Tangled in Time (The McCarthy Sisters)

by Barbara Longley

  New resolve stiffened her spine. After all, she had managed to conjure a spark of light over her palm. Regan moved into a half-lotus position and began ujjayi pranayama, the breath of victory. Calming herself enough to meditate took time. Panic kept rising, blowing her focus all to hell. Still, she kept at it, and she finally managed to quiet her inner self. Concentrating on her breathing, she opened herself to the hill’s magic, and the essence of life flowed all around and through her once again.

  Regan visualized the town house in Howth and willed herself there. No whoosh or rush of air moved past her. Shifting her position, she tried again, with the same disappointing results. She kept trying, and after what seemed like hours, she had to admit defeat.

  Desperate, she resorted to sending out a mental plea to any ghosts who might be hanging out nearby. After all the years she’d helped the dead, couldn’t at least one of them return the favor? If a ghost did agree to help, how would they find her sisters? She groaned and buried her face in her hands.

  What was she thinking, looking to the spirit world for help? Even if an accommodating spirit responded to her summons, she couldn’t pin her hopes on a dead person. Most likely he or she would fail, and the disappointment would kill her. Oh, wait. She was going to die here anyway. Three or four days tops. How long had she been here already? Without the sunrise and sunset, she had no way of judging the passage of time.

  Regan brought her pack around to the front of her and grabbed the bottle of water. She swallowed a third of the contents, and her stomach rumbled in a hungry protest. She should be taking prenatal vitamins and eating for two in the comfort of her condo in Tennessee, ten or twenty minutes away from her parents, grandparents and sisters.

  “Shit.” Regan curled into a ball on the hard ground and tried to sleep. Once she was rested, she’d try to transport herself again. “Not giving up, just recharging.” Sleep wouldn’t come, and she stared into the darkness, her mind circling around everything that had happened. What was Fáelán doing right now? Had he taken her advice and stayed away from his third-century lover? Did it matter anymore? He was lost to her, and she’d be dead soon anyway.

  All the things she’d never get to do, the people she loved and missed, crowded her thoughts and brought a lump to her throat. Succumbing to self-pity, she shed a few more tears and closed her eyes. Time to bargain.

  “Dear Universe, God, Goddess . . . whoever is in charge,” she said into the darkness, “if you help me get out of this alive, I swear I’ll keep ghost-whispering if that’s what you want me to do. I’ll never complain about my giftedness again either. Amen.”

  A subtle change in the atmosphere brought her back to full alertness, and she sucked in a breath. Regan sat up just as the faint scent of rain filled her senses. She didn’t know whether to be immensely relieved or terrified. “Boann?” she whispered, praying Morrigan wasn’t about to make an appearance. Again, no answer.

  Her hands trembling, she fished her phone out of her bag and searched for the flashlight app again. The smell of rain grew stronger, and the air around her became charged. Regan hit the app, and light filled the cavern.

  A portion of the rock wall directly across from her shimmered, and she could see hints of green grass, trees and sky beyond. “Thank you!” Boann was helping her, or her prayer had been answered. Either way, relief poured through her. OK, so she’d be a ghost whisperer for the rest of her life. Small price to pay.

  Regan shot up so fast, it made her dizzy. The portal didn’t lead to her town house, but she didn’t care. Freedom anywhere from this black hole suited her just fine. Third century? Fifth? Who cared? Regan would dive through the opening to wherever the portal might lead, so long as it took her out of her underground hell.

  She lunged across the cavern and leaped for the shimmering passageway. “Ooof.” She slammed into solid rock and bounced off the wall, falling to the floor on her back. Her head thunked painfully against the ground.

  Groaning, she touched her face, checking for injuries. Her nose dripped sticky blood, and so did a nasty gash at the center of her forehead. Every bit of her hurt, and flashes of gold dots danced before her eyes. An instant before everything turned to black, cruel laughter echoed off the walls of Regan’s dark, dank tomb.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Still bleary from lack of a good night’s sleep, Fáelán leaned over the trough set by the well within the timber walls of Fionn’s stronghold and thrust his head into the icy water. He straightened, shook himself and swiped the water from his face. “Brr.” Shivering and awake now, he washed quickly and dressed. Then he headed back to Fionn’s hall to break his fast.

  Dawn broke upon the eastern horizon, revealing a menacing gray sky. The scent of peat smoke, salty sea air, cattle and humanity permeated the air. Stinging sleet pelted Fáelán before he reached the keep, deepening his dour mood. “Too much worry and too little sleep,” he muttered. He jogged the rest of the way and strode inside, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

  “Fáelán!” Fionn’s voice boomed from the high table. “Come, laddie. Break your fast.” He pushed out the chair across from him with his foot.

  Fáelán wended his way through the numerous tables filled with Fenians. All the Fianna rotated through duties and territories, and the warriors present were fortunate enough to have guard duty here in Fionn’s keep for the winter. Along the way, Fáelán clasped forearms and exchanged greetings with those he knew well—those he’d fought beside or traveled with. He took the seat opposite his commander, and a servant filled his cup with ale. “Good morn to ye, my lord.” Fáelán hoisted the cup and took a long draught.

  “And to you.” Fionn slapped Fáelán’s back. “Eat. As soon as ye’ve filled your belly, we must be off.”

  “Where are we to go?”

  “The answer came to me as I slept, and I have since communed with my fae relatives regarding your situation. We are off to King Lir’s court as soon as may be. At my kin’s behest, the king has agreed to an audience with ye.” He waved his arm over the table. “Eat, laddie. The sooner we’re off, the sooner ye’ll be free of Morrigan’s machinations.”

  “To the fae realm?” The thought of entering the void, no matter how pleasant the fae made it, twisted him into a knot. Aversion left a sour taste in his mouth. All night long he’d been awakened by strange, vivid dreams, visions of places and things he’d never seen, or at least he could not recall having seen them.

  One thread ran throughout all the disturbing dreams, a constant—glimpses of a woman always out of reach. No matter how many times he called to her, she’d refused to turn her face to him. He longed to see her. He’d sensed she needed him, and he yearned to hold and protect her. That too made no sense.

  What if Regan had spoken the truth, and they truly had been together in the future? Could it be Regan who wove in and out of his dreams? When she’d come to warn him, he’d cast her off and sent her away. Had he been wrong to do so? What a tangle—a tangle that kept circling back to the fecking fae.

  “Could we not meet here? Is there no other way to reach King Lir? There must be a way that does not require—”

  “Nay. If we wish to gain Lir’s aid, we must go to him.” Fionn gave Fáelán a shake. “Ye’ve gone pale, laddie. There’s naught to fear. I’ll not forsake ye whilst we are within his kingdom. Besides, the situation is not entirely unknown to the King Beneath the Sea. He will have sensed his daughter’s mischief. What better way to end this than to appeal to her father, who is also her sovereign?”

  “What shall I say to him?” Fáelán scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve no proof ’twas Morrigan who pursued me on my way here. I’ve no memory of being cursed, and I don’t recall being held captive in the void.” Even the word void set off a host of emotions within him. Rage being the uppermost—frustration coming in a close second.

  Regan. My miracle, mo a míorúilt lómhar. Once again, the familiar words slid through his mind, and his breath caught. She was no stranger, yet he
could not remember a thing about her. “How can I plead for help, when all I have is hearsay told to me by a woman from the twenty-first century?”

  “Mmm. I see. Without knowing what ye suffered, your plea will be less than convincing. Especially since Morrigan has done naught but attempt to lure ye to her since Regan warned ye away from your lover’s cottage.” Fionn’s expression turned pensive. “I believe I might have a solution, but ’twill mean delaying our journey for a day. Remain here. I’ll be back for ye anon.” He rose from the table and scrutinized Fáelán intensely for a long moment. “I see ye’ve lost your appetite. Eat anyway. ’Tis a command. Ye’ll need your strength, laddie.”

  With that, his captain left him, and Fáelán exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The thought of appearing before King Lir turned his stomach, but he could think of no way ’round it if he wished to get out from under the threat of being cursed, or from being perpetually pursued by Morrigan.

  A shiver racked him, remembering the fae princess’s attempts to draw him to her, her seductive siren’s voice wrapping tendrils of magic throughout his mind and heart. More than once, he’d come to the point where he’d hovered between surrender and resistance. If it hadn’t been for Regan’s warning, and Fragarach . . . He shook his head and focused on his surroundings.

  Fáelán took the knife from his belt and cut off a slice of the cheese laid out upon the table. He tore off a chunk of the bread and reached for the platter piled with smoked fish. He’d been commanded to eat, and so he would.

  What could Fionn possibly have in mind that might help him? His insides quaked at what was to come. Surely the king’s loyalty would lean in favor of his daughter. If he somehow came through his troubles alive and intact, Fáelán would marry. Aye, and he’d cleave only to his wife forever after. He’d learned his lesson. No more dallying with lasses he knew not at all, no matter how they tried to entice him into their beds.

  By the time Fáelán had finished his meal, Fionn appeared in the corridor leading to the private chambers in his dwelling. His captain gestured for Fáelán to join him, and his nerves stretched as tight as a bowstring. He pushed away from the table and made his way to his captain, his feet dragging. When had his feet grown so heavy?

  “Follow me,” Fionn ordered, turning down the dark corridor. He opened a door, glanced back at Fáelán and stepped aside. “In ye go, laddie, and cease looking as if ye walk to your doom.”

  “Am I not?” he muttered under his breath. Fáelán had been in this room before, and the familiarity calmed him. This was where Fionn gathered his men to strategize, and where he listened to their reports concerning the various kingdoms they guarded. A heavy table of oak, surrounded by a dozen chairs, took up the center. Several oil lamps burned, lighting the interior against the darkness of the day. A single brazier glowed red with burning coal, and thick hides covered both windows to keep out the cold and the sleet.

  Maps painted on the finest velum were laid out upon the surface of the table, and shelves held more scrolls of vellum and parchment. A steaming bowl of something had been set in front of one of the chairs. The food in Fáelán’s stomach turned to a lump of clay in his gut. “Am I to drink this?” He moved closer to take a look.

  “Aye. ’Tis my hope—nay, ’tis my belief—the spirits of the ingredients making up this concoction will help ye remember everything that has transpired with Morrigan and the woman who came to ye from the future.”

  “The spirits?” Fáelán lifted the bowl and sniffed at the contents. It smelled of herbs and something else, something earthy. “Ye speak as if herbs and such have conscious thoughts.”

  Fionn chuckled. “Think ye they do not?”

  “Mmph.” He studied the unappetizing brownish chunks floating in the potion. “If ye don’t mind me asking, what are the brown bits?”

  “A particular kind of mushroom that grows in the grassy places near the bogs.”

  “And the flecks of black?”

  “’Tis a wee bit of ergot, the purplish blight that mimics grains of rye.”

  Should he be consuming a blight? “And the rest?”

  “Herbs and a few berries ground together and mixed with . . . other ingredients. ’Tis best if ye not know all.” Fionn seated himself across from Fáelán. “Go on, laddie. ’Twill go down easier if ye drink it all at once.”

  “Have ye ever partaken of this . . . mixture?” What should he call it? The word poison leaped to his mind.

  “I have.” Fionn arched his brow and cast him a look of such intensity, Fáelán was sure his captain saw to his very soul. Fionn grunted. “I take this when seeking answers to the gravest questions facing me, our king and our people,” Fionn said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “What will it do to me?” Fáelán stared into the bowl, trying to determine what the other ingredients might be. Blood? Eye of newt? Stag’s hair? His gut tightened, already rejecting what was to come.

  “This potion will strip away any illusions clouding your vision and your mind. The spirits of the ingredients therein”—he tipped his head toward the wooden bowl—“will reveal the truth. Not the truth ye hope for, but the truth ye need. There’s a difference, aye? Ye must be willing, humble and open for the spirits to speak, and even then, I cannot guarantee they will come. Are ye man enough, laddie? Drink up.” Fionn jutted his chin, a challenging glint in his eyes.

  Feck. Fáelán’s heart climbed to his throat, and he swallowed a few times to force it back where it belonged. He brought the bowl to his mouth, his insides already rebelling. Still, he tipped the bowl and swallowed the foul, bitter brew. A few moments later, shudders racked him and nausea roiled through him like an ocean swell.

  He gagged and fought to keep the contents of his stomach down. Saliva filled his mouth over and over, even as he swallowed it back, and his eyes watered. “By all that is holy . . . that was disgusting.” He shook himself. “Uck.”

  Fionn laughed. “Aye, but do your best not to cast it up.”

  Could he? Of course he could. Had he not passed all the tests set afore him to be ordained as one of Fionn’s elite warriors? He buried his face in his hands and propped his elbows upon the table. “I feel naught but a sickening in my gut. How will this help me again?”

  “Give it time.”

  After a spell, the nausea retreated, only to be replaced by a strangeness overtaking him. His insides clawed to be out, whilst his outsides burrowed to be in. Fáelán groaned. “I like this not at all, my lord.”

  “What do ye seek from the spirits, my fine Fiann?” his captain asked, his tone low and soothing. “What do ye wish to remember? Think upon what ye wish to know whilst the spirits come to ye.”

  “Being cursed. I want to remember what befell me at Morrigan’s hand, and I . . . I want to remember . . . my miracle,” he whispered.

  “Your miracle, eh?” Fionn chuckled. “Who or what might that be?”

  Fáelán took his head from his hands and peered at Fionn. His captain’s image blurred and distorted, and Fáelán blinked, trying to bring him back into sharp focus. “Regan.”

  “Ye remember all, laddie.” Fionn leaned across the table and tapped Fáelán’s forehead. “Ye just need help bringing the memories to the fore.”

  Fionn’s tap reverberated through Fáelán from his forehead to the soles of his feet. He blinked even more and gazed around him in astonishment. Everything in the room began to move, taking on life. The table reached toward the tapestries upon the wall, and the tapestries melted into the floor, which had turned into a lake, undulating with waves that lapped at the walls. The flames of the oil lamps leaped and danced, and the red glow of the brazier expanded and contracted as if breathing. “Gods.” He closed his eyes. “Everything has turned to melted tallow or beeswax. Everything is moving . . . merging.”

  “Why do ye think that is?” Fionn’s voice took on a magical quality, filling every corner of Fáelán’s mind.

  “Beyond my ken,” he murmured. Fáelán c
ould no longer sit upright. His bones had melted as well, and he slid from his chair to the floor. Stretching out his arms and legs, he spread out on the solid floor that seemed to have turned into a lake. “It is all the same. We are all the same.” Nay. That wasn’t it exactly, but he couldn’t find the words he meant to say. The floor’s waves rocked him, and he suffered a fresh wave of nausea—and panic. The world around him was unrecognizable, and everything was out of his control.

  “What do ye here? Why have ye summoned us?”

  Fáelán sucked in a breath. A voice like stone grinding upon stone filled the room. Or was it only in his head? Was this one of the spirits Fionn spoke of? “I seek only what rightfully belongs to me,” he rasped out. Anger surged. Though he should know the source, he didn’t, and it only made him angrier. “’Twas . . . stolen from me. So much . . . taken.”

  “By what right do ye ask this of us?”

  “I have no right, but I beg ye nonetheless. Memories of my time in the future . . . I want to remember. I need to remember being cursed.”

  “Are ye certain? Mayhap ye’d be better off not recalling what befell ye.”

  “Nay. For good or for ill, please . . . I must remember.”

  “So be it.”

  More strange sensations came over him, a tingling from head to foot and a powerful pressure inside his skull. Images flooded his mind. Sweet, innocent Nóra, the air being choked from her lungs, gripped by Morrigan’s paralyzing magic. The tugging, whooshing sensation as he was dragged away to the void, helpless to do anything to save her. He cried out.

  He’d been lost in an endless, horrifying grayish-green mist, because he continued to defy Morrigan’s efforts to seduce him into becoming her consort. The dreams he’d had of this hell, they weren’t dreams at all, but memories. Each word of Morrigan’s curse pounded and throbbed painfully through his head. Like so much flotsam, he crashed against the sharp rocks of all that had happened, breaking apart, only to be caught up in another current of anguish.