Lost In You

by Alix Rickloff

  “I was summoned to attend a birth. Mrs. Nevis is before her time. And very young.”

  “I don’t care if the whole bloody village is in labor. You should have told them you couldn’t go.”

  It was like a bolt of lightning had struck. The moment of horrifying silence that followed fell brittle as glass. “I will not turn away someone who needs me.” Lowenna concentrated such a freezing glare at Conor that Ellery hissed, her temples instantly throbbing, and Morgan and Jamys exchanged frightened glances as if their grandmother had sprung horns—or wings. A forbidding glimpse of the true fey hidden within the shell of the tiny healer woman.

  Conor met her icy gaze with his own scalding anger. “Then you should have sent for me.”

  “I took Morgan.”

  “And she was a great help,” he sneered. Morgan’s head shot up. “Don’t patronize me, Con. I’m more than able to handle one death hound. It was a lucky hit.”

  He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. Stalked the chamber with long, angry strides. “And if there had been more than one? Or it had been Asher himself?”

  “Well, it wasn’t. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I can see how capable.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Enough,” Jamys shouted, the display of rare temper shutting them up instantly.

  “Conor, out. Morgan is fine. Gram’s fine.” He leveled a long, thoughtful look at Ellery. Offered a strange, quirky smile. “Can you get him out of here?”

  “Me?”

  Was he insane? The last thing she wanted—or needed was to be alone with six and a half feet of muscle-bound, fuming Other. Especially one she’d been crazy enough to become engaged to. One she hated. One she was trying desperately not to fall for.

  And wasn’t that final proof she’d lost her mind? Conor had confessed to wanting to kill her. And still she couldn’t shake the memory of the soul-shattering kisses they’d shared. The sense of being completely safe in his arms. She was absolutely the most hopeless woman she’d ever known.

  She realized they were all staring at her. “Oh, all right.” She grabbed Conor’s arm. Tugged him toward the door. “Come with me. A drink will calm you down.” She risked a flash up at his grim face. “And it won’t do me any harm either.”

  He allowed himself to be led down the stairs, back toward the main part of the house. He kept silent, but beneath her fingers, she felt his tension. The slow-fading anger.

  Once in the library, she poured him a whiskey. One for herself. He slugged it down and poured himself another. It seemed to steady him.

  “What were you doing there?” he asked, still gruff, but definitely thawing.

  “I was with Jamys when they got back. I thought I might help.”

  “Now you and Jamys…” he muttered. Poured a third tumblerful. Downed it like it was water.

  She thought about following his lead and having another whiskey. Decided against it. Her head still pounded, and she needed all her wits for this strange inner tug of war. “Your frothing at the mouth wasn’t helping anyone,” she ventured.

  “And what would you know about it?” he snapped back.

  “I know that yelling at Morgan gets you nowhere.”

  “She’s a fool.”

  “She’s an amhas-draoi. The same as you. Give her some credit. She got your grandmother home in one piece. If it makes you feel better, ride the boundaries again.”

  “And what good will that do? They need constant monitoring. The magic across the stones is fluctuating so wildly, there’s no way to know when or if the mage energy will wane. Or where.”

  She tried to pretend it was the whiskey that churned her stomach. Made her queasy and sick. But she knew it wasn’t.

  It was guilt. Plain and simple.

  She was the cause of this trouble. She was the reason no one was safe.

  She sank into a chair. Closed her eyes while rubbing her temples.

  Could this nightmare get any worse? “It’s not your fault, Ellery.”

  She opened her eyes to find Conor kneeling in front of her, his hands braced on either chair arm, his gorgeous face inches from her own.

  Oh, yes, it could get so much worse. “You read my thoughts,” she stammered, trying to focus anywhere but on the burnished bronze of his eyes. The hard line of his jaw. The sensual curve of his lips. Where was her loathing? Her fury? It was as if they’d packed up and moved out, leaving her adrift and empty. Completely confused.

  “They’re not hard to read when they’re screaming in my head.” His lips twitched. How could such a little thing like a smile knot her insides and send heat rushing through her? It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to feel anything—and certainly not lust. “I don’t ever want you to think this is your fault,” he said. “I brought you to Daggerfell because it was the safest place I could think of. It still is.”

  “But I’m the one causing all the problems. Asher’s after me. And this ridiculous power you say I have is just making it harder. I’m putting everyone at risk.”

  “It’s only until Beltane. A few more days.”

  “A lot can happen in a few days.” He blinked as if coming up for air. Or back to his senses. Rising, he couldn’t put enough distance between them. Once again, stone-faced, the mask of the warrior firmly in place. He shuddered. “A lot already has.”

  The voice sounded in Ellery’s head first. Like an echo of a drumbeat. Soft but insistent.

  She pushed it away, not ready to swim up and out of sleep, but the voice would not be denied, and soon she could no longer ignore its relentless drone. She stretched. Opened her eyes. Choked off a scream.

  Asher stood before her.

  Throwing herself back against the headboard, she fumbled for the dagger beneath her pillow, its resting place since Simon’s attack. Barely a breath separated her seizing the handle and letting it fly toward the pale figure. But this time there was no blast of fire and brimstone as he disappeared. This time the blade passed through him, lodging with a thwang in the wall behind. Only a ripple of shadow across his body. Or was it a body at all? He glowed with a pale green light that lit the room.

  Her gaze narrowed. The door. The paintings on the wall, the furniture. All of it was visible behind him. As if he weren’t really there. As if she imagined him. But his laugh as he flickered in and out of sight was all too real.

  Amusement gleaming in his eyes, he spread his hands. “I’ll not hurt you. Couldn’t if I tried. I’m not really here. Not in the flesh.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “I doubt it. You’d have done it by now. And what would that accomplish? I’ve already told you I’m not here to harm you.”

  Ellery wasn’t convinced. She sidled toward the edge of the bed, praying she could get as far as the door. Even translucent, the demon’s inhuman stare sent tremors of panic sliding down every nerve.

  He caught her in his gaze, freezing her to the floor. “If you don’t want your man to suffer, stay. Hear me out.”

  Oh God. Conor. A hard, cold knot settled in the pit of her stomach. She dropped back onto the bed, swallowing hard. Trying to slow her breathing. She dipped a head toward him. “But tell me how?” she asked, surprised at the calmness in her voice.

  “Bligh’s wards are strong. But there are chinks in every knight’s armor.”

  This was her fault—this effect her strange power had on magic. If Morgan’s injury was a warning—here was the ultimate proof. Asher in her bedchamber—or at least Asher’s ghost. Just as frightening, if you asked her.

  “I only want to talk to you,” he continued. “’Tis all I’ve ever wanted.”

  She crossed her arms, her courage returning as the truth of Asher’s words sunk in. He couldn’t harm her. He wasn’t here. “Is that why your pack of devils attacked me? Why you sent a hired assassin after me?”

  He offered her an apologetic shrug. “The Keun Marow are crude and difficult to restrain. They were instructed to retrieve the reliquary. Nothing more.
Bligh’s presence there provoked them into overstepping their instructions. You can be assured they were firmly chastised.” His whiplash smile never reached his eyes.

  “And Simon?”

  “A headstrong young man. I’m afraid, hatred of his cousin overruled his good sense.”

  His image quivered, faded to almost nothing before returning stronger, more substantial. Was this her magic at work again? She tried not to show her alarm. If talking to him meant there was a chance—no matter how slim—that Conor’s showdown with him could be averted, she’d risk it.

  “What do you want then? Get on with it,” she said. His body bent to a sitting position. Though no chair was visible, his talon-like fingers curled around invisible armrests. Wherever he was, he was settling in. “The reliquary. I want the reliquary.”

  She’d no idea where the reliquary was. She hadn’t seen it since their arrival at Daggerfell. She wasn’t about to tell Asher that. Instead she asked, “Why?”

  “I’ll assume Bligh’s told you the story of the Jevan Triad. My brothers and myself.”

  “Enough to know I don’t want you anywhere near that box.”

  He frowned. “Bligh doesn’t know it all. No one does anymore. It was too long ago. And those that did pass on the tales were tainted by the fey’s telling of things.”

  “They must have had good reasons for locking you three away.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Of course, but they never understood. They were small minds who couldn’t see past their own fears and insecurities. They still like their walls. Like to hide in the shadows and let the superstitious mortals chase them into the corners of the world.”

  None of this had anything to do with Conor that she could see. And if the fey wanted to keep to their world, let them. She grew impatient. “You told me this was about Conor.”

  He spread his hands in supplication. “It has everything to do with Bligh. With all the race of Other. You saw the way those villagers attacked him once they marked him as different. You see the way all the Blighs hide their abilities behind the drab little life of farmers. Sailors. Never allowing their powers to be known. The talents that mark them as special. Superior.”

  “And why do you care?”

  He looked shocked she’d asked. “I care as I care how all fey are treated. I care because if I don’t, nothing will change, and the fey will remain pushed to the fringes forever.”

  “So how can you change that?”

  “By bringing the worlds together. Uniting the races so that we might all share the light. The Triad as a force could bring down the walls. The fey would no longer hide. The mortals would no longer persecute.”

  His eyes blazed. His voice took on the ring of a sermon. The injustice. The discrimination. Twisted sense from a warped mind.

  She’d not listen anymore. What if someone caught her in conversation with the demon fey? They might think she was in league with him. “Conor’s not dense. If he fights to keep you away from the reliquary, it’s for a good reason.”

  “He’s infected with the same prejudices that hold all the fey in shackles of their own making. He would rather rot in secret than take a chance on what could be his if he just stretched out his hand and took it.”

  She got to her feet. “You’re insane.”

  He rose as well, putting a hand out as if he could hold her. “Wait.”

  A sudden thought occurred to her. “And what about Ysbel? That was no accident.”

  His expression grew guarded. Cool where before the passion for his cause had ignited a fire in his eyes. “Bligh’s cousin’s jealousies run deep, as I told you.”

  She started to walk around him. Through him would be just too odd. “Go back to whatever hell you’re haunting. I’m through.”

  Her hand was on the door when the snaky voice shuddered through her. “You care for Bligh, don’t you?”

  Her pulse thundered. Her hand shook. That was the real question, wasn’t it?

  “What would you do to ensure he doesn’t come back to you in pieces? Or worse?” His slithery words congealed her blood. Curled around her heart until it shriveled into a tight little ball.

  “Conor Bligh has the mark of greatness on him. It needs only a world that can appreciate his kind of magnificence. I could give him that world. I could raise him up to greater heights than he could ever realize as one of Scathach’s soldier boys.” His voice dropped to a hissed whisper. “Or I could tear him down so that nothing remains of the amhas-draoi but a putrid carcass.”

  “If you admire him so much, why kill him?”

  “He is with me or he is against me. To realize my dream of a united world, fey and Mortal, I would sacrifice even such a treasure as Bligh, though it would break my heart to do it.” His tone softened. “If you care for him at all, you can save him.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The reliquary. Bring it to me before Beltane and all is forgotten. You and Bligh can live out your lives in peace. And perhaps even find a place within my new order for yourselves. A place of power. Of distinction.”

  She focused on Conor’s wolf-head ring. Locked her eyes on it as she fought to breathe. “And if I can’t get it?”

  “If he meets me at Ilcum Bledh, I will kill him slow and feed his body to my Keun Marow. Your choice.” He paused.

  “Sleep on it.”

  She knew without turning around that he’d gone. The unearthly green light vanished, throwing the room back into darkness. Inhaling a shuddery breath, she released the knob. Looked around. There was nothing to show her she hadn’t been dreaming. But she knew.

  Just as she knew with a certainty that Conor had been right. He wasn’t coming back.

  She sank to her knees, clutching her stomach. Asher’s power was too great. She’d be a bride for a day. A widow forever.

  Hot tears tracked her face, and finally she wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Conor strained to peer through the morning fog that drifted over the sea like smoke, picking out the sails of a distant ship hull down on the horizon. Waves creamed onto the beach, the outgoing tide exposing tiny brown shore crabs and shoals of fry in rocky pools. He inhaled deeply, letting the freshening breeze off the Channel clear his mind of the muddle left after hours of reading. Refusing to remain closeted with the dry words of the long-dead another moment, he’d left the library at dawn. He didn’t want his last days spent bent over a book. Instead, he walked the boundaries, inspecting each ward stone in its setting. Reinforced them. Reassured himself.

  To the west, he’d stalked the lonely hills and fields. To the north, he’d tramped the glades beneath Daggerfell’s towering ashes and oaks. Made his way east to the shore and stood watch as ships headed up the Channel toward Falmouth. Southampton. London.

  He’d imagined going to Ellery, arousing her with a sensuous caress, sheathing himself in her moist heat as he kissed her awake. Bringing her to climax even as her dreams faded into day. He rubbed a tired hand down his face. That was the last thing he should do. He’d almost killed himself staying away from her last night. He couldn’t falter now. Not when he was so close.

  He’d found the passages he’d sought, though they only confirmed what he suspected. There was another way. One that didn’t call for fulfillment of the curse. But it was only slightly less final than death.

  Could he do it? Could he give himself up to the emptiness, the soul-draining change that would enable him to put an end to Asher once and for all? There would be no turning back once he drew on the ancient Fomorii power. Let the Ancient Ones dominate him. Transform him.

  He sighed. It didn’t matter. He would do what he must. But he would make certain Ellery never saw him that way. Would remember him as the man he was and not the being he would become.

  He’d tried making it right. If Beltane spelled the end, she wouldn’t suffer for his recklessness. He’d leave her his family. His home. And if the gods granted them a child from their one night together, then his son or daughter would
bear the protection of his name. Of his honor. It was the best he could salvage from that disaster.

  He straightened, stretched. Now that his mind was made up, the ache across his shoulders faded. A calm settled over him.

  He picked at the lichen on the rock where he sat, watching the gulls croak and shriek as they swooped to the tide pools to feed. He tossed a pebble, scattering them up the beach. All but one who watched him with a cocked head and a clever gleam in his eye. “Go on,” he said, flicking another stone toward the gull.

  A subtle, spicy aroma reached his nose at the same time a slide of scree sounded from the dunes above. He turned just as Ellery reached the beach. “He thinks you’ll feed him.”

  “To what?” he answered more sharply than he intended, but the sight of her so soon after his lusty imaginings had caught him off guard. The breeze sent another wave of her lush fragrance toward him, and his groin tightened.

  “I didn’t find you in the library.” She joined him, her hands bunched in her apron pockets, her expression serious. “I thought you might be here.”

  “I’m done. I’ll learn no more of use.”

  She glanced up at him with eyes dull and glassy, then down at her feet. Then scanned the sea as if salvation lay just out of reach.

  He touched her mind, hoping to catch a hint of her thoughts, but nothing stood out sharp enough from the whirl of emotions for him to catch hold of. That she was upset, nervous and afraid was clear. Why—beyond the obvious—remained a mystery. But at least she was talking to him again.

  “Walk with me.” He pushed off the rock. Straightened.

  “I’ve one more stone to check at the southern edge of the property.”

  She fell in beside him, years on the march giving her a long stride that easily matched his own. That thought reassured him. She was a product of the Army. Used to loss. The uncertainty of battle. Death. That’s what he tried telling himself, even if he didn’t wholly believe it.

  As they walked, she kept her eyes focused on the track. Jaw set. Chin up. Whatever gnawed at her, she was fighting back. Holding her own.