by Nina Croft
Daughters of the Morrigan
(Books 1-3)
By
Nina Croft
The Prophecy
(Daughters of The Morrigan Book 1)
By
Nina Croft
Prologue
Nearly twenty-one years ago
How had it come to this?
Regan had no clue, but she couldn’t turn back now.
The building was not what she’d expected, adding to her unease. A modern office block deep in the business district of the city of London. All around her, the air was filled with the constant clamor of traffic, and the fumes assaulted her nostrils. She longed for home. Soon. Shifting the baby in her arms, she banged her clenched fist on the door.
Her niece was restless, letting out little mewling sounds. She was no doubt hungry. Regan couldn’t bear to look at her. If she looked, her heart would break, and she would run as fast and as far as she could away from this place.
And she needed to do this. She couldn’t keep her niece safe. She’d searched and prayed for a different way forward but had come up with nothing. So she would give the child into her father’s care, and the care of the Council, and hope between them they could keep her from harm.
For a minute nothing happened. Then the door swung open from the inside and a man stood there.
“I’m expected,” she said.
He nodded and gestured for her to enter. She brushed past him, and then waited so he could lead the way across a marble-floored reception area, through a door, and down a set of stairs which took them to below ground level. Finally, he stopped in front of metal door. “You may enter.”
Regan took a deep breath, tightened her hold on the baby.
At the last moment, doubts flooded her mind. Were her anger and bitterness driving her to do this? To hand an innocent baby to a monster. At the thought, she almost turned away, but the door opened from inside, and it was too late.
Besides, this way, there was at least hope.
And she could live with the guilt. She’d done it before.
Stepping into the room, her gaze fixed on the two men, standing close, heads together. Both tall, their figures tense, jaws locked. She had an idea they’d been arguing, but now their focus shifted to her. A common enemy. The intensity of their stares burned into her.
She forced herself to look first at the man on the left, tall with golden hair and eyes the color of the summer sky. Kael Hunter, the head of the Council, a shapeshifter, and the last of his race. She met his stare and didn’t flinch at the hatred in his eyes. He blamed her for the death of his people. And maybe he was right to blame her. She’d done what she needed to do.
But didn’t she always?
The thought had a bitter flavor.
“Where is she?”
At the words, she turned her attention to the other man, and loathing seethed through her blood. Darius Cole, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and no soul. She cursed the day he had come into their lives. From the expression on his face, she suspected her hatred was reciprocated. Like she gave a damn what he thought. He looked behind her, as though her sister might appear as though by magic.
Never going to happen.
“Gina’s gone,” she said. “Where you can never find her. But she left something for you.”
His gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms, and he went completely still, his eyes widening. He took a step forward then halted, searching her face. “A child? Gina’s?”
“And yours.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. This is some trick. Gina would never abandon our child.”
“But then what do you really know of her? You were with her for three months. I’ve known her all her life. She’s gone, and the child remains.”
Regan had seen a vision. Darius would kill her sister. He claimed he loved her, but could a vampire really love? Blood-sucking monsters. The thought sharpened her resolve, and she uncovered the baby’s face.
Darius stepped closer. Reaching out slowly, his finger stroked the baby’s cheek, his face softening from its harsh lines, wonder in his eyes. She stilled under his touch.
“She has her mother’s eyes.”
Witch’s eyes. But she also had her father’s dark hair and white skin. No fangs yet, but they would doubtless come with time.
“Her name is Raven, and she is cursed.”
His hand dropped to his side and he stared at her. “Cursed?”
“I had a vision. It foretold a prophecy.” Closing her eyes, she recited the words. “Whosoever shall sacrifice the virgin Raven Cole on her twenty-first birthday shall win a great victory, a final victory, surpassing all others, and their enemies shall fall before them.”
“You’re lying.”
Suddenly the strength drained from her. “Why? Why would I lie? I know you hate me, but I would give anything for this not to be true. She’s my niece, my blood. But I can’t protect her from what will come. Others will have heard this prophecy. They will hunt her down. You said you loved my sister. So protect her daughter. I give her to you.”
And she thrust the baby into his arms and turned and ran. Before they could see the tears burning her eyes.
She was a daughter of the Morrigan, and she never cried.
Chapter One
Kael Hunter stared down from his perch high above the cavernous hall.
Beneath him, through a pall of ochre smoke, he could make out a score of fire-demons. Their leader, Sorien, sprawled on a huge chair and, standing next to him— so still that at first Kael thought she was a statue—was Raven Cole.
At the sight of her, something stirred deep inside him. The sensation took him by surprise. He’d expected to feel guilt, probably pity, but not this burning sense of recognition and longing.
She was tall, her hair a coal-black cloak around her shoulders, dark against the stark whiteness of her skin. She wore a black tank top and faded jeans, and she was slender to the point of gauntness. Her arms were fastened tautly behind her, chained to the stone pillar at her back. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed.
Sorien stumbled drunkenly to his feet, and she raised her head, her eyes flashing open. She had witch’s eyes, huge, haunting, the irises the palest of silver rimmed with charcoal.
And staring down into that hauntingly beautiful face, Kael realized he was in trouble.
He had come here hoping to save her but prepared to kill her if that was needed to prevent the prophecy from being fulfilled. People had been known to lose their minds in the dungeons of the fire-demons. If that was the case, and she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—cooperate, then he would consider her death a release.
Now, with only one short glance, he knew that her death at his hands was no longer an option.
Shit.
Directly in front of Raven, the body of a young man hung lifeless. Sorien stopped beside it, grabbed a handful of blond hair and tugged back the head. He swore viciously and dropped it in disgust.
“Dead,” he muttered. He swung round to face Raven. “What are you staring at, witch?” He took a step toward her and she stood up straighter, bracing herself for the blow she obviously knew was coming.
Sorien lifted one huge fist and slammed it into her stomach. The force drove her backward into the stone pillar, but she was held upright by her chains. She hunched over against the pain, then slowly straightened. She stared up into Sorien’s face, and this time her eyes were not expressionless. They were filled with hate.
“I’m glad he’s dead.”
Sorien had turned away. At the woman’s soft voice, he swung round. “What did you say?”
“I said, I’m glad he’s
dead. He’s free of you.”
“Unlike you, my pretty.” He stroked a hand down the flawless line of her cheek, over her throat. His fingers tightened on her, the claws digging into the soft flesh, and he twisted viciously.
This time she couldn’t hold back her sob of pain, and Sorien smiled, his hand dropping to his side.
“What?” he asked. “Were you not pleased with your present?” He glanced again at the dead man. “We brought him here for you. He died because of you.”
Her eyes closed briefly; when she opened them, they were blank once more. “You murdered him.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “it will be your turn soon. Another month and I’ll see you dead and the prophecy fulfilled.”
“Are you so sure of that?” She smiled, showing sharp white teeth. “Do you want to know what I’ve seen in your future, Sorien, king of the fire-demons?”
“Be silent, witch.”
“Or what?” she asked, the scorn clear in her voice. “You’ll kill me? I don’t think so. Not yet anyway. No, I think you’ll listen to what I’ve seen in your future. It won’t take long, because you know what? You’re going to die real soon. And you’re going to die screaming.”
“Shut up!”
She laughed softly. “Do you want to know how you die? I’ve seen it, and I can tell you…if you like.”
Up on his perch, a shiver of awe ruffled Kael’s feathers. It had been rumored she’d inherited the sight from her mother. But she was only fourteen when the fire-demons had captured her, too young to have it confirmed.
“It’s going to be messy, Sorien. Very, very messy.”
Sorien raised a clenched fist and backhanded her across the mouth. Blood spurted from her lips, dripping crimson against her white skin. Her small, pointed tongue flicked out and licked at the blood while her eyes remained fixed on the fire-demon. She smiled again.
“Soon, Sorien,” she crooned. “Your end draws near. Did I mention the screaming bit? Really loud. Like ear-splitting loud.”
The fire-demon backed away from her then. “Get her out of my sight,” he roared.
Kael’s muscles tensed with the need to swoop down, to free her from this place. But if he wanted to save her, he had to bide his time.
He glanced out of the window. The sky to the east was showing faint traces of light; dawn was approaching. They would have to remove her from the hall before the sun rose, but he had her scent now and would find her. With one final lingering glance, he launched himself from the beam and swooped out through the open window.
Chapter Two
Be strong, Raven. Do not give in to despair.
Raven woke to the utter darkness of her underground cell with the words lingering in her head. A woman’s voice, a stranger’s voice, soft and low, and Raven gritted her teeth against the fury it stirred.
“Piss off,” she muttered under her breath.
She wasn’t strong. And she was tired of pretending she was when her whole body was racked with pain and her first feeling on realizing she was still alive was despair so intense it twisted her guts.
She had long ago learned to deal with the pain of the frequent beatings, and she’d come to accept the idea of her death as inevitable. Raven even believed in some shadowy place, deep within her soul, that she deserved to die for the innocent blood she had taken.
No, it wasn’t the pain or the thought of death that tore her apart, it was the knowledge that Sorien would benefit from her death. If Sorien won a final victory, she had no doubt there would be a reign of terror on the earth beyond all imagining.
And it would be her fault. She’d been cursed from the moment of her birth.
Gritting her teeth, she tugged at the chains that shackled her to the wall. She wasn’t going anywhere, and she hated the sense of powerlessness. However much she taunted Sorien, pissed him off, he wouldn’t kill her before the time of the sacrifice.
And if all that weren’t enough, for the last two months she’d had to put up with a stupid voice telling her to be strong.
Seriously?
It was advice she could do without.
Her throat was parched, but she could scent water nearby. She scrambled to her feet, reaching blindly for the bucket only to find it had been placed just out of range. Obviously, Sorien had decided to punish her further, and suddenly her rage rose up inside her like a living thing. She threw her head back and screamed, then hurled the whole weight of her body against the chains, over and over, until at last she sank down, exhausted, her ragged breathing thundering in her ears.
Something moved. A flutter of tiny wings stirred the chill air of the cell, and she went instantly still, listening. A moment later the room was flooded with light.
A man stood in the center of the cell, and her breath caught in her throat. He appeared to have materialized out of nothing, and her first thought was that he must be another vision. But this was no vision; it was a flesh-and-blood man. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and she drew the scent of him into her nostrils, the warm muskiness of animal overlying the sweetness of fresh blood.
He was huge, almost as tall as Sorien but with the lithe leanness of a jungle cat. Muscles bulged beneath the black T-shirt he wore over black jeans. He carried a torch, the source of the light, which he tucked into the waistband of his pants, and there was a gun holstered at his shoulder and a knife in a sheath at his thigh. She dragged her gaze upward. His face held a savage, masculine beauty: broad, flat cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, and slanted, catlike eyes, the color of the summer sky she remembered but would never see again. His hair was blond, a hundred shades of sunlight.
He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; it was like staring into the sun she could never look upon, and Raven realized, with a sense of awe, that she knew him. She’d seen him in her waking visions. Had once, long ago, dreamed that this man would someday come and set her free. For a brief moment her pain faded, replaced by a sense of wonder.
It didn’t last long. She no longer believed anyone would save her.
Yet here he was.
Their gazes locked, and an unexpected expression softened those startling blue eyes. It took her only seconds to identify—goddamn pity. He pitied her, and her anger flared again, fierce and hot.
How dare he pity me?
As she searched his face, it came to her who he likely was—or at least who he worked for—and the reason for that pity. It appeared that the Council had caught up with her at last. At the realization, her anger flared brighter. If she had to blame anyone for the fucked-up mess that was her life, then that blame would land squarely on the Council.
It was the Council who had ordered her death when she was a baby. They would have killed her to prevent the prophecy if her father hadn’t escaped with her before the order could be carried out. Because of the Council, she had spent the first fourteen years of her life on the run. Because of them, her father had been killed, and she had been captured by the fire-demons.
She’d always wondered if they were aware of her capture. If so, they must have been hunting desperately for her as her twenty-first birthday approached, knowing that she would be sacrificed, and the fire-demons would gain the great victory promised by the prophecy.
Now it looked as though the Council had finally found her and sent someone to carry out the sentence of death they had passed so long ago.
She was only twenty; it wasn’t fair that she should die before she had even had a chance to live. Then she shook her head in disgust; only children believed that life was fair, and she was no child.
At least this way she would get her greatest wish; Sorien would never fulfill the prophecy, would never win that final victory. With that knowledge, a warm wave of relief flooded her. A feeling of peace and acceptance suffused her mind. He had come to set her free after all, in the only way still possible. He had come to kill her.
She relaxed then, closed her eyes.
And nothing happened.
Tot
al silence.
Why didn’t he do what he had come to do? It was one thing to accept your death. It was quite another to wait agonizing seconds for the blow to fall. Then she heard a noise, not one she expected, and she opened her eyes.
He was still watching her but had taken a cell phone from his back pocket, was punching in a number, then what looked like a short text.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket. Raven wanted to ask who he had messaged, but when she opened her mouth, her lower lip split, and she winced at the sting of torn flesh. She licked her lip, tasting her own blood. His eyes watched the movement then wandered down over her body. Holding her head up high, she stared him in the face. His lips twitched slightly.
Yeah, she was so funny. The big bad vampire.
“You’re a mess,” he said.
The words took Raven by surprise, and she scowled. She’d like to see anyone look better after being beaten up by an angry fire-demon.
She swallowed, forcing herself to speak. “Would you pass me the water?”
He frowned but picked up the bucket, putting it down in front of her. She lowered her head and drank deeply. When she glanced up, he was watching her, as she drank like an animal. But wasn’t that exactly what she was? What Sorien had reduced her to? She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, clumsy in the chains.
He turned from her and was inspecting her cell. There wasn’t a lot to see, just a bare cot and four stone walls. He paced the length of the room, which took all of three seconds, then back, finally facing her again.
“Have you been put here as some form of punishment?” he asked.
She wished. She shook her head. “Nope. This is as good as it gets. This is how I always live. Since I was fourteen and...” She trailed off. She didn’t really know who this guy was, what he knew. “Who are you, anyway?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “How did you get in here?”
He didn’t answer; instead he unbuckled the shoulder holster and dropped it and the gun onto the small cot. He clasped the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it from his body.
