Chapter Fifteen
The sight of Regan, her face battered and bruised, cut Fáelán more sharply than any blade ever could, and in a flash, Morrigan’s scheme became clear. Sweating, his lungs straining for air, Fáelán acted reflexively. He dropped and rolled. The blow meant to sever his head from his neck met naught but air, and the momentum unbalanced Múiros. Fáelán sprang up from the ground in a flurry of offensive strikes and blows, forcing Múiros to retreat.
This was no contest of skill; he was in a fight for his life. How had Morrigan gotten to the fae warrior without King Lir’s knowledge? The princess knew him not at all if she believed using Regan to distract him would make him an easy target. Seeing her only renewed his determination, and resolve surged through his veins. Fáelán’s need to get to Regan, his instincts to protect, lent him strength. “King Lir,” he shouted. “Look to your daughter.”
The clash of steel against steel reverberated through him, and Fáelán’s focus sharpened. He couldn’t afford to think of aught but surviving, no matter how badly he wanted to hold Regan—no matter how desperately he wanted to tell her he loved her. If the fae king paid heed to his shout, he had no way of knowing, and he had no choice but to trust Fionn to look after Regan. He closed his mind to all but the task at hand.
Striking high, then low, he feinted and parried, advanced and retreated. The shrill ring of his blade against the fae’s filled the air. He fixed his attention upon Múiros’s eyes, seeking the tell—a slight tilt of his head, a glance to the left or right. Where the head willed, the body followed. His lungs burned now, and sweat trickled down his back and chest. His muscles quivered with fatigue, while Múiros seemed not to tire at all. Gods, he had to end this soon, or all would be lost.
“What did the princess promise ye?” Fáelán taunted. “A night between her royal thighs? While ye lie with Morrigan, think on this . . . I, a mere mortal, was there first.” Fáelán thrust his hips a few times, mimicking the sex act. He laughed as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision, and he blinked. “Trust me, laddie, the whore is not worth the price she’ll extract from your hide.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’ve had better—far better, and much sweeter.”
“How dare you speak of our princess in that manner. She is a direct descendant of the goddess. Compared to her, you are an insect.” Múiros roared, raised his sword and came at Fáelán in a mindless fury, exactly as he’d hoped. Fáelán didn’t flinch, nor did he retreat. He watched. His enemy’s eyes darted to the left, and his knee turned slightly.
Fáelán pivoted and crouched a fraction of a second too late for Múiros to change tactics. Múiros’s swing continued on its arc, even as he attempted to change its trajectory. Fáelán spun away, slicing through his enemy’s sleeve to the skin beneath. He knocked Múiros’s sword arm down and away with the same swing, and the point of the warrior’s sword hit the ground. Múiros hissed with pain and glanced at his wound.
Fáelán jogged out of reach. Blood dripping from his wound, Múiros came at him again, his eyes blazing with a murderous glint.
“Shite. ’Tis over. Stop him, King Lir,” Fáelán shouted, backing away. “Your champion is bespelled.”
Múiros continued his charge, his sword raised and his expression glazed and predatory. Keeping his eyes upon the crazed warrior, Fáelán continued to back away. What was taking King Lir so long? Feck. Knowing the fae, Lir was probably enjoying the spectacle.
Fáelán tripped on something behind him, nay—someone tripped him. He went down and caught a glimpse of Morrigan’s evil glee as she sidled away. The spectators gasped and cried out, but not one of them bothered to intervene.
Múiros was upon him then, and it was all Fáelán could do to divert the blows raining down on his head. Múiros kicked him in the ribs over and over, and pain exploded, hazing Fáelán’s vision. The fae warrior straddled him, making it impossible to roll away. “Lir, stop your man!” he shouted. “Can’t trust the bloody, fecking fae,” Fáelán rasped out. He reached up and grabbed the bespelled fae by the balls, squeezing for all he was worth.
Múiros cried out and tried to pry himself loose. Fáelán kept a firm grip on the man’s most vulnerable assets and scrambled to his feet. He crowded Múiros, rendering all but the hilts of their swords useless. Continuing to exert excruciating pressure, Fáelán slammed his forehead into the man’s face. Triumph flared at the satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone. Then he brought Fragarach’s hilt down, slamming it into the wrist of his opponent’s sword arm.
Fáelán shoved Múiros hard and once more moved out of his reach. Múiros staggered back, blood dripping from his nose and arm. Groaning, he dropped his sword, leaned over and covered his balls with both hands.
The objective of any battle was to survive, and given the circumstances, Fáelán saw no reason to fight fair. He went in for the kill, Fragarach’s point aimed for the warrior’s throat. The sword but a finger’s width from its mark, Fáelán’s muscles seized, and he was frozen in place. Gods, he hated fae magic. Completely vulnerable to attack, panic flared, but then he realized Múiros couldn’t move either.
King Lir approached, a blaze of color against the fog of bloodlust clouding Fáelán’s vision. A thunderous expression suffused the king’s features, and the blue of his eyes swirled and glowed with a light of their own. Gods, he hated that about the fae too.
Lir touched Múiros with his trident, and the warrior dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Tell me,” the king commanded his defeated champion.
The magic holding Fáelán dissipated at the same time. He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and took a deep breath. His heart still pounded, and his limbs had the consistency of seaweed, barely able to keep him upright. Still, not only had he lived through a fight with one of the Tuatha; he’d defeated his adversary. A frisson of anticipation raced through him. He couldn’t wait to bask in Regan’s admiration, and of course, she’d hold him in her arms while she sang his praises. After all, he’d done it for her.
“Morrigan promised to take me as her consort if I agreed to kill this mortal, sire,” Múiros told the king. “I refused, and she placed a compulsion spell upon me. ’Tis still upon me. I beg you, sire . . . command her to set me free.” The muscles along Múiros’s jaw twitched, tension pulsed from him and he held one hand over his bleeding arm. “I swear by the goddess, I mean the Fiann no harm.”
King Lir shouted his daughter’s name, and she appeared. Lir glowered at his daughter. The very air carried the weight of his disappointment and anger. In that moment, Lir looked far less the fae king and more the weary father facing his impenitent offspring. “I am beyond incensed, Morrigan. Did I not tell you to cease molesting this mortal? And not a moment later, you plotted his murder and cast a spell upon my chosen combatant?”
Fáelán scanned the surrounding area for Regan and Fionn. Courtiers drew closer to witness the new drama unfolding between their princess and her father. He couldn’t see through the crowd to the cloisters, and a band of anxiety tightened around his chest. A different kind of terror gripped him. Was Regan safe, or had Morrigan taken her life?
He still held Fragarach, and the fae princess, the source of all his troubles, stood but an arm span away. All she had done to him, all the years she’d tortured and taunted—his blood boiled and frothed into a white-hot rage. ’Twould be so easy to plunge the fae blade into her black heart. If he did, he’d ensure she didn’t ruin anyone else’s life the way she had his. But he’d won King Lir’s challenge, and ending Morrigan’s existence would also be the end of his. Thanks to Regan, he finally had reasons to live. His blood lust receded, and sanity prevailed.
Lir fixed his neon-blue gaze upon his daughter. “Remove the compulsion you placed upon my champion.”
Morrigan sighed, muttered an incantation under her breath and gestured with one hand over Múiros’s kneeling form.
“Thank the goddess,” the warrior said, sagging forward.
“Daughter,” King Lir said, his tone tinged with bitterness and anger. “I bind thee. Forthwith you are without magic.” He touched her with the tines of his trident. “You are confined to your living quarters under my roof until you have proven yourself reformed. I suggest you spend your days reflecting upon how you might improve your character, and how you can be the best role model you can be to the daughter you carry. By the goddess, you are a direct descendant of Danu! You bear a responsibility to our people. ’Tis high time you took that responsibility seriously.”
The king touched Fáelán with his trident, and a powerful current shot through him. “Mortal, I have placed a protection ward upon you. If Morrigan attempts any mischief against you or yours, the harm she intends will come back to her threefold.”
Fáelán nearly dropped to the ground with relief, and Morrigan shot daggers at him with her glare. King Lir waved a hand in the air, and she disappeared. Now that the spectacle had come to an end, the fae courtiers began to wander away in groups, no doubt discussing the day’s events.
Múiros sat on the ground and wiped at the blood from the lower half of his face with the hem of his tunic. “Fáelán, you bested me fairly, and I am spent. I apologize for—”
“No need.” Fáelán offered him a hand up. “Spent ye say? Ye did not even break a sweat.”
Múiros accepted his help and rose to stand beside him. “The Tuatha Dé Danann do not sweat.” He said the words as if the mere thought of perspiring disgusted him.
“I am indebted to ye, Your Majesty. Will ye see Fragarach returned to Prince Mananán, along with my thanks for the help he gave to my mate?” Fáelán handed the fae sword, hilt first, to the king.
“I will.” Lir gestured to a hovering servant, who took the sword from Fáelán. “You acquitted yourself well, Fiann, and with honor. As agreed, I will—”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but did you see what became of the woman Morrigan shoved to the ground during our fight?”
“I saw no woman. Morrigan must have cloaked her presence from me. At your warning shout, my attention turned to my daughter and then to Múiros. I sensed naught amiss.” Lir frowned. “Despite what humans believe, we Tuatha are not omniscient.”
“Well met, laddie, well met.” Fionn slapped Fáelán on the back as he and Alpin reached him.
“Fionn,” he began. “Where is—”
“What have you to say about my Fenians now, King Lir? Did I not speak the truth? I would pit any man of mine against one of yours any day, confident that mine would emerge victorious.” He grinned. “My Fianna are far superior in strength, skill and wit.”
“I commend you, Fionn. Your boasts were not without merit after all.” King Lir nodded. “Even with my champion’s compulsion, Fáelán prevailed.” He pulled at his beard and the corners of his mouth quirked up. “That last move . . . the tenacious grip, and the head butting . . . Such . . . er . . . skills must have taken weeks to perfect.” He flashed a wry grin.
Fionn barked out a laugh. “Aye, well, I did mention my Fenians possess wit, did I not?”
“Let us consider holding more tournaments in the future,” Lir suggested. “’Tis clear my warriors need motivation to improve their skill. With no real enemies at present, I fear they’ve grown lax.”
“Gladly, sire.” Fionn’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Send word when ye wish to hold the event, and we shall plan a variety of contests together. Hand-to-hand, lances, archery and swords, my men excel at all forms of combat,” he boasted.
“King Lir.” Fáelán could stand quietly by no longer. “I fear for my mate, Regan. Morrigan used her to distract me during our fight, and I need to know what became of her.”
Lir waved his hand in the air, as if brushing Fáelán’s worry aside. “’Tis likely once I bound Morrigan’s magic, your mate was returned to her rightful place in time. Be at ease.”
’Twas likely? Be at ease? How could he be when he didn’t know for certain? He prayed Regan truly had been returned to twenty-first-century Howth, and the sooner he was there with her, the better. “I won the tournament, and ye promised to grant my wish to return to my life in the twenty-first century. I’m ready.”
“Promised?” The fae king barked out a laugh. “I agreed to consider your request should you win, and so I shall. And whilst I consider the matter most carefully, we shall hold a feast to celebrate your victory.”
Fáelán swallowed the groan rising in his throat. ’Twas well known fae feasts lasted for days on end, and the Tuatha Dé Danann had the ability to stretch and contract time to suit their whims. One of their days could last a second, a year or a century. Fáelán was about to protest, when Fionn caught his eye and shook his head ever so slightly.
“I am honored, Your Majesty.” Fáelán bowed. The king and his champion left them. Fáelán turned to Fionn’s fae cousin. “Alpin, is Regan still here, or has she been returned to her own time?”
Alpin frowned. “Your mate was here?”
“Aye. Regan was the woman Morrigan shoved to the ground but five paces from where Múiros and I fought.”
“Hmm. We did not see her.” Alpin placed his hand upon Fáelán’s shoulder and steered him toward the doors leading to Lir’s hall, and Fionn followed. “Morrigan likely hid her presence from all but you.”
Fáelán rubbed his aching temples. “But . . . the fae who watched the tournament, they cried out when it happened.”
“Aye, we all did. Ye turned from Múiros when his sword was but a hair’s breadth away from your neck, laddie.” Fionn grunted as he came to his side. “I feared for ye, I did.”
“Feck.” Exhaustion stole his ability to think clearly, and he didn’t know what to do. Frustrated, impatient, his jaw tightened with the effort to refrain from shouting and stomping his feet. “If Morrigan was able to mask Regan’s presence from her father, couldn’t she also have hidden any harm she might have done to her?”
Alpin’s gaze filled with sympathy. “’Tis unlikely, but who can say with Morrigan? She is powerful, and we all know her to be duplicitous and without honor.”
What if Morrigan abandoned Regan to the mist? What if she’d taken Regan’s life afore Lir bound her magic? When last he’d spoken to his love, he’d denied ever having laid eyes upon her afore. He’d treated her with suspicion, sending her on her way. How was she to know his memories had come back to him?
He’d hurt Regan and abandoned her when she needed him most. That he’d caused her grief weighed heavily upon his spirit. Worse, he couldn’t bear the thought she might be gone from this world without ever knowing he loved her. “Find Regan and send me to her, Alpin. I beg you.”
“I cannot.” Alpin shook his head. “I will not incur the wrath of my king, and neither should you. Stay. Allow our king to celebrate your victory. ’Tis a great honor he bestows upon you, and he’s more likely to grant your request if you do naught to anger him. What I will agree to do is to search for your mate’s whereabouts and see that she is well.”
“I’d be most grateful.” How was it that, after all he’d been through, he was still a prisoner of the fae?
Alpin cast him a thoughtful look. “If King Lir does grant your wish, do you not wish to visit with your kin and clan before you depart?”
He’d been so consumed with worry for Regan, he hadn’t given his family a thought. Now his need to get to Regan warred with his desire to see his family one last time. “Aye, if ye can assure me Regan is well, I shall visit with my kin afore taking my leave.” He forced himself to unclench his jaw.
“My mam and sisters wept, and my da scolded me the day I returned home to tell them I’d been cursed.” He glanced at Alpin. “’Twas ye who gifted my kin with the ability to see me in the void, so they could help me over the centuries. Do ye have any recollection?”
“Not at a conscious level. Though our paths crossed, I was not meant to share more than that brief instant with you, so I have forgotten.” He shrugged. “If I wished to bring back the memories I could, but I see no need.”
“What about ye, Fionn?” he asked, slanting his captain a curious look. “’Twas ye who came to my aid and summoned Alpin to help me. Do ye have any memory of that time?”
“Nay, and for the same reason. Our paths diverged. If ye wish, I can take the same potion I gave ye, and—”
“Ugh, don’t remind me of that foul brew.” He shuddered at the thought of the potion he’d consumed for the sake of his memories.
“I agree with Alpin. Should Lir be willing to send ye to the future, ye’ll regret it if ye do not spend time with your kin,” Fionn told him. “I’ll do my best to persuade King Lir on your behalf. All will work itself out for the best. Be at ease, Fáelán.”
Twice now he’d been told to be at ease, and the words crimped his gut. He was at the mercy of King Lir, who might keep him in his realm for a feast lasting centuries. If that were the case, once he got free, he’d have no kin left. Be at ease? Not possible when he couldn’t be certain the love of his life was safe, or that he’d ever see her again. Gods, he loathed the fae.
“I hope like hell I’m never jerked through time like that again,” Regan said, finishing her tale. She tucked her legs under her at one end of the couch, glad to be with her sisters in twenty-first-century Howth again. Grayce sat at the other end, and Meredith stood in the kitchen, making coffee. Worn thin from stress and grief, Regan wanted sleep way more than she wanted caffeine, but she needed something to do with her hands. Holding a mug would have to do.
“Did you actually see Fáelán’s head severed from his shoulders?” Grayce studied her.
Meredith set three steaming mugs on the coffee table before settling into the armchair. “That’s not at all helpful, Grayce.”
“I’m just trying to point out—”
“No,” Regan said, her tone flat. “I closed my eyes, and a second later, I was whooshed back here. Do you think I wanted to see . . . to watch . . .” Her voice broke, and she shook her head. She was almost numb with grief. Almost.
“What I saw was the sharp edge of a sword inches from Fáelán’s neck. Morrigan used me to distract him, and it worked. Instead of keeping his eyes on the man who was trying to kill him, Fáelán was looking at me. I don’t see how he could’ve . . . how he might have prevented . . .” She bit her lip, unable to continue.
When their eyes had met, she’d had no idea whether or not Fáelán remembered her or not. But then, why would Morrigan have come for her if Fáelán still had no recollection of who she was and what they’d meant to each other? If Fáelán had regained his memories, that made being used against him all the more deplorable.
“I thought ending his curse was the right thing to do. I believed I was helping him, and instead . . . Oh, God. I’m the reason he died!” she sobbed.
“You didn’t witness his death, so you don’t know anything for certain.” Grayce slid closer and put her arm around Regan’s shoulders. “Seems like we’d know it if he had. We’d sense something. Once you two fell in love, he became family, right?” She turned to Meredith. “Are you picking up on anything?”
“No, but then he’s in the third century, while we’re in the twenty-first. I don’t know that I’d get anything about him with that much time separating us. Honestly, I’m still having difficulty wrapping my head around the whole time-is-not-linear thing. I still don’t see how—”
“Now who’s not being helpful,” Grayce griped, narrowing her eyes at Meredith.
Regan grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. “I want to go home.” Her sisters exchanged a long look, one of those twin-silent-communication moments they often shared. “What?” Regan’s gaze bounced from one to the other.
“Well . . .” Grayce gave Regan a quick hug. “Don’t you think you ought to give things a few weeks before heading home?”
“What for?” A shaky sigh escaped. Regan picked up her coffee mug and wrapped both hands around the hot ceramic, needing to anchor herself to something solid and non-whooshing. “I’ve paid for this town house through the end of next May. You two are welcome to stay as long as you want, but . . .” She shook her head, struggling to breathe past the gaping hollowness in her chest. “Ireland has lost its appeal for me. Everywhere I look, I’ll see Fáelán. Constantly being reminded that I’ll never see the father of my child again is not my idea of a good time. Maybe someday I’ll return, but right now all I can think about is getting away. I just need to . . . to be somewhere else.”
“What if Fáelán isn’t dead?” Grayce persisted. “What if he comes to this century looking for you?”
“Why would he?” Regan blinked. “How could he? Even though he was able to move around while in the void, he couldn’t travel through time. Otherwise he would’ve returned to the third century and prevented the curse himself.”
She swiped at her cheeks again. “Besides, when I went to the third century, he believed I was a faerie trying to ensnare him or something.” All the hurt she’d suffered at his rejection and wariness rose to engulf her. “He didn’t remember me at all, and as he pointed out, he’d sworn an oath to serve and protect third-century Ireland. He had absolutely no desire to leave his time, and I don’t blame him. He was living the life he loved.”
“Still . . .” Grayce canted her head to peer at her. “I feel very strongly about this. You need to wait a few weeks before leaving. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t say. And no, I haven’t had a vision. Maybe there’s something you’re supposed to do here yet.”
Regan studied her sister for a moment, and then she turned to Meredith. “What do you think?”
“I agree with Grayce, and even if I didn’t, staying won’t hurt anything.”
Regan considered their suggestion for a few moments, knowing better than to ignore either of their gut feelings. She frowned. Did she have something to accomplish before she left? Oh, right.
“When I was trapped under the Hill of Tara, I swore if I got out alive, I’d continue ghost-whispering, and I’d never complain about being gifted again. I met a spirit while at the archaeology museum. Maybe I’m supposed to help her cross before I leave.”
Grayce nodded. “Could be.”
Regan set her coffee on the table, leaned back and covered her face with her hands. “I’ll think about staying. In the meantime, I’m going to bed. I know it’s only six, but the past several days have worn me out.” That and being so sad sucked the energy right out of her.
“OK. Grayce and I will watch over you.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Regan dropped her hands from her face and rose from the couch. “Go be tourists. Take the rental car, head to the Temple Bar area in Dublin and visit a pub or two. Listen to some live Irish music. Just because I’m a mess doesn’t mean you two have to sacrifice your vacation.” She waved toward the front door. “Go. Have supper somewhere fun, and tomorrow we’ll go tour a few sites together.”
“But, Rae, how can we enjoy Ireland knowing you’re hurting?” Meredith shot up from her chair and circled the coffee table to give Regan a hug.
“You two just graduated. This is supposed to be a celebratory trip. I’m going to be OK, and honestly, I need some alone time.” She hugged her sister back. Memories of the morning she’d met Fáelán flooded her mind. He’d been so vulnerable and proud at the same time—a little desperate too. His masculinity, inner strength and charm had captured her completely, and she’d fallen for her brave Fiann. Her heart broke all over again.
“How about a compromise? I’ll stay for a few weeks, if you two will promise not to let the fact that I’m mourning ruin your visit. Give me tonight to rest, and I’m sure I’ll feel more like myself tomorrow.” Not likely, but she’d put on a good show for her sisters.
“Deal.” Meredith released her. “Try to eat something. There’s food in the fridge.”
“I’m not hungry right now, just dead tired.” Regan headed for the stairs. “At some point, can we stop by the museum, so I can help the ghost I met cross over?”
“Of course,” Meredith said, gathering her purse and the keys to the rental car.
“Tomorrow, we can tour Christ Church Cathedral or something.” Regan tried like hell to muster a smidgeon of enthusiasm as she trudged toward the stairs and her waiting bed.
Her sisters called goodbye, and the front door shut behind them. Regan walked into her bedroom, confronted with Fáelán’s things, which were right where he’d left them. The sight of his phone, keys and jacket stole her breath and split her heart wide-open. She crossed the room and fell facedown across the mattress.
When she’d first come to Ireland, she’d wanted to do an ancestry search and rid herself of the gift of sight. Finding a way to shut herself off from her abilities no longer drove her. After everything she’d seen and experienced in the past several weeks, her complaints seemed petty. Insignificant. She was who she was meant to be, and if it hadn’t been for her giftedness, she never would have met Fáelán. No matter how much she hurt, she didn’t regret a minute of her time with the only man who had loved and accepted her for who she truly was.
Regan curled into a ball on her side and placed her hands over the baby, the baby she already loved with a fierce protectiveness she didn’t know she possessed. She’d been given a precious gift, and their baby would always be a link to the only man she would ever love completely.