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His hand dug into the man’s shoulder until he felt bones give beneath his grip. No cry or flinch at such harsh treatment. He’d chosen Oss as much for his brute strength as his slit tongue. Máelodor’s body jumped and spasmed as bliss arced like lightning through him. And it was he who cried out with a groan in orgasm.
Sated, he motioned Oss forward, the two moving at a crawling pace over the uneven ground until he stood at the edge of the toppled granite slab, close enough to lay his hand upon the rock. The mage energy leapt high, buffeting him as it sought to understand this intruder. Moving through him in a questing, studying twining of powers.
Arthur’s bones lay only a mere stone’s thickness away. Once he possessed the Sh’vad Tual, Máelodor would finally have all he needed to unlock the tomb’s defenses. Triumph would be his at last, for who was left to stop him.
The Amhas-draoi had long ago assumed his execution. The rogue mage-warrior, St. John, doing much to turn the eyes of Scathach’s brotherhood toward another and discredit any rumors of Máelodor’s survival.
Brendan Douglas was their quarry. The treacherous dog could only hope they found him before Máelodor did. For once Douglas fell into his clutches, so too would the Sh’vad Tual. One would unlock the tomb. The other would feed Máelodor’s unholy desires for months.
It was fascinating how long one could string pain out. An unending plucked wire where a simple tug anywhere could bring excruciating agony yet death remained always just beyond reach. It would be thus for Douglas. The man who had brought the Nine down would suffer for his betrayal before joining his father and the rest in Annwn’s deepest abyss.
Máelodor’s Domnuathi had captured the diary.
Máelodor himself had stolen the Rywlkoth tapestry.
Brendan Douglas would hand over the stone as he begged for his life.
“We’re close, Oss. No longer will the race of Other live in the shadows, fearing the mortal Duinedon. It will be our time again. We shall not so easily let it slip away from us again.”
The bearlike attendant nodded, his empty eyes never wavering. His stance wide, his arms hanging apelike at his side.
“Help me back to the carriage. I’m expecting news of Douglas.”
In silence, the pair—aged cripple and mute albino—stumbled through the tangle of brush, leaving the tomb behind.
But before the stones merged within the wood’s defenses, Máelodor turned back. Whispered the words that would unlock the door. “Mebyoa Uther hath Ygraine. Studhyesk esh Merlinus. Flogsk esh na est Erelth. Pila-vyghterneask. Klywea mest hath igosk agesha daresha.”
Trees shook as birds rose in a chattering black cloud. The sun dimmed, throwing the grove into sudden darkness. A faint chiming caught on a plucking rush of wind. And refusal blossomed like a bloodstain in Máelodor’s chest. The answer came back to him—
No.
Dun Eyre
County Clare, Ireland
“Stand still, Elisabeth. The woman can’t do her work with you spinning about like a top.”
Elisabeth subsided under Aunt Fitz’s scolding. Inhaled a martyr’s breath, trying to ignore the burning muscles in her arms and the tingly numbness moving up from her fingertips. It was all very well for her aunt. She wasn’t forced to stand with her arms spread wide, pins poking her in the small of her back, the feeling draining from her appendages. She rolled her neck, hoping at least to ease the tension banding her shoulders.
“Stop fidgeting. You know, if you didn’t keep nibbling between meals, Miss Havisham wouldn’t have to adjust the gown.”
The modiste glanced up. “Mm. Phnnmp. Mnshph,” she mumbled around a mouthful of pins.
“And that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. But I’d rather Miss Fitzgerald refrain from extra desserts and late-night tea and biscuits.”
Elisabeth glared at her aunt’s reflection in the cheval mirror. It was a familiar argument between them. Aunt Fitz—her own figure rail-thin—had always viewed her niece’s voluptuous Renaissance body with displeasure. Or perhaps with jealousy. Either way, visits by the modiste always ended in short tempers and long silences. And an overwhelming urge in Elisabeth to eat something tooth-achingly sweet just out of spite.
She risked smoothing a hand over the swell of one hip, the slide of the pale silk cool against her palm. “Perhaps you could simply throw a sack over me and save all this bother.”
“Don’t be pert, dear,” came her aunt’s response as she sank into an armchair by the fire with a tired rub to her temples.
Miss Havisham stood with an accommodating smile. “There now, Miss Fitzgerald. You can take it off.”
With the assistance of her maid and the modiste, Elisabeth wiggled out of the gown.
“I’ll have the alterations completed by tomorrow. Oh, it shall be absolutely stunning. You’ll be a vision. Mr. Shaw will think he’s marrying an angel.”
Elisabeth stared hard into the mirror, doubting even the expensive and exclusive Dublin modiste could affect that kind of transformation. But it was pleasant to envision appreciation lighting Gordon’s eyes upon seeing her in the creamy lace and silk confection.
