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He broke the silence first. “You never answered my original question.”
She lifted tired, burning eyes to her brother.
“Was St. John speaking truth when he called you MacLir’s lover?”
She faced him defiantly. “He was.”
He exhaled on a sad sigh, rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, shaking his head. “Oh, Sabrina.”
“Have I shocked you? Are you disgusted that a sister of yours could lay with a man unwed? That no proper gentleman shall want to marry me now that I’m ruined?”
“No, I worry over the sorrow still lying in your future.”
“Daigh hopes to provoke Máelodor into killing him.” Her words seemed to reverberate in the air like an echo.
Brendan’s mouth thinned to a white-rimmed line. “Death would be preferable. But I fear it is an impossible hope.”
But did Brendan refer to Daigh’s hopes or his own?
The coach drew up in the muddy farmyard of a ramshackle cottage. Chickens scattered. A skinny dog strained at the end of a rope, barking ferociously. Smoke rose in a thin, white trail from a sprouting, sagging thatched roof.
Máelodor emerged from the conveyance as a rangy, bearded man strode from the barn, hollering for silence. Catching sight of the coach, he gave one last swiping kick to the dog before dashing through the rain to the house. Ducking his head inside, shouting the news.
St. John appeared at the door, shrugging into his coat, an obsequious smile of welcome upon his flushed, sweat-glistened face. “Great One, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I would have prepared more suitable arrangements.”
Máelodor clutched the stick, excitement warming a body forever cold. “Douglas. He’s here. In Glenlorgan. I’ve seen it for myself.”
St. John’s smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. “He’s closer than that. He’s within. I captured him four days ago.”
Could retribution finally be at hand? Máelodor’s heart lurched wildly, his skin hot, then cold. His lungs pumped as he wheezed, “Show me.”
“There’s someone else you may want to see first.”
St. John lent Máelodor his arm. Led him through the front door into a sparsely furnished room. A few broken sticks of furniture. A table upon which someone’s dinner congealed. A fire burning down to a few red embers in the grate. And a man filling a far doorway, his face black as a storm cloud, carved in graven lines.
Máelodor clutched St. John’s arm tightly. “Lazarus.”
The man’s throat worked, his hands clenched to fists, his whole body quivering with repulsion, rage, and despair.
Máelodor feasted upon these dark emotions. Used them to begin re-creating the subtle connections that would bring the Domnuathi to heel.
Lazarus’s face went blank, his mind slamming shut against Máelodor’s prying. Even now, attempting to defy his master. To become what he could never be. Human. Free.
Máelodor probed deeper, coming up against the same entrenched wall where no mage energy dared cross. Surprised by the strength of this defiance, he retreated. Let Lazarus feel a moment’s success. Then with a signal to St. John, who nodded his understanding, he tried one final time.
The tendrils of his mind lashed out, catching hold of the soldier of Domnu. But this time St. John added his strength to Máelodor’s. The Amhas-draoi’s battle magic caught Lazarus square in the chest, driving the breath from his lungs, singing nerves. He collapsed on a howl of anguish, setting off a renewal of the dog’s frenzied barking. His break in concentration momentary, but long enough for Máelodor’s needs.
Máelodor burrowed deep, filling the hollows in Lazarus’s mind with his coiled awareness. The serpent’s presence unshakeable and unending. And when Lazarus looked again upon his master’s face, there was nothing left behind the Domnuathi’s black gaze but death.
Sabrina felt a jerk upon her mind, fog seeping across her vision. She shouted for Brendan, grabbing his hand as she plunged into the sucking dark.
The air cleared, her eyes adjusting slowly. She lay in a warm bed, Daigh’s body pressed against her back, cradling her close. One hand splayed over her belly, his breath soft upon her neck.
“A girl child as strong-willed and feisty as her mother,” he murmured, his touch igniting a fire between her thighs. “I’ll be back before your time, and we shall welcome her together.”
Salty tears slid into her mouth. Stained her pillow. He would not see his child. He would not return.
This was the end.
