The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  In the next life, he would fan those banked embers and claim her, forever.

  Some small part of him laughed. You’re justifying your weakness.

  “You mistake me,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt Olivia, or you, Morrigan. Never.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes said much. You’re lying. You’d kill her to make Curran suffer.

  “I’ve had time to think while you’ve been gone,” he said.

  Olivia held out her hands to Morrigan and whined.

  “Here. It’s you she wants.”

  He saw her joy as the baby’s arms fastened around her neck. She gasped. Olivia put her face against Morrigan’s throat and sucked her thumb.

  “Thank you,” she said brokenly. “I’m sorry.”

  He saw something then that touched his ancient, rotted soul. At first it hurt, as it would if someone put a finger on an open wound, but then warmth spread like healing ointment.

  She was weeping.

  She, who hadn’t shed a tear, according to Seaghan, who’d heard it from Ibby, since she was a small child.

  He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Will you sit with me for a few minutes? Then I’ll go.”

  She nodded. He helped her sit, there at the edge of land, as the sun dipped halfway into the sea, flooding the ocean with crimson, blue, and yellow fire.

  “I’m not returning to Glenelg,” he said.

  She stared into his face. “Why?”

  “This is Curran’s time. Olivia’s. I fought it. I’ve always been a selfish man, and I wanted you. I wanted you back. I wanted to recreate the past. But the truth is I owe him— Curran. There’s a debt, a very long, very old debt, and like I told you, we can only go forward.”

  “So you’ll leave your home. Your livelihood. Seaghan. Everything you know. Because of me.”

  “Because I want you to be happy. Will you ever be happy if I’m there?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “She speaks to me, you know,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like she wants to forgive. She beckons. Beyond her, everything is bonny. When I have that dream, I know it wasn’t her on Barra. It was the men. Just men. And they are my creation. Mine and other men like me.”

  “Oh, Mackinnon. I don’t understand.”

  Above them, the sky shifted from blue to purple, and the ocean fell into shadow. The storm was now no more than a faraway bruise on the horizon.

  In August, on these isles, this was as dark as it would get all night. He remembered it from his years on Barra.

  He felt younger somehow, like his decision had released him from shackles. Words poured out, things he’d been holding in for too long. “I’ll never forget the first time we met. You were Aridela, a young visionary, full of hope and loyalty and courage. The reckless one, the ‘Taker of Chances,’ the firm believer in good. You grew into a wondrous ruler; your spirit and strength triumphed over catastrophe. There was magic in you. The heart of a long line of queens. It runs in your blood still— if I will only step out of the way.”

  “Aridela is real? I thought… all my life I thought I’d dreamed her.” Her gaze intensified. “I was Aridela? Like I was Lilith?” She paused. Her voice hitched. “Eamhair?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  She waited impatiently. When he remained silent, she finally asked, “There are more, surely, with three thousand years. What of Caparina Naske?”

  He knew he hesitated an instant too long. “No, there was no Caparina,” he said. “There were no others.” Inside he reeled. How was she remembering so much outside of his guidance? Was it the influence of Selene and Themiste? Could it be Athene herself?

  Quickly, before she could challenge him, he said, “You’re right to choose life. You do tend to make the right choices.” Defiance, he thought. That is what brings us back, over and over. My defiance. If I submit, that’s when it will end. As long as I defy her, I’ll have another chance.

  “I’m ashamed of what I thought earlier,” she said. “I should have known you would never harm someone I love.”

  His throat closed, but he managed to say, “I don’t blame you, not after the things I’ve done.”

  “I’ve been lost, tired of being certain that no one could ever love me. I was so sure of it that I’ve pushed away everyone who wanted to.”

  “You are loved.” He clasped her hand. His jaw clenched so hard it locked, and he had to forcibly release it. “And you will be happy. I promise.”

  She stared at him, unblinking, motionless but for the breezes playing through her hair. Olivia made no sound as she gazed from one to the other.

  “I’ll always remember our night.” She pulled the crescent moon necklace out from under her collar. The silver glinted, as violet as the sky.

  He glanced down at the child. Her eyes were achingly blue, replicas of Curran’s.

  “Aodhàn….”

  He leaned forward and kissed her, following the command of her mouth, as he’d done for two lifetimes.

  Just as he started to forget his resolve, to feel the old fantasy begin to reform, he heard a noise. A scatter of pebbles. He jerked away from her, turning his head sharply, staring behind them.

  Curran’s golden head appeared then his torso as he hoisted himself over the incline and joined them on the bare rock.

  “Morrigan!” he shouted. He sounded furious, and brandished a revolver.

  Aodhàn’s senses plunged into scarlet-black rage. His body exploded like a ball of magma from the summit of a volcano.

  Leaping to his feet and emitting a wordless roar, he barreled across the rock and flung himself on his old adversary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “CURRAN!” MORRIGAN HELD tight to Olivia as the baby threw out her arms, shrieking.

  Mackinnon’s fist smashed into her husband’s jaw before he had time to take in the scene. Curran flew. The gun dropped from his hand, clattering and skidding.

  “No!” Morrigan cried. “What are you doing? Stop it, Mackinnon!”

  Curran rose and struck, his fist connecting with Mackinnon’s left eye.

  Blood spurted from his eyebrow, but Mackinnon instantly reengaged. The two men joined in a ferocious, cursing tangle.

  An almost godlike strength seemed to imbue Mackinnon. Swinging both fists together, he cracked Curran’s jaw. Blood spattered over the rock face.

  Morrigan didn’t dare go closer, not with Olivia. “Stop!” she screamed again, uselessly. Curran would die. Olivia would witness her father’s murder. Then she and the baby would be at Mackinnon’s mercy. He’d showed regret and compassion before, but this mad rage seemed bestial. She feared it wouldn’t subside until everyone within his reach was dead.

  “Curran,” she whispered. “Curran, oh Curran.”

  Her husband slid past Mackinnon’s fists long enough to punch him in the stomach. Mackinnon doubled over. Morrigan’s hopes rose, but, overcoming the pain somehow, he lunged, battering Curran’s face and making him stumble. One fist lowered, opened, and chopped sideways into the area of his enemy’s kidney. Curran fell, writhing.

  “Help me,” Morrigan cried. “Diorbhail, you said men face a great She when they die. Who is She? Will She help me now?”

  This blade can right an ancient wrong.

  Morrigan brought the knife from her pocket. Gloaming light sparkled along the blade.

  “I’m a woman,” she said. “I can’t kill.”

  She saw Louis shaking his head. Respect the strength inside you.

  What else had he said? You’ve a bit of Penthesilea in you.

  Lifting her gaze from the knife to the men, Morrigan shoved away her terror. Mackinnon was on top of Curran. She heard a horrifying cracking sound, and wondered if it was her husband’s skull.

  This be a woman’s resolve! As for men, they may live and be slaves. Who had shouted that? Ibby, quoting the Celtic queen, Boudicca.

  There was that other queen, too. Aridela. Would she be timid, or would she do what was necessary?
<
br />   I can kill. I will kill to save my husband and child. I am Penthesilea, Boudicca, Aridela.

  Securing Olivia between her left arm and her body, she ran forward, lifting the blade in her right hand, eyeing a spot halfway down the side of Mackinnon’s ribcage where she meant to bury it.

  But at that moment, a desperate thrust of Curran’s knee propelled Mackinnon backward. His arms flailed, striking Morrigan’s arm, and his shoulder struck her in the chest. The knife flew out of her hand as she lost her balance, and all her attention veered to Olivia. She twisted to keep from falling on the baby, and instead landed hard on her right elbow.

  Pain erupted. Olivia was wailing; Morrigan sat up, biting off a curse, and attempted to soothe her.

  Mackinnon stood, but instead of renewing his attack he stepped away. His hands opened, palms up.

  Curran reached for the revolver, grabbed it, and fired, all in one motion. The explosion reverberated, frightening a colony of kittiwakes into screeching flight. The act seemed to take all his remaining will. He collapsed and lay motionless.

  Mackinnon staggered. A small spot of blood appeared on his sark, below his ribs, and quickly expanded. He pressed his hand against the wound and looked down at it. Blood seeped over his fingers.

  His gaze rose, meeting Morrigan’s, and he smiled.

  Then, releasing a stifled groan, he crumpled, so close to the precipice that one out-flung arm dangled in empty space.

  * * * *

  Olivia sobbed and clung to her mother. Neither man moved.

  Morrigan patted the baby and rocked, automatically wiping Olivia’s nose with her sleeve. “You’re fine, jo, my wee jo. You’re no’ hurt.”

  Screeches subsided into hiccups. As Olivia calmed, Morrigan rose and crossed to Curran, praying to any deity who would listen to spare him. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath when she placed her hand under his jaw. He had a pulse. It was rapid and shallow, but beating. He was alive. There was blood everywhere, but she didn’t think it was enough to make him die. He was unconscious, and she was glad. For this moment at least, he felt no pain.

  “Morrigan.” Mackinnon lifted himself on his elbows.

  They lived. Both still lived.

  “Morrigan,” he repeated. “Will you speak to me?”

  As much as she hated him in this moment, she couldn’t forget those two other children she’d borne. How they were murdered. How that murder and his failure to save them had tortured him these many years. Their names flowed over her tongue like whisky. She could almost see their faces.

  “No.” She kept her gaze locked on Curran. Using the edge of her sleeve, she mopped at the blood.

  “Please, Morrigan. Let me say goodbye.”

  She looked at him then. His face was grey. Sweat dampened his hair and ran down his temples. He clenched his jaw repeatedly, grimacing.

  A kaleidoscope of bright, tear-sparkled images flared behind Morrigan’s eyes as Mackinnon reached out to her. Would he ask forgiveness? After nearly killing Curran, whose only crime had been to marry, in innocence, the woman he wanted? Sorrow and fury trampled one over the other. She sighed. Then she went to him and knelt.

  Olivia made a noise like a kitten’s inquiring meow and outstretched a hand, splay-fingered, towards Mackinnon. He hesitated, then lifted his own. The baby patted it, much like her mother patted her when she was upset.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Morrigan said. “He wouldn’t have shot you. You’re a monster.”

  “I know what I am.” His hand moved to Morrigan’s forearm and grasped with surprising strength. “I wanted you to run away with me, but….” Pain drew him rigid, left him panting, then seemed to relent. “I’d kill anyone… I’d tear this world apart to be with you. But not this time. There’s that debt. And not… not after the others. You can’t lose Olivia too.” His jaw clenched and his grip tightened. “I love you, Morrigan.” He sighed and glanced at Olivia, then at the motionless Curran.

  “Are you saying you planned it this way? That you knew Curran would come looking for me?”

  “Of course he would. He always comes. As soon as you told me he was on Mingulay, I knew.”

  “Why? Why?”

  “You think… you think I can go on living, always knowing where you are, never… able to see you, speak to you? Worse… far worse than death, believe me. And….” Unbelievably, he smiled again. “He always shows up at the worst moments. Right when I’m kissing you. The bastard.”

  “Oh, Mackinnon.”

  He regarded her, eyes half-closed, hot bright with pain. One shaking hand hovered over the wound. “You always called me that,” he said. Then he added, “Be happy.”

  Now that he’d said his piece, his eyes closed and he lay quietly. Tears streamed over his temples.

  Whatever happened now, part of her heart and soul would remain on this terrible rock, bled into this stone with her lover’s. The lover who was willing to die in order to set her free.

  The sea’s murmur blended with a final, distant clamor of thunder.

  “Morrigan?”

  “Aye, Mackinnon.”

  “I will find you,” he said faintly.

  “Morrigan!” It was Diorbhail. She ran towards them, then stopped and bent. When she straightened, she had the knife.

  Half the blade was missing. It must have shattered on the rock when it was knocked from Morrigan’s hands.

  Diorbhail would not be stopped. She would waste no thought on guilt or fear, right or wrong. One glimpse of Curran and she would sink that blade into Mackinnon, no matter that he stood at the gate into death already.

  Diorbhail paused beside Curran. When she looked up, her face bore nearly as much rage as Curran’s had earlier. She ran forward, lifting the knife, baring her teeth exactly the way Morrigan had pictured Boudicca when she attacked the Romans.

  Mackinnon seized Morrigan’s arm. “Don’t let her touch me with that. I don’t think… I can come back if she does.”

  Morrigan jumped to her feet. “No!” she cried, placing herself between them. “Stop!”

  Diorbhail had no choice but to obey or stab Morrigan. “Move,” she shouted. “If you won’t do it, I will!”

  “He’s dying anyway.” Morrigan dropped to her knees. “Just wait. Please just wait.”

  Mackinnon ran his fingertip over the pendant. He looked up into her eyes. “Take care of it for me.”

  There was no color left in his face. “Next time,” he said, soft as a voice in a dream, “I will win.”

  She could only shake her head.

  “Gus am faic mi a-rithist thu,” he said.

  He shoved her backward and rolled off the edge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “WHY ARE YOU laughing?” Ibby asked Seaghan. “I fail to see the humor in anything that’s happened here.”

  Harpalycus was reveling in this feeling of strength, the deepness of his voice. He flexed his biceps. “I’m picturing the scene. Aodhàn and Morrigan, naked maybe, and along comes Curran with his gun. I’d give much to see it!”

  “I don’t know what’s come over you this night, Seaghan MacAnaugh. Oh, how I wish you hadn’t told him to take a gun!” She glanced at Beatrice then quickly away. “And here lies Beatrice, dead at your hands, and what you… you did to her after! I know you didn’t like her much— truth to tell, nor did I, but it wasn’t Christian. You should be ashamed. Have you thought about what you’re facing? You’ll be brought up on murder charges.”

  The fisherman glanced at Beatrice, still sprawled in the chair and stinking of his piss. “If you don’t let me be,” he said, “I’ll do the same to you, Isabel.”

  She drew in a sharp, offended breath, but said nothing, obviously believing him. Instead she pulled a blanket out of one of the cupboards and threw it over the corpse.

  He felt himself growing hard. For too long he’d been trapped in that noxious female. It felt good to be a man again, and it would feel better yet to celebrate by forcing his will upon some hapless wo
man, though Ibby would be his last choice. He’d rather have one of the kitchen wenches, or Diorbhail— he’d enjoy humbling that bitch, and he’d wager she would put up an entertaining fight— but they were gone and she was here. In the end he discarded the idea. She’d scream, and she was a dried-up old woman. He’d had enough of that. Besides, someone was bound to turn up shortly. He’d love to see who had won this round, Chrysaleon or Menoetius, but he’d best be off. His sense of self-preservation was strong, and if Chrysaleon came through the door and recognized him, nothing would stop him from murder, no matter the consequences. Seaghan MacAnaugh was far too conspicuous a body to remain in for long. He plucked his cap from the hook on the wall then went to the scullery, found a sharp butcher knife, and came back, opening the front door.

  “Where are you going?” Ibby asked. He heard the hesitancy in her voice. She was afraid of him, as she should be.

  “To see what’s what,” he replied and went off, heading for the village. Several boats floated in the bay. He dug in his pocket and brought out some coins, counting them carefully. He’d buy his way off Mingulay. When he got to Barra or the mainland, he’d pick a victim— a man— and use the knife to fatally injure himself so he could consume him. He’d be damned if he’d take another female’s body.

  He’d always been good at knowing when to leave, though sometimes he was sorry to miss the final outcomes of his plots.

  There was a woman in France, one who found pleasure in pain. They had enjoyed several encounters. Perhaps he would go to Paris and see if she was still there. He’d had enough of Scotland to last several lifetimes.

  As it happened, he crossed paths with a solitary man who was younger than Seaghan, and who looked healthy. So be it.

  The man nodded politely and tipped his cap. Seaghan smiled and fingered the knife stuck under his belt. He took a deep breath of the cool night air. Life was a gratifying thing, when one wasn’t afraid to make it turn in one’s favor.