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She missed Ard-siúr, Sister Ainnir, even Sister Brigh. Her cluttered, crowded bedchamber. Long nights in the infirmary and long days in study or working. Her friends. Her life.
She wasn’t brave. Or independent. Or mature and worldly wise. She’d made a complete hash of everything. And now she just wanted to go home.
“He should be relieved if I retire into the order. All I’ve given him is trouble. He can write me off as another disappearing family member.”
“You can’t keep running away, Sabrina. From your family. Your past. It lives inside of you. They’re what makes you, you.”
“If you’re going to tell me I’m using the bandraoi as a way to hide from myself, join the queue. Why won’t anyone believe that the life of a High Danu priestess is what I want? Is it so hard to believe?”
Jane pulled a face. “In short—yes.”
Daigh slammed his knife back into its sheath. Breathed deep to allow himself space to recover from the crumbling cliff edge of insanity. He’d come here ready to free himself once and for all of St. John’s threats. After storming from room to room, it became clear he’d come too late. Furniture had been covered. Beds stripped. Hearth black and cold. The Amhas-draoi had fled. Yet his scent lingered in the air. Heavy. Musky. Stomach-turning. Just inhaling sickened Daigh.
He sank down on a chair. Dropped his head in his shaking hands. Fought back the nausea and the rage and the bitterness. Would these feelings end with St. John’s death? Máelodor’s? Or was he doomed to know only the darkest of emotions? Live only among the shades of his shattered past? A deathless specter unable to escape this world for the next?
The presence called to him. It locked onto his despair, feeding it with ever greater torment until his vision narrowed to a pinprick. His muscles twitched with denied violence. It would be so easy to allow Máelodor complete control. Lose himself in the mindless cruelty that was the master mage’s wish. It would be quick. Safe. Much less painful. Already his head pounded as the dark mage energy swam through his body. As the brutal Unseelie magics tried to take hold.
He drew in a ragged breath. Fought back as the old woman had shown him.
Offered up Sabrina.
Standing upon the rocks. The sea lapping at her bare feet. Hair loose and free of its kerchief. Head raised to the wind. She turned to him, smiling. Her blue eyes as clear as the sky, aglow as if someone lit a fire within her.
It had been a single second in time. But he remembered it. Used it to feed the beast rooted beneath his skin. Ease the jagged press of Máelodor’s possession.
There would be no more to take its place. He’d made sure of that with his cruelty. But better she hate him than grieve for him.
He hardened with newfound purpose. He’d turn his new knowledge back upon his tormentor. Use the very attributes Máelodor had gifted him to thwart the master-mage’s plans. The Rywlkoth Tapestry lay with the sisters of High Danu. He’d seen it, though he’d not understood its significance at the time.
But times were different.
He would retrieve the tapestry as originally instructed. But Máelodor would never lay hands upon it. Not as long as Daigh held to life.
And thanks to the dark mage, he always would.
He held his breath at the creak of the outer door opening. A squeaky floorboard. Quiet breathing.
St. John returning? Would Daigh have his chance at vengeance after all?
Unfolding from the chair, he took up position behind the door. Slid his pistol free. Cocked it.
In one gliding flow of motion, he swung around the door. Targeted the man in his sights. Leveled the gun. And squeezed off a shot, jerking the weapon aside at the last moment as the intruder spun around, his own pistol raised to fire.
Daigh’s bullet went wide, exploding into the wall.
Lord Kilronan’s aim was true. It slammed Daigh backward as it tore through his ribs.
He lay upon the floor, blood pooling beneath him, the fire of healing as painful as the wound itself. He tried breathing around the knifing pain but couldn’t bring his lungs to fill. His heart to beat.
“You.” A shadow loomed above him. Kilronan’s empty stare, a frightening reminder of how far the earl had gone to try and defeat him.
Would he take the final step? Would he succumb to the Unseelie magics to finally gain his revenge?
Daigh closed his eyes and waited for the answer.
“Where is he? Where’s St. John?” A sharp kick to the ribs that shocked the lightning burn along Daigh’s bones. Into his blood. His heart fluttered then settled into a steady beat. His chest rose and fell. “Where’s the Amhas-draoi? I’ve some questions for him.”
Daigh opened his eyes. Dropped his gaze to the spent pistol gripped in Kilronan’s hand. “This grows to be a habit with you, my lord.”
