The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  Her face a mask of hatred, Moira spat at him. Her vehemence made Donovan draw back right along with Flynn. “I’d not walk through the Pearly Gates themselves if I had to go with you.”

  Disbelief and anger raced across Flynn’s features. “Don’t be daft! O’Shea’s never given you anything and never will. I’ve money enough to go anywhere you like, buy anything you like. I’ll even let you bring the boy, since I know he’s mine.”

  “He’s no more yours than I am. My love, my heart is Dermot’s, as his is mine, in spite of what you tried to do.”

  Her words inflamed Flynn’s fury. He raised clenched fists as if he might strike her. The gesture spiked Donovan’s own ire, but before he could move, Flynn spoke. “I’ll take your daughter then. She’s almost grown and resembles you enough—”

  She snapped at that.

  “You shall lay not a finger on me and mine, ye Connacht devil!” she shrieked, swinging the knife in a low deadly arc.

  Donovan’s own rage fractured at the same moment.

  But instead of shattering, his control solidified into deadly ice. His focus narrowed to Malachy Flynn.

  “Stop!” he commanded, and the lethal tableau before him dissolved.

  The ghastly presence of Flynn reappeared and flickered between his living and phantom personas. The sword of Donovan’s warrior self suddenly wavered in his own hand. He thrust the point at his enemy’s throat. “Go back into the grave where she put you.”

  Once again, abhorrent laughter gurgled from the twisted mouth. “You can’t kill what’s already dead,” he mocked, and vanished.

  “Donovan!” He heard Rylie’s cry as his knee buckled and, swordless again, he crashed to the muddy earth.

  He felt her small hand clutching his arm in a vain attempt to help him rise. Gulping down the pain, anger and fear, he squeezed his eyes shut and focused as hard as he could.

  Hain . . . Ro . . . Help me!

  A dozen labored heartbeats later, his efforts were rewarded, for he felt firm hands beneath his armpits. When he opened his eyes, his long-time companions stood on either side, supporting him. The twin parts of his nature, healer and warrior. The parts he’d tried for so long to suppress.

  “Can you walk, Dony?” Hain asked anxiously.

  Donovan shook his head. “Not unaided.”

  “You and your wee golden lass must flee this place,” Ro added with equal concern. “Before the dire spirits return.” The Druid helped Donovan balance on his uninjured leg while the big warrior assisted Rylie.

  “No need to weep,” Ro soothed as if she was a small child, and he lifted her just as easily too.

  Once Ro stood her on her feet, Rylie panted, “Are you all right, Donovan?”

  She reached for him. Nodding, Donovan extended his hand and their fingertips brushed.

  “Lean on this.” The Druid thrust a dead tree branch into his hand.

  Donovan leaned his weight onto it, and the branch immediately bent and cracked. He fell heavily against Hain, and they both nearly tumbled to the ground. Rylie reached for him again, in an effort to help him stay upright.

  Ro picked up a much larger branch and hacked off several smaller limbs with his sword. “Try this, then.”

  It was nearly as big around as his wrist and so heavy Donovan had to grip it with both hands. It easily held his weight, but was awkward to maneuver. Nevertheless, it was far better than crawling.

  “Go!” Ro ordered, hefting his sword into a fighting position. “I’ll see that the enemy does not catch you.”

  With a brief nod, Hain supported Rylie’s uninjured arm and turned to obey.

  The sudden sense that he would never see the big warrior again washed across Donovan’s harried mind. He shifted his hold on his improvised crutch and searched Ro’s bearded face for confirmation.

  “Farewell, my brother,” he whispered, but the other man melted away into the fens without a reply.

  Making an ungainly turn, Donovan struggled after Hain and Rylie. The branch sank into the muddy ground and stuck every few steps. He had to keep wrenching it free, so his progress was damnably slow. Though the other two didn’t move much faster, they moved steadily ahead.

  At last he recognized the burned trunk of the beech tree and knew they were near the edge of the fens. The nightmare was almost over. But the tiny sprig of hope didn’t have a chance to fully form before it was dashed.

  A dozen meters ahead, the specter of Aongus McRory hovered over the dried grass. Only this was a McRory he’d never seen but for more than a glimpse. No Celtic warrior, but a deadly enemy, a Norseman. His legs were laced in leather, and a fleece jerkin covered his chest. Black images of fanged serpents encircled his bare arms, and he held a rough club with metal spikes protruding from one end.

  “Stop!” he ordered. “The woman stays here with me.”

  Frantically, Donovan hobbled forward as he watched Hain step in front of Rylie.

  “She does not belong to you,” Hain pronounced.

  Fingering his club, McRory scowled. “Nor is she yours, Druid.”

  “Knock it off!” Rylie popped from behind Hain with more energy than she’d displayed in hours. “You already have two women. Leave me alone!”

  “But darlin’, ’tis you I want. And have since the moment I laid eyes on you.” McRory drawled in his familiar smarmy tone. Then the Norse warrior snapped back into place. “And you I shall take.”

  In that split second when Donovan watched the professor slide between personas, he knew what he must do. Tossing aside the branch, he staggered the remaining distance and leaned possessively against Rylie’s good shoulder.

  “No!” he shouted. “She is mine!” Then he murmured close to her ear, “As soon as I distract him, run.”

  “Single combat, then,” McRory challenged.

  “No!” Rylie contradicted. She eyed both him and McRory with equal contempt, though beneath his hand, Donovan felt her tremble. “I’m not a prize in some barbaric he-man game.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m afraid that’s exactly what you are.” Donovan rasped, fighting against the pain in his leg. “This is not civilized Professor McRory, but his blood-thirsty Viking predecessor we’re dealing with.”

  He closed his eyes against her further protests. In some distant corner of his brain, he couldn’t escape the idea that by calling forth this unknown power of his, he'd loosed these dreadful spirits, too. How else could he explain the appearance of Flynn, then his mother? And now this?

  Even though the professor had seemed friendly enough, Donovan never much cared for McRory. Some gut-level instinct had recognized an adversary. Now, in this strangely altered reality between the living and the dead, McRory had emerged as an ancient and most deadly foe. One who must be reckoned with on the same plane. Warrior against warrior.

  Out of options, Donovan reached inward for those elemental parts of himself, felt the trappings of civilization fall away, and in their place the familiar weight of sword and shield. When he opened his eyes a moment later, Hain’s worried gaze met his.

  “You are weakened, Dony.” Grim lines bracketed the Druid’s mouth. “In body and spirit.”

  Unable to deny the truth of his friend’s words, Donovan answered, “I’ll manage.” Then he turned to Rylie, who seemed shocked speechless by his altered appearance. “Run for the car. Break the window and call for help on my cell phone. ’Tis our only chance.”

  He knew if he’d said “your only chance” she wouldn’t go. Malachy Flynn’s taunt echoed inside his head, You can’t kill what’s already dead. All he could do was try to save Rylie. His love. His heart.

  “Single combat, O’Shea!” McRory demanded again. “Winner takes all.”

  “Let me give you what strength I have,” Hain murmured. He bent and wrapped both hands around Donovan’s knee and muttered an incantation. Donovan felt heat and power flowing up his leg and into his gut.

  “Stop, that’s enough,” he hissed at his friend, and tilted his chin towar
d Rylie. “Give her whatever you have left.” In spite of her recent bravado, she looked decidedly unsteady on her feet. Donovan feared she might not be able to cover the distance from here to the cottage and the parked car.

  But she must. He was certain if the raging Norseman who was McRory got hold of her, death wouldn’t come soon enough.

  Hain dropped his hands and rose to his full height. A look of understanding passed between the two of them. Then the Druid placed one hand on Rylie’s left shoulder and the other on her forehead. Closing his eyes, his lips moved. Rylie’s mouth flew open in surprise, though she made no sound.

  Donovan hefted his sword in his hand, and muttered, “Get ready to run.”

  As he dropped his hands and stepped behind her, Hain vanished. With a shout, Donovan launched himself at McRory.

  The sudden ferocious attack caught his enemy off-guard. He barely raised the club in time to fend off Donovan’s first blow. Then he had to continue using the weapon for a shield as Donovan thrust and slashed repeatedly, driving him backward toward the fens.

  From the corner of his vision, Donovan saw Rylie streak around them in the direction of safety. But McRory saw her too, and turned with a bellow of rage. Donovan lunged for his unprotected side, felt his blade hit a rib, and saw the dark stain spread across McRory’s jerkin.

  The Norseman howled with pain and fury. Then grabbing his weapon with both hands, he brought it down with enough force to shatter Donovan’s grip and knock the blade from his hand. Gasping from the shock of the blow, Donovan instinctively raised his own shield to block the next.

  McRory rained three more successive, jarring blows before Donovan realized he could use the metal decorated slab of wood in a counter attack. Like McRory, he used both hands and swung the shield at his opponent’s face.

  When that didn’t work, he shifted his target to the metal spikes on the end of the club. On the third pass, his adversary embedded the metal points deep into the center of the wooden shield. With a powerful twist, Donovan wrenched the club from McRory’s hands.

  Heaving the shield and club to the ground, Donovan drew the long dagger from his sword belt. But McRory already had his own knife clenched in his fist and slashed a glancing blow to Donovan’s shoulder. Ignoring the sudden sear of pain, Donovan swung his knife low, slicing through the leather covering McRory’s thigh, leaving another blood trail.

  His enemy gave ground, and the two of them crouched into a deadly dance of feint, thrust, and parry. Panting, they circled slowly, each searching for an advantage and finding none.

  Time seemed to stretch out into an eternity. Then everything happened in a rush. Donovan’s heel came down on the hilt of his fallen sword. Thrown off balance, he staggered and fell, dropping his dagger. Rolling quickly onto his side, he felt the rush of air as McRory’s knife hacked the air directly in front of his face. He lashed back with his bare arm, momentarily knocking his enemy aside.

  Jerking to his knees, Donovan groped the ground under him for his weapon. Above him, he watched McRory raise his blade to deliver the blow that would end his life.

  Chapter 17

  RYLIE SPRINTED AROUND THE TWO BATTLING WARRIORS. Whatever spell Donovan’s friendly Druid had cast on her seemed to have replaced her pain with pure raw energy. She felt like she could run all the way to Ballyneagh, or even Dungannon. Instead, she halted a safe distance and turned to watch.

  While she now stood in darkness, the weird twilight still illuminated the two figures and the misty presence of the fens beyond them. Though the horrible events of this night were all too real, her mind balked at accepting the supernatural explanations. And most of all, she couldn’t understand this crazy fight between Donovan and McRory with her as the prize.

  It wasn’t like she would stand meekly by to be claimed by the winner, and both men knew that. Didn’t they?

  Where had all this sudden enmity come from?

  And how could this be happening?

  But it was. She edged her way back toward them for a better view. The ring of metal forcefully striking wood made her cringe and grind her back teeth together as she ventured even closer. Light and shadows played over the two combatants so that they appeared by turns modern and barbaric. Like the enormous, friendly warrior, Donovan sported little more than a sword, shield, and body paint. McRory wasn’t wearing a whole lot more: a sleeveless tunic and some leather tied at his waist and wrapped around his legs.

  While Rylie watched in numb fascination, he knocked Donovan’s sword to the ground with a vicious blow from the ugly spiked club he wielded. She bit back her cry of alarm as Donovan smashed his shield into McRory’s face. Then with a few more well-executed swings, he hooked the club into the shield and disarmed his opponent.

  No, not disarmed.

  Without realizing she’d moved, she was close enough to see the yellow light glitter on knife blades in both men’s hands. Dark blood oozed from a gash in Donovan’s shoulder, and from McRory’s leg and side. Rylie forced down her urge to vomit, and continued to watch, mesmerized. She forgot to move, breathe as the two men slowly circled and lashed out at each other.

  Then Donovan faltered. He must have stepped on something for his foot shot from under him. She watched for a horror-stricken second as he stumbled onto the dead grass, and then she leapt. McRory swiped with his blade, and then drew back for a deadly stroke.

  Her own scream echoed in her ears, and she flung herself across Donovan’s body. A shield between him and McRory.

  “Rylie, no!”

  She heard Donovan shout, saw McRory jerk, and at the same instant, felt the tip of the dagger skid over her collarbone. Her breath wheezed in sharply with the sudden pain.

  But before she could exhale, Donovan’s hand came up and knocked hard into McRory’s, causing the dagger to fall from his grasp. Bright red blood welled across the back of Donovan’s hand, where he’d connected with the blade.

  Rylie gained her feet in unison with Donovan. McRory scrambled to retrieve his knife, and she planted her muddy sneaker firmly on top of it.

  “Stop!” she ordered. “You’re not animals! Just stop.”

  As if to belie her words, McRory bared his teeth in a snarl. “I claim you by the ancient creed of single combat.”

  “No!” Donovan denied.

  She laid a restraining hand on his arm, relieved to feel knitted fabric, though his appearance still flickered between modern and primeval, clothed and naked. The slash at the base of her neck burned like a long finger of flame.

  “It’s too late for that,” she told McRory, who also wavered between his two personas. The effect left her dizzy.

  “’Tis not,” he insisted, seizing her arm. “I’ve lost everything, my future, my life. But I shall have you, my Sidhe princess. And I’ll take you with me into my unholy grave.”

  Rylie snatched her hand back in revulsion. “No, Aongus, you won’t.” He blinked at the sound of his given name, so she pressed on in as reasonable a tone as she could muster. “Can’t you see? We’ll be just like Malachy and Moira. I love Donovan the way she loved Dermot, with all my heart and soul. And if you force yourself on me, I’ll hate you forever.”

  “Such things matter not to me.” He reached to reclaim her hand again, but Donovan stopped him.

  Blood dripped from his fingertips onto McRory’s arm, and splashed on the leg of her jeans. She swallowed hard to fight the woozy feeling rising up in her stomach.

  “I believe they do,” she insisted, swallowing again to steady her voice. She willed herself to ignore both the searing knife wound and the returning pain in her arm. “Because you know what it’s like to love and be loved. Brenna loved you, and so did Sybil. And that love will live on in your child.”

  “The child lives?” McRory suddenly solidified into a single image, the affable attractive professor Rylie had first met. His mild hazel eyes probed her for the truth. Momentarily robbed of breath by his transformation, she nodded. “Sybil loved the baby too much to get rid of it,” Donov
an affirmed in a hoarse whisper.

  In the rapidly fading light, he appeared strictly as his muddy, disheveled, bleeding self. Rylie grabbed the bottom of what remained of her ripped sweatshirt and pressed it against the wound on his hand.

  “Brenna will love the baby too,” she declared, marshaling her remaining strength. “Because it’s yours.” Then before McRory could protest, she added, “Just as Dermot loved Donovan.”

  Shadows darkened McRory’s once handsome face and turned it into the spectral apparition once more. Blackened fingernails dug into Rylie’s shoulder. “How is it you have all the answers?”

  “I—I don’t,” she replied, her arm throbbing. “I just have those.”

  “Give it up, Aongus,” Donovan urged. “We’re no longer between and ’tis almost dawn.”

  The gruesome being swiveled its head, and Rylie followed the sunken-eyed gaze to where gray light streaked the horizon.

  “I give you my word,” Donovan continued. “That I will see your body given a proper burial on hallowed ground.”

  A shudder rippled through McRory’s ruined body, and the hand gripping Rylie loosened and dropped to his side. She felt herself sway also. The Druid’s spell was fading fast.

  “And I’ll do all I can to see justice done,” Donovan finished.

  “No need,” said the apparition with a hideous twist of its mouth. Whether in pain or irony, Rylie couldn’t tell. “I’ve taken my own vengeance.”

  Donovan laid his undamaged hand on her shoulder in a gesture of both comfort and possession. His voice was reasonable but firm. “Then let it end here.”

  Breath held, Rylie watched the malevolent fire in McRory’s eyes move from Donovan’s face to his hand on her shoulder, and finally to her. For one awful, skin-crawling second, she thought he might turn back into the violent Norseman. Kill them both.

  “I’ll tell Brenna and Sybil how much you loved them,” she blurted.

  The loathsome creature stretched out its index finger and touched the bloody stain at the neck of her T-shirt. The dead flesh felt stiff and cold. Donovan’s grip on her tightened. She bit her bottom lip, not daring to move.