“You fool!” Creiddylad was aghast. “If I go down, you will, too!”
“Don’t you know?” Gwyn said flatly to the male, ignoring the broken female on the floor. “There is nothing you can do to change your fate. A banshee foretold your death, and death it will be.”
Gwythyr’s eyes darkened into gleaming saucers as urine dribbled down his bare legs and onto the floor. The closest onlookers either giggled or jumped back.
Still, Aoibheall pushed her way toward Gwyn. “Not here,” she said, surprising herself. “Not at the party.”
Gwythyr’s gaze raced over to her. His lips were quivering just a bit.
He’d drugged her hours before. She’d come to a party, after years of forced exile, and now was close to death.
She turned away from him, toward Gwyn, and her pulse once more stuttered. She almost didn’t recognize her lover; he was so dark and wild. It was his turn to ask a silent question as he bored holes into her soul.
The man dangling in Gwyn’s grip had wronged her. Long ago, she would not have thought twice about demanding to carry out her own brand of vengeance. But she wasn’t that fae anymore. Bloodsport was not appetizing, let alone amusing.
She nodded once. In the blink of an eye, Gwythyr’s hulking form disappeared. His blade clattered to the floor, and then, it, too, was gone. She had no idea where he’d gone, but the string connecting her to him was still intact.
His heart still beat, but the tension of the thread was rapidly fraying.
Soon, then. Maybe just as soon as her time ending.
Creiddylad clambered to her feet, tears steaming paths down her cheeks. Despite the cracks spider webbing her skin, there was no visible blood marring her features, just an eerie, pale green light limning the lines. Bits of whitened flesh flaked off her face, neck, and limbs with every movement. And still, somehow, she was heartbreakingly beautiful with her pearlescent hair floating about her and her violet eyes glistening.
Gwyn shifted his attention toward the female Aoibheall had once believed to be his fated mate. The air didn’t hold the earthy scent of yarrow and everlasting love, though. Instead, a hint of decayed morning glories clung around Creiddylad and Gwyn.
There was a story between them, one Aoibheall desperately hoped she had time enough left for.
The crowd must have felt the same as murmurs softened into baited silence.
“How long have you been eating magic?” Gwyn asked hollowly. “How did I miss this?”
Creiddylad smoothed her hands down her black dress and lifted her chin. The grin that carved a path across her mouth was tight and fragile all at once. “Long enough to make you the biggest of fools. I allowed you to see what I wanted you to see.”
“For what purpose would you destroy your essence like this?” he asked quietly. “A crown? A mate?”
“For what was owed me as the May Day Queen.”
A light rush of tittering in the crowd swelled then waned.
Gwyn’s brow furrowed. “Owed?” The lines of his shoulders softened. “You had so much. You were given a gift so few humans receive. Why wasn’t it enough?”
“If only you’d married me—” Creiddylad began, but Gwyn lifted a hand, cutting her off.
“You were my sister,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
“That’s just gross,” someone near Aoibheall muttered, and the blast of the sentiment nearly knocked her off her feet. Sister. A buzzing in both her mind and chest drowned out anything else said. And then she went blind as a memory unlocked itself and swept her into the past.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I’ve heard so much about you.”
She was beautiful, Nudd Llaw Ereint’s ward. Silvery haired and supple, wearing a luminous gown, she swept into a graceful curtsey.
Despite the fairy trappings, she still appeared as she was: a human in a fae court.
Aoibheall reached out and caught the female’s hand, determined to follow Gwyn’s lead of considering the girl kin. “Family doesn’t bow to one another.”
Servants around them gasped, understanding the gift that the goddess had just bestowed upon a human.
A dark, muscular male behind Creiddylad muttered, “We’ll see about that.”
Aoibheall was surprised at the heat rising in the human’s cheeks, at the unsettling smile curving her rosy lips. But then she wondered if she’d imagined it all when the female’s face blandly smoothed out as she took several steps back to meet the glowering male.
The sharp scent of hyacinths wrinkled Aoibheall’s nose. Was that . . . jealousy?
Gwyn turned sharply toward the interloper, frowning. “What did you just say?”
The male, a human with a handful of drops of supernatural blood, immediately averted his gaze. The rage pulsing faintly off his form unsettled Aoibheall.
As the majority of her relationship with Gwyn had blossomed in Éire, Annwn’s courtly gossip was still unfamiliar. She took her place next to Gwyn and asked lightly, “What’s this?”
Before he could answer, Nudd Llaw Ereint materialized. “I apologize for this inconvenience, my lady.” The primordial fae was fading fast, his features blurring in and out of focus while he motioned toward the girl. “My ward knows better than to be out right now. Creiddylad, off with you. I do not expect to see you out of your room again. And get rid of the trash while you’re at it. I thought I made myself clear that, unless he can best Gwyn in battle, Gwythyr is unwelcome in Annwn.”
“He doesn’t approve of Creiddylad’s suitor,” Gwyn murmured, offering his arm so they could follow his father further into the palace. “And I don’t blame him. Something isn’t right with the male. She refuses to give him up, though. Father’s decree states Gwythyr has a single annual chance to best me. If he does, approval will be allowed.”
“So,” Aoibheall said, curling her hand around the crook of Gwyn’s arm, “they’ll never wed, then.”
Aoibheall glanced over her shoulder, back at the young human and her beau. They were arguing quietly.
The scent of hyacinths morphed into the syrupy honey of rhododendrons. The hairs on the back of Aoibheall’s neck stood up.
Danger was coming.
Chapter Thirteen
Fireworks
When the visions cleared, Aoibheall found herself on the roof of a building, resting in a toasty sunken conversation pit filled with soft cushions and revelers. Overhead, a handful of pale stars reached through light pollution to greet her. Next to her was Gwyn ap Nudd, antlers hidden, her hands in his. Nearby pits were also packed with frivolity and joy, and there were fire breathers and laughter, and the rich scent of drinks abound.
“Are you all right?”
She met his gaze and was bowled over by the sight. With his wildness tersely restrained, trepidation, guilt, and sorrow shone forth.
So did hope.
Her heart thumped painfully. I wish I had more time with him.
“Where is Creiddylad?” she asked.
After several beats, he offered, “Annwn. She won’t last long, though. The black magic she ate requires its price. It’s harder on her with her human roots.”
A wave of thieving power scented with the sweetness of honeysuckle love swept by her as an enormous male, shirtless, dark-haired, and gray-eyed, thundered past them toward the next, closest sunken conversation pit. Enraptured with Gwyn as she was, Aoibheall couldn’t help but momentarily follow the male to a seated, blonde female in an ebony tulle dress, dark vines climbing her bare arms. A witch, Aoibheall marveled, one perfumed with regret and the humility of bluebells.
It was a night for revelations and reunions all around.
She turned back to Gwyn. My heart. He was here with her. One night can change everything, her sister had claimed. “Creiddylad’s your adopted sister.”
A vee tugged Gwyn’s brows closer together.
“Not your fated mate,” Aoibheall added wondrously.
For a moment, as he regarded her, she feared that she was the one with ho
rns curving out of her skull. But then she laughed, light and free.
“Your sister,” she repeated. “I remember now.”
He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t—”
“The magic,” she continued, grabbing at the remaining pieces of the night’s puzzle. “She wanted your throne. She—I saw you two together, making love.” Aoibheall shook her head, laughed anew at just how quickly he reared back, aghast. “It was the curse. She knew we were stronger together, so—” It was all so clear now. “Clíodhna and I became banshees. I abandoned you. Believed the worst. The curse changed my fate and yours. They fed us healthy doses of falsehoods. Creiddylad still didn’t get what she wanted, though.”
He let go of one of her hands long enough to hold up one of his own. “I’m still trying to catch up. You’re saying—”
“I saw you,” she repeated. “Together. I thought you played me for a fool.” Her pulse tripled. “My heart broke into dozens of hard, jagged shards. My purpose changed. I became no one, and you became king, and—”
He took hold of her shoulders. “Slow down. What happened? You said Creiddylad and Gwythyr were behind the curse, our breakup. Please, help me understand.”
Throwing caution to the festive, parsley scented breeze overhead, she took one of his hands and kissed his calloused palm. His irises darkened, and her heart convulsed. “I wish we had more time,” she admitted. “Know that I’m utterly regretful I wasted all these years, resenting you. There was no one else, Gwyn. There’s only ever been you.”
Before he could answer, she erased the distance between them, her mouth brushing over his. The sweetness of cherries and vanilla rose around them, and tears filled her eyes.
Eternal love. Yes.
Stars, it was so bittersweet.
She pressed her palms against his chest, reveling in his erratic heartbeat. At least she had this as her farewell song, an erotic drumbeat of a celebration to carry her on.
The crash of a cymbal erupted overhead, adding to the melody, as the gold of fireworks exploded into raining stars.
She glanced up, transfixed, only for Gwyn to tug her face back to his. He dug his fingers into her hair, deepening the kiss into desperation. She lost any feeling in her toes, gratefully sinking into eddies of truth and reality alongside the pyrotechnics overhead. A chorus of clapping and jubilant shouting punctuated the dirge song they two were composing.
In between kisses, she whispered, “I missed you. Even when I hated you for what I thought you’d done.”
The salty taste of his tears was sweet answer enough.
A swirl of light curled around them, and she tried to hold fast upon Gwyn: his hair, so silky; his skin, so warm.
His heart, a twin melody to hers.
It was of no use. When Aoibheall opened her eyes, she was alone atop Craig Liath. Dawn broke across her final day.
Chapter Fourteen
Death
Aoibheall could not stop the deluge of tears flowing in paths down her cheeks as she read through the stack of letters from her trunk. Twin scents wafted off the pages, of snapdragons sealing the envelopes and roses on the pages within, of deception and holly, of Creiddylad’s cursed magic and Gwyn’s desperate hope.
She now understood it all. Even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have been able to open the missives before Creiddylad’s magic was close to completion. It would have never allowed her to, and, in her waning hours, she accepted that the snapdragons were from Creiddylad and Gwythyr, not Gwyn.
He’d written to her with the words of his steadfast heart. He promised to accept her decisions even to the detriment of his happiness. He hoped whoever it was she left him for was treating her well. She deserved that. He wanted her to know he loved her and that life paled without her presence, but if she was content, that was all that mattered. He knew she was a banshee; he hoped she didn’t mind that he still checked in on her. He was impressed with how she took to her new fate and how she tenderly cared for those in her charge, but it never surprised him.
He’d been weak, more than a few times, and watched her work, at a great distance, and he asked for her forgiveness for still yearning to be close to her even when she wanted another. He wished her the best, always. If she ever needed anything, he was there for her, no strings attached. He missed her advice and insight, and when he ruled, he thought of what he’d learned at her feet and in her Court and tried his best to put it into practice.
Not once, in the many years the letters span, did he threaten or belittle her. She’d been so very wrong about Gwyn ap Nudd. She’d been cursed, and as victims of the darkest kind of magic, they’d been fed lies about one another, but she couldn’t forgive herself for the lack of communication on her end.
And now, she would pass beyond the mysteries of the veil that very day, and Gwyn would never know just how much, despite the misplaced hurt, she, too, had been unwavering in her love of him.
It was so bloody unfair.
Should she call him? Beg for his audience these last few hours? Aoibheall reached for her cell phone but then froze.
No. It would be cruel to commandeer personal consolation, only to leave Gwyn with fresh wounds after centuries apart. She wouldn’t do that, not even when she physically ached for him. He would move on. His heart was as vast as any sea. It would be easy to find lasting love with someone new.
She pressed a clump of his letters to her chest, desperate to breathe in his lingering scents. Instead, she wept so hard she tasted bile. Her stomach heaved, her limbs ached. She collapsed before the fire, face squashed against a rug she’d made years ago while trying to forget him.
It had been an impossible task, and she was thankful for that now.
I love him, she sent into the universe, along with wishes for so much happiness for him, a lifetime’s worth. A new, accepting love who would never doubt him.
It took a while before her sobbing abated. She picked herself off that ground and dusted off the sparkling, beautiful dress her sister had chosen for her to wear to The Monster Ball.
Stars, she was grateful for both the dress and the Ball, even knowing Death would call for her that day.
Aoibheall carefully stacked the freshly wrinkled letters and set them on her bed. There was a phone call she needed to make, a long overdue one. Clíodhna required an apology and utter and complete forgiveness for what was never her fault. Her sister was also a victim of Creiddylad’s and Gwythyr’s. She’d lost her divinity for simply being Aoibheall’s family and one of her defenders.
Maybe, just maybe, her sister would keep her company until she passed. If she were lucky, Clíodhna would sing her a farewell song. She had such an exquisite voice.
Aoibheall reached for her cell and then gasped, dropping the device. Gwyn ap Nudd was in her home, near the door. He’d changed out of his long coat and into a gray woolen sweater and jeans. His antlers were hidden, and he appeared so . . . so normal. But his hair was wild and his boots mud-caked, and his breath came fast and hard as if he’d run the distance between England and Éire.
Gwyn looked so very right in her little set of rooms beneath Craig Liath. Like he belonged despite never having stepped foot in them until just this very morning.
She loved him.
“I apologize for coming in without permission,” he said, “but I’d knocked, and no one answered. I was worried—”
She launched herself at Gwyn, throwing her arms around his neck, crying and laughing all at once. Had she lost her mind, not wanting him here during these final hours?
“I’m the one who must apologize,” she managed between kisses. “Oh, Gwyn, I—”
But he pulled away, at arms’ length, and took with him the rest of her words. “We don’t have time for that.”
She blinked once then twice as her feet leveled on the floor.
“It took me,” he shook his head, swearing beneath his breath, “too long to get answers out of Creiddylad. She was all too ready to take them to her grave.”
; Aoibheall tilted her head to the side. “None of it matters now. We—”
Gwyn kept talking. “With so much time passed and damage already done, most effects cannot be reversed.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and paced the short distance of her snug sitting room. “The magic is too dark, too hungry. Even with her death and Gwythyr’s, other debts must be paid.”
Aoibheall reached out for his arm, but he strode just beyond the tips of her fingers. “Gwyn—”
He suddenly ground to a halt. “Do you trust me?”
Without a second thought, she affirmed she did.
He drew in a deep breath. “You have to die.”
She smiled wistfully, sadly. Gwyn was here, and it was enough. “Yes.”
His pupils expanded, bleeding black into the hazel. An unbidden tear escaped to his cheek. “You’ll be required to leave behind Éire. I’m so very sorry. I know how much this place means to you.”
She looked around the sitting room, back to the dying fire. Overnight, moss had found its way back onto her walls. Would anyone ever clean it again? Or would the earth reclaim this small space?
“There isn’t time to pack,” he was saying, “but we can send someone back for whatever you want.”
She glanced away from the wall, bewildered.
He stepped closer, enveloping her cold hands in his warm ones. “It has to be now, love. This very minute. I must collect your body for this to work. I’m sorry there’s no more time to explain it.”
Her lungs stilled. Tiny pebbles erupted across her arms, her back. Death beckoned, and she paid heed. “May I call Clíodhna first? I’d hoped—”
He shook his head, squeezing her hands. “Aoibheall, please. Trust me.”
It was happening too fast. But then, Death cared naught for convenience.
Very well. She pasted on the most confident smile she could muster and nodded. These few minutes together were better than none at all.
The tension in the lines of his limbs remained taut even as he cupped her cheek. She leaned into the touch, a starved lover bereft for too long.
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