Meredith brought the third bowl, along with a plate holding the scones. Regan’s mouth watered. “Yesterday I was convinced I was going to die in a cavern beneath the Hill of Tara. Today I get to feast on scones and homemade soup.” She smiled, even though it hurt to do so.
“Are you ready to talk about what happened, Rae?” Grayce asked, taking a seat and placing a scone on her bread plate.
“I managed to end Fáelán’s curse by traveling back through time to the third century, and then—”
“Hold up.” Meredith’s eyes saucered. “You what?”
“I’d better start at the beginning.” Regan leaned back in her chair and sighed. “It’s . . . the entire story is bizarre, and has been since I first met Fáelán at Newgrange.” Regan launched into her story while they ate, and it took until the dishes were done before she finished.
“Let’s move to the living room,” Meredith said, her brow creased. “I have questions.”
Regan huffed out a breath and raked her fingers through her hair. She never had gotten around to brushing out the tangles. “I can imagine.” The teakettle whistled on the stove, and she fixed a pot of tea while Meredith took three mugs to the coffee table.
“OK.” Meredith took a seat on the same chair where Boann had been a few days ago. “Here’s what I don’t get. If you prevented Fáelán from being cursed, then you would’ve also prevented the two of you from ever meeting. So . . . how is it you think you’re pregnant?”
“I don’t think I am; I know I am. Boann and her uncle explained it all to me. They said we don’t understand how time works, and—”
“Think about it, Meredith,” Grayce interjected. “I have visions about the future. The. Future. I’m not the only one. There are volumes of documented cases where someone foretold an event or a disaster. I see things that haven’t happened yet—things that either will or will not occur, depending upon the choices made by every single person involved. If time is a single moment we call the present, and the future hasn’t already happened, then visions and premonitions wouldn’t be possible. Right?”
“I see your point, but like you say, things change according to the choices made by the individuals involved. Regan changed the past, so that has to have affected the future.”
“Affect, yes but . . .” Grayce’s brow furrowed. “Because of what I’ve experienced with my visions, I’ve often wondered if the future, the present and the past aren’t all”—she whirled a hand in the air—“going on at the same time. I’ve read stuff, like the possibility of a multiverse, string theory, parallel universes where we live different lives. Did you know physicists at the University of Queensland in Australia have proven time travel is possible by sending light particles to the past?”
“No, I didn’t, but leave it to you to look for the most outlandish explanation.” Meredith snorted. “I don’t think—”
“What I did in the past did alter the present.” Regan sighed. “Because I went back to the third century and prevented the curse, Fáelán is no longer here. But that doesn’t change the fact that he was with me a week ago. He and I were together. You’ve seen the pictures, and I have my memories. I know it’s confusing, and I don’t pretend to understand any of it either, but there’s proof.” She placed her hand over her abdomen for a second. “Speaking of visions, Grayce, have you had any concerning Fáelán? The last glimpse I had of him, he was at King Lir’s court, and I’m assuming he was there because, even though he avoided being cursed, Morrigan still wants to own him.”
Grayce shook her head. “You know how it is, Rae. I’ve tried, but I don’t have any control over what comes to me. In fact, I haven’t had any visions about anything for several weeks. I think I’m in remission.”
“Remission?” Meredith’s brow rose. “Having visions isn’t a disease, Grayce.”
“If you say so.” Grayce shrugged. “Then I’m on a vision sabbatical. For whatever reason, nothing has come to me, and I’m glad. I hope they’re gone for good.”
“Grayce . . .” Meredith’s expression filled with sympathy. “You—”
“Oh!” A tugging sensation hit Regan, and she sucked in a breath. It happened again, only stronger this time, and her mouth went dry.
“What is it, Rae?” Meredith asked, and both sisters stared at her, their expressions questioning.
“Something is . . . I feel like I’m being pulled.” She looked from one twin to the other as the pull grew stronger. She gripped the armrest of the couch. “Oh no. I—”
The next thing Regan knew, the world was rushing past, and she was flying through space. And time? She landed on her hands and knees by the shore of a lake with water so clear, she could see the colors of the smooth pebbles at the bottom. A wooden bridge spanned the shore to an island, where a columned palace stood. The air had a familiar rarity to it, and the sky an unearthly hue of blue and pink. She’d been taken to Summerland, and she had no doubt who was responsible. Regan rose slowly from the ground, apprehension knotting her insides.
“We meet at last,” an ethereal, feminine voice said from behind her.
Goose bumps prickled at the back of her neck and along her forearms. Terrified, Regan whipped around to face the fae princess. Defenseless, with nowhere to run, she was the rabbit cornered by the coyote. Morrigan was incredibly beautiful, but malice had hardened her features into a mask of twisted cruelty. “Morrigan.”
The fae princess sneered. “Regan.”
“Why have you brought me here?” Not sure she really wanted to hear the answer, Regan swiped her sweaty palms against her jeans. If only she could get air into her lungs, she might be able to think well enough to muster some kind of defense.
“Why, to watch Fáelán die, of course.” Morrigan waved a hand, and a faint rune appeared in midair and then dissipated just as quickly.
“No!” Regan was propelled toward the bridge, whether she wanted to go there or not, and not was uppermost on her list of choices. Trying like hell to stop didn’t change a thing. “Isn’t murdering mortals against your laws? You . . . you’re going to kill him?”
“Oh no. Not me.” Morrigan walked beside Regan, her expression arctic. “You see, my father has forbidden me from molesting Fáelán in any manner. Because of you, I have been sentenced to remain under my father’s thumb for the span of Fáelán’s earthly life. I intend to make that a very short sentence.” The faerie turned her hate-filled gaze toward Regan. “You, however, were not mentioned—an unfortunate oversight on my father’s part.”
“King Lir will know you’re up to no good again.”
Morrigan shrugged. “For the moment he’s distracted with the ridiculous tournament he’s arranged between Fáelán and our most renowned warrior. ’Twas to be a fight lasting only until one or the other drew blood, but fae warriors can be enchanted or bribed. Fáelán doesn’t know it, but ’twill be a fight to his death. Your job will be to distract him, making it easier for my champion to fell him. You see, in the heat of a fight, accidents happen, and mortal blows occur whether intended or not.”
“Oh, God.” Regan’s heart clawed its way up to her throat. A fine sheen of sweat beaded her forehead. “But . . . the fae have the means to heal mortal wounds. Won’t your—”
“Healing humans only works if it’s a wound caused by a mortal weapon. Unfortunately for you and Fáelán, a wound inflicted to a mortal with a Tuatha Dé Danann blade cannot be healed.”
Regan’s soul bled at the thought of Fáelán’s death. Had he been right after all? Would they have been better off if he’d remained cursed? They could’ve been together, though worlds apart. How long would this creature beside her have allowed them to continue on that way before she put an end to their relationship? Regan’s eyes filled, and a fist-size lump clogged her throat. She and her boasty Fiann never really had a ghost of a chance of happily-ever-after after all.
They’d reached the island, and Regan was forced to climb a short flight of stairs and enter the palace through double doors thrown wid
e. Morrigan compelled Regan through a large hall with walls covered in murals of life beneath the sea. The beauty of the scenes came into sharper focus, and the colors were so lifelike, Regan couldn’t tear her eyes away.
She shook her head and forced herself to avert her gaze. She was walking to an execution, knowing full well hers would be next, and she was caught up in the aqua blue, coral and green of the murals? They must hold an enchantment.
They left the hall and entered a courtyard crowded with fae standing in a circle, watching something going on in the center. Regan lifted her gaze toward King Lir, who sat upon his throne. His attention was riveted to the spectacle in the center. Morrigan forced her to move through the masses toward the front.
Regan lost her breath, and her heart pounded so hard she feared it might rupture. Fáelán and a fae warrior were circling each other, swords drawn. Sweat dripped from Fáelán, and he was breathing hard, while his opponent didn’t show any sign of tiring.
Morrigan shoved Regan forward. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees on the ground a few feet from the two combatants stalking each other. The spectators cried out as Fáelán’s gaze met and held hers. His adversary’s sword arced through the air, aiming straight for Fáelán’s exposed neck. “Look out,” she shouted, knowing it was too late. Her heart shattering, Regan shut her eyes. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t bear seeing the man she loved lose his life because of her.
Chapter Fifteen
The sight of Regan, her face battered and bruised, cut Fáelán more sharply than any blade ever could, and in a flash, Morrigan’s scheme became clear. Sweating, his lungs straining for air, Fáelán acted reflexively. He dropped and rolled. The blow meant to sever his head from his neck met naught but air, and the momentum unbalanced Múiros. Fáelán sprang up from the ground in a flurry of offensive strikes and blows, forcing Múiros to retreat.
This was no contest of skill; he was in a fight for his life. How had Morrigan gotten to the fae warrior without King Lir’s knowledge? The princess knew him not at all if she believed using Regan to distract him would make him an easy target. Seeing her only renewed his determination, and resolve surged through his veins. Fáelán’s need to get to Regan, his instincts to protect, lent him strength. “King Lir,” he shouted. “Look to your daughter.”
The clash of steel against steel reverberated through him, and Fáelán’s focus sharpened. He couldn’t afford to think of aught but surviving, no matter how badly he wanted to hold Regan—no matter how desperately he wanted to tell her he loved her. If the fae king paid heed to his shout, he had no way of knowing, and he had no choice but to trust Fionn to look after Regan. He closed his mind to all but the task at hand.
Striking high, then low, he feinted and parried, advanced and retreated. The shrill ring of his blade against the fae’s filled the air. He fixed his attention upon Múiros’s eyes, seeking the tell—a slight tilt of his head, a glance to the left or right. Where the head willed, the body followed. His lungs burned now, and sweat trickled down his back and chest. His muscles quivered with fatigue, while Múiros seemed not to tire at all. Gods, he had to end this soon, or all would be lost.
“What did the princess promise ye?” Fáelán taunted. “A night between her royal thighs? While ye lie with Morrigan, think on this . . . I, a mere mortal, was there first.” Fáelán thrust his hips a few times, mimicking the sex act. He laughed as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision, and he blinked. “Trust me, laddie, the whore is not worth the price she’ll extract from your hide.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’ve had better—far better, and much sweeter.”
“How dare you speak of our princess in that manner. She is a direct descendant of the goddess. Compared to her, you are an insect.” Múiros roared, raised his sword and came at Fáelán in a mindless fury, exactly as he’d hoped. Fáelán didn’t flinch, nor did he retreat. He watched. His enemy’s eyes darted to the left, and his knee turned slightly.
Fáelán pivoted and crouched a fraction of a second too late for Múiros to change tactics. Múiros’s swing continued on its arc, even as he attempted to change its trajectory. Fáelán spun away, slicing through his enemy’s sleeve to the skin beneath. He knocked Múiros’s sword arm down and away with the same swing, and the point of the warrior’s sword hit the ground. Múiros hissed with pain and glanced at his wound.
Fáelán jogged out of reach. Blood dripping from his wound, Múiros came at him again, his eyes blazing with a murderous glint.
“Shite. ’Tis over. Stop him, King Lir,” Fáelán shouted, backing away. “Your champion is bespelled.”
Múiros continued his charge, his sword raised and his expression glazed and predatory. Keeping his eyes upon the crazed warrior, Fáelán continued to back away. What was taking King Lir so long? Feck. Knowing the fae, Lir was probably enjoying the spectacle.
Fáelán tripped on something behind him, nay—someone tripped him. He went down and caught a glimpse of Morrigan’s evil glee as she sidled away. The spectators gasped and cried out, but not one of them bothered to intervene.
Múiros was upon him then, and it was all Fáelán could do to divert the blows raining down on his head. Múiros kicked him in the ribs over and over, and pain exploded, hazing Fáelán’s vision. The fae warrior straddled him, making it impossible to roll away. “Lir, stop your man!” he shouted. “Can’t trust the bloody, fecking fae,” Fáelán rasped out. He reached up and grabbed the bespelled fae by the balls, squeezing for all he was worth.
Múiros cried out and tried to pry himself loose. Fáelán kept a firm grip on the man’s most vulnerable assets and scrambled to his feet. He crowded Múiros, rendering all but the hilts of their swords useless. Continuing to exert excruciating pressure, Fáelán slammed his forehead into the man’s face. Triumph flared at the satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone. Then he brought Fragarach’s hilt down, slamming it into the wrist of his opponent’s sword arm.
Fáelán shoved Múiros hard and once more moved out of his reach. Múiros staggered back, blood dripping from his nose and arm. Groaning, he dropped his sword, leaned over and covered his balls with both hands.
The objective of any battle was to survive, and given the circumstances, Fáelán saw no reason to fight fair. He went in for the kill, Fragarach’s point aimed for the warrior’s throat. The sword but a finger’s width from its mark, Fáelán’s muscles seized, and he was frozen in place. Gods, he hated fae magic. Completely vulnerable to attack, panic flared, but then he realized Múiros couldn’t move either.
King Lir approached, a blaze of color against the fog of bloodlust clouding Fáelán’s vision. A thunderous expression suffused the king’s features, and the blue of his eyes swirled and glowed with a light of their own. Gods, he hated that about the fae too.
Lir touched Múiros with his trident, and the warrior dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Tell me,” the king commanded his defeated champion.
The magic holding Fáelán dissipated at the same time. He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and took a deep breath. His heart still pounded, and his limbs had the consistency of seaweed, barely able to keep him upright. Still, not only had he lived through a fight with one of the Tuatha; he’d defeated his adversary. A frisson of anticipation raced through him. He couldn’t wait to bask in Regan’s admiration, and of course, she’d hold him in her arms while she sang his praises. After all, he’d done it for her.
“Morrigan promised to take me as her consort if I agreed to kill this mortal, sire,” Múiros told the king. “I refused, and she placed a compulsion spell upon me. ’Tis still upon me. I beg you, sire . . . command her to set me free.” The muscles along Múiros’s jaw twitched, tension pulsed from him and he held one hand over his bleeding arm. “I swear by the goddess, I mean the Fiann no harm.”
King Lir shouted his daughter’s name, and she appeared. Lir glowered at his daughter. The very air carried the weight of his disappointment and anger. In that momen
t, Lir looked far less the fae king and more the weary father facing his impenitent offspring. “I am beyond incensed, Morrigan. Did I not tell you to cease molesting this mortal? And not a moment later, you plotted his murder and cast a spell upon my chosen combatant?”
Fáelán scanned the surrounding area for Regan and Fionn. Courtiers drew closer to witness the new drama unfolding between their princess and her father. He couldn’t see through the crowd to the cloisters, and a band of anxiety tightened around his chest. A different kind of terror gripped him. Was Regan safe, or had Morrigan taken her life?
He still held Fragarach, and the fae princess, the source of all his troubles, stood but an arm span away. All she had done to him, all the years she’d tortured and taunted—his blood boiled and frothed into a white-hot rage. ’Twould be so easy to plunge the fae blade into her black heart. If he did, he’d ensure she didn’t ruin anyone else’s life the way she had his. But he’d won King Lir’s challenge, and ending Morrigan’s existence would also be the end of his. Thanks to Regan, he finally had reasons to live. His blood lust receded, and sanity prevailed.
Lir fixed his neon-blue gaze upon his daughter. “Remove the compulsion you placed upon my champion.”
Morrigan sighed, muttered an incantation under her breath and gestured with one hand over Múiros’s kneeling form.
“Thank the goddess,” the warrior said, sagging forward.
“Daughter,” King Lir said, his tone tinged with bitterness and anger. “I bind thee. Forthwith you are without magic.” He touched her with the tines of his trident. “You are confined to your living quarters under my roof until you have proven yourself reformed. I suggest you spend your days reflecting upon how you might improve your character, and how you can be the best role model you can be to the daughter you carry. By the goddess, you are a direct descendant of Danu! You bear a responsibility to our people. ’Tis high time you took that responsibility seriously.”
Tangled in Time (The McCarthy Sisters) Page 24