by Ann Gimpel
“Could have fooled me,” she murmured. “How are they really?”
“Skilled warriors. Better at mind control than vampires, when ye cut to the bones of it.”
“Good that they’re on our side.”
Stewart nodded. “I’m about to see if I canna raise the Celts—again. Ye might check if Rhiannon is about.”
Yara peered through mist that had thickened as they gained altitude. They’d just entered a hanging valley, and a lake sat off to her left. Wind whipped around them, and she tugged her cloak closer about her, drawing its hood over her head. It might not be raining right yet, but she could both smell and taste it in the unsettled air.
Stewart handed the bag back to her. “Do ye mind, lassie?”
“Not at all.” She repositioned it so it hung over one shoulder. “Was the book getting restless?”
He snorted. “Aye, ye might say as much. It dinna like it overmuch when I snatched up the bag down below, and it grew increasingly edgy as we moved uphill.”
The book’s power throbbed against her back. She might have read recrimination in its emanations, but maybe that was going too far. Gratified it hadn’t written her off, she crooned to it, told it she was happy to have it back.
“Is that the lake Meara meant?” Rylan jerked his chin at a substantial body of water with whitecaps rolling across its surface.
“Aye. ’Tis Lochan Meall.”
“How much farther to the top?”
“Perhaps an hour and a half,” Stewart replied. “Why?”
Rylan shook his shaggy head, displacing a shock of dark hair that had fallen across his eyes. “I believe I’ll shift. I’m a far stronger fighter in my animal form, and I can make better time as well.” He glanced at Yara. “I know it’s an imposition, but might I trouble you to keep my clothes in that sack of yours until we reach wherever we’re stopping? You could offload them then.”
“Of course.”
Stewart eyed them. “We canna bide here. We’re too exposed. Wait until the next bend in the trail. If I recall rightly, an overhang there will afford us some protection from the wind. And provide a defensible position if we’re set upon.”
As if it had heard him, a gust rattled through that was almost strong enough blow them off the track. “You’re a weather worker. Can you do anything? Stave off this storm?” Yara asked.
“Aye, but it would drain my magic quickly. I must conserve my power for what lies ahead.”
Stewart hurried forward. Rain began, large, fat drops that pelted down from a gunmetal sky and made Yara grateful for her woolen head covering. Rylan pushed past her. “If you could wait even for a minute, it would spare you the sight of my nakedness.”
Yara nodded. Maybe she waited longer than that, or maybe he was faster than he’d expected. By the time she rounded the bend in the trail, a large, shaggy, dark brown bear was loping away from them. She stared after him, amazed at the transformation.
Stewart handed her a folded stack of clothing, and she stuffed it into her bag. The cloth was doing less than nothing to keep the sack’s contents dry, but the book’s ancient binding seemed immune to anything as mundane as weather.
She tossed the bag over a shoulder. “I assume you have the silver and amulet.”
“Aye, at the ready.” Stewart knotted Rylan’s bootlaces together and draped them across his shoulders so one boot dangled on either side of his chest.
Half a dozen Fae swarmed over Stewart. “We can carry the boots,” echoed in a discordant mixture of old and new Gaelic.
“Aye, and I’d be a right fool to fall for that,” Stewart scoffed.
A plump Fae with hair the deep violet of sunset on a winter day hauled himself up Stewart by gripping handfuls of his clothes, ending up with his arms slung around Stewart’s neck. “We may play such tricks on mortals, but there’s nowhere betwixt here and the top of Beinn Nibheis to turn a battered pair of boots such as those into coin. Besides”—he angled his head at a mischievous angle—“ye gave us more than sufficient gold. ’Twould be wrong to lighten your load further.”
Yara stared at the engaging little man. It was all she could do not to reach out a hand to touch his violet curls.
As if he could read her thoughts, he turned his hammered silver eyes her way. “Ye’re a comely lassie, but any get of Rhiannon’s would be.”
Yara swallowed a snort. “How is it everyone knows I’m her daughter but me? I know now, but for a really long time, I had no idea.”
The Fae shrugged and winked broadly. “Och, ye need to hang around a better class of magic wielder.”
His deadpan expression made her want to laugh. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
He mock bowed from where he’d draped his round body over Rylan’s boots. “I’m sure I havena any idea what ye’re nattering on about.” The Fae turned his gaze on Stewart and rattled off a string of Gaelic. Stewart answered in kind. All the while, they climbed higher on a track that zigzagged back and forth across Ben Nevis’s broad western flank.
A stiff wind howled, and remaining on the track took most of her attention. Rain worsened, turning first to sleet and then to snow. Water squished through holes in her boot soles, and her feet turned to cubes of ice. She funneled a thread of magic to keep blood flowing. The track wasn’t difficult, but it was both long and steep, and she was growing tired. She still wanted a few private moments with Stewart, but at least so far, the Fae had kept up a steady stream of chatter. Following their rapid-fire Gaelic while she fought the burgeoning storm was impossible.
Who knew? Maybe he and Stewart had been buddies before Stewart was forced to flee the British Isles.
They had to reach where they were going soon. They’d been on the move for better than three hours since leaving the car. Maybe longer. Water dripped off her nose, and her braids were covered with ice and snow. The track steepened, and a rock obelisk rose to her left. Visibility had eroded to only a few feet.
“Nay on the boots? ’Tis your final word?” the Fae asked in his lilting, musical voice.
Stewart’s reply rumbled, most of it torn away by the wind. Yara plodded beside him. She didn’t want to make a pest out of herself by asking how much farther. A shiver slithered down her spine, followed by another. If she had anything warmer to put on, she’d have stopped and done so. Most of her remaining clothes were in the sack Vreis had taken. Beyond that, anything traveling in this weather had to be as soaked through as she was.
“Watch the edge to your left.” Stewart’s warning was timely when a momentary break in the endless gray surrounding them displayed a jumble of rocks leading to a steep drop off.
Squawking presaged Meara’s arrival. The vulture shifter plummeted to the ground right in front of them, water sheeting off her black feathers. She clacked her beak twice and shifted in a muted haze of light. Her long, gray hair was soaked, and it clung to her body in a sodden, tangled mass.
Yara fell back a pace. Was the shifter so depleted, she couldn’t manage her usual blaze of brightness?
“What’s wrong?” Stewart gripped both her shoulders, but Meara pulled away from him.
“Any luck with the Celtic gods?” She bit off the words.
Stewart narrowed his eyes to slits. “Nay. And I’ve been trying to raise them most of the way up here.”
Meara focused her untamed, avian gaze on Yara. “How about your mother?”
Yara looked away. She hadn’t tried to summon Rhiannon. “I—I’ll see if I can’t find her now.”
“What’s wrong?” Stewart repeated.
“Great wickedness is heading right for us. I left the others near the round stone building at the summit because it seemed more defensible.”
“Will we arrive in time to help them?” Stewart asked.
That he didn’t question Meara’s assessment might mean he’d sensed approaching darkness as well. Yara ground her teeth together. She’d been remiss not to have deployed her own power to scan for threats, so she sent it zinging outward.
/> And reeled it in just as fast. The wall of evil bearing down on them scared the daylights out of her. It was endless. Bottomless. Her throat thickened with fear, and sweat slicked her sides despite the cold. Hopelessness threatened to swamp her.
“We’ll be there to meet our enemies,” rose from the Fae and Dark Fae in a chorus. The magical nimbus surrounding the fair folk split the darkness ahead of them as the Faeries hastened toward the mountain’s top.
Meara crossed her arms over her soaked hair and made a sour face. “Let’s hope they’re stronger than they look. About fifty shifters have joined us, but I fear it won’t be near enough. Plus, there’s not much space to maneuver up there.”
Stewart set his mouth in a determined line and held out his hands. “Mountains are the bones of the earth, and the source of my power. Take hold of me, and I’ll transport us into a chamber that opens behind the stone building.”
“What about raising the Celts?” Meara pressed.
“One thing at a time,” Stewart countered. “We must rejoin the rest of us afore we’re attacked.”
Yara halted her unsuccessful attempts to communicate with Rhiannon and grasped one of Stewart’s outstretched hands. After a brief pause, Meara took the other. The Druid’s magic wrapped them in its clutches, and the ocean scent of his power mingled with Meara’s sunbaked clay and rosemary smell. The latter was so out of place in the middle of a blizzard, Yara could have laughed.
She might have if their situation wasn’t so grim.
The rocky path beneath their feet fell away. Yara blinked against darkness until a cave studded with small, iridescent lights formed around them. Rocks placed strategically every few feet glowed as if lit with an inner fire. Were they always like that, or had Stewart triggered some mechanism to coax them to life?
He disentangled his hands from theirs. “If ye walk dead ahead, ye’ll find a boulder blocking the entrance to this cavern. It will yield to magic. The stone building is just beyond. I shall make one last effort to entice the gods to come out of hiding and help us afore I go outside.”
He dropped Rylan’s boots in a corner, raised his arms, and chanted in Gaelic, the words poignant, thick with desperation.
Yara shook water off her head and brushed snow out of her hair. She untangled the sack’s handles and placed Rylan’s clothing atop his boots. The book glowed brightly, so she drew it out, intent on seeing if it had a way to locate Rhiannon.
Meara stalked away from them, clearly intent on joining the gaggle of shifters and Rom outside. The scrape of stone against dirt confirmed Yara’s hunch. Crouching, she let the book fall open on her lap and visualized her goddess mother.
She didn’t have to wait long. Rather than rustling pages, Rhiannon shimmered into being off to her right. Her flame-red hair was braided in an intricate Celtic knot pattern, and her golden eyes glowed. She held out her hands in clear invitation. Yara set the book aside and walked close enough to clasp them.
Power flowed into her. Ancient, potent, almost painful as it filled her with a burning sensation that made her want to shuck her skin and begin anew. She met her mother’s eerie gaze—not an easy task—and asked, “What are you doing?”
A soft, sad smile played about the goddess’s mouth. “Daughter. This is your battle, not mine. My era, the Celtic gods’ era, died long ago. That we remain here is one of the mysteries. We canna help—not much, anyway—but nowhere is it written I canna shift a piece of what is left of my power to you.”
Fear shot through Yara, along with a certainty she’d never be strong enough to pick up the banner her mother had carried. She tried to pull away, but Rhiannon held fast.
“Aye, but ye’re wrong, daughter. The only element missing is believing in yourself and your power.”
“I— I don’t understand.” Yara chewed her lower lip, biting so hard she tasted blood. “Manandan was one of you, and he seemed plenty powerful enough.”
Rhiannon laughed softly. “He’s a mere shadow of who he used to be, but ye canna tell him that. He insists his magic survived intact.” She shrugged, and the golden chains beneath her torc clattered against each other. “Men. Poor, deluded fools, the lot of them.”
Yara slanted her gaze at Stewart, and Rhiannon laughed once more. “Och, he canna hear us. I made certain of that.” She leaned close. “The Celts fashioned his power so it potentiates ours. Ye need him in this battle, and he needs you. Together, ye can lead the others to victory.”
Her form began to shimmer, taking on a translucent aspect. “No. Don’t go,” Yara pleaded. She sounded like a child, but this was her mother, and she wanted her with a fierceness that rivaled the power pounding through her, turning her blood molten.
Rhiannon disentangled her hands from Yara’s grasp. “I must. This isna my battle, but we shall meet again, daughter. If ye are victorious, ’twill be at your wedding.”
“What if we’re not?” Yara pressed.
“Then I will see you in the Summerlands where we shall pass our days on sun swept moors drinking mead.”
As quickly as she’d arrived, Rhiannon faded until nothing but a faint glow marked the place she’d been.
Stewart hastened to Yara’s side. “Will the Celts help us? No one answered me.” Worry eddied from the edges of his eyes in a series of fine lines.
Yara held out her hands in a precise replica of what her mother had just done. He grabbed hold, his gaze never leaving hers. “No Celts,” she replied, trying for a voice and words that didn’t tremble. “Their time on Earth has passed. Rhiannon said we—you and I—can do this. That our combined power will be enough, but that we must believe in ourselves.”
A slow smile split his face, and he bent his head, slashing his mouth over hers in a quick, hard kiss. When he lifted his mouth, he let go of one of her hands and tugged her forward with the other. “Rhiannon gifted us her blessing—and her confidence. ’Tis good enough for me.”
Yara wanted to protest that they had things to say to each other. Bad water under the bridge to clear away, but he shook his head. “I love you, lassie. All else can wait.”
“I love you too. There, I said it. In case I don’t get another chance.” Her eyes sheened with sudden tears, and she blinked them back. A riot of conflicting emotion filled her until she feared she’d crack wide open.
Tenderness and promise spilled from his gaze. “Och, Yara. My Yara. We’ll write the script as we need to for ourselves. We can do this. We can do anything, so long as we’re together.”
Yara ran by his side, their hands still joined. Magic flashed, and the boulder moved aside. Evil was almost here—dank, stifling, oppressive—but confidence filled her. Vampires were too depraved to live, and demons needed to return to Hell.
“We can do this.” She echoed his words and believed them to her bones.
“Aye, lass, that we can.”
Stewart pelted into a blinding snowstorm barking orders. The faerie folk jumped to his commands. Yara felt like a different woman. Who knew? Maybe she was channeling her mother, but she called out to both shifters and Rom, and they gathered around her, ready to do her bidding without question.
Yara sent a quick prayer skyward that she’d be worthy of the trust etched into the sea of faces turned her way. Stewart was gathering a group to face down vampires, so she raised her voice, shouting into the storm raging around them.
“Who among us has fought demons?”
Tairin stepped forward, a resolute expression on her face. Meara came too, and a handful of others including Elliott.
Yara skinned her lips back from her teeth. “Excellent. Killing them is a lot of trouble, but we can make their miserable lives so horrific they make an end run for Hell to escape us.”
“I like it.” A Dark Fae drove a pikestaff into the earth in front of him.
“Aye, we hate those bastards,” the other Fae screeched.
They didn’t look innocent anymore, and Yara remembered Stewart’s words. They may look like children, but they purposely deploy m
agic to lull people into underestimating them.
Bright magic rose in a cloud of gold, silver, and a rainbow of colors. It prickled where it touched her, so full of power it wasn’t possible to contain it.
Darkness swooshed out of the east, and Yara turned to meet it head on. Something fey and untamed kindled within her, and she recognized Rhiannon’s unique brand of energy.
Love and gratitude for the goddess surged, running high. Yara extended her arms and clear, white light flashed from her fingertips. “Come forward,” she cried, aiming her words at the darkness. “Approach and meet your doom.”
War cries rose around her. Many voices. Many languages. Yara wrapped them all in a protective spell. They’d fight together and, by the goddess and everything good, she’d see to it that they won.
Chapter 19
Stewart had been beyond elated by Rhiannon’s unexpected appearance. His first hope had been that she’d bring her fellow Celts to fight by their side, but the way things played out was even better. Somewhere, someone recognized his claim to Yara when he’d snatched a piece of her soul, swapping it with a bit of his. The intensity—the rightness—of having his body buried deep within hers had driven him, but given a choice, he wouldn’t change a thing.
He wanted to shout his joy to the heavens, but chaos bore down on them. The kiss he and Yara shared in the cave would have to be enough until the battle ended. She’d told him she loved him, and no matter what happened today, the sweetness of her words would always live inside him.
A wave of fresh panic raced from his toes and swooshed over the top of his head. She had to survive, and he fought an urge to bind her with magic and stuff her back into the cave.
As if that would work.
She’d break through his spell as easily as a child dragged a grubby finger through a spider’s web. Besides, Rhiannon’s message was that they were invincible together.