Cursed to Kill

by Claire Ashgrove

  “Yes.” The hours of continued silence roughened his voice.

  “It’s beautiful,” she exhaled.

  Nodding, he cleared his throat. “Sgàil na Faileas—Veil of Shadows. It’s been in my family for centuries.”

  Rhiannon tapped Miranda’s arm and pointed out the passenger’s side window at a tall pile of stone rubble that hugged the west side of the main house. “The original castle crumbled in 1762. The main portion of the house you see now was finished in 1768. In the middle 1800s, and again in the early 20th century, two additions were built.”

  Miranda exhaled audibly. She tipped her gaze to Cian, once again quizzing him with silent questions. He’d never told her of his family’s wealth, believing it was insignificant. He had never envisioned Miranda might someday have the choice of becoming part of his family, of sharing all this with her. Did she understand now? Did the plane, the private car, the monstrosity of a house make her realize he could offer her the world?

  Would it matter after tonight? Even if he did survive, would she want him?

  He swallowed down a lump of heartache and once again cursed the fates that had placed him on this earth.

  The car rolled to a stop, and it was all Cian could do to step out casually. He kept his hand tucked into Miranda’s, despite the pain her touch lanced up his arm. With Rhiannon darting ahead of them to throw her arms around Dàire, Cian escorted Miranda to the house. He kept going, past the siblings that lounged in the parlor off the main entry, up two winding flights of stairs, and down a darkened hallway.

  “Where are we going, Cian?”

  “Here.” He stopped abruptly before the last door and pushed it open. As Cian had instructed before they left Maine, Dàire left the hearth burning, giving warmth to this room in the unoccupied wing. The bed had been made, the room dusted, and atop the sitting table, a fresh-brewed pot of coffee waited.

  Cian released Miranda’s hand and backed toward the door. “It’s not safe for you out there, Miranda. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Even as he pulled the door closed and turned the lock, he knew he wouldn’t return. Not until he could stand before her as a mortal man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miranda stepped back from the lock that refused to give and rammed her boot into the door. It shook, the hinges rattled, but it remained firmly closed. “Damn you, Cian!”

  Four—four—hours he had left her in this room without even so much as a passkey to the bathroom. Not that she knew where the bathroom was, nor that she needed to use it. The point remained. The inconsiderate ass had pushed too far. As far as she was concerned, when he decided to show up again, she’d demand use of his car and take herself to the airport for an international flight home.

  Cian McLaine could rot in hell.

  Seething, she folded her arms beneath her breasts and paced the stone floor in front of the aged hearth. Un-fucking-believable. Who took a woman across an ocean, didn’t speak the entire way, then locked her in a room hour after endless hour? Particularly with the parting remark, It’s not safe for you.

  What made this room any more safe? She hadn’t locked anyone out. No, she’d been locked in.

  Whatever sympathy she’d felt over his situation with his father vanished beneath a curtain of red fury. Cian was a dead man. Dead, dead, dead.

  And right now, she no longer cared whether that became a literal outcome or not. If his father didn’t kill him, she’d make him wish he was dead. Her list of all the vile things she intended to spit in his face grew exponentially by the second.

  She stopped in front of the tall window with its ornate iron bars mounted into the exterior stone. Tipping her head, she looked around one steel column and stared at the surrounding landscape. On the higher hills, yellow-orange dots flickered in the gentle evening breeze. It dawned on her today was August first, and the day that pagans celebrated Lughnasadh. The fires marked the start of their ritual celebrations of the final fall harvest.

  A chill stole over her as the wind rattled the aged glass pane. Something clicked into place. Understanding she didn’t want to possess. With the knowledge that Cian and his family must be preparing for their own ritual, came the first dose of true fear she’d experienced since he declared they were in danger.

  All along Cian had believed something would happen here. Now she understood why. He and his siblings intended to perform their own Lughnasadh rite. Not something Miranda cared to acknowledge. She could deal with Cian having different beliefs than herself. But, the way he’d been acting spun vivid images of Voodoo sacrifices and black magic.

  If there was any truth in metaphysical powers, she didn’t want to be anywhere near that vile stuff.

  Nor did she want to admit that she’d fallen in love with a man who followed the practices.

  Her courage cracked, and to her shame, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, forbidding them to fall, but they spilled against her will. Sliding slowly down her cheeks, one hot trail to mark her shame after another. She never should have let him into her life again. Should have been content with the memories, the longings even, that wouldn’t fade.

  Now, she was trapped in a foreign place, having not even told Susan where she was going. Cian’s predictions that something would happen tonight only cemented her suspicion she had a role to play in that event. A role she wanted nothing to do with.

  Maybe even one that would bring about her death.

  Surely, Cian wouldn’t…

  She bowed her head against the cool windowpane and hugged herself tight. No. She wouldn’t let fear convince her that Cian would subject her to deliberate harm. He’d been a complete ass these last few days, but the man she understood would never hurt her. He was worried, and he’d done the only thing he thought could protect her.

  Maybe if she told herself that enough times she might even believe it.

  A soft knock at her door spun her around. She swiped at her tears with the back of her hands and sniffed. Sarcasm rose to bury her tormented emotions. “I’m still here, Cian.”

  “Miranda, it’s me, Rhiannon. Open the door.”

  Open the…Miranda frowned. “I can’t. Your brother locked me in.”

  “Damn it.” The oath drifted through the door on a hiss. “Step back, just in case.”

  One eyebrow quirked warily, Miranda didn’t budge. Though she was already far away from the thick slab of wood, she was done with taking orders.

  Despite the complete lack of a key scraping in the lock, the handle turned, and the door swung gently open. It bumped into the wall behind it, swung partially shut, then stood motionless. Rhiannon entered, her long hair falling free around her shoulders, her intricate tattoos embellished with a fine tracing of indigo paint.

  “Come.” She beckoned Miranda with a furious sweep of her hand. “Bring my mother’s writings. There’s not much time.”

  “No.” Miranda leaned against the wall. No way would she follow blindly when no one had given her the courtesy of explaining just what in the hell was going on.

  Clearly, Rhiannon hadn’t expected a refusal. She blinked, then gave Miranda a double-take. “No? What do you mean, no? Cian’s counting on you. I know he stuffed you in this room, I know I didn’t make it up here earlier. But you know what this means to him. Don’t do this, please.”

  Pushing off the wall, Miranda shook her head again. “That’s the problem. No one’s told me anything that makes sense. All I know is that manuscript is potentially dangerous and we’re in Scotland.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.

  “Goddess above,” Rhiannon muttered beneath her breath. Then more strongly, “Damn him.”

  A thought Miranda wholeheartedly agreed with.

  “Miranda, I’m so sorry.” She rushed across the room and grasped both Miranda’s hands in hers. Long elegant fingers squeezed. “I had no idea. I would have explained if I’d known. And now there isn’t time to tell you much more than you’re desperately needed outside. The manuscript is a ritual, one capabl
e of…damn it.” Her hands gripped more tightly. “If I throw all this at you, you’ll think we’re all crazy.”

  Miranda arched an eyebrow as if to say, I don’t already?

  Tendrils of Rhiannon’s long hair fluttered as she expelled a harsh breath. She grabbed Miranda firmly by one hand and tugged her toward the door. “You’re just going to have to do this by fire. Trust me please. You can ask as many questions as you want after. Although I think you’ll have all the answers you need.”

  Digging her heels in, Miranda resisted the fierce pull on her arm. “Stop. I’m not doing this. I’m not going down to participate in some weird rite I know nothing about and don’t believe in.” She yanked hard, managing to free her wrist.

  Rhiannon cocked her head to the side, a quizzical light in her eyes. “You’re not participating. You simply must be present.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. Who told you otherwise?”

  Eyes narrowed warily, Miranda searched Rhiannon’s face for some sign she might be telling lies. But those blue eyes shone with genuine confusion. To insure there were no misunderstandings, Miranda repeated, “I don’t have to say anything, do anything, or participate in any fashion? I just have to sit and watch?”

  Rhiannon bobbed her head quickly. “You’d be smart to stay out of Cian’s sight too. He’s got it in his head the writings are wrong, and that you don’t need to be near any of it. Maybe he’s right, but I’m not willing to take any chances. Will you come, please, Miranda?”

  The pleading light in the redhead’s bright eyes wreaked havoc on Miranda’s common sense. Instinct told her to sit down and dismiss this foolishness. But displaced guilt rose, arguing that she was being selfish. If she didn’t have to do anything, then she wasn’t part of the ritual. Observing harmed nothing. Under those circumstances, refusing a polite request was just a mix of stubbornness and affronted pride. She let out a heavy sigh, annoyed with herself for caving. “Fine. I’ll come watch.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Rhiannon’s words came out in a relieved rush. She beckoned once more for Miranda to leave the spacious room.

  After grabbing the manuscript from atop the table, Miranda stepped into the hall. She looked around, observing the only light came from old sconces on the wall that held oil lanterns. Though overhead lights hung from the tall ceiling, strangely they were unlit. Farther down, the stairwell landing glowed an eerie yellow-orange, as if the rooms below were also lit in the same fashion.

  Rhiannon stalked past, her quick steps preventing Miranda from asking. In silence, she followed the long red hair that swished at Rhiannon’s hips down the two flights of stairs, into the front foyer, and through a set of double doors to a long hall that Miranda suspected had once been a ballroom. As she’d guessed, the electric fixtures were dark, the only light she could find, that from similar kerosene lanterns.

  Odd. Though perhaps not, if one believed in the metaphysical and magic.

  “This way,” Rhiannon called from a pair of frosted balcony doors. The crisp nighttime breeze rolled through, stirring heavy silk draperies. On the gust of fresh air, rode the faint scent of a nearby campfire.

  Miranda’s nose twitched with the smoky fragrance as she stepped onto a tiled balcony that overlooked the house’s rear property. Through the nearby trees that framed a manicured lawn, she glimpsed the flickering light of a bonfire.

  “Do you need a jacket? We’ll be outside for a while.”

  “No. I’m fine.” Miranda rubbed her arms, the chill that prickled her skin having nothing to do with the Southern Highlands cooler weather. Her long sleeved sweater would keep her warm, so long as her anxiety didn’t get any worse.

  “Okay. Hurry.” Rhiannon took the wrought iron stairs two at a time, descending to the clipped lawn.

  Miranda followed on her heels, piqued by unexplainable curiosity. Truth was, as annoyed as she’d become, she wanted to know what had everyone in a ruckus. Wanted to understand why those hand-written pages of runes were so damned important and why they had Cian tied in knots.

  Rhiannon’s pace quickened, forcing Miranda to jog to keep up with the redhead’s long stride. They passed a fragrant bed of flowers, ducked beneath an old tree’s gnarled branches. Though nature had invaded the path they took through the sparse woods, Rhiannon’s pace never faltered. She maneuvered through the overgrown brush like stepping stones lay beneath her feet. Finally, when they’d gone so far that the house became merely a dim shadow, she stopped and pressed a finger to her lips, indicating Miranda should remain silent. When Miranda nodded in understanding, Rhiannon pointed at a four-foot wide tree stump.

  Miranda took a seat on the weather-smoothed surface.

  “You must stay here. The stump is protected. If something…goes…wrong…you’ll be safe.” Her whisper rustled with the stirring leaves. “Don’t come out, Miranda. No matter what you see.”

  With that, she plucked the ancient writings from Miranda’s fingers and ducked around a dense row of thorn bushes. For a moment, Miranda panicked. From where she sat, no moonlight touched the ground. All around her shadows loomed, and the faint signs of active wildlife set her nerves on end. But then, as she glanced over the hedges, the breeze stirred once more, parting the overhead canopy. A sliver of silver filtered through the decaying leaves, illuminating Rhiannon’s fire-red hair. Miranda focused on the gentle bob, watching her ascend a small rise to a slight plateau. Just ahead of her lithe outline, four tall megaliths rose around a low-burning fire.

  Surprised, Miranda squinted. Not merely four. Several more stood twice as tall as Rhiannon. Bare from the waist up, Cian rested a shoulder against one thick stone. The firelight bronzed his skin and shadowed the definition of his muscles. Despite her anger with him, Miranda’s throat turned dry at the sight. Even if he currently defined the meaning of jerk, he was still magnificent.

  He accepted the manuscript from Rhiannon, bowed his head over the aged papers. She couldn’t make out his words, but the sound of his voice echoed through the wilderness. Then, as if he had ordered them to do so, the overhanging branches parted, allowing the moonlight to spill into the grotto. She could see him clearly now, and as he turned, her eyes widened at the stunning artwork on his back. Painted in the same tinge of blue as the marks on Rhiannon’s face, an elaborate Celtic knot spanned from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, nape of neck to waist.

  The exact same symbol drawn on the very last papyrus page.

  Miranda swallowed, sensing something. Something she couldn’t define, but whatever it was, made the downy hairs on her arms stand on end. Cian bowed his head, and his voice reached her ears as clearly as if he stood at her side.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cian glanced up from his mother’s handwriting to study his siblings. The stones were prepared, the ground sanctified, and all around him, power hovered in the wings, humming between the tips of the monoliths, waiting to be summoned. They had gathered earlier to discuss the situation. Now, before he could take another step toward mortality, he must gain their unanimous agreement.

  “You’ve heard our mother’s wishes as she wrote them. What have you decided?” He directed the question at Taran, the one most likely to object.

  As expected, his youngest brother snorted derisively. “I won’t have any part of this. I’ve no desire to become a weak mortal. Our mother might have been the Selgovae’s high priestess, but she chose her mate. You want me to turn against my father, the one who gave us this precious gift.”

  Cian’s temper threatened to defy his straining will. “Did you not hear what she wrote? She didn’t choose Drandar. He chose her. Manipulated her with his demonic tongue and forced her into slavery. It was a ploy to give him control of our people!”

  “Our people didn’t protest him, Cian,” Brigid, Taran’s closest ally, argued. “They accepted him as high priest. I hardly think they would’ve objected to his assuming leadership. Maybe if Mother had allowed it to happen, there would be more than just us remaining.”

&n
bsp; Cian slapped the ancient papers against his thigh and swore beneath his breath. They would doom him. He’d known it would happen, but the bitter truth of his fate stung. He didn’t want this life, and he shouldn’t have to bear the burden so his siblings could frolic in the dark power. His gaze narrowed on Brigid. “If Mother had allowed it to happen, we wouldn’t be here! We’d be beneath this ground, ashes, like the rest of our siblings.”

  “Enough of this.” Quiet, yet clear as ringing crystal, Isolde’s command sliced through the night. All seven heads turned to stare at the woman who rarely interfered in sibling arguments.

  “And what does the pristine, flawless, Isolde have to say?” Taran’s thick sarcasm revealed the deep hatred he felt for his sister. “I suppose you will give us another speech on the wrongness of killing? On how we should turn against our very natures and cherish life?”

  Cian had to give Isolde credit—she narrowed her gaze, but she refrained from spitting the cutting remark her sharp silver eyes conveyed. Instead, she lifted her pale blonde head and looked to Brigid.

  “Our mother divided the final ritual into eight parts. This is but one. If Cian wishes to be mortal, we’ve no right to deny him. It’s my understanding nothing will happen to those of us who choose to keep immortality.”

  Brigid nodded, but it was Dàire, keeper of the balance, who spoke. “She’s right. If we choose mortality, Drandar is avenged by our weakness. Our ability to die. If we choose to keep the demonic blood granted from our sire, he cannot be killed. It is an individual decision.”

  “Who’s to say we’ll locate another chapter in the spell book anyway?” Rhiannon piped up from Dàire’s left, sharing an agreeing nod with her twin-like brother.

  “I concur,” Belen murmured. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and gave Taran a knowing look. “If he wants to risk his life, let him. I, for one, have no objections.”

  Bastard. Cian ground his teeth together. He threw Fintan a pleading look, begging his brother to intercede. Though Fintan stood at opposite poles from the three who worshiped their dark blood, for some reason, they respected him. Maybe because he rarely tried to force his beliefs on anyone.