by Raven, Jess
‘You know where to find her?’
‘I’ll start with the place I last saw her, the nursing home.’
‘Be careful Savage.’
Connal quirked a brow and Madden regarded him with dark, intelligent eyes. ‘Did the Morrígan ever tell you why she holds a grudge against the Fomorians?’
‘No,’ Connal shook his head. ‘But the Ancients draw power from their worshippers. I assume she got her knickers in a twist because the Fomorians liked to prey on her human acolytes?’
‘Hmm,’ Madden frowned, ‘the details are sketchy, but the thegn scriptures suggest Elatha stole something from her, and she's had an axe to grind with his bloodline ever since.’
Connal lifted dark brows ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because however much you deny your ancestry, you are a part of that royal bloodline. She’s used you once, she may not hesitate to do it again.’
‘I appreciate your concern, Doc,’ Connal smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever trusted the bitch’s motives, but what are my options, really? I’ve less than forty-eight hours aboveground before I fry. I can’t shift, so going back to Fomor will only get me killed quicker. It’s time to pay the piper.’
‘I wish I could help you.’
‘You can,’ Connal said, ‘if you can get me into the staff garage. Liath stowed my bike there, last time she caught me drunk outside the club.’ It seemed an eternity since he’d stumbled into the alley, and Ashling DeMorgan’s life. Things had come full circle. When he’d met her, he was barred from touching her and sworn to save her life. Not much had changed then. Except for him. He thought he’d known what it was to be empty inside. Losing her? It felt like his soul had been ripped out and left flopping at her feet. A black hole of emptiness had taken up residence in his chest, and no amount of noble self-fucking sacrifice was ever going to fill it.
SUITE HAVEN
Ewwww! If she had any recollection of being born, Ash figured it would have felt exactly like that. Like the air was being squeezed from her lungs, her body compacting to fit through a space too small. Not daring to scream lest she inhale whatever was churning her, she whined through tight-locked lips and held herself together when slimy forces wanted to tear her apart.
Keep your arms and legs inside the ride.
Slippery with primordial gunk, hair plastered to her head, she was swallowed and spit up on a hard, paved floor. The cold bit into her cheek, sinking into bones that were refusing to move. Muscles useless, she just managed to twitch her fingers in a scrape on the stone.
Damn it. Just her luck. She’d escaped, only to risk being found on the doormat, immobile and wrapped up in a pretty ooze bow. At least her lungs weren’t incapacitated. That would suck. She took deep breaths and willed her body to wake from its shock, taking in the room she’d been vomited into: a cellar masquerading as a locker room. Metal cages lined the walls, packed with neatly hanging clothes, bottoms lined with shoes and accessories. Ash counted about forty three before a tell-tale tingling spread through her veins in a wash of pins and needles. It wasn’t pleasant but she pushed through it, got her feet under her and limped around the lockers.
The exit wasn’t signposted. She got lost in communal showers and a laundry room before she found the elevators. Only one was key-accessible. Ash awkwardly angled the key to the lock in the wall, careful not to snap the cord around her wrist. She prayed it came quickly. Mac had told her it would get her to his private quarters, and no one could reach her there. When the metal doors pinged open and she stepped through, she hoped he hadn’t lied. He’d also promised her an actual shower. Exhaustion lent itself to convincing herself that she was safe. The illusion would have to be enough until Mac came for her.
When the elevator stopped, she padded the short hallway and let herself into the suite. Ash paused long enough for her other senses to tell her she was well and truly alone and let the heavy wood door lock behind her. It was a small reassurance.
Another door to her immediate right revealed a large shower room. That’s what she needed. No thoughts allowed. Ash peeled the tattered remains of her dress from her body, snagged a towel from the linen closet and took full advantage of the luxury. Mac’s room was seriously lush and she’d only seen the hallway. The shower was pristine in black and red marble. For every black tile there was one holding the Form emblem in its centre. The place was big enough to fit at least five people, so when Ash closed herself into it and turned the water to a boiling torrent, she felt safe. Not claustrophobic, not underground, but in a wide open space with plumbing and heat. Sinking into the burning spray, Ash shut her mind off, watching the remnants of Fomor sluice from her skin.
She left the wet haven when her skin went pruney. Once out, the rush of cool air to her skin had her brain booting back up. No order to the thoughts in her head, she couldn’t compartmentalise the emotions that, only a month ago, wouldn’t have been an issue. She almost wished she could stuff them all back behind the ice wall, but it was decimated and she had no time to rebuild it.
The plush mattress dimpled under her weight, silken sheets shushed as she wormed into the centre of the bed, towel-clad and damp. The view from Mac’s bed was spectacular: she could see Dublin, twinkling at dusk, alive with the buzz of the full moon. It was so vast and she was so small, maybe she could get lost somewhere in its streets and they’d never find her, or she could hop on a plane or a boat and skip the country for a safer continent. Connal had told her they’d track her anywhere. That was when they wanted her alive. She was under no illusions that if they really wanted her dead, there was nowhere she could hide.
She scraped damp hair back off her forehead, bunching thick fistfuls. A wordless cry groaned from her throat. Helpless, she held onto herself while her mind whirred a mile a minute. In spite of the luxury surrounding her, her head was still stuck in the pits. People kept changing: masks were dropped and true faces were shown. No one and nothing was what she thought them to be, herself included. Reality had veered so far into the dark and fantastical that Ash was hopelessly lost. She clutched at the mundane memories she had, rolled into the pillows and stared at the cordless phone on the nightstand. She craved just one day to be human again, to go to the cinema, have dinner with friends, get drunk and fall off tables.
That’s how she ended up snatching the phone and dialling up an area code and number she had memorised. The low bleeep-bleeep grated in her head and she was chewing her lip to shreds when a sleepy ‘Hello?’ connected over the phone.
‘Carla?’
‘Who is this?’
The familiar sound of her friend’s voice sprung tears to Ash’s eyes and she couldn’t do more than breathe like a creeper down the line.
‘Ash? Is that you?’
‘Yeah,’ she cleared the tightness from her throat and tried again, ‘yeah it’s me.’
‘You sound Irish.’
Ash snorted and swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. ‘You like Irish.’
‘I like Michael Fassbender and Colin Farrell. You sound weird. You always did pick up accents easily.’
Ash smiled, even though her friend couldn’t see. It was so good to hear her voice. They fell into easy conversation that lulled her into a sense of normalcy. Until ...
‘Are you ok, Ash? You sound funny.’ Carla clearly didn’t mean the accent.
‘I-’ her voice cracked. She would not break down.
‘Oh Ash,’ a shifting of fabric on the other end signalled Carla had moved into a more comfortable position in bed. Ash did the same, going fetal and staring out the window. ‘What happened?’ Carla asked. ‘Is it your grandmother?’
‘No. Not entirely.’
A pause then, at the other end of the line.
'You met somebody, didn’t you?'
Damn. The girl was psychic.
'Yeah. Except I think I've really fucked it up, you know?' Ash fought back the tears.
'I seriously doubt that's true, Ash.'
'He saw me kissing his brother.'
'Oh ...'
'No, I mean, it wasn't that kind of kiss,' Ash back-pedalled furiously.
'What kind of kiss was it then?'
Good fucking question, Ash thought.
'These past few weeks have been so intense.' And that was the understatement of forever, Ash thought. 'Connal was gone, and I believed he wasn't coming back. Ever. Mac was just ... there. I had a moment of temporary insanity, it was a massive mistake.'
'Hold up a second,’ Carla sounded animated. ‘This Mr. Intensity, Connal? He dumped you? So you were on the rebound. The bastard had it coming for ever hurting you in the first place.'
Ash wished it were that simple.
'Yeah, see, he didn't exactly dump me. I may have pushed him away.'
'Oh.'
Carla's judgement was in what she didn't say. This was the Ash she knew, the one who ditched and ran at the first sign of attachment. The one who only dated safe, brainiac, hipster types, because they were emotionally stunted enough not to be a threat to her carefully walled defences. Saying she pushed Connal away wasn’t the whole truth, but explaining how she'd manipulated him into biting her during sex was liable to lead to the white coats knocking down her door.
'Yeah,’ Ash exhaled, ‘Oh about sums it up.’
'Wow, this Connal guy's really gotten under your skin, huh?'
Yes he had, and in more ways than one.
'Everything moved so quickly with him, Car. I feel like I'm in a tailspin. I can't tell which way is up.'
'Newsflash, Little Miss Frigid. That's what happens when you fall in love.'
Ash took her courage in both hands and admitted it. 'I do love him,' she sighed.
'Damn.' That silenced her friend, for all of five seconds. 'Well then, it's simple. You have to get him back, because if you don't, I guarantee this one will haunt you to the end of your days.'
Her friend's words rang so true, the phone was shaking in her hand.
'I think I'm already too late.'
'Does he love you back?'
'He said he did, before he … left.'
'Well then, what's the problem, aside from the brother-kissing? And by the way, what kind of prick makes a move on his brother's girl?'
Ash hesitated. 'Mac was nice to me.'
'Yeah right, because he wanted to get in your pants.'
Ash laughed, then swallowed. Perhaps it was more than just the kiss. The way Connal had looked at her. She knew how much he hated the wolves, and now she was one of them. 'I'm afraid I'm not who Connal thought I was anymore.'
'Which of us is? Come on, Ash. I get it. You're closed. You're defensive, but sometimes, you need to take a chance and put yourself out there. Let somebody in, let them love you, for who you are. Which is a pretty fucking amazing person, in my book.’
Ash laughed.
‘Is he so perfect?' Carla demanded.
Yes. No ... He was so much more than anything she could describe over the phone. She had whole facial expressions and hand gestures to convey who Connal was and how utterly out of control he made her feel. 'He's complicated.'
'Complicated how? Married complicated?' Carla was getting her protective on. She'd been the same since high school, always first to step into a situation.
'No Car, he's not married,' her relief was audible, 'but he's older than me, he's got ... baggage.' Ash didn't know how else to put it. 'He's no saint.'
Carla laughed softly. 'That’s one thing God and us ladies have in common. We all love a sinner.’ Her voice got stern. ‘Unless this guy hurt you?'
'Fuck no. I'd say he's protective. Incredibly so.'
That made Carla wary. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble over there, Ash?’
‘No, Car,’ she lied, ‘like I said, it’s just been really intense.’ This veneer of normality only made everything that had happened in the past few weeks seem all the more insane.
‘Does he give you orgasms?’
‘Carla!’
‘What? It’s a well known fact that orgasms affect your brain chemistry. You keep saying this relationship is intense, so I’m assuming this Connal guy is frazzling your mind between the sheets. Either that or my friend, the cold, controlled Ash, has been abducted by aliens, and you are a strange impersonator with an Irish accent who has taken possession of her body.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes you’ve been abducted by aliens?’
‘No, you goofball. Yes about the brain chemistry.’
‘That good?’
‘Toe-curling ...’
Carla cooed her approval. ‘He’s a keeper, Ash.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘You grab that tiger by the tail and you grovel and beg his forgiveness for playing tonsil hockey with his brother.’
‘What if he doesn't want me? I have my pride, Car.’
‘Screw your damn pride. Your pride won’t make your toes curl or your heart do backflips. Go get him, Ash. You have nothing to lose.’
‘You know I love you, you crazy cow.’
‘I know. Just promise me I get to go to the wedding. In Ireland. With hot Irish guys, in kilts, preferably, and nothing underneath.’ Ash could hear her friend’s smug smile down the line.
‘I can’t promise a wedding, Carla, but I am going to find him.’
She switched the conversation back over to her friend and how life was treating her and the little one. Carla filled her in on shows she’d missed and movies she should watch, but Ash was too busy laying the newly unknotted threads of her thoughts side by side for clarity.
‘I’ve lost you, huh?’ Carla said.
Ash realised she’d been silent far too long, and even her noncommittal noises had dried up. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Car, I was thinking.’
‘Yeah yeah, go get Loverboy, Ash. I want to be a bridesmaid, so you have to hustle, before I’m twenty-five, please.’
‘No pressure then,’ Ash laughed, but not long after, she had to hang up. Keeping up the pretense of normality was too much. No pressure? The pressure was crushing, knowing she might not make it out of this alive. The full moon would wane eventually and then she’d either die out here like a wrinkled smurf or be forced back into Fomor and be torn apart by Fite and his men. Same went for Connal. He was out there, alone, somewhere, and for all she knew the wolves had already gotten to him. She couldn’t live with herself, knowing she’d left things in such a damn mess. Her wrist flexed and her fingers brushed the coin that used to rest on Connal’s skin. It was all she had left of him, the one part of him she was still able to touch. She could only hope fate would give her the chance to return it. Even if he hated her now, for what she had become, and for what he’d witnessed with Mac, she still owed him her life, and she owed it to him to at least try to explain herself.
That was assuming she could even track him down.
Her lips pressed to the coin for the briefest moments before she dropped her hand and stared blankly up at the ceiling. Getting onto the rung of her plan ladder would have been easier if she could see the first step. Hiding under the covers and hoping the nightmare went away wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Calling him seemed the logical answer, but while they’d exchanged body fluids and I love you’s, they’d never exchanged numbers. The house and her grandmother were the only tangible links she had to his life.
THE CALL
‘Here is our direct line.’ The nurse’s sympathy deepened as she pressed the card into Connal’s waiting palm. ‘Please don’t hesitate to use it, and, on behalf of Tir na nÓg, I would like to say once again, how terribly sorry we are, and reassure you we are doing everything in our power to locate Ms. DeMorgan.’
The nursing home’s porch light cast the woman in an unflattering light, emphasising the dark shadows under her eyes. Strands of hair had escaped what would have started her shift as a neatly combed up-do. He pitied her, left to explain the circumstances of their misplaced resident, with all its emotional and medico-legal implications. He co
uld have spared her the angst. The moment he knew the Morrígan was gone, Connal just wanted out of there.
He’d allowed himself to be herded into the melamine office, and listened as her carefully prepared speech whittled his patience to a thread. Anann DeMorgan’s recovery from her stroke had been just short of miraculous, apparently. In the past twenty-four hours, the old lady had gone from helpless paralysis to walking, talking pain-in-the-ass. Just as Connal remembered her. Sometime that afternoon, she’d slipped their security and gone AWOL, leaving a neatly folded pile of clothes on the headland overlooking the sea. Nurse Valentine steadfastly avoided the use of the word ‘suicide,’ though that assumption was clearly driving the uncomfortable undercurrent of the past half-hour’s conversation.
‘The police and the coastguard will resume their search at first light. Things always look better in the morning, I find.’ Her smile was strained.
‘Yeah, tomorrow is another day, and all that,’ Connal replied. Except another day was all he had. A thousand years of virtual immortality, and suddenly life or death hinged on a single rise and set of the full moon. He had two choices: locate Anann DeMorgan and plea-bargain, or settle in for a slow, agonising death aboveground. The lesser of those two evils was debatable. Returning to Fomor to face-off against MacTire wasn’t an option, when he couldn’t even shift to defend himself. Talk about the devil and the deep, black sea ...
He left the nurse standing in the halo of the security light and mounted the Black Shadow, squeezing the throttle and kick-starting the motorcycle into roaring life. A light rain was sheeting in off the sea and the salt air stung his cheeks as he took the coast road south. Freedom never tasted so bitter-sweet.
He pulled up on the headland, a short distance from the area cordoned-off by yellow police tape. The stuff was flapping about in the wind like so many loose strands. The Garda presence had long since departed. Their search of the coastline would not bear fruit. He could feel it in his marrow; Anann DeMorgan was gone and it was going to take something more than a search party to draw her out now. The Morrígan would be looking for blood, and Connal was just desperate enough to give it to her.
