by Carol Oates
“Yeah,” she rambled on, walking a few paces ahead of me. “They possessed a spear, a sword, a cauldron, and a stone.” She stopped and bit her lip, counting something off on her fingers, then began walking again. “Lia Fáil. They lived in the underworld and began stories of the Fae and banshees and leprechauns.”
“They were never leprechauns,” I corrected her.
We both halted mid-step. The surrounding trees in the secluded area dampened the sounds of the city and daylight faded quickly. Emma met my eyes, her false eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings. I noted how they looked deeper into me now. Her inquisitiveness had multiplied tenfold.
“We…” I experimented with the word tentatively. “We were driven to live in secret, forbidden to mate with humans. Those exposed were often hunted down and killed.” I broke off speaking and measured her steady heartbeat and constant breathing. If her direct gaze didn’t tell me otherwise, I might have sworn she wasn’t listening to me at all.
“You’re talking about Ireland,” she mused aloud. “My brother went to Ireland last year.”
“Our father was human, but Triona and I also carry the royal bloodline of the Guardians, straight from Dagda. Triona took your brother’s memories because he knew things he didn’t want to know.”
“Why give them back?” she asked with interest, devoid of accusation.
“Triona’s soul mate is missing. She believed John might be in danger too. When she saw him, she knew something had gone wrong.”
“So she came back to protect him?”
I nodded.
Emma rolled her neck back and stared up at the darkening sky, breathing deeply. The action echoed John’s earlier physical reaction, and I saw the similarity between them for the first time. She looked back at me and opened her mouth to speak. Her lips slapped shut, and she turned away, walking in a small circle, heel to toe. I began to recognize this as a habit.
“I’m attempting to disprove,” she murmured to herself in a voice choked with uncertainty. “Lennon was right—believe.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my thumb and forefinger against them, rubbing hard. No more than seconds had elapsed when my eyes flashed open to a shuffle of movement and a terse scream. Emma flew toward me, knocking me backward over bench. We landed in a heap on muddy ground.
I pushed her off carefully and crawled to my knees, at once alert to the warm, slick liquid on my hand and the sound of crashing metal.
I blinked once and then a few more times for good measure, staring at the three figures fighting in the small open space on the other side of the bench. I scrambled backward, tugging Emma with me. She weighed nothing in my arms. Shock had drained the fight from her.
This could not be real. Who was the woman battling with the two men? Where did they come from? She had Claíomh Solais—the Sword of Light—and that couldn’t be good. At Tara, Zeal had turned the sword on Amanda before Triona had burned it to ash. Against any rational explanation, the long broad sword radiated light, blinding me with each wide sweep through the air. No other weapon would ever strike such fear in my heart because of what it almost cost me. My stomach revolted, and I twisted, emptying the contents on the ground at the memory of the same blade piercing Amanda’s chest. Acid burned my throat, and the instinct to flee set in with a vengeance.
“Stay down,” the woman roared. “Protect the girl.” She had to be a Guardian. She moved with the grace of a dancer, using phenomenal strength to lunge and thrust the heavy sword through the air. She ducked and weaved away from her attackers as if she knew their next move before they did. It was mesmerizing.
Her long brown hair whipped behind her at each turn, her muscles flexing and cording with each powerful swipe of the blade. The woman spun again, going low to miss a blow from a sword carried by one of the heavyset men.
The men could have passed for twins, identical in size and black clothing, with shaved heads and sharp square jaws. They would have been handsome too, if their faces weren’t twisted in rage. She twirled to a split stance, driving the sword home with a grunt to slice across one man’s torso. The woman pulled back with a jerk and an expression of intense resolve. Her jaw locked tightly, and her eyes flashed with cool malice as she vaulted headfirst and glided through the air. The sword descended and cut the other man’s throat like a warm knife passing through butter.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I told myself, knowing that was complete bullshit. I had no idea what this woman wanted. Perhaps she was just getting them out of the way so she could finish us off herself.
I looked down at Emma. She gripped her upper arm where four neat slashes through her jacket and the sleeve of her turtleneck exposed open wounds. They didn’t appear deep from what I saw, but blood soaked through the fabric. I fixed her hand securely over the wound.
“Keep pressure on it,” I instructed.
She nodded with wide eyes darting beyond the bench. It had been a sucker shot, but I couldn’t figure out how the guy had gotten close enough to take it. I closed my eyes for a second. He must have been watching us, waiting for an opening. I was too distracted to notice him.
“Hold on,” I told Emma. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
“Help her,” Emma grunted using what little strength she had to push me.
My body ached to leap in and join the brawl before the first injured man healed and bounced up again. Warring parts of my brain told me to fight and to stay the hell away from that glowing blade. It clanked against the sword of the fighter, pulling away with an immense screeching. Claíomh Solais was clean, even where she had plunged it right through the stomach of one of the attackers. I froze, weighed down by the past and the horror of the incandescent weapon. I couldn’t let Emma know that. How weak would I look if Triona or Amanda learned a memory had the power to paralyze me?
“She doesn’t need my help. You, on the other hand…” I lifted Emma’s arm to my shoulder and caught her under her armpit, heaving her up. Her lungs forced out an involuntary groan in protest at the movement.
The woman lashed out again, spinning with the momentum and rising into the air. She grunted strenuously as she hit a tree trunk in a running leap and came down at her attacker from above as he lashed out with claw-like nails. The blade entered below his clavicle and split him open all the way to his belly, deeper this time than before. The sword rebounded spotlessly clean and sparkling. I wasn’t the least bit shocked to see blood ooze from the man where he held himself loosely around his abdomen, instead of on the weapon that slayed him.
His own sword dropped from his hand and clattered to the pathway as the woman looked on panting. The Sword of Light remained held aloft and ready to strike again. There was clearly no need for her to ready another assault. The assailant in front of her was done for. My guess was she had sliced his heart in two.
He fell hard to his knees, and a lightning bolt shaped crack shot out on the ground from the point of impact. Swaying for a moment, his eyes looked downward before he collapsed to the ground.
The other man struggled to his feet. Blood covered his jaw, and the stench of copper and salt permeated the air. My stomach heaved.
The woman swung the sword above her head as though to strike him down again. He cowered beneath her, holding up empty hands to convey his surrender.
“Leave. Now!” She stepped nearer and kicked his sword to him.
The man wrapped trembling fingers around the hilt and scuttled across the ground to his fallen comrade. I watched in disbelief that any of this was happening, as he placed his palm on the other man’s chest, and they both vanished into cloud of smoke and dissipated to nothing.
“What the hell?” Emma said.
Only the most powerful and oldest of Guardians had the power to travel in that form.
Emma winced in pain when I moved her. I inched out in front. My nails had extended to glassy, blade-sharp talons, and an animalistic growl rumbled in my chest. Instinct to protect Emma bubbled up, at last overpowering my
fear.
The woman lowered the Sword of Light and straightened up, although her feet remained slightly parted for balance. Her shoulders rose and fell with each tense breath she sucked in. The tendons in her wrist strained from her grip on the deadly weapon in her hand.
Emma yanked at my sleeve for attention and edged to my side. I raised one hand, restraining her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her place her hand against her wound again. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something. I shushed her to prevent her inadvertently revealing something in front of this stranger. In response, Emma’s eyebrows drew down in an almighty scowl. Even in pain the girl was fearless, admirably calm, and so remarkably unlike her brother had been at Tara. Her lips closed tightly to the point that the faded red paled to white. Emma had shown a profound curiosity since we’d met and yet said nothing when she spotted my clawed nails, though her eyes widened to saucers.
I concentrated, imagining my will as ribbons of smoke reaching out. The wispy streams circled Emma’s head, closing in and suggesting she should remain quiet.
As if to break the tension, my cell rang.
Silvery moonlight filtering through tangled branches highlighted the woman’s profile. She wore dark pants and a tight fitted top ending at her midriff. Flat boots came up to her knees, all made of soft, aged leather that molded to her curves. Her exposed arms and a stomach glistened with sweat, evaporating on her heated flesh and slithering into the chilled air like a ghostly fog. The loose, darkened hair around her temple stuck to the perspiration on her flushed cheeks. It didn’t make sense—the woman appeared utterly spent. A Guardian wouldn’t tire so easily. The entire episode had lasted a few short minutes.
“We need to get out of here,” she panted. “The park is closed now, but we can’t risk exposure.”
I stepped forward warily, supporting Emma and still keeping her back. I hoped she would continue to cooperate. “Who are you?”
“We don’t have time for this, Ben. There may be more of them. There will certainly be humans.”
My eyes widened, taken aback by her use of my name.
“The sword?” I struggled to hide the waver in my voice. If she knew me, she would also know what the question meant.
“It’s mine.”
“That’s impossible. I saw it destr—”
“The sword is mine, Ben Pryor. I will explain, but we have to leave this place now.”
Emma let out a small whine. I suspected she’d tried her best to hold it back. I hated to admit that the woman was right. Emma’s wound wasn’t life threatening but she needed to have it seen to.
“Tell me who you are first.”
The woman sighed deeply. Her stomach sucked in, making a space between the band of her leather pants and her pale hips before she sheathed the sword in the scabbard tied to her body. The moment she released the hilt, the blade dimmed. The light slowly faded to nothing and left us in almost darkness. She turned, and I saw her face for the first time.
My breath hitched—her eyes exuded a penetrating sadness. Even so, beauty radiated from her exquisite alabaster skin. A pale flush created perfect contrast to the amber in her eyes, and long dark eyelashes cast shadows over carved cheekbones. Her body was pure sleek muscle, almost cat-like—a body honed for motion.
“My name is Guinevere. Now, can we please get out of here?”
Chapter 8
Lady of the Lake
“I UNDERSTAND YOU MUST have questions,” Guinevere said.
“Damn right I have questions.” I had taken my coat off to cover Emma’s bleeding arm and I still carried the chill from the night air. It prickled across the damp skin on the back of my neck.
Once cleaned up, the long slashes were superficial, suggesting Emma moved out of the attacker’s reach just in time to avoid serious injury. We had left John to apply bandages while Triona and I joined Guinevere in the upstairs dining room.
Triona’s hand came down on my shoulder as she passed, and her fingers squeezed to quiet me. She offered the glass of water in her other hand to the woman sitting at the head of the table. Guinevere accepted it with a grateful nod.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, and we can go from there. The sword, where did you get it?” Triona asked in an even tone. I questioned what smoldering emotions her calm exterior kept locked away.
Guinevere’s hand moved to the hilt of the sword as if it was an automatic response to confirm it was still there, but her fingers never touched it. Instead, they returned to the glass, skimming the forming condensation. “The sword is mine. It has been for almost as long as I can remember.”
“How can that be? We saw it destroyed,” I asked, ignoring Triona’s pointed glare telling me to keep my mouth shut.
My already waning patience got the better of me, and I reached out with my mind, hoping to impart the need to hurry this.
Guinevere’s head snapped in my direction. “I assure you that your influence won’t work with me.” Her hard tone indicated she wasn’t at all amused.
“Ben!” Triona admonished.
“I’m trying to help,” I bit back.
Guinevere’s eyes lowered so her long eyelashes fluttered against her cheek with the rapid movement behind her eyelids. The muscles at the edge of her jaw twitched. She inhaled a deep breath, and the water rippled from the tremors of her fingertips on the glass. Her pale complexion tinged with pink.
“Please forgive me. I have never shared my story with another living soul. It’s…difficult.”
“Of course,” Triona said and narrowed her eyes at me.
I held my hands up and shrugged, conceding defeat for the moment. This woman was carrying a powerful weapon, and my instincts screamed theories that made no sense. John came into the room followed by Amanda and Emma.
His sister’s hand settled in a comforting gesture against his upper back. She followed him to sit on the other side of the table beside Triona. Amanda took a seat next to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek quickly.
Finally, after several more deep breaths, Guinevere lifted her head. Her bright amber eyes flashed around the table as if she hadn’t heard the others enter. Strange that she hadn’t noticed people approaching, considering she had obviously been trained to fight.
“I’m not like any of you,” she began. “I was born human, but I am a true immortal. As long as I carry my sword, I cannot die.”
Amanda’s small hand tightened on mine under the table, preempting the questions I was deeply tempted to start firing. No one else so much as blinked. The unusual and bizarre seemed to have become part of our lives—what was a little immortality added to the mix?
“My sword is sister to Claíomh Solais, both forged in the fires of a goddess.” She smiled a little toward me, guessing at least one of my questions. “The first was Claíomh Solais. You knew it as the Sword of Nuada or perhaps the Sword of Light?”
Triona nodded in response, hardly moving her head, and Guinevere continued.
“The second came years later. When Brigid forged the first sword, she created an imbalance, something never meant to exist. A weapon so powerful and deadly it decimated everything she loved, and with that she opened a new destiny. The sword couldn’t be destroyed until that destiny played out as it did in Tara. So instead, she fled and hid the sword where she believed no one would find it. Not even her.
For many years she lived in hiding, and then I came along. I was orphaned by disease, and I would have succumbed or starved if she hadn’t taken me in. She cared for me, and she raised me. Brigid feared the imbalance she had created in the world, but she feared for me more. So she did the only thing she believed she could.”
“She made another sword,” Triona cut in. Deep frown lines etched across her forehead, and I noted the almost indiscernible jerk of her arm. As John’s arm stretched out, I realized he had taken her hand just as Amanda had taken mine.
“Yes.” Guinevere pressed her lips together before taking a sip of her drink. Her eyes remained downcast wh
en she spoke again. “She tempered the new sword with love, strength, and grace. It’s a normal sword in the hands of anyone but the Keeper, but cannot be destroyed, even by you.” Her amber eyes met Triona’s.
Triona inhaled sharply. My nerves vibrated under my skin. My muscles twitched. Danger radiated from this woman. I shifted in my seat, using my body to block Amanda until she tugged on my sleeve, unimpressed. My lungs strained to breathe easy so I wouldn’t let Guinevere see the extent of my suspicion. Though everyone seemed anxious to welcome her into the fold, I still wasn’t convinced of her motives.
“The sword was created for me, and so I was chosen as the Keeper. I claimed it as mine.”
“Chosen by whom?” John asked, and I was glad at the note of disbelief in his voice.
“By gatekeepers of the Otherworld, those who see everything.” She said it as if it was something that we should know already and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Her hands were so slim, delicate, and graceful in the movement. There was an air of ageless elegance about her that didn’t match the leathers and deadly weapon hanging from her waist. “Do you think when we are gone from this world, we are really gone? That we no longer influence those who come after?”
No one answered.
“There are those in the Otherworld who guide us and protect us. Their reach is long. They can’t make us do anything, but they can influence.”
I shuddered as a faded memory skirted my consciousness, like a washed-out and scratched photo. I saw my mother and father, felt their arms around me. They saved Amanda and extended her natural life. There was something else too. Something I couldn’t remember.
Guinevere sighed wearily, gazing at the polished wood of the table as if a scene played out before her eyes. Her finger skimmed over the surface like she was disturbing water, the way someone might create ripples to distort a reflection.
“I didn’t know the full consequences of the task I accepted. I don’t believe Brigid did either.”
“You mean immortality?” Triona asked.
“Yes and no. I understood the immortality part. The sword is tied to this world and ties the Keeper to this world. I would have no place in the Otherworld and so can’t die. I must walk the earth until another is chosen. You must believe me—immortality sounds wonderful in theory, until you have to watch those you love in each generation die. Then it becomes a curse. It doesn’t take long to stop caring for anyone or anything.”