by Silver James
“You don’t understand.” Becca pleaded with them, her face ashen. “Abhean…he’s…he’s faerie. He is magic. The very definition of it. If he’s lost his…” Her voice trailed off and she unconsciously rubbed a spot over her heart. She didn’t like Abhean. In fact, most days she hated him. But for a fae to be stripped of his magic? For the world to lose the wonder that magic brought? It hurt her heart even to contemplate it. The world around her receded for a moment. Through a swirling fog, she glimpsed the standing stones, and beyond them, the misty blue mountains of Tir Nan Óg.
The conversation between two strangers standing nearby jerked Becca back again.
“Who’s the dude?”
“I heard his name is Venn McLyre.”
“He’s pretty good. Maybe we should get him to play the pub for Saint Paddy’s.”
Being who and what she was, she had an open path to the Land of Ever Young, but she held little fondness for the place. Turning to the nearest of the men, she asked, “Venn McLyre?”
“Yeah. He’s supposed to be Irish.”
Kieran snorted and Becca bit her lips to hide her smile. Venn McLyre was far more than that. The men left and she caught sight of familiar faces.
“Kieran? Isn’t that Senator O’Connor’s daughter?” She pointed to the pretty blonde standing beside a man with dark hair tied back in a queue. He was every bit as much the warrior as Kieran and Rory. They’d met the couple several years before when Kieran headed up a trade delegation.
“Aye, it is the lovely Moira and that hooligan she married.” Kieran waved and whistled sharply.
Duncan’s head jerked around, seeking the source of the sound. His face relaxed into a smile and he waved back. He leaned closer to Moira, speaking in her ear then led her over to join them. Introductions to Delaney and Rory were made and congratulations offered on the imminent birth of the Ross’s child. While the men sized each other up, Becca pulled Moira aside.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked without preamble.
“Yes. We saw him a couple of weeks ago. Playing to the crowd in the subway.” Moira glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “He doesn’t know who he is, Becca.” Her blue eyes swam with tears. “It breaks my heart.”
Becca nodded, understanding too well what Moira felt. She didn’t know the whole of the couple’s story, only that Abhean had played a role in bringing Moira and Duncan together against express orders from Manannán mac Lir. Moira had the Gift and saw the faerie realm with a clarity granted to few mortals. Becca had often wondered if Moira’s DNA was as convoluted as her own.
“Odd don’t you think?” Becca, both horrified and sympathetic, continued to study the musician. “That we’re all here at the same time? You and Duncan, and the four of us. And him.” She thrust her chin toward Abhean.
Moira stroked her belly, as pregnant women did, listening to the music. As the song ended, Moira nodded. “A bit strange, yes. But meant to be.”
“Moira?”
“There’s a girl, Becca. Duncan and I are technically here representing the senator at a wedding. Sumner Barrett.” Her nose crinkled in distaste. “He’s marrying a lovely girl, Gwyneth Riley.”
Kieran turned to look at them. “Riley? Jonathan Riley’s daughter?”
“Yes,” Moira affirmed. “Did you know him?”
“Aye, I did. Clann MacDermot did some investing with his firm. I liked Jonathan and was sorry to hear of his death. We pulled our funds soon after. Simon and Sumner Barrett didn’t engender much trust.”
“Sumner and Gwyneth are splashed all over the society pages. The fashion mavens are declaring theirs to be the wedding of the season and have named Gwyneth the perfect Christmas bride, though the wedding is today.”
Becca’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Today?” Her voice squeaked. “They’re marrying on the Yule? The winter solstice?”
Moira nodded. “Abhean was sent here to learn a lesson, but the girl meant to teach him is marrying another man.”
Duncan slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, a stoic expression on his face. “Speaking of, lass, we’d best be on our way. We don’t want to be late.”
Becca laughed at Duncan’s tone and punched Kieran’s arm affectionately. “What is it about men not wanting to attend weddings?”
“As long as we make it to our own, that’s all that matters,” Kieran teased back.
After a round of goodbyes and promises to meet for dinner, Moira and Duncan headed to the wedding.
Abhean had traded his flute for a fiddle and as he played, he danced around the circle of curious onlookers, teasing and tempting them with his antics and the music.
Rory and Kieran wanted to leave but Becca remained transfixed. Premonition prickled the edges of her senses the way electricity built in the air before a storm. Something was about to happen, something they were meant to see. She pressed closer to the front of the crowd with Kieran, Delaney, and Rory close behind.
The “feckin’ fae,” as Kieran called him, held his audience on the tip of his bow. Unease pricked at her scalp when his gaze met hers. Something flickered in the muddy depths of his eyes, something sharp and dangerous, and oh so terribly familiar.
He advanced on her, playing like the very devil lived in the fiddle. If there was such a thing as the Wild Hunt, Abhean would surely lead it. But this was the mortal realm, and Abhean was no longer magic. Becca breathed against the pressure building in her chest.
Kieran stepped to her side, took her hand. With her always. Rory stepped to her other side, looking fierce while Delaney hung back half a step. The music stopped. It didn’t fade away. It slammed into the unnatural silence that fell over the crowd.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Becca didn’t reply for a moment. “The bigger question is who are you?”
He rocked back on his heels, his expression wary. “I know who I am.”
“Do you now?”
He glared for a moment before turning on his heel and tucking the violin beneath his chin.
“Abhean.” Becca reached for the musician.
“Becca, what are you doing?” Kieran looked ready to throttle her and took an aggressive step in front of her as Abhean turned back to stare.
“What did you call me?”
“I called you by your name.”
“Nay. My name is Venn McLyre.”
Becca’s gaze never left his face though she shook her head gently. “Nay, cousin. Your name is Abhean, and you need to remember who you are before it’s too late.”
Chapter Thirteen
Venn stroked his bow across the violin’s strings, watching the tall man with black hair and blue eyes pull the woman away. A younger woman followed while the auburn-haired male guarded their retreat.
He didn’t know them, yet some niggle of familiarity tugged his memory. Names, as elusive as moonbeams, teased him. Becca, the man had called her. Abhean she’d called him. He tasted the name as he played. She—Becca—had also called him “cousin.” Ha. He sneered at that. He had no family, never had. He’d always been alone. Until Gwyn. Gwyn changed everything.
The music changed as his fingers took over. This was not a song he’d learned to play. The notes pouring from his instrument formed from the mists of time. He closed his eyes and saw once more those elusive standing stones. Fog drifted across his vision as familiarity swamped him.
His music became a living entity, dancing on the wind and kissing the falling snowflakes. He opened his eyes, knew if he reached out, he could capture the notes in his hand, and they would flutter against his skin like the butterflies of summer.
The wind, whipped into a frenzy by the music, tossed random bits into the dance. A piece of newsprint swirled and rolled across the concrete, a marionette controlled by the melody. Nine ladies danced, and the paper caught on the legs of one before jerking loose only to be trapped beneath the boots of another. She kicked up a leg and, free once more, the paper flew toward Venn. He snatched it from the air with t
he hand holding the bow.
Silence descended as he stared at the newspaper. Tucking the violin beneath his arm, he smoothed out the page, recognized the sweet face in the photo staring out at him.
Gwyn.
His hand shook, rattling the paper as his eyes devoured the print. The violin clattered to the concrete as he crumpled the page in his fists.
“NOoooOOOOOoooo!” His wailing cry of despair ricocheted off the towering buildings around them. He dropped to his knees as if felled by a sword.
****
Gwyn wondered if she could hold her breath long enough to die. She couldn’t breathe in this ridiculous dress anyway. The last bridesmaid reached the front of the sanctuary. Sumner waited there looking sure of himself. Organ music so loud she wanted to cover her ears swelled as the congregation stood, turned to face her, and waited expectantly.
This was it. No escape. She tried to move but the uncomfortably stylish heels she wore might as well have been cemented to the floor. She wondered, a bit frantically, if that’s why brides normally had escorts down the aisle—to get them to the altar whether they wanted to go or not.
The music dropped to a whisper while everyone stared. Sumner stood so far away but the angry heat of his glare still scorched her skin. A couple in the last pew offered sympathetic glances. She focused on the woman’s sweet expression and finally recognized her. Moira O’Connor Ross, daughter of Senator Patrick O’Connor. Her father and the senator had been friends, once upon a time.
Her throat clogged with tears she couldn’t release. In that moment, she missed her father so much she almost crumbled. Movement in the first pew caught her eye. Mother. The woman took a half step into the aisle, her face a disdainful mask.
Gwyn could almost hear her mother’s voice. “Do not embarrass me, Gwyneth Arlene Riley.”
No help. No hope. Her fate waited at the end of the long, white satin. Gripping her wedding bouquet of red and white poinsettias surround by sprigs of glossy, green holly leaves, she tamped down her fear, turned off her emotions. She had to get used to feeling numb and now seemed like a good time to start.
The music swelled again, the organ wailing out “The Wedding March.” Her face blank, just as her mother taught her, Gwyn forced her feet to obey. First her right, then her left. One after the other as she trudged down the aisle to meet her destiny. For better or worse.
****
Wind whipped Venn’s hair, hiding his tortured expression from those who stopped to stare. His heart—nay his very life and soul had been ripped from him. He’d searched for Gwyn for the past few days to no avail. He’d worried that Barrett the Bastard had locked her away. He knew the wedding was soon, but today?
Gwyn was marrying today at St. Patrick’s. How would he get there in time? Traffic choked Madison Avenue. Horns jabbered insanely as noxious fumes filled the air. Venn took off running, zigging and zagging around slower pedestrians and defying death with split-second brushes against moving cars and trucks clogging the cross streets. By the time he’d gone five blocks, his legs mutinied. Leaden, slow, they refused his orders to keep moving. His lungs burned, each breath searing his throat as he gulped in oxygen.
There was an easier way. There had to be. He couldn’t be late. He had to stop Gwyn from making this mistake. She couldn’t join her life to Sumner’s. Gwyn was his. HIS! Reaching deep, he put on a burst of speed.
Abhean. The name danced among the sparkles crowding his vision. Abhean, Harper of the Tuatha de Danaan. Memories burst in his head like lightning flashing across a storm-darkened sky. He was Abhean. He had magic and, by the gods ancient and modern, he would claim the other half of his heart. Time slowed, stretched, light bending and fracturing into prisms of color. When everything snapped back into place, Venn stood on the steps of the cathedral. Magic indeed.
He slammed through the massive front doors, the force of his arrival crashing them against the walls. Organ music choked the vaulted heights of the nave. A few people in the back pews turned to stare at him. Two familiar faces tugged for his attention. Moira. And her highland warrior. Choosing to ignore them, he strode forward, full of intent and purpose.
Light gathered around him, illuminating him in a glowing nimbus. He raised his hand, grabbed the music, and strangled it. The organ wheezed a final note and silence slammed into the church.
“Gwyneth!”
He marched down the aisle toward the altar. Every eye turned to stare. Some expressions showed shock, others outrage. Mildred Riley jumped to her feet in the front row. A man and woman joined her, and Abhean figured they were the Barretts. It didn’t matter.
With deliberate menace, he advanced. Men, presumably bodyguards, approached from his rear. He ignored them. He only had eyes for Gwyn. She took a step toward him, but the prick at her side snagged her arm, jerking her backwards. Gwyn grimaced in pain as Barrett’s fingers dug into her flesh.
Abhean growled. No one touched his woman. A man leaped from one of the pews. Dickie. He plowed a fist into the man’s face without breaking stride. The rich nobs scattered. Even the priest vacated the sanctuary, recognizing Abhean for what he was—an ancient force of nature.
“Let her go.” His voice swelled until it echoed through the soaring arches.
“Venn.” Gwyn’s voice trembled, her fearful eyes pleading with him. He planned to erase that expression from her face. Forever.
“You are mine, Gwyn. Now and always.” His gaze flicked to Barrett. “Take your hands off her.”
Blanching, Barrett let his hand drop, and he stepped away, leaving Gwyn alone at the altar. He grabbed his best man and hissed, “Call nine-one-one.”
Halting at the base of the steps leading to the high alter, Abhean held out his hand. “Come, love.”
Her eyes held stars as she descended the steps to join him. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before he bent to kiss her, barely a brush of lips that promised so much more. She seemed so small and delicate yet her strength radiated, and her love reached out to touch his heart, healing him.
The words came to his tongue unbidden, and he felt the rightness of them all the way to the depths of his soul.
“Gwyneth Riley, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, I take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to be my chosen one. To desire thee and to be desired by thee. To possess thee and to be possessed by thee without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for thee. I promise to love thee wholly in this life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. There is no beginning, there is no end but in you. You are my chosen.”
If she didn’t say the words back to him, he was lost—irrevocably tied to her while she would be free. He didn’t care. Holding her, and bound to her, he would follow her soul forever.
“Gwyneth! Stop this foolishness right now.” Mildred shook with anger, and Abhean wondered if the woman would shatter from it.
Movement at the back of the church drew his attention. Kieran and Becca MacDermot stood next to the other MacDermot couple, Rory and Delaney. They were joined by Duncan and Moira Ross. Were they here to witness his downfall? Or his salvation?
His beloved’s eyes never strayed from his face, and she gave no notice of her mother’s tirade or anything else.
“Yes, Venn. What you said. All those words. I choose you.”
“No, love. I’m not Venn Mc—”
A low rumble shook the pillars inside the nave, and a sound like distant thunder echoed within a flash of light. Manannán mac Lir, King of Tir Nan Óg, stood before the couple. Before Abhean could move, thunder crashed and the room spun.
The last thing Abhean heard was Gwyn’s terrified scream as she was ripped from his arms.
Chapter Fourteen
When Abhean could see again, he stood in the circle of standing stones that haunted his dreams. He glanced down and discovered Gwyn huddled at his feet. He dropped to his knees beside her and pulled her into his arms.
“
Are yee hurt, cailín?” Her intricate hairdo fell in a lopsided clump, hiding one side of her face. He cupped her cheek and brushed away the errant locks. “Please, Gwyn. Talk to me.”
Her eyelids flickered, and her gaze fixed on his face. “Venn? Wha-what happened?”
“Do you know what you have done, Harper?” An invisible voice roared into the silence.
Gwyn screamed and clung to him. “Wh-who’s that, Venn? Where are we?”
Ignoring the voice, Abhean focused on Gwyn, encouraging her to look at him. “I’m not who you think I am, Gwyn. I need you to have faith in me, love. I need you to believe in me and know that I will not hurt you—or see you hurt. I need…I need you, Gwyn. Always.”
She swallowed hard then nodded.
In one fluid motion, Abhean gathered her into his arms and stood. Still cradling her with shoulders back, chin high, and eyes sparking with magic, Abhean faced his unseen nemesis. “You will not take her from me.”
“Only she can decide your fate, Abhean.” That disembodied voice sounded like metal stamping granite.
He glanced at Gywn’s face, noted her puzzled expression. He would have much to explain. “Faith, Gwyn. Yeah?”
Her gaze flicked between him and the emptiness around them before she kissed his cheek. “Yes. Always. But please? Where are we? I…” She looked around then fixed her gaze on him. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, love. You…we’re…” For the first time in his life, Abhean found himself at a loss for words. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Venn McLyre. My real name is Abhean. I’m…” He swallowed hard, unsure of how to explain, and that too left him off balance.
“What the bloody hell!”
The harper pivoted toward the angry voice. He set Gwyn down and thrust her behind him, ready to face any adversary. What he found was three very disgruntled human warriors standing just outside the standing stones. All three shielded their wives the way he guarded Gwyn. With the perceived threat to Gwyn lessening, breathing became a bit easier. Like a match flaring in a dark room, the epiphany seared his soul.