by Lora Andrews
Ewen sheathed his sword and signaled an evacuation to the grove. This wasn’t their war to fight. Not when they didn’t know the stakes. The group ran for shelter, Caitlin sprinting after them. They were halfway to the tree line when something nagged at her, whispered in her ear, tugged her sleeve, the sensation that made you turn around and check behind you when you’re alone in a dark parking lot, about to unlock the door to your car. She looked over her shoulder to the battle unfolding outside the monastery and spotted two men dueling—the massive Viking dude who had spilled out of the monastery and a tall blond warrior.
She skidded to a halt, her eyes locking on the guy facing her.
Fionn?
It couldn’t be, could it?
Desperation fueled Fionn’s every swing against his Viking opponent. The sword in his hand glowed—a sword imbued with magic and forged by the blood of his curse. The sight of it touched the place in her soul where the pendant’s power once lived, confirming what she knew to be true. The man on that field was Fionn. Their shared link shook with anger. With vengeance. With relentless purpose.
There was only one being capable of triggering those emotions in Fionn.
“Bres.”
Ewen had stopped beside her. His head snapped to the field—to the groups of two to three supernatural beings in various stages of slaughter. And then his gaze landed on the two human-looking men fighting outside the monastery door.
“Which one is Bres?”
“The blond guy with his back to us. The other one is Fionn.”
“The god tasked with Bres’s execution?”
Former god. “Yeah. That’s him.”
Ewen nodded, but his eyes grew intense.
“I feel his pull,” he said softly.
Yeah, me too.
Ian, Brother Rupert, and the others waited impatiently from the protection of the grove.
“Can you see what’s happening?” Caitlin asked Ewen.
“All but the placement of the witches. The dragon-men, the guards in the yellow robes, appear to be fighting against the Fomorians.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. The Fomorians and the Neridian gods are mortal enemies. The dragon-men are Draconians. They’re part of the royal guard that has protected Neridia’s ruling class for eons. They’re impervious to most magic.” At least that’s what Bres had told her. But, the blood oath that bound a Draconian to his kindred was also the chink in his armor, for it compelled him to safeguard his kindred above all else.
She closed her eyes. Ewen had turned against Valoria. He’d brought Bres the Tempus Stone. And he had taken a dagger to the heart to protect her. All because of a stupid magical oath.
“Caitlin?”
“Sorry.” She shook away her grief. “Neridia is the realm where Bres, Brigid, and Fionn were born. It’s the same realm Bres is trying to re-open into our world.”
“Where are the witches?”
“They haven’t moved.” But the chanting had escalated, growing louder, the ugly magic like sandpaper against Caitlin’s skin.
Bodies hit the ground. Beheaded Fomorians. Injured or dead dragon shifters. The scene was reminiscent of the pages of the MacEwen journal she and Ewen had discovered in Kilfinan.
The air in her throat constricted.
Maybe this was the moment. The great cost. The great sacrifice.
The gravity of the situation locked her in place, whacked her over the head, and drove the point home like a hammer to a nail head. Bres was on the field, fighting Fionn. He was vulnerable.
This is what she came back in time to do.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Ewen’s face. Or say goodbye, because surely she wasn’t getting out of this wreck alive. And, oh god, she was scared. So scared of dying, and even more scared of failing.
“You need to go. You can’t get caught up in this mess.” And I can’t let Bres walk off this field.
The three chanting voices fused into one loud, superimposed chorus, choking the air with foul magic. The Fomorians still fighting grew stronger, turning the tides against the few dragon-men and their sphinxlike partners, some of whom clutched their heads or swatted at their ears.
“They’re boosting the magic.” Caitlin winced. Toxic energy raked her skin and throbbed in her eardrums, invading her head.
Fionn stumbled, his face screwed in a tight mask of pain.
Bres advanced, firing blow after blow, forcing his opponent back, and although she still couldn’t see his face, she could imagine the arrogant grin plastered across his mouth.
The bastard needed to die already.
Pain speared her temples. With a groan, she keeled over and clutched her head. The spell impaired those touched with Neridian magic. That had to be why she and Fionn and the Draconians were stricken, but not the Fomorians or their allies. She had to stop the witches before Bres killed Fionn.
“Protect her,” Ewen told someone behind her.
What? Arms lifted her from the ground. Ewen ran toward the battling supernaturals, Ian beside him.
“No” Caitlin screamed, fighting against the body at her back. One of Donald’s guards? “Let me go!” She attempted to yank her arm from his grasp.
“Be still, lass. You’ll get us all killed.”
Ugh, Ailbeart—frizzy-haired dude—wrapped a meaty arm across her chest and held her like a vise as he dragged her the few feet to the grove. At the tree line, Deidre sat huddled near Brother Rupert, her body shaking, most likely from the combination of her wet clothes and the supernatural battle taking place. Besides Ailbeart and the monk, none of the guards remained.
Arguing with Ailbeart would get her nowhere. He wouldn’t release her until he was certain she wasn’t a flight risk. Besides, he was only following Ewen’s orders, and that earned him some street cred in her book.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I lost my head out there.”
The tension in his arm lessened a tiny bit, but not enough for her to wiggle out of his hold.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Time was ticking. The longer Ewen was out in the melee, the higher the probability he’d get himself killed. The only way to even out the playing field, give Fionn the window he needed to kill Bres and protect Ewen, was to take out the witches.
Would killing one be enough?
After what felt like an eternity, Ailbeart’s grip loosened. She held still, counting in her head. Just a little more. Almost there.
“Do you ye give me your word you’ll be still?” he asked her.
She nodded her head. Oh, yeah. She was burning in Hell.
“We’re going to make our way through the grove. Doona make me carry ye, lass. A scolding is far superior than the War Master’s anger should ye break your lovely neck. Do you hear me?”
“Okay.”
He let her go.
“Can I pull my knife?” When he frowned, she said, “For protection, but not against you. Against the creatures. I promise.” She gave him her best I’m-just-an-innocent-lass smile.
Ailbeart scratched the back of his head. “Aye, but don’t go getting any ideas. You might maim me, but you willna kill me. Do you understand?”
Yep. She understood perfectly. She pulled the dagger from the sheath and waited until they’d started walking before pivoting on a heel and darting back to the monastery. Back to the place where her heart beat and three witches attempted to shift the balance of history.
A groan, footsteps, and a growled “Caitlin” followed not too far behind her.
She made a beeline for the witches, pumping her arms, trying not to react to every jab or growl she passed. She had no plan. Just a girl, a dagger, and momentum.
The plan would have worked had the witches not encased themselves in a bubble of magic. She hit hard and bounced off, her face completely numb when the rest of her caught up. With a moan, she tightened her grip on the dagger and jumped to her feet, instinct guiding her actions. Drawing her arm back, she thrust the blade into the invisible wall. And miracle of all mirac
les, it punctured the curtain.
One of the witches screamed.
Holy shit. What did Faolan forge this thing from?
Caitlin stabbed again.
Another scream.
A pulse of magic smacked her in the chest, sending her flying back ten feet. When she hit the ground, her tailbone smashed into the earth.
Ailbeart crouched beside her while her lungs remembered how to work. “That had to hurt.”
Ya think? She may have broken her nose, too.
“Don’t move.” He pressed thick fingers into her flesh. Checking for a pulse?
Did she look dead? She felt dead.
“You are one lucky ninny. I doona think you broke a single bone.”
Her backside didn’t feel so lucky. “Don’t tell Ewen, okay?” was all she managed to say out loud. It took her two seconds to realize the chanting had stopped. She accepted Ailbeart’s assistance and uncurled her body from the ground.
A witch lay crumpled. The other two joined hands, another spell about to fall from their lips.
“No, no, no, no. Ailbeart, let go of my arm.”
He snorted. “Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m sorry. But look around you. When the chanting stops, the Fomorians are weakened, but if the witches resume the chant…”
“Aye.” Ailbeart’s head snapped back, his attention focused to the sky in wonder.
A dragon soared off the roof, its red-gold scales reflecting the sun, and clutched against his chest, was a tiny form. The Draconian lowered himself to the ground, his beating wings whipping air and debris against the moving bodies on the field. He lowered his prize.
Above, a roar ripped from the monastery. At the window—the same second-story window the funnel thing had blown through—jumped the largest man Caitlin had ever seen. A Fomorian in his human shape. Had to be. Easily eight feet tall with smooth brown skin and bulky arms that reached well past his hips, he was missing an eye. The giant landed with an effortless grace that shook the ground and took Caitlin by surprise. Then he bared his fangs and charged the red-gold dragon and the woman beside it.
Shit. “Where’s Ewen?”
Frantically, she searched through the sea of moving bodies surrounding the dueling Fomorian and red-gold dragon, screening heads until she found Ewen fighting back to back with Ian, fending off two attacking conk-shelled mermen she’d never seen before and a red humanoid she couldn’t identify.
On the ground near the monastery doors, the woman brandished her sword, the wind whipping her black hair around her face, green eyes fierce.
Caitlin’s heart skipped. She’d remember those emerald eyes anywhere. Launching a mutual attack against the dark-skinned, one-eyed Fomorian, was none other than the goddess, Brigid.
So many things about this situation didn’t sit right with Caitlin, the primary one being why Brigid wasn’t using her magic. Her fireballs had incinerated the giants in Ardgour. Why not now?
“Ailbeart, I have to get closer.”
Grunting, the guard tightened his hold on Caitlin’s squirming body. “I’ve got my orders, lass.”
“Then come with me. You can hold on to my waist and watch me thrust my dagger into the witch’s shield.”
He stilled. “That may no’ be a bad idea.”
“Where is your whore of a wife?” Bres taunted.
The degrading words interrupted Caitlin’s negotiations with the guard.
“Hiding from a real god?” The blond Bres smirked, and although his appearance had changed, his dark eyes and smooth car-salesman voice were throwbacks to the trickster she remembered all too well.
Fionn clenched his jaw, and even without the link, Caitlin knew from personal experience the amount of willpower it took him to ignore the former god’s taunts.
“I quite think your little warrior woman will fancy me when you’re gone.” Disdain dripped from Bres’s tongue, and yet despite his bravado, he looked drained, his movements sluggish.
Dodging a thrust, Fionn elbowed Bres in the face.
Bres twisted his body to avoid the blow, then regained his footing but not before Fionn stabbed him in the shoulder. Bres retaliated by kicking Fionn in the stomach with enough force to knock him to the ground. Eyes tight, Brigid’s ex raised a hand to his injured shoulder, his fingers coming away wet with blood. Backing away, he glared at Fionn and signaled a merman to attack. He must have extinguished whatever magic he’d stolen fighting the guards inside the monastery.
Without magic, Bres was mortal. And at his most vulnerable.
Caitlin yanked herself from Ailbeart, but he grabbed her by the waist with both hands and pulled her back. Exhaustion claimed her. The magic pulse had done more than knock her to the ground, but she made a last ditch effort to free herself by kicking Ailbeart’s knee.
He sidestepped the move and growled, “Enough, lass.”
Panic roared in her chest. “Ailbeart please. You don’t understand. He’s weakened. I have to get to him. Now!” She couldn’t bring herself to stab the guard. Damn her freaking conscience. Things would be so much easier without guilt.
A flash of light temporarily blinded her.
Her ears popped. The wind picked up. Shielding her eyes, Caitlin blinked through the glare and dust flying at her face. The smell of sulfur permeated the air. Over by where the witches chanted, a whirling funnel of white light appeared.
A portal.
Oh, god.
“Fionn,” Caitlin screamed, wrestling against a cursing Ailbeart with the last of her strength. “They’ve opened a portal.” She pointed, but the former god was too busy fighting his way through a Fomorian to get to Bres, who snapped his head toward the witches.
Caitlin’s heart dropped. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Please, don’t do it.
Bres turned tail and ran for the portal.
“No!” Every possible emotion played crossed Fionn’s face. His eyes alternated between the open portal and the weakening Fomorian before him. “Bres, you bluidy coward. Fight me!” He powered one blow after the other, funneling his anger into each strike against the desperate giant.
Bres jumped into the spinning light.
Caitlin’s stomach plummeted.
The shadowed witch held the cauldron and stood at the edge of the portal like a Walmart greeter, staring into the field. Caitlin still couldn’t see her face. Her accomplice hoisted the injured witch and followed Bres into the light, while the shadowed witch stood guard, unmoving.
“El amser är nú,” she chanted.
The time is now?
Frowning, Caitlin searched the battling supernaturals. Bres was gone, so who else could she be talking to?
A growl sounded from the one-eyed Fomorian. He swung a meaty claw at Brigid, then glanced to the portal.
“El amser är nú,” the witch said, bowing in one-eye’s direction. “El amser är nú.” The words rang out louder and clearer than before.
She was keeping the portal open for him?
A bellow ripped from one-eye’s mouth. For someone contemplating escape, he didn’t seem very happy about it. He clamped his fist, and instead of taking another swing at the dragon, he backhanded Brigid, then back-flipped out of the fray. Once on his feet, he turned, ran the short distance to the portal, and dove into the swirling light.
With a mighty swing, Fionn finally beheaded his opponent then sprinted after one-eye. He jumped, sailing through the air, sword gripped in one hand, the other clawing through space.
The shadowed witch backed up to the portal’s threshold, one arm wrapped possessively around the cauldron pressed to her breast. Holding her other palm out, she rotated her arm counterclockwise, once, twice, three times.
Caitlin held her breath as Fionn sailed toward the portal. The nut might actually make it through.
The light faded.
Fionn’s body crashed through the void the portal had left. The “no” that rendered through the air nearly broke her heart. Fionn was mortal,
but he couldn’t die. Not until he’d completed his curse. It was a hell of a way to live when you loved someone.
Ailbeart released her.
Ewen.
Caitlin spun. Most of the bad guys had dispersed. Draconian guards corralled the remaining Fomorians and supernaturals back to the monastery prison.
Ailbeart signaled Brother Rupert and Deidre from the grove. There was still no sign of Donald’s other guards among what remained of the throng, but she located Ewen. The look of relief sliding over his face when he found her warmed her heart.
Smiling like a loon, she waved and managed to find the energy to hurry across the ten or fifteen feet separating them. Ian sat on the ground facing Ewen, one long leg stretched, the other bent at the knee.
Ewen stood when she approached. “Are ye hurt?”
“No. Just cold and tired.”
He touched a sore spot on her cheek. “I asked you to stay in the grove.”
“I know.” Heat flushed her neck. “I don’t listen very well.”
Chuckling, Ewen shook his head. His dark hair was wild and disheveled. He rubbed the side of his lip with the pad of his thumb. Then one muscled arm snaked out around her and tugged her against his chest.
She let out a shocked squeak, but wasted no time wrapping her arms around his waist. His scent enveloped her. Earthy and masculine and familiar.
“When I looked out to the field and saw ye attacking the witches…” He rested his chin on the top of her head and stroked her messy hair. “Well…I was worried.”
She bit her bottom lip, a big old grin claiming her mouth. She could no more deny her feelings for Ewen then deny her next breath. But she wasn’t ready to think through the reality of what that meant. For now, she concentrated on the feel of his body against hers. The pure joy of being in his arms. She’d cherish this moment forever—this unexpected bubble of contentment found in the unlikeliest of places.
“That woman is more stubborn that you, War Master,” Ailbeart growled. “God’s wounds. Will you look at my arms? I look like I’ve been attacked by a wildcat.”
