He'd made some headway, as Colin was no longer considering challenging Sir Randall to a duel. Of course, Killian's cause had been aided by the fact the bastard was nowhere to be found.
For all that he must look like a drowned cat, Kathryn looked as fresh as a spring bouquet. Refreshing, given the artic bite of the winter's wind. He rose from his chair and stood, as she settled in across from him. "Aye, I am a wee bit tired."
"Good day to ye, Mistress Smithfield."
The proprietress of the cozy establishment, the widow Riley, set down a porcelain pot, steam curling from the spout. "I've hot tea to warm ye, and fresh scones and jam as well."
Kathryn shrugged off her blue woolen wrap, then her equally warm gloves. "Oh, Mrs. Riley, that is lovely. Thank you."
The woman beamed at them, her bright gaze lingering a beat too long on Killian which, in his heightened state, set off alarms. He narrowed his eyes as she bustled away. She'd been a resident of the village for close to a year. Come to be near family after losing her husband to the sea. Had he ever seen her with family? Seen her out and about?
No, ye edjit. Cause ye didn't care to notice until now.
He rubbed his eyes. Aye, that was the truth of it. His life was spent on attending balls, dinner parties, soirees. If it were a social gathering, his arse was there, and he rarely wasted time noticing others who had no purpose to him.
All life has purpose.
"Are you getting excited about the ball?"
Killian searched his mind for a polite way to say feck, no. "Of course." Lying came so easily to the Fae. He added a bright smile that felt brittle. "I'm sure the Countess has appreciated your assistance in the matter."
"Oh, I'm certain she has," she answered, with a wry smile. "As long as I did exactly as she instructed, which I have…for the most part."
Killian tipped his head. "What have ye done?"
Kathryn lifted one shoulder. "Only invited the children of the village to come caroling."
Killian took a honey scone from the plate. "Do ye want the poor woman to have an apoplectic fit?"
Kathryn's smile broadened. "No, I was assured by the man helping in the planning that it would be well received."
"What man is that?”
"A local musician. I believe his name is Brady?"
Killian just managed not to choke. "Brady, is it? Do ye have references? He might be a madman." He was going to be a dead man when Killian got his hands on him. There was a delicate balance going on here, and he didn't want Kathryn or innocent children thrust in the midst of it. "Perhaps Colin should be consulted."
Kathryn's hazel eyes narrowed. "I don't believe the earl has the time to concern himself with matters so frivolous."
"Be fair," Killian found himself saying. "He's many duties to attend to as Earl."
She sniffed. "Oh, I've no doubt Colin will do his duty. He always does his duty." Her expression softened. "But there is something terribly wrong going on, and he refuses to share it with me." She shook her head, added cream to her tea. "It has to do with that horrible man from London. I feel it to my core."
She was very intuitive, was his Kathryn, and that added a whole new level of urgency to the situation. The image of Colin and Kathryn's intimate kiss in the barn crossed his mind, and the reality hit him. His friends were in love.
There was no future for him with this beautiful woman.
Christ, he was a fool. Instead of keeping them safe, those he cared about were tumbling headfirst into disaster, while his head was up his arse. "Some matters are best handled by men." In an instant, he knew he'd stepped onto boggy ground.
Every line of her body tightened. "You think because I am female that I leave it to men to take care of matters?"
Yes. Another level of danger indeed. "I have every regard for you both as a woman of reason and intellect."
"Then I'll thank you not to patronize me."
Killian's temper spiked. "And I'll thank ye to give me more credit."
Kathryn looked taken aback. A small part of him wanted to retract his sharp words, but the warrior in him vetoed the thought.
"Well, then. I suppose that is all we have to talk about." Kathryn swept her shawl into her arms. "I will discover what is bothering the earl, and I will assist him, despite his hard head and your lack of faith."
Feck, this had taken a bad turn. "Kathryn, wait…"
She waved away his intention to stand. "No, do not trouble yourself. I will see to the matter because, as you may not realize, that's what reasonable, intelligent women do." She turned, her hazel eyes reflecting her disenchantment. "You've been a good friend, Killian. I wish you well."
For long moments he stared at the door through
which she'd left.
"Aye, we women are a puzzlement at times."
Killian flicked his gaze to Mrs. Riley, who wiped her hands on her apron. "My pardon if ye were disturbed by our conversation."
The proprietress waved a dismissive hand. "I've heard far worse in my time." She folded her hands at her waist. "But the young lady is correct. There is something afoot, and it needs to be addressed before the Christmas ball."
He already knew that the village was talking about the injuries at the excavation and rumors abounded that the Earl of Keshlea supported the incursion of more English into the region. He supposed the widow would have heard all of it from her patrons.
With a casual glance her way, Killian sent out his magic to explore her source—and was nearly knocked on his arse by the shimmering shield she was projecting.
"Tsk, tsk young man. That 'tis not polite."
His warrior instincts should have had him on his feet, prepared to guard against the unknown. But in the same way he'd recognized her as not mortal, he sensed no threat. "What do ye know?"
The widow smiled benevolently. "More than I've a right to." She glanced at the door where Kathryn had departed. "I know ye imagined yerself with Miss Smithfield, but that is not to be."
"Are ye a seer?"
"Of a sort," she turned back to him, and held his gaze. "She is important to ye though, Leithprachaun. Both she and the young lord. A key to the recovery of yer treasure."
His heart stuttered. Recover his treasure? To be whole again? To have the despair gnawing at him relieved?
"How? In what manner? What must I…"
The widow Riley held up a warning finger. "Yer Fae, my boy. Ye know nothing comes that easy. All I can say is that beneath the kissing bough they must meet, beneath the bough they must kiss." Her flint—gray eyes bored into his. "Save them and save yerself."
Long moments later, Killian became aware of his surroundings. He sat in the same chair he'd been in, although now, the tearoom was filled with townsfolk. What the feck? He'd been put under a spell? Shoving to his feet, he approached the polished wood counter. "Where is she?"
The red—haired serving girl jumped, startled by his brusque tone. With wide, innocent, blue eyes, she answered. "Where is who, sir?"
Killian swept the place with magic and came up all mortal. "The widow Riley."
The girl frowned. "Who is the widow Riley?"
Christ.
Without thought to witnesses, Killian dissolved, his physical form streaming into the night in tiny bits, his mind racing. It had to be a fierce magical being who could put a Leithprachaun into a trance. Was the widow friend or foe? She'd declared him unfit for Kathryn, yet insisted she was needed for him to regain his treasure. That she and Colin were needed.
Beneath the kissing bough they must meet.
The Christmas ball was tomorrow evening. Kathryn had gone off in a huff, Colin was consumed with stopping Lycingsham—who very well could be a demon.
With a thought, he changed direction, skimming the trees bordering Keshlea manor, his focus warrior sharp.
He was going to need reinforcements.
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The cold, crisp air amplified his brothers' magical signatures, leading Ki
llian to a fence line along one of the manor's distant pastures. As soon as he came to form, a putrid stench filled his nostrils, causing bile to rise in his throat.
"It is rather foul."
Killian blinked through the burning in his eyes to see Patric and Brady standing beside a mound of…dead sheep?
"What the feck?"
"Indeed," replied Patric. "A valid question. Why are there deceased livestock lying left like so much rubbish?"
The full moon cast the mound in a pale, ghostly light. But then, death and ghosts did go hand in hand.
Killian sent a swirl of neutralizing magic on the heap.
"As if we hadn't already thought of that," muttered Brady.
"At least mine worked." Killian circled the mound and studied it. There were at least eight of the hapless animals, and they were indeed stacked…like a macabre sculpture. He could not see nor sense any injury or ailment that would have caused death. It was as if they all were led to their respective positions, where they promptly expired.
Crouching down, he tilted his head, trying to see the face of the topmost victim. The sightless, black eyes sent him reeling, the horror it had experienced reflecting back at him as if it were still occurring.
"They died in agony."
Killian stared at the massive owl that manifested above them. He pushed to a standing position, watched as a weave of gray—and—gold magic surrounded the creature, revealing Broc in mortal form. "How do ye know?"
"Christ, boy." Broc smirked. "Surely ye've enough shifter in ye to tell the nature of the beast. Reach out, feel the darkness they saw, they endured. Ye'll know."
Huffing out a breath, Killian sent his Leithprachaun magic to the periphery of his core, found and grasped his shifter magic.
Pain! No! Help!
The echoes of the animals' terror gripped him like a vise. It was as if they had been turned inside out and sliced with a blade.
There was no blood.
The bodies were intact.
He swallowed hard. "Aye," he breathed. "Were any of them shifters?"
For once, Broc's voice was not filled with disdain. "No, thank the goddess." He held Killian's gaze. "But a shifter was found dead."
Dread rolled through him. "My mother?"
Broc shook his head. "No. One of Rua's sons."
A measure of guilt mixed with the relief Killian felt.
Patric's brilliant blue eyes flashed with power. "There is danger for all Fae."
"This is none of yer business, Leithprachaun," snarled Broc.
"Aye, it 'tis. Do ye not sense the black magic seeped into the poor buggers?"
Who could miss it? The aura around the site oozed, like masses of boiling tar, filled Killian with dread. He could just imagine how badly it would affect humans.
"Exactly," Patric said, with his characteristic intruding. "I believe these were left here to draw mortals close."
"Bait?"
Broc waved it off. "My people would have sensed something amiss."
"As Rua's son did? As these sheep did?" Patric strolled around until he faced the fence they were stacked against. He moved his arms in an arc and as he did, an image fluttered and formed in the air.
The wavering image depicted a bucolic scene of the pasture. The light waned in the sky, and the shepherd had just retreated through the far gate, his faithful herding dog trotting beside him, a sense of a day well spent, reflected in the man's whistle and the dog's wagging tail.
A few of the doomed sheep grazed, while others ambled along, looking for a soft spot to nestle for the night. Aye, 'twas a fine scene of blissful life on the isle.
Then the howling began.
At first, Killian thought it the wind, as the sky darkened with billowing, black clouds. But then he recognized the call of a wolf. Correction. Wolves.
Wolves no longer existed in Ireland, the last one dispatched decades before. Even if a stray had managed to survive the systematic slaughter instigated by Cromwell, it would have taken a single sheep down and devoured it, not played blocks with it.
The animals began to bleat and trot into each other in panic, stumbling toward the spot in the pasture where they all now lay. The sky churned, as if also trying to escape, and the howling became deafening, as did the cries of the sheep. Their terror was palpable.
The noise stopped abruptly, and one of the sheep turned and faced them. The edges of the scene began to erode away, until only this singular animal was framed. His eyes dilated with fear. The scene popped closed with a shattering bleat.
"Christ," breathed Brady. "What was it then?"
Patric glanced at Broc, one brow raised. "Shifter?"
His grandfather's familiar scowl had fallen away, the color drained from his face. "Shadow Wolves."
Killian's gut clenched. "Shadow Wolves? Those soul—suckers? They make their dens in the north, close to the portals of Mab and her cronies."
"Aye," replied Patric, "They wait to feed off the damned as they are tossed into hell."
Killian stalked a few steps away then back. "Mortal souls, not sheep."
Patric nodded. "To be sure, the beast's souls are light on power, but the hungry take what they will."
Killian looked at Patric. "The bastards are bold, going after the living."
"Yes, 'tis curious indeed."
Killian glanced in the direction of the village, and the manor house beyond. Shite, that was why Lycingsham had elicited such strong emotions from him "We have to protect the mortals."
"The Council forbids it."
Killian stared at Patric, his High King's expression as unreadable as usual.
"Feck the council," growled Killian. "Things are getting serious. The Earl of Keshlea is dealing with a dark Fae, and some of the villagers are being led to slaughter."
"Like lambs?"
Killian curled his hands into fist. If Patric's magic were not a hundred times stronger than any of the clan, he would be lying flat on the ground, with a busted jaw.
Patric's stone gaze flicked to Killian's hands. He braced himself for confrontation, then frowned when Patric smiled.
"I am in full agreement about the Council and their coward's assessment. They are trouping Fae, full of themselves more than any of the magical folk, lost in the games of the elite." Patric moved to the meadow's edge, contemplated the far hills. "They claim a connection with mortals, but are loathe to interfere." He glanced back at Killian and Brady. "Yet, the essences of life for both worlds were laid at our feet to protect. So by default, we must watch out for those pitiful fools."
Killian blew out a measured breath. "Colin has been unable to thwart the bastard intent on disrupting Keshlea. If they are Shadow Wolves, as we suspect, then it won't take long for them to start sucking the souls from the innocent. Then they will come for the Fae."
"And Fae souls are a feckin' banquet." Broc stared at them.
Patric nodded once. "Aye, that's why we'll have reinforcements."
One by one, the remaining Leithprachaun clan manifested. Ruarc, the second oldest with a centering ability as solid as the stone he treasured. Michael, their scholar, a hermit to be sure, but a lethal fighter when called upon. Declan who favored removing himself from any association with his siblings, but who also relished a good fight to release the relentless energy it took to be an arse. Bridget, their only sister. No woman could hold a candle to her beauty, and dressed in fighting bracs and tunics would cause quite the stir among the ton. She was a healer, aye, but she had been taught as they all had to wield her magic with deadly accuracy.
Brady stood armed with the clan's traditional blade, the scian, and set the tone with the low thrum of the bodhran. Music by which to fight? Patric rounded out the group and stood like commander he was.
Seven warriors against a pack of deadly wolves.
The odds were in their favor.
"I sense the evil gathering their forces," began Patric. "Protection wards must be cast at the homes of the tenant farmers. Their animals, as well.
"
"We'll be handling that."
The Leithprachauns turned as one to Broc, and the two dozen shifters who had materialized behind him. Their animal magic snapped and crackled, growled and roared, like sparks from a fire.
Killian waited for the arguing to commence, but Patric only nodded. "Ye are welcome." He scanned the whole of them. "Shadow Wolves are not straightforward in their evil, as demons or other dark creatures. They lure their victims by probing and melding with their target's psyche."
"We are strong," Broc sneered.
Patric shook his head. "Aye, but remember that as they take souls, their power grows."
Killian's magic sizzled in his veins. The dangers were clear, and time was even more precious. With no effort, he located Kathryn and Colin, their energy also flaring, fueled by emotions both shared and concealed between them. The mysterious Mrs. Riley had insisted that they must must come together beneath the kissing bough, or any chance of his treasure being recovered would be lost. How in the name of the goddess could he accomplish that?
Oh. Right. Kill hundreds of demon Shadow Wolves.
Bridget spoke. "What about the rest of us, Paddy?"
Killian and his brothers cringed. Their High King did not favor being referred to in such a casual manner. But even as Patric scowled, Bridget graced him with a beatific smile. Which always worked.
Patric grunted, then pinned the lot of them with a hard look. "Council or not, we know there is danger here in Keshlea. Shadow Wolves have infiltrated, slinking from their black dens, seeking souls and intent on destruction."
"We'll rout them easily," said Ruarc, his oak shillelagh gripped in his hand.
Killian set his jaw. "There are mortals involved." At their puzzled looks, he clarified. "Specific mortals. The Earl of Keshlea and a woman."
Patric manifested his own scian, held it up to the light of the moon, considered the emeralds studding the handle. "There are casualties in a battle, we can make no guarantees of their safety."
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 53