As the tavern filled up, the light hum of conversation joined with the clink of plates and the thump of chair legs. The voices of the men and women were cheerful, and every so often, someone’s raucous laughter would rise above it all. Unfortunately, Brennon could not find it in him to appreciate the merriment. Perhaps, it was the memories from the night before, still crowding his mind. Or maybe the dark magic, as tenacious and steadfast as a lingering illness, had blocked the joy from entering his heart. For now, he could simply listen and observe, hoping that someday he could find good reason to celebrate the dawn of each day the way these good people did.
Thirty minutes after arriving, Brenn was on his third tankard of ale and tucking into Creidne’s marvelous fried eggs, roasted potatoes and crisp bacon.
“You might want to pace yourself on the ale, Brennon,” Creidne offered kindly, as she passed by his table on her way to deliver a basket of hot bread rolls.
Brenn blinked, his vision a bit bleary, and glanced down at his cup. It was nearly empty again.
“Perhaps one more,” he said.
His voice was still even, but his head was beginning to swim, blurring the dark memories he could not shake into an intangible, shapeless mess inside his head. Good. That’s exactly what he wanted.
The red-haired woman gave him a concerned glance, but pressed her lips together and nodded once. She took up the empty tankard and the equally empty plate and disappeared into the kitchen. As he waited, Brenn studied the now busy tavern. One long trestle table dominated the room with six smaller tables taking up the rest of the space. The trestle table held a motley crew of men and women, all of them enjoying breakfast and laughing and chatting amiably. All but two of the smaller tables were also occupied. Brennon tried to guess each person’s occupation, but came up short each time. They could all be travelers, staying in Dundoire Hollow for a night or two, or they could be local shop owners getting an early start on the day. They could even be simple farmers, like him.
Brennon released a snort of disgust and turned back around, placing his elbows on the table. As he brooded, he studied his interlaced fingers. The calluses and scars he noted weren’t just a result of farm labor. He worked the land now, but for several years before taking up his parents’ place, he was a warrior. He escaped that terrible life to return to a place he’d once considered beloved, but now hated for the bloodshed and violence which had taken place there three years previous. But if it meant keeping his nephew safe, then Brenn would live the rest of his immortal life struggling against the horror seeking to control him, if need be.
The tavern door opened once again, and the young men sitting farthest away from him stopped their friendly banter. Brenn glanced up, his vision swimming a little. The alcohol had been doing a nice job keeping him warm, but what he saw standing in the doorway sent ice shivering through his veins. Arlana Corcorain stood there, looking like some lost damsel in a fae tale of old. Her strawberry blond hair shone bright from the weak sunlight pouring in through the doorway. The dress she wore, cut from a finer cloth than what the patrons of the Black Boar donned, stood out like a daffodil amid a field of daisies.
Brennon grasped his tankard of ale with both hands and leaned farther into the shadows, but his size was a disadvantage in this case. Arlana’s eyes scanned the crowd, not even stopping to acknowledge the young men who openly admired her. Eventually, her cool gaze landed on Brenn, her blue irises paling almost to white and then darkening back to a deeper shade of indigo. The woman was a snake, Brenn thought with acidic hatred. Worse than a snake. A cunning creature fixated on getting whatever she desired. Even now, after all these years, after nearly being broken by the Morrigan and her devotees, Brenn was still the object of this young woman’s obsession. The very thought sickened him almost as much as the cloying dark magic infecting his mind.
Arlana drew herself up to her full height and breezed past her admirers. She headed straight for Brennon’s table and, without even asking, slipped into the empty chair as if she belonged there.
“Brennon Roarke,” she all but purred. “I haven’t seen you in these parts in ages. Well, except for that fleeting moment a few scant weeks ago.”
She turned her mouth down into a pretty pout. Brenn had to grasp the edge of the table to control his flash of anger and nausea. Arlana’s gesture reminded him so much of the Morrigan in that moment. Arrogant, simpering, and believing whole-heartedly her pathetic ruse of false helplessness would win him over.
“I had wanted so much to speak with you, but you were gone before I had the chance.”
She leaned forward, crossing her arms under her breasts so as to draw the most attention there. The man sitting at the table closest to Brenn’s paused, his teacup perched on his lips, and flicked his eyes in Arlana’s direction. Brennon felt his stomach turn once more.
When Brenn continued to ignore the woman across from him, she sighed and casually moved one hand across the table, intent on touching him. Brennon flinched back violently before she got too close, drawing a gasp and a wide-eyed look from her.
Feeling dizzy, Brenn closed his eyes and tried to will the freshly burgeoning darkness away. That simple act, that sad, pathetic attempt at minor seduction from the woman sitting across from him had opened up the bottomless chasm of awful memories once again. Despite his somewhat inebriated state, his demons recognized a fellow comrade in Arlana, and they were eager to come out and play.
Without opening his eyes, Brenn asked in a low, grating voice, “What do you want, Arlana?”
A frustrated huff greeted his ears, and by the slight change in light behind his eyelids, he could tell she had backed off. Good. If she placed her hand on him, he might just cut it off.
“I simply wanted to say hello to an old friend. It cannot be good for you, living in that great big house all alone.”
Brenn’s eyes flashed open in time to see Arlana lick her lips and lean in over the table once again, careful this time not to reach out to him. Brenn tensed, but didn’t shift from his spot. He was like an owl waiting for the mouse to wander in close enough to strike. But Arlana didn’t move any closer. Instead, she dropped her voice so it was barely audible over the din of the tavern patrons.
“People talk, you know. They wonder what a virulent young man must do with himself on a farm, if he has no lover or wife to call his own.”
Brenn ground his back teeth together. He did not care about the town gossip. They could talk all they wanted, and they were more afraid of him than he was of them, for many reasons. But Arlana was not. Brennon had blown her off so many times, he no longer knew the exact tally. He had always been civil about it. Cold, to the point, and terse, but never outright rude. He had dealt with her brother in the same manner as well, despite the fact both of them deserved far worse. They were the reason his family was dead and his nephew was blind, why he avoided the company of other Faelorehn men and women. And why his nights were sometimes plagued by awful, black dreams that tore him violently from his sleep, leaving his throat so raw from screaming he could not speak for days.
Yes, he had always kept a level head around Baird and Arlana, until recently. His violent threats to her brother the month before had been something new, and now, he was teetering on the edge of doing the same with her. What had brought about this change in him? Had they finally worn him down, like a river cutting a path through the mountains?
Something inside Brenn snapped then, the thin membrane keeping his patience in check. He no longer cared if he was careful with his words. His voice was low and cold when he finally spoke, tinged with enough violence to warn off any sensible person.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re the very person to fill that role, Arlana?”
Arlana smiled her serpent’s smile and lowered her eyelids, oblivious to the danger she was in. Her breathy words only confirmed what he already knew. “I have always wanted that, Brennon Roarke, as you well know.”
Brenn matched her smile with his own and, fighting down the i
nstinct to draw as far away from her as possible, he leaned in close, gesturing for her to do the same. Arlana didn’t miss a beat. She craned her neck forward, so her face was mere inches from Brenn’s. Brennon took a long breath from his nose and drew on all those old festering memories in order to give this woman the exact response he hoped would drive her away.
“Well then, I can’t wait,” he growled, his voice pitched low and seductive. He let his pale grey eyes trail over her body, at least what the table wasn’t blocking. His efforts were rewarded when Arlana shivered slightly, a blush forming on her neck.
“It is time I settle down. Take a wife. Rori can be a handful, and it would be nice to have a woman around to act as his mother.”
Brenn fought back the images of his sister, her dark, curly hair bouncing away from her face as they chased butterflies through the fields. Her fae laughter ringing out and bringing joy to his day. Meara’s gentle fingers removing briar thorns from his leg when they were children. No one could ever replace her, and no woman would ever take her place as Rori’s mother. The very idea of Arlana coming within speaking range of his nephew made his stomach crawl. But he had to get through this.
Arlana practically whimpered. “I would be honored to fulfill such a role.”
Brennon purposefully widened his smile, pouring in as much wickedness as he could muster. “I’m glad to hear it. There are so many things I learned while in the employ of the Morrigan. It will be nice to have a willing participant.”
Arlana’s own smirk faltered ever so slightly, and her eyes darkened. “Willing participant?” she asked, in a voice brimming with mild curiosity.
“Oh, yes,” Brenn answered, placing his hand on the table, palm up.
Arlana’s eyes flicked downward and latched onto Brenn’s palm. With very little effort, he called his glamour to the surface of his skin, and now, sent it spinning in tiny eddies around his fingertips. It was a very deep violet blue color, a color that only emphasized the rarity of his particular brand of magic.
“Imagine all the fun things I could do with you,” he murmured, dredging up those awful memories again. He hated to do it, especially considering he had come to the tavern specifically to drown them in ale. But it was no use now. Acting on his anger instead of ignoring it stirred up his inner darkness, something he was sure he’d regret in the near future, but the satisfaction of seeing first Baird, and now Arlana, twitch under his scrutiny was well worth it.
“With my cursed glamour, I could so easily convince you to serve me hand and foot. I could tie you up to the plow in the spring and give Dermot a rest for once. It would do you some good to get your hands dirty.”
Arlana’s face drained of color as the words sunk in. Brenn found himself enjoying her distress far too much.
“I could dress you in rags and make you walk to town on all fours, begging the residents of Dundoire Hollow for food.”
Bright color quickly stained the woman’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed hot blue. She was angry.
“How dare you!” she hissed. “I would never submit to such humiliation.”
Brenn lost his mocking demeanor then and slipped into a cold, deadly mood as easily as the ale had slipped down his throat.
He turned his hand over and slammed it against the table, his glamour vanishing in a small cloud of sparks. Arlana cried out and jumped back in her chair, grabbing at her throat. Those who had been laughing and telling tales around them froze and set worried eyes on the couple closest to the fire.
Brennon stood slowly, bracing most of his weight against the table by placing both hands there. He leaned down toward Arlana, taking note of the pulse of her heart at the base of her throat.
“I wouldn’t ask you to submit, Arlana,” he hissed. “I would simply ensnare your mind and force you. Against your will. It is what I can do, after all, and why the Morrigan considered me such a valuable commodity. Forget being my slave or making a spectacle of yourself in the middle of town. Perhaps the bitterness and anger that has brewed in me over all these years yearns for something much more horrifying.”
Arlana’s eyes were huge, and she held her breath, not daring to utter a word.
“Maybe I want to watch you pluck out your own eyes or claw your fingers against one of the standing stones above Ardun until they are nothing more than bloody stumps.”
The Faelorehn woman swallowed and then sucked in a horrified breath. Brenn was talking low enough now that the curious revelers had turned their attention back on their friends.
“Or maybe, I’ll convince you to build a pyre and light it on fire, then stand in the middle of it while you burn to death like my family did.”
Arlana turned her eyes away, her face paling even further. Perhaps now she would finally understand how he felt.
Brenn stood up straight, feeling slightly dizzy and very tired. He groped at his belt until he found the leather pouch with his money. Taking out several coins, he slapped them against the tabletop, making Arlana jerk back once again. It was far more than he owed, but he didn’t care. He stepped away from his chair and moved around the table, stopping just past Arlana to tell her one more thing.
“I’m assuming you are now rethinking your desire to become my wife. But should you change your mind, you know where to find me. If you are still foolish enough to continue to pester me with your so-called charms, I promise you will regret it.”
Without waiting for a reply, Brenn wove his way through the small crowd of people and escaped out into the open. The day had become clogged with fog, but the sky was still very bright, and he had to squint against the glare. For several seconds, he stood just outside the tavern, taking deep, lung-filling breaths of the chilly air and willing his nerves to cease their trembling. He held his hands out in front of him, not at all surprised to see them shaking. The effects of the alcohol were wearing off, and Brenn could tell by the position of the sun, nothing more than a bright circle of white hanging behind the thick gray veil, that it wasn’t even midday yet. He cursed silently as he made his way to the back of the tavern to fetch Dermot from the stable. He had hoped to remain in Dundoire for at least three or four more hours, but the encounter with the Corcorain harpy had him eager to return to Roarke Manor and Ardun before he did anything foolish.
Brenn climbed into Dermot’s saddle, throwing his cloak back so it covered the horse’s rump. He turned the animal down the road, encouraging him into a steady trot. As they headed west toward the main road, Brennon tried desperately to convince himself what he’d done to frighten Arlana was for the best. He only hoped his words didn’t encourage the Corcorain siblings into taking more desperate measures.
Chapter Thirteen
Resurrection
Seren woke to find the day had progressed further than she had expected. She also discovered, to her surprise, the house empty of its usual inhabitants. Seren sat up in her bed and rubbed at her eyes, feeling the cold of the night still settled deep in her bones. A quick glance at the small fireplace proved her suspicions. The flames had burned out sometime in the night, or maybe earlier that morning. With not a single ember left to stir a new blaze, she abandoned the idea of going back to sleep, and instead, got up and dressed in her borrowed clothes.
The fireplace downstairs was also devoid of flame, only pale grey ash to be found within the hearth. It was a cold day, and the fireplaces of the drafty farmhouse should have been lit. Feeling somewhat discouraged, Seren wondered where Brenn and Rori were. Probably still asleep, she mused. After last night, they had to be as exhausted as she was, especially Brennon, who had drained a fair amount of his own blood for the macabre ritual.
Seren shivered at the thought, remembering the horrible events of the night before all too vividly. After performing the final part of the ritual, they had returned to the house. Seren had hardly spoken a word to Brennon, and just before each of them found the warmth and safety of their beds, Brenn had turned to Seren and said gently, “I will understand if you must leave after tonight, but I c
annot answer the questions you wish to ask of me. I simply cannot. Please believe me when I tell you everything done tonight was done for the boy, and him alone. He is my responsibility now, and I will do whatever it takes to keep him safe. All I ask is should you choose to leave, please stay at least this night and the next. Samhain is a very dangerous time to be wandering on your own in the wilds, especially here.”
Seren hadn’t answered him. She couldn’t think of what to say. She had only nodded and shut the door of her room against him and against her own emotions. Despite her exhaustion, it had taken her a long time to fall asleep. She had worked Brenn’s words over again and again in her mind, first allowing the fresh anger she had felt for Rori’s sake to stain her judgment. But as time wore on, her anger and shock dissipated, and she began to conjure up reasons why it would be acceptable for Brenn to involve Rori in a blood ritual. When Seren finally did fall asleep, her conscience felt a little less heavy, but no less curious about this strange man and his brave nephew. And she had decided to stay, after all. She could not make it on her own with winter approaching, and she felt she could not abandon Rori and his uncle. There was something greater going on in this household, something terrible and sad, and the healer inside of her could not leave until she found a way to cure it.
Now, she wished to find Brennon, to inform him that no, she didn’t understand why he did what he did, but she would do her best to respect his intentions. In the meantime, she would have to make a note to pay closer attention to the details and get to the bottom of whatever geis or curse seemed to be haunting the residents of Ardun.
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