The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

“And it was also brave,” Lily continued without pause, “to accompany Ramsay to Glenelg and become his lady of the manor.”

  “What other choice did I have? I was….” She caught herself.

  “And now,” Lily went on, “you’re courageous enough to be kind to me.”

  “Why would that take courage? You’re maybe the brawest lady I’ve ever met.”

  Were those tears in Lily’s eyes? “Merci, mon amie.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘thank you, my friend.’ It’s French.” The tears vanished as Lily laughed. “I made Donaghue hire French and Italian tutors.” They left the mirror and sat together on a damask loveseat. “I wanted to learn the languages of love, but I wasn’t interested in irregular verbs and conjugations. Dieu, how tedious.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I only wanted to learn things like donne-moi un petit bisou. That means, ‘give me a little kiss.’”

  Morrigan giggled.

  Lily shook her index finger, demanding solemnity. “Listen carefully, my dear. Tomorrow is your husband’s birthday, isn’t it? How old will he be?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “I believe I have the perfect idea for a gift. Something he would particularly appreciate. Tonight, when you and Ramsay retire, you have my permission to use whatever I teach you. Now repeat after me: Embrasse-moi.”

  “Ahmbrasseh maw.”

  “Try to give it a French accent, darling, not a Scottish one. That means simply, ‘Kiss me.’ Ah yes, I have a feeling he would appreciate that. He might give you little kisses in places you’d least expect, eh?”

  Morrigan fought the urge to throw her skirts over her face.

  “And, since you are a good girl, you must say ‘please.’ Embrasse-moi, s’il te plait. Don’t forget to appeal to his vanity. Délicieux garçon. That means, ‘Delicious boy.’ Oh, and we mustn’t forget to tell him ‘happy birthday.’ That is Joyeux anniversaire. Although I think he might not hear that one after the other things you’ll be saying. Would you care to know more?”

  “Aye.” Morrigan nodded. “S’il te plait.”

  * * * *

  Glittering chandeliers, plush carpet, bejeweled guests, and expensive champagne in the thinnest gold-edged crystal left Morrigan shyly awed. Elegant society paraded, gossiped, frittered, and danced, exhibiting a carefully cultivated air of nonchalance while managing to note and discuss every detail of the other guests. Morrigan was introduced to so many people her head began to swirl.

  Lily fluttered her fan and smoothed one of Morrigan’s curls with lace-covered fingers. Drawing her attention to various personalities, she happily related the current scandals. “There’s Rossetti,” she said, smiling behind her fan. “If he hears that Whistler has asked to paint you, he’ll try to steal you away. His wife died, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Morrigan said, wondering at the glint in Lily’s eye.

  “She committed suicide over his infidelities. He buried several of his poems with her then regretted their loss. It was Whistler who talked him into exhuming her in order to recover them.”

  Horrified, Morrigan glanced at the artist, who caught her looking and smiled.

  In her other ear, Curran murmured, “She can spend all night doing this, you know, especially if you keep rewarding her with that shocked expression.”

  “The more I hear of Whistler the more I dislike him.”

  “He’s a bohemian. Bohemians thumb their noses at society’s sacred rules. That’s the source of their charm.”

  Lily bent closer to Morrigan’s ear, using her fan to disguise her words. “You think Rossetti’s adventures disgraceful? They are nothing compared to the composer of Tristan und Isolde. Wagner was rumored to be King Ludwig’s lover.”

  Morrigan tried to hide her shock but knew she’d failed by the wide smile on Lily’s face.

  “You’re going to muss your hair, darling, if you keep fanning yourself so vigorously. Now come with me. I have more secrets to teach you. Isn’t this fun!”

  * * * *

  At close to two o’clock in the morning, Curran covertly loosened his cravat and searched for the ladies. He hadn’t glimpsed either Lily or Morrigan in over an hour, and the Hamilton mansion was enormous.

  He was pleased he’d chosen London as their next destination, though the journey from Cape Wrath had been arduous. Morrigan enjoyed exploring the great old city. She and Lily had become fast friends, and most of the time she appeared quite happy.

  Yet Aodhàn Mackinnon remained like a spectre between them. He would be, until they cleared the air, but every time they came close, she shied away.

  He caught sight of her in her beautiful dress, shaped like an opening tulip, the skirts constructed into various layers and folds. The bodice sparkled, due to a scatter of miniature crystals. She stood across the room, gazing straight at him, the lower half of her face hidden behind her lace-edged fan. As soon as their eyes met she fanned it provocatively, disguising all but her eyes. Music, laughter, and the clink of glass faded as she deliberately shut the fan and reopened it. Then she turned and left through a dim alcove, pausing once to deliver one last meaningful look.

  The message was obvious, even without the use of the fan. Where had she learned such a ploy? Lily, no doubt. Glancing around to make sure no one else had noticed, he set down his glass and followed.

  She was waiting for him on one of the terraces, within the overhanging branches of a magnolia tree. He approached her with a faint smile, which she returned before taking his hand and leading him down a set of steps to the foot of the tree, where a wrought-iron bench kept company with deep shadows, hiding them from the colored lanterns and bright windows framing the dancers inside. The air was intoxicating.

  “Curran.” She leaned against the tree trunk. Catching hold of his lapels, she pulled him close. It brought that day on the moor outside of Stranraer into sharp focus, the abandoned shieling and sprinkle of rain, the first time he’d kissed her.

  She melted bonelessly against him and they descended as one to the bench.

  Instead of magnolia blossom his lungs filled with the scent of the soft bracken in the Stranraer hills, and in the distance, perhaps only in his memory, he heard a solitary curlew’s haunting cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ONCE AGAIN, AODHÀN Mackinnon stood on the bluff above Castlebay, looking out over the southern islands. Heavy fog obscured the farthest two, Mingulay and Berneray.

  He kicked at a stone, one of the few that hadn’t been carted off, and contemplated the years he’d lived in Bishop House, first with his father, then, later, with Lilith and their weans. For a moment he thought he heard childish laughter, but no, it was only the wind, soughing through the grass.

  He was surprised to discover warm tears running down his face, and wiped them away with a hard, angry swipe.

  He’d provoked the punishment on Barra, first by having Daniel killed, and later, tipsy on a half-bottle of wine, when he’d given in to Lilith’s demands. One look from those eyes of hers and he became a babbling idiot, disgorging the secrets he knew better than to reveal… with certain embellishments, of course, a few necessary omissions. He had broken both of Athene’s cardinal rules.

  He pictured Curran. The laird of Glenelg had a handsome face and an engaging charm. Both had helped make his life one smooth accomplishment after another. Were he to remember their incarnations, he wouldn’t have to omit or embellish facts. He could sleep at night without nightmares. He wouldn’t be forced to hear the screams of his murdered children.

  This hilltop was a dismal place. It made him burn for vengeance, even now, after he’d killed all twelve men who had forced their way into his home and slaughtered his wife and children.

  Quentin Merriwether didn’t know it, but he would be Aodhàn’s thirteenth, a victim of Curran’s meddling. Barra hadn’t yet slaked its thirst for the blood of retribution.

  * * * *

  Faith coaxed the Englishman from his scribbling by tel
ling him she’d found a crofter who wanted to speak to him about the murdered family. She led him through the deepening gloaming, up to the ruin of Bishop House, where Aodhàn was waiting with a garrote. Afterward, she helped Aodhàn get the body to a remote cove, where it could be weighted with stones and dumped. Aodhàn didn’t really care if the corpse surfaced again. If it did, it would serve as a reminder to Curran— to everyone— that he would not be trifled with.

  In the coldest hours of the night, he returned to the MacNeil house with Faith and rummaged through Quinn’s belongings. There wasn’t much of interest, except at the writing table, where he uncovered a letter from Curran.

  Quinn,

  Have you found anything? Why haven’t I heard from you? We’re still in London, but will soon be leaving. Morrigan wants to come there, to Barra. I could scarcely believe it when she told me, but I have to honor her choice: it’s a pact we made. We’ll be in Mallaig on the first of August to fetch her aunt then will stop at Kilgarry for the other one. C.

  This was interesting. Her subterranean memories were leading her to revisit the places she’d lived with him in other lives. One day, she might want to travel farther afield, to the German Empire, even to Crete.

  Thinking of Crete turned his thoughts to the knife, and his humor instantly dissipated. Diorbhail must have spied on him. She always had been a troublemaker. He remembered when she’d unearthed damning evidence on Crete, and Alexiare had been forced to kill her. Aodhàn could hardly believe she’d made herself crawl into that wet, suffocating hole, braving mud, cold, and spiders. Selene’s courage obviously lived on in Diorbhail Sinclair.

  Now Morrigan had the knife. He was glad she’d had a weapon when she needed it, but she didn’t know how dangerous this one was.

  To distract himself, he broke the lock on the desk drawer and found the reply Quinn must have been drafting before Faith interrupted him.

  I have disturbing information I do not want to trust to a letter. When you get to Mallaig stay there. I’ll come over on the first of August and meet you at the Scythe and Swan. Do not come here. It’s too dangerous.

  He’d underlined ‘do not come here’ several times.

  Aodhàn leaned the chair onto its rear legs as he contemplated the fire and worked out his plan. Quinn wouldn’t be meeting anyone, or telling any tales of his discoveries, and without this letter to warn him, the laird wouldn’t know what a risk he was taking by agreeing to his wife’s request.

  Curran would bring Morrigan to Barra.

  Aodhàn laughed. All he had to do was wait.

  * * * *

  Morrigan lay in bed, fast asleep. It was only eight-thirty, and they had stayed at the ball until nearly four. Curran, however, was awake— bleary-eyed and with a pounding head, but awake. He shrugged into his coat and paused to look at her. The covers had shifted during the night, leaving her partially exposed. He ran his index finger along her spine then leaned down and kissed her shoulder, wishing he could strip again and dive back into bed with her.

  But Doctor Wietzel was waiting. The entire house seemed to be still asleep, but for a few muffled sounds floating from the kitchens. He let himself out without seeing anyone.

  He pondered as the cab carried him to his destination. No matter how close and happy he and Morrigan were now, he knew the problems at Kilgarry hadn’t been subdued. He longed to divine the future. Would she abandon him? Would he yield to this newfound rage he hadn’t known was lurking inside him, and hurt her?

  The mutilated doll haunted him.

  He’d always believed he would make a good husband and father. Now he had doubts. He feared his jealousy, and this new hatred for Aodhàn Mackinnon.

  He stepped out of the cab into drizzling rain and an unseasonable chill. Doktor Wietzel, the bright brass nameplate on the green portal declared. No indication of what sort of doctor he was. The man, a German native, came highly recommended. He’d studied at the famed French Salpêtrière hospital with Jean-Martin Charcot, and was considered to be at the forefront of the newly emerging study of mental disorders.

  Not until Curran sat in a deep comfortable chair in the elderly alienist’s office, a cup of coffee in hand, did he begin to question why he’d made this appointment. What did he hope to discover? That he was afraid he might harm his wife? That he thought her half-mad?

  In one numbing instant, he realized what he’d been avoiding. He would pay the cost, whatever it was. He had to protect her. But from what? You’re the biggest threat to her, he caught himself thinking, and scraped a palm over his tired eyes.

  It was chilly enough this morning that someone had lit a fire in the hearth. Its crackle and spark reached out, teasing him into its hot core. Doctor Wietzel’s nasal voice faded into the flickering light on the wallpaper. No, the walls were not paper. They were stone. He was in a cave, lying on a pallet, half-covered in animal fur. Beside him reclined a woman, her hair falling over the edge of the pallet like a black river. Kiss me, she said, and he did.

  She wasn’t Morrigan. Yet she was. He knew her by the mark on her wrist, and something else… in her eyes, something invisible that surrounded her. This was the woman Curran had dreamed of all his life. It was she, as a child, whom he’d carried from some underground place— she who had been imprisoned by a lion. Most recently he’d envisioned her while caught in the magic of Diorbhail’s mushroom at Cape Wrath. He’d seen many things that day, had seen himself making love to this woman, and for the first time, he knew her name.

  Aridela.

  I am empty as a broken crock, she said. You should have a woman who can return your love, as Selene does. Vengeance is all that’s left of me.

  He drew out the words carefully, so she wouldn’t misunderstand. I will bind you to this pallet until the day of your death.

  You’ll tether me like a goat? That is your image of victory?

  He threw himself over her, kissing then biting her throat until she cried out, yet still she pulled him closer. I will have victory, Aridela, he threatened fiercely.

  “Mr. Ramsay?”

  Curran blinked. Doctor Wietzel was bending over him with a glass of water.

  “I think you are unwell, sir.”

  “No, no.” Curran straightened. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “You lost consciousness, or seemed to.” The physician’s voice echoed.

  Aridela. Though it made no sense, Curran knew that woman was Morrigan. She’d called him Menoetius. Strange as the vision was, it was also familiar, and as real as this chair he sat in. I will have victory. He felt a certain kinship to that scarred, ugly warrior. The words reverberated through Curran’s chest. He took the glass from Doctor Wietzel and drank all the water in three gulps.

  I will have victory. The image of Aodhàn Mackinnon materialized. Curran’s teeth grated; fire ran through his blood.

  You wait and see.

  * * * *

  Curran was back in bed with his wife, Olivia asleep between them. After the chilly rain that morning, the day had gone hot and muggy, and had made everyone sleepy.

  He breathed in Morrigan’s scent, a musky fragrance he could never identify, though it filled him with contentment. He traced her shoulder, his finger hooking beneath the scrap of lace that held up her chemise. “Won’t you tell me what he did?” he asked.

  “Who?” Morrigan’s eyelids fluttered. Her fingers brushed over the baby’s head nestled against her bosom, and moved on to her husband’s bare shoulder.

  “Your father. What did he do to you?” He wanted to understand. He wanted to know her.

  “Drove Nicky away. Tried to… let me sleep.” She rubbed her palm against his cheek. Her breathing lengthened.

  Neither his wife nor daughter moved, but for the lift and fall of their chests.

  It didn’t last. Morrigan’s head turned towards the pillow. She spoke one unintelligible word, trailing off at the end. “Crisss….”

  “Are you awake?” he asked quietly.

  For several moments she la
y still, then she coughed. One hand lifted and scratched at her throat. Again she coughed. “No. No….”

  “Morrigan?”

  Her eyes opened. She sat upright, causing the lace to fall off her shoulder. “Let me go, Menoetius,” she said, touching his cheek.

  Blood pounded in his ears and his vision went spotty. “What did you say?”

  She lay down again. Her eyes closed.

  “Wake up.” He shook her. “Morrigan, wake up.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, yawning, blinking.

  “What were you dreaming?” Olivia, awakened by her father’s low but insistent voice, began a strident protest.

  “Look what you’ve done. Oh, Livvy.” She cuddled the baby. “Livvy, Livvy, everything’s all right.” Swinging her legs off the bed, she paced with the child.

  “Can you mind it?” he asked. “You said something. Menoetius.”

  She paused and regarded him, a tilt to her head. “I was dreaming of you, but that was your name. You threatened me.”

  “Did I say I’d bind you?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

  “Because I had the same dream. We were lying beside a fire in a—”

  “Cave.”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “You were keeping me from someone.”

  “You had black hair.”

  “I dreamed of the cave before. The first time we… on the moor, the first time, when I fell asleep.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” She returned and lay beside him, her back snuggled against his chest and stomach. He held her close, rubbing her cheek with his while she nursed the wean.

  “Stop it,” she said, half-smiling. “You need to shave. You’re prickly.”

  “A shared dream.” He mused, thinking of Cape Wrath and the dream he’d had simultaneously with her, the one where they were being stoned. A faint shiver started at the base of his spine and traveled to his scalp. “What could cause such a thing?”

  “You were different. Your hair was dark, and you were horribly scarred.”