Lost In You

by Alix Rickloff

  He steered the horse up out of the water, back towards the road leading south out of Lanivet. If Ellery had followed instructions—not a given, as he was finding out—she’d have passed this way only a short while before him. He’d cut time and miles from his journey by leaving the roads, using remote tracks and paths only the animal instincts of the Heller could find in this weather.

  The rain increased, a downpour more suited to November than April. Asher may be restrained by the mortal world, but he was not without power. Which brought Conor right back to his greatest problem. What to do with Ellery until Beltane.

  The steady plod of hoofbeats carried back to him first. Peering through the gloom, he caught sight of a horse and rider, heads bowed against the storm.

  His mount gave a whinny of welcome. The rider whipped her head around, a grim determination in her white face. A dull gleam flashed off the knife she held out in front of her. Then she recognized him.

  “I almost buried this in your chest,” she commented, sheathing the dagger. She was safe for now, and all her earlier fury had returned.

  He pulled his horse alongside. “Would that have been before or after you realized it was me and not Asher?”

  She bit her lip and looked away, but Conor noted the tightening of her hands upon the reins and the stiffened square of her shoulders. An angry brittle silence fell over them.

  “You should have told me,” she said finally, without looking up.

  “And when should I have done that?” he asked. “When you were holding a gun to my chest? Or when I was trying to explain the fey to you and hope you didn’t think I was a madman? Or mayhap when you were lying wounded from a Keun Marow attack?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered.

  “And what would you have done if I’d told you I killed your father?”

  She flinched. “Look at me, Ellery. How could I explain such a thing to you and make you understand?”

  She faced him. “You couldn’t then. But now. Perhaps. There is a chance I’ll listen.”

  He had wielded her father’s death as a weapon, hoping to hold her at bay. He’d not foreseen her walking out that door, enough hatred in her gaze to punch a hole through him. And that miscalculation had almost unmanned him. The shock of it still stung. He couldn’t allow her to run again. She was too important to his mission.

  No. That wasn’t the real danger.

  She was becoming too important to him.

  “Very well. But hear me through before you judge.”

  “Fair enough,” she answered.

  But would she truly understand? And why did it suddenly matter so much to him that she did?

  “To your father, the reliquary was an artifact—a treasure of the fey realm to be examined,” he explained. “I had to stop the Triad’s release. By closing the seals with the blood of the guilty. The trespasser.”

  “My father.”

  “Yes. But Asher had already been freed. Not even your father’s death could undo that damage. It needed a greater magic than I wield. To effect a true victory, I must draw on the deeper magics of the fey. Those that surface only in the thin places and peak at the turning of the seasons.”

  “Beltane. Lands End,” she said.

  “Just so. I must bring the reliquary to the stones of Ilcum Bledh by dusk on April’s last day. There, at the mouth of the quoit, I can reseal it. I can send Asher back to join his brothers. I can end it,” he said, despite knowing now that every moment with her was turning him from his chosen path.

  Ellery sat, head bowed, for long minutes after. Conor waited for her to rant, curse him, or simply ride away. Fog swirled around their feet, drifted up over them until they wandered through a cloud. No sound but their own breathing. The rhythm of the horses as they traveled. When she finally looked at him, not even his keen eyesight could penetrate the unfathomable expression in her eyes. “If it was anyone but you,” she said.

  “I’m amhas-draoi. I do what I must.”

  “The good little soldier,” she mocked, her voice bitter.

  “I regret that it’s caused you sorrow.” He paused. “I know grief, too.”

  “But do you know where you’re going?” She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, her cheeks damp with rain or tears. He couldn’t tell. His muscles knotted, waiting. “I’m freezing and tired and I have to pee.”

  “I do.” He felt a rush of release, immediately replaced by a strange sense of excitement. It was the last place he wanted to go. He’d avoided it for over a year, but he’d run out of options. “Daggerfell,” he answered. “I’m going home.”

  The wind howled, sending needles of rain against Ellery’s skin. It had been like this for hours before Conor turned them off the road and through a bricked gateway. Her whole body ached, and her head was muzzy with exhaustion. A bed was all she wanted. A bed and at least a full day to sleep with no interruptions and no guilt. Heaven.

  She had a hazy impression of an imposing approach of terraces and steps, then a house with gables and a tower and rows of windows. Lighted lamps swung in their brackets on either side of the porch and somewhere a gate squeaked. She’d have been impressed if she hadn’t been so damn tired.

  She slithered from her horse, caught in Conor’s arms before she could drop to her knees in the mud.

  “We’re here. We’re safe,” he said.

  The queasy gut-wrenching panic that had followed her all night slowly dissipated. But without the tension, the exhaustion only rushed in faster to take its place.

  “Shall they be glad to see us, do you think?” Ellery squinted up at the house, but the storm whipped the sodden collar of her coat into her face, and rain stung her eyes.

  Conor seemed surprised. “They’re family, and this is my home. Glad is nothing to do with it.”

  She shot him a look. “So you don’t know either.” A groom appeared out of the darkness, doffed his cap, shouting to be heard over the wind. “Welcome back, Master Conor. Expecting you, we were.” His gaze rested on Ellery for a moment. “The girl as well.” He nodded as he led the horses away.

  “Conor?” she prompted. “What did he mean they were expecting us?”

  But Conor had already taken her hand to pull her up into the shelter of the porch.

  She shook the water out of her hair, staring up at the carvings above the nail-studded door. The wolf’s head symbol of the Blighs surrounded by a crown of leaves. She glanced over at Conor, but he took no notice. He stood stone-faced, rigid as the carving with one hand poised on the door handle.

  It moved from under his grasp, thrown open from the other side. “You’re late.” A lean gentleman with shaggy dark hair and sharp gray eyes ushered them in, glancing out into the wild storm with a troubled look. “We thought you’d be here hours ago. Mishap on the road?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle, Father,” Conor replied. “This is Ellery Reskeen.” He paused. “A traveling companion.”

  Conor’s father frowned. “We heard about her, too.” He sketched her a bow. “Welcome, Miss Reskeen. I’m Mikhal Bligh. This scoundrel’s father. Our home is yours,” his eyes flashed to Conor, “for as long as you have need of it.”

  As if suddenly aware of the water streaming off them, he laughed. “You look positively drowned. Here,” he took Ellery’s greatcoat, “let’s get you dry.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, reluctantly handing it over. Though soaked through, it had offered some warmth. Without it, the gooseflesh rose on Ellery’s chilled skin. She rubbed her arms briskly and tried not to yawn. The flight south through the storm had been nightmarish. Couldn’t he just show her a cot in some corner and save his courtesy for tomorrow when her brain might be functioning?

  “Conor? Your jacket?” his father offered.

  The two men’s gazes locked as if each searched the other for something. Golden-yellow met steel gray. Both flint hard.

  Both unyielding. Mikhal Bligh looked away first, his lips tight with concern. What did he see in Conor
that made him look so solemn? Or was it something he didn’t see?

  An awkward silence followed. Was Conor going to explain their arrival? Her presence? She squirmed under the disapproving eye of Conor’s father. She couldn’t stand it. “I don’t want you to think…I mean, there’s nothing improper. That is to say between Conor and myself. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  Mikhal surprised her by giving a shaky smile as he motioned for her to move out of the hall and into a long parlor. “No? More’s the pity. He could use a strong woman to bring him back.”

  “Father,” Conor warned.

  But Mikhal only waved him off. “No more to be said on that for now.” His gaze speared him. “But I’ve not finished with you. We will talk—later.”

  Conor shrugged.

  His father crossed to a sideboard. Poured out a brandy for Conor, and glanced her way “Something to warm you, Miss Reskeen? A spiced wine? Claret? A cup of tea?”

  Ellery’s gaze swept the offerings. Settled on her usual. “Whiskey, please.”

  Mikhal raised a surprised eyebrow, but nodded and poured her out a bumper, which she downed in one quick gulp. It slid down with a smooth smoky heat before spreading its delicious warmth to every part of her body. Definitely not the hell-broth she was used to. That was like swallowing acid. And about as soothing. This was perfection.

  “Where’s Mother?” Conor asked.

  “In her study as usual,” Mikhal answered. “She knew you were coming, but you know her. Probably lost in an archaic translation or some obscure point of reference that can’t wait.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.” But he didn’t sound as if he believed it.

  Their voices faded in and out as Ellery tried to follow the conversation. She was warm. She was relaxed. Couldn’t anyone see all she wanted was sleep?

  “Con? Is that you? We’d given you up for dead.” A young woman hardly older than Ellery ran into the room, her muddy skirts rucked up to reveal riding boots. Her wet hair in a long braid over her shoulder. “Thought Asher was using your bones for toothpicks.”

  “Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” For the first time in days, Conor’s face relaxed into a wide easy smile. Made him look almost cheerful.

  Mikhal shot her an irritated glance. “Morgan. Your tact certainly hasn’t improved during your time with Scathach.”

  She’d been studying Ellery in open curiosity, but turned to dismiss Conor’s father with a laugh. “Did you send me away to become a handmaiden or a shield maiden, Uncle?” She threw her arms around an unsuspecting Conor. “I’ve been searching every lane leading here since they told us you were on your way. Gram’s even had Ruan scouring the neighborhood, and you know how he hates rising before noon when he’s ashore.”

  “I thought you’d be in Skye tormenting your instructors.” Conor frowned. “You haven’t been kicked out of there, have you?”

  Ellery didn’t hear the answer, or what excuses he used to explain her presence. The steady stream of banter and welcome dissolved into gibberish, and the overheated room grew stuffy. She was so tired she wanted to cry.

  Stepping back from the homecoming, Ellery felt lonelier amid the noise and confusion of these people than in all the days since Molly’s death. She had an image of her quiet house tucked among the hills above Carnebwen and longed to be home. Alone. With her old life back.

  Her eyes flicked to Conor’s pinched, pale face. No, that wasn’t completely true. Not alone. Heat pooled deep in the pit of her stomach.

  A voice sounded in her ear. Like water. Or music. “There will be time for such thoughts after a day and a night of sleep and rest. You deserve it.”

  Ellery spun around, the heat rushing from her stomach to her face.

  A tiny woman stood at her elbow, her lined skin parchment thin, her silver hair not tucked beneath a mob cap like other little old ladies, but looped and braided and caught with silver combs. She smiled and patted Ellery’s hand, her silver-gray eyes dancing.

  “Kerneth. Child. Wasn’t I young once?”

  Obviously, Conor wasn’t the only one of his family to pick a thought from the air as others picked fruit from a tree. She’d have to learn to guard against such intrusions if she stayed here for long. “It’s not like that between us,” she explained.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Ellery lost herself in those eyes. Swept up in them as if she witnessed the spinning of the stars, the vastness of the sea.

  The old woman’s voice deepened, became stronger. “My grandson needs you, make no mistake. Your part in this is not yet over.”

  Ellery’s whole body tensed, and her mouth went dry. She shook her head, trying to focus, but a slash of pain ripped through her skull. She bit off a cry, but the spell was broken. Conor’s grandmother was once more a fragile, stoop-shouldered dowager, nothing more than a twinkle in her kind eyes.

  She tugged on Ellery’s hand as she stepped among them. The voices subsided. The others fell into line as if a general inspected them.

  “Tact is not all that is lacking at Daggerfell these days, Mikhal Bligh,” Conor’s grandmother said. “Hospitality is also absent. Our guest needs sleep. Morgan and I will show her to her room.”

  The corridor was dimly lit. Her room was only slightly brighter with a fire burning low in the grate and a candelabra guttering by her bed. A shelf of books below a window. A vase of narcissus and early spring primroses. A patterned rug on the floor. It wasn’t grand or intimidating. It was a comfortable, welcoming room. Snug and settled with age and a friendly charm. Not what she would have expected in the home of Conor Bligh.

  A robe and nightgown lay across the bed. A pitcher and basin beside it on a stand. Everything as it should be. Everything as if they’d been expecting her arrival.

  “Plenty of time for questions once you have rested. A tussle with Asher is no small matter and to come away unscathed is a victory in itself.” Conor’s grandmother Lowenna gestured to the bed. “Sleep now, child.”

  It did look soft. Ellery’s whole body ached to fall across it without even undressing. Crawl beneath the quilts and stay there until they forced her out. But whether it was the restorative powers of the whiskey or her own irrepressible spirit, she already felt her mind cranking up. Spinning to understand. Sleep wouldn’t come any time soon.

  “I hope I haven’t put anyone out by appearing out of the blue like this.”

  Lowenna looked around her as if she’d only now seen the room for the first time. Her eyes went flat and staring. “The house is emptier than it should be. More departures than arrivals these days.”

  An uncomfortable silence threatened to swallow Ellery. What could she say? She’d seen Simon. The jealousy and fear that prowled beneath his skin. The demon he’d chained himself to with the murder of his own cousin. She wished she were back to being too tired to care. Then suddenly it dawned on her. The simple beauty of the room. The homey feel of it. Oh, God. Her mouth went dry. A tightness ran down her back. Across her shoulders. “This isn’t Ysbel’s room,” she said. “Please tell me you didn’t…I can’t stay here.”

  Conor’s grandmother laughed, and the panic subsided. “Relax. You aren’t trespassing on sacred ground. Or rattling the chains of the dead. Ysbel’s room is on this hall, but farther along. And locked.”

  She must have seen the ghost of a question in Ellery’s expression. “Not to keep anyone out or anything in,” she continued. “Simply due to a grief too new and a family too burdened with other matters to take the time.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Conor stretched his legs out in front of him. Another six inches and his feet would be smoldering amid the fire’s embers. But still the chills gripped him. Sometimes so hard he clenched his teeth to stop their chattering. He crossed his arms over his chest in a vain attempt to keep warm and tried to concentrate on his father’s words. Coming home could never be simple.

  Mikhal sipped at his whiskey. “We hadn’t much warning you were coming. The messag
e arrived shortly after midnight.”

  “I’d forgotten how efficient are the ways of the fey.”

  “Yet in this case, helpful. We kept watches posted on the roads. Morgan, Ruan, even Jamys did his share.”

  “Asher or his hounds would have had them for breakfast.”

  “Do you think so? I think you overestimate this fey demon. Or underestimate your family.” His father rose, plucked a rug from the back of a chair. Crossing the room, he dropped it in Conor’s lap. “Here. This will help.”

  Conor thought about pushing it away, but he was too damn cold. He wrapped it over his shoulders, burrowing into the thick, soft wool. The worst eased.

  “So where does the girl fit into all this?” his father added, sitting back down. “You were never one to bring home strays.” His mouth curled into a patient smile.

  Here’s where it got tricky. What to reveal that didn’t tip his hand. He couldn’t expose Ellery’s part in the reliquary’s discovery. His father wasn’t stupid. He’d put it all together and try to stop the ritual. But Conor had never been one to flaunt his women in front of his family either. And Ellery deserved more than to be thought of as his latest mistress.

  “A pack of Keun Marow on my trail caught her scent instead. They tracked her to her house. Attacked it. I fought them off, but couldn’t leave her there to fend alone in case they returned.” He paused, but nothing in his father’s expression gave any indication of his disbelief. He simply sipped at his whiskey, his gray eyes boring into Conor like two ice shards. He continued smoothly, “Asher’s appearance threw another spanner in the works. He tried taking Ellery. He wants her. Like he wanted Ysbel. I won’t let it happen a second time.”

  “So you brought her here for her safety. A valiant idea. I only hope we don’t scare her off in the first twenty-four hours.”