Yet, if she was truly a Redeemer, she could hold the Cauldron as if it were a child’s toy.
These thoughts were fleeting and would not take root as the poisonous fire, no longer willing to be held at bay, consumed him. The burn started in the place where the sword had pierced his skin, so close to the place the arrow had punctured, and was sweeping its way through his body, consuming each and every fiber within its blaze.
Just as he was about to speak, to ask Drake to watch over Wren, to inform them he was dying, the poison swallowed his words. He watched the people in front of him through an oily haze. As the poison entered his brain’s cells, his vision wavered. It seeped through his throat, closing his airway.
He hit the ground with such resounding force, he felt his body would shatter.
Every sense he had died in that instant. He could not hear; could not feel the ground beneath him; could not smell the sweet honeysuckle or perfumed roses that grew in abundance and were the only earthly type plants that the two realms shared. He was nothing but a searing ball of fire, in flames and being wholly and completely consumed.
Then nightmarish visions started.
First, he saw a malformed babe with a dagger pointed at his heart, prepared to be sacrificed. A look of horror and frenzy fixed on the mother’s face as her screams wailed through the trees. Then he saw the black eyes of his half brother watching, watching, always watching.
Then the Arch Druid’s gaze took over, his gray eyes now red, blazing like the fire that forged its way through Riagan’s veins. They were no longer the eyes of his leader. They were the eyes of the Devil. He knew his own eyes were locked open and staring, though they stared at images no one else could see.
Riagan’s body was telling his throat to scream against the pain, the nightmares. But the poison would not allow even that simple release.
Death would come soon.
And then…
An angel appeared before him. Her hair, dark and wild with curl, flowed down her back like thousands of dancing snakes. Her skin, pale beyond the moon’s white glow, sparkled. Her eyes, bluer than the Aegean, were almost too luminous and beautiful.
Then her image was replaced by the Cauldron, no longer green and luminous, but red, inflamed and turning to ash in front of him. These would be his greatest failures—the loss of the Cauldron and the loss of this woman.
The angel appeared again. He tried to blink, but the flesh of his eyelids burned against the movement, and he wondered if he would ever see again. But she was still there, familiar yet a stranger. Maybe she was a blessed dream amidst the nightmares.
As if through a haze, he watched her kneel by his side and speak to someone out of his line of vision. A hand was placed over his wound as chanting and prayer mingled to send his pain into another stratosphere. Then he felt a splash of warmth, like bath water, running over his shoulder.
His body jerked over and over as the poison worked its way toward that wound, that single entry point. He could see nothing but the white-hot pain that consumed him, like it was ripping apart his body in an effort to make it back to that one spot. It was pulling into itself, coming back from his feet and legs, his hands and arms, meeting in the exact place where the sword had sliced.
And the pain sizzled, born from the pits of Hell itself, settling in an unbearable mass at his wound.
Surely death would come soon.
Please let death come soon.
He would have cried out in agony had the poison not claimed his voice. He could not even clench his teeth against the pain. The veins clamped shut and his breath stopped. His heart ceased.
His mind lingered for a second, recognizing the end of his life.
And he felt no more pain.
But he did feel something. Strange, considering he was dead. But there was a feeling and it wasn’t pain. No, it was as soothing as a mother’s touch on a newborn babe’s bald head.
Then a low, obscure pounding began in his chest, like a fly beating against his ribs. His heart had stopped so this confused him. And he could feel something warm and soothing where the sword had sliced.
It must be Wren.
She was the only one who could bring him back from the dead. The only one.
How did he know this?
The same way he now knew how he had crossed the portal.
Because he loved her.
By the gods, he loved this woman. But how? How could he feel love?
His jaw unclenched as the poison withdrew from his body. He opened his eyes and there she was, crouched before him, worry pulling her black brows together.
“Wren?” This time he knew it was no hallucination. Before him knelt his beloved. In one hand she caressed his forehead, in the other she held the Cauldron, its black mouth tipped over his wound as trickles of magical, healing water fell from its lip.
TWO OPPOSING FORCES whirled in Wren’s mind and she struggled to merge them together, to figure out who she was, where she was, and ultimately who she was supposed to be. Strange things had happened that she didn’t understand.
She was Wren, yet she was something more powerful, magical. Now she felt like Wren again, but different. Somehow, something new simmered within her blood, and her gut told her it was not fleeting. Rather, it was more of an awakening.
Confusion and wonder replaced anxiety and fear, though, and she knew she would soon understand.
“Riagan?” She nudged the hair back from his brow, then ran her fingers over his defined jawline.
His eyes fluttered. “Wren?”
She started to cry.
“What’s wrong, lass?” Riagan asked, his voice just reaching her ears.
She chuckled through her tears. With her fingertips, she made a path over his shoulder and down his arm, ready to pinch him again. To ensure he was, indeed, alive. He winced against the pain of movement, but lifted his arm anyway and grasped a handful of her hair.
“I like your hair.”
“You like my hair?” She glanced to her side and saw massive amounts of black curling hair flowing down to her waist. She ran her hands from her scalp to the ends, making sure it was indeed attached to her head.
“What happened to my hair?”
Drake chuckled, and she glanced up, having forgotten he was standing there. She was struck again by how large he was, how large Riagan was by her side, how large Duke had been before he changed shape. Everything was much grander in Riagan’s land—her hair no exception.
“How did it get so long?”
She helped Riagan sit up.
“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve transported through a portal to the druid realm, fought a battle against an Arch Druid, saved me from death, rescued the Cauldron, and the only question you have is about your hair?” He burst out laughing. It sounded weak and breathless, but it was a laugh nonetheless.
Without thinking, she fell into his arms, the pulse of his heartbeat strong against her cheek. Her own heart’s rhythm merged with his until they beat in unison. He pushed his hands deep into her hair and she melted into his touch.
Lifting her face to look at him, she couldn’t help but wonder: if he didn’t love her but treated her like this, would it be enough?
Maybe.
She brought her lips to his, inhaling the fresh mint of his breath. She probed his lips open with her tongue and he readily parted for her, teasing and flicking until she moaned.
She couldn’t get close enough and leaned forward, pushing him backward. He fell onto his elbows and she ran a hand over his chest, surprised at the bulk of the muscles. The shirt was torn in several places, and she had to squelch the overwhelming urge to rip it off entirely and run a hand over his bare chest. Her palm brushed his hardened nipples, and she knew his body was responding in other areas as well.
The sound he made verified her assumption and she giggled, letting her breath fill his mouth. His fingers trailed down her neck and across her collarbone, igniting a path of warmth in its wake. He grazed her breast, and her b
ody jerked. He enveloped her entire breast into his large palm, massaging. Searing delight soared through her body and she went to straddle him.
She could feel his eyes on her and met his gaze. An intensity burned there that she hadn’t seen before. Or maybe it was the day’s events? His lips parted, and he drew a breath in. Then with an exhale, he said, “Wren, there is something you must know.”
Confused and suddenly weary, she straightened. “What is it?”
Was this when he told her this was all a fantasy? That none of this was real and it had all been a figment of her imagination? Dread began to creep into her mind.
“Wren, I…I…”
Wren searched his face, desperate for a hint of the words to come, but Riagan broke contact and glanced at Drake. “Brother. Can you and the new Duke not but leave us for a moment?” Riagan’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it that sent the temperature in her lower belly several degrees higher.
“Nay, brother. We must have this Redeemer of ours return the Cauldron to its rightful place.”
Before the discussion could go further, a shadow passed by the moon, causing them each to turn. But then the shadow disappeared, and though Wren strained to find it again, eager to know what new surprise this realm held, she could not. A moment later, a moan erupted near the grove of trees, capturing her attention like a fly caught in a net.
RIAGAN MOVED FAST, and he heard Wren’s sharp intake of breath as his large body blocked her view of the Grove. Drake moved toward them on soundless feet and planted himself in front of Riagan. The river and the moon sat nestled against their backs.
Coming toward them were the Brothers, Gwyon supported between two of them.
“Brothers,” spoke one with long, brown hair. “We must decide his fate. Should we summon a Council?”
Riagan studied their half brother with no words and no expression, never moving from his place in front of Wren.
Drake was the one who spoke. “We have never been confronted with a situation like this. A betrayal from one with the old blood.”
As if summoned out of the mist, the entire Brotherhood appeared by the river’s edge, ethereal and brimming with power. Many flashed expressions of shock, then comprehension over seeing Wren cradling the artifact.
Riagan and Drake exchanged a full conversation without speaking a word—their eyes and their connection making it easy to read the other’s thoughts. But while they stared between each other and Gwyon, it was Wren who eased from Riagan’s guard without a sound. She was heading toward Gwyon before Riagan realized she’d moved.
“Wren.”
She held up her free hand as she progressed forward, the other one still clasping the Cauldron. “It’s fine.”
Riagan heeded her wishes but focused on his half brother like a serpent on its prey.
At her approach, Gwyon grew agitated and fought to free himself. The Cauldron’s green light flared in her arms, as if sensing the traitor was near, but then settled into a dull haze.
She stopped in front of him. “I know you, do I not?”
Wren knew this man and was shocked she hadn’t recognized him earlier. In her defense, fighting Caswallen and saving Riagan and the Cauldron had taken up much of her mental fortitude.
But she did know him—there was no doubt in it now. She’d seen him on Earth, worked with him, in fact. The clothing had changed. His beard was longer, covering his face and hiding his neck within its rough-textured darkness. He seemed to carry less weight here as his waist was thinner. But his eyes—his eyes were exactly the same—dark, only now there was less hatred than weariness behind their pointed stare.
“Dr. Martin?”
“Wait.” Riagan started forward, but she held up her hand again to stay him.
“We have met before, have we not?”
Gwyon said nothing.
“You tried to kill me. Back on…Earth.” She stumbled over that last word as if she still hadn’t accepted how far she’d traveled from her home planet.
Her. Home. Planet.
She threw up a mental door against thinking about that now.
“What say you?” Riagan’s temper flared like a lit firecracker, helping her focus her attention. “This relation of mine tried to kill you?” He grasped her arm, his embrace tight with fury, and she feared he would snap her bone. He seemed angrier at the attempt on her life than he did at the threat to the Cauldron. She couldn’t help but feel a flash of joy.
“It’s okay, Riagan.”
Their gazes were locked for several moments, no words spoken, no words needed. Riagan released his grip and folded his arms across his torso, standing guard like the world’s meanest bouncer.
“Why did you try to kill me? That was you, wasn’t it? You’re Dr. Martin?”
After an exasperated sigh, Gwyon said, “Of course it was me.”
“Why?”
“Because of who you are.”
“This Redeemer person?”
“Yes. You are a product of the union, and I didn’t see it until it was almost too late.”
“What union?”
“Between the fae king and the human. Your mother. Only such a union can produce a Redeemer.” He couldn’t look more bored if he tried.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I didn’t know there was a child from that union. I couldn’t see you past your mother. But there was a crack in the magic, and Master saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“Saw you. Your existence.”
“So you wanted to kill me?”
“Master told me to kill you. I was to kill your mother first, to sever the magic veil so I could find you, and then kill you.”
“My mother? What does she have to do with this?” A cannonball of dread threatened to crush her heart.
“I needed the veil to die with your mother. She was a shroud of protection around you, and that shroud needed to disappear so it would leave you exposed.”
“Die with my mother?” Horror gripped her around the throat. Her mother was missing. Not dead.
“I assume she is dead. I gave her a little concoction in the hospital to put her to sleep. Permanently.” His words softened, quieted as he continued. “Whoever helped her escape helped a dying woman.”
“That can’t be.” Tears the size of boulders welled in her throat, making it hard to catch a breath.
“I guess there’s a chance she’s still alive.” He looked away from her grief.
“Brother-mine.” Riagan stepped forward, tense as a famished bear. “Explain yourself.”
Gwyon remained quiet, as if tired of this line of questioning.
Fae/human union? Fae? Faeries? Her mother’s strange and bizarre ramblings suddenly didn’t sound so strange and bizarre.
But where was her mother? She’d left the hospital. She couldn’t do that if she was…
Wren couldn’t allow the thoughts to continue.
“Gwyon,” warned Drake. “Remain quiet at your own peril.”
Behind her, Riagan whispered, “A fae/human child. That’s how she became the Redeemer. Her mother—I should’ve known. But I was mortal and without my druid senses.”
She glanced at Riagan who stared at her as if he didn’t know who she was. When he met her gaze, though, and saw her distress, he was by her side an instant later, cradling her close.
Gwyon cleared his throat, heeding Drake’s warning, though the bored tone remained. “You are the child of a fae and a human—a mix of the two races. Only such can produce a Redeemer. I knew of the relationship, but I knew naught that there was a child. You were hidden behind magic.”
Wren didn’t care about all of that. “You tried to kill my mother?”
He did not answer.
“But you are not sure if she is…gone…or not?”
He shook his head, gaze planted on the moss at his feet. “I know not. If you had succeeded in killing yourself, if you had only hit that tree a little harder, you would’ve made my job a
lot easier. As it was, I had to take care of your mother first, in order to collapse the veil and gain access to you.”
“You’re a sick man,” she spat, feeling green and putrid inside.
Gwyon didn’t dispute her claim.
“This is ridiculous,” she started, but as she spoke she knew it wasn’t as ridiculous as it sounded. Many things had happened to her these past days, and she’d learned enough to know that things were not always as they seemed.
As for her mother, wouldn’t she sense it if her mother passed?
“So, earlier,” Riagan asked softly, “when she became different?”
He addressed the question to Gwyon, but his lips were now clamped shut.
Drake offered an answer instead. “Her fae side came out. Redeemers often have powers.”
“Yes,” Riagan said. “I have not forgotten my knowledge. It just seems too much to take in.”
“Yes.”
“I see dead people’s spirits leave their bodies, too,” she offered.
The crowd studied her, weary and more than a little apprehensive.
“So that’s the thing that’s strange to you people?” She shook her head and glared at everyone she could.
“Oh, by the gods.” Riagan exhaled. “I’ve lost all senses. That is how she crossed the portal. Of course.”
Wren struggled to absorb all that was being said, to make sense of words that couldn’t possibly make sense when all she wanted to do was find her mother.
“Aye,” Drake replied, oblivious to her distress. “Redeemers can cross portals unassisted.”
Wren bent to the ground and ran her palms over the soft moss.
I have lost my mind. There is no other explanation. When I awaken, I will find myself in a straitjacket in a psych ward with Dr. Martin pumping meds into my IV, my mother in the bed beside mine. This is all a dream.
“IT IS NO such thing, Destiny.” From behind a great oak emerged a ghostly figure clad in a flowing, ankle-length robe—the same figure, Wren knew, that had been lurking in the shadows. As he came closer, everyone around her bowed in one fluid motion.
Riagan was the first to rise and speak. “King Eogabail, we welcome you to the druid realm.”
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