Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  Brendan entered last. Thinner, paler, his molten amber eyes overlarge in his gaunt face. Elisabeth could almost see the wheels turning as he took in the Amhas-draoi’s lair from the lack of fripperies or feminine dainties to the shelves of books, a vase of fresh flowers upon a piano.

  “No chains. No whips. No torture devices of any kind. You’re safe enough for now, Douglas,” Helena said, motioning him toward a chair by the fire.

  Suddenly the marks of his illness were erased in a breathtaking smile. “I’d say that hellish trip was torture enough for one lifetime, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh no, not nearly enough,” Helena replied maliciously.

  They’d arrived in Dublin during a downpour, the soot-stained buildings and wet streets beneath a smear of charcoal sky a welcome sight. From outside, the tidy Duke Street town house with its bright green front door, marble steps, and gleaming black railing could have been any well-to-do merchant’s home. Carriages and hackneys clattered up and down the street. Next door a costermonger stood upon the area steps speaking with a housekeeper. Two smartly dressed women hurried down the pavement, a loaded footman bringing up the rear. Life went on around them as usual.

  Yet, within, the signs of Other were palpable. Almost as if the Fey-born could not completely hide what they were. Or, in Helena’s case, took pride in that heritage. A book left open upon a table written in some sort of cryptic rune. An odd figurine upon the mantel, carved so that from any angle it took on a different aspect, the very atmosphere charged by the unseen.

  A compact version of the same faery-steeped radiance Elisabeth had experienced upon every visit to Belfoyle. And, as at Belfoyle, she experienced the same combination of excited fluttering and cold dread in the pit of her stomach.

  “Drink?” Rogan offered.

  Brendan shook his head. “None for me.”

  Rogan shrugged. Took it for himself.

  “Have a seat, Douglas. We’re all friends here,” Helena said.

  “Are we?” He crossed to the fire, his gait careful, body bearing the stiffness of the recent invalid.

  He’d shed his sling yesterday, claiming it was deuced uncomfortable. Shrugged off Elisabeth’s warnings he was taking things too quickly with one of his infuriating smiles and a sarcastic comment that made her fists itch. She’d not experienced such violent urges since her tomboy childhood. Come to think of it, Brendan had been the usual reason for them then as well.

  He warmed his hands for a moment before turning his attention back to the group. “I think it’s long past time we stopped ignoring the elephant in the room, don’t you, Miss Roseingrave?”

  Wariness darkened her eyes.

  “Am I prisoner or guest? I like to know where I stand.”

  “One would think it was obvious after all we’ve done to see you arrive in Dublin safely.”

  “One thinks all sorts of things, but I like to know.”

  The tension thickened. Even Rogan paused in the act of pouring another whiskey to watch the game of one-upmanship.

  Roseingrave eyed Brendan as one might a recalcitrant child. “Máelodor’s searching for you. And he’s made sure the price on your head is exceedingly tempting. On your own, how long will you last with so many on your trail?”

  “Long enough, I hope.”

  “And Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Elisabeth stiffened, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room suddenly focus upon her.

  “I’ll protect her,” Brendan answered. “She’s no reason to fear.”

  “As you did in Loughrea? She may want more assurances than that. After all, it’s her life we’re talking about. Elisabeth? What say you?”

  This was their chance to escape. What she’d urged Brendan to do days ago. And now? She’d run through the options in her head, counting debts and credits as she might balance a tally sheet. Her conclusion always the same. “I say we stay,” she pronounced.

  Brendan’s face darkened, his body stiff.

  Elisabeth plowed ahead, before she changed her mind. “You said yourself, like it or not, while your shoulder is poorly, we’re safest in Helena’s company.”

  “Safety might be going a bit far,” the Amhas-draoi answered with a cold angry light in her eyes.

  “If you wanted Brendan dead, you’d have done it already,” Elisabeth replied smoothly. “We’ve nothing to lose and all to gain by remaining here as long as you’ll have us.”

  “And if I choose to rid the world of Douglas perfidy once and for all?”

  Elisabeth allowed herself a sly smile. “You’d have a hard time explaining away a dead body. Servants talk, Helena. Murdering one’s guests just isn’t done.”

  The three of them stared at her as if she’d grown horns, when all she’d done was point out the obvious. Digging her hands into her skirts, she pressed her lips firmly together and faced them all down. It didn’t take a gift for Other magic to grasp the core of their current situation. Merely reasonable intelligence and plain common sense. And she was tired of being treated like the thick-skulled Duinedon among a bevy of Fey-born.

  Brendan recovered first. Laughter sparking his luminous gaze, he eyed her as if seeing her for the first time. “I believe I have the answer to my question.”

  “Answers? Who looks for answers here?”

  This new voice shattered the tension like a fist through glass. An old bent woman appeared in the doorway, her parchment fine face seamed with a million tiny lines, her hands bony and gnarled as they held the door handle. “Kilronan’s heir has returned.” She lifted her head as if spying something beyond the horizon, invisible to the rest of them. “The last battle has truly begun.”

  Brendan waited for Elisabeth to be escorted to a bedchamber by Roseingrave’s grandmother before rounding on his hostess. Tired of being jerked like a puppet on a string. Tired of being at her mercy. Tired period. The Amhas-draoi’s enigmatic comments and sidelong, searching looks grated on already shredded nerves. “What do you want from me?”

  Roseingrave answered with a thin smile. “It’s been a most trying few days. Time enough for explanations once you’ve had a good night’s rest.”

  “If you’re waiting on that, we may never get to the crux. And I don’t know about you, but I grow short of witty banter.”

  “So abrupt. So curt. Where’s your gentleman’s polish? That boyish appeal that so captivates an audience?”

  “You’ve mistaken me for my brother. Aidan’s the charmer. I’m the manipulative, sarcastic recluse. Ask Lissa. She’ll tell you.”

  “Lord Kilronan charming? You have been away a long time, haven’t you?”

  What was that cryptic comment about? Had something happened to Aidan? He’d always been the happy-go-lucky rogue with the lively wit and the clever tongue. Brendan had envied his brother’s carefree attitude. Friends flocked to him. Women swooned over him. Had Father’s death wrought such devastating change?

  All the years away, he’d ached for his lost family. It had been hardest to cut away those connections. His brother’s confidence, his sister’s faith. In his memory they remained unchanged. But reality was far different. Father’s death and the destruction of their family had caught them all in its wake. None of them had been left unscathed.

  “You didn’t pull me clear of Máelodor’s killers, dig a bullet out of me, and invite me into your home out of the goodness of your heart. What’s in it for you?”

  Rogan and Roseingrave exchanged meaningful glances, the mage-chasing harper giving a slight shrug. “You’ll never know if you don’t ask, Helena.”

  Her frown deepened as she made a slow turn about the room, hands clasped behind her back. She faced Brendan once more, decision cut into the delicate lines of her face. “The Sh’vad Tual—where have you hidden it?”

  “Someplace secure.”

  Her gaze hardened. “Do you realize what will happen if Máelodor opens Arthur’s tomb? If he summons the last king as a Domnuathi? Do you truly understand the scope of such an act of villainy?”

/>   “Easy, Helena,” Rogan said, a hand upon her shoulder. “We’re all tired and short-tempered. Perhaps we put this off until tomorrow.”

  She jerked away. “You think a nice rest and suddenly Douglas will have a change of heart? He didn’t give a damn then. Nothing’s changed. He’s as self-serving and calculating as ever.”

  “You’re not very skilled at this whole persuading thing, are you?” Brendan commented.

  She swung back to him with a snarl. “You think this fight will be a simple case of Other versus Duinedon? Hardly. It will be Other versus Other. Just like the dark times when the Nine set brother on brother. I refuse to let that happen again.”

  Brendan leaned forward, anger stirring deep in his gut. “Mayhap instead of hounding me all those years, the Amhas-draoi should have spent their time hunting the real menace.”

  “We were told Máelodor had been executed. That you were the only one of the Nine left alive.”

  “Gervase St. John had you all fooled, didn’t he?” One of the many reasons sleep eluded Brendan. The traitorous Amhas-draoi warrior had known ways of destruction that left no visible mark, killing slowly from the inside out. A mangled hand had been the least of it.

  Roseingrave flinched, a line appearing between her brows, her scarlet lips thinning. “St. John paid for his betrayal with his life.”

  “If one of you can be turned, so can others. Scathach is the only one I trust. She’s the only one who can give me my life back.”

  Helena faced him with a scoffing laugh and a toss of her head. “That’s your plan? Stone or no stone, she’ll kill you.”

  Brendan’s jaw tightened. “A chance I’ll take.”

  “The last chance you’ll take. St. John was a well-placed member of the Amhas-draoi. It hasn’t been easy to overturn his influence or persuade the brotherhood of Máelodor’s survival. Not without proof. Most are still convinced you’re the mastermind behind this recent threat. You’ve been marked for death as the last living member of the Nine.”

  “So what makes you believe when your brethren don’t?”

  She slanted him a whip-thin smile. “I’ve seen him. A brief glimpse, but I know he’s out there. Unfortunately, he’s managed to hide himself away like a spider in his lair. No leads. No way to track him.”

  “Magic.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s using forbidden magic to shield himself. He must be. That kind of power can only be generated through the dark energy wrought by Unseelie spells.”

  “That makes sense.” She steepled her fingers against her lips, regarding him steadily. “So if we can’t find him, perhaps we let him find us.”

  He arched a cynical brow. “And by ‘us,’ you mean me.”

  “He’s determined to capture you as a way to gain the stone. Thus, we dangle you as bait and see if he bites.”

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

  “But it will work.”

  “It very well might, but it’s my ass you’re dangling.”

  “How secure is your ass now? Scathach and the Amhas-draoi will never let you live. To them, you’re a conscienceless murderer with the blood of hundreds on your hands.”

  “I didn’t . . . it wasn’t like that.”

  But what had he told Elisabeth? A sin of omission was still a sin. He might not have struck the killing blows, but his handprints lay all over the daggers that had. His ideas fed the ambitions of the group. His arrogance blinded him to the mounting evil going on under his own nose. It had taken Freddie’s death to finally make him see. And by then it had been too late.

  “You want your life back? Help me find and capture Máelodor,” Helena argued. “Force him to stand for his crimes. The Amhas-draoi will finally realize who’s behind this new source of trouble. They’ll have to listen to me—and you.”

  “What of Elisabeth? Máelodor thinks she knows where the stone is hidden.”

  “She’s safe enough while she’s under my protection, but surely that’s another reason to assist me. As long as Máelodor is alive, Miss Fitzgerald is in danger. You dragged her into this. It’s up to you to pull her free.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead his gaze locked on the flames. The little frame house down the hill from the churchyard. Freddie’s family. Freddie. The place had gone up like a box of tinder. He’d felt the heat upon his face like the fires of hell. And known, at that moment, there would be no escape from what he’d done. He’d tried. For seven years, he’d outraced the devil, but he’d finally been caught. It was time to pay.

  Miss Roseingrave resumed her slow pacing, jaw flexing. Pausing now and then to slant an evaluating stare in his direction. “What do you say, Douglas? Bait to catch a killer? End this once and for all?”

  Reaching out with the lightest of mental touches, Brendan sought to read the sincerity of her declaration. Slammed against a consciousness locked tight. Probing deeper, he met a tangled honeycomb of thought designed to thwart any intrusion. If she lied, there was no way for him to know.

  If you wanted Brendan dead, you’d have done it already. We’ve nothing to lose and all to gain.

  Elisabeth’s words resounded within him. . . . nothing to lose . . . all to gain.

  And he’d run out of choices.

  Reaching beneath his shirt, he pulled free the stone on its chain. Light flickered in the rough-carved faces, a smoldering burn like the leading edge of a storm cloud or the flash and fire of a smoke-filled battlefield.

  Gold eyes met black. Neither one willing to flinch.

  “Agreed,” he said.

  Bath over and dress burned, Elisabeth stood at her bedchamber window in a dressing gown. Seeing little of what passed before her eyes. Instead her gaze drew ever inward, her mind a short cab ride away in Merrion Square at the Fitzgerald town house.

  Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney might be there now. Worried for her. Disgusted with her. Would they understand when she told them the truth? Perhaps. But there was no way to explain it to Gordon. In his eyes, she would be compromised beyond recovery. A ruined woman. Unfit to be his bride.

  The pain accompanying that thought bit deep, though it didn’t shatter her as she thought it might. She’d accepted Gordon, knowing him for the solid, dependable man he was. Knowing he didn’t excite her or send her into raptures. Knowing he might be her last and only chance. So what did that say about her?

  “Here, now. An extra blanket in case you get cold tonight, though it’s warm enough now.”

  Elisabeth hadn’t heard Helena’s grandmother come in, but there she was, her winter pippin face creased in a welcoming smile.

  Killer, who usually greeted all newcomers with a token snarl, remained snoring—belly up, paws in the air—in the middle of the bed.

  “Some watchdog you are,” she mumbled.

  The old woman eyed the dog with a long, measuring stare. “You’ve had him long?”

  “He sort of attached himself to us on the road.”

  “Did he?” She studied Killer long enough that the terrier opened one lazy eye to return the shrewd gaze.

  “You’re very kind, Mrs., uh . . . Mrs. . . .” Elisabeth fumbled, not knowing how to address her hostess.

  Laughter rustled in the old woman’s chest. “Madame Arana.” She draped the blanket upon a chair. “It is nice to have a house full again. Since ma petite Helena’s brother died, the quiet has taken over. Too many empty rooms full of sad memories.”

  Petite Helena? That was taking things a bit far. The Amhas-draoi woman had the build of an Amazon. The looks too, come to think of it. Tall, dark, and cool as ice. Even bathed and changed into clothing that didn’t resemble a charwoman’s Sunday best, Elisabeth felt an absolute frump in comparison.

  “I will leave you now. I must see to the young man. He is a poor patient, that one. Typical male. Plaint toujours—always fussing. Not trusting to my skills. I know much of the old ways. He would do better to allow me to tend him.”

  “I wish you luck. He’s exceedingly stubbo
rn.”

  “Ah, but then, so am I.” Madame Arana smiled, her eyes lost in the creases upon creases of her face.

  Elisabeth stepped away from the window, the thick carpet a luxury under her bare feet as she crossed to the bed. Sank into its feathered depths, the faint scents of lavender rising from the sheets. “Do you know why your granddaughter wants Brendan? Why she’s doing”—she spread her hands to encompass the comfortable, well-appointed bedchamber—“all this? The Amhas-draoi want Brendan dead, he told me so himself. Yet we’re welcomed as guests. Why?”

  “You are a guest, Miss Fitzgerald, if an unexpected one. At no time did we predict your presence. None of my scrying ever alerted us to this possibility. This makes you an unknown. Throws all possible futures into doubt.” Suddenly the golden-eyed grandmother seemed less snuggly tea and biscuits than prescient Fey-gifted seer. “My visions are no longer helpful.”

  Why had Elisabeth asked? When would she realize questions only brought answers she didn’t necessarily want and bred more questions that raced like rabbits round her brain?

  “Helena has searched for Brendan Douglas since word first came of his return to Ireland. The whys are clear in Amhas-draoi duty. The brotherhood looks to stamp out the last vestiges of the Nine. Only the manner of her seeking has changed as circumstance changed. As the visions changed. Now do you see?”

  She didn’t but nodded anyway. “Who are the Nine?”

  “That is not my story to tell. Better to ask young Douglas if you truly wish to understand.”

  Therein lay the rub. Did she want to understand? Or would it only pull her in deeper?

  Elisabeth placed a hand upon Killer, letting his even breathing steady her own whirling head.

  “What do you know of the young man?” Madame Arana asked, a sternness to her face at odds with her earlier cheerful ebullience. “What has he told you of himself?”

  “I’ve known Brendan forever. His family’s estates march next to ours.” She lowered her gaze. “He and I were betrothed once. Long ago. Before . . .”

  “Before the Nine’s destruction.” Madame Arana finished her sentence.