He lifted his eyes back to Hain’s. “Stay with her until I return.”
“I shall, my brother,” the other man vowed.
With a lingering glance at Rylie, Donovan turned and left the clearing.
The wall of noise blasted into him the moment he stepped away from the sanctuary of the well. He clutched his hands to his ears and stumbled aimlessly for a moment through the eerie half-light. Then he stopped,drew in a ragged breath, and closed his eyes. Ignoring the noise and the cold, he brought the image of the big warrior into his mind, concentrating on every detail he could remember—tangled black hair hanging below his wide shoulders, glittering blue eyes, green and ochre paint swirling over his massive bare arms and chest.
When he opened his eyes a few moments later, Ro stood in front of him, round shield in his left hand, long sword in his right. Scary as Rylie had described.
Donovan released his breath and dropped his hands from his ears. All around him had gone deathly calm and quiet, even the pounding of his own heart.
Ro cocked his head to one side, the light and shadows flickering over his face so that he appeared by turns real and a spectral apparition. He studied Donovan for a moment before he spoke. “You are ready then, my brother?”
“I am.” Donovan glanced down and saw the same shadows casting him as both his bedraggled self and as a Celtic warrior, armed and decorated like Ro. They existed in both realms. “I intend to find the man who hurt my woman.”
The big warrior’s teeth gleamed in a feral grin. “We shall hunt him down like the animal he is.”
“He’s close by then?” Donovan could feel the same primitive urges for retribution and blood vengeance gripping him.
Ro nodded. “I have watched him. He seeks for you and your wee golden lass. He will not be hard to find.”
Donovan tested the weight of the sword and the shield in his hands. “Then let us hunt, my brother.”
Chapter 16
RO’S ASSESSMENT PROVED CORRECT. DONOVAN GUESSED that he and the big warrior crept stealthily through the muddy undergrowth for less than fifteen minutes before they heard Lynch bellowing.
“Give it up, O’Shea!” The police inspector’s voice reverberated through the dark, heavy mist. “I know you’re here! Give it up and I’ll let her live.”
How very fecking generous.
“Why does he think I’m there?” Donovan’s lips twisted with scorn. Beside him, Ro’s expression looked equally contemptuous, as if he knew his thoughts.
“Because I laid down a trail even a child could follow. One that went in a circle, which that one failed to notice.” Even though whispered, his response sounded derisive. “Shall we drive him before us into the lough? Let the spirits in the water and the eels have him?”
Tempting as the idea sounded, Donovan shook his head. Forcing Lynch into the lough still left the possibility, however slight, that he might escape. And Donovan intended for him to have no such opportunity. “I shall confront him.”
“He still has the fire stick,” Ro reminded. “The thing that hurt your wee lass.”
The mention of Rylie’s bullet wound made Donovan grind his teeth with pent-up fury. “Then we need to get it away from him, don’t we?”
“Indeed we do,” said his companion with a deadly grin. With purpose they moved toward the sound of Lynch’s shouting. Donovan searched his memory to count the number of times Lynch had fired his gun. Five? Six? Perhaps all they needed to do was make the inspector fire all his rounds. If the gun had been full when he started. And if he had no more ammunition.
Shite! Disarm him, then.
“Come out, O’Shea!” Lynch shouted again into the mist. “I know I hit one of you. I saw the blood.”
Donovan was hard-pressed not to rush him, hack him to bits with the heavy sword his warrior self carried. Instead, he caught his breath and sought to summon the power Hain claimed he possessed. With slow deliberation, he channeled all his fury and vengeful need into a single sharp focus. He scarcely noticed the throbbing pain in his temples.
The weird twilight from the clearing began to glow around him and Ro. Tendrils of it spread like vines around Lynch and the scrubby bushes where he stood. And with it came the sounds of drums and war horns. Shadowy shapes of other warriors moved in the flickering light.
Lynch crouched and spun in a slow circle, his pistol gripped tightly in his hand. “O’Shea? What the hell kind of parlor trick are you trying to pull?”
“’Tis Samhain,” Donovan called out as he and Ro moved closer. “And you hold no sway here.”
“Like hell I don’t!” Lynch declared, and squeezed the trigger.
But the recoil sounded muted, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly through the air. With another curse, Lynch fired a second, equally ineffectual shot.
“Steady,” Ro hissed. “Crowd him from the left. ’Tis his weak side.”
The instinctual, primitive part of Donovan echoed Ro’s words and recognized his enemy’s vulnerabilities. As he followed the movements of his fierce companion, the throbbing in Donovan’s head moved beyond pain into something less tangible but far more potent. He felt it growing, pulsating through every part of him, spreading out across the fens.
His eyes moved from Ro to himself, and to the moving shadows of other warriors all around them. Donovan wasn’t exactly sure what Lynch could see, but whatever it was, sent the man stumbling backward, his gun no longer gripped at the ready. Donovan and his companions followed in a bizarre kind of dance.
“I must’ve hit her, didn’t I?” Lynch’s tone of bravado now sounded strained, as if the weird surroundings frayed his nerves. “Too bad. I’m betting she’s a sweet little piece. If she hasn’t bled to death, maybe I can still find out.”
The words caused Donovan’s control to slip a fraction in the flash of his rage. A white-hot surge lashed from him and shook the trees and bushes with momentary ferocity, rendering everything else into an eerie silence. The fens and all within them held a collective breath and waited.
Lynch would never touch Rylie. On any plane of existence. With every bone and sinew focused on his adversary, Donovan pressed silently closer. His control balanced on the edge of his sword blade.
“I’ll let you watch, shall I?” Lynch boasted to the empty air. “Like when you were a wee lad. Did you watch your mother and Malachy Flynn?”
With a roar, Donovan hurled himself at the other man. Forgetting about weapons, Donovan tackled him low, throwing Lynch off balance. The gun flew from the inspector's grasp as he toppled backward. Amid unearthly rumblings and shrieks from the surrounding brush, the two rolled over and over fighting like wild beasts.
Donovan felt the satisfying crunch of bone and the spurt of blood as his fist smashed Lynch’s nose. While his enemy pummeled at Donovan’s ribs, he landed a solid blow to Lynch’s jaw that snapped his head back.
The muddy earth shuddered beneath them as they thrashed, and the noises grew louder. Donovan straightened to his knees, his hands closed around Lynch’s throat. With Donovan’s thumbs digging into the inspector’s windpipe, his face purpled. His arms flayed as he tried to break Donovan’s deadly hold.
Any satisfaction Donovan felt disappeared in the next instant when Lynch brought his knee up hard and fast between his legs. Donovan crumpled with a wheezing groan. His enemy lunged and Donovan went over backward. Then they were both rolling on the ground again, each struggling for dominance.
Donovan felt his arm entangle in something stringy. He glanced down at a long length of twine twisted around his wrist and realized where they were a half-second before they tumbled into one of Sybil and McRory’s excavations. He landed face down with Lynch on top of him.
Even with the breath momentarily knocked from his lungs, Donovan felt his leg twist in an unnatural angle and pain shot through his knee. Concentration broken, he gasped and sucked in a mouthful of muddy water.
His strangled cough alerted Lynch to his advantage. With a roar of triumph, he smashed Donovan’
s face into the muck that had accumulated in the bottom of the hole. Donovan fought madly for air, shoving and writhing. His enemy eased up just long enough for Donovan to draw in half a breath. Then Lynch’s knee crashed down on the back of his neck and he pinioned one of Donovan’s arms, twisting it across his back.
The blood pounding in Donovan’s ears drowned out the other sounds, while his bursting lungs screamed for air. He couldn’t think clearly enough to summon Ro or any other help. And he felt his consciousness slipping. Knew when he lost it he was dead.
Rylie floated in and out of awareness, alternating between cold black oblivion and red throbbing pain. Then a gunshot snapped awareness through her fogged brain, followed quickly by a second shot.
“Donovan?” she cried out, struggling to sit up.
Though the pain made her gasp for breath, her adrenaline-laced fear kept her upright, braced on her good arm. The tall, robed specter leaned over her, his voice and features equally blurred.
All around, unearthly silence loomed in the moist, chilly air. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
“Have to . . . find . . . Donovan!” she gritted out, pulling her legs under her. Pain left her voice unsteady. “Lynch . . . might . . . kill him!”
The Druid must have understood, for a long arm extended down to her. Holding her breath, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist. He clasped her forearm with both his hands and hauled her to her feet.
In spite of her best efforts, a whimper escaped her tightly drawn lips. A starburst of pain from her injured arm made her sway, but she was determined not to fall back down.
She must find Donovan!
With the Druid’s hand under her arm for support, Rylie forced herself to shuffle forward. A wall of noise engulfed her as soon as her feet slipped beyond the smooth green moss of the clearing. Suddenly, all the demons from hell screeched and beat on drums, or maybe each other. Even the ground vibrated with fury. The racket sounded like nothing in this world, and spurred her to a greater urgency.
Donovan needed her.
Panting, she struggled to keep up as the Druid pulled her along. Shadowy shapes moved through the rustling trees and bushes. The Druid paused and she bumped into him, the jolt sending an excruciating wave of pain through her upper body and bringing tears to her eyes.
Digging her fingers into his arm, she blinked hard, unwilling to waste any energy on crying.
The Druid turned to her, his expression unreadable in the flickering light, but tension quivered through his arm. He spoke and she could make out two words, “fell spirits.” Rylie followed his dark gaze and saw eerie light gathering above a mound of freshly dug dirt.
But it was the commotion on the nearby ground that snagged her attention. A writhing mass grunted and thrashed. In the wavering twilight, she strained to make out two grappling figures just as they rolled to the lip of the hole and crashed down into it.
The instant they fell, a blood-curdling howl shook the air and the Druid disappeared. Without his arm for support, Rylie crumpled to the ground. She managed to break her fall with her good arm, while over her head the terrible wailing continued. Unable to stand, she hobbled forward on her knees, her usable hand groping the earth in front of her.
As she inched closer to the hole, her fingers encountered something metallic. She closed it in her grasp and knew what it was. Lynch’s gun!
Frantic now, Rylie scrambled a half-dozen yards, dragging the gun with her. In her quest, she doggedly ignored the incessant noise and the pain in her arm. Through the yellowish light, she saw Lynch’s head bob above the top of the hole. He wasn’t facing her, but she recognized his pale hair.
No sign of Donovan.
Her pulse pounded loud enough in her ears to override some of the noise. She pulled the heavy pistol into her lap, and wondered how she could fire it effectively with one hand.
From what her stepfather had long ago taught her, she could see that the safety was off, and since it was a semi-automatic, all she had to do was aim and pull the trigger. If only it were that simple. The thing weighed a ton. And the recoil would be downright ugly.
Settling her left leg under her, Rylie brought her right up close to her chest, knee bent to help brace her arm. The pistol wobbled and she fought to hold it in place.
Time seemed to stop.
Lynch straightened more fully, his left shoulder looming even with her line of vision. Willing her hand steady, she tightened her grip, aimed and squeezed the trigger.
Her hand jerked so roughly she dropped the weapon, and the simultaneous bang momentarily deafened her. With a sickening heave of her stomach, she saw Lynch jerk and then fall. She’d never shot at anything but a paper target. Trembling, she crawled close enough to peer into the hole.
Lynch’s body pitched onto its side as, coughing and gagging, Donovan struggled from beneath. He rose to his knees, covered in mud and blood.
Alive!
He was the most beautiful sight Rylie had ever seen. She tried to call to him, but with the horrific din still going on and her own voice so damnably weak, he probably couldn’t hear her. But somehow he did, for he turned his head and made eye contact.
Her heart gave a strong thump.
She had to get him out!
She reached her shaking hand toward him, only to have him swivel his head aside. Confused, she followed Donovan’s gaze.
Two spectral beings hovered over the pit. One of them bore a distinct resemblance to Professor McRory, but with the side of his head blown away. The scream of terror rushed up her throat.
Donovan’s head snapped up and he sucked in a swift, blessed breath of air. Lynch’s heavy body falling across him cut short the second draw. Fortunately the first inhale revived him enough to struggle, and he met no resistance from his enemy.
Gasping in great drafts of air and coughing out mud, Donovan shoved the inert form aside. Warm sticky fluid ran down his hand. The inspector bled profusely from a wound in his shoulder.
Stunned, Donovan sat up and looked for his rescuer. Rylie’s head and shoulders materialized near the edge of the pit. Her injured left arm hugged tight against her side. As her gaze met his, she stretched her good arm toward him.
Beside him, Lynch shifted and at the same time, a terrible howl overrode the other noises assaulting his ears. Donovan jerked his eyes upward and beheld a grisly sight.
Just over his head loomed Malachy Flynn and Aongus McRory. The dark stain of dried blood covered Flynn’s abdomen, while one side of McRory’s head sported a bloody, gaping hole.
Stomach heaving in revulsion, Donovan flinched aside. Then he heard a scream that must be Rylie’s. He scrambled toward her and tried to stand. But pain shot through his left knee the moment he put weight on it and he crumpled back to the muddy floor of the pit.
By now, Lynch had regained his senses and cowered against the wall opposite the gruesome wraiths. A moan of mingled pain and fright issued from his lips.
Both dreadful beings regarded him.
“Traitor!” accused Flynn.
“Murderer!” pronounced McRory.
Their voices grated and growled like the unholy creatures they were. Lynch yelped in reply, a terrified, cornered animal. Donovan could almost feel sorry for the man, except he knew him to be guilty of both those crimes and more.
Taking advantage of Lynch being the momentary center of attention, Donovan hauled himself toward Rylie. He clawed his way to the top of the hole, the pain in his knee rendering his left leg useless. She gave him as much assistance as she could, but even her good arm was weak, undoubtedly from shock and blood loss. Still coughing and wheezing, he collapsed next to her. She pulled his head into her lap and examined him.
“Where are you hurt?” she whispered close to his ear.
“Only my knee.” But as he sought to reassure her, her eyes widened with panic and she caught her breath.
Donovan twisted around and saw Lynch levitating out of the pit in the grasp of the two specters. Flynn’s long bony finge
rs closed around his throat. McRory gripped Lynch’s uninjured shoulder. The police inspector gave a strangled cry as his captors shook him like a rag doll.
And when the ghastly pair were through with their victim, Donovan knew with dread certainty that he and Rylie were next.
He couldn’t walk unaided and doubted Rylie could either, so Donovan rolled over in order to crawl.
“Come on,” he urged her, but she seemed too terror-stricken to move. “Rylie, sweetheart, you can do it.”
By tugging on her uninjured arm, he coaxed her to turn away from the pit. They’d only gone a dozen meters when she stopped with a strangled sob, tugged her hand free, and covered her eyes. He’d been so intent on dragging himself over the mushy ground that he hadn’t looked up. But now he did, and saw the hideous form of Malachy Flynn hovering in front of them.
Black, hollow eyes fixed on Donovan’s face, and the long bony hand grasped his shirtfront. With inhuman strength, Flynn hauled him upright and snarled, “You misbegotten bastard! You should never have been born.”
Ignoring the pain in his leg and gathering his strength, Donovan focused on calling Hain and Ro to him. But a shout and a gunshot shattered his concentration.
The bullet passed harmlessly through the apparition, though it did release its hold. Staggering to remain upright, Donovan saw Rylie on her knees, the pistol quavering in her hand.
Flynn’s blackened lips drew back and a repulsive laugh issued from them. “She would kill to protect you, just as your mother did.”
Rational thought abandoned Donovan, and the image of his mother leapt into his mind. Only this was no longer a vision inside his head. From out of the mist, his mother stood tall and proud as an Ulster warrior woman of legend. Her dark hair blew about her shoulders, the butcher knife clenched firmly in her hand, confronting Flynn.
“I never got over you, Moira. Not even after all these years.” No longer the risen spirit, the mortal Malachy Flynn reached a long finger toward her hair. His soft voice cajoled, “I’ve come to take you away with me. Somewhere the bleedin’ Provos and feckin’ Scotland Yard will never find us.”
The Wild Sight Page 23