As she paced behind the ball, she became certain she hallucinated. It explained everything. She had passed out on her front porch due to emotional stress, hunger and some unknown virus. She would awaken in a nice, safe hospital bed rescued by modern medicine and IV drips. Chris would come to see her, bringing flowers and chocolates which she would graciously accept....
The ball jogged hard to the right, and Eithne's foot rested on emptiness. As she swayed, the ball swung back and bounced hard against her chest in what she would have sworn was exasperation. It felt almost like a hand, and color flooded to Eithne's cheeks as it pushed her to safety.
"Okay, okay,” she told it. “I get the picture. Look where I'm going."
The ball bobbed up and down in a satisfied nod. The dreamy quality of her journey continued, and her eyes blurred as she followed the undulating ball through the pitch blackness. Eithne blinked as in the distance another kind of light grew. Not blue, but the flickering gold of firelight. It grew and grew until it became an arched doorway that called to her of warmth and shelter. Eithne stepped through the doorway into a room right out of her father's faery tales.
Its ceiling, if there was one, swam in the oblivion above the torches hanging in brackets fastened to stone walls. Living grass, soft and green, soothed her aching feet. Blood-red roses, heavy and pendulous, climbed the archway in tangled profusion. Their velvet petals caressed her shoulders as she passed. She marveled at the size of their thorns.
Tapestry pictures depicting hunts and feasts decked the walls. Axes and swords in silver, bronze and copper, as well as round leather shields whose rivets made fantastic patterns hung beside them. At the head of the room, a huge square chair carved of stone sat upon a raised dais. Behind it floated a sea green banner edged in black, its center decorated with a rearing white horse, a castle and white stylized waves.
Below it ran a long table draped in green brocade. Benches accompanied it. The laden table held all the requirements for a banquet: Meats, cheeses, fruits and cakes stretched out in aromatic perfusion. Eithne's mouth watered. Silver goblets and pitchers, chased in copper scrollwork lined the table in counterpart to the food.
Far to the left of the room, a massive fireplace covered the wall. Each end of its mantle held a tall silver urn overflowing with corpse-white lilies. Above the center of the mantle the mounted head of a snarling, yellow-striped cat glared at the room with orange eyes. At the sight of it Eithne shivered. Close enough to the fireplace to take advantage of its light, a bench and a shoe lathe sat. The lathe held the soft leather upper of a shoe. A man sat there. In his hands he held a cobbler's hammer and bright golden nails. They flashed in the firelight every time his clever fingers placed them for the rise and fall of the hammer's blow.
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Chapter Four
As Eithne stumbled through the door, he set down his tools and rose to his feet, removing a long brown leather apron as he stood. The backlighting of the fireplace kept his features indistinct until he stepped forward.
"Céad míle fáilte romhat!” he said. “A hundred thousand welcomes to you!” Eithne's breath caught in her chest. Never in her life had she been in the presence of such sheer masculine beauty.
Thick red-gold hair swept back in a ponytail from the pale gold rectangle of his face. Bottle-green eyes regarded her with cool hauteur. A long patrician nose rested between two high, carved cheekbones. A wide mouth with a sensuous lower lip curved in hard disdain.
The column of his throat disappeared into a loose, cream-colored, silken shirt with flowing sleeves that brought to mind princes and pirates. Snug pants of brown leather clung to his narrow hips and long legs like a second skin. Knee-high black boots sported heavy buckles of what appeared to be gold at the ankles.
An other-worldly quality clung to him, evidencing itself in the wildness of expression in his eyes, the perfect arc of his cheek and the inhuman grace of the movement when he held out his hand.
"Welcome, pretty one.” The dark music in his low, accentless voice enthralled her as no symphony ever had or could. Foreboding coursed through her, and she turned to run back through the doorway. The roses writhed across the opening like the tendrils of some strange beast. Eithne cried out in frustration and swung back to the man.
"You'll not escape my hospitality that easily, mo chroí, my heart."
"You're not real.” Eithne clutched at straws.
"Ah. You doubt your senses. Come, touch me, little mortal. Or perhaps it would be more telling if I touched you?"
The thought of him touching her sent fire racing through her veins. “Who are you?"
"Come now. You mean to say you don't know me? You knew our kind well enough to spit on our name earlier.'
"No, that's not possible."
He laughed, and the sound rang through Eithne's bones like a deep, tolling bell. “So determined.” He held out his long-fingered hand. “Come, lady. We must find you something to wear. I confess I find your present state of attire far too tempting."
Blushing, Eithne approached him but avoided his hand. He laughed again, and she shivered. They crossed the room to a large wooden chest carved with intricate Celtic knot work that shone with gilt. From it he drew a flowing gown of vivid blue velvet, as light and soft as a spring cloud. He held it out to her, and Eithne took it, stroking it with reverent hands.
"How did you make this fabric? Velvet is usually heavy."
"If I said ‘magic,’ you wouldn't believe me."
"Don't be too sure of that idea."
"Dress yourself,” he commanded. “I have been a stranger to passion too long and you are fine of body and fair of face. I will not have it said that I acted out of hand in your case.” The leprechaun gestured toward the table. “You hunger. Let us eat."
As she shrugged on the gown, her stomach growled. She followed him to the table and started to sit down. From the depths of her memory came her father's voice reading a story. Brigit took the cup from the elf's hand and drank. And in that instant her fate was sealed. She would never leave the lands of the faery again.
She stopped. “No, thank you."
His smile set her pulse pounding. “So you do remember the tales. They'll not help you. You can't escape."
"That's not true. You can't hold me here."
He shook his head. “We'd best get this over with. I'm famished, and a feast waits. I would not be denied too long."
As he strode toward the raised dais, he peeled the shirt over his head. The sculpted muscles of his back made Eithne's mouth go dry. She itched to run her palms over them.
He snapped his fingers, and a brocade tunic of green and gold fell from the air into his hands. He shrugged it on and followed it with a belt of beaten gold links. He removed the knot work fastener from his ponytail allowing the hair to fall to his shoulders in a rain of waves and curls.
Its red-gold gleamed like burnished metal in the torchlight. As he mounted the platform, he placed a thin gold diadem centered with an enormous emerald upon his head.
By the time he seated himself, the cobbler had vanished, replaced by a grave, unsmiling prince. A large brown field-mouse emerged from the shadows and crouched at his feet like a dog. His hand fell to its head in an absent-minded caress. It glared at Eithne with dark, knowing eyes that held a sly, hostile contempt. With a toss of her head, Eithne returned its stare.
"You stand before me,” the leprechaun said, “to answer for your wrongdoings."
Eithne went and faced them. “Who are you to judge me?"
"I have been given the right, as an Elven Knight, to punish certain wrongs. You are a hard, cold woman. Angry and proud. You wound the hearts of others to soothe the ache in your own.” He waved his hand, and Chris appeared, standing to the left of the dais. “This man bore you no ill-will. He only wished to see your smile, hear your laugh. Yet you answered him with malice. Spurned him and your heritage, as well. Do you contest it?"
Eithne looked into Chris’ blue eyes, and for th
e first time she noticed the hurt there. “No,” she whispered.
Chris vanished with another wave of the leprechaun's hand, to be replaced by the image of her father. James regarded her with longing and love, tempered with no little pain.
"This man gave you life. True, he wronged the woman who bore you. He came asking your forgiveness. You denied it to him, and you again abjured your heritage. Is that not so?"
"Yes.” Eithne hid her face in her hands.
"Look at me, woman!” She did so. His eyes burned with green fire. “And last, you called upon all the rancor in your heart and spat upon the lineage you bear, the magic folk of the land of your forebears, and a man so good and true his God granted him the canon of sainthood, though none of them had injured you in any way. Do I speak the truth?"
"Yes.” She spoke in a monotone, her voice flat and tired.
"Then I say to you, Eithne Regan Riordan, that I know your true nature and I hold your true name. By my power as a Prince of the Folk of the Air, I say that you will remain in the lands of the Faery bound in my service for a hundred years and a day in payment for your proud manner and hard-hearted crimes."
"You can't be serious! I didn't understand. I didn't know!"
"You cannot claim ignorance. Your mother taught you kindness and love. Your father taught you imagination and magic. You know full well what you have done is wrong."
"I do know. I won't do it again."
"So say all who break the laws and are caught. I do not believe you."
"What can I do to make you change your mind?"
"Do you sue for mercy? You, who showed none?"
"Yes."
He cocked his head and steepled his hands beneath his chin. “I am moved. More by your youth and beauty, than by any sincerity on your part. I will limit your servitude to this night, but only if you will consent to strike a bargain."
"What bargain?” Eithne tried to keep her head clear and her voice even, to not appear too eager.
"It is long since I have had feminine companionship. I will allow you to leave my domain with the rising of the sun, if you will give me either the pleasure of your body to use as I desire, or the solace of your soul to assuage my loneliness once you depart."
"You've got to be kidding."
He frowned. “I assure you, I am in no way delivering baby goats."
"Joking."
"Ah. I do not jest. I will make a pact with you, if you will give me what I ask."
"You won't keep your end of the deal. You people never do."
He laughed. “So you remember your father's lessons, do you?” He sobered. “I will swear to you upon Manannán mac Lir, Lord of the Faery, and Lugh the Lightbringer, his foster son, that you may leave here after only one night, if you will freely give to me your body or your soul."
"What's the catch?"
"Catch?"
"The trouble, the problem. What will I lose?"
"The Fey are superb lovers. If you give me your body, you may find that no mortal lover can ever satisfy you."
"And my soul?"
"Your life will be forever barren. You will never achieve your heart's desire. On your death, the doors of the Afterlife will be closed to you, and you will wander the Earth as a lost soul."
"Damn, damn, damn, damn,” she swore. “You people really know how to put the screws to somebody don't you.” Eithne blushed at her choice of words.
He grinned. “We give good handsel,” he said.
"Yeah, I bet you do."
He yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “I grow weary. And hungry.” He purred the last word. “My patience approaches an end."
"What's your hurry? You've only got until the end of time."
"The bargain dwindles, Eithne."
"Okay. No way do I want to be here a hundred years. And no way do I want to be a ghost. Sex is no big deal. People do it all the time. ‘Earth girls are easy,’ right?"
"I wouldn't know. Mortal women held no sport for me."
"Oh yeah. Then why take one now?"
"A thirst for adventure brought me to this land long ago. I came over hidden in the pocket of an Irish refugee. The ocean crossing was a terrible thing. It nearly killed me. The Folk of this new land are few and far scattered. I've had no woman for some time now, as I told you. So I choose not to examine a gift horse too closely."
He stood and stepped down from his throne to loom before her. Eithne looked up into his handsome face and her heart stopped. It resumed beating, a wild and desperate throb that left her trembling.
"So, you give to me your body this night, and I return you to your world in the morning?"
"Yes,” she breathed.
"Good. Let us seal the bargain, then.” He spit into his hand and held it out to her. Closing her eyes, Eithne did the same, and when their hands clasped, a wild and wayward power ran over her, leaving her weak and yearning. The leprechaun released her.
"To the food at last. Pádraic, tell the others the banquet begins. Come, Eithne. Come, Aindréas.” He took her hand and motioned to the mouse. It gave her a dirty look and charged to his side, knocking her away. He clipped it between the eyes with his fist. “Here, now, Aindréas! Mind your manners, or you'll get more than the back of my hand."
He led her to the table and seated her on the bench next to him. The mouse skulked after them.
"What is he?” She gestured toward the animal.
"Aindréas? He is a man. Or he was until he offended me. Unfortunately for him, mortal men held no charms for me. He's served me for more than fifty years now."
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Chapter Five
A gust of air ghosted over her. Eithne watched invisible hands lift a pitcher and fill her goblet. The leprechaun gestured to the empty air. “For Pádraic, here, it was much the same. He has only five years to go."
For the first time in many years, empathy for a man swept through her. “Why don't you let them go? Surely, they've paid enough."
"No, Eithne. They made their mistakes. It's for me to decide when they've had enough. I'll hear no more on it."
Eithne returned to her plate. The food was fine and flavorful, but she had no taste for it, nor for the golden wine dancing in her goblet. She sipped at it without relish. “So, what's your name?"
He chuckled. “You'll not catch me that way. I'll not give you power over me."
"Well, what can I call you? Hey you, your highness, your lordship, what?"
"Call me Roe."
Roe. Irish for “red.” “It figures."
Roe grinned, his mocking, impudent grin. “Here, mo chroí, try this. I think you'll like it.” He offered her a tidbit, and he was right, she did like it. Roe continued to coax her to eat and drink, even getting her to enjoy it. No mean feat, considering the guests that drifted in to join them at the table.
A ground squirrel and a shrew, a gigantic toad and a pencil slim garter snake made up the animal contingent. The biggest black and white Japanese beetle Eithne had ever seen took the bench beside her with a flick and a buzz.
None of them distressed her as much as the figure that was half Plains Indian warrior and half maggot-ridden corpse. Eithne shook with terror, until Roe's rich voice murmured to her, “Pay him no mind. You are under my hand. None here may harm you. Look only at me."
Drawn in by the spell of his words, she obeyed, and the revelers troubled her no more. Roe held her hand, stroked her fingers, brought them to his mouth and lightly kissed them.
He touched her in no other manner, wooing her instead with whispered endearments and flavorful bites, delivered into her mouth with skillful fingers. The wine flowed, and Eithne's head began to swim. When she looked into Roe's eyes, passion rose within her, and Eithne longed for the meal to come to an end.
At last Roe lifted his goblet and bade Eithne lift hers. “To the night,” he rumbled.
They drank, and Eithne countered, “To the morning after.” They drank again.
Roe flung his goblet to the fl
oor and stood. He held out his hand to her. “It is time."
The simple phrase thrilled her as no flowery speech could have. Eithne got to her feet, wrapped her fingers in his and willingly followed him into the night.
They walked down obscure corridors, lit only by the ball of blue flame Roe conjured and cast into the air before them. They moved in a dream until they reached a wooden door carved with roses stained in red and inscribed with a sigil of glowing silver.
Of its own accord, the door opened before them. Roe swept Eithne into his arms and carried her through it. A sultry spring breeze, ripe with a whiff of raw earth and verdant growing things, enveloped them. A bed, its canopy and four posts twined with the crimson roses and hung with delicate spiderwebs, rose before them. Brushing the cobwebs aside, Roe placed her upon petal-soft covers. He stretched out beside her. The sooty scent of rose perfumed the air, and in the darkness whispered words and gentle touches burned.
He called her a chuisle mo chroí, the pulse of his heart. When her hymen broke and she cried out, he soothed her with ardent kisses and named her his soulmate, his anamchara. Eithne had no discourse to describe the things she felt, no language to fall back on. She expressed her need with her lips and tongue and with tremulous, doting hands. She denied him nothing he asked for and accepted everything he offered.
A thunderstorm rose in the wee hours. Eithne lay tangled in Roe's arms and legs, watching the lightning ignite the sky as drops of water beaded the fine lines of the spiderweb curtain. The clean fragrance of rain washed over them. Eithne wept then, not for anything she had lost or might lose, but for everything she had gained. Roe said nothing, only drank her tears and built the fire within her again.
Treacherous time passed. All too soon, the tentative chirrups of sleepy birds broke the stillness and heralded the coming of morning. Eithne stirred. Roe sighed and ran a soft caress over her hair.
"Soon, mo chroí, soon,” he said.
"How can I leave you?” she protested. “How can I go, knowing what I now know?"
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