Not that he would ever tell his brothers, but for the past few years, the thrill had been gone from the chase. He prayed nightly that it was not permanent. You see, Ciaran was an avid admirer of the feminine form. He appreciated the beauty of women – no matter what shape, age, or size it came in. Call him an equal opportunity lover, he adored them all; every hair color, skin complexion, nationality, religion, and social class. He loved their smiles and laughs and insecurities. He loved the way they were each so unique, each a separate mystery to unravel. They ranged from demure to bold, innocent to intellectual, timid to brave.
The wide eyed virgin; youthful, pure, and alluringly naïve. She was a favorite of his. She sought guidance and a gentle touch; someone she could trust to educate her in all the unknown pleasures to be had with a man. Ciaran was ever ready and eager to accommodate her.
The twenty-something year old, the young woman at that charming age between naivety and disillusionment. She had loved enough in her time to know that not all men offered a happily ever after – yet she had not lost hope that it might still happen. Ciaran adored her, showed her that there were men out there who could still pleasantly surprise her.
The thirty-something year old, the take-charge type; the career woman. She had it all figured out, did not need a man but for one thing. She knew exactly what she wanted but sadly, rarely encountered a lover capable of providing it. Ciaran always did.
The middle-aged woman, a close second to wide-eyed virgins on Ciaran’s favorites list. She had reared her children and given them the best years of her life. She might be widowed or simply married to a man who no longer looked in her direction. Either way, it did not matter to Ciaran. She thought her time for passion and romance had passed, that the laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes or the extra weight she had accumulated over the passing years were unsightly to men. Ciaran took extra time assuring her that this was not the case.
Yes, after overcoming his grief (well, as much as he ever would), Ciaran had devoted his immortal existence to being the #1 fan of the fairer sex. Nearly every waking thought and every dream he had revolved around them. He took his greatest pleasure from giving them theirs. He knew every trick in the book on how to lure them into his bed. He knew a great deal beyond that about how to keep them coming back for more.
But one night, three years prior, all of that had changed. The sultry red head that he had been chatting up at the bar would have posed no challenge at all. Inside of ten minutes, he could have had her up in his hotel room, shrieking his praises for all of the city to hear. And then it happened. After four thousand years, the constant desire to find new game had just distressingly and unexpectedly... fizzled out. He had actually excused himself from the intimate banter. He had gone upstairs to his bed alone for the first time in as long as he could recall.
He spent the rest of that night in silence, staring out the window of his room at the shoreline with the strangest sensations washing over him.
Since then, no amount of pep-talking could rouse his once-perpetual hunger. Desperate housewives, virgins, nuns, and other such highly coveted conquests had presented themselves, but still he could not be bothered. None of them provided that spark anymore. They all lacked something that he could not even begin to define.
And so, he concluded, given his sudden self-imposed abstinence, imagining the haunting whispers of a nameless woman that he would never bed was not all that far-fetched. Still, it had seemed entirely too real to have been a figment of his imagination. He scanned the hall again for any sign of a trickster brother looking to shake him up. When sniffing the air turned up no trace of scent, he finally shrugged and took another step.
“Tagair do Thrianaid...
Gràdh, dìlseachd, càirdeas...”
“Oookaayy,” he breathed, stopping in his tracks.
Since when was he hearing voices? As far as he knew, men did not suddenly go coo-coo for cocoa-puffs after four millennia spent perfectly sane.
There was something familiar about this particular voice, though. Why did he get the feeling he had heard this woman before, long ago? He knew that he had, he just could not place when or where.
“Feumaidh sibh nasgadh ri chéile...”
His face twisted in confusion at the unseen woman’s instruction.
“‘Join together’?” He repeated. “Who must ‘join together’?”
The words had no sooner left his lips than it occurred to him just how ridiculous this was.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Great, just great,” he grumbled. “Now I’m standing around, conversing with a voice inside me head. I’m losing me damned mind, tha’s what I’m doing.”
He decided to ignore the voice. It was worth a try, he figured. Who knew? Maybe it would simply go away if he paid it no attention. Unfortunately, he only managed to take three steps before a sensation the likes of which he had never encountered overcame him.
It was rapture and yearning and purpose and love... beauty and passion and peace and light... like basking in divine radiance. It was everything that he had been aching for these past few years.
A long moment passed before he managed to open his heavy eyelids. When he did, he found that he was standing with his cheek pressed to a door, his fingers tracing over the wood longingly. Inhaling deeply, he caught scent of the sleeping woman on the other side who was causing these feelings, the woman the whispered voice was leading him toward.
Unbeknownst to him, beyond the door, Skye was tossing restlessly in her sleep in response to his presence. Images filled her dreams of his face and voice. She saw his past, present, and future. She knew him somehow, knew that he belonged to her. The same woman that Ciaran was hearing whispered to Skye now in her dreams. Unlike him, she could not understand the words. The only thing that was clear to her in the fog of dream was his name.
“Ciaran...” Skye breathed in her sleep.
His pulse quickened at the barely audible summons. He pressed harder against the door, trying to get closer to her voice. He needed to go to her. She had beckoned for him. She was...
“A’ bhan-dia,” the whisper named her.
Ciaran shook his head adamantly. The statement had been close to the truth, but was not quite accurate.
“Mo bhan-dia,” he corrected.
“Seadh! Do bhan-dia, Ciaran.
Rach a-steach... an-dràsta!”
He smiled blissfully, forfeiting his will to the commands in his mind, in his very blood. The mysterious voice had agreed with his words and urged him on.
This was right. It felt right. The voice confirmed his feeling was justified. He was to be where he belonged, at her side. He was finally going to be with her... to be hers... he was destined to be.
But when he felt cool metal beneath his palm, it snapped him back to reality.
This was Skye’s room, he realized in horror. This was the room of the woman he had never met and who – let us not forget – was to be the mate to his most beloved brother. Was he seriously about to barge in on her? Was he seriously about to cross this boundary?
His eyes opened wide in panic.
Releasing the handle as if it had burned him, he took several startled steps backward, pointing at the door and eyeing it distrustfully.
There had to be a rational explanation for this.
Heat, his voice of reason offered.
He nodded as he recalled the girl’s ailment, relieved to have some way of rationalizing his strange behavior. That must be what this was all about. Taran had warned that she was in heat and that her scent had detrimental effects on a man’s self-control. Granted, Taran had not mentioned anything about hearing creepy whispered words, but maybe they had slipped his mind. And the more Ciaran thought on it, the more it made sense. It was perfectly understandable that he would fall victim to this. He had a decided weakness for the scent of all women. A faol woman in heat was sure to send him into a state. It was his own fault, really, for not realizing that he was passing by h
er doorway. Had he any sense at all, he would have avoided this area and entered the hall at the opposite end.
Keeping his eyes locked on her doorway the entire time, he continued backing toward Taran’s room. He decided it would be best to wait until Taran informed him that Skye was safe to approach. Until then, he would have to postpone making the introductions.
“What ya doing?” Drostan asked as he gripped Ciaran’s shoulders roughly.
“Sweet Jesus!” Ciaran cried as he spun to face him.
Drostan eyed him incredulously. “Wait... d’ya mean to tell me I actually just snuck up on ya?”
“No,” Ciaran lied.
After a moment under Drostan’s suspicious gaze, he sighed.
“All right, fine – maybe ya did, but just a bit,” he confessed as his eyes wandered back down the hall.
“What are we waiting for?” Drostan whispered. “Ya look as though ya’ve seen a ghost,” he teased, searching the hall for whatever assailant his brother seemed so troubled by.
“It’s nothing, just...” Ciaran tried, shaking his head in bewilderment. The urge to go to her was still just as strong as before. “Nothing. Let’s go bother Taran, yeah?”
Drostan let out a long, doubtful whistle. “You’ve grown stranger with age, d’ya know tha?” He teased before holding his hands up. “But all right, if we’re to pretend you’re nah acting like a loon, tha’s fine by me. I’d sooner stay in the dark aboot what craziness is going on in tha mind of yours,” he offered and turned to start out down the hall.
Before he took two steps, Ciaran grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Wait,” Ciaran began reluctantly. “Listen... just speaking hypothetically, were a man to start hearing those ‘whispers’ of yours...”
Drostan’s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to face him.
“Would it be the whisper of a woman?” Ciaran asked worriedly.
Drostan smirked, tousling his brother’s hair reassuringly. “It would be more voices than ya’ve ever heard in your life, all whispering at once till ya fear your head is going to explode,” he assured. “If a man starts hearing the whisper of one woman, I’d say he’s either losing his mind, or in desperate need of a lass to get wet and nasty with. Ya know... speaking hypothetically,” he added with a grin.
“Forget I even asked,” Ciaran grumbled, setting out again.
“So what’s this dream woman saying to ya?” Drostan asked in amusement as he followed after his brother. “Is it perverse? Cuz if it is, ya know it’s definitely something your dirty mind invented of its own –”
“I said forget it!” Ciaran growled and motioned to Taran’s door. “Is he still asleep or what?”
“I peeked in on him a moment ago. He’s sound asleep, unsuspecting, and unawares,” Drostan offered, still eyeing his brother suspiciously.
“Just how we need him,” Ciaran declared, ignoring Drostan’s gaze as he quietly made his way to Taran’s door.
21: Eternal Brotherly Torment
From beneath one cautiously raised eyelid, Taran peeked out at his room. He kept his breathing steady, careful not to give any indication that he was awake. According to his senses, Drostan was somewhere close by and he knew that he had heard Ciaran’s hushed laughter a second ago.
These things would have been troubling enough, given their penchant for playing pranks... but even more disturbing was the fact that he could not see them.
He closed his eye again, wondering what it would be this time. Experimentally, he stretched and rolled over onto his side. The motion ensured that he was not tethered to anything. Not that all of their tricks involved ropes, just the most painful ones.
Maybe they were simply planning on popping up beside the bed and startling him, he hoped. That would be innocent and pain-free enough for his taste. He sat up, prepared to be ambushed from either side of his mattress... but no assault came. He frowned, wondering if they were beneath the bed this time. They did that occasionally, lulled him into a false sense of security only to yank his legs from beneath him as he stood up. Cocking his head to the side, he listened intently to their heartbeats. When he realized where they were hiding, his eyes widened.
“Aw, no. Nah again...” he groaned.
So, it was to be a ‘Geronimo!’ wakeup call today. He hated this prank. Unfortunately, it seemed to be one of Ciaran’s favorites. Despite what the name might lead one to believe, he had been enduring this move since a short time after their Making. Ciaran had only renamed it ‘Geronimo!’ a century prior. It had been called dozens of things over the passing millennia, but it never seemed to hurt any less.
Slowly, as he knew they were waiting for him to focus on them, Taran looked up into the canopy overhead.
“Wakey, wakey!” Ciaran called, dangling upside-down above him.
“Oh for the love of –!” Taran growled, but trailed off to brace for impact.
Ciaran and Drostan had each withdrawn their talons from the framework they were suspended from. All Taran could do was glare at them as they plummeted toward him. When they crashed into him, he cursed Ciaran’s boney elbows and Drostan’s weight for the thousandth time in his life.
“What have I done to deserve an eternity of your torment?” Taran demanded as he shoved them off of him.
He only managed to knock Drostan from the bed. As usual, Ciaran was a great deal more tenacious.
“Come here, ya wee bastard,” Taran snarled, struggling to maintain a scowl as attempted to drag Ciaran across the mattress by his ankle.
Ciaran easily evaded his grasp and scurried across the bed, rolling and ducking to avoid capture.
“Ya know I’m going to thrash ya for this, just make it easier on both of us,” Taran called with a smile.
“Tha’s a fine ‘Good Mornin’ to your favorite brother,” Ciaran taunted, kicking Taran’s hands away as he tried to snag his ankle once more.
“How aboot a ‘fine Good Mornin’ upside your heid?” Taran offered.
“Hmm... tempting, but no thank ya,” Ciaran laughed. He jumped from the bed, grinning back at Taran before giving him an obscene hand gesture that had lost its meaning to mortals nearly a millennium prior.
“Oh, nice... tha’s really nice,” Taran laughed. “Nah as nice as this will be, though. Mind your house,” he warned as he pointed behind Ciaran, but his brother shook his head.
“Do I look tha dense?” Ciaran asked incredulously. “I’m nah falling for the ol’ – Hey! What the... ?” He cried as Drostan picked him up. “Ya rotten traitor!” He shouted as he was tossed back onto the bed.
For ten minutes, Taran struggled to keep Ciaran still long enough to beat on him. It was difficult to accomplish with both of them cracking up the entire time.
“Now,” Taran finally managed through labored breaths.
He stood from the bed, taking Ciaran with him. He dangled his brother upside down and laughed at the crimson complexion of the paler man’s face as all of his blood rushed there. His arms were pinned down at his sides and his legs were draped over one of Taran’s shoulders to prevent him from kicking.
“Of all the rooms ya could have gone to,” Taran continued. “Why did ya insist on coming in here and bothering me, instead of starting any other manor of mischief?”
“Cuz I heard ya had quite the night, lover-boy,” Ciaran managed to taunt, craning his neck to look up at him. “Care to share the juicy details?”
Taran’s mouth dropped open.
“Oh...” he breathed in realization.
The sedatives had kept the memories from presenting immediately, but at that reminder, they started flooding back.
“Nah... oh God, Skye...” he groaned remorsefully.
“Hey, wait, don’t let me – ooww!” Ciaran whined as he was abruptly dropped on his head. “Go easy, brother! Ya might nah be able to kill me tha way, but it still hurts,” he complained as he got to his feet.
“Huh,” Drostan began, studying the regret on Taran’s face. “Seems Miko was right,
then. Ya are as worried aboot her reaction to all this as he was last night.”
“Last night...” Taran muttered, still trying to piece it all together.
He knew what he had done, the details were still a bit muddled, though.
“Yeah, last night when the two of ya went at it like rabbits, totaled your Jag, and transformed in public,” Drostan laughed.
“My... Jag?” Taran asked worriedly. He gripped the bed frame for support when he recalled the events that had transpired in that backseat.
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it,” Ciaran assured. “Ya did one hell of a number on it. But hey, screw the car – I say, nice job, bud! Way to shed your celibacy in one wild, passionate, and primal act!” He commended with a grin as he clapped Taran on the back.
Taran groaned and sank down onto the edge of his bed. “She’s going to be livid with me.”
“Aw, come on, brother. I know you’re out of practice, but ya can nah be tha bad a shag,” Ciaran teased.
When Taran failed to respond to his goading, Ciaran frowned and abandoned the effort. This was supposed to be good-natured taunting, a means of ribbing his brother when he was actually bursting with joy for him. Seeing the distraught look on Taran’s face, Ciaran quickly sat beside him on the bed and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Hey... hey, brother. Listen, I’m sure it’ll be all right,” Ciaran offered sincerely. “I mean, sure, if she’s the type you’re describing, she’ll rant and rave and carry on at first. But once she lets it all out, she’ll come back around, you’ll see. Tha’s the way the real strong-willed ones are – the way they’ve ever been. Gotta take the bad with the good, I’m afraid. Ya just let her scream at ya till she’s red in the face and after tha, she’ll be good as new.”
“So, you’re the expert on handling strong-willed women now, is tha it?” Taran joked with a weak smile.
“He’s the expert on all women, in case ya’ve forgotten the fan-clubs,” Drostan reminded with a smirk.
Darkness Descends: A Skye Faden Novel Page 28
