“Sorry,” he said, and she glared at him. “I know, make some noise.”
She smiled at him. “It’s okay, that old woman just kind of freaked me out.”
He looked around, but couldn’t see an old woman anywhere. “What’d she say to ye?”
“She told me to leave this place, leave or I will surely . . . something. She didn’t finish it for some reason.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Why would she say that?”
He shrugged. “Come on, let’s pay for this an’ go.”
“You’re just full of answers today, aren’t you?”
He gave her a smug look.
She giggled and looked in the basket. “Do you think this is enough for us?”
He nodded. “I don’t eat much, remember?”
“I still think that’s pretty strange.”
“I’m a strange kind of guy,” he replied.
* * * * *
That evening, Kylie sat by the fire reading. The comment the old woman made wormed its way around her brain and really bothered her. She tried to concentrate on the book she’d pulled from his library, but it wasn’t working. Finally, she closed it and looked at Grant, sprawled out on the floor reading. She crawled out of the chair, onto the floor next to him, and leaned over, massaging his shoulders.
He dropped his head and moaned.
“Hey, Grant?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think that old woman meant by what she said?”
He closed his book, turned over and caressed her arm. “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it, Ky. She’s probably just some crazy old bat spoutin’ off strange words.”
“You really think so?”
“Aye,” he replied, but it didn’t comfort her. “C’mere.”
She curled up next to him and laid her head upon his chest. “But what if she wasn’t crazy? It sounded like a warning.”
He stroked her hair. “A warnin’ for what? Stay on the road. Keep clear o’ the moors. Ky, you’re more intelligent than that.”
“That’s not funny, Grant.” She sat up and glared. “I’m being serious here.”
He sighed. “All right, I’m sorry, but I think you’re getting’ yourself all worked up over nothin’.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Besides, I’m here to protect ye.”
“You can’t even protect your crotch during a fencing match. How are you going to protect me?”
“Funny.”
He caressed her jaw with the back of his knuckles.
“Feel better now that you’ve cracked a joke at my expense?”
She nodded.
“Good. Now kiss me, woman, before I turn into something else.”
“Oh, and just what would you turn into if I don’t?”
“I don’t know, maybe a vampyre,” he said with a grin.
“That’d be interesting.”
He looked at her, surprised judging from his eyebrows damn near reaching his hairline.
“What?”
“Somethin’ you’d like to tell me?”
“No.” She stared at him, unflinching.
“Sure?”
She nodded.
“Nothin’ like maybe the fact that you’re turned on by vampyres?”
She shook her head again, but a giggle bubbled out.
He grinned widely. “Why, Kylie, I had no idea. Tell me more, love.”
“I’m not telling you a damn thing.”
“I might have to bite ye,” he said and arched his right brow.
“That could get us into trouble.” She leaned down and softly bit his nipple through his shirt.
His expression quickly changed. His body went rigid. “Don’t do this to me.”
“Do what?”
“Nothing,” he said rather shortly.
Assuming he was speaking of the night they drank the wine, she replied in her ‘don’t mess with me’ sarcastic tone, “Hey, you’re the one who didn’t want to do anything that night, not me, so you can just stop right there with that shit.”
“S’cuse me for bein’ a gentleman. I’d assume ye’d have a little more respect for me because of it.” He sat up; her head hit the pillow he’d been resting on.
“Where in the hell did that come from?” She sat up and placed her hand on his arm.
He pulled away.
“Grant?”
“What?”
“What’s going on, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay, don’t worry ‘bout it.”
He wouldn’t look at her. She folded her legs beneath her and sat on her feet. He stood and looked down at her kneeling in front of him. She felt incredibly small, like she’d traveled back in time five hundred years. He stared down at her like she was so far beneath him, her opinion . . . hell, her life, didn’t matter.
“I’m goin’ to bed. You may stay up if ye like,” he said, as though giving her permission and amplifying the feeling. He walked away from her.
Kylie bowed her head, listening to his footsteps grow faint. What did I say? She wondered about it and sat there a bit longer. A tear made a lonely trail down her cheek.
* * * * *
Grant turned over. His hand automatically searched for her, even though they had yet to share a bed. When it didn’t find her, he opened his eyes slowly. A scream ripped through the castle, jolting him completely from sleep. He leapt out of bed and ran out into the hall. Standing in the corridor, he listened carefully to where the sound came from; the castle was like a labyrinthine opera house when it came to sounds. One had to know exactly what to listen for in order to find its origin. The echoes faded.
Silence.
He adjusted his head, his ears pricked, waiting for another sound. Where was she if she hadn’t joined him in bed? He didn’t blame her. He was an ass earlier. If she was hurt, he’d never forgive himself.
Another scream raced through the halls and he ditched all other thoughts. Grant dashed down the dark hall, around the corner and stopped abruptly in front of a door. He reached for the latch. His hand shook to holy hell. Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, he calmed himself down.
When Grant opened the door, he found Kylie shivering against the headboard, her eyes opened wide, staring at an empty corner of the room. With his night vision, he saw just fine in the dark. He cautiously walked toward her. That’s when he saw the ghost of his long-dead caretaker. The man was a thief. Grant caught him stealing much more than a few gems. The ghost saw him, and after Grant hissed at it, the caretaker vanished.
Grant stepped closer. Kylie’s head snapped around, and she screamed again.
“Ky, it’s me,” he said, but she didn’t respond. “Ky.” He reached for her arm.
She shrieked. In her scrambling to get away from him, she fell off the bed.
He ran around to see if she was okay. “Kylie?” He picked her up and placed her on the bed again, brushing the hair away from her face. Something wet smeared across his hand. Before he could bring it to his nose, he knew what it was.
“Fuck.” With a snap of his fingers over the candle on the side table, the area surrounding them illuminated. The red substance covered his fingertips and her forehead. The bloodsong augmented thrice fold. He brought his hand closer to his lips, but instead of licking the divine substance from his fingers, he wiped his hand on the bedspread and ran down the corridor for a wet cloth. When he returned, she moved and slowly opened her eyes. He cleaned her up.
She looked at him, confusion in her eyes. “What happened?”
“Don’t know, exactly. I heard ye scream an’ when I came in, you fell off an’ hit your head.”
“Did I wake you?”
He smiled. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to do that.”
“I can’t be sure. You seemed pretty upset with me earlier.”
“Is that why ye came in here to sleep?”
She nodded.
“I wondered where you were. Ye had me worried.”
“I didn’t know which room I was staying in.”
He ran the damp cloth over her hairline to remove more blood. “Well, I was hopin’ it’d be mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Ky.”
“No, I’m sorry for whatever it was I said that upset you. I didn’t mean to, Grant.”
“I know, an’ it really wasn’t something you said, per se,” he replied softly. “Why don’t ye come with me?”
He helped her up and walked her back to his room. Grant helped her into bed. He crawled over her and stretched out next to her.
“What happened in there?” He pulled the blanket up over her.
She stared at the corner of his room. “Someone died in that room.”
Kylie closed her eyes and fell to sleep, holding his hand. He didn’t bother to wake her to find out more, though he probably shouldn’t let her sleep in case she had concussion. However, that was easily fixed. While she slept, he placed his hand over the wound and chanted. Assured she was healed, he kissed her shoulder and slept, holding her in his arms.
* * * * *
Mahlon lightly tapped the arm of the leather chair with his fingers. He’d always been a patient man. In fact, his demeanor screamed with patience—always so calm, warm, delightful. Never raised his voice to speak, even if he couldn’t be heard over the others yelling at the top of their lungs. Yes, patience . . . p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e.
He sighed and turned his head to the window at the end of the hall. The Flavian Colosseum filled the view. The sun began its descent behind the powerful structure, turning the worn stone an orange-red hue—discoloring the structure, yet making it pleasing to the eye. He smiled, remembering a time when the building wasn’t crumbling—a time so long ago, yet the memory vivid, as though he’d been there the day before for the opening ceremonies.
He should visit Rome more often. It held a lot of fond memories for him. But it also held one sorrowful memory powerful enough to keep him away from Rome forever—Shepirah. He stared out the window, imagining her beautiful face in the sunlight and her dark ringlets cascading over her shoulders.
A door opened near him, and he turned to see who’d disrupted his memory.
“Mahlon, he’ll see you now,” the young man said.
Mahlon stood and walked through the door, past the young robust gent.
“I thank you, Kirk.” He stepped into the office to speak with the man he’d come to see . . . Vincent Lycargus.
Two nights later, the opportunity to tell Kylie the truth of his nature had yet to present itself. Grant stood on the balcony, looking at the forest behind his home. It was a beautifully serene night, colored by the fact that Cianán was home, and Grant knew the reason why. At least he’d had a few days with Kylie without having to worry about Cianán, but now . . . there wasn’t much time.
He knew Cianán would come for her soon. Grant cursed himself for bringing her where the son of a bitch needed her to be. Why hadn’t he thought of it when she told him she was coming to Ireland? All else he could recall about the forthcoming events was that Cianán wanted to become some sort of all-powerful, all-knowing, all-destroying being—in other words, a god.
Demon was more like it.
However, all Grant cared about was that Cianán wanted to hurt her. A week ago, he wouldn’t have cared much, but that was before he’d met her . . . and fallen in love with her.
Damn it all to hell.
* * * * *
I feel stronger already. Cianán stepped out into the night. The air was cool and felt good against his skin. He breathed deeply, taking in as much as he could, and slowly exhaled. The breath had nothing to do with the fact that he needed the oxygen-nitrogen combo. He enjoyed the smell of the crisp Irish air and missed it. He tasted the moisture on his tongue. It was much better than the dry, dusty air of that desert.
Conor stepped outside behind him. “What’re ye thinkin’ ‘bout, m’ lord?”
“How good it feels to be home,” Cianán replied.
“Why’d ye come home, anyweh? I though’ ye were goin’ to be in Americer fer a lit’le while.”
“Things change,” he said. “Have ye been practicin’?”
“Aye.”
“Good, you’ll be tested later.”
Conor nodded.
Cianán looked up at the stars and thought of Kylie.
“M’ lord, why must I learn these thin’s ye be teachin’ me?”
“They’ll make ye stronger, an’ ye must know ‘em. The time’ll be drawin’ near soon.”
“How soon?”
“I’ll let ye know, child. Now go, I need to be alone.”
Conor turned and walked inside, never questioning a second time. It was one of his more endearing qualities.
Cianán stepped out from the porch, and his wings lifted him, transporting him to the forest. He listened to the trees whisper softly. The forest floor was covered with a light mist, extending to the outer reaches of this dark, forbidden world. Movement behind the trees and brush no mortal would ever see caught his attention briefly. He sat on a boulder, looked around to be certain he was alone, and closed his eyes. He was there to draw energy from the trees; he’d need it. Even though the blood kept him physically strong, the magic had to be fed, as well. He found he couldn’t fight Grantlund in Arizona and win without serious battle wounds. Grantlund happened to be one of his stronger fledglings, and Cianán wasn’t strong enough for the battle they waged. He also hadn’t expected him to be there. For him to fight a child of his own that wielded the magic, he’d need to be very strong. He needed the extra energy he drew from the earth.
He chanted the words, barely a whisper in the silence surrounding him. His body lifted into the air. The wind picked up, whipping his hair around his head and shoulders. Leaves swirled around him. Red sparks of energy danced between his fingers from one hand to the other. It swirled around him, mingling with the leaves and mist.
* * * * *
Grant watched the wind kick up in the forest, but nowhere else. Cianán was preparing for the ritual. He cursed himself for bringing Kylie to Ireland. He’d thought about talking her into leaving, but that would only bring about questions he wasn’t prepared to answer just yet . . . like he’d have to reveal his true nature. How freaked the fuck out would she get? It could also push Cianán to utilize drastic measures to bring her back to Ireland. Grant couldn’t have that.
Grant cursed Cianán under his breath for what he’d done to him and the damn memory came screaming back—
* * * * *
1403 A.D., Ireland
Grantlund opened his eyes and gasped for breath. He sat up and looked around. Where am I? He got to his feet, wondering why his body didn’t want to move the way it once did. His face felt strange—filled with pain and tingling he couldn’t explain. His back didn’t want to straighten out. He stretched; it cracked and snapped into place. Confusion clouded his mind.
He heard Cianán speaking with someone in the distance. They sounded very far away. Hearing Cianán, he remembered the fight. Grantlund looked around for a way out and found an open window. Stumbling to his sword, he used it as a walking stick to get to the window. He climbed out and fell to the ground. It hurt like hell.
Grant stood and staggered toward the forest, stumbling into trees here and there, he felt like someone watched him. He tried to brush the feeling off, but little flashes of light followed him. Perhaps Cianán had more power than he thought.
A voice spoke to him in Gaelic, telling him everything would be fine and not to be frightened of what was happening to him. He didn’t understand what the voice was talking about. His fatigue grew, and he slowed. His body suddenly felt as light as a feather, as though someone carried him. Mayhap he dreamt; he wasn’t certain. His fight with Cianán had been so strange. Cianán said he was vampyr; is that possible? He wondered about it, floating through the trees.
/> So exhausted. Must rest.
Grant stumbled up the steps to his home, although he wasn’t sure how he got there. Dropping his sword in the entryway, he headed for the stairs, climbing them slowly, pulling himself up by the railing. Need . . . to . . . rest . . . sleep. He collapsed halfway up the first section of stairs.
When he awoke, he couldn’t see a thing. How long have I been asleep? He raised his hands off his stomach, but couldn’t find them with his eyes, though he knew they were in front of his face. Slowly his eyes adjusted and a faint outline of his hands appeared in the dark.
He wasn’t lying on the stairs where he fell, nor was he in his bed. When he raised his hands higher, his knuckles hit wood. Horror crept through his body, taking his breath away in silent fear.
He was in a coffin.
Grant shrieked and scratched at the top. “No! This can’t be. I am not dead!” Though he shouted as loud as his voice would allow, no one would hear his screams. The scent of damp earth leeched into the coffin.
Trying to figure out how he’d gotten there, he remembered Fergus, Siobhán’s older brother, was supposed to come see him the day after he saw Cianán. Fergus must have found him on the stairs. No. He wept; his heart lodged in his throat. He’d never see his love again. “No.” He banged on the lid of the coffin.
Grantlund screamed again, and a voice in his head shouting “enough” shut him up. Where had the voice come from? It wasn’t his.
Wonderful. To top everything off, he’d lost his mind.
He sat silent and still for a while. The box holding him suddenly jerked and pushed upward through the dirt.
What magic is this?
When the coffin lid opened a crack, he reached for its edge. With a sudden fury, he flung the lid open.
Grantlund stared at the man he’d fought with and escaped only the night before in his mind.
Cianán stumbled back, but regained his composure and smiled at Grantlund.
“Come, my child. There’s no reason to be frightened.”
“Why am I here, in this place?”
The Dracove (The Prophecy series) Page 16