"The woman holds the key to regaining my treasure."
His clan fell silent. Killian could see the banked hope in their eyes. They knew his pain, as their own treasure portions had been stolen, as well. There was not one of them who did not understand what it was to live with a piece of their souls missing.
After a long moment that dragged well into eternity, Patric answered. "We will strive to keep the woman safe."
"And the Earl, as well. He is a friend." Aye, Colin was his friend, he mattered to Killian and as importantly, to Kathryn. If her heart could not be his, he would make sure the man who held it survived. "He's a friend, and I will see him safe."
"We are warriors, and 'tis our duty to protect the weak, and mortals are among the weakest creatures ever created." Patric caught and held Killian's gaze. "But make no mistake. We can not keep them from exercising their free will, no matter how flawed."
Before Killian could reply, Patric waved his arm again. One by one, the deceased animals disappeared, until the bottom of the heap was exposed. The group released a collective gasp.
Percy Fitzsimmon's body lay twisted and broken in the mud, his lifeless eyes staring at them with the same, haunted pain of the sheep. A wave of agony hit Killian, and he knew he was sensing the shock, bewilderment and fear, as the hapless fop's soul had been torn from him.
Brady's voice came as a harsh whisper. "My mother always said, 'twas a fate worse than hell to lose yer essence before yer time came."
His jaw set, Patric met each warrior's eyes in turn, ending with Killian. "Michael, ye and Ruarc scout out the valley. Determine the perimeter of the Shadow Wolves' incursion. Ye'll know it by the bitter scent of their foul magic. Bridget? Since ye and Brady interact with the mortals, go into the village proper and Keshlea estate. Find out if black magic has been wielded already."
Thank the goddess. Summoning magic, Killian transformed from his morning coat and cravat into traditional Leithprachaun warrior bracs and tunic. A solid, hawthorn shillelagh formed in his fisted right hand.
In sequence, his siblings departed to their assigned tasks. Killian paused, before he, too, left. He held Patric's gaze for a beat. "Know this. I would save them even if a clue to my treasure were not part of the stakes." He dissolved into the sky, Patric's reply floating on the wind.
"And that is why ye are not the High King, brother."
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There had never been a known case of one of the devils taking mortal form, but then black magic twisted and turned to advantage to suit their evil intentions. 'Twas why the good in the world could never let down their guard. 'Twas why the Fae had warriors, why the Fae had the Leithprachaun.
Killian could almost hear the trooping Council's collective sneer, but facts remained facts. In perilous times they looked to he and his clan to protect and preserve the balance.
Crouched on the topmost branch of an oak tree, he surveyed the grounds of Keshlea Manor. The windows of the house were glowing like beacons, sending warmth and welcome to the guests arriving for the Dowager's ball. A line of carriages extended well beyond the gate, and with the cold, still air he could hear the laughter and excitement as people greeted each other at the door. It was, of course, the social event of the season.
It could also turn into a bloodbath.
He gripped his weapon tighter. Ruarc and Declan had reported discovering three farms with deceased tenants, each of them devoid of soul, and the horror of their demise etched on their faces. Broc and his clan had likewise found multiple cattle and pigs, and four horses in similar circumstances. No more shifters, thank the goddess. Brady and Bridget had relayed all in the village to be secure and safe. Magical shields wielded, it would stay that way.
Killian turned his attention back to the house. The lights and activity might as well be an invitation to a banquet for the wolves. Less effort than stalking, and enough souls to fill their black appetite.
At least he had one assurance, that Kathryn and Colin were safe within the walls. Aside from the shield he'd placed around the building, he was going to attend and keep a personal eye on them. When the festivities were done, the people protected, then he and his clan could eliminate the threat. His inner warrior demanded to attack now, but Patric had laid out the plan. His brother was a royal pain in the arse, aye, but he was also brilliant at strategy.
It took only a thought to dematerialize to the rear entrance, fully dressed in formal attire—holding his shillelagh. Not the usual accessory to a ball. With a thrust of his hand, he cast it into the ether, and replaced it with a long, thin blade. Not as impressive as a scian, but just as lethal. He produced an invisible sheath for his waist, and slipped it inside. With one last check of his cravat, he slipped through the door.
The kitchen where he'd entered was awash with activity. The cook was directing a cadre of assistants in stirring stews, roasting meats, cold and hot dishes of potatoes, turnips and other vegetables. In a far corner, away from the heat of the fires, another contingent feverishly made a variety of sweets. Did the Dowager really expect her guests to dance after partaking of such a feast?
The melodious sound of violins floated into the room from the hallway, rising in crescendo as he approached the main hall. Christ, Colin's grandmother must have invited the whole of the south coast, from the throng of people milling about. He batted his way past ostrich feathers bobbing from elaborate hairstyles, evaded the swipe of silk fans. A portly gentleman, his waistcoat straining at his girth, let out a loud guffaw.
"Wait until Percy hears about this."
Killian pressed his mouth into a grim line. Fitzsimmons would not be hearing anything. The poor buffoon had probably been led to his death by the promise of a bit of gossip or a tryst with one of the giggling misses who thought him a catch.
The guest's companions responded with a ribald jest, their laughter grating on Killian's tight nerves. Would these shallow mortals even comprehend the danger if they knew of it?
It took a few moments for him to make his way to the ballroom. The musicians were tucked in the corner. They were not locals, instead, an ensemble recruited from Dublin for the occasion.
There were clusters of people here and there around the room, some holding cups filled with traditional holiday wassail. The mortals loved the spiced cider and brandy mixture, while Killian would just as soon throw out the cider and drink the brandy straight.
He scanned the crowd, found Kathryn chatting with a trio of women. No matter that he'd accepted she was not for him, he was still stirred by her beauty.
Her dress, though simple by society standards, suited her. The embroidered cream silk flowed from the high-waist and the fine, braided cord tucked beneath her bosom to the toes of her matching, satin slippers. That glorious chestnut hair was gathered in thick, loose curls on the top of her head, a matching bandeau with tiny beads completing the ensemble.
She tilted her head and laughed at something one of her companions said, but her smile did not reach her eyes. No, those hazel eyes were searching the room. For Colin.
Killian joined her in her quest, but came up with only a smudged impression of his friend's familiar energy. It hovered near the far corner, close to the doorway that led to the library. He narrowed his gaze, caught what looked like the top of Colin's head behind a group of men. What the feck? He was the earl, and should be out mingling.
He started toward Colin. Killian needed to warn him without confirming his suspicions about Lycingsham's origins.
"There you are."
Killian stopped, stared at the slim hand on his arm. He frowned at the young lady, who stifled a giggle then smiled like a daft loon.
"I've been waiting for the right gallant to meet me here."
"Meet where?" Christ, now he sounded like a loon.
She glanced over his head and giggled again. "Under the Kissing Bough."
Killian shot his gaze to the ceiling. Suspended by the lush velvet ribbons Kathryn had supplied hun
g a round orb of mistletoe. It was studded with fruits, a red bow topping where it connected to its support system. Another couple smiled and danced beneath it, before the young buck stopped and caught the girl's mouth in a less—than—chaste manner.
"Violet," shrieked the chit's mother.
The girl stood dazed and blushed, as the man laughed and plucked one of the white berries from the orb.
"Hurry," urged the girl who had stopped him. "The magic will disappear when all the berries are gone."
Killian splayed his hand and moved it in front of the girl's face, which slowly lost its eager expression. Only a touch of erasing, enough for her to forget Killian. With a gentle nudge, he sent her toward the buffet table, and the shopkeeper's awkward son who kept dropping his plate of tarts.
He cut a sharp glance at the orb, now devoid of one third of it's berries. Christ, the widow hadn't mentioned anything about a time limit. He had to get to Colin, grab Kathryn, and invent a ruse to get them to do the deed…er, kiss under the damn thing.
He hurried to the library door, and found two older gents arguing about the merits of chess. He looked around, the signature of Colin even fainter than before.
"He's not here."
Killian spun around to find Kathryn, her expression disheartened, her eyes full of worry.
"Where is he, then?"
Her eyes widened at the brusque tone of his question, but there was no time for cleverness.
"He received a message from Sir Randall."
"What did the wolf want?"
Kathryn stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. Not beyond the realm of magical possibility, if ye crossed the wrong Fae.
"I mean to say, what was the message?"
Her delicate brow creased. "I did not hear the entirety of it." She glanced down to her slippers. "We were in the midst of a disagreement."
Killian grasped Kathryn by her shoulders, ignored her shocked expression. "Kathryn, ye have to learn how to handle a proud man. As he has to learn to deal with a strong woman." Since when had he become a counselor of such matters? "He loves ye and I know ye love him."
Her eyes softened, and she gave a small nod of her head.
"Now where the feck did Colin go?"
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The trail ended at the entrance to the cave.
Colin's essence had gone so dim when Killian left the manor, that he'd had to resort to a more mortal way of tracking his prey. The barnyard hound he'd possessed scratched its ear, and flopped down on the ground. Killian disengaged, grabbing his head against the searing pain. With a scratch to the ears, he flashed the animal back to the manor, with a meaty bone for his trouble.
It took a moment for his vision to clear and the pain to subside to the point that he could think. The dog's sensitive nose had indicated Colin had entered the cave, but there was no sign of the earl or anyone. A void.
"Do ye not think that in itself is a sign?"
Killian glared at Patric. "Do ye ever announce yer presence?"
Patric did not reply, but then he did not have to. He was High King. Bugger him.
"Ruarc and Declan have traced the devils to this valley. I suspect we will find our foes within."
Thank the goddess Rua had relocated the shifter fairy mound. Still, the cave by mortal standards ran deep into the hills, with multiple secondary passages ideal for ambushes.
Killian summoned his cumhacht, his power. A glowing orb formed over the palm of his hand. He looked at his High King. "There is no time to wait for the others."
Patric inclined his head, manifested an oak staff, as well as his scian. "Then we will hunt and kill the bastards."
They entered together but then separated, pressing against opposite walls. The sharp edges of rock sliced at Killian's side. Aye, he could protect himself with magic, but the pain kept him sharp, reminded him of all that was at stake—hundreds of lives, Colin and Kathryn's among them. And his treasure. Above all, his treasure.
Selfish. Aye, ye are a true Leithprachaun.
Killian gripped his scian tighter. Feck the inner voice. He fought for all those reasons.
A low-throated growl reverberated from his left. Looking at Patric, who nodded, he raised his hand, a bright glow illuminating the narrow passage. One of Sir Randall's men crouched inside, in mid-transformation from mortal form to wolf. He froze just long enough for Patric to slice its throat with his blade. Killian choked back a cough from the black ash that erupted into the air.
A chorus of yipping echoed in the distance. Killian and Patric exchanged looks, then moved forward. It wasn't long before they saw a faint glow ahead.
"Your efforts to thwart us were futile, mortal."
Killian recognized Lycingsham's voice, though there was a decided underlying growl to it now. Ahead, the tunnel expanded out to a large circle, an entry to a huge, hollowed—out space. The glow from torches had it as bright as day.
Easing forward, they stayed to the shadows. Satisfied that they were not detected, Killian bent forward to survey the area.
Christ.
The periphery of the room was filled two deep with Shadow Wolves. Some sat on their haunches, black tongues lolling out of their mouths. Others stood on all fours, periodically throwing their heads back and releasing soul—freezing howls. There were a few of the wolf's henchmen still in mortal form. A necessity, he supposed, for dragging captive villagers forward by their arms before a stone altar, behind which Lycingsham waited—and upon which Colin lay bound, with arms and legs stretched tight.
Killian's hand twitched on his blade.
Steady, warned Patric mentally.
Aye, he knew to rush in would put Colin at risk. He stared helplessly at the old, gray—haired man sagging between his captors. His rheumy eyes were glazed in a trance, which was a mercy, as Killian took note of four other bodies lying in a twisted pile in the corner.
"Blast you to hell!"
Colin was not in a trance. Impotent rage combined with agonizing sorrow burned in his eyes. He strained against his bonds, which only made the Shadow Wolf laugh.
"You disrupted my plans from the beginning, your lordship," Sir Randall said in a mocking tone. "If not for your interference in London, this would be done, our bellies full, our power strong and ready for conquest." He leaned close to Colin's face. "Do you not enjoy watching those who trusted you having their essence ripped away? No? Well, you will watch. Every single one of them, including that tasty morsel of a female who longs for you."
Killian thought Colin would break his wrists, trying to free himself.
Pushed to his knees, the old man wobbled as his head was jerked back, his neck exposed. Killian felt Patric's power pulse along with his own.
The wolf preparing to rip the man's throat out snapped his head up, his glowing eyes zeroing in on the spot where Killian stood.
"Bastard, Killian said, "'tis one soul ye won't be taking."
The searing orb in Killian's hand snapped and crackled with magic, and when he loosed it, the sizzling masked the howl of outrage from the now obliterated beast.
Patric followed with another, taking out the second henchman. Their victim landed with a thud on the dirt ground.
Sir Randall remained unmoved, a slow, feral smile curling his mouth. "And the rest of my plan falls into place."
Killian and Patric strolled forward, a wall of magic between themselves and the rest of the pack, who growled and paced in agitation. Killian flicked his eyes from Lycingsham to Colin. Be prepared for anything, he projected. His friend gave the slightest of nods. He raised his eyes and locked on the wolf. "The only plan in play here is sending ye and yer filthy mongrels back to hell."
Sir Randall moved forward, gripped Colin's jaw and licked the side of his face. "We have no plans to withdraw, but we do intend to feast on souls. Fae souls." He glanced at Patric. "And the High King, no less."
Patric was unperturbed. "Ah, wolf. Ye cannot afford the cost of such a fine meal." In a
lightening move, he raised his staff, pointed it at the altar. Killian steadied himself against the percussion of the brilliant, green magic that streamed from the end. It slammed Sir Randall back against the stone wall, where he immediately shifted into wolf form.
The pack began to snarl, and from the corner of his eye, Killian saw them begin to run, escaping to the outside. "Patric!"
"I see them," replied his brother. "Secure the earl while I finish this one."
I am Faol, the wolf projected into the room. The Shadow Wolves will triumph. He snapped his jaws at Patric as he mounted the platform. Your efforts to save this one will not save the rest.
Faol broke free of Patric's restraining magic and leapt over the altar, his back claws grazing Colin's bare chest. Killian threw up his arm, blocking him from a killing blow to the throat, then swung his scian in a tight arc. It glanced off the wolf's hindquarters and, even in the yelp that followed, he heard Faol's dark, mocking laugh.
The wolf writhed, twisted around, snapped at Killian's leg, ripping the leather of his bracs. He kicked it away, formed a blazing orb and sent it flying. It hit its target dead in his furry chest.
The unnerving part of his victory was, the lack of surprise on the wolf's countenance. I still win, Leithprachaun, he projected. The man will not survive the poison of my claws. My pack will feast tonight. With a loud crack, and screaming howl the pack leader exploded into black ash.
Killian spun on his heel, raced to the altar where Patric had cut Colin's bonds. His friend was flushed, his breathing short, and his eyes filled with pain. The gashes made by the wolf's paws were red and festering.
"Patric…"
His High King lifted his hand, and Bridget, their healer, appeared.
"Ah, Christ," she muttered. "'Tis devil's poison."
"Heal him." Killian ground out. "Save him."
Bridget looked between them. "'Tis a difficult thing…"
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Do it."
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 54
