Marked for Death

by Claire Ashgrove

  She drew a deep breath as she entered her room. All around her, Taran’s presence lingered. The scent of his cologne, the socks that still lay in a heap by her bed, the rumpled covers on the bed they had spent themselves in the night before. What if this journey to find Dáire taxed her to the point of no return? Would Drandar make good on his promise and bring her back a second time? Could he, if she were stuck in the Astral plane?

  Solène shook off the questions and climbed atop the mattress. She curled onto her side, closed her eyes, and focused on the face she remembered, the redheaded imp, Dáire.

  ****

  Unable to sit still, Taran paced the length of the shop. How anyone, least of all Solène, could expect him to stand and wait while other people decided his future, he couldn’t comprehend. He was three steps away from complete madness, aching for something, anything to do to keep his mind off what might, or might not, occur tonight.

  “I know it’s difficult, Taran, but try to put your mind elsewhere.” Isolde’s voice drifted from behind the screen, where she and Angus perused the scroll once more.

  He laughed, short and derisively. He was helpless to the events surrounding him, the woman he loved more than life itself lay in her room at the fates’ mercy, and he still didn’t understand the full measure of what Nyamah’s rite included. But damn it, the last twenty-four hours with Solène made him long for life. He no longer wanted to die, couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her again.

  And yet, he couldn’t bear the thought of what would inevitably happen if Isolde failed with the scroll.

  “Why are you doing this, Isolde?”

  Her blonde head poked around the screen. “Doing what?”

  Taran swept an arm around the room. “This. Why have you decided to help me?”

  Confusion drew her delicate brow together as she exited the partitioned-off corner of the room. “You’re my family, Taran. I have erred, but despite what you may believe, you have always had a place in my heart.”

  A place in her heart…

  He would have loved to deny it, but the sincerity written into her features made denial impossible. Family. He mulled the word around in his head, its sound unfamiliar. Too many years had passed for him to comprehend the full measure of that meaning. Too many years of pain, loneliness, and deliberate seclusion. And yet, as he stared uncertainly at his sister, he began to understand things he had blocked even from his subconscious. She had never been designed to fight him. Nyamah’s blessings were instilled to fight for him. She, the sister he had spent the majority of his existence hating. And he didn’t know what to do with that uncomfortable discovery.

  Nor did he know what to do with the fact that every one of his siblings, save Dáire, stood ready to board a plane and come to his aid.

  He pushed a hand through his hair and expelled a hard, frustrated breath. In a handful of days all he thought he understood had changed. Drastically.

  Reese.

  Her pretty face rose in his memory, along with the frightened way she cowered in the corner of her living room. Sweet elements of nature, he’d been cruel to Reese. Dáire had beaten him severely for that deliberateness.

  Dáire would never come. Belen, Cian, even Isolde might set aside their differences and step on that jet, but even Solène wouldn’t be able to convince Dáire out of his rightful anger. Anger that Taran deserved, along with whatever punishment Dáire also felt necessary.

  “It’s of no use, you know,” he muttered as he went to the shelf and pulled down the canister that held Solène’s homemade horehound drops. He popped one into his mouth, rolled it around on his tongue. “Dáire won’t help. All this is for naught, Isolde.”

  She moved to his side and ran a hand down his spine. Affection Taran hadn’t realized he wanted, until she stepped away. “Have faith, Taran. Blood is thicker than water.”

  And love held the power to divide blood ties. If Dáire had been the one to abuse Solène the way Taran had Reese, Taran wouldn’t have just bloodied Dáire’s nose. There would have been nothing but pieces left of his brother. He sighed and moved to the wide window to stare out at the passersby on the street. “You make all sound so simple when none of it is.”

  Her chuckle hung in the stillness. “When did you become so cynical? Find something to do—idleness doesn’t become you.”

  “And what, exactly, am I to do?” His agitation broke free, and he raised his voice. “My fate, Solène’s fate, resides in other hands. There is nothing for me to do. Except wait and allow the rest of you to control the outcome.”

  “Perhaps he could help you prepare for the ritual, Isolde.” Angus stepped from behind the screen and grabbed his scarf off a tall stool. “I’ll walk to the café and get us all something to eat. I’ll phone to check in on Thomas as well.”

  The look of gratitude Isolde flashed at Angus didn’t escape Taran’s observation. Nor did the tender way she touched her fiancé’s forearm in quiet thanks. His gaze pulled to the hallway entrance and the stairs beyond, at once reminded of Solène. Worry tugged at his conscious. She had been gone ten minutes now. Ten more and…

  “She will be fine, Taran.”

  Isolde’s decisive tone halted his instinctive urge to climb those stairs and check on Solène’s well being. Instead, he frowned, once more caught in a push-pull of feeling.

  “Faith, Taran.” Isolde cajoled. She gestured at the rows of shelves. “Help me with these preparations. I assume you know where I might find some lavender leaves?”

  “On the third shelf, above—” Her head. She couldn’t possibly reach the glass jar. Muttering beneath his breath, he crossed to the shelf and pulled the canister down. “Right here.”

  “And the mugwort?”

  “Mugwort?” he asked with a touch of disbelief. “What on earth do you need mugwort for?”

  “Travelers, Taran. Our entire family will be here. They need protection in this foreign place.”

  “Then you should add some wormwood as well.” He grabbed two additional canisters and set them on the countertop, momentarily distracted from his immediate concerns.

  “She has wormwood?”

  Taran shook his head with a chuckle. “No, I have wormwood. She prefers mugwort.” He twisted off the metal lid and waved the open mouth beneath Isolde’s nose. “Still fresh. I told her its protective properties were timeless. She must have forgotten about it, or I’m sure she’d have used it on me.”

  Grinning, Isolde took the jar from his hands. “Somehow, I think the last thing your little witch wants is protection from you. It wouldn’t surprise me if she bathed in vervain.”

  Taran laughed more heartily, before suffocating the sound with a wry smirk. Solène had never needed to concern herself with securing his attraction. If she’d employed vervain they never would have left the bed. But this teasing side of Isolde fascinated him. How could he have missed her sense of humor all these years?

  “Did you employ vervain on Angus, sister?”

  She scoffed as she moved behind the screen. “And ruin a perfectly good battle of wills? I much preferred to make him work for my affections.”

  “A woman intent on making a man grovel. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” His mood much improved, he joined Isolde behind the screen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Looking through the thin veneer that divided spirit realm from mortal realm always came with a strange fuzziness. A water-color appearance where everything ran together and nothing held true form. Yet as Dáire McLaine walked through the doorway to his bedroom, his laughing ladylove, Reese, swept into his arms, Solène saw happiness in perfect clarity.

  What it would be like to see Taran laugh so.

  Dáire nuzzled Reese’s neck playfully and dropped her on the bed. She grabbed a pillow, thwapped him over the head, then dissolved into a fit of giggles as he began to tickle her.

  Solène cleared her throat and stepped from her position in the corner of the room. Using all of the strength she possessed, she willed substance i
nto the sound, and into her form.

  Dáire lifted his head with a puzzled frown. His gaze searched the room from the entryway, across to the window, and skidded to a stop on Solène. He reared off Reese like someone had thrown boiling water of his head. “Sacred ancestors, what are you doing here?”

  “Good morn’, Dáire. Forgive my intrusion.” Even to her own ears, her voice held a hollow echo. She’d have to talk fast; she couldn’t hold her strength for long.

  He pushed a hand through his hair in a gesture so common to the McLaine men and squinted at her. Compassion softened his startlingly blue eyes, as well as the intricate tattoos across his regal cheekbones. “Why are you here, gentle spirit? I thought you were at peace.” More quietly, as he slipped his hand into Reese’s and helped her sit upright, he asked, “Is there something I can do for you, Solène?”

  A ghost. He thought she was a ghost. Solène sighed—no doubt only compounding the difficulty of her predicament. “I am not a spirit, Dáire.”

  “Drandar.” He gave Reese a guarded look. “Drandar is up to something.”

  “No,” Solène argued before Dáire could tread too far down that mistaken path. “Well, yes. But not in the way you imagine. It is I, Dáire. I am with Isolde, in France.” Best not to mention Taran yet.

  “Isolde?” Reese asked, now scrutinizing Solène as well. “What’s going on, Dáire?”

  “She’s trying to reach you. The rangers have been to your home while you were out. I’ve come on her behest.” Solène closed her eyes, flexed her fingers, and pushed more of her will to the surface. All around her the natural particles of the atmosphere pulled at her fringes, taunting her to join them in freedom, to sever the bonds that grounded her in mortality and forever roam free. She fought the uncomfortable pinpricks against her spirit, determined not to cave.

  Taran…she must return to Taran…

  “I…don’t understand.” Dáire patted his back pocket, then glanced at Reese. “Have you seen my phone?”

  “It’s in the car.”

  Dáire muttered something beneath his breath and turned toward the doorway.

  “Wait,” Solène called. “I will not last long this way, Dáire. Your immediate presence is needed in the home I share with Taran. In France. Your siblings await your departure on the family jet.”

  “What?” Dáire blinked. A soft, disbelieving chuckle slipped free. “This is nonsense. What troubles you, fair spirit, that you must seek my aid?”

  Frustration surfaced. Solène bit it down with a grumble. “I am not a spirit. I have traversed the Astral plane to find you. You are needed, Dáire.”

  As if she were the only one capable of comprehending, Reese voiced the question Solène had most prepared for. “Needed for what? And…who…are you?”

  With a shake of his head, Dáire dropped onto the edge of the mattress. His voice filled with introspection. “Taran’s mistress. They lived together until he killed her.”

  “Killed her? Every time I hear about Taran, I like him more.” Reese rolled her eyes. Then, as if sudden understanding crashed on her shoulders, her jaw dropped, her eyes widened, and she let out a soft, “Oh!” Her frown registered on Solène. “He loved you?”

  Solène nodded. “As I do him.”

  “Solène, you are an enigma I have always admired.” Dáire tipped his head to the side, his expression thoughtful. “Do tell me you have found the wisdom, if you are truly alive, to keep your distance from Taran.”

  “It’s not as uncomplicated as you would wish,” Solène answered. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, and clenched her fingers to hold the rapidly churning bits of her energy into place. “I cannot stay, Dáire, but I must secure your promise to join us.”

  “It’s Taran, isn’t it?” Reese asked.

  “Yes,” Solène confessed. “He needs all of his siblings’ aid tonight.”

  As she had expected, Dáire let out a sharp bark of laughter. “He can rot with our sire as far as I am concerned.”

  At the harsh edge to his voice, Reese smoothed a hand down his back. “You doom her, if what she says is true, and she’s not a spirit.”

  Dáire’s gaze drifted back to Solène. Bright blue eyes probed her wavering form as if he sought to discover the true damage he might cause by refusing to fly to France. “I would rather carve my brother into pieces and feed him to the sharks.”

  Solène gave him a slow, deliberate nod. The energy required to speak was taking its toll. The less she said now, the better her chances of making it back to her body. Never again would she traverse such vast distances on so little sleep.

  “I’m no fan of Taran’s, Dáire, but you can’t leave this woman to die at his hands.”

  “She already did once. It isn’t my fault she didn’t stay away this time.”

  A squeak of annoyance slipped off Reese’s lips. “How can you say something like that? She doesn’t deserve your refusal any more than I deserved Taran’s attack. Dáire”—she set a hand on his shoulder—“think of what you’re doing.”

  He let out a harassed sigh and shook his head. When he looked at Solène again, a flicker of anger registered in his ice-blue stare. “You shouldn’t have come, Solène.”

  “But you will come to us?” she asked in a rush.

  “Damn it.” Dáire stood and stalked to the dresser, where he snatched a sweater from the surface. “How cold is it in Paris?”

  A slow, radiant smile formed on Solène’s lips. Warmth spread through her veins, and with that heated rush, her energy slipped. She felt herself drifting, a breath away from tumbling into the realm of spirits. “I must go,” she whispered. “Before I cannot return.”

  She released the energy that bound her in a static place and surrendered to the Aether pull. Little by little she tumbled, spiraling in no particular direction, buoyed on the currents of nature. She counted the seconds.

  At fifteen, she squinted through the misty haze in search of the fine silver thread that tied her to the mortal plane. The guide that would lead her safely home.

  When she found nothing, panic stirred. Had Drandar severed her link? Or had she, by pushing herself too far when she was already weak? Sacred elements, this couldn’t be happening. She needed to get back. To Taran. To Isolde and the ritual they would perform tonight.

  As Solène’s thoughts collided frantically, she tumbled faster, drifted further. Which way, she couldn’t guess. She knew only that she was moving. And each attempt to ground herself and force her spirit to some semi-corporeal state only made her energy more chaotic. She felt the tug on her existence, felt it drawing her slowly apart.

  Blackness fringed the corners of her awareness. As it crept slowly over her, engulfing her in the chill of absolute nothingness, sound obscured. In a desperate attempt to stop the uncontrolled drift, she clutched at the last bits of strength she possessed, and cried out, “Taran!”

  A heavy weight pressed on her chest, pushing her down, down, down, until her back rammed into something firm and unmoving. The sensation on her breastbone doubled, a press that was neither pleasant nor painful. But she could feel the mass as if it reached through to her spine.

  Bit by bit the sensation sharpened. A dull buzz rang in her ears, her fingers began to tingle. Pinpricks that felt as if someone jabbed needles beneath her nails. As she jerked against the painful stingers, her world locked into place.

  With a gasp, she jerked upright off the pillow and stared up at Taran’s handsome face. His hand rested gently on her chest. “It’s okay. You’re home. Everything’s okay.”

  As relief rushed through Solène, she closed her eyes and collapsed against her pillow. Her heart banged against her ribs as if she’d just finished the decathlon. Tears of gratitude welled beneath her lowered lashes. His touch had grounded her, jerked her back when she’d been more lost than she could ever remember.

  Taran’s hand slipped into hers. “You’re safe, my sweet,” he whispered.

  She licked her lips and swallowed to moisten her
throat. “Thank you.” On a deep breath, she opened her eyes to find him gazing at her tenderly. But worry fringed the corners of his eyes—he too realized she’d drifted too long.

  With a half-smile playing on his mouth, he bent forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Get some rest. I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Wait.” She clutched at his hand as he eased to his feet. “He’s coming. Dáire will be here.”

  Taran gave her hand a squeeze. “Maybe there is hope for us yet.”

  For him, yes. For them? Solène summoned a false smile and nodded in agreement. He turned away, and she watched his retreat. She waited until the door closed behind him, before she let the smile fade. He would know the glorious freedom from his curse as he deserved, but unless Isolde could guarantee Drandar’s destruction, Solène would not share that freedom with him.

  A wave of guilt washed over her, leaving a chill in its wake. Was she doing the right thing? If all Nyamah’s ritual managed to do was lift the curse from Taran, and Drandar didn’t cease to exist, would Taran resent the decisions she’d made? His dreams of mortality had always centered on the life they would build, the old age they would know together. If she took that from him, if she sacrificed herself for Taran’s escape, would she only damn him further?

  She shook off the unanswerable questions, too exhausted to dig for answers. No matter what happened tonight, she couldn’t be of any use without rest. Her body was drained, her soul even weaker, and she couldn’t begin to channel the energy or communicate with the elements in this weakened state.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Solène eased out of the bed, determined to ignore the quivering of her legs. A glance at the nearby clock told her it was 6:20. She’d slept several hours, and still exhaustion made her groggy. Yet that very same weariness drove her from the room. Her dreams had been fitful, each a reminder of the fate that awaited her if Isolde failed. And she could not shake the guilt that came with the prospect of condemning Taran to an undesirable mortality. Worse, she needed to alert Isolde on what to expect once she began the ritual.