With a low curse, he pushed her hand from him and stepped away. "Seems ye have more than healing on yer mind, my lady." His head was bowed again.
Bav could see his clenched hands. Hear the tension in his voice. She knew he wanted her quite badly. That much was obvious. What she didn't know was why he was fighting his desire, but she planned on making his struggle a short one.
"Aye. Mayhap I do. And why not, Áedán? Donna ye deserve a fine reward…and I would love to give it to ye. Ask of me what ye will." Smooth and practiced, she stepped toward him again, her hand reaching for his arm.
He didn't pull away as her fingers curled around him, or resist as she tugged him closer. When she would have kissed him, though, he finally lifted his head. "And what if…I donna want this reward, milady? Can I name my own?"
For a split second, she froze.
Her eyes narrowed. Was he actually refusing her?
No.
Of course not. He was only trying to control terms. How like a man. She took a calming breath, her own desire running far more out of control than his.
"I know ye want what I am offering, Áedán. Ye think I canna feel it?" She laughed low and rubbed up against him. His hands gripped her upper arms, pushing her back again.
"A man's body is no' always his own, but his mind must ever be." He said the words as if repeating a lesson oft quoted to him. "Answer the question, my lady." The edge of command in his voice gave her pause.
There was bold, and then there was foolish. She was a goddess, after all. A goddess who could crush him like she had so many others.
Only she couldn't deny that power in him made her want him all the more.
"I give what I wish to give, and only tha', warrior." She was shaking a little as she looked up at him, in both rising fury and lust. "What is it tha' ye want?"
"I wish only to no' to become a sad story, my lady." He smiled secretively at her puzzled frown. "To live a life unentangled by gods. However enchanting."
Her jaw clenched. "Those who reach for the clouds, Áedán, canna but expect the attention of the gods."
"Why?" He seemed honestly intrigued. "Why is tha'? Is Tir'na No'g…or the Otherworld itself so dull ye look to us for amusement?"
She had no idea how to answer him. Explaining to a human what god's lives were like….the beauty, the fearsome endlessness…the absence of pain… The vast depths of emptiness, the eons of dull existence for the sake of existing….
Or how fascinating to the Tuatha de Naanan human lives were; how passionate and dirty and violent and short. Everything felt with such exquisite keenness…
No, it was impossible to explain such things to him. "Even gods need games to play." She said instead, her voice haughty.
"Aye," Áedán nodded, regarding her with that frank gaze. "I suspected as much. If ye meant it about tha' reward, my lady…I am ready now."
Relaxing, her face softening, Bav stepped closer. Her hips swayed confidently, her hand reached for his shoulder. Before she could touch him, Áedán seized her hand and pulled her close. His lips brushed her ear, his words quiet and final. "This is all I will ever ask of ye, my lady. Choose ye another game, with other pawns. I donna wish to play."
He pushed her away and turned, striding back into the keep without looking back. Bav stood on the battlements, the night whipping her hair as she let his rejection wash over her. Humilation, anger… the incessant bitter loneliness. It hurt. It hurt so much.
And the pain was beautiful.
Bav had long wondered which she was more addicted to; Aidan, or the pain he gave her. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked around the star gardens, blinking her eyes. Now was not the time to dwell on the past, not when the future could hold so much.
She had such plans, such wonderful plans. If things would just go right this time. Not like before…
Bav shuddered, then straightened.
She very much wanted Abhartach to catch up with Aidan—just not yet. Not until she had things positioned properly. One more pawn had yet to arrive and then Abhartach could chase Aidan all he wanted.
Right into her arms.
With a smug smile, the goddess moved away from the translucent columns. Night was fading fast and so would Ti'rna No'g fade with it, but she wanted a look in the scrying pool first. Pouring out the blood-tainted waters of the River Shannon that she carried always in one of the many skins and pouches belted to her waist, Bav hissed at what she saw when the water stilled.
Mac.
Danu be cursed, no!
Manannán mac Lir. She did not need that one’s interference, not again. She shivered slightly. Of all Lugh’s demented and often times bloody court; made up of the wayward shoots of her own twisted and far-flung family, bits of the fae and the odd Fomorian bastard or two, Mac was the only one Bav would admit to herself that she feared.
Not even Lugh, whose anger could bring most of the Tuatha de Naanan to their knees, gave Bav other than the slightest pause. She was the goddess of death, the bloody Morrighan, after all and Lugh wouldn’t even have his throne if she hadn’t willed it. No, Lugh was a warrior first—god and king second. Bav knew nothing if not how to deal with warriors.
But Mac…
There was a man of a different caliber altogether. The god of the sea, master of horses and mist, Lugh’s own foster father. The only one of Danu’s offspring that knew more of magic than Bav did herself. Mac could change the weather with a sigh, bring down lightning with a curse, drown whole lands at will. He had ensconced himself to his isle eons ago, removing himself from the conspiracies and intrigues of court. Mac was the king of keeping himself to himself.
He had interfered once before in her schemes. Only once, but…
Bav had no wish to see him do so again.
She had been sure he hadn’t known about the spell, absolutely positive. Mac couldn’t be bothered to fuss about events in Eire itself, let alone anything further afield. He would likely have forgotten the child eons ago. There was no way he could have known…no way.
Was it possible she had been wrong all this time?
Bav spun from the pool, her long fingers clenched in the wild spill of her vibrant red curls.
No, she couldn’t have misjudged this badly. Something else was afoot here, she turned back to the pool, her lips thinning. Aine. That little bitch couldn’t have…wouldn’t have dared….
Surely not. The dark-haired vixen was spunky, she’d give Aine that, but Aine was also clever. Much too clever to cross the Morrighan, with all the fallout that would entail.
Unless her current liaison with the king had made the moon goddess bold beyond all sense. But to what end—what possible use could it be to Aine to let Mac know the child lived again? Aine liked Aidan well enough, it was true, as did most of the Tuatha de Nanaan. But to risk her own skin for him—
No.
As sunbeams struck the fading tile beneath her feet, Bav siphoned the water back in its pouch with a fretful wave of her hand. Her last thought before she dematerialized into the rising of the sun in a flash of green light was that she would find out who was messing with her plans…and they would pay.
Dearly.
Bav was not the only one contemplating payment at that moment. Abhartach sat in the twisted chair in his castle and thought about blood due.
Long past due.
When he had accepted Bav’s terms so long ago, he had thought himself well served. His prize had been great, after all. Aidan. The pride of the O’Neills, indeed, of all Ulster. Given to him on a platter. A proper heir for his ‘family’ at last.
That his prize had been an unwilling one, he well knew—and had enjoyed the knowing. Savored it. Abhartach had looked forward to the breaking of his proud new pet, but there had been just one small difficulty. Aidan would not break. Except the once, that one brief, delicious week. It had been so sweet—
Then the cursed man found a way out of his trap.
And the one thing that would have ensured the bowing of t
hat stiff neck again had been snatched away. Far out of Aidan’s reach, aye. But also out of Abhartach’s.
Forever.
The fae’s gnarled hands curled into the stone table, the thick nails gouging impossible grooves in the dull, grey granite. That piece of trickery still rankled, but there was naught to be gained looking at what might have been. There was only what could be done now.
For whatever reason, his heir had come home and Abhartach fully intended that Aidan would never, ever leave Ireland again.
No doubt, Aidan thought himself clever for escaping and that was good. Very good indeed. He knew well his heir’s strength of spirit. Abhartach had studied him for years after all. Watched him grow, waiting for the fruit to ripen like a juicy plum. Poised to catch it when at the perfect point of ripeness it fell right into his waiting hand.
Aidan was cocky to a fault, and deservedly so. His talents as a warrior and a leader had only drawn Abhartach’s attentions in tighter.
He'd had his eyes on the youth for far longer than that, though. Not to mention his fangs. Abhartach smiled at his private joke. Niall of the Nine Hostages and all his descendants had owed a blood debt to him for centuries. Aidan had only paid the final and sweetest price on what his ancestor had owed.
It was true Aidan could be cautious when need be, as befitted a man who had been a great warrior. Too cautious and tricky by half. He would have been expecting attack from the second his feet had touched Irish soil. Giving it to him would release some of that coiled tension, and conversely erode his caution, however infinitesimally. Abhartach had also been hoping to expose a weak spot and he believed he had succeeded.
The Fitzpatricks, of course, had always been out of bounds, at least for a direct onslaught. Ronan, particularly.
Abhartach had always known that, though it galled him. It would have been so easy to trap Aidan that way, particularly with one of the children. But you did not attack the beloved of the king of the Tuatha de Naanan and expect to get away with it. Look what had happened to that idiot Fomorian bastard, Aillen.
The only other weakness of Aidan’s was the one long since lost to time, more’s the pity. If he possessed that leverage again, Aidan would come to him on his knees…begging.
Abhartach sighed.
Still…his bad, bad boy had not been alone when they had found him, had he? No, indeed. When the human Declan had told him of Aidan’s companion, he had suspected a dalliance, nothing more. His heir was a bit of a rouge in that respect.
However, in that room, Aidan had kept the woman behind him every second, he made pains to keep from exposing her to any more danger than necessary for even the breadth of a single heartbeat. But he had exposed himself quite nicely.
On top of all this wonderful news, there was the whole ghrian siúlóir issue. Could the myth be true? He wouldn't have believed it, but the slave swore he was telling the truth. He would test that soon and if it were true….
Anticipation had him throwing his head back. To feel the sun upon his skin once more…!
Ah well, all in due time.
Abhartach smiled at the painting of his heir as he saluted him with a goblet brimming with the blood of the unfortunate Rathkeale bed and breakfast owner. Pieces of her body were scattered down the table in glistening hunks, along with bright streaks of blood and entrails that still steamed in the cold air of the dining hall. The hunting party had deserved some small treat for their efforts tonight. They had done well.
Abhartach drank deep as satisfaction filled him with a warmth greater than the fresh blood.
His foster son had a lovely weak spot alright…though he didn’t appear to realize it yet.
That, of course, just made it all the sweeter.
Chapter 5
It wasn’t possible. Heather lay belly-down on the outside edge of Lacey and Ronan’s bed, her arm hanging off the mattress. Her fingers trailed lightly on the fur rug laid below her on the hardwood floor. Soft fur, thick and soothing against her fingers. She wondered idly what kind of animal it might have come from as her brain continued to whirl.
Back and forth, thoughts going round and round. If she closed her eyes she could see them; dark blue worries about Lacey and what she’d gotten herself into, magenta streaks of more worries over what Heather had gotten her own self into, emerald coils of distress about what they were going to tell Kate, then the bright, startling flashes of silver and cobalt.
That was all Aidan, of course.
Vampire. Psychic fucking vampire.
Lacey had explained that not only did Aidan have the preternatural strength and speed that always seemed to associated with vampires, he was also special in other ways. He'd been born with a low-level psychic gift as a human, one that he'd only ever thought of as a strong sense of empathy. When he'd been changed, that gift had changed as well, becoming more of a curse. He could feel intense emotions from the very air around him and actually touching someone had the power to cause him physical pain or mental anguish, depending on the state of the person's mind at the time.
He had removed his gloves more than a few times when they had been together in Istanbul. Heather wondered what he had felt from her during those unguarded moments and closed her eyes.
Her fingers tightened in the strange fur at her fingertips. Some of the guys Heather had been involved with in the past had been bad news, sure. The producer back in Minnesota with the wife she had found about too late. The Italian journalist, whom she hadn’t known was a journalist until way too late.
Heather gave a delicate shudder and curled her lip. But this…
Well, it was fucking crazy, that is what it was.
Somehow she really wasn’t as freaked out as she should be, though. Oh, sure she was freaked. There was no way not to be, at least a little. But she had accepted that freaky or not, Lacey wouldn't lie to her.
Lacey, whose gentle, familiar snores were echoing off the wall behind her, had had expected a bit more hysteria. Lacey knew Heather was not remotely a ‘take things at face value’ kind of woman. No doubt Lace had expected a hundred million probing questions. After all, Lacey had seen her interview dozens of people on their old show, 5 Minutes of Fame. Her technique, along with Lacey’s producing skills, had propelled them to the heights of daytime TV. If only in the Twin Cities. And public TV, at that.
Heather smiled. They had both moved on to better things from there, hadn’t they?
And now definitely weirder things.
Lacey was going to marry a goddamn werewolf. Well, not that Ronan was technically a werewolf anymore, from what Heather understood—not that she understood half of it—and not that they were technically getting ‘married’ either. Handfasting. God, it was some kind of pagan ritual.
Heather thought that was the piece that freaked her out the most in all this mess.
Lacey had found her ‘someone’. That wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Lacey, sure, Lacey would get married someday, that was a given, somewhere far in the future.
A future that Heather had always pictured herself alone in—with a string of lovers trailing behind her like ribbons on a kite, sure—but no children. No husband. No in-laws, for fuck’s sake. She loved her own parents fiercely and saw them about twice a year. She loved Lacey better than anyone on earth and this was the first time they’d been face to face in what…? Nearly five months.
Well, shit.
People who didn't know her from anything other than magazines, interviews and such, assumed she was warm and sweet. She wasn’t, not really. Heather just knew how to charm and draw people out. And she used that. Not mercenarily. At least not entirely. She didn’t want to talk about herself—she never ever wanted to talk about herself—so she’d learned how to make other people talk.
And talk and talk.
She liked listening to them because it kept her out of her own head for awhile. Kept her away from the drop offs. It was comforting, restful and damn useful.
In her whole life, she'd never really felt connected t
o any but those three; her parents and Lacey. And sometimes even with them…things got tenuous.
Heather sighed and turned her head. Lacey lay face up on a fat pillow. Her red-gold hair, that gorgeous color Heather had been insanely jealous of more than once, fluffed around her pixie face, the jewel bright eyes were closed. Her sweet, pink bud of a mouth was open slightly as she breathed, and snored.
Heather smiled and felt her heart lighten. Lacey refused to believe she snored, and honestly, it wasn’t ‘really’ snoring. Not the godawful bellowing that men were known for doing, anyway. Lacey's version was a light and rhythmic thrumming that was rather cute. Lacey wouldn’t want to hear ‘cute’ either. Lacey loathed that word, and Heather couldn’t blame her.
It hadn't been easy for Lacey to be her friend. Heather wasn’t stupid or self-absorbed enough to think looks were everything, but looks were what the vast majority of people focused on. By some genetic lottery, her looks were the sort most people went gaga over. Lacey was smart and insanely organized, even though it may not always seem like it, not to mention beautiful in her own right. But next to Heather, she had always been the ‘cute’ one.
Most women got damn tired of that shit, damn fast.
Thank god for her, Lacey wasn’t most people. Heather didn’t know what hell she would do without her Lacey and she didn’t want to know. Tears pricked her eyes and she flopped over, her back to Lacey’s, her stinging eyes focused on the glow of the fire. Why the fuck had Lacey had to come to Ireland anyway? And fallen in fucking love?
And how the hell had Heather managed to meet Aidan and hook up with him?
A goddamn vampire.
Jesus! She had sensed he was dangerous. Well, more than sensed it, she’d seen it. Heather swallowed. It had been the second night she was with him. After both of them had passed out in her hotel bed and not moved again until well after sundown.
When she had woken up, it had been to Aidan between her legs, his mouth on her. Bringing her so high so fast...Heather only had to close her eyes to feel the dizziness she had felt then and the feel of his hard, muscled shoulders under her thighs...
Blood In Fire (Celtic Elementals Book 2) Page 8