Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  Now Winston could see the boy straining to look at him, and the terrified expression on the boy's face nearly lost Winston what little control he had left.

  "Leave him be," Winston demanded of the Phantom, cautiously closing some of the distance. "Put him down, or so help me, I'll kill you wi' ma bare hands!"

  A smile of such evil gleamed in the Phantom's eyes, Winston thought for sure he had further endangered Alby's life. But then Alby was released. He fell to the ground in a small heap, where he remained motionless. Winston's gaze pinged from the boy to the Phantom as he repeatedly clenched his hands at his sides.

  "I've thought abou' our first meeting," said the Phantom, his words surprisingly clear despite the knitted wool across his mouth. "The great Detective Connery." He laughed. "The soon to be late great, wouldn't you say?"

  The Cockney accent was as chilling to Winston as the night air. "It seems your death was grossly exaggerated."

  The Phantom shrugged. "You make it so easy," he chuckled. "Tell me, you arrogant pup, do you bleed as bloody red as normal people?"

  Winston nibbled on the inside of his lower lip and brazened two more steps in the other man's direction. "Redder than you."

  "Tha' sounds like a challenge."

  "Aye. Mon to mon. You and me. Step away from the boy. There's no need to risk hurting him."

  The Phantom glanced down at Alby, who was groggily sitting up, then narrowed his eyes on Winston. "I guess it would really tear you up to see the little bastard bleed to death before dying yourself, wouldn't it?"

  Rage heated Winston's blood. "No' even you are tha' sick."

  "Oh, I am. I am," he said gleefully.

  A wail ejected from the Phantom's throat when Alby's teeth sank into the calf of his leg. Instinctively, he kicked out, sending the boy tumbling away then readied his six-inch blade to receive the man charging at him.

  * * *

  Not since her escape from the root in the cellar had Deliah felt so cold. Even if she were standing on the tower in the midst of a summer's heat, she would feel as if her blood had turned to rivers of ice. She had spoken of Winston's emptiness, when her own was far worse to fill. She'd once known the love and security of family and clan. Nevermore. Without Winston, her dreams were as adrift as a dried leaf in the wind.

  Suddenly she felt more tired than she believed possible. Her chest was heavy with sorrow, her heart a hollow ache.

  "I so love ye," she said tearfully into the night.

  She started to push away from the wall when she heard Winston's voice call out for Alby. A weary smile touched her lips. The boys were always into or doing something they shouldn't. She had checked in on them before going to the oak. Kevin and Kahl were fast asleep, but Alby was wide-eyed lying atop his bed and, when she asked if he needed company, he refused and said he wanted to think.

  Think.

  What could a three-year-old have to think about that would prompt such a frown on his brow?

  A stranger's outcry dashed her reverie and she scanned the front yard to find its cause. The rooflines blocked most of her view, but then she saw two adults struggling on the ground, and a much smaller figure crawling away from them.

  Winston?

  Another cry was heard, but this one was unmistakably Winston's, and the anguish it carried in the night, alarmed her.

  With a swiftness born of instinct, she untied the robe, let it fall to the floor and pulled down the elastic edging on the back of her nightgown, nearly to her waist. She was first conscious of the buds forming on her back, then of intense, almost searing tingling as the buds opened and her wings unfurled. When they were full and she had flexed them to test their flight-worthiness, she leaped atop the crenellations and cast off.

  Air currents helped her to soar downward. She saw the two men break apart. One lashed out with a long-bladed knife and the other fell back clutching his chest. Then the first figure, who was dressed entirely in black, lunged atop the other—Winston, she realized with terrifying clarity.

  With the agility and speed of an eagle, she flew off toward the oak by the main road where she quickly gathered twigs she broke off from one of the laden branches. She sliced through the air back toward the men, and hovered but a moment to analyze the situation.

  Winston had just bucked his assailant off him and was attempting to scramble away, crabbing meager inches on his feet and hands. The assailant stood. Moonlight glinted off the polished blade, which he held raised but downward in a threatening manner. Alby scurried to Winston's side, intermittently weeping and shouting at the boogeyman to leave them alone.

  For what she planned to do, Deliah needed more space between man and boy, and the stranger. She swooped downward, cutting a path close to the man in black. He cried out in surprise and lashed out with the knife, missing her right wing by a harrowing margin. Again she dive-bombed him. She caught him on the chest with her bare heels, sending him reeling backward for several feet before he fell on his butt, cursing and snarling threats.

  Hovering mere inches above the ground she blew on the twigs clutched in her hands. Blue mist spilled past her lips and sprinkled the twigs. Then she tossed them on the ground midway between the stranger who was getting to his feet, and her self-appointed charges on the ground behind her.

  The instant the twigs hit the ground, countless branches rose from the slender segments. They rapidly entwined as they grew upward and outward, forming an eight-foot-wide, seven-foot-high wall, cutting off the stranger's access.

  For several moments, he attempted to breach the barrier, slashing the branches with his knife and gurgling with rage at the futility of his actions. When he finally ran off beyond the carriage house, Deliah's thundering heart began to slow. She lowered her feet to the ground and turned.

  The sight that greeted her nearly gave her flight, but she refused to hide anymore.

  Alby's eyes were wide with awe as he peered up at her from Winston's side. Winston's expression, on the other hand, pained her. There was also awe in the depths of his eyes, but also horror and disgust etched into his face. As much as she had tried to imagine his reaction to her true form, this was worse than her grimmest musings.

  "Are ye hurt, Alby?"

  He rapidly shook his head.

  "Winston?"

  "He's bleeding bad," Alby choked, turning his gaze to the red stain spreading across Winston's chest. "He got cut by the boogeyman."

  Deliah knelt to Winston's left. He was on his back, teetering on the elbows propping him up. His eyes were wide, staring at her through rapidly blinking eyelids. His mouth was agape, his face gaunt and pale.

  "Winston, can ye tell me how hurt ye be?"

  His head barely moved in a negative response.

  "Alby, are ye steady enough to run ahead to the house. I'll need help wi' Winston."

  Gulping, Alby nodded. He regarded the seemingly vast distance to the front doors then briefly eyed the wall of branches. "I'll get Uncle Roan," he said and, scrambling onto his feet, waddled off toward the house.

  Winston watched him for several moments, but returned his gaze to Deliah when she began to unbutton his wool shirt. He heard her gasp then looked down to see that his chest was covered in blood.

  "Ye will need a fast packin’," she said breathlessly, meeting his gaze. "Can ye walk?"

  He nodded, but when he attempted to move, he fell completely on his back.

  "No time to test yer legs," she said, and slipped her arms beneath his back and behind his knees. "I canna walk ye to the house, but I can fly wi' ye."

  Hoarse breaths came from Winston when she lifted him into her arms and cast off as if he didn't weigh a third of his actual weight. Freezing air buffeted them during the brief flight, and he found he had to watch the doors, not her, if he wanted to keep his stomach from spilling its contents.

  She lit upon the stoop with the grace of a butterfly. "Can ye open the door?"

  Numb, he reached out, turned the knob and pushed open one side of the doors. Walking, she
carried him through the greenhouse, the strain of her burden evident on her features. But strain couldn't diminish her determination to get him out of the cold. One of the inner doors was left open and she stepped through it and into the main hall.

  "Put me down," he demanded shakily. "I'll be damned if I'm seen being carried like a child."

  With a grunt, she eased him to his feet and helped him to prop himself against the wall.

  "Sweet Jesus," murmured a voice behind her.

  She turned to find Lachlan standing in the doorway of the library, a blank expression on his face, and a dull look in his bloodshot eyes.

  "This Scotch has a maist promisin’ kick," he muttered in a slur, then fell hard on his buttocks. He sat with his legs spread, his arms limp at his sides, and his head bobbing on a neck too weak to hold it up. A moment later, he keeled over backward and lay in unconscious oblivion.

  Frowning in disapproval, Deliah tore her gaze from him and met Winston's scowling perusal.

  "Aye, I be a fay. A fairy. One disparagin’ word from ye, Winston Ian Connery, and I'll turn ye into a nubby green toad!"

  "Wha' the?"

  The voice came from Roan, who had just stepped onto the first floor landing. His shock at seeing Deliah's wings outweighed Alby's story of a boogeyman wounding Winston.

  Deliah bristled beneath what she felt was unwarranted fascination with her wings. Rearing back her shoulders, she haughtily demanded, "Carry him to his room. I must fetch the makings for a healin’ patch."

  Giving a brusque, disbelieving shake of his head, Roan maneuvered until he had Winston's left arm firmly across his broad shoulders.

  "I can walk!" Winston shouted furiously, stopping his host from lifting him into his arms. "Wi' some help, I...can...walk."

  "Help you have," Roan murmured, his gaze transfixed on Deliah's face.

  "I'll no' take long," she said. Her wings pressing together at her back, she ran back into the night.

  Twice Winston nearly passed out before finding himself reclining on the welcomed comfort of his mattress.

  "Wha' happened?" Roan probed, drawing one of the blankets up to Winston's waist. "How did you get cut?"

  "The Phantom. He was assaulting Alby. Tried to stop him."

  Roan leveled a look of horror on Winston. "You said he was dead."

  "I was wrong." Winston groaned when pain radiated from his chest wound to all other parts of his body. "The bastard got away."

  "Deliah?"

  "Stopped him from finishing his work on us," Winston wheezed. He wanted to probe the area of his chest he knew was lacerated, but he was afraid he would discover the wound was fatal. Instead, he went on, "You saw? You saw the wings on her back?"

  "Aye, and I'll wager I've never see a mair peculiar sight in ma life."

  "A fairy," Winston murmured, his eyelids closing halfway as he resisted an urge to sleep. "I never would have guessed. Never in ma wildest fantasies thought such a thing could be possible. A fairy...."

  Laura entered the room, her eyes sleep-laden and bloodshot. "What's going on?"

  Beth dashed into the room, appearing fully awake, but alarmed. She joined Laura and Roan at the bedside and grimaced when she saw Winston's chest. "What happened?"

  "Fairies," Winston murmured.

  "You know?" Beth asked incredulously.

  "What?" asked Laura, puzzled by the strange interaction.

  "Deliah," said Roan softly. "She has wings."

  "Right," Laura said wryly and frowned when his serious expression remained. She glanced at Winston. "Did Deliah do this to you?"

  "See! See! I told you so!" Alby blustered as he led his sleepy brothers into the room and to Winston's bed. Pointing all the while to Winston's chest, he added, "And the boogeyman whipped out a sword and slashed him wide open!"

  "Alby," Winston groaned, trying to make light of his predicament. "It was a knife, no' a sword."

  "It was big as a sword," Alby insisted.

  Laura turned a bit green after sitting alongside Winston and inspecting the gaping wound. It was nearly three inches long and ran aslant the lower part of his right pectoral. "We need to get him to a hospital."

  "I agree," said Roan, unable to take his gaze off the wound. "But the cars are iced in. I can run to the Lauders and hope to hell they have a phone."

  "Run to the neighbors?" Beth asked incredulously. "Even cutting across the fields, which are buried in deep snow, will take forever."

  "We need help!"

  "I'll be fine," said Winston but grimaced when he attempted to move. His skin had a gray pallor and his eyes were underscored with dark circles. "We've got to get to a phone and contact the local police. The Phantom won't go far. During our struggle, I caught segments o' his thoughts. He's after Laura."

  Winston observed Laura's shocked look and gripped one of her hands. "We won't let him near you. I promise you, Laura, I'll take the bastard ou' if it's the last thing I do."

  "No' in yer condition." Roan clapped a hand on the back of his neck and sighed wearily. "It's too late to make it to Shortby's and use his phone. You need a doctor and we need help wi' this Phantom. Damn me! I should have at least gotten a cellular phone."

  "Don't," Beth said kindly, placing a hand on Roan's shoulder. "In this house, there is no such thing as being prepared." She glanced at the boys and managed a smile. "It's a little late for you three to be up, isn't it?"

  "Nope," Kahl said, straining to see Winston's bloodied chest more closely. "We're wide awake now."

  "It's time for—" Laura began but gasped when something flew into the room and headed for the bed. Roan and Beth stepped back, startled and in awe of the four-inch wonder hovering at the left side of the bed. There was no mistaken it was a shrunken Deliah, only a Deliah with translucent wings fluttering at her back. She held something in her tiny hands, but it was too small for anyone to make out. With her head, she gestured for Roan and Beth and the boys to move back more. When they did, she dipped back her head and closed her eyes, as if going into a moment of intense concentration. Then, as she released a long breath, she grew before their eyes until she was again five-foot-six inches tall. The wings remained intact, opalescent shimmers of blue and green. A pale silver web-work of veins were now clearly defined, and pulsed with her heart rate.

  "What a babe!" Kevin exclaimed appreciatively.

  The adults ignored him, too fascinated by her appearance to be distracted. Deliah's hair, nightgown, face and arms, had smears of dirt and small clumps of snow.

  "Twas difficult to reach one o' the roots," Deliah said as she sat alongside Winston. Her wings lightly fluttered, but she didn't appear to notice them. Nor did she seem aware of the wary look in Winston's eyes. Her concentration was focused on a gnarled root sitting atop her left palm. "The snow be verra deep by the oak." Now she looked into Winston's pale eyes and her features took on the bleak look of a woman disillusioned with life. "Swallow yer disgust o' me," she rasped chidingly, her voice hollow, defensive. "Ye must focus on the magic for it to work. I canna do this alone."

  Glancing at Beth, she mildly ordered, "We be in need o’ a wet, warm towel. While I summon the magic, I ask ye to clean around the wound."

  "Forget it," Winston bit out.

  Deliah eyed him impatiently. "I can conjure up vines to hold ye down. Dinna mock ma abilities, Winston. I be stressed and nervous as it is, and need ma wits abou' me to carry this through."

  "You're not using magic on me!"

  "Winston," Beth chided.

  Deliah stiffly drew back her shoulders, her look daring him to further defy her. "Ye would make a fine toad, ma friend. Now, do I proceed wi' the healin’ or ventin’ ma frustration in a mair imaginative manner?"

  For a moment, Winston glared at her, then grumbled, "Get on wi' it."

  Deliah shifted her gaze to the root. She placed her right hand atop the left, enclosing the root between her warming skin. In a low, singsong voice, she chanted:

  "Root o' life, ma heart does hold,

>   Grant me the healing o' ma clan's creed.

  Root o' magic, ma heart does hold,

  Ta help me undo anither's deed.

  Root o' love and honor, ma heart does hold,

  take from me ma healing seed.

  Root o' compassion, ma heart does hold,

  From earth to palm to one in need."

  Beth returned to Winston's side. With half an eye on the blue glow pulsing between Deliah's hands, she dabbed away the blood on his chest, now and then offering him an encouraging smile. He was tense and intermittently staring at Deliah's hands in something akin to horror and disgust. His hands remained balled at his sides and his breathing was labored. Perspiration beaded his ashen face although the room was chilly.

  Deliah's eyes appeared glassy as they locked with his. He could see the sickly tension in his face reflected in her enigmatic orbs, and a shuddering breath spilled past his lips before he could suppress it. His gaze lowered to her hands. A blue glow was visible, seeming to emanate from her skin rather than the root. She rotated her hands, so the right one was now on the bottom. Her left hand moved to her lap, while the other, the cupped palm of which now supported a blue claylike mass, moved toward his chest. Hot liquid shot up into his throat and he swallowed reflexively as his eyes widened on the bizarre poultice. It thrummed with the rhythm of a heart. He could hear its beat in his ears, its cadence matching the erratic drumming of his own heart.

  As she dipped her hand over the wound—a motion he felt he was witnessing in slow motion—he tried not to let his burgeoning panic surface. Even as a child, he'd never believed in anything remotely fanciful. Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. Monsters hiding in closets or shadows. For as far back as he could remember, reality was nightmare enough, the stuff that kept him awake at night as a young boy, trembling beneath his bed covers. The reality laid open in his mind since his birth was usually more fantastic than anything anyone's imagination could produce. He'd experienced abstract insanity from external psychic emissions. He'd experienced labor and birth. Death. Every level of physical and mental existence known to the human condition. At least he thought he had.

  Her gaze eerily unwavering in its intense focus on his eyes, she lowered the mashed root to his wound. At first he felt only its coldness and its fibrous texture against his fevered flesh. He grimaced then cast the fay a pleading glance. A hint of a smile played across her lips. Her right hand remained canopying the root. The glow remained, although it appeared to be gradually dimming.