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“You didn’t forget,” she charged.
“No, but Scathach spoke truth. I am a man more of magic than earth. Different from most mortals.”
“You and Killer here should have a lot in common, then.”
She knew immediately she’d put her foot in it, though neither said anything and the moment passed.
Killer’s arm slipped round her shoulders as he guided her out of the cavern. Around downed limbs and toppled trees. Over rocks that looked as though they’d been uprooted and flung across the grove. And here and there, though she hadn’t noticed them before, strange piles of gelatinous black ooze that shone greasy in the fading light of dusk. To the east, mountainous chains of storm clouds fragmented, spitting lightning as they broke apart.
Only after they’d walked for a little while did she rouse herself enough to notice Arthur had vanished.
She was alone with Killer.
Brendan was gone. He had left her. Again. And this time he would not—could not—come back.
twenty-seven
The group of them crowded into Helena’s parlor. It still bore awkward signs of intrusion. Cushions had been hastily stitched, though the sofa bore a tear no amount of needlework could fix. A long, ugly scratch marred the piano’s top, as if someone had taken out his frustration upon the instrument. The rest of the house was in m
uch the same state, though a setting to rights still continued, the servants unusually quiet as they hastened about their work.
Her mind sluggish and numb, Elisabeth stared into the fire until her eyes watered. She’d felt this way since returning here to Duke Street. Arriving on the doorstep like lost baggage, silent, expressionless, and empty.
Thank heavens for Killer or she’d not even have made it as far as the tiny Cornish village they’d stumbled into that long-ago afternoon, the inhabitants abuzz with talk of strange violent storms, skies gone red, then black. Of strange creatures in the winds, the ring of sword upon shield, and ghostly battle cries. It had been his quiet authority that had secured them lodging, food, passage onward toward the coast, where they could take ship for Ireland.
She’d been too numb at the time, but now she wondered how he’d managed. A half-naked man and a stunned and bedraggled woman arriving from out of nowhere. They were lucky they hadn’t been arrested, or worse.
He’d left her on the dawn of their arrival in Dublin. She’d awakened her last morning shipboard to an empty bunk and a curious captain. What could she say: My companion has turned himself into a bird and flown away?
She kept to a stubborn silence then and all through the days that followed when all were wise enough not to ask. A word and she might shatter. A touch might crumble her to dust. She remained too raw. Every nerve screaming. Every night’s dreams holding a diamond-clear image of Brendan’s body beneath a bloody sky.
It had taken Aidan’s arrival to unlock her voice. His familiar features, his embrace firm and warm and smelling of cheroot smoke and brandy and soap and leather that released the knot choking off her breath.
The dam broken, she spilled all in a rush of grief and pain and fear, her face tight with tears that never fell. As if crying might seal the truth in stone and wash away all remaining hope. Only one secret was not hers to tell—that of the existence of Killer and the Imnada.
To any who pressed, the credit went to Rogan, who’d seen the light too late and died saving her. Madame Arana studied her long and hard, but Elisabeth held to her story and no more was said. Small questions swallowed in the greater crush of Máelodor’s annihilation and Brendan’s passing into the summer kingdom.
Mr. Ahern perked up as if awaiting his moment. “String. Ring. Ring. String. Rhymes, you see. That was my idea. Hide old Archibald’s ring. Keep it safe.” He pushed his spectacles onto his forehead, his rheumy, bloodshot eyes bright as a child’s. “I’m glad it helped. Have to say, I wasn’t certain it would.” Elisabeth shot a guarded glance at the older gentleman seated on a salvaged wing chair, his fingers busy turning a broken shard of Wedgwood over and over. “Rings are tricky. Read of a ring wrought by the Fey once. Poor devil put it on, immediately burst into flame. Another changed the fellow that wore it into a tree. Got felled in a storm the following year and used for firewood, unlucky sap.” He pulled a piece of twine from his pocket. Laid it on the table in front of him beside a cherry pit, a small gray pebble, a playing card.
Madame Arana paused in threading a needle to lay her ever-present embroidery down in her lap, the lines of her aged face deeper, the turn of her mouth sharper. “Come, Mr. Ahern. Let’s go see about tea, shall we?”
He beamed at her. “Do you have some of those little yellow biscuits? I love little yellow biscuits.”
“I’m sure we can find some,” Madame Arana answered, the pair shuffling out of the room arm in arm.
“Should we set a place for Brendan? He should be home soon,” Mr. Ahern’s words floated back to them.
Jack cringed while Aidan closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath Elisabeth very much doubted was “Sweet, adorable old coot.”
“It’s my fault,” Jack said. “If I’d stayed with Brendan instead of going with Helena . . .”
Elisabeth couldn’t help but steal surreptitious looks at Brendan’s cousin, his burnished blond hair and piercing blue eyes, the sleek courtier’s flawlessness from the elegant cut of his coat to the polished shine of his boots. If she wasn’t mistaken, Jack O’Gara was supposed to be inhabiting a family mausoleum in Wicklow, the victim of a highway robbery last year. Not swigging claret and shooting sidelong, wary glances back at her.
As she watched, he tossed back another gobletful as if it were water. Poured another from the rapidly dwindling decanter. Was that his third or fourth?
“Slow down or we’ll be mopping you up off the floor,” Aidan scolded, unable to take his eyes off his cousin. “I see death hasn’t done much to change your habits.”
Jack paled as he bowed his head. “We went over this, Aidan. I wanted to go to you immediately. Brendan wouldn’t allow it. Said he didn’t want to put you in danger.”
