The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Ana turned to him then. “They can do no more harm.”

  Nine

  Rohrke was Druzai. Untrained and undeveloped, but Druzai. The knowledge of it warmed Ana’s heart.

  She might have sensed it earlier, but it had been so far beyond any expectation, she’d ignored the tingling recognition of his connection to her race.

  “Will Teague relent now?” he asked, so tall and handsome, her heart clenched in her chest. Was this the way a virgin Druzai Oracle should react to a man – any man?

  She nodded, her awareness of him so intense, she could barely find her voice. “The aggression of his clan will disperse within hours. He will feel naught but puzzlement at his actions of late.”

  He touched her face and she closed her eyes, swimming in sensation. She remembered his every caress from her vision, and wanted to experience it in reality. She hoped to feel his hands and mouth on her. She wanted to touch him and feel his shudder of pleasure. She wished to meld with her mate and experience sòlas as other Druzai couples did.

  And Ana knew she could not be the virgin Oracle.

  He kissed her then, and she relaxed as he slid his arms around her, pulling her against his body. Ana reached up to his shoulders and then slipped her fingers into the hair at his nape. She had not realized how incomplete she’d felt before. Or why she’d delayed taking her vows so many times.

  “There is much to do in Ballygur,” she said when he broke their kiss.

  “Aye. I have a wedding to cancel. I’ll have no bride but you, Ana Mac Lochlainn. I love you, lass.”

  Ana felt her heart swell in her chest. She’d never planned to wed, and yet her Druzai mate had found her in a way that she’d never expected. A very poor, but happy, Oracle she was, indeed.

  The Trials of Bryan Murphy

  Cat Adams

  One

  The 9th of October was drawing to a close, the last rays of sunset tinting the sky with shades of red and purple as the first stars twinkled. The temperature had dropped enough that the air was crisp, with just enough of a breeze to send the fallen leaves skittering across the ground. The security lights at the construction site flared to life, basking the parking lot in a flat, orange glow. There’ll be frost tonight.

  Bryan zipped up his leather motorcycle jacket. He bent down and picked up a pair of stray nails. They were old, very old, not at all what they were using on this project. The heavy rust that encrusted them and their square heads told him they must have been dug up when laying the foundations. He tucked them into his jacket pocket. It wouldn’t do to leave them on the ground in the parking area. Someone would be sure to be getting a puncture.

  Pulling on his helmet, he sent a thought to his wife. “I’m headed home. Get ready. Remember the party is tonight, we’re due at the pub.”

  He heard her mental snort like a caress of air across his mind. “As if I’d forget. Just get you home in one piece. I’ll be ready when you arrive.”

  Smiling, he climbed on to his old bike and kicked the starter. There was a time he didn’t believe in magic – couldn’t imagine he could share his innermost thoughts with one person. But then he’d met Bridget and everything changed. With a twist of his wrist the engine roared and he was headed home.

  It wasn’t a long drive, only a few minutes if he obeyed the speed limits. But when he was halfway home he felt something . . . wrong. His heart lurched, and he fed more gasoline to the engine. “Bridget . . . Bridey?” He called to her in his head, but her voice, the voice that had always been so clear, was the barest echo.

  “NO! I won’t! I don’t want to go! NO! BRYAN!!!”

  Panic raced through him as coarse hands grabbed his wife and tugged her out of their cottage. Their home. “I’m COMING!” He opened the throttle full out, and the bike leaped forwards. The powerful engine roared, in defiance he drove with blurring speed, avoiding every pothole in the road from memory, his body crouched over the bulk of the bike to cut wind resistance. The scenery blurred, and still he tried to make it go faster.

  Their house was ahead, and in the distance he saw the faint outline of tall, pale, horsemen, seemingly in ancient armour of light and shadow. There were humans thrown across each saddle like so much luggage, men and women, seemingly oblivious to their undignified position. Only one fought, struggled against her captor, her red hair seeming to blaze with her fury under the yellow light from the lamps.

  Bridget!

  She heard his thought, and her head turned. Her captor followed her abrupt gaze. Eyes flashing ruby red beneath his helm. His long white hair seeming to flare and float in response to his agitation. Bryan could see his lips move. In response, the raid of the fae, for that had to be what it was, leaped into the air. Their horses’ manes flickered and sizzled with energy as they flew home towards their sithen mound.

  The motorcycle was a street bike. It had never been designed for trails, but it didn’t matter to Bryan. He had to catch up to them. If they got to the mound, took Bridget inside, she’d be lost to him for ever. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let that happen. Sheer desperation made him reckless. If the ride killed him, so be it. He’d rather be dead than live without her.

  Branches slapped at him, tore at his jacket, the bike bucking and jarring beneath him as he wove through the underbrush. It would be trashed after this, he knew it. But whatever. Just let it get him there, and in time. He didn’t dare look up, couldn’t take his eyes off the path he was weaving through the darkening woods, but he could feel her, still fighting – and her struggle was slowing the horse, so that her captor’s fellows rode faster, passing him by until he was the last in the line.

  Up ahead there was a clearing. Through the leaves he saw pale figures and horses descend, moving down and through the seemingly solid wall of the mound in single file.

  Bridey’s rider was last in line to enter the sithen, but as Bryan’s bike broke through the brush near the mound her captor finally passed through.

  “NO!” Bryan roared his defiance, opening the throttle full out, forcing the damaged machine into one last charge, aiming for the narrowing crack that had served as the sithen entrance. He didn’t even hesitate, hitting it hard and fast. He’d either catch the last of the magic or be killed trying.

  Pain, and more than pain, a lurching wrongness as if space and time itself shifted, and he was through, and on to pavement as smooth as glass.

  He didn’t correct quickly enough from rough to smooth and the bike skittered then slid out from beneath him as he lost control. He let go as he went down, not even noticing as his body slammed hard against unforgiving stone. His jacket took the brunt of the damage, but he still saw stars. The screaming shriek of metal scraping over stone filled his senses as a shower of sparks erupted. The motorcycle crashed into the mound with a sickening crunch of metal that made the roaring engine sputter and die.

  Bryan staggered to his feet, bloodied but unbowed he turned to face the crowd of armed Fae and their captives. Bridget broke loose with a fierce yank that forced her captor to his knees. She threw her arms around Bryan – weeping, but proud. So proud. He could feel it in his mind, in his very veins. “Oh, Bryan. Love, you’re hurt. And you shouldn’t have. But oh-thank-God you did!”

  “Nay, you shouldna. She’s right in that.” A tall man, otherworldly in gleaming armour formed of light itself, stepped forward. He drew a sword from its scabbard, and if his armour was light, then the blade was darkness itself. “And you shall pay for the insult.”

  A harsh laugh bubbled out of Bryan before he could stop it. “You speak of insult? A common thief, ye are – stealing a wife as you might fruit from a tree. You’ve no honour to be damaged.” Bryan shoved his wife behind him. He had no weapon, but he’d protect her with his body to his last breath.

  The eyes of the swordsman began to glow with red-hot anger, so bright it tinted his hair. The fae advanced, blade forwards in a thrust position. There was nowhere to run that wouldn’t endanger Bridget, so Bryan held his ground stubbornly. Perhaps being
run through with a sword in the fairy world wouldn’t hurt as bad.

  The fae raider’s arm moved back to strike, the finely honed bicep readying for the blow. A light trembling took over in Bryan’s muscles, a product of his flight instinct being overwhelmed by his need to protect his wife.

  He thought back to just a week before, when he’d found her crying quietly at the stove, dripping salty tears into the cabbage stew. He touched her face, wiping away tears in those beautiful polished-copper eyes and smiled. “Aye, and what’s troubling you, lass?”

  Her voice was so sad when she spoke that it nearly broke his heart to hear the sound. “Promise you won’t forget me when I’m gone.”

  “Pshaw. And what makes you think you’ll be going anywhere? Or that I’d let you leave me?”

  She had shaken her head, and the tears fell anew. “They’ll come, and I’ll go. But promise you won’t forget.”

  “As if I could,” he remembered saying, and kissed her on the tip of her freckled nose, and on those perfect lips, before carrying her down the hall to make the tears disappear altogether. She quieted after their lovemaking, but he knew she didn’t believe him.

  Now her hand tightened on his arm, a warning. Be still, Bry. Say not a word. You hear me? You just keep still.

  “Halt.” A woman’s voice barked the order, but even that one harsh word was beautiful.

  The crowd of warriors parted, heads bowing as the fae woman approached.

  “What have we here?” The whisper slithering through the stone hallway like a frigid wind. She was beautiful, unearthly beautiful, with hair of winter white flowing in waves nearly to her ankles, skin like poured milk and eyes the colour of a midnight sky flecked with the cold sparkle of stars. Her dress was midnight as well, clinging to every delicate curve to pool on the floor, sparkling with crystal beads that glittered and made musical sounds as she moved.

  It was Bridey’s turn to protect him. Bridey, with her hair of fire and earthy warmth pulled him away and protected him, bringing him to himself. Because, Lord help him, he’d been moving towards the woman and her frigid beauty, without so much as knowing he was doing it.

  “What have we? True love, betwixt our own blood and a wayward human? How . . . touching.” The woman’s voice was harsh now, like the cracking of ice on a night empty of warmth or stars. Actual frost began forming on the stones around them, and Bryan could see his breath misting in the air.

  “He invaded our sithen, dared to bring cold metal into our midst.” The one with the sword had not sheathed it, and would have raised it.

  But again the cold beauty stopped him. “I told ye halt.” She snarled and did something Bryan could feel, but not see. The fae horseman struggled against the power, but it held him fast. Turning her back on him dismissively, she stepped in front of Bryan and Bridey.

  Her voice was calm, reasonable – as she would speak to a child. “She is his. This raider found her, and took her. You could go. An’ should I release you, none here could gainsay it.”

  Go? Go . . . to leave his love with these . . . creatures? He found his voice, even as Bridget gasped and dug in her perfect nails. His utterance was cracked and full of fear, but there was no other answer to give. “No. We go together, or not at all.”

  The fae woman smiled. The beauty of it took his breath away, but it was a cold, harsh, beauty – the beauty of the ice storm that glitters and sparkles like diamonds as it freezes the very blood in your veins.

  He repeated it, so none would be confused. “Bridget is my wife, bonded by blood and flesh. She alone is my queen, and she stays with me.”

  His words were not casual. The Queen, for that’s what the fae woman must be to hold warriors back in such a manner, paced forward. Bridget had talked about her fae heritage – the time spent at court with the other halfling children while her fate had been decided. She’d been ejected from the sithen and had come to live among the humans.

  The Queen’s eyes raked Bridget in frank appraisal, from the tangled mess of red curls, to the bleeding soles of her feet. For just an instant Bryan saw his wife as the fae Queen saw her – so pathetic . . . so human. Of the blood, but not blood. Worthy to be nothing but a slave.

  Bridget saw his thoughts, and tears filled her bright eyes to trace silver tracks down her cheeks. She started to pull away, her features pained and defeated. But it was that pain, those tears that reached him, breaking through the delicate magic that had ensorcelled him without him even guessing it.

  Bryan pulled her close so that they stood together once again. “She is my queen. No other.”

  The Queen hissed with displeasure, and a frigid wind hit the pair of them like a blow, stealing the breath from their lungs. Bridey’s hair flew back like a snapping banner, her body shivered against Bryan’s from a bitter cold that should like to freeze them both.

  “An’ what would you do to save this fae halfling of yours? Would you face the trials?”

  Another gasp from Bridget, but any words of warning dissolved in her delicate throat as she stopped mid-word. He turned to look at her lovely face, saw the expression of fear, frozen in place as surely as an insect in amber. He understood her worry. No, he was not so tall as some and was built slender and wiry. He was a head and a half shorter than the smallest of the fae raiders. But he was tough, born of ancient warrior stock. And while there were a few foolish enough to start trouble with him, they only did so once. He nodded, and saw pride flicker in her golden eyes. “Aye. If I must.”

  “So must it be.”

  Two

  “Three trials is our tradition. An’ he has faced two already.” If the Queen was ice and darkness, her king was fire and light. He stood tall and proud, three handspans taller than Bryan. His hair was a red that put Bridey’s to shame, lit with sparks that looked like molten gold, a perfect match for the colour of his eyes. His clothing was the blinding yellow-white of noonday sunlight, his magic was the heat that could make skin scorch at a whim.

  The Queen’s head snapped around as she turned to face her consort. “Two? No. How so, milord?”

  He stood, pacing a slow circle around Bryan, who lay bound hand and foot in the stone dining hall.

  “The sithen was closing, turning to stone before him. The first trial was when he faced his death, rushing forwards, refusing to turn back and let us have her.”

  The Queen acknowledged that by a glance at the ruined motorcycle, already knee deep under fragrant flowered vines. The King squatted down beside them, bound as captives on a long banquet table where the other fae ate and made merry. Bryan was forced to close his eyes against the glare. The stone beneath his cheek began warming, until it was almost painfully hot.

  “The second trial, my love—” his voice seemed to crackle at his displeasure with the sound of flames “—was when ye used thy magic to ensorcell him. He left her not, came to ye not. Have ye lost thy . . . touch?”

  Her blue eyes turned from diamond to lava at the insult. “I put no effort behind the sorcery. I was merely toying, not actively trying to bewitch him.”

  The King laughed, and his lady frowned. “When I took ye to my side, thy least effort would charm the birds from the trees to become as cold as death in thy hand. Yet ye would have us believe ye used less magic on an interesting human who braved the fury of the fae with naught but two tiny bits of iron, than on a bird?”

  She didn’t respond for a long moment – just tapped one pale finger on her dark gown. The other fae watched the interaction with interest. So much so that they stopped their meal to stare with wide, sparkling eyes. Bryan didn’t understand the politics and Bridey was lost to him for comment. She remained immobile under her bonds, and he could not feel the touch of her mind on his. He was alone, as solitary in his own head as the day before he met her.

  “Then, what shall his third trial be?” the Queen asked coldly. “I assume you’ve come up with something suitable?”

  “I believe I have.” He leaned back into the soft leaves of the tree that ha
d woven itself to be a throne. The branches caressed him lightly, brushed the tangles from his hair and gently massaged his shoulders as he regarded them both. With a wave of his hand, Bryan felt the bonds on his ankles and wrists release.

  Always show respect before the court, but not fealty. Never let them own you by your own acts. Bridget’s words came back to him. He hoped beyond reason that the many stories she’d told while cradled in his arms in their bed would serve him well. Bryan swung his legs off the table and stood. He dusted off the bits of food that the fae had carelessly tossed at him, before approaching the throne. He dropped to one knee but kept his head unbowed and his eyes steady on the King’s golden ones as he waited for the next words.

  It raised more than just the King’s brows. Murmuring started behind him, in a language he didn’t recognize. It made him understand that the discussion between the King and the Queen was meant for his ears. Interesting.

  “What is thy name, human? What shall we call ye?”

  Such a simple question. But Bridget’s words again whispered in his memory. Words have power . . . such awful power, among the fae, Bry. Names had to be held close, dear to one’s heart. What power might they hold over him if they knew his given name? He felt a smile try to escape, but he put out words to ease the flow of lips over teeth. “I answer to many things, Highness. But human will do as well as any other. I wear the badge of my kind proudly and hold the word dear in my heart not as insult but as high compliment. I wish to be called Human.”

  “We insist on your name!” The Queen sounded petulant, a small child denied a toy. But the King merely nodded, amused at his response.

  “I asked what he wished to be called. He has answered. Very well, Human. I offer ye the opportunity to take a third and final trial. Understand that if ye accept, ye must complete the trial, or die trying. If ye refuse, ye may leave, but your woman canna. What say ye?”

  What could he say? The only answer that existed in his mind and heart was: “I accept.”

  “Without even knowing what the trial is?” The question was leading, but how many times had Bridget cautioned him to make his word his bond, and the truth his word?