She looked down where he lay, memorized the handsome lines of his face. Committed him to memory as she committed herself to the calling of her past. Then, she took the blade from her teeth and lifted it toward the bright round moon.
Ealasaid’s passionate cry echoed in Beth’s head. She understood now. Knew the meaning of the words, and the ancient Gaelic tongue flowed from her lips as if someone else spoke for her. “Light shall bring the healing of the ancients while darkness shall be ensnared by blood!”
Swiftly, she jerked the blade toward her body. It sank into her forearm, ground against bone. Pain fragmented through her, and still she pulled on the knife, ripping it through muscle to her elbow.
Enraged howls deafened the roaring fire. Mingled with snarls that could come from no mortal throat.
Gasping, Beth fell to her knees, the sear of rending flesh too much to bear. Shadows fingered at her mind, pulling her into unconsciousness. She fought to remain aware.
She looked down at her arm, and the knife slipped from her fingers to clatter against the altar. Blood trickled down her elbow, splashed onto the stone at her feet. One droplet joined another, and another, forming a small scarlet pool.
Lightning flashed.
No, not lightning. When she’d lifted the blade, the clouds had finally departed. Snow ceased to fall. The moon looked down in silver radiance.
Beth smiled as she yielded to the pull of blissful nothingness and rested her check on the altar. Nyamah.
****
Soft fingertips feathered across Beth’s temple and through her hair, drawing her into awareness. The caress was gentle, much as she had imagined her mother’s might be like as a child. A touch she’d never known, though she spent her life seeking it. Convinced she was dreaming and unwilling to leave the comfort, she fought wakefulness.
“Rise, Beth,” a melodic feminine voice coaxed. “Open your eyes, Daughter of the Selgovae.”
The subtle command made her lashes flutter. Cold air skimmed down her bare arm. Even colder stone pressed into her cheek. Memories of Drandar, of cutting her flesh, of Fintan’s broken body slammed through contentment. Beth jerked upright, eyes wide, searching for the horror she last remembered.
“Shh,” the feminine voice soothed. “It is over.”
Confronted by the realization she hadn’t dreamt the woman, Beth looked toward the sound of the voice. The woman sat at Beth’s side, a vision of ethereal beauty. Long platinum hair flowed around narrow shoulders to cascade at her waist and over the edge of the stone table. Silvery eyes shone with kindness, offsetting the crisp indigo tattoos that adorned her forehead and cheekbones. She wore a hide tunic trimmed with the salt-and-pepper fur of a wolf. Simple. Ancient.
Breathtaking.
At once, Beth recalled the regal face, the long lithe form that carried silent confidence. “Nyamah?”
When she dipped her head in a nod, her hair tumbled over her shoulders like spun silk. Her slight smile radiated warmth. “Yes.”
“But where…how…” Beth trailed off, not knowing how to voice the questions in her head. The cacophony of noise gave way to one immediate unrelenting worry. “Where’s Fintan?”
With otherworldly grace, Nyamah gestured across her body at the ground near the sputtering bonfire. Beth’s gaze followed the motion of her arm. Her breath caught at the sight of Fintan’s motionless form. Fear spiked her heartbeat, but as she stared, praying against all odds he’d somehow survived, his chest rose. She exhaled a shuddering breath. Alive. His leg lay straight before him, and though his clothes were tattered and stained with blood, she found no sign of his earlier injuries.
She turned a look of disbelief on Nyamah. “How?”
“You, Beth.” Her smile broadened as she indicated the closed-over wound on Beth’s arm. “You spilled your blood and healed him. In so doing you bound Drandar once again and gave me the power to sit before you now.”
Blinking, Beth surveyed her surroundings, knowing there could be no doubt Nyamah spoke the truth but unable to comprehend the full reality. For the first time she noticed Dáire. Standing near the entrance to the standing stones, he held Brigid’s upper arm in a death grip. She stood dejectedly at his side, head bowed, shoulders slumped with the weight of defeat. The glade was empty, Fintan’s coven members nowhere to be seen. The altar Beth lay on no longer bore the stain of blood.
“Where is everyone?”
“Safe in their own homes.”
As Beth turned to Nyamah once more, the High Priestess embraced her. “I grow weak. I cannot stay. You know the means of defeating Drandar if the need should arise.” Releasing Beth, she leaned away but still held onto her shoulders, her grip firm, yet full of tenderness. “Now go to him.” She inclined her head toward Fintan.
Beth slid off the altar. On shaking legs, she took two steps forward, then stopped. Would Fintan turn her away? She’d run from him out of ignorance and fear. Had she waited too long to return? If she’d stayed as he had asked this morning, would it have prevented his suffering?
She turned to seek reassurance from Nyamah once more, only to find a thin column of misty white lingering in the air where the High Priestess had been sitting. More scared of facing Fintan’s possible anger than she’d been to face Drandar, Beth nervously stared at his impossibly healed body.
“Go, Beth. It is never too late to listen to your heart,” Nyamah’s voice echoed through the sacred grove.
Listen to her heart—hadn’t Fintan made references to the same thing? She swallowed with effort then shuffled across the barren ground. At his side, she crouched and set her palm in the center of his chest. “Fintan?” she whispered.
He stirred, a slight side-to-side motion of his head.
“Fintan, Drandar’s gone. The whole thing’s over. You’re healed. Please wake up.”
He raised his hand to capture hers at the wrist, but he didn’t open his eyes.
His awareness surged emotion through Beth’s veins. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision. A thousand confessions clamored in her head. Apologies, promises, gratitude, and guilt all warred for victory. Only one worked its way through her tight throat. One dominant thought that overruled all the rest.
“I love you.”
Chapter Nineteen
I love you.
No sweeter words had ever touched Fintan’s ears. He tightened his grip on Beth’s wrist, squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. When she’d climbed onto the altar, he had known. Hearing the confession, knowing his mortality wouldn’t be spent without her, made his eyes burn with tears he hadn’t shed since childhood. He didn’t want her to witness that embarrassing wetness.
And yet, he needed to see her beautiful face. Needed to see the proof of her words shining in her eyes.
He lifted his lashes, freeing the tears, to find her cheeks equally as wet. Giving her a soft smile, he cupped her cheek in his palm and wiped the droplets away with the pad of his thumb.
A sob hitched in her throat. She dislodged his hand with a shake of her head and threw herself against his chest. Her hands clung to his shoulders. Her body trembled as she spilled her tears.
Fintan wound his arms around her tiny waist and hugged her close. “I love you, Beth.” He still wasn’t certain how they had reached this point. But they had, and his heart swelled four times as large as he let the realization settle into his soul. He turned his head to whisper against her hair, “Thank you.”
Slowly, Beth eased upright until she looked him in the eye. “For what?” She sniffled. “If I’d listened, none of this would have happened.”
“It would have happened, sweetheart. Drandar would never have let tonight pass without retaliation. But I’m glad something triggered your acceptance.” Despite the aches that laced the muscles of his back into knots, he flashed her a teasing grin. “I can follow you to Manhattan now without worrying whether or not I might kill you.”
“No.” Beth shrugged out of his embrace and sat on the ground beside him.
; Her firm tone triggered apprehension. “No?” Had she decided she didn’t want to be a part of this? That his family was…too much to deal with?
“I’m not going to Manhattan.”
Confusion made him frown. “I thought you said you needed to find yourself there.”
“I did.” Beth nodded. “But I’ve been so caught up in finding myself, I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. I’m staying in Scotland, Fintan.”
His heart skipped several beats. Though before he could tell her she’d made the right choice and he wanted her to stay forever, she narrowed her gaze and fixed him with a wary look that made his pulse jump all over again.
“I want to paint. In that little shop in the village. I don’t care if I sell a single piece of art, I want to paint. All day. And if that’s not acceptable to you, I’m going to do it alone.”
Barking out a laugh, Fintan wrapped her in his embrace and dragged her flush against his body. His mouth found hers, hungry and yearning. He kissed her thoroughly, telling her the only way he knew how that he’d stand at her side whether she wanted to paint or dig worms all afternoon. He didn’t care. She’d accepted her past, embraced her fate, saved them all from Drandar’s wrath, and was here at his side. Where she belonged. Where he belonged.
Where no one could ever come between them.
When his lungs ached and the need for air became impossible to ignore, he tore his mouth away. Smiling, he held her impassioned gaze. “Do you think you can find time in between all that painting to become my wife?”
A moment of surprise widened her eyes before they once again glimmered with tears. “Oh, Fintan…my mother will kill me.”
He couldn’t stop the immediate pursing of his lips. “Your mother—”
“Let’s get married first.” One corner of Beth’s mouth curved in a wry smirk. “Then I’ll have all the time in the world to paint without interruption.” Dipping her head, she nipped at his lower lip.
The sharp sting shot heat all the way to his groin. Groaning, he tangled his hands into her long hair and captured her impish mouth. She’d be interrupted, he had no doubt. He would see to it that she understood the depth of his love several times throughout the day.
Beth’s hand slid down his body. Seeking fingers stroked his swelling cock. “All the time in the world,” she murmured against his lips.
Somehow, he doubted she’d get much painting done.
A word about the author...
Claire Ashgrove has been writing since her early teens and maintained the hobby for twenty years before deciding to leap into the professional world. Her first contemporary novel, Seduction's Stakes, sold to The Wild Rose Press in 2008, where she continues to write steamy, sexy stories for the Champagne and Black Rose lines. Adding to these critically acclaimed romances, Claire’s paranormal romance series, The Curse of the Templars debuted with Tor in January 2012. For those who prefer the more erotic side of romance, she also writes for Berkley Heat under the pen name Tori St. Claire.
Claire lives on a small farm in Missouri with her two toddler sons, fifteen horses, five cats, and five dogs. In her “free” time, she enjoys cooking, winning at Rummy, studying ancient civilizations, and spending quiet moments with her family, including the critters. She credits her success to her family's constant support and endless patience.
To learn more about Claire, visit her on the web at www.claireashgrove.com, or www.toristclaire.com, and at the Cascade Literary Agency blog site, http://cascadeliteraryagency.blogspot.com.
For more in the Inherited Damnation series, you’ll want to read:
Destined to Die
Inherited Damnation, Book III
by
Claire Ashgrove
Chapter One
“The three of us could be good together. Real good.”
Belen McLaine smirked as the distant voice drifted down the dimly lit alley, over the sound of a passing bus’s wheezing brakes. All in all, tonight hadn’t turned out half bad. He’d managed to poke around in enough compromised minds to convince a beggar boy to lift a crooked businessman’s wallet and to coerce the prostitute on Eighth into shooting the pimp who beat her nightly. He’d even managed to seduce the kid who ran the gas station down the corner into lifting from the midnight till so his mother and he would have groceries that week.
Judging from the sound of the husky suggestive voice in the alley, Belen’s efforts of suggestion had also worked well on the two down-on-their luck college kids who had bemoaned their lack of sex over drinks a few hours earlier. They had confidence issues. One suffered early trauma from a neglectful mother. The other had his heart broken too many times and just needed a frivolous piece of tail to get back into the game.
Sounded like they had.
He chuckled as he lifted his face to the December air and breathed in a cloud of exhaust. It never took much to influence those already on the edge. They were easy game. And why shouldn’t he indulge when he had the power? He was a demon after all. Well…half. But the lighter part of his soul had gotten lost a long time ago. Centuries ago. Back when wars were fought with pikes, spiked maces, and slings.
Back when the world was a different place and his mother had cast him aside.
Belen’s breath clouded around him, creating a momentary haze over the strings of multicolored Christmas lights that dangled from dark storefronts. Faint rock music thumped from the bar he’d left behind. Snow crunched under his boots. In ten minutes he’d have to confront his younger sister—and unwanted temporary houseguest—Isolde. She’d give him a ration of shit for his work tonight. He wasn’t in the mood to hear another of her lectures. It felt too good to do what the dark half of his soul desired.
Not that he was in a mood to listen to her diatribes about light and goodness any other time of the year. But with Yule three days away, and the power of nature rising to greet the Sabot, Isolde’s speeches held even more distaste. How she could ignore the darker half of her calling he couldn’t imagine. It roiled inside him like a chained beast.
Isolde should just count herself lucky that the practice of ritualistic killings was out of favor these days. Right about now, Belen could really go for one of their father’s sacrifices.
He cringed.
No. Not those. In over two thousand years of existence, he’d done everything but kill. Sure, he goaded others into doing the deed to appease his dark calling, but he, himself, had not taken a single life.
Even when he did convince someone into murder, like the prostitute on Eighth, he made sure the victim deserved the death.
It made waking up the next morning a bit easier if he could justify death. Besides, he enjoyed the other aspects of sin far more. Like nudging the young men at the bar to follow through on their base animalistic instincts.
Belen paused as trashcan toppled. Metal crashed into concrete, something skittered down the pavement.
“Hey, sweetheart, come back here!”
Hm. Maybe he couldn’t take satisfaction in corrupting the men. It didn’t sound like their target was any too receptive of their proposal.
Belen let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. Humans could be so disappointing. Kind of like Isolde, who possessed inordinate powers and chose to put them to use for goodness.
Shaking his head against the disappointment that was mankind, he braced himself for the coming lecture. Isolde would be gone in three days. Then, he could roam the streets without suffering this nagging voice of consciousness she somehow evoked in his head. When his sister left, all Belen would have to worry about was keeping the equally intolerably decent, social worker, Faith Winters, out of his territory. He was almost out of young minds to corrupt.
****
Faith’s lungs burned like fire as she skirted around another pile of ripped open trash bags. One three-inch heel that she’d allowed her date to convince her into wearing caught on a ratty corner. She stumbled, and her life flashed through her mind.
So this is how it ends.
The random thought flitted through her brain a second before her palms shot out and braced against imminent impact. A sliver of pain needled its way through her panic as glass dug into the fleshy part of her thumb.
Behind her, a masculine laugh rang out.
Another husky chuckle echoed through the alley before a second voice quipped, “See, sweetheart, it’s fate. We’re meant to be together tonight.”
Like hell.
Faith struggled to rise to her feet before her attackers could catch up. She didn’t know exactly what they had in mind, but she was damn sure she didn’t want to be a part of it. The way her luck had been going lately, this wouldn’t be just rape. They’d find her carved-on body in the very same overflowing dumpster she’d just passed. Thanks to her date who’d run the opposite way the minute the heavier-set guy behind her slammed a fist into his nose.
So much for chivalry.
With a grunt, Faith shoved to one knee. Her other foot remained firmly entangled in the plastic and God knew what else behind her. She shook her ankle, trying to kick off the shoe.
“Ah, such a pretty little ass. Don’t you think?”
“I think it’s right where I want it. Looking at me, all round like the moon. Bet it’s just as pretty too.”
Before Faith could work her foot free, two punishing hands grabbed her by the waist and shoved her flat into the stench of garbage. A belt buckle jangled. One rough boot wedged between her knees, the worn leather rough against the inside of her bare skin.
She never should have worn heels. Much less a damned skirt.
Faith grabbed at the pavement, digging her nails into the rough surface. She worked her way to her elbows, desperate to escape, to crawl to safety if she must. Her brain simply refused to give up.
When a knee rammed between her shoulder blades, adrenaline rocketed through her system. With more strength than she’d ever believed she possessed, she threw her weight backward and twisted to her side.
The shoe came off.
Ensnared by Blood Page 12