Chapter Thirteen
Still bleary from lack of a good night’s sleep, Fáelán leaned over the trough set by the well within the timber walls of Fionn’s stronghold and thrust his head into the icy water. He straightened, shook himself and swiped the water from his face. “Brr.” Shivering and awake now, he washed quickly and dressed. Then he headed back to Fionn’s hall to break his fast.
Dawn broke upon the eastern horizon, revealing a menacing gray sky. The scent of peat smoke, salty sea air, cattle and humanity permeated the air. Stinging sleet pelted Fáelán before he reached the keep, deepening his dour mood. “Too much worry and too little sleep,” he muttered. He jogged the rest of the way and strode inside, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
“Fáelán!” Fionn’s voice boomed from the high table. “Come, laddie. Break your fast.” He pushed out the chair across from him with his foot.
Fáelán wended his way through the numerous tables filled with Fenians. All the Fianna rotated through duties and territories, and the warriors present were fortunate enough to have guard duty here in Fionn’s keep for the winter. Along the way, Fáelán clasped forearms and exchanged greetings with those he knew well—those he’d fought beside or traveled with. He took the seat opposite his commander, and a servant filled his cup with ale. “Good morn to ye, my lord.” Fáelán hoisted the cup and took a long draught.
“And to you.” Fionn slapped Fáelán’s back. “Eat. As soon as ye’ve filled your belly, we must be off.”
“Where are we to go?”
“The answer came to me as I slept, and I have since communed with my fae relatives regarding your situation. We are off to King Lir’s court as soon as may be. At my kin’s behest, the king has agreed to an audience with ye.” He waved his arm over the table. “Eat, laddie. The sooner we’re off, the sooner ye’ll be free of Morrigan’s machinations.”
“To the fae realm?” The thought of entering the void, no matter how pleasant the fae made it, twisted him into a knot. Aversion left a sour taste in his mouth. All night long he’d been awakened by strange, vivid dreams, visions of places and things he’d never seen, or at least he could not recall having seen them.
One thread ran throughout all the disturbing dreams, a constant—glimpses of a woman always out of reach. No matter how many times he called to her, she’d refused to turn her face to him. He longed to see her. He’d sensed she needed him, and he yearned to hold and protect her. That too made no sense.
What if Regan had spoken the truth, and they truly had been together in the future? Could it be Regan who wove in and out of his dreams? When she’d come to warn him, he’d cast her off and sent her away. Had he been wrong to do so? What a tangle—a tangle that kept circling back to the fecking fae.
“Could we not meet here? Is there no other way to reach King Lir? There must be a way that does not require—”
“Nay. If we wish to gain Lir’s aid, we must go to him.” Fionn gave Fáelán a shake. “Ye’ve gone pale, laddie. There’s naught to fear. I’ll not forsake ye whilst we are within his kingdom. Besides, the situation is not entirely unknown to the King Beneath the Sea. He will have sensed his daughter’s mischief. What better way to end this than to appeal to her father, who is also her sovereign?”
“What shall I say to him?” Fáelán scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve no proof ’twas Morrigan who pursued me on my way here. I’ve no memory of being cursed, and I don’t recall being held captive in the void.” Even the word void set off a host of emotions within him. Rage being the uppermost—frustration coming in a close second.
Regan. My miracle, mo a míorúilt lómhar. Once again, the familiar words slid through his mind, and his breath caught. She was no stranger, yet he could not remember a thing about her. “How can I plead for help, when all I have is hearsay told to me by a woman from the twenty-first century?”
“Mmm. I see. Without knowing what ye suffered, your plea will be less than convincing. Especially since Morrigan has done naught but attempt to lure ye to her since Regan warned ye away from your lover’s cottage.” Fionn’s expression turned pensive. “I believe I might have a solution, but ’twill mean delaying our journey for a day. Remain here. I’ll be back for ye anon.” He rose from the table and scrutinized Fáelán intensely for a long moment. “I see ye’ve lost your appetite. Eat anyway. ’Tis a command. Ye’ll need your strength, laddie.”
With that, his captain left him, and Fáelán exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The thought of appearing before King Lir turned his stomach, but he could think of no way ’round it if he wished to get out from under the threat of being cursed, or from being perpetually pursued by Morrigan.
A shiver racked him, remembering the fae princess’s attempts to draw him to her, her seductive siren’s voice wrapping tendrils of magic throughout his mind and heart. More than once, he’d come to the point where he’d hovered between surrender and resistance. If it hadn’t been for Regan’s warning, and Fragarach . . . He shook his head and focused on his surroundings.
Fáelán took the knife from his belt and cut off a slice of the cheese laid out upon the table. He tore off a chunk of the bread and reached for the platter piled with smoked fish. He’d been commanded to eat, and so he would.
What could Fionn possibly have in mind that might help him? His insides quaked at what was to come. Surely the king’s loyalty would lean in favor of his daughter. If he somehow came through his troubles alive and intact, Fáelán would marry. Aye, and he’d cleave only to his wife forever after. He’d learned his lesson. No more dallying with lasses he knew not at all, no matter how they tried to entice him into their beds.
By the time Fáelán had finished his meal, Fionn appeared in the corridor leading to the private chambers in his dwelling. His captain gestured for Fáelán to join him, and his nerves stretched as tight as a bowstring. He pushed away from the table and made his way to his captain, his feet dragging. When had his feet grown so heavy?
“Follow me,” Fionn ordered, turning down the dark corridor. He opened a door, glanced back at Fáelán and stepped aside. “In ye go, laddie, and cease looking as if ye walk to your doom.”
“Am I not?” he muttered under his breath. Fáelán had been in this room before, and the familiarity calmed him. This was where Fionn gathered his men to strategize, and where he listened to their reports concerning the various kingdoms they guarded. A heavy table of oak, surrounded by a dozen chairs, took up the center. Several oil lamps burned, lighting the interior against the darkness of the day. A single brazier glowed red with burning coal, and thick hides covered both windows to keep out the cold and the sleet.
Maps painted on the finest velum were laid out upon the surface of the table, and shelves held more scrolls of vellum and parchment. A steaming bowl of something had been set in front of one of the chairs. The food in Fáelán’s stomach turned to a lump of clay in his gut. “Am I to drink this?” He moved closer to take a look.
“Aye. ’Tis my hope—nay, ’tis my belief—the spirits of the ingredients making up this concoction will help ye remember everything that has transpired with Morrigan and the woman who came to ye from the future.”
“The spirits?” Fáelán lifted the bowl and sniffed at the contents. It smelled of herbs and something else, something earthy. “Ye speak as if herbs and such have conscious thoughts.”
Fionn chuckled. “Think ye they do not?”
“Mmph.” He studied the unappetizing brownish chunks floating in the potion. “If ye don’t mind me asking, what are the brown bits?”
“A particular kind of mushroom that grows in the grassy places near the bogs.”
“And the flecks of black?”
“’Tis a wee bit of ergot, the purplish blight that mimics grains of rye.”
Should he be consuming a blight? “And the rest?”
“Herbs and a few berries ground together and mixed with . . . other ingredients. ’Tis best if ye not know all.” Fionn seated himself across from Fáelán. “Go on, laddie. ’Twill go down easier if ye drink it all at once.”
“Have ye ever partaken of this . . . mixture?” What should he call it? The word poison leaped to his mind.
“I have.” Fionn arched his brow and cast him a look of such intensity, Fáelán was sure his captain saw to his very soul. Fionn grunted. “I take this when seeking answers to the gravest questions facing me, our king and our people,” Fionn said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What will it do to me?” Fáelán stared into the bowl, trying to determine what the other ingredients might be. Blood? Eye of newt? Stag’s hair? His gut tightened, already rejecting what was to come.
“This potion will strip away any illusions clouding your vision and your mind. The spirits of the ingredients therein”—he tipped his head toward the wooden bowl—“will reveal the truth. Not the truth ye hope for, but the truth ye need. There’s a difference, aye? Ye must be willing, humble and open for the spirits to speak, and even then, I cannot guarantee they will come. Are ye man enough, laddie? Drink up.” Fionn jutted his chin, a challenging glint in his eyes.
Feck. Fáelán’s heart climbed to his throat, and he swallowed a few times to force it back where it belonged. He brought the bowl to his mouth, his insides already rebelling. Still, he tipped the bowl and swallowed the foul, bitter brew. A few moments later, shudders racked him and nausea roiled through him like an ocean swell.
He gagged and fought to keep the contents of his stomach down. Saliva filled his mouth over and over, even as he swallowed it back, and his eyes watered. “By all that is holy . . . that was disgusting.” He shook himself. “Uck.”
Fionn laughed. “Aye, but do your best not to cast it up.”
Could he? Of course he could. Had he not passed all the tests set afore him to be ordained as one of Fionn’s elite warriors? He buried his face in his hands and propped his elbows upon the table. “I feel naught but a sickening in my gut. How will this help me again?”
“Give it time.”
After a spell, the nausea retreated, only to be replaced by a strangeness overtaking him. His insides clawed to be out, whilst his outsides burrowed to be in. Fáelán groaned. “I like this not at all, my lord.”
“What do ye seek from the spirits, my fine Fiann?” his captain asked, his tone low and soothing. “What do ye wish to remember? Think upon what ye wish to know whilst the spirits come to ye.”
“Being cursed. I want to remember what befell me at Morrigan’s hand, and I . . . I want to remember . . . my miracle,” he whispered.
“Your miracle, eh?” Fionn chuckled. “Who or what might that be?”
Fáelán took his head from his hands and peered at Fionn. His captain’s image blurred and distorted, and Fáelán blinked, trying to bring him back into sharp focus. “Regan.”
“Ye remember all, laddie.” Fionn leaned across the table and tapped Fáelán’s forehead. “Ye just need help bringing the memories to the fore.”
Fionn’s tap reverberated through Fáelán from his forehead to the soles of his feet. He blinked even more and gazed around him in astonishment. Everything in the room began to move, taking on life. The table reached toward the tapestries upon the wall, and the tapestries melted into the floor, which had turned into a lake, undulating with waves that lapped at the walls. The flames of the oil lamps leaped and danced, and the red glow of the brazier expanded and contracted as if breathing. “Gods.” He closed his eyes. “Everything has turned to melted tallow or beeswax. Everything is moving . . . merging.”
“Why do ye think that is?” Fionn’s voice took on a magical quality, filling every corner of Fáelán’s mind.
“Beyond my ken,” he murmured. Fáelán could no longer sit upright. His bones had melted as well, and he slid from his chair to the floor. Stretching out his arms and legs, he spread out on the solid floor that seemed to have turned into a lake. “It is all the same. We are all the same.” Nay. That wasn’t it exactly, but he couldn’t find the words he meant to say. The floor’s waves rocked him, and he suffered a fresh wave of nausea—and panic. The world around him was unrecognizable, and everything was out of his control.
“What do ye here? Why have ye summoned us?”
Fáelán sucked in a breath. A voice like stone grinding upon stone filled the room. Or was it only in his head? Was this one of the spirits Fionn spoke of? “I seek only what rightfully belongs to me,” he rasped out. Anger surged. Though he should know the source, he didn’t, and it only made him angrier. “’Twas . . . stolen from me. So much . . . taken.”
“By what right do ye ask this of us?”
“I have no right, but I beg ye nonetheless. Memories of my time in the future . . . I want to remember. I need to remember being cursed.”
“Are ye certain? Mayhap ye’d be better off not recalling what befell ye.”
“Nay. For good or for ill, please . . . I must remember.”
“So be it.”
More strange sensations came over him, a tingling from head to foot and a powerful pressure inside his skull. Images flooded his mind. Sweet, innocent Nóra, the air being choked from her lungs, gripped by Morrigan’s paralyzing magic. The tugging, whooshing sensation as he was dragged away to the void, helpless to do anything to save her. He cried out.
He’d been lost in an endless, horrifying grayish-green mist, because he continued to defy Morrigan’s efforts to seduce him into becoming her consort. The dreams he’d had of this hell, they weren’t dreams at all, but memories. Each word of Morrigan’s curse pounded and throbbed painfully through his head. Like so much flotsam, he crashed against the sharp rocks of all that had happened, breaking apart, only to be caught up in another current of anguish.
The senselessness of it all pinned him to the floor where he lay. He covered his face with his hands and wept. Memories of his island prison, a place he loathed with every fiber of his being, came back to him in a rush. The endless loneliness had carved his heart from his chest and eroded his soul. How many times had he railed against the persecution? And all along he’d never known why Morrigan had imprisoned him. Now he knew. Regan had told him, hadn’t she? He and Morrigan had a daughter, whom she’d hidden from him, stealing from him the right of fatherhood.
“Ahhhh, ’tis not right. Morrigan did this to me,” he cried. “She deceived me from the start, murdered an innocent woman and kept me a prisoner for centuries. That fae bitch stole my life and punished me for defying her. She hid my daughter from me. I don’t know my daughter,” he sobbed.
As each recollection was restored to him, fresh grief raked talons through his soul. His family, clan . . . all dead and gone, over and over, loss upon loss. Through all of his imprisonment, Morrigan had taunted him and reveled in his pain. The weight of self-recrimination squatted upon his chest, and he could scarce draw a breath. All of it could be laid at his feet, because he’d been weak and led by lust.
Finally, Regan appeared, and bittersweet memories of their weeks together flooded his awareness. Regan. Even thinking her name cooled the fiery rage scorching his soul. Believing him to be a ghost, she’d done her best to goad him toward the light, whilst he’d insisted he was cursed, not dead. Newgrange. Their safe word. He smiled through his tears, remembering everything.
The morning he’d been freed from the void, they’d made love. ’Twas like nothing he’d ever known afore. She’d stolen his heart from the first moment he’d watched her at Brú Na Bóinne. Again he keened, awash in misery. Every conversation they’d had, the way she moved, smelled, felt . . . her generous, brave heart. Hardest of all were the memories of the night he’d been ripped from her. The night they’d declared their love, and he’d told her he’d rather remain imprisoned than put her in harm’s way.
The sensations caused by the concoction gradually receded, leaving Fáelán bereft and as weak as a newborn. He stared at the ceiling as tears ran freely from the corners of his eyes. “Regan risked all for me, and I denied her,” he said, his voice hoarse and breaking. “I remember everything.”
With his memories came fresh fear. He pushed himself up to sitting and sought Fionn, finding him at the table, with scrolls of vellum from the shelves spread afore him. “Regan’s coming to warn me, her preventing the curse and leaving Fragarach behind will have drawn Morrigan’s wrath even more than when the curse ended. Regan thwarted the fae princess more than once, and Morrigan will want to punish her. No matter what I do, things go from bad to worse.”
Stricken and shaky, he forced himself up from the floor and staggered to a chair, propping himself against the back. The table, chairs and tapestries no longer moved. Fáelán was exhausted, and his head ached. He blinked against the grittiness of his eyes. “King Lir is my only hope to set things aright. I see that now.”
“Aye.” Fionn lifted a pitcher and poured something into a goblet. He handed it to him.
Fáelán eyed the offering with suspicion. He took it and peered at the contents, and then brought the goblet to his mouth and gulped it down. Pure, cold water cooled his parched throat. “I owe ye a great debt of gratitude, Fionn. Though I never wish to experience the like again.” He sank into the chair he’d been leaning against.
“All has come back to ye?” Fionn asked.
“It has.”
“Tell me.”
Haltingly, he related everything that had transpired between himself and the fae princess. Fionn nodded now and then, grunted a few times and listened intently. Fáelán ended the tale and sighed. “How long has it been since I drank the foul potion? I’m starving.”
“’Tis nightfall, and you took the draught early this morn.” Fionn rose, moved to the door and called for food to be brought to them.
His heart lurched. “Fionn, I need to get to Regan. Morrigan killed Nóra when she caught me in bed with her, and she’ll do far worse to Regan. Morrigan will want her to suffer first, for she accomplished what the fae princess could not.” He thunked his head against the table’s hard surface, gratified by the punishing pain. “What have I done?”
He drew in a long, shaky breath and let it out slowly. “When I realized Regan could see me in the void, I thought only of gaining my freedom without giving the consequences to her a single fecking thought. How many must suffer because of my witless selfishness?”
He’d been caught up in his own inflated sense of importance as a Fiann, taking advantage of his status and the way the lassies swooned over him. “Selfish, immature and heedless,” he muttered. “I do not deserve to be a Fiann.”
“’Tis a heady temptation, all the attention bestowed upon ye as one of the Fianna. Few could resist, or would, for that matter. Besides, how could ye have known Morrigan’s true identity?” Fionn shook his head. “Ye’ve suffered enough, Fáelán, there’s no cause to blame yourself for what Morrigan has done.”
“But—”
“We shall fill our bellies, and after a good night’s rest, I’ll take ye to King Lir Beneath the Sea.”
“That’s a metaphor, aye?” Trepidation spiked, and his pulse raced again. Being trapped in the void had been bad enough. He couldn’t bear the thought of being leagues beneath the sea.
“A metaphor?” Fionn frowned. “I’m not familiar with the term.”
Fáelán rubbed his throbbing temples, realizing how much from the future had been restored to him. “Are we actually to travel to a place beneath the sea?”
“Ah.” Fionn snorted. “Nay. We’ll enter Summerland and go to Lir’s stronghold. He only rules the oceans, laddie. He does not live beneath them.”
“Thank the gods, both—”
“Old and new?” Fionn said, a wry grin suffusing his features.
Their food arrived, and while they ate, Fáelán’s sense of urgency grew. His knees bounced under the table, and ’twas all he could do to stay put. Regan needed him. If aught happened to her, he’d not survive the loss, nor would he want to.
“Eager to be off, are ye?” Fionn pinned him with a look. “Cease with your twitching.”
Fáelán rubbed the achy spot over his heart. “Worry for Regan consumes me, my lord. I have Fragarach and my skills as a warrior to protect me, but Regan is defenseless. Can we not depart this very moment?”
“Nay. What ye experienced this day takes a heavy toll. Ye’ll not do your woman any good if ye appear afore King Lir exhausted and strung as tight as ye are right now. I’ll not take ye to Summerland until ye’ve rested, and if ye need a potion for that as well, I’ll make one.”
“No more potions.” His stomach lurched.
“Aye, no more potions,” Fionn grunted. “I’ve been thinking, laddie. Ye’ve served me faithfully and well for nigh on eight winters now. I owe you a great debt for blocking the arrow that would have taken my life whilst we fought the raiders from the Northland. Ye know I’ll help in any way I can. After this trouble with Morrigan has passed, what do ye wish to do with the rest of your life? Do ye wish to continue on as a Fiann?”
“’Tis the truth, I’m torn in two. I’ve sworn an oath to ye, my king and country. Have I not? Yet Regan holds my heart, and she is with child. To break my vow to you and King MacArt would be grievous, yet to abandon the woman I love, and our unborn child, is also wrong. Morrigan denied me the opportunity to be a father to Boann. I’m not certain I can walk away from the second chance I’ve been granted.”
“Think ye Regan would be willing to live in this time?”
Hadn’t he already caused enough havoc due to selfishness? “Mayhap she would, but I would not ask it of her. Being a Fiann means we’d be apart far more than we’d be together. ’Twould be unfair to expect her to give up all she knows, only to see me for a se’nnight here and there. She has sisters she’s close to and her own kin. In this century she’d have only me.”
“Ye have kin. Would she not live with them? I know your ma and da would welcome her, would they not?”
“’Tis certain they would, but ’twould not be the same. Even though my da is chieftain to our clan, many would view Regan with suspicion and fear. What if my clan shunned her? I could not bear her unhappiness.”
“No need to think on it overmuch. For truth, ’tis not our decision to make. King Lir will have the final say, and he might not be willing to allow ye to return to the twenty-first century.”
Fáelán nodded, desolation rising to choke him. He knew Morrigan too well. Whatever he decided mattered not, for he might already be too late to save Regan.
Regan moaned, and even that soft sound sent shards of pain piercing through her throbbing head. She blinked her gritty eyes, and swallowed against the dryness of her mouth and throat. Blood crusted her face, and she reeked. So did her prison, because she’d been forced to turn a small corner into a latrine. Not pleasant, but what choice did she have?
Dim light filled the space, coming from what she had hoped was a portal out of the cavern. She touched the gash on her forehead, which had swollen and was undoubtedly black and blue. Turned out, the portal was more like a webcam screen, showing her the world beyond Tara, reminding her how trapped she truly was.
Regan turned her head, only to cry out in surprise. A tray had been left for her. Boann’s doing, or did Morrigan plan to imprison her for eons, like she had Fáelán? Pushing herself up to sitting, her world spun, and she hurt all over. “Ohhh.” She held her poor throbbing head between her palms, remaining still until the cavern ceased its sickening whirl.
Suspicion warred with her overwhelming thirst and hunger. Fáelán believed Morrigan had slipped him the Elixir of Life through the food he’d been given. She had no desire to live forever in a fae prison, but she did want to live.
The instinct to survive won the battle, and she crawled on her hands and knees toward the tray. The first thing she took was one of the two goblets filled with clear water. She gulped it down, no longer caring if it made her immortal or not. Survival first—deal with the fallout later. Never before had anything felt or tasted as good as the water soothing her parched throat. She swallowed the last drop and set the goblet down.
Bread, cheese and slices of some kind of roasted fowl were next, and she tore into the food like a starving person. Regan choked and coughed. Oh, right. She was a starving person. After being hungry for so long, it didn’t take much before she felt full and uncomfortable.
Leaving the rest of the food for later, she rose slowly to her feet and inched her way to the portal, keeping a hand on the wall for support. The view had changed, and she recognized the unusual hue of the sky and the utter perfection of the landscape. She peered through the window into Summerland, the home of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Why this view?
“Oh.” Her heart thumped. Three men came into view. Two of them were strangers, but she’d know the third man’s swagger anywhere. “Fáelán,” she shouted. “Here! I’m here!” She pounded against the stone wall until her palms were raw and stinging.
Hadn’t she broken his curse? Why was he in the fae realm? She shouted again and again, knowing full well he’d never hear her. Regan shook her aching hands and moved away. Morrigan wanted her to see this, which could only mean she meant to make her suffer.
She paced around the cavern in an effort to keep from looking through the window. It didn’t work, and she returned. The scene had changed again, and the three men now stood before one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. The faerie sat upon a throne of wood encrusted with mother-of-pearl. He wore a crown of polished coral, and he held a trident in his hand. He had to be King Lir.
Fáelán was speaking, his passion for the subject obvious. He gesticulated and strode around the ring of people who listened and watched; then he returned to stand before the king. His two companions stood to the side of the king’s throne. Lir frowned and seemed intently interested in what Fáelán had to say. He gestured and spoke, and a woman appeared out of thin air to kneel before the king. Morrigan?
Regan couldn’t take her eyes from the scene, but then the portal flickered and disappeared. “Dammit.” She pressed her fists against the wall, frustration banding her chest. Without the portal, the cavern was pitch-dark. The scent of ozone filled the chamber.
Morrigan was coming for her; she just knew it. Regan turned and pressed her back against the wall. She held her breath, terrified to confront the creature who had caused so much misery. The air around her crackled with energy, and for all she was worth, she tried to whoosh herself anywhere else but here. Boann had said her magic might respond to her need, hadn’t she? It didn’t work this time either, and she remained pressed against stone and earth, still trapped.
An orb glowing with a silvery light appeared, and behind it the silhouette of a woman in a long, flowing gown. “Regan?”
“Boann,” Regan whispered back. All the breath left her in a rush, and she sank to the floor in a puddle and sobbed with relief.
“Forgive me.” Boann hurried to her and crouched down. “I could not get to you until now.”
“All this time you knew I was trapped here?”
“Nay, but I knew something had gone awry with our plan, because Mother put me under a binding spell the moment I sent you through time. Yet another transgression,” she muttered. “When King Lir summoned Mother to his court in the third century, that strand of time altered, and the spell she cast in this century broke. Then I was able to locate you.”
“I think I saw that happen, the part where King Lir summoned Morrigan. What’s happening now . . . or then?” Sweat streaked down her caked and filthy cheeks. “There was a . . . a window there,” she said, pointing to the wall where the portal had been. “I saw Fáelán and two other men. He was speaking to King Lir.”
“Aye. Fionn, the leader of the Fianna, arranged for the meeting with King Lir. Though you prevented my father’s curse, my mother has continued to pursue him, and Fáelán hopes King Lir will put a stop to her harassment.” Boann took her by the arm. “It is being discussed in the past as we speak. Rather than taking the time to find out, I thought it best to free you. Come. We must hurry.” She tugged at Regan. “I must get you away from here whilst I still can.”
“Wait.” Regan stood on wobbly legs and raked a shaky hand through her matted hair. “Does this mean Fáelán has remembered his time in the future? Does he remember me?” Her voice hitched.
Boann faced the wall and did her runes-in-the-air thing. “I don’t know any more than what I have already shared.” A portion of the wall shimmered and waved. “Go. This will take you to Howth.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I cannot. To do so would only draw more trouble to you.” Boann gave her a little push. “I’ll come to you when I can.”
“My pack. I dropped it somewhere.” She searched the floor in the silvery light, finding her bag near where she’d fallen. “How long have I been here?”
“Regan,” Boann snapped. “I’ve been trapped since the day I sent you through time to warn my sire, which was five days ago. Taking away the time you spent in the third century, I’m guessing you’ve been here for three mortal days, and if you do not leave now—”
“Sorry,” she huffed. Had Boann just snapped at her? After the hell she’d been through, Boann’s tone got on her last nerve. “I’m disoriented and probably a little dehydrated. Forgive me if I’m not as quick on the draw as I usually am.” She grabbed her pack from the floor. “And by the way, the last time I aimed for one of these damned passages, I slammed into solid granite. I’m pretty sure I’m concussed.”
“I can see that, and I beg your forgiveness,” Boann said, still sounding impatient. “Off with you, before it’s too late and you suffer far worse.”
The fae princess shoved Regan none too gently into the portal, and she was caught up in the sickening rush. “Please let me land inside the town house and not in a messy heap on the sidewalk outside,” she prayed. She came to a sudden ungraceful halt, flat on her already bruised face against a carpeted floor. “Ouch.”
Screaming voices, familiar and beloved voices, filled her ears. Despite how miserable she was, relief flooded through her.
“Oh, my God! Is she alive?” Grayce screeched.
Regan groaned and rolled to her back. “Just barely.” She inhaled the delicious aromas of something yummy. Waffles and bacon? Her mouth watered. “Something smells good.”
Meredith helped her up to sitting. “What happened? My God, you look like you were beaten with a two-by-four. Who did this to you?”
“Regan, where the hell have you been, and how did you just appear out of thin air like that?” Grayce crouched down beside her. “If Fáelán beat you, he’s a dead man.”
“He didn’t do this. The fae princess who cursed him is responsible.” Her gut wrenched. Would she ever see Fáelán again? He had a sworn duty to his king, Fionn and Ireland. Like he said, he belonged in his own time, and he had no intention of leaving. “I have a lot to tell you, but first—”
“We need to get you to a hospital.” Meredith took Regan’s head between her palms, tilted her face and studied her wounds.
“It’s too late for stitches, even if I might have needed them.” Regan gestured toward the gash on her forehead. “I got this two days ago, and it’s already started healing. A bath and clean clothes is what I need.”
Grayce tugged at Regan’s third-century gown. “What are you wearing?”
“It’s a long story, and I’ve had a rough few days.” After bathing, more food and a nap, maybe she’d be ready to talk. “What day is it anyway?”
“It’s Tuesday morning, the twenty-seventh of June,” Grayce said, sending Meredith a look of concern. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Everything that had happened the past couple of days swamped her, and she burst into tears. “I was trapped in a cavern under the Hill of Tara, with no way out, and . . . I . . . I didn’t have any food, and I’m pregnant,” she sobbed. “That couldn’t have been good for my baby.” Two sets of arms encircled her. “I’ve lost him,” Regan wailed. “I b-broke Fáelán’s curse, and then everything went to hell.”
Her sisters made soothing sounds and helped her upstairs and into her room. They made her sit on the bed while Grayce gathered clean clothes and Meredith filled the tub. Regan was exhausted right down to her leptons and quarks, dammit, and her heartbreak went even deeper. A massive lump clogged her throat, and her chest hurt. All of her hurt, inside and out.
“I never sensed a thing.” Meredith’s brow creased. “I wonder why?”
“Fae magic or something about the Hill of Tara’s energy maybe.” Regan shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Do you need help getting out of your clothes?” Meredith asked, her expression filled with sympathy.
Regan managed a small smile. “No. I can manage. I’ll come downstairs once I’m dressed.”
Meredith nodded. “If you need us, you’ll call?”
“I will. Make tea, please, and save me some of whatever it is you made for breakfast.” Once the twins left, Regan stood up, still a little light-headed, and shuffled to the bathroom. Stiff and achy, she felt as if she were ninety-five and not still in her twenties. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and grimaced. Both of her eyes were swollen, black and blue, as was the bridge of her nose. The cut on her forehead was an angry slash in a mound of purple and pale green. Her hair was matted with dirt and dried blood, and so was her face. She blinked against the tears filling her eyes and turned away. Physical aches and pains couldn’t hold a candle to the emotional toll to her heart.
She undressed and stepped into the tub, and for several glorious minutes, she did nothing but soak, letting the hot water soothe her aching bones. Then she washed, and the water turned a rusty brown. “Yuck.”
She drained the tub, stood up and washed again under the shower. Lord, but it felt good to be clean. Yawning, she dried herself and put on fresh, sweet-smelling clothes. Opening a bathroom drawer, she grabbed a couple of Band-Aids and applied them to the gash on her forehead, doing her best to bring the edges of her torn skin together. The cut on her nose wasn’t bad, so she left it alone. At least both wounds were clean.
Regan gathered her dirty laundry from the floor and stuffed everything into the hamper. Then she grabbed a hairbrush from the dresser and sat on her bed to work the tangles out of her hair. A mistake, because that led to lying down and pressing her face into Fáelán’s pillow. His scent still lingered. Had it been only a handful of days since he’d been taken from her? She curled herself into a ball, hugged Fáelán’s pillow to her chest and fell into a deep sleep.