by A. S. Green
“There were nearly two hundred gathered at the faerie ring,” his father said, sounding furious.
“Two hundred?” his mother gasped. “What brought them out?”
The brothers jostled quietly in the cupboard, trying to get a glimpse of their parents, but they only got bits and pieces—an elbow, a whirl of skirts, or a clenched fist.
“The Black Castle,” their father said, and Cormac got a quick view of a piece of paper in his hand.
“Here?” his mother asked, sounding incredulous. “They’ve followed us here?”
“Aye, Siobhan. Are the lads asleep?”
“Yes, but, Conan, what does this mean?”
Before his father could answer, there was a knock at the kitchen door. In his rage, his father threw it open. “What is the meaning of this? The hour is la—”
But he never finished his rebuke. There was the sound of heavy boots. More than one pair. Three? Five?
His parents were both cú sídhe, fierce and nothing to trifle with, but they’d been taken off guard, duped by the false security of their own home.
Judging by the ghastly sound that followed, their father was the first to fall.
Cormac clapped his hand over Madigan’s mouth so he wouldn’t cry out and give them all away. From behind him, he could feel his other brothers trembling.
Their mother went next. Cormac watched through a crack as her head separated from her neck and tumbled to the floor—her body following, but more slowly, collapsing first at the knees, and then falling forward, arms hanging limp and not catching her fall.
With her death, the anguish welled up inside him. Then came the horrified realization that he had done nothing to stop it.
Within seconds, the guilt overwhelmed him. And then came the seething hatred. Hatred for those responsible; hatred for himself.
Cú sídhe do not cower in a cupboard.
But that’s exactly what he’d done.
Through another crack he saw a black cloak. Then another.
“Search the house,” came the order. It was the voice of a stranger. “They may have children, or boarders.”
Madigan stiffened in Cormac’s arms, and his other brothers curled their fingers into the back of his nightshirt. The boots ran down the hall, then pounded up the stairs. He knew what they’d find: four unmade beds. Clothes on the floor. One window open. Would they assume he and his brothers had escaped?
By Danu, he hoped so, but even after the last attacker left, he could not bring himself to leave the cupboard. In the end, he didn’t know how long he and his brothers remained hidden, only that it had been long enough for the air to go stale with breath and tears.
How Cormac wished he could go back, do it differently. But he couldn’t change anything now; he couldn’t rush in to save the parents who were already dead, their blood pooled and cooling around their lifeless bodies. It was all his fault.
His brothers didn’t have to utter a word to tell him that they wholeheartedly agreed.
It might have been minutes, it might have been hours, before he found the courage to open the cupboard door. The cooler air flooded in, tinged with the scent of copper. Madigan rushed forward first—too young to fully understand.
“Mum! Mummy!” He lifted their mother’s hand and held it in his lap, crying, “Wake up! Wake up!”
Declan vomited in the corner of the room. Aiden stood ramrod straight, his eyes wide with horror, his body paralyzed with shock.
Cormac went to the piece of paper that had angered his father. It was still soaked with rain and had gone nearly transparent, its corner torn off. He tried to read what it said, but he failed at that, too. This was more forgivable. It was written in English, a language he had not yet learned. The only thing he recognized were the symbols at the bottom: a bright green shamrock crossed by a sword.
He didn’t know what the images meant, but he knew he’d hate them forever.
He glanced over at Declan and Aiden with tears thick in his eyes. His brothers stood flattened against the kitchen wall, their faces gray. They said nothing, but Cormac knew their thoughts. He was useless. Cowardly. A disappointment to them all. A shame on the family.
He’d hid in the cupboard, and now their family was broken. They’d lost everything.
Even the living were lost. And Cormac most of all.
His head jerked up.
Meghan’s breath was now audibly moving in and out of her lungs. Her chest rose and fell with a more encouraging rhythm, and the sight was enough to tear Cormac from the nightmares of his past.
Now in the darkness, he couldn’t see her curls as they splayed across the pillow, but he still knew she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and not just among pádraigs. She could rival any sídhe, as well.
Ours, the hound said as it prowled inside him, grumbling and impatient.
It didn’t understand what Cormac was waiting for, and it was going to have to keep on not understanding, because Cormac would wait forever.
He could resist her pull. He had to, and if there was one thing he’d had sufficient practice at, it was not getting what he wanted.
He gazed down at her and, without thinking, stroked his finger across her bottom lip, pulling it as he did. It was plump, soft, and pink. Perfect.
Her heady, exhilarating scent sang in his bloodstream. By Danu, she was tempting.
Ours, said the hound, whining now.
Aye, he answered, but that fact was of no consequence. It didn’t matter what fate had in store. Meghan Walsh could not fix his past. She could not fix him.
The best she could do was help him find his vengeance. And then, when that was over, he’d say goodbye. Because even when the score was settled, all that would be left was him. And he would never be enough.
Chapter Seven
MEGHAN
Twenty Hours Later
“Meghan!”
Meghan jerked in response. She was having the dream about the woman again and though the woman’s back was still turned, this time she spoke.
“Meghan!”
The voice was hollow and distant, but still somehow familiar. Meghan whimpered in response.
“Meghan!” the woman called again and, this time, she yanked Meghan out of her sleep before she was really ready. Perhaps that was why she woke feeling immobile and unable to open her eyes. Everything felt fuzzy, but there was one thing she knew for sure: She was alone.
She wasn’t afraid.
“Alone” was Meghan’s middle name. Well…not really. It was Marie. But she wouldn’t be surprised if someday her tombstone read: Meghan Marie Walsh. She Died Alone, because it wasn’t just her father and the northbound traveling douchebag who’d left her.
Being on the road for three years, she’d sought protection from several loser guys before wiping her hands clean of men in general. In the end, they all took something from her—the best of them only took her pride; the worst, her money.
Slowly, she forced her thoughts to focus on her current predicament.
Okay. Do…not…freak. First step upon waking up in a strange place, assess your surroundings.
She was still too out of it to open her eyes, but she flexed her hands and curled them into a warm blanket. She was in a bed. And, judging by the fact she could hear waves, somewhere near a lake.
Second step: What was the last thing you remember?
A bar. A crazy job offer. A gorgeous man. Mack!
Did he bring me here? There was no other explanation, plus… She inhaled. The whole room smelled of him.
But how? She had no memory of being carried, or getting into a car, but she didn’t think she’d been roofied. Not only had she not left her drink unattended, she didn’t take Cormac for the type.
So what happened? Meghan took another assessment, this time of her body. She could feel the elastic of her panties creeping up her ass, but no denim on her legs; she could feel the clasp of her bra pressed against her spine, and the silkiness of her camisole against her bel
ly, but nothing on her arms. She didn’t feel sore or sticky.
Something terrible occurred to her, and she gasped. Where’s my suitcase? My treasures!
“Meghan?” asked a deep and familiar voice. “Christ, are ye awake?”
Her eyes opened just in time to see Cormac’s large body move swiftly toward her, and in her periphery, white-washed walls and a low ceiling supported by rough-hewn beams.
“Thank Danu!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive!” When he reached her, his warm hand slid against the side of her neck, and his mouth crashed down on hers.
Holy…! He was kissing her!
Meghan was so surprised, it took a second before she reacted to the heat of his body, not to mention the hungry urgency of his lips. It only took a moment more for her body to coil in delicious ways, apparently recognizing what it had wanted since the first time she saw him.
Her back arched into him, and her physical reaction to his kiss drew a small moan of pleasure from his throat. But then, it was if that very sound broke the spell. Cormac jerked back, his eyes huge.
“Shit,” he rasped. Then he pulled back another inch. “Oh, shit! I’m so sorry. That was…stupid of me. I wasn’t…thinking. I just— Meghan.”
Meghan’s whole body hummed with the tingling after effects. She was so turned on, she thought she could live in that kiss for the rest of her life and be happy. But she knew there was no way she would ever admit that to him. Particularly since he seemed to be regretting it already.
There was no helping her physical attraction to him, but she didn’t need him to know. As soon as a good-looking man knew he had you hooked, he took all the power. He’d use it against her. So she guarded her heart.
“What the hell was that?” she asked, unfortunately still finding it hard to catch her breath. Even now, just thinking about his strong arms and broad chest put a chink in her self-control.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry,” he said, but his hand remained at her neck.
“Don’t kiss me again.” She didn’t mean that either. She wanted him to kiss her again, and then again and again and again. But she knew better. His one kiss was destructive enough. She’d remember it forever. It would be the measuring stick for every future kiss she ever had. Damn him.
“I won’t. I promise. I’m so sorry. It’s just that…” He quieted for a second and pressed his thumb against her pulse, then he pinched his lips together and dropped his head forward in relief. “Well, I guess you’re made of sturdier stock than most.”
She tried to sit up, but he lifted his head and pressed her down.
“Don’t move. You’re merely conscious. Still not ready to be vertical.”
“Why? What did you do to me?” she whispered, her own lungs stripped for air. Obviously he hadn’t stolen her stuff because what kind of thief stuck around?
He blinked once. “Ye don’t remember?”
She closed her eyes and exhaled. She was remembering more now: the strange girl, his oddly intense reaction to her, the twisting, tilting sensation of being pulled through a dark tunnel. But then…nothing.
“Where am I?” She checked the clock on the bedside table. Five o’clock. She’d lost an entire day.
“A lake side resort. I’ve been renting a cottage.”
“How did I get here?”
He bowed his head for a second, then lifted it again. “I don’t know what I was thinking, tilting you like that.”
Tilting me like that?
He checked her eyes, then pressed his thumb against the inside of her wrist. “I couldn’t even find your pulse at first. I thought… Sweet Danu, I thought…”
Cormac’s eyes drifted over her face, then settled on her lips.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he leaned even closer and said, “It’s noon, but rest a little longer. Then get dressed. Your clothes are on your suitcase. I’ll meet ye in the other room, and then we’ll talk.”
More talk. Meghan wasn’t sure she was up for any more talk.
“Take your time,” he said. “Come out when you’re ready.”
Meghan sighed, and he strode out of the room, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.
Immediately, she flung back the blanket and sat up. She paused to make sure her blood was circulating, then she crossed the floor and found her suitcase. The clothes she was wearing yesterday were folded neatly on top, just like he said.
She flipped the latches on her suitcase and started digging around inside, taking inventory. Everything was there: the snow globe she got in Minneapolis, the menu from Papa Gino’s Pizzeria in Kansas City, the hotdog keychain from Chicago… She knew it was all a bunch of junk—she definitely knew that—but they were treasures to her. Each one marked a moment in her life, and she needed those mementos when so many other markers from her past were missing.
Relieved, she pulled on her jeans and flannel shirt—refusing to think about how they’d come off without her knowing—then opened the other inner door that led out of the room, hoping to find a bathroom. Victory! She caught sight of herself in the mirror (Whoa. Serious bed head)—then took care of business, washed her hands, and brushed her teeth.
On a spontaneous after-thought, she opened the medicine cabinet. There was only a toothbrush and toothpaste—the whitening kind—and deodorant. Of more significance: no perfume, lotion, or lipstick anywhere to be seen.
She closed the cabinet, swept her hands over her hair, then exited the bedroom through the door where Cormac had gone.
She stopped immediately. He was sitting across the room in a wooden rocking chair beside a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. His expression was grim.
In the corner to her left there was a small kitchenette, a rectangular table and two chairs. Other than that, the room was completely bare.
There was a square window beside the front door to her right. The ceiling, like the one in the bedroom, was low and beamed.
She sucked in a breath and planted her hands on her hips. Cormac looked unhappy, or maybe like he hadn’t slept. Was this “talk” going to be him telling her he’d had second thoughts and that he was withdrawing his offer? Probably.
Meghan steeled her body against the inevitable and told herself not to care—especially since he still hadn’t explained what happened last night—but, damn, it did not feel good. Not in the slightest.
So now what?
She could do what she normally did and tell him she was leaving before he had the chance to tell her to go. Or, she could swallow her pride and beg him to give her a chance. If she could be of some help to him, she could get a couple more good night’s sleep before having to hit the road again.
“You’re feeling all right, then?” he asked.
“All right.”
He nodded, but not like he truly believed her. “So…” He jerked his head toward one of the kitchen chairs. “Pull it up. Have a seat.”
Meghan glanced over at the chair, and then toward the fireplace. Despite his invitation, she stayed standing.
Cormac exhaled and said, “What happened last night was my fault.”
Meghan rolled her eyes, thinking, Here we go. She didn’t know exactly what happened last night but—given she was dealing with a bounty hunter who was tracking some kind of sadist—she bet his story was going to be a doozy.
“Trouble follows me,” he said, getting to his feet. The rocking chair swayed behind him, creaking against the floorboards as he walked toward her. “More than most it seems. There’s more about me I should have told ye.”
Meghan found this hard to believe, mostly because, how much more could there be? What she already knew of him made her head spin.
“And when I’m done telling you,” he continued, glancing away. “I’ll understand if you want to go.”
Meghan sucked in a breath. Apparently she was about to get the Cormac MacConall version of the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Well, it was good it was happening now because what if she let herself get used to having dinner with him? Waking with h
im? What if he did more than kiss her?
Damn. What had she been thinking getting caught up with this guy?
What if she eventually settled in, thought of this cottage as a real home and not just a place to crash for a few days? What if they started talking about their hopes and dreams, and giving back rubs by the fire after a long day of bounty hunting?
What if she, like…really fell for him?
She held her hands up before he said anything more. “No worries. I get it. You’re scraping me off.” She hoped her flat, matter-of-fact tone would suggest it was no skin off her nose. Her mind instinctively went to her wallet. She might have enough for one night in a shitty motel, but that would be it.
Cormac glanced to the side, then back to her. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but you’d be smart to leave. I want ye to leave, even though I still want your help.”
That got her attention. “Wait. You still want my help?”
“Of course, but I shouldn’t risk—”
“It’s no risk,” she said on a rush of breath. “I mean, I’m no one to you, right? Not really.”
Cormac folded his arms. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it.”
“You don’t know me.”
He shrugged. “I know you’re from Chicago, that you’re a good artist and terrible at making fire. What ye need to know about me is that I don’t have a great track record for keeping people safe.”
He thought she was a good artist? She filed that away for some other time.
“I’ve lost a lot of people,” he said. “My family…”
Her mouth tightened. “We’ve all lost people.”
“No, I mean—”
“If that’s your only excuse, Mack, forget about it. I’m alone because I’ve lost everyone. And everything. You’re not special.”
Though he was, wasn’t he? Special, that is. As much as Meghan wanted to deny it, right down to her core she knew that Cormac MacConall was different.
She also liked his confession. Well, she didn’t like to hear it. For his sake, she wished he had a big fun-loving family to go home to at the end of the day. But it was nice to have something in common between them. She hoped that didn’t make her too much of a terrible person to be happy about that.