Time Everlastin' Book 5

by Mickee Madden

  During her twenty-eight years, she had held back from openly showing affection, only to offer it to a creature, whose idea of gratitude was an added dash of hell.

  She had once loved her parents...until they ripped her from Scotland and her remaining family, only to leave her in the care of countless sitters through the following years. She'd learned very young she could count on no one but herself.

  And she'd once loved Roan. Her big brother. Her "child" mentor. But he had let the parents snatch her away to the States. Never wrote. Never called. Forgotten her until she'd shown up at Baird House, where he resented seeing her again.

  She'd thought caring about the gargoyle a safe way to vent emotions she usually avoided. Care and coddle him as she might have done with a loyal, loving dog. He'd brought out a facet of her personality few witnessed. His illness gave her permission to cry, to worry, to hope for something that wasn't connected to herself.

  Betrayal hurt. She'd lost her emotional armor in this hellhole.

  Bubbles rushing to the surface carried her wretched laments. The barbarian had spoken the truth. She couldn't die. Water filled her lungs, and yet she breathed—laboriously, yes, but breathed nonetheless.

  She squeezed her eyes shut when, from behind, arms scooped her up and carried her off in a rapid ascent. She would not look into the gargoyle's eyes again. Would not be trapped into feeling anything again. She once lived for only herself, and it would be that way again.

  They remained close during her rescue from the water, and throughout the jostling trip through the tunnels and corridors. Arms still held her. Perhaps the gargoyle's.

  Perhaps the barbarian's.

  It didn't matter which.

  Her skin felt hot, tight, squeezing her muscles and bones. The liquid surrounding her brain, boiled. Her mind re-enacted scenes from her past. Her childhood. Wild teenage years. Her first apartment on her own. Landing the job at the newspaper. Coming to Scotland. To the Callanish Standing Stones....

  "Lass, ye be in a fever," a deep voice said from faraway.

  Disoriented, she lifted her eyelids. She was in a den, on a bed of leaves. Soft, blue light made it possible to see shapes but little else. Darkness loomed above her, droplets of water splattering on her left arm and chest.

  "Lie still," he chided when she attempted to sit up.

  Her voice a hoarse whisper, she managed, "Leave me alone."

  "Tis the second bath ye've foisted on me."

  Had she detected humor in his tone, or was she delirious?

  "He dropped me."

  "I saw." He patted a wet hand across her brow. "I was mair'n a wee surprised to see him turn on ye."

  "I defended you," she said sleepily.

  "Ye did, did ye?"

  She languidly swept the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. "He..."

  "Forget him and rest a wee."

  "He...hates you."

  "Aye." He cleared his throat. "Wi' reason."

  "What...reason?"

  "I killed his mate."

  Taryn swallowed painfully and tried to focus on his face. "Why?"

  "I'll explain anither time. Rest now."

  "I'm so tired," she murmured.

  Taryn fought to resist the heaviness forcing her eyelids shut until the barbarian began to stroke her brow.

  "Don't want to sleep," she said in a barely audible voice.

  He chuckled low, his fingertips stroking, stroking. "Ye even fight weariness, lass. A warrior's heart, ye have. A warrior's spirit."

  She smiled in her semi-sleep. "You're being nice... to me."

  "Aye, and no doubt ye will make me pay dearly for this transgression."

  "No," she whispered, shivered and curled onto her side.

  "Sleep, Taryn. Free yersel' to the merciful arms o' Morpheus, and wake a new womon."

  Those words drifted through her mind as she slipped deeper into a healing sleep, unaware that, for some time after, her barbarian stared at her angelic features with a look of torment.

  Broc gave himself a firm shake as if to shuck off a burdensome cloak of doom. With the action, a chill clutched his spine. Icy tendrils invaded his blood and he shivered.

  The last time despair had gripped him this tightly had been when he'd watched his last lover whisked away to the above world and vanish into a sun-lit day he could only dream about. Years had passed before the pain of her absence finally became but a memory. He had vowed never to care again—never to yearn again.

  With a woeful shake of his head, he brushed the back of a hand along Taryn's cheek. Her soft skin caused a breath to hitch in his throat. Caused a sting of longing to pierce his heart—a heart beating a little too quickly.

  For all her sass, she was, indeed, beautiful. A different kind of beauty than his last lover, but no less a threat to his tattered resolve.

  Cruel was God to design men so wanton of even the wee pleasures of the flesh. How weak and bloody susceptible they were to the wiles of women. And given how long he had gone without a warm body to vent his needs, was it any wonder his mind could not control the dictates of his heart?

  The other had not lain with him merely to escape the gargoyle's realm. From the first meeting, Broc had sensed a loneliness in the woman that overwhelmed him, and he accepted her without hesitation—the only woman of many Karok had brought below. Their bond formed instantly.

  During her stay, she had not spoken of a husband, but Broc had known one existed, and known the man was responsible for the woman's sadness.

  "As I know ye will bring me centuries o' misery when ye leave," he whispered to Taryn.

  He traced her cheekbone with his thumb.

  "I wish ye no harm, little one. Tis hard for me to give in to Karok. Hard for ma mind to grant wha' ma heart so desperately wants from ye."

  He closed his eyes for a time in a futile attempt to clear his thoughts. When he looked down at her again, tightness filled his chest.

  "Someone hurt ye," he murmured, caressing her cheek once more. "I ken these things, I do. Tis a harsh knowin'. Leaves a mon's soul exposed, it does. But tis who I be, lass. Sadly so, but who I be.

  "Ye think ye're in love wi' him. No' so. This mon loves anither."

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he eased onto his side behind her. He inched closer, wincing with each rustle of the leaves beneath them, and held his breath when he was at last spooned against her. He listened to the erratic drumming of his heart for long moments. Listened to the otherwise uncanny silence beyond the den.

  He was relaxing when she began to turn onto her back. He rolled onto his in time for her to snuggle against him. A smile curved up the corners of his mouth until her bare arm flopped across his chest. Then she withdrew, moaned, and rolled back onto her right side, away from him. Scowling, he remained on his back, his hands stroking his beard.

  Yes, it was coarser than his hair. Her claim to dislike facial hair was true, right enough. She even shunned its texture in her sleep.

  Rolling to his left and getting to his feet, he stared at her ponderously. Shave his beard? He had contemplated it earlier. Briefly. It had been a part of him for so long, he couldn't imagine it gone.

  But if she stays much longer...?

  His heart slowed to a steady, strong beat, and the weights that had ridden on his shoulders since her arrival, lifted.

  Karok knew her absence would hurt him. Yes, Broc had been careless in shielding his attraction to this woman. As long as he had the beard, she wouldn't let him close enough to satisfy the gargoyle's twisted sense of vengeance.

  The longer she remained, the more difficult it would be for Broc to let her go.

  All thought at bay, he jogged through the passageways until he reached his suite of dens on the far side of the domain. Of the seven, he entered the forth, where he kept many of the "offerings" the clan had given him since his internment. Surely, among the horde, a sharp enough blade was in attendance. A straight razor would be greatly appreciated, but luck had abandoned him long ago. />
  He tore through boxes, heavy-clothed containers, tins and bags made of material with draw strings. Food, books, reading sheets, pictures, boots, belts, blankets, embroidered pillows, and various articles he didn't recognize.

  Nothing sharp.

  "Bloody damn!" he growled, his gaze pinging around the remaining bundles he had yet to open.

  He spied a black leather bag near the entrance. Since he found it shortly after the woman arrived, he assumed it belonged to her. He wasn't sure why he hadn't returned it, but it beckoned him now to peruse its contents.

  Peevishly fussing with the zipper until it opened, he turned the bag upside down and spilled out the contents. Frustration fueled his actions as he tossed aside objects he didn't want or didn't understand. He nearly threw aside an aged leather-bound book, staying the motion before it left his fingers. Scowling at the fey tingling sensation passing through his hands as he held it, he released a disgruntled breath and flipped open the book. At first he scanned through it with little interest, then gradually read each Gaelic word neatly penned on the pages. The more he read, the more numb he grew until he could no longer feel the weight of the book in his grasp.

  When he finished the last entry, he let the book slip from his hold and fall to join the litter on the floor. He stared off into a faraway place, raw emotions clawing up through his throat. Emotions defying the dam of a resistance that had taken him eons to construct.

  And he had thought this world hell.

  Chapter 11

  Reith sank deeper into the clutches of unconsciousness. The drug injected into him on the three occasions he remembered, was fast-acting and efficient. He had yet to fully awaken. Whenever he struggled to get beyond the limbo of semi-awareness, he experienced another sting in the arm. Painful heat flowed into his veins, causing numbness to spread through his body and mind. He had no concept of time. No concept of place.

  Somehow, he gathered all his willpower to claw through the cocooning effects of the drug. His eyelids were as weighty as boulders, taxing to lift them fractionally.

  Managing to open them into slits, he blearily peered into a wavering, brilliant light until he was forced to squeeze them shut. Detonations went off on the insides of his lids, each spark pinpricks jabbing into his cornea. He heard a piteous moan boom close by, and gradually realized that it came from him.

  "Tis wearin' off," whispered a timorous, feminine voice.

  Reith vaguely recalled hearing three men's voices, and perhaps two women's. Not this woman, though. Her soft voice was not something he would soon forget, for it held the same degree of futility he'd known since his abduction.

  "I'm no' sure wha' to do for ye," she said, concern lacing her tone.

  Reith pushed harder up through layers of greyness. When at last he focused, he stared into blue eyes shadowed with apprehension.

  "Are ye truly a fairy?"

  The best he could offer was a grunt, and worked his mouth to alleviate its dryness.

  "Ma family willna let ye go," she said sadly.

  His "Why?" came out as a croak.

  "They want their wishes."

  Reith studied her earnest expression and, despite his situation, couldn't restrain a wry grin. "Tha' be a genie."

  "Fairies dinna grant wishes?"

  "No."

  She sighed and stared off to one side, lost in thought.

  "Taryn," he rasped.

  Her gaze swung to meet his, her slim, dark eyebrows drawn down in a frown. "Wha' did ye say?"

  "Taryn Ingliss. Must...find her."

  The woman squirmed, shifting on her perch on the side of the cot supporting Reith. Although his mind remained groggy and his vision intermittently bleared, he easily read her willingness to avoid the subject of Roan's sister.

  "Please."

  "I'm no' familiar wi' the name," she said, her back unnaturally stiff.

  It occurred to Reith that he couldn't move his arms or legs. Glancing down, he concentrated hard on what he was seeing.

  "A spinner's web?" he asked, perplexed.

  Not only were his wrists and ankles tied with heavy cord, his arms and torso were trussed up—cocooned—in duct tape and layers of spider webs.

  "If ye shrink ta escape yer bonds, the webs will hold ye fast. They know ye canna use yer magic wi’ou' yer wings."

  "Do they?" he murmured.

  "Aye. I dinna agree ye need to be drugged. Ma cousins and brither willna be happy tha' I didna administer yer shot."

  "Why?"

  "I'm curious abou' ye."

  "Why?"

  She smiled. "I've never talked wi' a fairy afore."

  "Why?"

  She giggled. "Because I havena."

  Reith gulped past a lump of hairy dryness in his throat. "I-ah, talk best when I'm no'—"

  He cut off the sentence when she shook her head. "I may no' wish ye drugged, but I dinna want ye away, either."

  "I be on a mission."

  Her eyebrows lifted. "Are ye now? Wha' kind o' mission?"

  "Does it matter?" he asked, throwing all his charm into the effort.

  "Ma clan has a mission, too, and for this reason, we canna let ye go."

  A knot of foreboding tightened in Reith's gut. "Ye intend to keep me prisoner...indefinitely?"

  She nodded.

  Reith tested the integrity of his bonds. Unless he reduced his size, he couldn't escape them. And he couldn't shrink without engaging his wings. Although the membranes and filaments comprising them were sturdy, they could not penetrate duct tape, and could not easily untangle from a spider's web.

  Squashing a pang of panic, he wondered if Lachlan was on his way.

  By MoNae's whims, I hoped so!

  "Wha' were ye doin' in the shrine?" she asked, the sweetness in her tone engaging his instinctual alarm.

  Shaking off the inexplicable suspicion, he asked, "Shrine?"

  Her eyes narrowed before they softened beneath a shy smile. Too late, though, for he now knew her timidness was a ruse to loosen his tongue.

  "I dinna know o' any shrine," he said with a constricted shrug. "I was followin' an old womon—"

  "Why follow Mavis?"

  "I was a wee bored."

  "So..." She stared at him for a long moment. Although her features were well-guarded behind a mask of calm, her eyes betrayed simmering anger. "...fairies can lie."

  "Lie? Me?"

  "Ma cousins will choke their wishes from ye," she said matter-of-factly.

  "I be no' a genie," he grumbled, then more loudly, "Do I look like I popped from a lamp?"

  "Fairies have pots o' gold—"

  "Tha' be a bloody leprechaun!" he said, exasperated.

  "Mair's the pity for ye. Wha' do ye know o' Master MacLachlan? Ye might as weel tell me. Ma cousins—"

  "No doubt are verra persuasive," he said flippantly then sighed from the depths of an abysmal well of remorse. "I dinna know yer name."

  "Katie MacLachlan."

  "Katie." He said her name as if it titillated his taste buds. "Tis a grand name."

  "Ye must be a good part leprechaun," she said, deadpan, "for ye speak the blarney, weel enough."

  From across the otherwise empty basement room, a door swung inward. Two men entered, shut and locked the only escape, and lumbered toward the cot. Reith watched them, breathing heavily to calm the erratic thundering of his heart. No doubt, her cousins and brother would be persuasive. Neither impressed him as being particularly averse to delivering pain.

  "How is it he's awake?" Flan asked peevishly, eyeing Reith with hostility.

  "Ye didna give him his medicine," Dougie accused, and hiked up his dark trousers. "Wha' dinna ye understand abou'—"

  "How can he answer our questions if he's unconscious?"

  Flan and Dougie exchanged a petulant look, and Flan said, "She makes sense, Dougie. How can we ask for our wishes—"

  "I've no wishes, ye bloody fools!" Reith exploded, and winced as shooting pain capped the back of his head.

 
"No wishes, eh?" Dougie snickered. "Och! Then give us a pot o' gold!"

  "Do I look like a leprechaun?" Reith said furiously. "Be I green and wearin’ pointy shoes, and speak wi' an Irish tongue?"

  Flan looked at Dougie and winked knowingly. "Like we dinna know the difference."

  "I be a fairy!"

  "We know," the brothers said in unison.

  Reith widened his eyes expectantly. When no one responded further, he blustered, "Fairies dinna grant wishes, nor do we have pots o' gold! We be MoNae's children, and take care o' the earth and its vegetation.

  "Aye, we sprinkle magical dust now and then, and we've been known to dance round grand oaks. But...we dinna grant wishes, we dinna horde gold. Tis no' our callin'."

  "Faeries lie," Katie said to her cousins.

  "Aye, they dinna want to separate from their gold or their wishes," Flan said, bobbing his head to emphasize each word. "Greedy no' to share. The rules say, laddie, if caught, ye pay yer dues."

  Reith clenched his teeth so tightly, pain shot along his jawline. "Be it dues ye want?" he cast bitterly. "Free me, sir, and I'll due ye up, right grandly!"

  Dougie reared back, blinking in surprise. "Did he just threaten us?"

  "Dunno," Flan murmured.

  "He's powerless," Katie said, her cold demeanor sending a chill through Reith. Of the three, he realized, she was the most dangerous, hiding behind a facade of innocence until crossed.

  "No' so verra," he said, forcing calm into his tone. "I have friends comin' for me."

  "No one will find ye here," Dougie said.

  Again, Reith clenched his teeth, this time to prevent a retort. Now that the drug was mostly worn off, his body ached, throbbing like every part of him possessed a hammering pulse.

  "How did ye know where to find me?" he asked the brothers.

  "We got friends and family everywhere," Dougie boasted. "When we got a call from our cousin at the motel, sayin' three men were askin' abou' the Ingliss woman, Flan and I took rooms there to keep an eye on ye."

  "Ye shouldn't have waited till morn to fly from the grounds," Flan taunted. "Mavis saw you wi' her binoculars. One call, and all we had to do was wait for your return."