Smoke in Moonlight (CELTIC ELEMENTALS)

by Heather R. Blair

  Only last night he had held her life in these same hands that were now threatening to drive her over the edge. She no longer seemed to know where sanity ended and insanity began. His thumbs slid beneath the tail of her shirt, stroking the small of her back and the slight skin to skin contact made her heart race even faster.

  "Ronan," his name was a strangled plea as his mouth left hers to trail down her throat. She cried out softly as one hand left her back to close over her breast, her nipple tightening to the point of sweet pain. Her head fell back, her eyes half-closed. He would take this, too. Lacey knew it, she'd known it even when she'd denied it would never happen. But, God, she couldn't stop him.

  She didn't want to.

  Ronan was the one who pulled back with an oath. His elbow slammed into the trellis as he spun away from her. Yellow and white rose petals rained down on them in a bright storm.

  He cursed, rubbing his arm, the broad expanse of his back still facing Lacey. She took the moment to properly inhale, for what felt like the first time in hours. Her racing heart was thankful, but the desire that still ran wild inside her was not. Like an uncontrollable fire, it was greedy for more. She wanted more.

  Lacey stared at Ronan, noting the way his hair curled just slightly in the back, the way the thick, powerful muscles of his shoulders planed down to a narrow waist, and the way he filled out those damn jeans...

  She closed her eyes. This isn't helping! She told herself sternly.

  When she opened her eyes again, Lacey yelped and leaped backward instinctively. Ronan had turned around and was staring at her. From the way those grey eyes had darkened, she knew he wasn't having a pleasant time controlling his body either.

  "Are ye always such a timid mouse or is it just me?"

  "It's you." Lacey said. Her eyes had narrowed, anger chilling away some of the lust. Had he actually called her a mouse? Just because she didn't thrive on confrontation did not mean she was a damn mouse.

  Ronan made a sound of disbelief, and scowled at her. "You’re the one who ran away. I can nae be distracted with chasing you right now. We need to get some things straight."

  Lust to anger in thirty seconds flat. Oh, yes, the man was an ass. He deserved to be cursed, really.

  "Well, do nae let me stop you." Lacey said, sarcasm soaking every word.

  She saw him bite back a smile. It startled her that he might actually have a sense of humor hidden somewhere in all that menace. Ronan shoved a hand into his hair, which caused more rose petals to drift down as his fingers displaced them. It was all she could do not to smile of her own. It was hard to see him as properly terrifying with rose petals in his hair and settling on those broad shoulders.

  He turned his head away from her, staring out at the backyard. She followed his gaze, really looking for the first time since she'd ran outside. Lacey took in a sharp breath, completely distracted. Wow.

  There were small gardens on either side of them, right up against the whitewashed walls of the house. One appeared to Lacey's untrained eye to be a herb garden, the other obviously vegetables and some flowers. The gardens weren't perfectly tidy, but slightly wild in a way that had far more appeal.

  The low grey and white stone wall that wrapped around the Fitzpatrick house curved out and around the trellis from Lacey's left, then followed the gently sloping lawn as it fell in velvety green curves down and to the right, hemming a footpath that lead east into the woods. Also, starting at her left, but beyond the wall, a steep hill rose, nearly a mountain, sprinkled with heather and outcroppings spilling white rock.

  The sun was touching the top of the hill, preparing to slide behind it and the whole valley was spread out in its light. Wide swaths of green and gold grass were banded by darker green woods, blending into each other until the horizon disappeared in a purple-gray smudge against an eggshell blue sky.

  "Good God," Lacey breathed. "How do you look at that every day and not be thankful to be alive?" She had spoken to herself, not him, but Ronan turned back and looked at her. Just looked quietly for a heart's beat. There was something in his eyes that made her heart contract painfully. It was gone like quicksilver.

  "Easily," he said, in a hard voice.

  He took a couple steps and sat down on the stone wall, looking tired for the first time since she'd met him. "Look, we need to make this short and sweet, so you have a grasp of what's going on, instead of you just reacting to everything bit by bit. That's a danger, to me, and everyone else in this house--including you."

  Lacey pulled herself onto the wall, though not too close to him. "Am I about to hear another legend?"

  "Nae. The story me mam told you is the legend. It sprang from what happened to us, but like most old tales, it's far from the true mark." He stared straight ahead, not looking at her. For all his talk of short and sweet, he didn't seem anxious to begin.

  "So, Nati.. that priest guy didn't curse you, Aine did?" Lacey spoke hesitantly, watching his profile. He seemed made of more stone than the wall. But finally Ronan spoke.

  “Aye. And it weren't Candlemas, it was Lughnasa-that’s a celebration for Lugh himself. The sun-god." Ronan said at her puzzled look. "We'd all come down to Laois for the doings: Mam, Da, and me brothers. Michael and Shelagh were already hand-fasted, but they'd no bairns yet. But Da's brothers were there, too, with all their lot." Lacey was surprised again to see a smile dance softly about his lips.

  "Damme, but we were a big, noisy bunch! A right deal was Lughnasa, back then. Besides, Lugh was our family patron, since time out of mind, so we were all a bit crazy with excitement. Dancing and feasting and carrying on. And did we have us a time laughing when that cantankerous old priest showed up! At least, we younger ones did. Mam liked the new religion well enough, she'd say her prayers right along with her charms to Brigid and the rest and see not a speck of harm in it." Ronan's jaw tightened.

  "Well, he spoke his peace when I knocked him down on pure accident-that crazy old man. Anyone could see he had naught an ounce of real power in him, from Jesu or anyone else. So, we laughed and kept on with our fun. But Da, he had a strange look and was a mite quiet after that. Da had a way about him, of sensing things. Six days later, it was the new moon. The next night, I changed for the first time. I was sixteen."

  Lacey's throat tightened and she restrained herself from reaching out to him. Somehow, she knew he wouldn't welcome her sympathy.

  "Well, Da knew it wasn't that priest who had done it, sure enough. But it was his words coming true. It didn't make sense. So he called on Lugh. And after a fortnight, Lugh answered. He came to the house." Ronan smiled at her gasp. "It wasn't uncommon in those days, for gods to walk as men. Especially Lugh. He has a thing for humans. Da always said we-the Fitzpatricks in particular-were special to Lugh, that we'd descended of his own son, the great Cuchculain of the Red Branch." Ronan shook his head at her look of interest.

  "Another day, lass. You've enough to hear with one tale, as convoluted as it is. So, Lugh takes bread with us, powerful magic that. Putting us under his protection." Ronan watched Lacey intently, but she got the ramifications well enough on her own.

  Aine had broke bread with her. Putting her under the protection of the goddess that had cursed him. The backs of her arms tingled. No wondered he was so distrustful of her.

  Ronan watched the comprehension cross her face, before he continued.

  "Lugh told us what had happened. Though it had took him awhile to piece it together. Seems Aine was knocking about the festivities that day, in a right snit. 'Cause no one was singing her praises. Or dancing in her name. When she came upon us, she got even more nasty. She always hated us, since Lugh loved us. Even though we gave her her due, it didna matter. She hates Lugh, she hates us. But she's also scared of him. His power outshines hers---well, like the sun does the moon. She was watching, trying to figure a way to make us all pay. And along comes Natilus, with his temper and bluster. Basically giving her us on a platter. Aine made the faoladh in the first place, you see. She brought them int
o existence to serve her, to serve the moon and the dark and the night.

  “She made her spell to match the words the priest had spoke, thinking we'd blame him, and she’s no be found out. But Lugh got to it in the end."

  "Wait," Lacey held up a hand, her head was spinning again. "Are you telling me this happened to you because Aine was jealous? Of a celebration that didn't have anything to do with her?" Ronan raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment.

  "That's...that's so petty, so--high school! Aren't gods supposed to be above all that!" Lacey was sputtering with indignation.

  Ronan actually laughed out loud.

  "Not much of a student of mythology, are ye?"

  Lacey thought about that. She didn't know much about Celtic myth, true enough. But she'd read enough Homer in college to get what he meant.

  Those Greek gods were always fighting and causing human misery over the damnedest things. The thought gave Lacey pause, what if....

  NO. She was not going there, she had enough on her plate trying to learn the damn Irish pantheon. She turned dazed eyes to Ronan and waved him on.

  "Well, that's nearly it. Lugh couldn't undo her spell and couldn't force her to undo it. He tried to make her change it, but that didn't work either. The magic is wielded by the gods, but born of the land. Stubborn as the lot of us. She was right pleased to have one of his own under her thumb anyway, which put some steel in her spine. She wouldn't budge."

  "When did this happen? Moiré said the legend was from the Dark Ages, but was it really that long ago or..." Lacey's voice trailed off as Ronan's head came up.

  "I first became faoladh in the year 589," he said, his eyes boring into hers. “That part of the tale is true.” Lacey's fingers dug into her thighs.

  She was sitting on a wall in Ireland, talking to a fifteen hundred year old werewolf. Lovely.

  Well, at least he looked good for his age.

  She smothered a mad giggle, which had Ronan giving her a strange look.

  Something else occurred to her, something that drained away the urge for hysterical laughter completely. "What about your family?" she gasped. "Shouldn't they be..."

  "Dead? Long dead and buried." Ronan sighed. "That's Lugh's doing. And my folks. I was set against it. I fought them tooth and nail for nigh twenty years, but they would have it their way."

  "But the children?" She interrupted him, horror-struck. "Are you saying Colin has been five years old for over a millennium? How does that work, how do they not go…"

  "Crazy?" he finished for her, his voice terribly soft. "I do nae know. But it's the honest truth, it seems to nae affect them as you'd think. Oh, they're old for their age..."

  Was that ever an understatement! Lacey thought.

  "And smarter than little professors, though they hide it well enough. But Lugh's magic protects their minds in some way. Mam and the others, too. They have long stretches they do nae remember, where it's almost like they've been sleep-walking through whole centuries." Ronan sighed and rolled his shoulders.

  "But not you?" she asked quietly.

  He didn't pretend not to understand her.

  "Nae," he said. "Not me. I remember every day, every hour, every minute."

  Her mind recoiled, thinking of that kind of loneliness. Yes, Ronan had his family, but in the end he was still awfully, terribly alone.

  "What good did it do then? To keep them all with you? Lugh doesn't sound very kind at all-or smart, if you ask me…"

  "Hush," Ronan said mildly. "I've only got one god on my side. Do ye mind not pissing him off?'

  "Oh," Lacey felt her cheeks heat, and gave a purely reflexive glance over her shoulder, where the sun was sliding down the small mountain. Though it seemed to have barely moved since they'd sat down. It felt like hours should have passed. "I didn't mean...I just meant, well… What good did it do?"

  “The main thing is, the curse didn't spread. To the rest of them." Ronan shrugged. "I'm still the eldest, and I will always be. If the other generation had grown up, I would have died and it would have moved on to them.

  Lacey thought of Michael and Shelagh's oldest son. The skinny boy with the tawny hair and freckles who had blushed whenever she looked directly at him over the dinner table last night. Eamon. Her throat tightened as she watched Ronan's profile.

  "As long as I don't get killed, we'll be together, unchanged. That was what Lugh promised me Da and Mam. But I don't think Lugh really wanted to do it this way. I am sure he never intended it to go on this long. But gods do nae think of time as we do, anyway. He kept thinking he'd find some way to force Aine to negate the curse, but then Da was killed. And I went a little mad. And Lugh realized he could use me the way I am." Ronan didn't even try to conceal the bitterness in his voice. "It was perfect, a creature of the night in service to the lord of the sun."

  "What?" Lacey said. Now she was really confused. She thought Lugh was the good guy in this crazy story, a bit dim for a god, but not throwing tantrums like a toddler and cursing innocent people.

  Lacey held up hand when Ronan opened his mouth to continue, not sure she could take anymore just now. She pushed off the wall with a sigh and turned to face the great hill, stretching her legs and arms a bit to work off the chill settling into her bones.

  A figure moved beyond the stones, catching Lacey's tired eyes.

  Moiré must have had too many nerves to work out with the front gardens alone. She seemed to have gone on a hike because she was headed down the last slope of the hill, coming toward them from the shadowed area at its base. Lacey lifted a hand.

  Ronan blinked at her. Facing her, he couldn't see the figure--which hadn't raised its hand in response to her wave, Lacey noted with a puzzled frown.

  "It's your mother." She said, pointing behind him when Ronan continued to stare at her quizzically. He gave a start of surprise and turned his head.

  "But how..." his voice cut off with a snap when he saw the figure. It approaching very swiftly now, Lacey thought with a twinge of alarm. Moiré was running flat out. Something must be wrong! But…

  Surely a woman her age couldn't run that fast, and so smoothly, like her feet weren't even touching the ground...

  The hair stood up on the back of Lacey's neck just as Ronan seized her arm in a grip so tight, she gave a cry of fright and pain. He ignored her.

  "That is not my mother." he said, his voice low and fiercely urgent. "Lacey, listen to me! Do exactly as I say. Follow the path to the woods..."

  She gave a terrified moan, shaking her head.

  "Listen!" Ronan snapped, giving her arm a sharp jerk. "You donna have to go in the woods! There's a cottage-just before you get to the trees. Go inside and get the sword hanging behind the front door. Bring it back here, as quick as you can!"

  The figure had grown closer, it was almost close enough to leap over the wall. She could see Moiré's face beneath the hood, but it was like she was looking at a Moiré behind black glass, black glass that rippled and distorted like churning water. That twisted face smiled at her and Lacey saw teeth--row upon row of needle sharp teeth: thousands of teeth, hundreds of rows circling all way down a horribly monstrous throat that seemed to be expanding as she watched.

  It was gathering itself to leap...

  Lacey yanked her arm out of Ronan's grasp so quickly, she threw him off-balance. He recovered instantly and she saw him pivot out of the corner of her eye, preparing to meet it, whatever it was.

  Lacey didn't wait to see them collide, even though she couldn't stop herself hearing it. There was a high-pitched gurgling that warbled up and down like demented laughter, and Ronan yelling, first in fury, when once-sharply-in pain. Lacey began to sob as she flew down the foot path, not even feeling the stones cut into her bare feet, not daring to look behind her.

  Ronan had said she had to get a sword. And she was absolutely sure Ronan was the only one with a chance in hell of destroying that thing with Moiré's face. She was going to get the sword and he damn well better be alive when she got back.
r />   Chapter 8

  Ronan could have cursed himself. He was that pissed off. How could he have allowed himself to be so damn unprepared. It was true, he'd never seen a Changeling in daylight. Ever. Not once in over a thousand years. But that was no excuse, to be just sitting there-completely distracted.

  Distracted by Lacey. Just as he had feared. Though if she came back…

  But there was no time to wonder, the Changeling had nearly reached the wall. It was wearing his mother's face and for that the unholy bastard was going to pay.

  Ronan roared in fury as the creature leapt, its’ serrated mouth gaping wide in the dying sunlight. His hands came up and he caught it around the throat. It laughed at him, that cackling laugh of madness all the Changelings shared, and the rotting body stench that flowed out with the laughter made Ronan want to retch. Instead he squeezed.

  The powerful muscles of his forearms and shoulders tightened and the Changeling whipped violently in protest. It was like trying to hold a huge snake. Even though their bodies appeared human, Changelings were not made of the same frail stuff. It broke free and lightning fast clamped its mouth on one of Ronan's wrists. He yelled in pain and punched it in the face with his free hand. It was like punching a hunk of rubbery dead meat. Which wasn't far from the truth. It let him go, cackling again.

  Ronan knew he hadn't hurt it. It was playing with him.

  He'd been fighting Changelings since he was about thirty. In his world, that made for about 1400 years. He was very aware that he didn't have much chance of defeating one while he was in his human form, and certainly not without his sword. Lugh's sword.

  The Changeling knew it, too. It danced nearer.

  "Raw-nee-awn," it warbled, mutilating his name in that sawblade voice.

  Changelings couldn't talk much, not with all those teeth. He'd cut one open once out of morbid curiosity and hadn't even been able to find a larynx...at least not before the corpse had started to smoke in the rising sun and Lugh's light ignited it into a dazzling violet fireball.