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Destiny Fulfilled

Page 4

by Laire McKinney


  Gwyon and the other subordinates failed during their first attempt to take the Cauldron but had succeeded in getting Riagan banished to the realm of man. With one of the Brotherhood gone, the line of fortitude was weakened and there was little to stand in their way of capturing the revered artifact during the next attempt.

  Nothing thrilled Gwyon more, and even Master’s stormy stare could not deter the surge of excitement.

  “The wheels are in motion, are they not, Gwyon?”

  “Yes, Master. Riagan was the strongest link among the Brotherhood, as you know. Now that he is banished, their line is weakened. We await only your word and we will strike to take the Cauldron. This time we will succeed.”

  Master clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes. Riagan’s training has all but guaranteed he will be unable to find love. Ever. And certainly not before the equinox. He is as good as dead.”

  Gwyon straightened his shoulders and steeled his jaw. Straight. Proud. Ready.

  Master continued. “The time has come.”

  A smile stretched across Gwyon’s face as he allowed himself to return to rest upon the boulder.

  WREN SAT IN her office’s guest chair, trying not to hyperventilate. This room was, on a good day, no bigger than an empty shoebox. Today, though, it felt like a matchbox, with Dr. Martin taking up residence in her desk chair and Officer Buford standing in the corner, shifting between his feet.

  “No one else was around?” Buford held a tiny pen ready to take down every word she said, every word she’d already said, over and over and over.

  “No, I didn’t see anyone else. I must’ve blacked out. I hit my head pretty hard.”

  “I see. And you say Jerry Smith attacked you?”

  “Yes. I came to work and he was waiting in the parking lot. He seemed to be experiencing auditory hallucinations so I think he has been off his medication for a while.”

  “Had been off his medication,” said Dr. Martin, interrupting.

  “Excuse me?” What was he talking about now?

  “He’s dead.” The doctor’s air of superiority and authority was as thick as molasses. “He had been off his medication, Wren. Using the word has insinuates he is still alive, but alas, he is dead.”

  Wren gathered her proverbial daggers and shot them at Dr. Martin. “I think he had been off his medication for a while.”

  Officer Buford flipped the notebook shut. “Dr. Martin, do you have any other questions?”

  The doctor gazed at her from unblinking eyes, his index fingers joined and resting under his chin. “No. I have nothing at this time.”

  Officer Buford made his way to the door. Dr. Martin followed but turned before passing the threshold. “Take the rest of the day off.”

  “Thank you.” Her tone was neutral as she said the words, though she couldn’t help but feel Dr. Martin was dismissing her rather than offering her a sign of goodwill. Did he really think she killed Jerry?

  The men walked down the hall, and she resisted the urge to slam the door. Tears threatened to spill.

  The bastard.

  Glad to have the men out of her office, she fell into her chair, which smelled like Dr. Martin, and nausea rolled through her empty stomach. She sprang to her feet and returned to the guest chair.

  The last person who had sat in that chair was Jerry.

  No longer able to stop the tears, she let them slide over her cheeks, muffling her sobs behind her fisted hand.

  There was no window to stare out of so she closed her eyes, shutting down each painful memory of the day one by one. She was good at channeling her thoughts away from the unpleasant. She had been doing it for years.

  Settling into their wake was an image of the blond angel crouched over her, the dim light filtering through his long hair. She knew the strands would feel like satin if she were to touch them.

  If he was real.

  Had Michelangelo sketched a picture of the perfect man, it would be this blond angel. His face was so flawlessly chiseled he was almost too beautiful. Surely, he was a hallucination.

  Raw, masculine power oozed off his skin, and she could feel the effects all these hours later. He was a large man, the width of his shoulders alone massive. Powerful.

  And he was naked, wasn’t he? Where were his clothes? This little detail didn’t bode too well in the sanity department. If he were real, wouldn’t he be dressed?

  Yes, he must’ve been an angel—of death, mercy, or Heaven. She didn’t know which, and she didn’t care.

  Unable to sit in the cavernous office a minute longer, she grabbed her things and hurried to her truck without a word to anyone. In the parking lot, she avoided the spot where Jerry had died, catching flashes of the yellow police tape in her peripheral vision.

  She peeled away, and within minutes was headed down her backcountry road. Soon, but not soon enough, she turned onto the dusty, pothole-filled driveway. Shoving the truck into four-wheel drive, she maneuvered her way over the dips and craters that made her head pound and protest.

  As the truck lurched up the mountainside, the sun’s rays burst through the windshield, and she reached down to get her sunglasses. When she looked up again, she slammed on the brakes, blinking, blinking, blinking. The truck skidded in the dirt, blowing puffs of brown dust into the air.

  The blond angel.

  Tall, beautiful, insanely muscular.

  Thankfully, or not, he was clothed, his long hair blowing in the mountain breeze. Now wearing a T-shirt that was too tight, and a pair of jeans, his clothing could pass for any man’s for miles around. But the body that filled those clothes…well, she’d never seen anything like it. Certainly not on her boyfriend, Brian. But that was irrelevant, wasn’t it?

  Tension squeezed in her lower abdomen, tightening like the balling fist of a linebacker. She gulped, then bit the inside of her cheek as an unfamiliar burning flame shot through her body.

  Why was he in her mother’s driveway? Wearing clothes that looked like something her father used to wear?

  She reached for the door handle just as he disappeared into the forest.

  Vanished.

  OCH, BUT THAT is the lass. The voice.

  He’d recognize that curly head of raven hair and that pouty red mouth anywhere. She held the voice that had gotten him into this new mess. What was she doing all the way out here?

  Her mouth opened in a perfect ‘O’ as she stared out the window. Did she recognize him? He knew she’d seen him, had even talked to him. But she had been hurt, and he hoped didn’t remember.

  When she shook her head as if to clear her mind, clear her vision maybe, curls flew around her face, brushing against alabaster skin. A faint pink flush burst over her cheeks.

  When she threw open the door and started to get out, he crouched, preparing to flee. There was much to clarify in his mind before they met again. He couldn’t just say he was an ancient druid, could he? Nay. That wouldn’t do at all.

  So he ran.

  He risked one glance behind him as he maneuvered through the trees. Standing beside her truck, she didn’t call after him but remained as still as a pillar, a mask of perplexed aggravation settling over her face.

  He reached the small clearing of the portal and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. As he heaved, the sudden tinkling of bells burst alive in the air—mingling, magical, melodial. A faery was signaling its arrival.

  Well, they waste but no time, do they? I have been man merely a day.

  He stared to the right of the circle of stone. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw movement and struggled to keep his eyes averted. He had enough troubles without becoming a slave to the wee folk, and everyone knew that watching a faery materialize was the surest way to become just that.

  The bells, more beautiful than those that rang in medieval churches, stopped as suddenly as they’d started.

  In the clearing, lighted upon a small stone, was a miniature faery, so tiny she was no longer than his thumb, and colorful beyond the myriad of the rainbo
w. Riagan struggled to focus on her teeny form.

  She perched with one leg crossed over the other. Her wings flapped iridescent and shimmering behind her slender back. Her hands crossed about her knee, and she stared at Riagan.

  He nodded in greeting.

  She flashed him a smile that burst with light. He looked away.

  I must remember my old teachings. These wee faeries are fickle things. They draw you in with their beauty, then hypnotize and kidnap you. I must remain alert.

  “Riagan?” Her crystallized voice filled the air, voluminous for such a small creature.

  “Yes?”

  The trees swayed.

  “Why are you here?”

  He remained silent. She would likely know why he was here. The otherworlds were more gossipy than an old woman’s parlor at tea time.

  “Riagan, you have traveled far to come to this place. And I see that you are mortal.”

  He shuddered. Mortal.

  The faery lifted off the stone and fluttered forward. Her eyes were oval, large, and luminous, bursting forth with beams of yellow like the sun. “Have you word from your Brotherhood?”

  Tension filled his mortal veins. “Nay. Have you word to give me?”

  She tilted her head and her sunshine eyes turned liquid, undulating in rich yellow. He knew not whether to trust the wee faery. The miniature folk of the fae realm were great tricksters and often reveled in the fun of toying with the lives of others.

  “Riagan, what I am to tell you is truth.”

  It was as if she could read his thoughts. “Okay, then. What?”

  “There is great trouble on the druid realm.”

  The trees droned around him, their vibration creeping beneath his skin until he felt he was vibrating too.

  “What trouble? Pray, faery, tell me. What of my Brotherhood? Of my brother?”

  She watched him as if trying to decide whether to tell him the whole story or tease him with snippets. “There will be an attempt to take the Murias Cauldron.”

  “An attempt? Mean you another attempt? There was an attempt the night I was banished.” He fought to slow his tumble of words.

  “Aye, druid. There will be another attempt, and this time they will succeed.”

  “Pray that you are lying.” He tried to unclench his clenched fists but could not.

  “Nay, druid, I lie not. The one they call Master is determined to gain possession of this most sacred treasure. Its powers are very desirable.”

  “You need not tell me what I already know, faery. I know well that the Cauldron promises immortality. Why think you there is a need for the Brotherhood to protect it?”

  The warrior blood that ran deep within him smoldered, simmered, seared. The need to protect the Cauldron shook him so completely, he wondered if the innermost part of the Earth could feel it. “Who is this one they call Master? Know you of him?”

  “Nay. We of the fae realm know only his name and that he is determined to gain possession of the treasure. He is not an immortal but likely wants to be thus. He uses magic to dwell outside the veil and cannot be seen.”

  Riagan rubbed his jaw, oblivious to the newly grown hair that had appeared. Whoever this Master was had been able to gain entry to the druid realm and enter the Sacred Grove. To gain access to the Cauldron, one had to have the warrior gene in his blood, like one of the Brotherhood. Was there a traitor among their midst? The possibility was too alarming to consider.

  Did Caswallen know of this?

  “Tree-friends, does the faery speak the truth?”

  We know not, druid, but the otherworlds are unsettled.

  He stared hard at the creature hovering before him. “Tell me the truth, faery, or you will regret crossing the portal on this night.”

  “Druid, do not challenge me. I speak only the truth. Loss of this treasure affects the fae realm as well. We rely upon the druids to keep the artifact safe so when the worlds are in need of its powers, it will be there. Know you not that we are in this together? If the one they call Master obtains the Cauldron, he will gain immortality and the worlds’ ancient secrets will be his to use as he will.”

  She put her hands to either side of his mouth. The air from her wings cooled his skin. “I speak the truth, Riagan.”

  Growling like a famished bear, he stalked around the stones. “What can I do? I am a human now. A mortal. I cannot cross to the druid realm as a human. I have to fulfill my terms of punishment, or I will face certain death if I try to cross the portal.”

  “Riagan, something you seek is near.”

  He leaned against one of the trees and its bark gave way to cradle his long body. “How much time do I have?”

  “We believe Master has given permission to take the Cauldron at the full moon in three days’ time.”

  “At the equinox?”

  “Aye. When light equals dark, when day and night are balanced, the moon looms full.”

  He couldn’t cross the portal as a human. He would die and then be of no use to anyone. His punishment stated that he must find love, true love, for the banishment to be lifted.

  Impossible.

  Any ability to feel love had been squashed when he was a babe. A Guardian of the Cauldron could feel nothing but the need to protect the Cauldron—everything else was considered a distraction. Then why had the Arch Druid given him such a punishment?

  He repeated the faery’s words in his mind. Something I seek is near. Stepping away from the tree, he walked toward the faery. “The raven-haired woman?”

  “Mayhaps.”

  “What is your name, wee one?”

  The faery flew into the circle of stones and hovered, wings flapping rainbow colors. “Oephille.”

  She disappeared.

  Riagan turned to the trees. “What say you, tree-friends? What is it Oephille speaks of?”

  A low murmur carried through the wind and the trees swayed. We know not, druid. Seek you more than just the portal?

  Riagan thought about the dark-haired woman, whose lips resembled plump cherries kissed by the morning dew.

  A rustling of leaves jerked him from his thoughts.

  Standing in front of him was the woman. “Who are you?”

  Wren collapsed against a nearby tree, unable to hold her weight a minute longer.

  He was standing there before her. In the flesh.

  Or was he?

  A white hazy light swirled around him, making him appear almost translucent. His skin was pale, flawless, and as smooth as marble. His green eyes flared, almost iridescent and almost glowing.

  The chatter in her head erupted into a hundred small voices, and she wanted to scream. Digging her nails into the bark of the tree, she started to cry. She couldn’t tell if he was real.

  Was this what her mom felt when she had her first breakdown? Unable to tell what was real and what wasn’t?

  Wren’s worst nightmare was unfolding, page by page, right in front of her, like a novel whose pages were being flipped by a ghost.

  “Why are you crying?” the deep voice asked.

  She jerked her chin up. He spoke, didn’t he? He just spoke. Does that mean he’s real?

  Hope bloomed in her like a flower. If he spoke, that meant there was a man standing before her. But she had heard him speak before when he’d called her lass. And her mother often thought her delusions were real, going so far as to try and bring Wren into the conversations.

  The fleeting hope became muted by a pain that bubbled up from deep within her heart, from the darkest place where she laid all her fears. It spilled out into her bloodstream, pouring through her body. The fact that she wasn’t sure said it all. How many times had she heard voices, turned, and no one was there? Countless, that was how many.

  “Lass, you are well?”

  The voice was pleasing to her ears, deeper and more masculine than Brian’s. She found her own voice and demanded, “Did you kill Jerry?”

  She planted her hands on her hips, but when his eyes dropped from her face t
o her breasts, she lowered her hands back to her sides and tugged at her shirt.

  Typical. Even an imaginary man can’t find my eyes.

  “Seriously?” she demanded when he wouldn’t lift his gaze.

  He cleared his throat as his eyes swept upward. “Um, sorry. You have breasts so beautiful they mimic the full moon in a cloudless sky.” He cupped his hands, curling his fingers to the shape of a woman’s breasts. In this case, her breasts.

  “What?” If her subconscious was creating this man, she needed to work on her creativity.

  As he gawked, eyes returning south of her chin, she took the moment to return the insulting scrutiny. His hair, longer than any man’s she’d ever seen, fell halfway down his back. It was nearly white with a golden tinge. His skin was so pale, had blood ever pumped through his body? He blinked. His chest, broad and thick and muscular, rose then fell with each breath.

  He must be real.

  Determined to set her fears aside, she marched forward like a soldier. If there was nothing there but air when she tried to touch him, she’d drive to the hospital herself.

  He didn’t move as she approached, his arms still outstretched, his hands still cupped. She stopped a foot away. His face was exactly as she remembered, as if his image imbedded itself in her mind and she knew no matter how long she lived, she would never forget this face. Delusion or reality.

  But that didn’t answer the question of whether he was real or not.

  So she pinched him.

  Hard.

  “Ouch. Wench, why did you do that?”

  She yanked up the sleeve to find a red welt forming. “Don’t call me that. It’s rude.”

  “Rude? It’s rude of me to call you a wench but you can pinch me?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’re real.”

  He reached out two fingers like he was going to pinch her back. “Are you real?”

  She smacked his hand.

  He watched her, his expression amused.

  She watched him, suspicious.

  He was real. Thank God, he was real.

  She had felt his smooth skin between her fingers, felt the flesh give under the hard pinch, seen him yank his arm away and rub where a welt appeared. A giggle of glee erupted from her mouth, but she stopped it when it sounded more hysterical than relieved.

 

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