Chapter Twelve
Fáelán followed the woman through the woods to the trail and watched as she disappeared around a bend. Regan, she called herself, and she had claimed to love him. Even more outrageous was her claim that he loved her. Never once did she look back as she fled, and for some inexplicable reason, his chest tightened and ached. He continued to gaze down the trail in case she might return. She didn’t.
Ye lie! That was what he’d cried out when she’d told him she carried his babe. Impossible. She had to be lying, didn’t she? Then why did those two words strike at him so grievously, and why did regret bite into him the way it did? Mayhap ’twas due to the hurt his denial caused, which had shown plainly upon her lovely face. He shook his head at the strangeness of it all, of her incredible tale—none of which could be true.
Still, ye lie echoed through his mind as if he’d shouted the very same words to someone else but a short time ago—and for the same reason. He hadn’t. He couldn’t have. By the gods, she’d said she was from the twenty-first century! He blew out a breath and returned to the clearing where Regan had forced him to look at images that made no sense—on a device that made even less sense.
Nay, that wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t forced him, for he could easily have turned away or closed his eyes. He’d wanted to look, but try as he might, he couldn’t summon a single recollection of any of the folk she’d claimed were his kin—his family in the far-too-distant future, or so she’d claimed. A shudder racked through him. ’Twas devilry and naught else, and he was well rid of her.
Fáelán crossed the clearing and lifted the fae sword from the ground. He examined the runes etched into the hilt. What magic did the symbols hold? Naught that he could sense, and none that he cared to. Still, he couldn’t help but admire the fine workmanship and the lightness of the weapon. He doubted Regan realized she’d left Fragarach behind. She could not have known what power he now held in his hands. Only a fae-forged weapon such as this could kill one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. And with this sword, Fáelán could not be defeated by any human foe—unless they too wielded a fae weapon. But then, they’d have to be more skilled than he, and there were few who could make the claim.
He reached for Fragarach’s scabbard and belt just as Nóra called his name. Soon other voices joined hers. What was he to do? He couldn’t ignore what Regan had foretold, yet he couldn’t quite believe her either. Nor could he pretend to himself his encounter with the stranger was naught but a dream. Rope burns circled his wrists, and a magic sword hung at his waist. Best not tempt fate.
Fáelán set out in the direction of the voices, and Nóra met him upon the path. As a Fiann, he was bound by an oath of honesty, and even if he weren’t, he cared enough about her and her kin that he had no wish to cause a rift of any kind. Yet, for Nóra’s sake, he’d need to skim close to the truth, whilst protecting her from the worst.
“Fáelán,” she cried, hurrying toward him. “When ye did not return last eve, I worried myself sick for ye, I did.” When he failed to open his arms to her, she stopped, and her eyes narrowed. “What is it? What has befallen ye?”
Two men from the village joined them. He nodded a greeting but stayed well back from the three facing him. “I’ve had an . . . encounter,” he began, holding out his wrists for them to see the reddened marks from his bondage. “By one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, I fear.” Better to say his visitor had been fae than to say Regan came to him from the future, warning him Nóra would die if he lay with her. Besides, though Regan claimed otherwise, he was not entirely convinced she was not fae. How else could she travel through time?
Nóra gasped. “What does it mean? What did he want with ye?”
“’Twas a she, love, and she warned me of great danger to come. I must leave here at once.” ’Twas close enough to the whole story without causing her more fear or hurt than need be.
“Are ye off to warn Fionn MacCumhaill then?” one of the men asked. “What is the danger? Are we to be invaded?”
“Aye, I must go to my captain, but I cannot say what the danger is until after I’ve spoken with him.” He started down the path, resting his palm against the fae blade’s hilt. “I cannot tarry. The faerie left me Fragarach, this fae-forged sword, as proof of her visitation.” Close enough to the truth, aye? She’d brought the blade as proof of her veracity, and when she’d left the weapon behind, the proof transferred to him. Heat rose to his face. When had rationalizing become so easy?
“I must gather my things.” As he passed, Nóra reached out her hand, and he took it. Yet doing so set off a twinge of wrongness. “’Twould be best if ye wait outside whilst I gather my belongings. ’Tis fair shaken I am, and I want no taint of the faerie’s magic to fall upon ye, lest some mischief follow.” He slipped his hand from hers.
“Once the danger is past, ye’ll come back to me, aye?” she implored, her gaze searching his for reassurance.
He nodded. “If I’m able, I will return.” Saying so also felt wrong, as if he was betraying another. He knew not what to think, nor what to make of the conflicting emotions churning in his gut. He entered the cottage and stuffed his things into his rucksack. Then he gathered his weapons and strapped them to his waist and back. Slinging the quiver holding his bow and arrows over one shoulder and his rucksack over the other, he walked out into the clear winter morning.
“Wait but a moment,” Nóra said. “Ye’ll be hungry. I’ll pack ye something to break your fast.” She hurried into the cottage.
“I’d be most grateful,” he called after her.
A short time later, she emerged and handed him a linen-wrapped bundle. “Fare thee well, Fáelán. I’ll await your return.”
“Do not wait for me, love, for I know not where Fionn might send me once I tell him what has happened.”
Nóra’s mouth turned down, and her eyes shone with tears. “Safe journey, Fáelán, and may a fair wind bring ye back afore long. Send word if ye can.”
“That I’ll do, and gladly.” He nodded again to the two men. “My thanks to ye both for coming to Nóra’s aid. Look after her until her kin return, aye?” With that, he turned south and strode off. First he’d travel to Fionn’s stronghold. If Regan spoke the truth, who better than his captain to help him find a way to put a stop to Morrigan? After all, Fionn was kin to the fae, descended from King Nuada of the Silver Hand himself.
After relating what had happened to his captain, Fáelán would continue to his clan’s village to spend the winter with his parents. In the meantime, he’d live a celibate life, for he could not dismiss the facts. Even though he couldn’t recall ever having laid eyes upon her afore, Regan would not have appeared to him without good reason, and she’d brought proof. The images she’d shown him on her wee window box haunted his thoughts and would for some time to come.
By midday he planned to stop to fill his waterskin at a spring, rest a bit and eat. This grotto and spring were well known to all the Fenians as a safe, well-hidden place to rest. But as he approached, the fine hairs at the back of his neck stood on end, and a prickling sensation overtook him. His heart leaped to his throat, and his palms grew damp. Something unnatural, a malicious presence, filled the grotto.
Alarm pulsed through him, holding him to the spot. Fáelán gripped Fragarach’s hilt as he listened and scanned his surroundings, seeking any sign of who or what awaited him beyond the rock walls jutting from the earth. He was being watched, that much was certain, but by whom? Soft, feminine laughter reverberated through the air, and he tensed.
“Come to me, Fáelán. I offer you immortality, a life of ease and pleasure. Come to me, and I will grant you riches beyond your imagining.”
The siren’s alluring voice echoed around and through him, enticing and seductive. She called him by name. Tendrils of desire wrapped around his heart, and he took a step forward.
“Aye, come closer, I ache to hold you in my arms.”
Regan’s warning came back to him, but still, a burning need to go to the siren compelled him forward. Morrigan? The fae princess will curse you and kill your lover; that was what Regan had told him. She’d prevented the curse but not the time he’d spent with the fae princess. Was it Morrigan who called to him now?
His skin crawled, and a bone-deep instinct for survival surged. Summoning all his will, he fought the creature’s compulsion. Whoever beckoned, she could not get to him unless he heeded her summons and willingly entered the grotto. How he knew this he couldn’t say, but he did. He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip upon Fragarach’s pommel.
Keeping his eyes upon the path leading toward the spring, he fought the compulsion and backed away on cat’s paws, careful not to turn over even a pebble. By the gods, both old and new, his life had been simple, and he’d been happy enough afore Regan appeared with her strange tale of curses and faeries.
Once he was well away, he turned and jogged farther down the trail. All along he kept his hand upon the hilt of Fragarach, his talisman against the unnatural being who’d called to him. “Feck.” Feck? ’Twas a word he’d never heard afore, yet it rolled off his tongue as if he’d used it oft.
Dread chilled him to the very marrow of his bones, and he picked up his pace. He had no wish to confront whoever or whatever had set a trap for him. Gods, the siren had called him by name! There were other springs, clear streams where he might take his rest and fill his waterskin. And if those places were haunted as well, he’d move on and do without. ’Twould not be the first time he’d eaten on the run or suffered deprivation whilst avoiding an enemy.
Fáelán rubbed the weariness from his eyes and slumped in his chair. He sat at Fionn’s table, with Fragarach resting between him and his captain. He’d traveled without stopping to his commander’s stronghold, and he had just told him the entire tale of Regan’s appearance and the hauntings he’d encountered every time he attempted to stop to rest along his way. Now that the tale had been told in full, Fáelán could barely keep his eyes open.
“I know not what to do, my lord. If the woman spoke the truth, then it had to be Morrigan attempting to draw me to her on my way here. Unless I find a solution, I fear she will not cease.”
“Hmm.” Fionn rubbed his bearded chin and studied the sword. “I do not doubt your visitor spoke the truth, and I suspect the curse has been delayed, not prevented after all. What Regan told ye about fae women bonding with the men who sire their children is a fact.”
Fionn slid the sword closer to Fáelán. “I’ll not take Fragarach back to its rightful owner just yet, for ye have need of it still. This sword acted as a ward against Morrigan, and as long as ye carry this weapon, she cannot take ye, for ye hold the means to kill her. The magic Fragarach holds also binds her powers, so Morrigan cannot defeat ye in battle with magic. However, having the fae sword is sure to bring ye even more trouble. Mananán will want it back, aye?”
“I have thought as much. I don’t believe Regan meant to leave the blade behind.” The memory of the hurt his denial had caused twisted him into a knot. Mo a míorúilt lómhar. The words came to him from the far edges of his awareness. He shook his head. Another haunting? Fáelán shifted and propped his elbows upon the table. “My lord, is it really possible to travel back and forth through time as the stranger said?”
“Aye. I did so myself during my enlightenment. The fae oft pass through time, both forward and back. Sure, and ye’ve heard tales of people disappearing, only to reappear decades later, not having aged at all. Where do ye think they’ve been? Caught in a Tuatha’s wake as they leaped through time, they were.” He shrugged. “Or held in Summerland, the realm of the fae.”
“I have heard the tales.” Fáelán sighed. “But I thought they were made up to scare children away from places known to be frequented by the fae, lest they be stolen and replaced with changelings.”
If he accepted Regan came to him from the future, then must he also accept everything else she said? Had he loved her? Mayhap she did carry his child after all. He might never know. His throat tightened at the thought, and he frowned with the effort of trying to remember aught about her.
Why should he feel so torn, or even try to remember her when his time was here? He was a warrior, and he carried great responsibilities. He’d pledged his fealty to Fionn and to their high king, Cormac MacArt. As a Fiann, his vows to king and country superseded any other, even to blood kin. He had a sworn duty to his people here and now, and not in some distant century.
“Most warnings have some basis in truth, do they not?” Fionn remarked, bringing Fáelán back to the present. “I shall dream about your situation this night, and by morn, I’ll know better what is to be done. For now let us sup together. Ye’ll sleep in my hall this eve, Fáelán. Morrigan cannot enter here without my permission.” He clasped Fáelán’s shoulder. “I’ll have a pallet brought to ye.”
“’Tis grateful I am to ye, my lord.” At least he now had help, and he was safe from the faerie princess’s pursuit for the time being.
Fionn signaled to a servant and gave him instructions. Other Fenians began to trickle into the hall for the evening meal, and Fáelán spent some time greeting those he knew and sharing news. He took a place at the table with his fellows and ate what was placed afore him, too exhausted to taste aught.
By the time he’d finished, ’twas all he could do to drag himself to the pallet that had been set out for him. Several braziers with burning peat and coal warmed the hall. His belly was full, and his thirst had been quenched. More important, he had the prospect of several hours ahead without worry. Despite the drinking, storytelling and laughter going on all around him, he fell into a deep sleep.
Fáelán woke with a start, gripped in terror and covered in a cold sweat. He labored to catch his breath as if he’d been running for hours. He’d dreamed he was lost in an endless gray, swirling mist, with no hope of finding a way out. The rage and frustration from his dream lingered. Echoes of a curse reverberated all around him, along with the taunting, evil voice of the faerie who had trapped him in that hellish place. Were these memories, or simply a bad dream caused by the unsettling events of the past two days?
His heart pounded so hard, his ears rang with the force. Fáelán sat up and surveyed his surroundings. The braziers in Fionn’s hall still glowed red, and the rush-covered floor was littered with sleeping Fenians. ’Twas their heavy snoring that had awakened him no doubt. Surely it had been naught but a bad dream, set off by his encounter with the stranger claiming to be from the future. Yet Fionn accepted her story as truth, and Regan had said Morrigan held him prisoner in the void realm. Could the foul place he’d dreamed of be the void?
Fáelán once again strained to remember any detail of a life other than the one he knew in this time and place. Naught came to him. ’Twas like trying to reach for smoke, attempting to hold it in his hand. It could not be done. He shook his head and let out a long breath.
He checked to see that the fae sword still rested between him and the wall, half hoping ’twas not. The blade was still there. He lay back down, rested his hand upon the scabbard and soon fell back to sleep.
This time he dreamed of a woman standing atop a hill, her back to him. She wore naught but hose and a tight-fitting chemise, and seeing her thus filled him with desire. She’d contorted herself into a pose, whereby she balanced upon one leg and touched the back of her head with her other foot. Her supple back arched like a bow, and he grew hard with wanting her.
The sun was just rising, and they stood before the tomb of the ancients near the River Boyne. Though her back was to him, she was familiar. Something about her tugged at his heart. “Turn around, Álainn. Face me.” In his dream, he called to her over and over, but she didn’t turn, and he never saw her face.
The whoosh and rush of movement stopped, and Regan landed painfully on her bottom. “Ow.” She opened her eyes to total darkness. Oppressive warmth, humidity and the scent of dirt pressed in all around her, while a pulsing energy thrummed through the walls and the ground.
“No!” Something had gone very wrong. She recognized these currents of power. Instead of her town house in Howth, as she and Boann had planned, Regan had landed in the cavern beneath the Hill of Tara. She crab-walked backward until she hit a wall. Panic, swift and all consuming, seized her by the throat. Her pulse pounded, and she couldn’t breathe. She was trapped, enclosed in this space, under tons and tons of earth and stone. She swallowed against the dryness of her mouth and throat.
Was she back in the twenty-first century or still in the third? She had no way of knowing. “Boann, help!” she cried out into the darkness again and again. Fáelán, I need you. Oh, but he wouldn’t come to her. He couldn’t. Besides, he’d chosen to forsake her. She blinked against the tears filling her eyes. It was over. She’d never see him again, and now she was trapped.
“Boann!” She shouted again and again until her voice grew hoarse. Her pleas went unanswered, and fear sluiced through her. Had she misplaced her trust? Had the fae mother and daughter planned to kill her all along? Why? She’d done nothing to either of them—nothing other than win Fáelán’s heart and make a baby with him anyway. She could see why that might piss Morrigan off, but had it made Boann jealous enough to wish her harm? Regan bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. The possibility she’d been betrayed galled her. Damn the fae; if she could tear out that part of her DNA she would.
Despite the heat, her hands and feet had gone cold, and she still couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. “I don’t want to die in this dark, damp place,” she rasped. Hell, she didn’t want to die at all. What about the tiny soul she carried? Her heart shattered.
Her baby deserved the chance to be born, to grow up and experience all that life had to offer. Her child deserved to live. Regan drew her knees to her chest, rested her forehead on her forearms and wept. She’d lost Fáelán, and now she and their unborn baby would die alone in this dank place deep underground. No one would ever find their bones. She cried until despair dulled her terror. Swiping at her cheeks, she fought to pull herself together. “Dammit. It’s not over yet, and I’m not giving up.”
She still had a bottle of water, but no more protein bars. Her phone! If she was in the twenty-first century, would she have a signal? Oh, God. She couldn’t even tell anyone exactly where this cavern was located. Was it at the heart of the hill, or was she close to an outer slope? If she did manage to reach someone, could anyone get to her?
Wait. She had air to breathe, so there must be an opening somewhere. Regan brought her day pack around to her front and fished out her phone. She unlocked the screen, and again panic sent her heart pounding. No signal. Of course not. Even if she had returned to the twenty-first century, she’d landed deep underground.
Her hands shook so hard, she could hardly hold on to her phone, much less scroll for the flashlight icon. The icon appeared, and Regan managed a single, shaky tap. The phone’s beam of light filled the space, and she searched the stone walls and hard-packed dirt floor for any hint of an opening where air might enter. When nothing stood out as the source, she took a tissue from her pack and rose to her feet. Holding the Kleenex by a corner, she brought it close to the wall, centered the beam of light on the white square and walked around the cavern.
The tissue fluttered in front of a crevice the width of her little finger. She studied the narrow fissure, and again despair steamrolled her, deflating all hope. She had no tools, and even if she did, who knew how thick the wall might be before she reached the outside? Like she had the strength to break through solid granite anyway. She had no food and only the one bottle of water. She’d die of dehydration long before she made it out of her underground prison.
Sinking to the ground, Regan huddled into a ball and tried to think. Look for the positives. At least she wouldn’t run out of air. And . . . and she had a trace of fae blood. Now that she knew what it was like to be transported from one place and time to another, could she do it on her own? Fáelán had no fae blood, and he’d managed to figure out how to wander around at will while he was in the void. Maybe her fae genes would be enough to make it possible for her to whoosh herself out of there.
New resolve stiffened her spine. After all, she had managed to conjure a spark of light over her palm. Regan moved into a half-lotus position and began ujjayi pranayama, the breath of victory. Calming herself enough to meditate took time. Panic kept rising, blowing her focus all to hell. Still, she kept at it, and she finally managed to quiet her inner self. Concentrating on her breathing, she opened herself to the hill’s magic, and the essence of life flowed all around and through her once again.
Regan visualized the town house in Howth and willed herself there. No whoosh or rush of air moved past her. Shifting her position, she tried again, with the same disappointing results. She kept trying, and after what seemed like hours, she had to admit defeat.
Desperate, she resorted to sending out a mental plea to any ghosts who might be hanging out nearby. After all the years she’d helped the dead, couldn’t at least one of them return the favor? If a ghost did agree to help, how would they find her sisters? She groaned and buried her face in her hands.
What was she thinking, looking to the spirit world for help? Even if an accommodating spirit responded to her summons, she couldn’t pin her hopes on a dead person. Most likely he or she would fail, and the disappointment would kill her. Oh, wait. She was going to die here anyway. Three or four days tops. How long had she been here already? Without the sunrise and sunset, she had no way of judging the passage of time.
Regan brought her pack around to the front of her and grabbed the bottle of water. She swallowed a third of the contents, and her stomach rumbled in a hungry protest. She should be taking prenatal vitamins and eating for two in the comfort of her condo in Tennessee, ten or twenty minutes away from her parents, grandparents and sisters.
“Shit.” Regan curled into a ball on the hard ground and tried to sleep. Once she was rested, she’d try to transport herself again. “Not giving up, just recharging.” Sleep wouldn’t come, and she stared into the darkness, her mind circling around everything that had happened. What was Fáelán doing right now? Had he taken her advice and stayed away from his third-century lover? Did it matter anymore? He was lost to her, and she’d be dead soon anyway.
All the things she’d never get to do, the people she loved and missed, crowded her thoughts and brought a lump to her throat. Succumbing to self-pity, she shed a few more tears and closed her eyes. Time to bargain.
“Dear Universe, God, Goddess . . . whoever is in charge,” she said into the darkness, “if you help me get out of this alive, I swear I’ll keep ghost-whispering if that’s what you want me to do. I’ll never complain about my giftedness again either. Amen.”
A subtle change in the atmosphere brought her back to full alertness, and she sucked in a breath. Regan sat up just as the faint scent of rain filled her senses. She didn’t know whether to be immensely relieved or terrified. “Boann?” she whispered, praying Morrigan wasn’t about to make an appearance. Again, no answer.
Her hands trembling, she fished her phone out of her bag and searched for the flashlight app again. The smell of rain grew stronger, and the air around her became charged. Regan hit the app, and light filled the cavern.
A portion of the rock wall directly across from her shimmered, and she could see hints of green grass, trees and sky beyond. “Thank you!” Boann was helping her, or her prayer had been answered. Either way, relief poured through her. OK, so she’d be a ghost whisperer for the rest of her life. Small price to pay.
Regan shot up so fast, it made her dizzy. The portal didn’t lead to her town house, but she didn’t care. Freedom anywhere from this black hole suited her just fine. Third century? Fifth? Who cared? Regan would dive through the opening to wherever the portal might lead, so long as it took her out of her underground hell.
She lunged across the cavern and leaped for the shimmering passageway. “Ooof.” She slammed into solid rock and bounced off the wall, falling to the floor on her back. Her head thunked painfully against the ground.
Groaning, she touched her face, checking for injuries. Her nose dripped sticky blood, and so did a nasty gash at the center of her forehead. Every bit of her hurt, and flashes of gold dots danced before her eyes. An instant before everything turned to black, cruel laughter echoed off the walls of Regan’s dark, dank tomb.