It was stalking toward her, its expression one of pure astonishment.
For a brief moment she gaped blankly back. Was a fairy capable of being astonished? According to O’Callaghan sources, they experienced no emotion. And how could they? They had no hearts, no souls. Only a fool would think some kind of higher conscience lurked behind those quixotic eyes. Gabby was no fool.
It was almost to the curb. Heading straight for her.
With a startled jerk she came to her senses, slammed the car into drive, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.
Darroc, Elder of the Tuatha Dé Danaan’s High Council, stood atop the Hill of Tara on the Plain of Meath. A cool night breeze tangled long copper hair shot with gold around a face that was exotically beautiful but for the scar marring his chiseled visage. It was a scar he might easily have concealed with glamour, but chose not to. He wore it to remember, he wore it so certain others would not forget.
Ireland, once ours, he thought bitterly, staring out at the lush, verdant land.
And Tara—long ago called Teamir and before that christened Cathair Crofhind by the Tuatha Dé themselves—once testament to the might and glory of his race, was now a tourist stop overrun by humans accompanied by guides who told stories of his people that were abjectly laughable.
The Tuatha Dé had arrived on this world long before human myths purported they had. But what could one expect from puny little creatures whose lives both began and sputtered to an end in the merest blink of a Tuatha Dé’s eye?
When first we found this world, we had so much hope. Indeed, the name they’d chosen for Tara—Cathair Crofhind—meant “ ’twas not amiss”; their choice of this world to be their new home.
But it had been amiss, egregiously amiss. Man and Tuatha Dé had proved incompatible, incapable of sharing this fertile world that bore so many similarities to their own, and his race, once majestic and proud, now hid in places humans had not yet discovered. Having only recently learned to harness the power of the atom, humans would not present a serious threat to the Tuatha Dé for some time.
Yet time passed swiftly for his kind, and then would his people be forced to flee again?
Darroc refused to live to see such a day.
Banished. The noble Tuatha Dé had been relegated to leftover places, just as they’d been forced out once before, an aeon ago. Outcast then. Cast out now. The only difference was that humans were not yet powerful enough to drive them offworld as they’d been driven from their beloved home.
Yet.
They hadn’t been able to take Danu—the other races had been too powerful—but they could take this world and conquer it. Now. Before Man advanced any further.
“Darroc,” a voice interrupted his bitter musings. Mael, the queen’s consort, appeared beside him. “I tried to slip away from court sooner but—”
“I know how closely she watches you and expected it would be some time,” Darroc cut him off, impatient for news. A few days in Faery was months in the human realm where Darroc had been waiting at their appointed meeting place. “Tell me. Did she do it?”
Tall, powerfully developed, with tawny skin and a mane of shimmering bronze, the queen’s latest favorite nodded, his iridescent eyes gleaming. “She did. Adam is human. And, Darroc, she stripped his powers. He can no longer even see us.”
Darroc smiled. Perfect. He could ask for no more. His nemesis, that eternal thorn in his side, mankind’s most persistent advocate, was banished from Faery, and without him, the balance of power at court was skewed in Darroc’s favor at long last.
And Adam was helpless, a walking target. Mortal.
“Know you where he is now?” asked Darroc.
Mael shook his head. “Only that he walks the human realm. Shall I go hunting for you?”
“No. You’ve done enough, Mael,” Darroc told him. He had other Hunters in mind to track his quarry. Hunters not quite as loyal to the queen as she liked to believe. “You must return before she discovers you gone. She must suspect nothing.”
As the queen’s consort disappeared, Darroc also sifted time and place, but to a different realm entirely.
He laughed as he went, knowing that although Adam was wont to champion mortals, the vainglorious prince of the D’Jai would hate being human, would despise being trapped in the body of one of those limited little, fragile creatures whose average life span was so horrifically brief.
He was about to find it far briefer than average.
3
Adam was so caught off guard that it didn’t occur to him to do a series of short jumps and follow the woman, until it was too late.
By the time he’d tensed to sift, the dilapidated vehicle had sped off, and he had no idea where it had gone. He popped about in various directions for a time, but was unable to pick it up again.
Shaking his head, he returned to the bench and sat down, cursing himself in half a dozen languages.
Finally, someone had seen him.
And what had he done? Let her get away. Undermined by his disgusting human anatomy.
It had just been made excruciatingly clear to him that the human male brain and the human male cock couldn’t both sustain sufficient amounts of blood to function at the same time. It was one or the other, and the human male apparently didn’t get to choose which one.
As a Tuatha Dé, he would have been in complete control of his lust. Desirous yet coolheaded, perhaps even a touch bored (it wasn’t as if he could do something he hadn’t done before; given a few thousand years, a Tuatha Dé got around to trying everything).
But as a human male, lust was far more intense, and his body was apparently slave to it. A simple hard-on could turn him into a bloody Neanderthal.
How had mankind survived this long? For that matter, how had they ever managed to crawl out of their primordial swamps to begin with?
Blowing out an exasperated breath, he rose from the bench and began pacing a stunted space of cobbled courtyard.
There he’d been, lying on his back, staring up at the stars, wondering where in the hell Circenn might have hied himself off to for so long, when suddenly he’d suffered a prickly sensation, as if he were the focus of an intense gaze.
He’d glanced over, half-expecting to see a few of his brethren laughing at him. In fact, he’d hoped to see his brethren. Laughing or not. In the past ninety-seven days he’d searched high and low for one of his race, but hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a Tuatha Dé. He’d finally concluded that the queen must have forbidden them to spy upon him, for he could find no other explanation for their absence. He knew full well there were those of his race that would savor the sight of his suffering.
He’d seen—not his brethren—but a woman. A human woman, illumed by that which his kind didn’t possess, lit from within by the soft golden glow of her immortal soul.
A young, lushly sensual woman at that, with the look of the Irish about her. Long silvery-blond hair twisted up in a clip, loose, shorter strands spiking about a delicate heart-shaped face. Huge eyes uptilted at the outer corners, a pointed chin, a full, lush mouth. A flash of fire in her catlike green-gold gaze, proof of that passionate Gaelic temper that always turned him on. Full round breasts, shapely legs, luscious ass.
He’d gone instantly, painfully, hard as a rock.
And for a few critical moments, his brain hadn’t functioned at all. All the rest of him had. Stupendously well, in fact. Just not his brain.
Cursed by the féth fiada, he’d been celibate for three long, hellish months now. And his own hand didn’t count.
Lying there, imagining all the things he would do to her if only he could, he’d completely failed to process that she was not only standing there looking in his general direction, but his first instinct had been right: He was the focus of an intense gaze. She was looking directly at him.
Seeing him.
By the time he’d managed to find his feet, to even remember that he had feet, she’d been in her car.
She’d escaped him.
>
But not for long, he thought, eyes narrowing. He would find her.
She’d seen him. He had no idea how or why she’d been able to, but frankly he didn’t much care. She had, and now she was going to be his ticket back to Paradise.
And, he thought, lips curving in a wicked, erotic grin, he was willing to bet she’d be able to feel him too. Logic dictated that if she was immune to one aspect of the féth fiada, she would be immune to them all.
For the first time since the queen had made him human, he threw back his head and laughed. The rich, dark sound rolled—despite the human mouth shaping it—not entirely human, echoing in the empty street.
He turned and eyed the building behind him speculatively. He knew a great deal about humans from having walked among them for so many millennia, and he’d learned even more about them in the past few months. They were creatures of habit; like plodding little Highland sheep, they dutifully trod the same hoof-beaten paths, returning to the same pastures day after day.
Undoubtedly, there was a reason she’d come to this building this evening.
And undoubtedly, there was something in that building that would lead him to her.
The luscious little Irish was going to be his savior.
She would help him find Circenn and communicate his plight. Circenn would sift dimensions and return him to the Fae Isle of Morar where the queen held her court. And Adam would persuade her that enough was enough already.
He knew Aoibheal wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes and deny him. He merely had to get to her, see her, touch her, remind her how much she favored him and why.
Ah, yes, now that he’d found someone who could see him, he’d be his glorious immortal self again in no time at all.
In the meantime, pending Circenn’s return, he now had much with which to entertain himself. He was no longer in quite the same rush to be made immortal again. Not just yet. Not now that he suddenly had the opportunity to experience sex in human form. Fae glamour wasn’t nearly as sensitive as the body he currently inhabited, and—sensual to the core—he’d been doubly pissed off at Aoibheal for making him unable to explore its erotic capabilities. She could be such a bitch sometimes.
If a simple hard-on in human form could reduce him to a primitive state, what would burying himself inside a woman do? What would it feel like to come inside her?
There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon find out.
Never had the mortal woman lived and breathed who could say no to a bit of fairy tail.
Gabby didn’t take her foot from the accelerator until she’d squealed into the shadowy alley behind her house at 735 Monroe Street. Then she slammed on the brakes so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash.
She’d run every red light between Cincinnati and Newport, half-hoping a cop would pull her over (despite the warrant out for her arrest for unpaid parking tickets, as if she could afford to pay them once they’d doubled, with amnesty-day still four months away, and really, if the city would put sufficient parking downtown, a person wouldn’t be forced to invent parking spaces). Throw her in jail. Lock her away where maybe the thing wouldn’t be able to find her.
Most days she loved living in Kentucky, in her quaint historic neighborhood of old Victorians and Italianates, wrought-iron fences, climbing bougainvillaea and magnolia trees, a mere mile across the river from Ohio. It was convenient to work, to school, to the bars, to everything that mattered. But tonight it was much too close for comfort. Then again, Siberia would have felt too close for comfort at the moment.
Parking as close to her house as possible, she snatched up her purse, leapt from the car, raced up the steps, unlocked the back door with shaking hands, slammed it shut behind her, locked it, slid the dead bolt, then collapsed in a limp little heap on the floor.
She stared unseeingly around the dark kitchen, ears straining, listening intently for any hint that it had somehow managed to follow her. How she wished she had a garage! Her car was just sitting out there like a big dilapidated powder-blue X: Here hides Gabby O’Callaghan. A sitting duck. Quack, quack.
“Oh, God, what have I done?” she whispered, horrified.
Twenty-four years of hiding, of maintaining a flawless façade, undone in a single night.
Gram would be so disappointed.
She was so disappointed. She’d stood there gaping—no, ogling the thing. And she’d justified it by feeding herself the flimsy fib that she was only staring so she could accurately identify it in the O’Callaghan Books of the Fae, or describe it if it wasn’t already in there.
As if.
Do you find them attractive? Moira O’Callaghan had asked a fourteen-year-old Gabrielle over orange-ginger tea in the kitchen late one night, nearly ten years ago.
Gabby had blushed furiously, not wanting to betray the depth of her hopeless infatuation. While her high school friends dreamed of actors and rock stars and seniors with cars, she dreamed of a fairy prince that would come swooping into her life and carry her off to some exotic, beautiful land. One that would somehow transcend the innate cold-bloodedness of its kind, all for love of her.
Do you? Gram pressed sternly.
Ashamed, Gabby had nodded.
That’s what makes them so dangerous, Gabrielle. The Fae are no better than the Hunters they send after us. They are inhumanly seductive. “Inhuman” is the word you must remember. No souls. No hearts. Do not romanticize them.
She’d been guilty of it then. She’d not thought herself guilty of it still. With the passing of her teen years, she thought she’d laid many things to rest, including her foolish infatuation with a fantasy fairy prince.
Not.
With a groan of abject misery, she forced herself up from the floor. Cowering in a limp little heap wasn’t going to accomplish anything.
If you ever betray yourself, Gram had told her too many times to count, if one of them ever realizes you can see them, you must leave immediately. Don’t dare waste time packing, just get in the car and go as fast and as far as you can. I’m leaving you money in a special account to be used only for that purpose. It should be more than enough to see you to safety.
Gabby clutched the edge of the kitchen counter and closed her eyes.
She didn’t want to leave, damn it. This was her home, the home Gram had raised her in. Every corner was filled with precious memories. Every inch of the century-old, rambling Victorian was dear to her, from the slate roof that was always springing a new leak, to the spacious, high-ceilinged rooms, to the archaic hot-water heating system that knocked and rattled, but steamed so cozily in the winter. And so what if she couldn’t afford to heat most of the house and had to wear layers of clothing unless she was within a few feet of a radiator? So what if it still didn’t have central air and the summers were swelteringly hot?
On occasion she’d been awfully tempted to dip into her escape-the-fairy fund, but she’d resisted. Things would change once she graduated and got a real job. Her finances wouldn’t always be so precarious. Even an entry-level position with a law firm would enable her to start paying off her pile of student loans and begin much-needed renovations.
She spent most of her time in the octagonal turret anyway, either in the library on the first floor or in the upstairs bedroom she’d redesigned for herself when Gram had died. With all the windows open on a summer night and the ceiling fan softly whirring, she could bear the heat. Besides, she loved lying in bed looking out over the sprawling lush gardens (despite the rickety wrought-iron fencing that desperately needed to be replaced). The mortgage had been paid off years ago. She’d planned never to leave, had hoped to one day fill up the too-silent rooms with children of her own.
And now, just because one dratted fairy—
Wait a minute, she thought, her eyes flying open, it didn’t have fairy eyes, remember? In her panic, she’d completely forgotten about its strange eyes. They’d been a single color. Black as midnight. Black as sin but for those golden sparks.
Definitely not fai
ry. The Fae had iridescent eyes that changed quicksilver-fast, spanning all the colors of the rainbow. Shimmery and quixotic. Never black-and-gold.
In fact, she thought, nibbling her lower lip pensively, it had displayed several baffling anomalies: its eyes; its human attire—really, a fairy in jeans and a T-shirt?—usually the Fae wore garments fashioned of fabrics unlike anything she’d ever seen; and its seeming emotion.
Could she be so lucky? Frowning, she replayed the entire encounter in her mind, trying to isolate any other anomalies. Was it possible that the creature she’d seen wasn’t a fairy but something else?
Heartened by the possibility, she turned and hurried through the dark house toward the turret library. She needed to consult the O’Callaghan Books.
Comprised of nineteen thick, tediously detailed volumes that dated back to the fifth century, the Books were dense with fairy lore, sightings, overheard conversations, and speculation. Faithfully preserved by her ancestors, added to over the centuries, the tomes were stuffed to overflowing with fairy fact and legend.
In there somewhere would be information about the creature she’d seen tonight.
Perhaps, she clung determinedly to the optimistic thought as she hastened down the hallway, the thing didn’t even signify in the fairy scheme of things. Perhaps it had no greater desire to bother her than she had to bother it.
Perhaps she was worrying for no reason at all.
And perhaps, she thought dejectedly many hours later, dropping a dusty volume in her lap as if burned, the moon was made of cheese.
It was a fairy.
And not just any fairy.
It was the worst fairy of all.
And desire? It had it in spades. To bother her? Oh, she’d be lucky if that was all it did. Torture her, play with her for its own amusement, drop her in the midst of some medieval Highland battle and watch her get trampled by snorting warhorses: Those were all possibilities, according to what she’d just read. If it stayed true to form—the thought made her shiver—it would seduce her first. Try to, she amended hastily. (The fact that, according to what she’d read, no mortal woman could resist it was a thought she refused to ponder overlong. That arrogant, vainglorious fairy was not getting a piece of Gabby O’Callaghan.)
The Immortal Highlander Page 3