Destiny Fulfilled

by Laire McKinney

  “I had my suspicions but intended for you to confirm or refute them.”

  “But something was missed?” The effort it took for Gwyon to utter those words was paramount to skipping up the side of a glacier.

  “There has been a break in the veil of magic, courtesy of the pending equinox when all shadows clear, and now I see.”

  Gwyon swallowed. “See what, Master?”

  “A Redeemer.”

  “A Redeemer?” It felt as if a crater had beamed him in the chest. “Impossible.”

  Master’s eyes lit like a flare. “You question me?”

  “No, Master.” He swallowed. “Please tell me what I am to do.”

  “A human woman is the link, the mother of the Redeemer. Find her, and kill her. Once you do, the veil will dissipate and you will see clearly the Redeemer. Then kill her.”

  Two murders? Gwyon had never considered the possibility. Hurt his brothers, yes. He was prepared for such. Drink from the Cauldron. Again, yes. He wanted to be healed. But kill two women on the realm of man?

  “How will I find these women, Master?”

  “One has hair of red. The other, the Redeemer, hair of black. In that order, they must be eliminated.”

  THE YELLOW LIGHT was blinding, searing her pupils through her closed lids. Wren tried to shield her eyes but couldn’t move her leaden arms. She struggled to sit up but was being held down, though she couldn’t tell why or how. Where was she?

  Bells clanged louder than if she were lying on the floor of a church during Christmas Eve choir practice.

  At long last, there was a lull in the serenade but that was promptly replaced by chattering voices. They sounded like an agitated pack of chipmunks.

  If she could have, she would have covered her ears.

  A second later, the voices narrowed and thinned until only one voice remained, and she swore it spoke her name.

  Destiny.

  Her lids fluttered, but the flashes of light were too bright, the glare overpowering her vision. Several moments later, several attempts later, she managed to force her eyes to remain open for more than a second, to zero in on the reason for the light, and she saw a small butterfly flapping its wings inches from her face.

  No, it wasn’t a butterfly. It was bursting with colors brighter and richer than a rainbow, with sunshine yellow glowing all around.

  She blinked again.

  She saw a face, an ethereally beautiful face, tiny as a silver coin, hovering in front of her nose.

  There were arms and legs and a body below this face—resembling a small child’s doll dressed in vibrant, glowing yellow. But the doll was alive. How did she know this? By its own blinking eyes and moving lips as if it was trying to say something.

  Wren blinked again, holding her lids closed while she counted to five before she opened them again.

  Her breath caught.

  It was a faery.

  WREN WAVERED IN and out of consciousness. Was this what it was like in Hell? Unable to awaken, yet unable to die; able to hear, but unable to communicate in any other way? Seeing images of faeries, knowing her mother had visions of little winged ones during bouts of psychosis, and knowing she was following down the same tumultuous path?

  She tried to move her fingers but they wouldn’t budge. Nor would her toes and feet cooperate. Her blood was filled with concrete, and she slipped back into the void, to a world where she was covered with thick, black, oozing tar that left her mind unable to gain its freedom.

  Then she awoke, popping into the world of awareness as if she were a jack-in-the-box. She opened her eyes, squinting against whitewashed walls.

  “So, you’re awake, are you?”

  That voice. Wren lifted her gaze, and there he was peering over her. Dr. Rick Martin.

  “Where am I?” Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

  With a deep breath, he exhaled and his breath washed over her face. He still smelled of tobacco and mint. Not a pleasant memory.

  “You are in the hospital.”

  “Why?” Her voice was hoarse, cracked, and sore. Something was pushing against her chin, something that kept her from lowering her face.

  “Because you tried to kill yourself.” The matter-of-fact words hit her like bricks hurled from close range. The image of the massive tree flashed before her.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Now, now. That’s enough talk. You need your rest.” He held up a long syringe and pulled the IV between his fingers.

  “No, I don’t want to be medicated.” Fear of the tar pit gripped her mind. She tried to lift her hand but with the previous medicine still coursing through her body, it was impossible.

  “I can’t move my hands,” she whispered, trying to hang on to any thread of consciousness.

  “You are in a straitjacket. As you know, we use those for dangerous patients. And you, Destiny O’Hara, are very dangerous.”

  With that, he left the room, and she once again tumbled into the void, wondering why he’d called her by a name no one used but her mother.

  Riagan stood beside the trailer, gazing at the moon. He ignored the ten-ton weight that had settled in his chest after he’d watched Wren’s truck drive around a corner and pass out of sight. Now here he was, a mortal, banned from his Brotherhood because of his selfish needs. He’d taken for granted the fact that no one had ever attempted to steal the Cauldron in all the moons it had been under the Brotherhood’s protection.

  Now he’d found a woman, and she loved him, and he should be able to return to his realm. But where did that leave her? Him?

  Her love of him was only half the terms. The other half was that he had to find love as well. Anger simmered through his blood like a scalding liquid, igniting every cell it touched. Impossible punishment.

  He wouldn’t know what love was even if he was in the throes of it. This was not fair. He didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve this.

  His fingers curled into his palms, and he beat them against his thighs. “She doesn’t belong on this realm. But she doesn’t belong with me, either.”

  Wren would marry and have children. She would continue to dote on that droopy dog, and knowing she had such a loyal friend was one small bit of comfort. But who would protect her?

  He would be protecting the Cauldron, gods willing. Or he would be dead. A life as a mortal on Earth would be unbearable, especially if Wren would have nothing to do with him. Making love to her all his mortal days would be the only way he would willingly pass the time.

  But now he wasn’t protecting anything—not the Cauldron, not Wren.

  What happened to Caswallen? He’d never disappeared like this before. Ray murmured an ancient spell of protection for the aged druid, but the words fell flat on his tongue.

  The first stars were just appearing in the sky, and the moon, white and glowing, was taking its place from the sun. With a disgruntled sigh, he headed toward the forest. He would return to where he belonged, or he would die trying. The best thing for Wren would be to marry Brian and forget about him.

  Teeth clenched against the hollow pit in his stomach, he pushed ahead, blinking back moisture he refused to acknowledge was there.

  The entire forest, beginning with the first trees that lined the periphery of the wood to as far back as his eyes could see, swayed in unison. They had not shown their ancient secret this far from the portal as of yet. Magic of the otherworlds hung in the air so thick he could taste it. Familiar yet distant, sweet yet metallic.

  And where was Oephille? He hadn’t seen her since the day prior. Then, as if summoned by his thoughts, a flash of sunshine glitter flew by his eyes.

  He didn’t bother to grab her. If she had found him, then she wanted something.

  “Riagan.” She smelled like a ripe honeydew melon.

  “Yes?”

  “She’s hurt.”

  “Wren? Speak you of Wren?” He swiped at her.

  “Yes, I speak of Destiny.”

  “Who?”


  “Wren.”

  “She is hurt? She can’t be.”

  “She is.”

  “Pray you speak foul. What are you talking about?”

  Oephille flew out of reach, but he could hear her loud and clear. “Wren is hurt, Riagan.”

  “Where is she?” His body swelled with fear.

  Oephille hovered without speaking.

  “Where is she?” He swiped a large hand across the air again but still missed the faery.

  “In the hospital.”

  “The hospital? Why?”

  “She crashed her truck.”

  “Her truck?” Riagan had watched her peel away but did not see anything happen other than that. Truthfully, he’d been lost in his own thoughts.

  “Her truck hit a tree, Riagan, and she is injured. She is in the hospital.”

  “Pray, is she okay? How fares she?”

  “Her body is fine. Her mind…”

  His gut clenched into a ball so tight, he knew it would take years to unfurl. “Her mind?” he whispered.

  “She tried to kill herself. She is broken.”

  Riagan understood the words the faery spoke. He knew what each one meant, but somehow, he still couldn’t comprehend. Wren tried to kill herself?

  The faery lost its yellow glamour in the wake of what she spoke. She no longer glittered; her eyes no longer shone. She still kept a safe distance from him, and he didn’t blame her one bit. He wanted to kill her, to sever this tragic line of speech coming from her vibrantly colored lips.

  “She tried to take her life?” Maybe he’d misunderstood.

  “Yes, Riagan. She drove her truck into a tree.”

  “Drove her truck into a tree?” He wanted to quit repeating her words but couldn’t.

  “Aye.”

  “But, it could’ve been an accident, could it not?” That was the answer.

  “It was no accident.”

  Terror consumed him and he swiped at Oephille again. She flew to the nearest tree branch and sat upon it, inches out of his reach.

  “How do you know?” Answering the moment’s direness, his muscles coiled with tension as if preparing for a fight.

  Oephille fluttered farther away, but her words felt like a hammer to his skull despite the distance. “I was there, Riagan. I was in the truck with her. She pushed her foot on the gas and drove straight for that tree. She wanted to kill herself.”

  Wanted…to…kill…herself.

  “You must go to her, Riagan. Bring her back from this void. Make her understand there is more to her life than fear. Make her understand her destiny.”

  Go to her. Her destiny.

  “What is her destiny?”

  “Go to her, Riagan. Pull her back from the brink.”

  But wasn’t he the one who put her there? Who had cast the final blow to what was left of her fragile sanity?

  The realization that he had led Wren to this point hit him with gale-force winds.

  He buckled under the weight, falling to his knees, wailing.

  He was unaware of anything other than overwhelming pain—suffocating, life-ending pain.

  “Oephille, help her. Please. I can’t—I’m no good for her. Please.”

  He pulled himself to his feet and dashed into the forest.

  The rhythmic pounding of his boots reverberated through him, and he counted his steps to avoid thinking of Wren—alone, frightened, hurt.

  What had he done to her?

  He sprinted as fast as he could, running from the faery, from Wren, from the devastation he left in his wake. Running as fast as he could before the cold, hard truth settled in his conscience and never left, for if it did and he truly knew what he’d lost, he would die from the tragedy of it.

  As he neared the portal, the trees’ rhythm turned from slow, sinuous movements into thrashing wildness. He shielded his face with his arms against the limbs. If a hurricane were coming, it would present no less chaos. The moon’s pull against the veil took all the oxygen out of the air, and his mortal body struggled. He staggered forward. It was time to end to this.

  He gasped for breath, his arms covered in scrapes and scratches. Small beads of blood spotted his skin. He stood to his full height and pushed long strands of hair away from his face. He wore another pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt from Annie’s closet, but the mortal human clothes felt stifling. His skin felt raw and the clothes scratched worse than the thrashing trees. He’d never belonged on this realm, and this was just one more proof.

  The light of the portal was so bright as he came upon it, it was blinding, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the pupils to adjust.

  When he opened them again, he surveyed the clearing. There was no sign of the ring of stones or Drake or the Brotherhood. They would be busy, though he had to admit, part of him hoped, willed that Drake, or Caswallen, would be here waiting for him, telling him this was all a nightmare, a mistake, and they needed him at once in the Grove.

  Fury made his limbs shake. There was much he didn’t understand, and he didn’t know how to find the answers.

  It was clear Wren carried the old blood within her veins, but how diluted was it?

  Riagan fell against the tree as it halted its wild movement to cradle him against its side. Just then the light dimmed to a soft, hazy glow. There before him stood the Arch Druid, Caswallen, clad in the crimson judgment robe. Around his waist was the belt of woven golden thread with the Arch Druid’s sickle, the symbol of his high office, hanging down his thigh.

  “Caswallen?” Riagan’s breath was ragged with relief. Caswallen could grant him pardon, and there was time yet to return to the Cauldron.

  Riagan fell to his knee and bowed his head. Surrounding them, the trees dipped their broad canopies in greeting.

  “Riagan, son of Ragda Tenman, why came you to this sacred place?” If Riagan didn’t know this man’s voice better than any other’s, he would have sworn it was a child speaking.

  “Arch Druid, I come to ask pardon, to return to my post as Protector of the Murias Cauldron, to protect our most ancient and precious artifact from imminent threat.”

  “Have you fulfilled the terms of your banishment?”

  Riagan did not find comfort in the elder’s tone.

  Wren had professed her love for him.

  And, yes, he cared for her as well.

  But love? He couldn’t feel love.

  He thought of the petite woman, with her raven-colored hair, as dark as the coal that grew under these mountains, her eyes that betrayed her emotions and thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud. She had trusted him all along.

  And what had he done?

  Sent her spiraling down the path toward lunacy, right alongside her bizarre mother.

  The pain he’d caused her was now his pain, too. But he didn’t know if it was love.

  Besides, it didn’t matter now. He forced his mind from Wren. “Caswallen, the hour draws upon us. The Cauldron is at risk. Know you this not? Where have you been?”

  He squashed any more thought of the enigma of love. This was the time to be a warrior, not a lover. He had to return to his homeland. If evil won the Cauldron, it would affect Earth as well. If it affected Earth, it would also affect Wren.

  Materializing before him was the entire druid Council, eleven warrior druids, clad in ceremonial red robes. Around each of their waists hung the sickle that druids of the Sacred Grove were sworn to bear at all times.

  Riagan scanned the faces of his Brotherhood, absorbing each familiar feature with longing. And there in the midst was Drake.

  Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments. The trees settled into a wavering unrest, limbs undulating overhead.

  We welcome you, they droned to the Council.

  The Arch Druid bowed his head, then looked back at Riagan.

  The nearest tree reached down a limb and laid it on his shoulder. The trees were ancient friends of the druids—kind, protective, supportive. He felt raw, grateful for their friendship
, relieved that the end of this entire ordeal was upon them.

  Caswallen spoke. “Riagan, son of Ragda, why came you here if you have not fulfilled the terms?”

  With a deep inhale, Riagan began, “I have come here on this night when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, when the full moon holds court high in the night sky, to tell you…” He took a deep breath, steeling his mind and his body as the limb tightened on his shoulder, “That it is time to stop this nonsense and save the Cauldron.”

  There was a gasp among the Brotherhood. It was forbidden to show disrespect to the elder, but Riagan found he cared not for the old ways. There was no time for this. It was time to fight, not maintain protocol. A strange feeling of liberation settled around him, igniting his cause with fire.

  Gray eyes froze on his face, but he stared back without flinching. “Caswallen, we swore an oath to our forebears to protect the Murias Cauldron with our lives. We have no time to wait here, on this realm, engaged in silly love talk.”

  Chatter erupted among the Brotherhood. Many nodded. They must see the insanity to this situation, and the direness. Why couldn’t the Arch Druid?

  “Caswallen, have you no idea the threat that lies in wait? There will be another attempt on the Cauldron tonight. Know you this not?” The tree’s limb was heavy on his shoulder.

  Whispers continued through the line of druids as they discussed the situation amongst themselves. Caswallen remained calm and silent. Only the hardness behind his eyes betrayed his displeasure. No, it was more than that. Something sinister lingered behind his gaze.

  The Arch Druid lifted his pale hand, the long fingers protruding like thin twigs from his palm, and waved it. The druids quieted, though their eyes remained unsettled. Drake’s were full of tears. Why?

  If the entire Council were here, who was protecting the Cauldron? Mayhaps the Arch Druid had read it in the waters and knew they would return to their realm in time to protect the ancient artifact.

  Still, it was a great risk and Riagan’s blood pumped hard and fast.

  Caswallen paced the clearing, as if pondering the state of the village’s wheat supply versus Riagan’s fate. “You want to return to our realm?”