Niall closed his eyes and spiraled down toward the dark pit of defeat. He must give up his freedom, return to Ireland, and submit to the Irish fairy queen. Then the threat to Ana would be lifted, and Tristan would no longer have any hold over him. But first, Rose needed rescuing.
“Very well, druid. Release me and I shall leave for London when Nightshade brings the address.”
Tristan gave a tight smile of victory. “Eminently sensible, my friend. When you return, I’ll free Rose and cast the spell to protect Ana. Nightshade.” He beckoned. “Untie our guest.” Tristan stood and carried his cup to the sink.
Nightshade stalked closer. He blocked Tristan’s view with his body and bent to unfasten the ropes.
“Wait for me by the stream,” Nightshade whispered. “I must speak with you.”
As the ropes dropped from Niall’s wrists, he met the stalker’s silver gaze. Was this a trick? There was only one way to find out.
With a slight tilt of his head, Niall agreed to the meeting. One way or another he would discover where Rose was being held, even if he had to beat it out of Nightshade.
Niall twisted his hand on his motorcycle’s throttle, making the machine roar between his legs. He looked at the front door of Trevelion Manor and gave Tristan a final derisive glance. Then he snapped down his visor, gunned the engine, and took off, spraying dirty gravel in his wake.
As the road dipped, he glanced in his mirror and saw Tristan go inside. He rode on for a few hundred yards. When he reached the bridge over the river in the valley he pulled up and cut his engine.
Niall kicked down the bike stand and pulled off his helmet, all his senses sharp, ready to face the night-stalker.
He waited beside the bridge, listening to the trickle of water over rocks as the light faded and darkness crept up on him. After a while, the branches rustled and Nightshade dropped from the canopy, landing silently ten feet away.
“What’s this about? Changing sides, are you?”
Nightshade shook his wings and snapped them closed. “You mustn’t bring the paintings to Cornwall.”
Cutting his hand through the air in frustration, Niall said, “Forget the paintings. Tell me where Tristan’s holding Rose.”
“If she escapes, Tristan will know I helped. Leave her to me. I’ll look after her.”
Niall barked a derisive laugh that was swallowed by the damp woodland. “I’ll not fall for that one again. No, I’ll not be leaving the lass with you. Tell me where she is, or do I have to beat it out of you?” He advanced on the stalker, instinctively flexed his fingers, and then remembered he had no blades.
“Wait. Let me explain.”
“Cut the blarney.” he’d been poisoned, tied up, and something was hammering inside his head. Niall prided himself on his control, but it had limits. He slammed the side of his hand beneath Nightshade’s ribs. With a grunt, the nightstalker retreated against the side of the bridge.
“Rosenwyn’s mine. I won’t…let Tristan…hurt her,” Nightshade spluttered as Niall jumped on him and squeezed a pressure point in the stalker’s neck.
It took Niall a moment to register that Nightshade wasn’t defending himself. Niall stared into the stalker’s eyes. Desperation stared back at him.
Easing away, Niall raised his palms. “Talk.”
Nightshade sat, flexed his shoulders, and shook his wings. He touched his ribs and winced. “Rosenwyn and I are the last of the Cornish troop. She belongs with me.”
“If you’re so desperate for company, take yourself off to America and find the others.”
Nightshade shook his head and stared at the ground. “They didn’t go to America.”
“Then what? They’re all dead? The whole troop?” Niall said, half joking.
Nightshade nodded. “As good as.”
Shock left Niall cold, empty. “How?”
“Tristan—”
“Not possible. The druid doesn’t have the power to kill them all. ’Tis the truth I want.”
Nightshade curled his lip, revealing a hint of his usual attitude. “Be quiet, Irish, and listen. Tristan broke their Magic Knots and used Ailla Tremain’s paintings of them to trap their bodies. She could render a portrait in such detail…” He gazed into the distance, a look of longing on his face.
“And?”
“When the link between body, mind, and spirit was broken, Tristan cast a spell to bind each in his or her portrait. Then he trapped their minds and spirits in glass globes.”
“Great Danu.” The horror of existing in the endless oblivion of in-between, neither dead nor alive, swamped Niall’s mind. The stalker flicked his gaze at Niall, then squeezed his eyes closed. Realization dawned. “What part of this betrayal was yours?”
“I was young.” Nightshade rubbed a hand over his face. “The piskies ordered me out. They didn’t want me.”
“They only followed tradition. Stalkers are solitary wanderers.”
Anger flashed silver fire in Nightshade’s eyes. “Why should I be bound by tradition?”
Such a terrible crime could not be easily forgiven, but a reluctant trace of sympathy flitted through Niall. He knew exactly how it felt to be isolated and unwanted. He’d dealt with his feelings in a different way, but he had also hurt those he loved.
“Tristan spun such tales,” Nightshade said. “He seduced me with magic and the lure of his blood, freely offered. Now he sickens me.”
Niall’s sympathy died when he remembered the danger Rose faced because of Nightshade and Tristan’s schemes. “Would you punish the lass as well? Keep her imprisoned here because you’ve grown tired of your blood bond?”
Nightshade jumped up. “Tristan’s a walking corpse. Feeding on the piskies’ spiritual energy has burned him out. It’s like sucking blood from a dead body.”
“Then surely ’tis a good thing if the paintings are brought back. You have a chance to make amends. Retie body, mind, and spirit and bring your troop back to life.”
“How could I ever face them?” Nightshade paced across the bridge. “Tristan plans to stand the portraits around the great hall. They’ll be able to look out from the paintings and see me. You mustn’t bring them.”
Anger bubbled inside Niall. “You deserve to be isolated with Tristan if you’ sacrifice the chance of restoring life to the piskies for your own feelings. Rose will not be suffering their fate. Tell me where she is.”
Nightshade braced his arms on the wall and hung his head. “What’ll you tell her about me?”
“I’ve not the remotest idea.”
“Don’t tell her I was involved in the fall of our people. I’ll kneel before my queen and reveal all when she’s safe.”
“Your what?” Niall blinked. His brain swam in his skull as if he’d been whacked on the head.
Nightshade raised his eyes. “My queen. Didn’t you know? Rosenwyn’s mother was the king’s daughter.”
The vision of the High Priestess in the mirror filled Niall’s mind. She was one of the piskies in the portraits, and she’d called him her king. Did that mean he and Rose…?
Niall shook his head to dislodge the thought. He was in no position to take on responsibility for the Cornish piskies. He had to return to Ireland and placate his queen, Ciar, before she took revenge on Ana.
“Where’s Tristan holding Rose?”
“There’s a maze of rooms beneath the manor that used to be home to the troop. He has her in his workroom down there. But he may be with her.”
Niall clenched his fists and felt the absence of his blades like the loss of a limb. “Where are me knives?”
“I don’t know. Probably still in the kitchen.”
“I’ll retrieve me blades, and then you’ll show me the room.”
“Let me distract Tristan, give you some time.”
Was Nightshade trustworthy? He didn’t have a good track record, but it would be easier if Niall didn’t have to face Tristan when he rescued Rose. “Very well then. You draw Tristan away, and I’ll get Rose out of the
place.”
Niall would send her back to the safety of London. Then he’d return to the Wicklow Mountains and give himself up to his queen. But what ever Ciar subjected him to, she’d never break his spirit.
Rose lay on a hard wooden table, her wrists and ankles pinched beneath thick leather straps, which Tristan had nailed down to restrain her. Her chest ached, full to bursting with her pounding heart and heaving breath as though she’d run a marathon. Every muscle in her body quivered after the strain of fighting Nightshade when he carried her down into the dark tunnels beneath the manor house.
The nightstalker had gone, but Tristan remained, leaning against a workbench smoking a small, foul-smelling cigar. Even that smell was better than the fetid stink of gore that filled the dark underground room.
Rose watched Tristan, waiting for him to make his move, terrified of what it would be. He tapped the cigar and a blob of ash tumbled from the glowing end.
“It’s only a matter of time before you tell me what I want to know.”
“Get lost,” Rose retorted automatically, and glared at him, amazed at her bravado when her whole body trembled with fear.
“Where do you store the paintings? It’s such a simple question, my dear. All I want is an address. Even the company name will do. I can look it up.”
The flickering light from black candles danced across animal skins. Terrible flashes of what he might do to her stabbed through her mind. Clenching her teeth, she forced the images away. She must concentrate on the present moment. Keep her wits about her. How could she persuade him to release her? Maybe Nightshade was her best chance. Although he’d carried her down, she’d sensed his reluctance. “Where’s Nightshade?”
Irritation flashed across Tristan’s face. “Don’t pin your hopes on our winged friend.” He picked up a pen and tapped the point on a note pad. “Give me an address. Come on, Rosenwyn. Don’t be a foolish girl like your mother.”
Her mother. Guilt flooded through her, spilling tears into her eyes. She’d thought her mother was ridiculous with her silly fantasies and hang-ups. Now she realized they weren’t fantasies. Her father was deranged.
“An address?” Tristan enunciated.
A flash of anger burst through Rose. “No way. Whatever you did to Mom, she suffered for it her whole life. I won’t give you her paintings.”
He sighed and stubbed his cigar on a plate. “You’re like her, you know. Bloody minded.”
Tears trickled down Rose’s face for herself and her mother as she watched Tristan unfold a roll of cloth and extract a thin metal implement from the fabric. He held it up. The candlelight flickered across the short blade of a scalpel. Terror screamed in her head. She grabbed a breath, her chest trembled, and the air sobbed out.
He took a step closer. Rose jerked at the straps anchoring her wrists and ankles. “Mr. Jago, I’m your daughter. Your own flesh and blood.”
Tristan shuffled closer. She fought to slide her body away from him, but she was pinned like an animal for dissection.
“You most certainly are flesh…and blood,” he said, looking down at her.
Gluing her eyes on the blade in his hand, Rose twisted her head to keep it in view.
“If you’re so keen to be my daughter, tell me where the paintings are. For goodness’ sake, girl. They mean nothing to you.”
The slight edge of desperation in his voice made her drag her eyes from the blade and glance at his face. What was so special about the paintings? Flashing images of the characters from the Magic Knot tarot flitted across her memory. She couldn’t make sense of his desire for them.
Rose gulped air, struggling to control her breath well enough to speak. “Let me go. I’ll fetch them for you.”
He laughed, a light sound filled with genuine amusement. “Rosenwyn, my dear. Do you take me for a fool? If I let you go, I’ll never see you again.”
“Come to London with me.” She’d make sure the police were waiting for him.
His amusement died. He stared toward a golden glow in the corner of the room. “That would be impossible.”
Returning his attention to her, he tapped the scalpel on his palm. “I’ve enlisted Niall’s services to collect my paintings. Nightshade is useful, but he does, unfortunately, have his drawbacks when it comes to mixing with humans.”
“Niall won’t help you after you poisoned him.”
“On the contrary, my dear, Niall’s only too happy to help me. He has his own dark secrets, you know. Ones he’d rather keep hidden.”
The image of the Ten of Swords flashed into her mind. Was this the betrayal the card spoke of? She couldn’t believe Niall would do this to her.
“You don’t think he was here by accident, do you? Niall’s been in my pocket all along. I asked him to bring you to me.”
Her stomach clenched in mortification. Niall had made a fool of her. Built her trust with the tree deva thing, then made her think he was interested in her with the tarot reading. Even though the cards warned her off visiting her father, Niall had persuaded her to come.
Rose squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed the burn of bile. How could she have been so stupid?
“Don’t tell me you had hopes in that direction? I think you’ be wasting your time. Our beautiful Tuatha Dé Danaan is so proud, he even turned down his own queen. He wouldn’t be interested in you.” Tristan flicked a finger through Rose’s hair and she cringed away. “I’d expected you to have your mother’s looks, but you’ve missed out on the fairy beauty. I suspect that’s my fault. Inferior human genes polluting the bloodlines of the Good People.”
“Shut up!” She’d had enough of Tristan, enough of Niall. Why hadn’t she just gone back to London? She yanked on her bindings. “Let me go. I don’t want anything to do with fairies. I’ve got a good job. I’m in line for a partnership.”
Tristan tutted and traced the flat of the scalpel blade across the back of her hand. It burned as though it were hot.
Fear locked her muscles. She lay rigid, breathless, waiting for pain.
“I’m sure you’re an excellent accountant. If you tell me where the paintings are, Niall will fetch them for me and you can return to your human life and forget all about us.”
Why should she suffer for a bunch of paintings her mother had kept locked away in a vault? Her mother would never have wanted her to risk her life for them. “Cobe Denton in Bexley Heath.”
Tristan exhaled slowly, walked across to his workbench, and scratched pen on paper.
Rose melted against the hard wooden surface, quivering with relief.
When he’d finished writing, he looked back at her. “That was easy, now, wasn’t it?” He glanced toward the door and frowned. “When Nightshade deigns to grace us with his company, I’ll have him take you to your room. He can bring your bag back from the Elephant’s Nest later. I’m not heartless. I’ll make your few days with me comfortable.”
“When Niall brings the paintings, you’ll let me go?”
He stared at her for a moment, as though debating with himself what to say. Finally, he shook his head. “No, Rosenwyn. I lied. This is your home. I’m afraid you won’t be leaving again.”
Chapter Eight
After Tristan left, Rose kept a silent vigil, staring at the door of the workroom, waiting for Nightshade. She was certain she could persuade him to help her get away. If only he’d come back.
When her neck muscles cramped, she rolled her head into a more comfortable position and stared at the dancing shadows cast on the granite ceiling by the candles. Physically and mentally exhausted, she allowed her eyelids to droop, and she drifted. Images of the tarot people filled her head. She sat at her mother’s feet as the familiar characters passed before her, smiling and bowing.
“Who are you?” she mumbled.
“’Tis me,” a voice whispered, and someone touched her hand.
Rose jolted back to consciousness.
Niall stood beside the table, scanning her critically from head to foot. “Are you hur
t?”
The wild thumping of her heart eased, and a heady cocktail of anger and relief sharpened her senses. “Shit, Niall. You scared me half to death.”
He ignored her comment and tugged experimentally at the strap holding her right wrist. “Are you hurt, lass?”
“That depends on your definition of hurt.”
He paced around the room, searching for something.
Outrage simmered. He’d made a fool of her with the tree deva and the tarot reading. No doubt he’d picked up on the signs that she was attracted to him and manipulated her to get his way.
The Magic Knot Page 11
