Marked for Death

by Claire Ashgrove

  She trudged to the stairs and grabbed the railing. A deep breath steadied her knees and strengthened her spine. Conversation rose from below, voices she hadn’t heard in too long to count. She cocked her head to the side, listening, straining to pick Taran’s from the warm chorus. When she couldn’t, she took a tentative step down the stairs and made her way to the parlor where the noise rang the loudest.

  Seated directly across from the door, beside a strikingly beautiful blonde, Belen spied her first. He set his glass down in a hurry and scrambled to his feet. Before Solène could see it coming, he had her in a bear hug and twirled her in a circle. “Little sis!”

  The hearty welcoming prompted her into laughter. As the rest of Taran’s family descended around them, she pushed at his shoulders. “Set me down, oaf. Find some manners and introduce me to your…are you married yet?”

  He grinned boyishly and dutifully set her on her feet. But as he opened his mouth to presumably introduce her to the woman she knew was Faith, Cian dragged her into a tight embrace. “No, he’s not. But I am. And it’s damned good to see you.”

  The rest of Taran’s siblings followed suit, pulling her this way and that, welcoming her back to the living with the affection they had so freely given decades ago. When she had been mauled and kissed to death, she stepped back, laughing. Her gaze touched the faces she didn’t recognize. “Okay. I know your names. But…help me out?”

  One by one the partners who had risked their lives to save the McLaine they loved introduced themselves. Cian’s wife Miranda, Belen’s fiancée Faith—he beamed when he ran an affectionate hand over her swollen belly. Rhiannon’s fiancé Mick made Solène do a double-take—he could give Taran a run for his money in the looks department. Reese, Dáire’s other half, smiled so shyly that Solène’s heart went out to her. How awkward it must be to stand in the room with this boisterous family. Beth was every bit the eclectic artist Solène knew her to be, and the way she watched Fintan displayed her heart for all to see.

  Solène searched the room when Brigid didn’t edge into the mix, and found her sitting quietly on the sofa, her bare feet tucked beneath her partner Micah’s thigh. Still slightly outcast, but in her watchful gaze, Solène read a desire to fit in.

  Solène approached the one sibling Taran had been closest to and enveloped her in a warm hug. “It’s good to see you, Brigid.” She lowered her voice and murmured. “I’m so happy for you.”

  The tight grip of Brigid’s fingers conveyed gratitude, and she leaned away to rest her head on Micah’s shoulder. “This is Micah. You’ll like him.”

  Laughing, Solène shook his hand. Indeed, if the demonologist could tame the wild Brigid, she would like him. “Welcome to my home.” Solène glanced around the room. “Have you seen Taran?”

  “He went on a walk,” Angus explained from the armchair near the tall window. “Said he needed some fresh air.”

  Good. She wouldn’t have to broach the subject of the ritual in front of him. Solène inclined her head toward the entryway and looked to Isolde. “Could I see you for a moment?”

  “Of course.” She passed Angus a paper plate of chips and left the room.

  Solène followed on her heels. In the hall, she gripped the sidecart to strengthen her still-weak legs. “Did you finish unraveling the ritual?”

  “I have.” Isolde smiled bright. “There’s hope, Solène. Through the offering of shared blood, Taran will avoid death. Mortality will come to him in the power of the rite. You two have your future at last.”

  A rush of tears pricked Solène’s eyes. All this time, all the years she had hoped Taran would find freedom had come to fruition. Happiness blossomed behind her ribs, but with that elated swell came a sharp twist. He would have his salvation, but their future would not occur.

  “No, we won’t,” she murmured.

  “What?” Isolde’s smile vanished. Concerned blue eyes probed Solène for explanations.

  She looked away, at the early Mandarin vase that sat on the sidecart. “Prepare yourself for Drandar, Isolde. And Taran will need you above all the rest.”

  Isolde’s fingers gripped Solène’s elbow. Her hushed voice held demand. “What are you talking about?”

  Solène lifted her gaze to Isolde. “I defied Drandar. He will come for me tonight, when he is at his greatest strength. Not now when he is weak—he fears you.” She swallowed hard and blinked away the blurry picture of Isolde’s face. “I will take Nyamah’s place as his slave.”

  She waited for Isolde’s expression to convey understanding. When shock lit her features, Solène knew Isolde understood what price she would pay. That she would be forced to carry on his dark line and watch her children die at his vile hands.

  “Why?” Isolde’s whispered question cracked through the heavy silence. “You risked this for Taran? Sacred elements, Solène…” She trailed off with a shake of her head. Her fingers gripped Solène’s arm more tightly. “I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet…” Again she gave a disbelieving shake of her head.

  “You can’t let him know, Isolde. When I am taken, don’t let him come after me. Let him think my punishment is death.”

  “No,” Isolde said with conviction. “It won’t happen. I won’t allow him to take you. And if the ritual goes as planned, he will receive his felling blow before he can lay a finger on you.”

  A possibility Solène longed to believe. But she’d spent too much time under Drandar’s watchful eye to think she would escape this unscathed. She laid her hand over Isolde’s and squeezed. “I would do it again for him in a heartbeat. But promise me you won’t tell him the truth.”

  Isolde frowned, but she agreed with a nod. “You should be in bed still.”

  “I can’t sleep any longer. My mind isn’t at peace.”

  With a sympathetic smile, Isolde tucked Solène’s hand in hers and tugged her toward the shop door. “Come with me then, you watch and relax while I finish the last of the preparations.”

  ****

  Taran walked along the path beside the riverbank, hands tucked in his pockets, gaze fixed on the pavestones beneath his well-worn boots. Could it be possible that, after over two thousand years of existence, he might know the joy of mortality? Of a life, a real life, with Solène?

  It had been so long since he’d allowed the possibility to take root in his mind that he felt as if he looked upon a newborn babe. Awed. Elated. More than a little afraid. But now, as the sun began its descent across the horizon and sunset blanketed the bubbling river with vibrant color, he embraced the blessing he’d been given. He would have the one thing that had only ever mattered, and he would hold her without fear.

  Still, as appealing as it all sounded, his pulse jumped nervously. He was cheating the fates. Even if Nyamah had orchestrated the events, he deserved punishment for the wrongs he had committed on innocents. There could be no good that would come of subverting the ancestors. And he couldn’t fathom how they could allow him to live.

  He kicked a pebble into the water and watched the ripples expand. It was all too much to wrap his head around. Too many conflicts with what nature intended. Too many violations of the laws of balance.

  And yet, his heart took wings at the thought of Solène. They would have children. Indeed, there would be many, if she were agreeable. They would have this house that once meant so much, and…

  He drew in a shuddering breath, the thought so foreign it nearly shattered before it formed. He would have family once again. His siblings. Gatherings in this house, as they once had enjoyed. Feasts and rituals to celebrate the passing of the year, laughter that would echo off the tall walls and frescoed ceilings.

  In a few hours he would owe his sister an eternity, and for the first time, he found he didn’t resent the prospect.

  Taran looked up as a car rushed past. The horizon glowed blood red. Despite the cool breeze, warmth infused Taran’s veins. Time to return. His family had no doubt already arrived, and he still had yet to discover the precise demands of Nyamah’s last
ritual.

  He turned for the house, walked quickly back the way he had come. Putting off the reunion with his estranged family wouldn’t make the hours ahead any easier. He’d rather deal with the discomfort and give it time to soak in before he had to focus on magic and the powers of positive energy that made his skin crawl.

  His hand shook as he reached for the front doorknob, and he clenched his jaw in annoyance. There was no reason to be nervous. He had grown up with the people inside. Known them for centuries. Moreover, this was his home.

  With a deep breath, Taran opened the door. Voices filled the hall, soft laughter emanated from the parlor. He followed the sound and walked in on a scene that stole the breath from his lungs. They all looked so happy. So at peace, despite what they had been through, what loomed ahead.

  A shock of long red hair caught his attention, and he turned to find Brigid approaching his side. A warm smile lighted her face and animated the tattoo on her forehead that she hadn’t possessed the last time he saw her.

  “Taran.”

  The one simple word said more than any lengthy greeting, and the comforting hug she gave him broke off the particles of ice that clung to his insides. He hugged her back, truly glad to see the sister who he related to the best. After all, they had shared the same dark path, even if their reasons differed.

  “Where’s Solène?” he asked.

  “With Isolde somewhere. Come sit down. Meet Micah…and the rest.”

  He didn’t have much choice. Her direct path across the room had drawn attention, and the rest of his siblings now looked on in curious quiet. Dáire’s frown registered the deepest, and Taran stepped away from Brigid. “A moment.”

  Avoiding the others, Taran deliberately made his way toward Reese. As he approached, Dáire moved in front of her. His blue eyes held warning, the firm set of his jaw told Taran to stay away. He stopped and held Dáire’s gaze. Silence spanned between them, a quiet that hushed their siblings entirely. Time stood still as Taran waited for Dáire to speak.

  When his younger sibling did nothing but stand ramrod straight in front of the woman Taran wanted to speak to, Taran stepped sideways around Dáire and halted before Reese. He cleared his throat, his words having vanished somewhere into the oppressive stillness. “Reese,” he murmured.

  Her gaze flicked to Dáire, then back to Taran. Apprehension registered in the stiffening of her posture.

  And with that slight tension, the barricade around Taran’s thoughts gave way. Words rushed into cohesive speech. “I am sorry. There is no…excuse. Only regret.”

  At the far corners of her mouth a smile struggled. It disappeared as quickly as the muscles twitched, but it was enough for Taran. A start that he didn’t expect to resolve through anything but time.

  Dáire’s hand fell on his shoulder, firm pressure turning him about. Taran braced against the contact, certain once again he would meet the pounding fury of his brother’s fist. Instead, Dáire gave him a brotherly thump to the shoulder blades, the way he always had when they were young. No hugs. Just affectionate beatings.

  Taran’s throat closed as he met the understanding written into his siblings’ expressions. They had come here for him. To help him shed the curse he despised. To save Solène, the woman they had adored, though they had all at one time or another tried to warn her away.

  It was all too much to process. Before emotion could grip him by the balls and turn him into a fool, he swallowed hard and choked out, “Excuse me.”

  On swift steps he left the parlor, desperately in need of the solace Solène’s arms offered. Craving the only thing he could understand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Darkness filled the spacious music room, save for the soft light that emitted from the silver candelabras mounted on the wall and the long tapers they held. Solène stared at the flickering flames, listening to the quiet drone of Isolde’s voice. Her right hand gripped Taran’s; his fingers held on a little too tight.

  She couldn’t fault him for the painful grip. Nor would she pull away. Each syllable Isolde invoked left lines of strain around his mouth. Each jerk of the slender knife his sisters and brothers made against their arm, each drop of blood they let into the bowl they passed around their circle, made him grimace.

  Worse, the presence of darkness weighed on her heavily, and no doubt, Taran’s spirit churned in recognition. Drandar surrounded them, filled the house as if the very boards breathed his foul composition. And the wariness that shadowed each somber expression told Solène they all sensed his nearness.

  She shifted her hand in Taran’s and tipped her head to give him an encouraging half-smile. Behind the warm façade, her heart battered into her ribs. A staccato beat that made her pulse jump erratically. Drandar was here, but why had he not shown himself?

  “Seven mixed with one,” Isolde intoned as she took the bowl from Cian. “To see the wrongs undone. Broken veins forge lost unity.” She paused to offer the small basin to Taran. “Beneath the harvest moon, bleed with me.”

  As the last of the altered words slipped from her lips, the atmosphere shifted. Energy thrummed outward, originating with Isolde and spanning to grace them all. Solène sucked in a sharp breath, the sudden, unmistakable presence of Nyamah’s might even more arresting than the veil of evil that blanketed the house.

  Taran shook his hand free and accepted the basin. He tucked it between his knees, held his palm out for the blade Fintan offered. It shook as he held it over the meaty underside of his forearm.

  Isolde began the chant she had performed seven times earlier. “Let the free run of life bring the free reign of spirit. Let those who have opposed us, those who have divided us, suffer with the injury we take unto ourselves. With the swiftness of the dagger, let it be done.”

  With a sharp intake of air, Taran whisked the blade across his arm. As blood seeped to the surface and pooled in the neat slice, a deafening roar split through the room. Taran’s hand jerked. The blade slid to his elbow, creating a frighteningly large gash.

  A rush of air tousled Solène’s hair, though the windows remained closed. It blew through the room, rattling the crystal drops on the chandelier. The candles winked out.

  “Carve deep, my son. Perhaps you will yet do something right in this existence.” Drandar’s voice thundered around them.

  Solène recoiled. She leaned toward Taran in search of shelter, but found none. The brush of his knuckles against her ribs explained why—his free hand clenched the bleeding wound.

  “As for you, insolent daughter.” Drandar’s voice moved closer. In the faint silver light of the harvest moon, his silhouette rose behind Isolde. “You may have learned much from your traitorous mother, but not everything.”

  A flash of red-orange light erupted and knocked Isolde to her knees. She let out a pained cry and clutched at the back of her head. Angus rushed to her side, a flash of movement Solène caught before blackness once again descended. She gripped the edge of her chair. Fear broke perspiration over her skin.

  “You cannot stop me,” Drandar murmured eerily. “Not when you allow my salvation to live.” His breath whispered across the back of Solène’s neck. “Or did she fail to mention Nyamah’s veiled hint, dear Solène? Did she tell you that the priestess of sublime light only guaranteed her son would live if you did not?”

  Solène groaned inwardly. Now it all made sense, even more than Drandar’s dark plans for her. He’d brought her back as a failsafe against Nyamah’s ritual. He knew all along that if she lived, he would as well.

  He drew icy fingers across her neck, moving her hair aside. The foul press of his lips dusted her skin. “Indeed, you were designed to destroy him. That is why you dreamt of Nyamah the night he took your life. Pity her ploy did not work then.” He lifted his head, but his fingers slipped deeper into her hair and clasped her scalp, drawing her back against her chair. “Oh, and Rhiannon? Do not waste your time with his severed artery. It is immune to magic.”

  Severed artery? “Taran!” Solène
jerked to the edge of her seat, but the sharp grip on her hair kept her from making contact with his hunched over form. “Taran!” No, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t be bleeding to death. The ritual had promised. Nyamah herself offered him words of hope.

  “I’m…here…” He gritted out in a pained voice. “And so help me…I will tear him into pieces…”

  Drandar’s laughter bounced off the walls. “You will fail. You are too weak to stand. A few moments more, and there will be nothing left of you.”

  Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Solène’s thoughts collided as she searched the darkness for some sign that one of Taran’s siblings, if not all, were doing something other than sitting spellbound in shock. If she could summon her wards, she would have, but her body was too weak, and her magic compromised by Drandar.

  As if Taran’s siblings all shared the same thought that surged through her mind, chaos burst through the room. A flash of blinding white exploded from where Isolde sat. Fire shot past Solène’s cheek from the direction she’d last seen Brigid. In the center of the room, Fintan held a pulsating ball of blue-white flame that grew in size with each breath he blew upon it. Bit by bit, it expanded, morphing slowly into a dome that sheltered the one person in the room strong enough to stand toe-to-toe with Drandar—Isolde.

  A snarl tore past Drandar’s teeth. He jerked on Solène’s hair, yanking her to her feet. She clutched at her scalp, yelping against the pain. But the pangs ebbed as quickly as they came, and with the dullness of sensation came a healing caress that carried Rhiannon’s energy.

  Drandar laughed again. “Such a petty bunch of fools. You are a disgrace.”

  He hurtled toward the door, dragging Solène along with him. But as he reached for the doorknob, a flash of light blinded Solène once again. She couldn’t see the trajectory of Isolde’s attack, but she felt its impact. Behind her, Drandar stumbled. An agonized bellow echoed off the walls. When he jerked the door open and tugged Solène into the hall, he limped.