She touched his cheek, her touch warm on Searly’s skin. “Of course, my child. You’ve been missed as well. Get some rest. I’ll come for another visit soon.”
Her eyes were pulled back to Lochlan’s as they had been all evening. “Goodnight, Lochlan,” she whispered.
Lochlan’s eyes held the weight of every emotion he owned when he looked at her. “Goodnight, Elin. Sleep well.”
Searly waited for her footsteps to fade away before he spoke to the half-man, half-Fae still seated at the table, spinning his goblet, staring into it like the wine held the secret to life.
“You love her,” Searly said softly.
Lochlan let out a sigh. “What is love?”
“Love is patient, love is kind,” Searly answered. “It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes,” Searly paused. “And always perseveres.”
Lochlan’s lips quirked. “You stole that from Saint Paul.”
“I did not steal it,” Searly said. “I simply recited it. I am a man of the cloth. What kind of monk would I be if I simply indulged in drink without also including wisdom?”
Lochlan chuckled. “Indeed.”
The two men grew quiet. Searly had forgotten the serenity of the manor, how it had always found a way to make his restless soul a little less so. He listened to the crackle of the fire and the bones of the house settle, and then stated again, “You love her.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t…be what she needs me to be.” Lochlan brought the goblet up to his lips. “I can’t even hold her hand.”
Searly leaned back in his chair and studied his friend. “You are exactly what she needs. Right now, in this moment, you are everything she needs.”
Lochlan closed his eyes and shook his head, protesting silently.
“She loves you too.”
Lochlan’s eyes popped open, pinning Searly right where he sat. “How do you know?”
Searly let out a hearty laugh. “I would have to be blind not to see it, my friend. It is written on both your faces. She loves you, and it does not matter what you can’t give her. What matters is what you do give her. A reason.”
“A reason?”
“Aye, my friend. You give her a reason to get up every morning, put one step in front of the other. You give her a reason to smile…to fight…to be strong. You give her a reason to live. You. No one else.”
Lochlan blinked. He had no words with which to respond so he closed his mouth and remained silent.
Standing, Searly readied himself to leave. He walked to the door. Before exiting, he said over his shoulder to his friend who now stared at him like he held life’s secrets, “And she is your reason. So you see, your love…it does matter. It matters very much.”
Searly enjoyed the travel back to the monastery. He felt a renewed purpose. Now more than ever, he had to find a cure for Lochlan. He would leave no stone unturned.
With a pep in his step, he entered the library ready to tackle the books once more. Noticing the young monk still sitting at the table where he’d left him he had to smile. He knew the lad was as bad as he when faced with a problem to solve. Again, he regretted not having asked Thaddeus to help him sooner.
“Thaddeus, my boy, have you solved the riddle?”
Looking up, Thaddeus said, “Interesting choice of words.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe the curse is sort of a riddle.”
Searly sat down across from him. “How do you mean?
“Tell me again…who participated in writing the curse?”
“The Fae Court of course, and some prominent humans of the time.”
“What humans?”
Searly began to list those he’d read about and then he added rather shyly, “I have been told through family that my uncle played a part in writing the curse.”
It was his greatest embarrassment. He’d never told Lochlan about it. It was a black stain on his family that he was religiously trying to rectify.
He couldn’t even bring his eyes up to meet Thaddeus’s, who he felt staring at him. He picked at his tunic until he heard Thaddeus’s raucous laughter. He slapped his hand down on the table, then pointed at him like Searly had just told him a grand joke.
“You think this is funny?” Searly felt heat rise up his neck. He rubbed around his collar, feeling overheated. “I do not find humor in this at all. I am horrifi–”
“Horrified? Why, brother? Your uncle was probably the genius in this scenario!”
“What on Earth are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting your uncle spelled out a prophecy within the curse.” He handed Searly a slip of parchment. I wrote these things down as they came to me while you were gone. Hopefully, we shall be able to figure this out sooner rather than later.”
No sooner had the words come out of Thaddeus’s mouth than an oppressive feeling riffled around Searly, stifling the air. His heartbeat quickened. “Thaddeus? Do you feel…”
A haunting whistle filtered inside the library, starting off low, rising in volume with every tick of Searly’s heart.
Thaddeus’s eyes grew wide and his skin paled when he saw something behind Searly. His mouth fell open and he stuttered, “F-F-Fae.”
“What?” Searly spun around in his seat. Long white hair, wicked eyes, and long, gnarly fangs were the last thing Searly saw before his world went black.
He had sat at the dining table for quite some time, staring at the door Searly had walked out of, tumbling what he’d said around in his mind. He brought the goblet to his mouth and took a slow, contemplative sip. He didn’t particularly care for the bitter taste and the alcohol didn’t affect him the way it affected humans. He only drank the wine because Searly didn’t like to drink alone.
All right, that wasn’t entirely true. He liked to partake because it made him feel, at least in part, like a normal person.
But he wasn’t normal.
Frowning, he set the goblet down and pushed away from the table. Walking over to one of the large windows that faced east, he brushed the thick drapery back and stared out. Even from inside he could smell the sweet scent of the flower garden that had been meticulously cared for over the years. His mother, he was told, had liked flowers, and though he never knew her, he’d planted flowers that surrounded his father’s manor. Like a good son, he’d wanted to please her, offer a token of his affection. If planting flowers was the only way to feel close to her, then so be it. He hadn’t pondered the absurdity of it. In fact, he hadn’t pondered much at all through his lonely years. He had always compartmentalized whatever he’d felt and tucked it away. How else was he to get through his days and nights? If he had given himself over to his lonely existence he wouldn’t have survived for so long.
He would have given up.
Searly wouldn’t have allowed that. He always seemed to know when Lochlan was spiraling into depression and he always, like a faithful friend, had offered his proverbial hand and lifted him out.
How different his life would have been had Searly not been in it. Aside from his father, Searly was the only human who saw him as something worthy. For a while, that had been enough.
Now though, Elin saw him as something more than the curse he bore and it was more than he’d ever hoped for. Ever dreamed of. What was he to do with that? He pondered if he would have been better off never knowing the feeling she gave him. Because he knew having tasted the possibility of her, the idea of her would never be enough. He wanted her completely. In all the ways a man – or half-man – would want a woman.
He closed his eyes against the image of them tangled together in silk coverlets, breaths heady, and heartbeats thumping as he—
The sound of fluttering wings whisked past the window and his eyes opened with a start. The caw of a raven sounded nearby, causing
his spine to tingle. He hushed his thoughts and concentrated on the oppressiveness that now filled the manor like an uninvited guest.
Then… a knock at the door.
He froze.
An eerie stillness fell, leaving a fallacious calm in its wake.
The gibbous moon hung low in the nighttime sky. The ever consistent taunt of it curled around him, stroked his insecurities, and forced him to extract himself from its view. He would not feed into its hunger, its lure. Besides, he felt a storm brewing.
Again, a knock at the door and Lochlan swallowed. Taking a fortifying breath, he walked toward it, his footsteps sounding like the thump, thump, thump of a drum.
“Open up, half-breed,” Zeph said, amused.
Lochlan looked behind him, up the stairs, hoping Elin didn’t wake. He issued a silent plea, Dear God, keep her safe.
He readied himself for a fight, a war, and swung open the door.
There was no one there.
He stepped out and quickly looked around. “Come out, Zeph! You wanted a fight. Now you have one!” He closed the door behind him and guarded it. No one was getting in unless it was through him.
A wicked laugh sounded to his left and Zeph stepped out of the bushes that led down to the creek.
Nine ways, Lochlan thought. There were nine ways he could kill him.
A ball of fire ignited in Lochlan’s hand, swirling in a blue glow, licking the night air. Fury swelled within him. “I am going to kill you,” he hissed.
Then movement forced his eyes to veer right, and a Dark Fae emerged, dressed in black, like a descendant from Satan, blood splattered on his face. Blood that wasn’t his. More movement forced his eyes to dart about. On all sides, Dark Fae flanked him, an army of evil. Zeph, their leader, stood in direct contrast to his minions in his all-white garb and hair white as snow. Zeph’s laughter caught in the wind and twisted around Lochlan like slimy tendrils, making his skin crawl.
Eleven ways. There were eleven ways he could kill him.
He could take them all out, but he wasn’t leaving the door unguarded. The manor was warded against evil, however, they could have figured out a way around them. He couldn’t take the chance.
“You were saying?” Zeph jeered.
The fire still burned in Lochlan’s hand, and without further hesitation, he launched it at Zeph’s head.
Zeph cast a protective shield around him and the ball of fire fizzled out upon contact.
Lochlan narrowed his eyes. He shouldn’t have been able to do that. That was not the power of a Dark Fae.
Zeph lowered his shield. “I am not here to fight you, half-breed. Hand over the girl and we’ll be on our way.”
Lochlan’s lip curled into a snarl. “You’ll need a bigger army.”
Zeph’s response was another cold and calculated laugh. It sounded hollow, like his soul. “Perhaps I knew that would be your answer, so…I made preparations. Consider it a trade.”
“What are you talking about?”
Zeph locked his hands behind his back and walked toward him like he was taking a casual stroll. “This is the good part. You see, I happened to pay a visit to the monastery this fine evening.” Zeph pointed to the Unseelie with the blood splattered on his face. Shaking his head, he said, “I told him not to harm anyone, but as you can see things got a bit…out of hand.”
“What did you do?” Lochlan seethed, lunging toward the evil bastard, but stopped when he heard the door behind him open. “Elin, get back inside! NOW!”
“What did you do?” Elin shouted at Zeph, ignoring Lochlan’s command. “TELL ME WHAT YOU DID!”
“Aww, isn’t that touching,” Zeph said. “She’s worried about a bunch of monks.” His eyes leveled on hers and the hate emanating from them made the air sizzle. “So much affection for people you hardly know.”
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” she demanded.
Lochlan’s head spun with dread, a debilitating tempest brewing in his gut, churning up hate like he’d never known, and any minute now carnage was about to litter his gardens. “Get inside, Elin,” he said. “I do not want you out here.”
“As I was saying,” Zeph said, “here is what I propose. Elin comes with me, and I won’t kill the rest of the monks. I left them…how should I say this delicately…I left a few of my Fae behind. They are to finish what we started if I do not leave with her,” he said, pointing to Elin. “They will all die a horrible death unless I get my way. It was a perfect plan if I do say so myself.” Zeph stopped pacing and glowered at Lochlan. “Do we have a deal?”
Thirteen ways. There were thirteen ways Lochlan could kill Zeph, and while he pondered which of those ways he would take part in, Elin spoke up.
“I’ll go with you. Don’t hurt them. Please.”
Lochlan’s eyes snapped to hers. “NO!”
“Excellent.” Zeph said, a warped smile contorting his face.
“Elin,” Lochlan pleaded, “go inside. Lock the door. Let me handle this. Please.”
Her eyes shone, tears on the cusp of falling. “I can’t let him hurt anyone else.”
“He is lying, Elin. You cannot trust him.”
“I am not lying,” Zeph said. He brought his hand up to his chest. “Cross my heart.”
Lochlan studied the evil gleam in Zeph’s clear eyes and his rage won out. He heaped fireballs on the bloodied Fae until he was a pile of ashes, then he was flying through the air, killing as many of the evil bastards as he could, and it was so easy. All he had to do was touch them and they shattered like ice at his feet.
He was about to attack Zeph next, saving the best for last, but Zeph had Elin pressed against his chest, a blade to her neck. “Shall I kill her in front of you?” He blew in her ear and her hair whisked around her face. He saw the fear in Elin’s eyes. “I’ll cut off her head if you come one step closer.”
Once again, Lochlan froze.
“L-Lochlan,” Elin rasped. “I’m s-sorry.”
His pale, unnatural eyes held hers. “Acushla.” He swallowed, and let his eyes fall, skimming over her body, checking for injuries. He had been a fool letting her out of his sight. He cursed under his breath. “Don’t…don’t hurt her,” Lochlan pleaded. He shut his eyes, reeling in the fire that burned underneath his skin. “Please.”
“I can’t promise you that.”
Clenched fists at his side, Lochlan swore, “If one hair on her head is harmed you will wish for the mountains to fall on you. You will bleed from your eye sockets and you will beg me to kill you. I’ll make you suffer the likes of which no one has ever known.”
Zeph’s fangs descended. “If I promise not to harm her hair…” he pressed the knife to Elin’s neck just hard enough to prick the skin, and a trickle of blood dripped down her throat, “…can I harm her flesh?”
Lochlan roared and lunged at Zeph.
Zeph and Elin disappeared in a whirl of shadows before he could get to them.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Lochlan bellowed, dropping to his knees, pounding his fists into the earth. “Nooooooo!”
Feeling like his heart had been lanced with a spear, he didn’t bother to saddle his horse or orb himself to the monastery. He had briefly allowed himself to drown in his agony, and then he picked himself up, spread his enormous black wings as the sun crested over the horizon, and took to the sky. He needed to scent for Elin, catch a trace of her, but it was like she’d truly disappeared.
Within minutes, he was back on solid ground, standing on leaden feet, staring at the fortified stone structure he’d come to call his home. He would have thrown himself at the monastery, enveloped the walls in his embrace if possible. He was that desperate. Instead, he tucked his wings in and walked slowly. When he spotted the library windows splattered with blood it was almost his undoing.
Searly.
He orbed himself into the library and immediately found a gathering of weeping monks trying to console one another in a corner of the room underneath a large bookshelf that had toppled over. A scan of the room told a
gruesome tale. The library had been the devil’s playground.
“What happened?” Lochlan asked.
One of the monks stood. “We were attacked. The one called Zeph ordered one of his monsters to kill him.” He pointed to a body on the floor, face down, a sickly puddle of blood surrounding him.
Lochlan couldn’t take another loss. He simply couldn’t. His eyes welled with tears as he stepped toward the body. Making his approach, no one said a word. The Earth seemed to stop spinning. He bent down on one knee and listened intently for any sounds of life.
There were none.
With a trembling hand, he turned the body over, simultaneously averting his eyes. His touch wouldn’t kill this one because this one was already dead. His heart pounded and tears flowed. He forced himself to look, and when he did, guilt plagued his galloping heart.
“Thaddeus,” he whispered.
The guilt was because he was relieved it had not been Searly. Taking a stuttering breath, he stood on wooden legs. “Where is Searly?” He scanned the room and when no one spoke up, he shouted, “WHERE IS SEARLY?”
The monk who had spoken up before, Xavier, pointed, this time to the table that was littered with books. “They left a note for you.”
Lochlan stomped over to the table and picked up a note. Written in blood, it read…
I have your friend Searly, and the girl.
I win.
You lose.
Lochlan wadded up the note.
Anger, guilt, sorrow, and sadness flooded over him until the emotions within swelled. He felt the rise of it, the rage, simmering at first, until it grew too volatile to keep inside. Five hundred years’ worth of holding it all in. He couldn’t any longer. He was at the boiling point. Or breaking point.
That breaking point spilled over until he yowled like the wounded creature he was.
The beast inside him was fully awake…and looking for revenge.
The Moon Shines Red (Heart of Darkness Book 1) Page 12