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He bared his teeth in a rapier grimace. “That’s not my problem.”
Frustration strengthened the beast sharpening its fangs on his bones. The room pitched beneath his feet, his vision blurring, a stabbing blaze of pain to the base of his brain like an axe to the neck. He bit back a moan, only the firm chill of the wall holding him upright against the whirlpool opening at his feet. The presence swelling to a crackling roar as it sought to drag him in. Drag him back.
When he opened his eyes next, he stared up into the old woman’s shrewd, yellow gaze. She bent over him, a hand to his forehead. Another placed flat against his chest where his heart thundered.
Behind her, Roseingrave watched. Her contempt clear in her posture and her expression. “I told you it would be impossible to hold out for long. He controls you body and soul.”
“No!” he roared, fighting to rise. Restrained by the old woman. He must be weaker than he thought. He fell back with a curse.
Her mouth wrinkled into a white-lipped frown. “Your creator’s mage energy is potent. Dangerous. He tries to win you back to his cause using all the dark magics at his disposal. It would take a more powerful man than you to resist.”
He closed his eyes, suddenly battle-drained, limbs weighted, head spinning. “I feel him always. But today . . . something’s different. Almost as if he’s here beside me. In this room.”
A prickly silence followed as if each of them strained to catch a glimpse or hear the stir of breath that would reveal Máelodor’s presence.
Roseingrave’s grandmother broke the tension. “Fight him,” she commanded. “Show him you’re not afraid. He thrives on death? Choke him on life. Glut him until he’s crushed beneath a mountain of beauty and friendship and love and faith.”
He searched his mind for some glimpse of a moment. Anything to drag himself away from the maw at his feet where Máelodor waited.
Nothing.
A screeching metal-on-metal buzz filled his head. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t breathe. “I can’t . . .”
The old woman’s shriek reached him over the din. “Reach deeper.”
He folded his attention inward and inward again. Fed the presence on the few broken, shattered memories left to him.
Men’s faces ringing a table, cups raised in good cheer. An iron-gray stallion, neck arched, ears pricked as it nuzzled his hand.
The presence devoured these images, leaving jagged blackened holes where Daigh’s past had been. But in return the pain eased. He could breathe again.
But now he knew it for what it truly was—a temporary reprieve.
There would be no freedom until he killed Máelodor.
Or Máelodor killed him.
Sorry for the delay. Expected to be in Dublin before you. Hope Aunt Delia hasn’t drive you around the bend yet. Cat and I will be there as soon as possible. There are things we all need to discuss that can’t be decided in a letter no matter how long.
Aidan.
Her brother. The king of understatement.
Sabrina refolded the letter. Tucked it into her journal. Flopped back on her bed with a frustrated sigh.
By “things” did he mean her speedy return to Glenlorgan? His out-of-the-blue marriage to a scandal-ridden young woman of no fortune and dubious morals? Brendan’s rumored return to Dublin? Máelodor? A tapestry? The list went on and on.
Could he be any more enigmatic?
She rolled over, her gaze landing on the volume of Welsh history she’d brought home with her from the library. It seemed to crouch on her desk. Waiting for her to pick it up. Turn to the bookmarked page. Read the sentences over and over as if somehow they might reshape themselves into a history that didn’t end with Daigh’s death centur
ies ago.
They never did.
If Daigh told the truth, the words she read and the moments he recalled were one and the same. Could it be? There was no reason for him to lie. And the few stolen memories of Daigh’s she’d fallen into certainly suggested it was so. The whole situation haunted her like a bad dream. And she’d been having a lot of those lately.
At least Aidan’s letter had diverted her from the whirl of her thoughts. Kept her from thinking about her impulsive and reckless behavior at the lending library. Daigh’s hand upon her chest. His touch zinging excitement through her from the top of her head to the tips her toes. Her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest. And yet he’d simply watched her with that same steady, soul-scouring stare she could drown in forever. Said nothing. Given no hint of his thoughts.
