“Your understanding into the workings of time and the universe is astonishing in its paucity,” Mananán said, his voice dripping with derision. “I find I no longer have any desire for you at all.”
Fine by her. Regan’s gaze flew to Boann. “What does he mean?”
“It means he’s not going to try to seduce you into his bed anymore.”
“Thank you, Boann. I got that. I meant the paucity of understanding part.”
A corner of Boann’s mouth turned up for the briefest moment. “Time is not linear, nor does it move in only one direction. Between past and present . . . there is no difference. Fáelán’s existence in your perception of the present, his time with you, none of it can be erased whether you prevent him from being cursed or not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“’Tis far too complex to explain at present. But before now, you believed in only one world, aye?” Boann arched a brow. “Yet you now stand in an altogether different reality, and there are so many more. You must simply accept what I say for now, and mayhap in the future we might have the chance to discuss this further.”
“I’ll try.” Many more worlds? Different realities? How was any of this possible, including time travel, and yet here she was, considering going back through time. But then, she hadn’t believed anything Fáelán had told her either, and look how that had turned out. “So, he might know me if I go to him?”
“That, I cannot say.” Boann shook her head. “’Tis possible he’ll recognize you on some subconscious level, and ’tis possible he’ll understand your words whilst not knowing why.”
“I’ll keep my baby?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“You will.” Boann crossed the room and reached for Regan’s hand. “Of that I am certain. Fáelán will be confused, and he will very likely be defensive and fearful. You must prepare yourself.”
She nodded. Fáelán had been willing to sacrifice his freedom for her. The least she could do was try to undo Morrigan’s curse for him. “Will I be able to return? Can I bring him with me to the twenty-first century?”
“As to the first, aye.” Boann squeezed Regan’s hand and let it go. “As to the latter, that will be up to him.”
Could she convince Fáelán to listen? She’d do her damnedest, and she had the pictures on her phone to help him remember. “You can place me where I need to be, exactly when I need to be there?”
“I can, for I have oft watched that night unfold through scrying.” Boann’s expression clouded. “I sought a way to change my sire’s fate, you see, but until Fáelán gave his heart, there was naught I could do.”
“All right. If traveling back through time is the only way I can help him, then I’m willing.” Regan straightened. “Let’s go.”
“Uncle, may I show her—”
“Do what you must. I’ve business to attend to.” He rose abruptly. “You will both sup with me before you depart.”
“Of course. Thank you for your hospitality,” Boann said. “Come, Regan. We must form a plan, and to do that, you must see the events of that night.”
Boann motioned to a woman hovering in a doorway. Speaking in what must be the language of the fae, she gave the servant instructions. Then Boann led Regan upstairs to an alcove on the second floor of the castle. In the center of the space stood a pedestal of marble, and a silver bowl covered in gold-chased runes etched on the outer surface sat on top. The bowl held clear water. Boann stirred the liquid with a finger and said something in her native language. “Let us watch together.”
Her throat tightening, Regan stepped closer and peered inside. Images emerged, and the night of Fáelán’s curse and Nóra’s murder unfolded before her like a silent movie. She closed her eyes during the lovemaking part, unreasonable jealousy burning through her. By the time they reached the end, tears streaked down her face. “Isn’t it a crime for a faerie to commit murder?”
“Aye, and let us hope you are successful, for ’twill be two lives you save that night. Watch again, and this time, pay attention to every detail of the landscape. We will choose a safe place where I might leave you, and where you will find the way back.”
“All right, but is there a way to skip the part where Fáelán and Nóra make love? Even though they’re under the furs, and you can’t see anything, it really . . . It’s difficult for me to get past the feeling he’s betraying me. Which makes no sense, I know, but—”
“Of course. Forgive me for being so thoughtless.”
They went through the scene six more times before they’d worked everything out, including the sun’s location on the western horizon. Regan needed to be able to judge the time when Morrigan would appear, so she could meet Fáelán on the path before he reached Nóra’s cottage.
“’Tis time for us to rejoin my uncle. You did well with him, Regan.” Boann walked out of the alcove. “He respects you for resisting, believe me.”
“He still scares me.”
“’Tis wise to remain so, for he is unpredictable.”
Delicious smells wafted up the stairwell, and Regan’s mouth watered. The woman from earlier met them halfway up the stairs, a bundle of clothing in her arms. “For you, my lady,” she said, handing Regan the bundle. “Safe journey.” She bowed slightly and turned back down the steps to disappear around a corner.
“Do you suppose she overheard the conversation we had with your uncle?”
“Without a doubt.” Boann nodded. “And by now the tale will have reached everyone, and it is rippling through the astral plane on its way to the keepers of our laws and to our kings. It is the way of our people and will only aid you in your quest.”
She and Boann joined Mananán in the great hall, where he already sat at the head of a table set upon a dais. Regan held the garments close to her chest and kept her gaze on her own feet.
“Come. Sit. You are welcome at my board,” Mananán beckoned. “You’ve naught to fear from me, Regan. No harm will come to you should you deign to look upon me.” His tone held none of the seductiveness from before.
Regan glanced at Boann.
“Aye, he means you no harm.” She gestured toward a chair. “You may relax.”
She gave in to the urge and met the fae prince’s amused gaze. He was indeed gorgeous and extremely masculine. Still, he didn’t appeal to her nearly as much as Fáelán did. She lifted her chin and smiled. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness,” she said, attempting a curtsy. “And thank you for not attempting to enthrall me anymore.”
His glacier-blue eyes held warmth as he gazed back. “Don’t think I am not sympathetic to your cause.” He gestured toward the chairs. “Despite what my niece believes, I have had words with my sister about your Fiann. Oft I have pushed her to find another human lover, and perhaps to have another child. ’Twould rid her of her obsession with your mate.” He sighed. “But she refused to heed my advice, and would not let him go.”
“That I can understand. I’m not willing to give him up either.” Placing the clothing on an empty chair, Regan took a seat, and a woman appeared at her side with a pitcher of wine. She put her hand over the goblet set before her place. “I don’t think I should drink anything other than water.”
“Uncle, I’ve had another thought.”
“One that will prevail upon my generosity, I trow.”
Regan watched as silent, beautiful fae servants placed plates in front of them and filled their goblets. Hers now held water. She took a drink and eyed the meal, roast beef with potatoes and vegetables. Her stomach rumbled.
“All of the Fianna will know of your magic swords, will they not?” Boann asked. “My sire will have heard the legends and seen the illustrations Fionn has in his possession?”
“I suppose.” Mananán paused in cutting his beef. “Why?”
“’Twould help Regan convince my sire of the truth if she carried Little Fury, or perhaps The Retaliator. ’Twould be a ward against Mother as well.”
He frowned, looking from her to Boann. “
Will you give your personal guarantee of its return, Boann?”
“I will.”
“The Retaliator, then. ’Tis far more impressive in appearance than Little Fury, and none can mistake the Tuatha runes etched upon the hilt. The Retaliator is fae forged, Regan, and you’ll find it is not nearly so long or heavy as those of human origin of that era.”
“I’m grateful for anything either of you believe will help.” She dug into her meal, her mind spinning. Here she sat at a table, eating roast beef and potatoes while sitting beside a Tuatha Dé Danann prince and Fáelán’s half-fae daughter. If everything went well, she might become Boann’s stepmother. She glanced at the princess, wondering how she might take having a puny mortal for a stepmother.
If things turned out as she hoped. Given the time period, and his lack of memory of the future, Fáelán would likely see her as a threat. After all, he was a product of third-century thinking. She’d make him listen, dammit, and hopefully the pictures on her cell phone would loosen bits of memory from deep within his subconscious. “I’m going to need cord or rope,” she said between mouthfuls.
“Whatever for?” Boann’s eyes widened in question.
“You said Fáelán is likely to be defensive and afraid,” she said with a shrug. “If he refuses to hear what I have to tell him, I’m going to knock him out with my stun gun and tie him up. When he comes to, I’ll sit on his chest and force him to listen.”
Mananán threw his head back and guffawed, and the sound bounced off the walls. “Ah, I am reminded why I desire mortal women. You humans are so very . . . unexpected. Unpredictable.” He chuckled again. “I can see why Morrigan’s pet lost his heart to you.”
“He’s not the only one who lost his heart.” Memories of the morning they’d met flooded her mind. He was so funny, self-assured, sharp. She’d believed they were together only because she could see him. Now she knew better. They were meant to be.
The back of her throat got that pre-tears tightness. Even if he didn’t return with her, she’d make sure he got to live his life fully, and she’d have their child. Her insides fluttered at the thought. Would she have a girl or a boy? Would their baby have their daddy’s freckles? She hoped so, because she loved every single one of Fáelán’s. At least she’d have their child to give her comfort in the future.
Chapter Eleven
Third century, Ireland
Fáelán drew his cloak close around him and hurried down the path toward Nóra’s cottage. When he’d left to bathe in the stream, she’d been stirring a savory stew, and the scent of wood smoke and their supper hung in the air, enticing him to hurry. What should he have first—her or a hot meal to fill his belly? He grinned, grateful for his good fortune. He’d been taken in for the winter by Nóra’s kin. Luckier still that her family had gone to visit their son, whose wife had recently given birth to a fine, healthy boy.
Of course, he knew her parents had left their daughter behind with the expectation she and Fáelán would grow closer in their absence. Her da had made it clear they all hoped the association would lead to a wedding, and perhaps it would . . . someday. ’Twas well past time he took a wife, but did he love Nóra with his whole heart? Nay. Perhaps that would never happen for him. He was quite fond of her, and he did find her pleasing to the eye. Would that be enough to sustain them over his long absences as a Fiann? Not likely. Mayhap ’twould be best not to marry until he left the service.
A figure stepped out from shadows between the trees, a woman. Nóra? Nay. Even in the gathering dusk, he could see her clearly enough. She was tall, comely and dressed in the garb of a lady. She wore a cloak of the finest fur-trimmed wool about her shoulders. Something about her niggled at him, and his pulse quickened. Odd that she wore a sword strapped to her waist, and odder still, she carried a small pack slung over a shoulder. Lassies of high birth did not travel alone. Perhaps she needed his aid. He hoped not, for he anticipated a night of ease between the warm furs with his even warmer lover.
“Good eve to ye, my lady,” he said, bowing slightly even as he veered to the left to go around her. Nóra’s home was not far from the village. Mayhap this woman was kin to their chieftain.
“Fáelán,” she said, blocking his way. “Don’t go to Nóra tonight. It’s a trap. Morrigan will catch you with her, and she will curse you to dwell in the void realm, where you’ll remain for almost eighteen hundred years.”
Had she just called him by name? His blood surged, and he tensed. Her words were foreign to his ears, yet he understood everything she said. And what she said filled him with unholy fear. Could she be a witch, or one of the accursed fae? “How is it ye know who I am, yet I’ve never laid eyes upon ye afore this moment?”
“You know me, Little Wolf. Please listen. There isn’t much time.” She glanced toward the setting sun, then back at him.
Little Wolf. The name, spoken in her tongue, echoed deep within the recesses of his mind, as if familiar, but . . . not. He shivered, and his need to be away burgeoned, yet a small part of him wanted to stay. Witchery, ’twas certain. “If I’d met ye afore, I’d surely remember, and I do not.”
“It’s me, Regan,” she cried. “Try to remember. You have to remember,” she pleaded.
He was a logical man, aye, but he also had a healthy suspicion and wariness when it came to anything unnatural. He understood her speech, though he’d never heard its like until now. ’Twas cause enough for fear. Even more so that he answered her in kind. She must have placed an enchantment upon him. Best listen to his gut and ignore the part of his nature urging him to stay. “Nay. I know ye not at all. I bid ye good eve.”
“Wait. I’m here to prevent you from being cursed.” She gripped his tunic and gave him a shake, her expression desperate. “I’m here to save Nóra’s life.”
“Ye must be mad.” He removed her hands, stepped back and crossed himself. “I will listen no more to your raving.” Again he tried to step around her, and again she moved to block his way, this time grabbing hold of his wrists.
“Morrigan is one of the fae, a Tuatha Dé Danann princess. She’s King Lir’s daughter. She came to you disguised as a human. Think, Fáelán. Who were you with before you came to stay with Nóra?”
“Hmph.” A little over a fortnight ago, he’d spent a se’nnight with a woman he’d met at an autumnal gathering. Deirdre, she’d called herself, and she’d been most eager to have him. For the duration of the gathering, they’d been lovers, but . . . fae? Nay, he’d have sensed something, surely.
“You and Morrigan spent a week together,” the woman continued. “You told me all about her, and how she seduced you into her bed.” She looked down the path behind her, as if expecting someone any minute. “Morrigan is insanely jealous and obsessed with you, because . . . well that part can wait.”
Her grip on his arms tightened. “What you need to know now is that she’s going to be here soon. If you go to Nóra tonight, Morrigan will murder your lover and curse you to dwell in the void realm. You and I won’t meet until the twenty-first century, and—”
“Enough! I do not believe your blather.” The fae princess Morrigan was well known for stirring trouble. Could this woman afore him be Morrigan herself, come to wreck his life? An icy finger of dread swept down his spine, as if he’d walked over his own grave.
Even if she wasn’t the fae princess, what was she saying? They’d met in the twenty-first century? Not possible. Surely the new god’s Apocalypse and Second Coming would occur long afore then. Gods, he wanted to be away from her and her disturbing words, so why was he still standing afore her?
“It’s true.” She let him go, brought her wee pack forward and reached inside. “I have pictures of the two of us together. You swore you loved me, and that broke the curse, but then Morrigan stole you away from me, and—”
“How is it I understand ye, when I’ve never afore heard the language ye speak? What have ye done to me that I can speak it as well?” How could this stranger know about his previous lover, or about N�
�ra for that matter? Something about this woman, some sense about her hovered at the edges of his awareness. She must be fae, and all knew the fae loved to meddle with mortals for their own amusement. He placed his hand upon the knife at his belt, even though his blade would be useless against her if she was one of the Tuatha.
“You told me once—it was the morning we met at Brú Na Bóinne—you said you’d had centuries to learn all forms of English, French and German.” She brought something out of her bag and touched the surface a few times.
An unholy light came forth, and she thrust the thing at him. Fáelán couldn’t help himself. He peered at the glowing object only to see himself in bed with this stranger in his arms. Lest there be any doubt, the mark of a Fiann shown clearly over his heart. All the air left his lungs, and his mouth went as dry as chaff. “Leave me be,” he rasped out. “I want no part of this witchcraft. I want no part of you.”
Uncertainty roiled in his gut. The fine hairs on his forearms and at the back of his neck standing on end, Fáelán put his hands on her shoulders and moved her from him. Giving her his back, he strode down the path. By the gods, he prayed he’d not lose his legs afore he reached the safety of the cottage.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, Fáelán, but you leave me no choice.”
What now? He was but a hundred paces from the cottage, when a buzzing, clicking sound filled the air behind him. He pivoted, his posture defensive. Something hit him in the chest, jolting him off the ground and paralyzing his limbs. He dropped like a felled tree, and the back of his skull smacked against something hard. He groaned, and the world around him went black.
Regan retrieved the wire of her discharged Taser, and stuffed the weapon back into her day pack. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Fáelán. I didn’t mean for you to hit your head. I only wanted to immobilize you long enough to bind and gag you.” That didn’t really sound any better than what had happened, even to her own ears.
Regan moved the sword at her waist out of the way and crouched down beside her unconscious warrior. Gingerly, she touched the back of his skull where he’d connected with an exposed root. No blood, but already a lump was forming. Then she checked his pulse, which was as strong as ever. Relieved, she grabbed him under his arms and dragged for all she was worth. Grunting with the effort, she half dragged, half carried him down the path until she’d put more distance between the two of them and Nóra’s cottage.
Tangled in Time (The McCarthy Sisters) Page 18
