Enslaved by Fear

by Claire Ashgrove

  And she had no business deluding herself with the fanciful wish either. What she needed to be doing was planning a way to gain her freedom. A way to destroy that spellbook before Drandar surfaced and its presence in her rooms gave him the wrong impression. Once she had accomplished both, she could rid herself of the need for Micah’s companionship and the ridiculous stirrings in her dark heart.

  Love—she softly snorted. As if that spell were really fated for her. She wasn’t designed for that sort of emotion. She’d killed one too many persons. Harmed one too many siblings. Even if she wanted to fall in love, the course of her life proved she was incapable.

  The atmosphere around her shifted, charged by power that was unmistakably Micah’s. It chafed her skin, compressed her lungs. Her eyes widened as his wards locked into place.

  All this time, while she’d been lamenting her confinement, she’d been free?

  A low growl rumbled in the back of her throat. How could she be so blindly stupid? For four months she’d been oppressed by the weight of his arcane might. She should have noticed she breathed easier, that her body no longer felt like someone rubbed her down with sandpaper.

  Damn it. Damn him. He’d rendered her completely worthless with his beguiling words and his convincing kisses. What kind of fool failed to notice the very means of his escape?

  She stalked to her door and jerked it open, wanting nothing more than to unleash on Micah. For what, she couldn’t say. But she’d think of something that conveyed all the pent-up mish-mash in her soul.

  To her dismay, the living room was dark and empty. No trace of Micah, not even a light beneath his closed door. If she didn’t know that barrier would be locked, she’d yank it open and confront him in his room.

  “Micah?” Her voice sharpened with anger.

  Silence answered.

  She tried again, loud enough he couldn’t ignore her. “Micah!”

  When nothing but the distant call of frogs met her ears, Brigid clenched her teeth so tight pain shot up her jaw. Ignoring it, she whirled inside her room and slammed the door hard enough Fintan could have heard it in the castle’s opposite wing.

  Damn him. Damn herself for being so…so…

  She hated the only description that came to mind—content with him.

  Chapter Seven

  He’d slept with a demon.

  Micah slapped an open palm on the heavy wood door and stalked outside into the bright sunshine. He took a deep breath to loosen the tension in his jaw. What the hell had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been, obviously. If he had, he never would have let things go so far. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have been wounded by Brigid’s rejection a handful of hours later. Nor would he still be dwelling on it all several hours after waking from a fitful sleep.

  She’s not just a demon, a small voice inside him countered.

  Unwilling to listen to that annoying bit of logic, he continued down the path that led through the fields behind Sgàil na Faileas and toward the standing stones just beyond the line of thick trees. Demon, half-demon—it didn’t make a damned bit of difference. He’d let his guards down, his wards down, and he’d fallen right into her hands, a willing participant to her games of desire.

  Worse, he had nearly failed at his purpose to keep Brigid confined until either she embraced mortality or the rest of her sisters and brothers found another means of destroying Drandar.

  He shoveled a hand through his hair, came to a stop near the overgrown gardens, and dropped onto a carved stone bench. Out here he could think. Inside, Brigid’s rustling drove him to distraction.

  Problem was, when his head cleared enough to connect logical thoughts, all the things he didn’t want to admit screamed louder. He hadn’t slept with a demon. He’d had amazing sex with a woman he had known, and wanted, for years. A woman he felt things for that he didn’t dare feel, because every one of the damned emotions would send him down a perilous path.

  A woman who, despite her false bravado and sharp tongue, possessed a gentle soul that not a one of her brothers or sisters recognized. Micah probably wouldn’t have seen through her hard exterior and her calloused words if he hadn’t been forced to spend the last four months locked up with her for 18 out of every 24 hours. When two people had to share space that long, they began to recognize the little things.

  Like the way Brigid’s face lit up at the sight of a butterfly. Or the way she talked to the songbirds when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

  Or the way her eyes held longing on the two occasions she’d encountered Beth and Fintan since she’d been locked away.

  A woman who truly believed in Drandar’s teachings would never express such tenderness.

  His gaze pulled to the tall windows on the backside of the castle, where Brigid had stood when he awakened in the middle of the night, and his breath hitched. She leaned against the frame, long red hair haloing her shoulders with enchanting color. Her gaze dropped to him, caressed for a timeless moment. Then she dropped her hand from the windowpane and turned away, her smile somewhere forgotten.

  Remorse jammed Micah in the gut. How many times had he dropped in on Brigid and Fintan in the last handful of years, to find Brigid sitting on this very bench, staring at the wild garden, or rooting through the dirt to tend a struggling flower?

  His feet touched the very land she had been born on centuries ago. Behind him, the monoliths hidden amidst the trees marked the rite of life and death for her people, her family. She possessed a connection with the nature surrounding him that even he, and his affinity for the elements and spirits, couldn’t fathom. He basked in the rising power of the coming sabot. He took comfort in the cool breeze that carried the voice of their ancestors.

  While his wards confined her in a block of stone, where raising a window was forbidden.

  He turned away, unable to look at that barren plane of glass and see her ghostly imprint. There had to be a way—

  His thoughts skidded to a halt as he spied an octagonal work of stone off the eastern corner of the castle. Beth’s renovations were complete now. The mortar in the old stone pillars had been replaced, the sagging roof reinforced and redone with tile shingles. Behind the screens that covered the arched openings, her easel stood prominent.

  Micah rose to his feet, his attention riveted on the outbuilding, his thoughts whirling. He jogged down a newly laid gravel path and turned the iron doorknob. The old wooden door, now painted in crisp white, creaked open. Cool shade blanketed a smooth pavestone floor.

  He glanced behind him at the side entrance to the castle. Twenty-feet, give or take, of unprotected ground. She could overpower him in an instant.

  Did he dare?

  He walked inside and closed the door. The scent of late spring flowers wafted on the air, adding another layer of enticement to the hideaway. Fintan’s positive energies blended with the faint aroma and offered subtle sanctuary. No wonder Beth liked to paint here. The cool hideaway could calm the angriest of hornets.

  Brigid would love this. She probably didn’t even realize Beth had restored the decrepit old outbuilding. But getting her here would be risky. On the off-chance Drandar lurked nearby, if Brigid didn’t make a break for it, Micah would leave himself wide open to intervention from her sire.

  But if he could pull it off, if he could give her a taste of what she longed for, she might be willing to discuss her mother’s ritual. Progress that made the risk less daunting.

  Micah moved to one high screen and pushed at the mesh. Strong. Combined with his wards, once Brigid was in here, she would be secured.

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, and murmured an ancient prayer.

  ****

  Brigid ignored the fierce pain that twisted around her ribs at Micah’s ability to roam where he wanted. She’d become too accustomed to that lance of longing. Too used to the hollow ache for the outdoors and the freedom she’d known just four months ago. The yearning was part of her now. Just as much as the yearning for Micah that r
efused to release its vise-like hold.

  One of these days she’d unravel one of Micah’s wards and walk through the door, instead of sitting around to observe his reaction.

  She sat down on the sofa, her mother’s ritual on the table before her knees. The fierce energy of light ebbed off the aged hide binding, an invisible beacon that beckoned her to safe harbor. What did it say? What did it want from her?

  Even as she considered the answers, the dark half of her soul churned. It wanted nothing to do with those ancient words. It craved the life Brigid gave her sire’s blood. The runes locked within those pages would bring swift death.

  Still, she couldn’t tamp out the curiosity. What crafty means had Nyamah concocted this time? There must be a way to find out. A way to read without antagonizing Drandar.

  If she made it quick, he would never know. He could never accuse her of entertaining her mother’s calling.

  Brigid’s hand snaked out and grabbed the hardened leather spine before her mind consciously became aware of the action. Fire coursed through her fingers, up her arm. It burned into her shoulder and spread like a strike of lightning through her veins.

  She jerked away with a sharp cry.

  Damn Micah!

  Curled in the corner of the couch, Brigid cradled her burned hand. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip to stave the despicable wetness away. She hadn’t wept in a good hundred years. She would not do so now because a demonologist outsmarted her.

  But oh how it stung. Not just the tingling beneath her skin, but the stark reminder of Micah. He had locked her in here. He enjoyed freedom while she remained a prisoner. She who, if he didn’t have his magical wards, could crush him with a flick of her thumb. He might have mastered her body last night, but he was a far cry away from mastering her.

  She sat up and swiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. For too long she’d been playing games. The sabot approached. She would not be denied the opportunity to pay tribute to those who walked before her and the birthright of her Selgovae blood.

  Micah made one fatal error last night. He had confessed how long he wanted her. And he had given her a glimpse of how that desire made him weak. Caught up in the throes of passion, he neglected his wards.

  It would take little work to use that desire against him and sidetrack him once more. When he least expected it, she’d strike. Tonight. The night before Litha. Oh, she wouldn’t kill him—she respected him too much for death. Besides, leaving him alive would be far more rewarding. While she walked free, while she aided Drandar, Micah would live the rest of his life knowing she had outwitted him once and for all.

  A smile slid across her lips, and excitement stuttered her pulse. Fitting revenge for all the suffering he’d cast upon her. He wouldn’t even see it coming.

  Humming beneath her breath, Brigid rose to her feet and hurried to the shower. It was already noon. Micah wouldn’t stay out forever. She didn’t have much time to prepare.

  Chapter Eight

  Micah glanced around the pagoda one more time, checking to insure no gaps interrupted the strong guards he’d layered together that rendered the wire mesh immoveable. A breeze washed over his skin, full of the scent of leaves, grass, and the distant aroma of the fresh-water springs deeper within the valley. Birds twittered in the approaching twilight, their songs blending with that of crickets and frogs.

  He frowned at the closed door. It remained a weakness. But he would have to take his chances and hope that if Brigid didn’t dash for freedom on the gravel path he could do nothing about, that the door wouldn’t pose a problem until they were both inside and he could ward it as well. Faith had to begin somewhere.

  So did hope, and as he let himself out of the gazebo and made his way inside the castle, he let it spark. If he connected with Brigid, if he gave her the opportunity to trust him, maybe he could break through her emotional walls and open her eyes to the things she refused to see. Like the fear that kept her trapped in a world of darkness she didn’t belong in. The same fear that kept her from embracing Nyamah’s ancient spell.

  Fintan stopped him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Micah, I’m going to need you tomorrow night at the ritual. Will you be available?” He entered the hall, brows drawn, as if his thoughts plagued him. “Beth and I will be occupied, and I need you to keep an eye out for Taran and Drandar.”

  Tomorrow? At the sabot? Micah’s focus pulled up the stairs. Leave Brigid on the night that would surely torment her beyond all others? When her mother’s spell had been found?

  He glanced back at Fintan. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

  “It’s just for a short time. We start at eleven. We should be finished within an hour. Brigid will be confined—Drandar can’t influence your wards, can he?”

  Micah shook his head. “Nothing can get out or in.” As long as he remembered to reinforce them in a timely fashion and he used a new incantation so Brigid didn’t find a means of disrupting the barriers.

  “Then there shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  Only those that Fintan, and his righteous anger toward his sister, wouldn’t want to consider. Micah expressed a sigh. “I can spare an hour.”

  Smiling, Fintan nodded. “Good, good. How’d she take the scroll?”

  “About like I expected.”

  “You don’t look worse for the wear.”

  Micah chuckled. “No, I survived. She’s curious about it.”

  Fintan’s warm eyes hardened, and a frown set into his brow. “Be careful, Micah. She’s crafty. Don’t give her the chance to trick you.”

  A chance like escorting her outdoors where he couldn’t erect a ward? Micah set a foot on the stairs. If Fintan knew what he had planned, he’d lock Micah up. “I’ve got everything under control.” He started up the stairwell, anxious to be finished with the uncomfortable conversation.

  Behind him, Fintan’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “A pint of Scotch says that’s what she wants you to think.”

  Good thing Fintan liked Scotch. Micah had a nagging feeling he might just be receiving a caseload before the sabot was over. If he were smart, he’d forget this crazy idea of appealing to Brigid’s secret yearnings. He’d keep her confined, as he’d been instructed to do, until she crawled on her knees and begged to be given the spellbook and its promised mortality. Until she foreswore Drandar in front of her siblings and meant every damned word.

  At the top of the stairs, he stopped and stared at the door. What if Fintan was right? He of all people knew what she was capable of doing. She’d practically handed him over to Drandar on Imbolc and laughed as he suffered attack after attack.

  No. Micah shook his head in emphasis. He had to believe in her gentler side. Had to extend an offering of trust if he expected to gain hers. She might have turned against Fintan, but Micah would swear, if anyone had bothered to ask her why, she’d have a drastically different answer than Fintan’s assumptions.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  ****

  Brigid looked up from the television as Micah entered the room. Before her heart could beat twice, she summoned a smile she hoped looked warm and inviting. “Hey. How was the walk? You missed dinner. I fixed lamb and wilted spinach pizza.”

  He arched one dark eyebrow in mistrust. Her stomach knotted. Overdone. Tone it down. She gave him a casually indifferent shrug and reclined in the sofa, staring at the television once more. “There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

  One step at a time—she couldn’t rush things. They had all night together. All night for her to work him over slowly so he wouldn’t recognize her ploy. She took a deep breath, let it out quietly. If the jittering inside her belly would quit, this would be so much easier.

  “I grabbed a sandwich in the kitchen downstairs. Are you busy?”

  Busy? Here? She almost laughed.

  Instead, she choked down her derision and flipped off the television. “Not particularly. Did you have something in mi
nd?” As she had a hundred times or more, she gave him a slow, sensual smile, heavily laden with suggestion.

  To her surprise, Micah didn’t deflect the innuendo. He walked to the couch, stood behind her, and set his warm hands on her shoulders. His breath whispered against the side of her neck. “I have lots of things in mind for later.”

  “Later?” To her shame, her heart skipped a beat. Anticipation skittered down her spine and lifted the fine hairs along her arms. She liked the sound of that. Too much.

  Get a hold of yourself. You must stay in control.

  She held his gaze through the mirror. “Why wait when now is so much…sooner?”

  His teeth grazed her skin, sending chills sweeping through her body. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to silence a moan and forced her mind away from the feel of his warm moist breath, the taunting way he flicked the tip of his tongue alongside her jugular.

  “I have something else in mind,” he murmured.

  Abruptly, he pulled away. The sudden lack of contact left her feeling bereft. Of what, she couldn’t say. But in that moment, the idea of Micah doing anything but continuing to touch her, sent her spirit into violent chaos.

  Before Brigid could work through the myriad of emotions that waged war on her soul, he moved around the couch and stopped beside her knee. One hand stretched toward her. He wagged his fingers. “Give me your hand.”

  What in the name of the ancestors was he up to?

  Too curious to refuse, Brigid slid her fingers into his. Warmth spread all the way to her belly, and she fought a shiver. Simple things like holding hands weren’t supposed to feel so good. She cleared her throat to cover her unexpected reaction. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” With a tug, he pulled her from the couch. At the door, he turned to face her and gathered her other hand as well. “I need a promise from you, Brigid.”

  “What kind of promise?”

  “I need you to swear that you won’t try anything funny.”

  “Funny?” She grinned. “Like stand on my head?”

  “Brigid.” His voice held a note of warning.