate this daoine and, deep inside of him, his hound rumbled his agreement.
Declan stepped forward and tossed his offering into the fire. “Meghan MacConall is half leannán sídhe. She has every right to be here, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
Rowan’s head shot up at the sound of his voice. He hoped she liked that he defended his family, and he thought Cormac would appreciate the backup. Instead, his brother scowled at him.
“We thought we sensed something familiar in her,” said Maeve with a toss of her golden hair, and the other leannán murmured their approval, smiling at Meghan in a bewitching way that made her lean toward them.
Cormac grabbed her elbow before she lost her balance, then he continued with his argument, using a calm and impassive tone that had Declan feeling both irritated and impressed.
“Two months ago, the Black Castle sought retribution against my anamchara. She was attacked. There were seven of them and one of her. It was only by the grace of Danu that we found her in time. My brothers Aiden and Declan killed five; A púca who was with us killed, one. The last escaped. That one has now recruited more.”
Declan watched Rowan’s face as she finally heard the details of that day. To both his surprise and great pride, she did not shrink or recoil from the truth. Instead, she looked angry that they’d had the need to rescue Meghan at all.
“How did one escape?” Ian asked. “Why could you not kill the seventh? Why should we listen to someone who has nothing to show for himself? You are not your father, Cormac MacConall, so don’t try to convince us that you have anything to offer us but your own failings.”
All of the MacConalls went rigid—as did the Tofte and Silver Bay cú sídhe behind them—and Declan felt the tremor of violence in his arms. A low growl vibrated through Cormac’s and Aiden’s chests, and Declan sensed that the next provocation would send this council into an outright brawl.
The hound in him paced, hating the distance between him and Rowan. He should have made her stay at home. The last thing he wanted was for her to be caught in the middle, and he cursed himself for having done it again. He promised he’d never put her at risk, and here he was—doing just that, and less than twenty-four hours later.
“You seem to have lost focus,” said a feminine voice who had yet to speak. Aiden went rigid, and when Declan turned toward the voice, he was only half-surprised to see Branna saunter out from behind the Silver Bay cú sídhe. She was wearing a black parka and knee-high boots, and her long dark hair hung wild around her face.
“You don’t have the right to speak,” Ian said. “You’ve made no offering.”
“Offerings are not required of the púca,” she said, sounding as if she were explaining something to a child.
Was that true? Looking around, it didn’t seem that anyone knew for sure.
Ian tried again. “Regardless, it should be one of your males to speak on your behalf.”
“Is that so?” Branna asked, now sounding downright amused by his air of expertise. “Please, sir. Educate me. Cite me chapter and verse from the Leabhar na Ndaoine where it says female púca may not participate in a council.”
Ian went silent. So did everyone else. Declan didn’t know the Book of the Elders well. He glanced at Cormac, who looked just as clueless. The truth was, no one born after the nineteenth century could call themselves an expert.
But Branna was older than all of them, so only an idiot would fail to defer.
Hearing no further protest, she went on. “You cannot end hate from the outside when there is so much hate between you. Cormac was right when he said you are too divided.”
That was when Rowan’s father, Sean McNeely, stepped forward and hurled his offering into the fire. “If we are divided that is the fault of the cú sídhe. It was their demand for independence that eradicated our traditions and natural roles.”
“If ye don’t believe the cú sídhe,” Declan said, “then ask a daoine who has encountered the Black Castle.”
McNeely huffed. “Tough to do. None of our clan has seen sign of a threat. It’s convenient that your brother only cites two dead daoine, who cannot speak, and I’ll add I have heard no word of any deaths from our North Shore brethren.”
“I was referring to your daughter, sir.” Declan’s gaze jerked from McNeely’s angry face to Rowan’s terrified expression. Immediately he saw his mistake, but he swallowed hard and soldiered on.
“Just yesterday, Rowan and I encountered two in town, then later in the woods. Those same two were able to breach the púca charm on our house. My brother Cormac is now responsible for both of their deaths, so don’t come at him with accusations that he has nothing to show for himself.”
McNeely’s face went hard, and a vein bulged down the center of his forehead. “You have engaged an ancient enemy in the presence of my daughter? You have dragged my daughter into danger to make a political point?”
Declan held his hands up, palms forward, but the last thing he felt was peaceful. His hound was about ready to lunge, and once that happened, he would be unable to speak, so he held his self-control as if he were clinging to the edge of a cliff. “I would never let anyone…or anything…hurt Rowan. As ye can plainly see.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be an invalid?” McNeely snarled, “And yet you’re gallivanting around, poking the bear? Just looking for a fight, much like you are right now.”
Then an expression of horrified realization crossed his face, and he turned his ire on Rowan. “Was this nursing business all a ruse? He’s not sick at all is he?”
“Daddy, no—”
“Sweet Danu, have you been coupling with a cú sídhe?” Then the anger on his face faded into sheer revulsion as he made yet another leap. “Has he defiled you?”
Declan could have ripped McNeely’s head off for his rash, impulsive words. Had he no care for his daughter at all? A rumor needed nothing more than a spark, and already there were gasps from the daoine, and amused murmurings from the leannán. There was nothing but tense silence from the cú sídhe.
“No!” Rowan yelled, balling her hands into fists. “Of course not! I would never!”
Declan’s chest constricted with pain, the full intensity of which he could have never anticipated. When Rowan glanced over and caught his gaze, the same pain he felt in his heart he saw in her eyes. Two tears fell from her eyes, then she tilted away.
Needless to say, pandemonium ensued. But at least Rowan was safe.
Chapter Sixteen
ROWAN
Rowan set the last water goblet in its proper pl
ace, then surveyed the dinner table. She’d used the butler stick for perfect placement of the plates and to achieve symmetry with the cutlery and stemware. Underneath it all, the white linen was pressed and smooth. The MacConalls never dine like this, she mused. She’d once seen Declan eat a sandwich while sitting on his kitchen counter.
Rowan’s mother entered the room and made a satisfied sigh. Niall Buckley had rescheduled his visit for this evening. It was a small miracle he wasn’t from the area and hadn’t heard the salacious rumor Rowan’s own father had started at the council meeting that morning.
Because of his imprudent outburst, Sean McNeely had spent his day going door-to-door in town, then tilting from one country home to the next, trying to suppress the idea that there was anything more between his daughter and Declan MacConall than a nurse-patient relationship. Of course, his denial would never be as popular as the juicy possibility of a scandal.
If her reputation was ruined, Rowan didn’t care as much as she probably should. If word spread, maybe then she’d avoid a loveless marriage. She could be happy with her steamy romances and her memories of Declan MacConall. Memories, because—at least as far as her parents were concerned—even a ruined daoine daughter was too good for a cú sídhe.
At the thought of Declan, tears sprung to her eyes.
“Oh, now, honey. Don’t worry,” her mother said. “Even if Niall hears people talk, I wouldn’t expect his family to put stock in small town gossip, and your sister will be of some help to convince him of your virtue.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Rowan made a small adjustment to a fork, then said, “I suppose I should get ready.”
“I laid your blue damask dress on the bed. You can wear my pearls.”
Rowan cleared her throat and turned to face her mother. She was dressed as she always was, looking right off the set of a 1950s sitcom. June Cleaver in the flesh. “Thank you.”
“Rowan, dear, are you sure everything is all right?” Worry tightened the corners of her eyes.
Rowan straightened her shoulders. “Of course, Mother.”
“You’d tell me if there was something you needed to get off your chest, wouldn’t you?”
She breathed out. “My conscience is clear.”
“I know. You just seem…sad. It’s harder for a male to fall in love with a sad girl.”
“I’m merely exhausted. I’ve been working a lot lately, and it was an early morning.”
“You did put in a lot of time this weekend, and after everything this morning at the faerie ring… Well, all of our nerves are all a little shot. It’s good we have something to look forward to tonight. A little light conversation would be a nice change from all this unpleasantness.”
Rowan nodded and turned for the stairs. Her mother took hold of her wrist before she got too far. “You will give Niall a chance, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
Her mother smiled, though the corners of her mouth remained tight.
* * *
An hour later, Rowan smoothed her hands over the blue damask that fit snug against her body before flaring out at the hip. Satisfied with her dress, she checked her chignon in the mirror. Everything was in place, as it should be: her hair, her mother’s pearls, the dress, shoes, and dinner with her parents and a suitor.
The doorbell rang, and she glanced toward the hallway. This was what life was supposed to be. Not loud outbursts and fear; not outrageous antics and uproarious laughter; not impossible declarations of fated mates and out of control libidos.
Rowan took a deep breath, then made her way to the stairs, letting her hand slide gracefully along the bannister as she descended. Her parents welcomed Niall and took his heavy coat. He must have seen her out of the corner of his eye, because his head jerked toward the stairs. When their eyes locked, he smiled, making his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Well, well, well.
Niall Buckley was handsome with dark hair, bright lavender eyes, and a square jaw that ended at a dimpled chin. He was taller than her father, and he seemed to wear a suit as naturally and as comfortably as Declan wore his favorite illusions. This all helped immensely, and as Rowan reached the bottom step, she clung to the seed of hope that maybe—just maybe—she could make her family happy without completely sacrificing herself.
Niall Buckley was the more obvious choice for her. This could work. She could make this work.
But when he shook her hand, reality crept back in. His hand felt wrong in hers. She craved another. As much as she wanted to deny it, Declan MacConall was under her skin, and—damn him—he was starting to itch.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Niall said with a smile.
“You as well.”
Pink circles bloomed in the center of his cheeks. “Your sister has told me so much about you.”
Rowan nodded in acknowledgment, but she couldn’t smile back. She saw his true thoughts in his eyes, particularly as his gaze traveled the length of her body, then slowly came back to her eyes. He’d heard the rumors. He was looking for evidence that they were true. Did something like that show on the outside? She had no idea.
“Shall we have a drink?” her father asked, gesturing toward the living room.
“Yes, please do,” her mother added. “The roast is resting, and I have a few things to finish up in the kitchen before it can be carved.”
“I’ll help you,” Rowan said quickly, and her father frowned.
“You cook?” Niall asked.
Instantly her mother seized the opportunity. “Rowan is a fantastic cook.” Then she turned to her daughter. “Yes, of course, dear. I’d love to have your help. Let’s leave the men to talk alone.”
After they entered the kitchen and the door closed behind them, her mother turned with a suggestive smile. “He’s very nice looking.”
Rowan shrugged then adopted an ironic tone she would have expected more from someone like Branna, or even Meghan MacConall, than herself. “I suppose. If you like the tall, dark, and handsome type.”
Her mother’s eyes went round, then she burst out laughing. Rowan blinked in surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother laugh. It was such a lovely sound, and she vowed to make that happen more often.
Rowan began assembling a relish tray, piling on green pimento-stuffed olives. “What do you think they’re talking about out there?”
She always felt awkward talking to strangers. Pretty soon dinner would be ready and she’d be forced to do just that.
Of course, nothing would top the awkwardness of learning Declan’s brothers had heard the shower turn on and knew she hadn’t really left. The memory made her interior muscles spasm, which was not a great reaction while standing in the kitchen with one’s mother.
“Oh, they’re likely talking investments. Niall is a financial planner.”
A financial planner, Rowan thought, mulling it over. That sounded…safe. As far as she knew, financial planners did not have terrorists trying to break into their houses.
In her mind she heard Declan tsk his tongue and say, just as he had at the clinic three days ago, Now, love, when was safe ever fun?
* * *
Rowan took her seat next to Niall at the dining table, the two of them directly across from her parents. She imagined family dinners like this stretching out into her future. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? He’d read the newspaper while she cooked dinner. They’d tell their children stories before tucking them into bed. Then a nice safe run at the missionary position, followed by sleepless nights thinking of somebody else.
“It looks delicious,” Niall said as Rowan offered him first choice of cuts. “A much better ending to your day than how it began, I’m sure.”
Rowan kept her eyes on the platter and tried not to react to how her father’s body stiffened at his comment, or how a second later he tried to laugh it off with a joke about the council.
“My second cousin is in the Ely clan,” Niall said. “Do you know him? Simon O’Keefe?”
<
br /> “Yes,” her father said, surprising her. She’d neither met nor heard of any O’Keefes. If this Simon was single and of any means, she was sure her father would have already invited him for dinner. She wondered if this newly discovered association lowered Niall in her father’s estimation, but he gave nothing away.
“Simon was at the council meeting. He said the Black Castle threat sounded credible. Did it sound that way to you, sir?”
Sean McNeely put down his fork, and Rowan could see in his face that he meant to have this conversation out, and get it over as quickly as possible. “It did not.”
Niall looked both surprised and relieved. “There have been posters around Babbitt with pictures of a woman from Chicago who is supposedly the head of the Black Castle, at least in the upper north.”
“Posters?” her father asked.
Rowan pinched her lips together. She may have forgotten to mention to her father that she’d given Meghan’s wanted posters to her sister.
Niall turned his head toward Rowan in question, then looked back at her father. “I thought the posters originated here.”
“I’ve seen them,” her father said, his face going tight. “They’re all down now. They originated from a cú sídhe family who lives east of here.”
“I see,” Niall said, and he sounded as if he were coming to multiple understandings. “The drawing is quite good.”
“I’m afraid we don’t share that opinion,” her father said flatly.
“Do you have many cú sídhe families near Ely?” Niall asked, going back to his dinner as if it were all the same to him, and not as if he were zeroing in on the one question he really had.
“Only one,” her father said. “And that’s one too many.”
Niall chuckled. “I wouldn’t know. There are none in Babbitt.”
“Then you’ll have to trust me on this.” Rowan’s father still had not returned to his meal, and he watched Niall closely, probably trying to gauge how far this conversation was going to go.
