Roberts, Nora
Magic & Fantasy
Containing A WORLD APART - EVER AFTER - IN DREAMS - SPELLBOUND - WINTER ROSE

A WORLD APART
 
In the sweltering jungle, under the blood-red sun, Kadra hunted. Her steps were silent, her eyes green as the trio of stones that encrusted the hilt of her sword were alert, watchful, merciless. 
For four days and four nights she had tracked her prey, over the Stone 
Mountains, beyond the Singing River, and into the verdant heat of the Land of 
Tulle. 
What she stalked rarely ventured to these borders, and she herself had never traveled so far in the south of A'Dair. 
There were villages here, small enclaves of lesser hunters, settlements of farmers and weavers with their young and their animals. The young were as much food to what she hunted as the cattle and mounts were. 
She trod on the mad red flowers that were strewn on the path, ignored the sly silver slide of a snake down the trunk of a tree. She saw, sensed, scented both, but they were of no interest to her. 
The Bok demons were her only interest now, and destroying them her only goal. 
It was what she had been born for. 
Other scents came to her the beasts, large and small, that inhabited the jungle, and the thick, wet fragrance of vine and blossom. The blood no longer fresh of one that had been caught and consumed by what she hunted. 
She passed a great fall of water that raged over the cliffs to pound its drumbeat into the river below. Though she had never walked upon this ground, this she knew by its light and music as a sacred place. One that no demon could enter. So she stopped to drink of its purifying waters, to fill her water bag for the journey yet to come. 
And poured drops from her hand to the ground in thanks to the powers of life. 
Beyond the falls, the busier scents of people sweat, flesh, cooking, springwater from a village well reached her keen senses. 
It was her duty to protect them, and her fate that none among them could ever be her companion, her friend, her lifemate. These were truths she had never questioned. 
At last she caught the overripe stench that was Bok. 
The sword streaked out of its sheath, a bright battle sound as she pivoted on the heels of her soft leather boots. The dagger, its point a diamond in the sun, flipped from its wrist mount to her hand. 
The dark blue claws of the Bok that had leaped from a branch overhead whizzed past her face, missing their mark. She set into a fighting stance and waited for his next charge. 
It looked oddly normal. Other than those lethal retractable claws, the scent, the needle-sharp fangs that snapped out when the lips were peeled back for battle, the Bok looked no different from the people they devoured at every opportunity. 
This one was small for his species, no more than six feet, which put him on a level with her. He was naked but for the thin skin of his traveling armor. 
Except for claws and teeth, he was unarmed. The vicious gouges across his chest and arms were stained from his pale green blood. And told her he had run afoul of his companions and had been forced out of the pack. 
A distraction for her, she imagined, and didn't intend to spend much time dispatching him. 
"They sacrificed you," she said as she circled. "What was your crime?" 
He only hissed, flicking his long tongue through those sharp teeth. She taunted him with a happy grin, muscles ready. Above all else, she lived for combat. 
When he leaped, she spun her sword up, down, and severed his head with one smooth stroke. Though the ease of the job was a bit of a disappointment, she grunted in satisfaction as the green blood sizzled and smoked. And the body of the Bok melted away to nothing but an ugly smear on the ground. 
"Not much of a challenge," she muttered and sheathed her sword. 
"Still, the day is young, so there is hope for better." 
Her hand was still on the hilt when she heard the scream. 
She ran, her dark hair flying behind her, the band of her rank that encircled her head glinting like vengeance. When she burst into the small clearing with its tidy line of huts, she saw that the single Bok had been but a brief distraction, delaying her just long enough. 
Bodies, of animals and a few men who had tried to defend their homes lay torn and bleeding on the ground. Others were running in panic, some holding their young clutched to them as they scattered. And she knew they would be hunted down and rent to pieces if a single demon escaped her duty. 
Sorrow for the dead and the thrill of upcoming battle warred inside her. 
Three of the Bok were crouched in the dirt, still feeding. Their eyes glowed red, their vicious teeth snapped as she charged. They sprang, mad enough with blood to choose fight over flight. 
She cleaved the arm from one, leaped into a flying kick to knock another out of her way as she plunged her ready dagger into the heart of the third. 
"I am Kadra," she shouted, "Slayer of Demons. Guardian of the red sun." 
"You are too late," the remaining Bok hissed at her. 
"You are outnumbered. Our king will tear out your heart, and we will share in the feast." 
"Today you go hungry." 
He was faster than the others, and fueled by his grisly meal. This, she knew, would be an opponent more worthy of her skill. 
He chose not his claws but the long hooked blade he drew from the sheath at his side. 
Steel rang to steel as the screams and the stench rose around her. She knew there were at least three others and she knew now that the demon king, the one called Sorak, was among them. 
His death was her life's work. 
The Bok fought well with his sickle sword, and swiped out with those blue claws. She felt the pain, an absent annoyance, as they dug furrows over her bare shoulder. Instead of retreating, she pushed into the attack, into the flashing blue and silver to run him through with a fierce thrust. 
"I am Kadra," she murmured as the Bok smoked to the ground. 
"I am your death." 
She wheeled to aim her weapon and her gaze on the demon king and the three warriors that flanked him outside the open doorway of a hut. 
At last, she thought. Praise the powers of life, at last. 
"I am your death, Sorak," she said. "As I was death for Clud, your father. On this day, in this hour, I will rid my world of you." 
"Keep your world." The king of demons, regal in his red tunic and bands of gold, lifted a small, clear globe. "I go to another. There I will conquer and feed. There I will rule." 
His handsome face was sheened with sweat and blood. His dark hair coiled, sleek and twisted, like snakes over his elegant shoulders. Then he bared his teeth, and the illusion of rough beauty vanished into horror. 
"Where I go, the food is plentiful. There, I will be a god. Keep your world, Kadra, Demon Slayer. Or come with me." He beckoned with a voice seductive as a caress. "I will give you the Demon Kiss. I will make you my queen and plant my young inside you. We will rule this new world together." 
"You want to kiss me? To join with me?" 
"You have shed the blood of my sire. I have drunk the blood of a slayer. We are well matched. Together we will have power beyond all imagining." 
His three warriors were armed. And a demon king's strength knew no equal among his kind. Four against one, Kadra thought with a leap of her heart. It would be her greatest battle. 
"Come, then." She all but purred it. "Come embrace me." 
She pursed her own lips, then charged. 
To her shock, the demon swirled his cloak, and with his warriors, vanished in a sudden flash of light. 
"Where& how?" She spun in a circle, sword raised, dagger ready, and her blood still singing a war song. She could smell them, a lingering stench. It was all that was left of them. 
Women were weeping. Children wailing. And she had failed. Three Bok, and their hellborn king, had escaped her. Their eyes had met, and yet Sorak had defeated her without landing a blow. 
"You have not lost them yet." 
Kadra looked toward the hut where a woman stood in the doorway. She was pale and beautiful, her hair a midnight rain, her face like something carved from delicate glass. But her eyes, green as Kadra's own, were ancient, and in them it seemed worlds could live. 
In them, Kadra saw pain. 
"Lady," she said respectfully as she stepped toward her. "You are injured." 
"I will heal. I know my fate, and it is not time for me to pass." 
"Call the healer," Kadra told her. "I must hunt." 
"Yes, you must hunt. Come inside, I will show you how." 
Now Kadra's eyebrows raised. The woman was beautiful, true, and there was an air of magic about her. But she was still only a female. 
"I'm a demon slayer. Hunting is what I know." 
"In this world," the woman agreed. "But not in the one where you must go. The demon king has stolen one of the keys. But there are others." 
She swayed, and Kadra leaped forward, cursing, to catch her. Frail bones, she thought. Such delicate bones would shatter easily. 
"Why did they let you live?" Kadra demanded as she helped the woman inside. 
"It is not in their power to destroy me. To harm, but not to vanquish. 
I did not know they were coming." She shook her head as she lowered herself into a chair by a hearth left cold in the heat of day. "My own complacency blinded me to them. But not to you." She smiled then, and those eyes were brilliant. "Not to you, Kadra, Slayer of Demons. I've waited for you." 
"Why?" 
"You call me lady, and once I was. Once I was a young girl of rank who took a brave warrior into her heart, and gave him her body in love. He was killed in the Battle of the Singing River. 
"It was a great battle against the Bok and the demon tribes who joined them." Impressed, Kadra tilted her head. She had been weaned on battle stories, and this was the greatest of all. "Many were destroyed on all sides. Many brave warriors perished, as did three slayers. The numbers of Bok were halved, but still Clud escaped and since increased those numbers again to plague our world. 
"I watched the battle in my fire, and in the moment my love was struck down, in that moment of grief, I bore a girl child. She who was born to take up a sword as her father had done. She who would be more than those who made her. 
You are she. You are my blood and flesh and bone. I am she who bore you. I am your mother." 
Kadra retreated one step. Where there had been pity was now anger. "I have no mother." 
"You know I speak true. You have vision enough to see." 
She felt the truth like a burn in the heart, but wanted only to deny it. 
"Humans who are not slayers keep their young. They tend and guard and protect them even at the risk of death." 
"So it should be." The woman's voice thickened with regret. 
"I could not keep you with me. My duty was here, holding the keys, and yours was your training. I could not give you a mother's comfort, a mother's care, or a father's pride. Parting with you was another death for me." 
"I need no mother," Kadra said flatly. "Nor father. I am a slayer." 
"Yes. This is your fate, and even I could not turn your life's wheel away from it. As I cannot turn it now from where you must go, from what you must do." 
"I must hunt." 
"And you will. Our world and another are at stake. I could not keep you then," she stated. "I cannot keep you now. Though I have never let you go." 
Kadra shook her head. She was accustomed to physical pain, but not to this hurt inside the heart. "The one who bore me was a warrior, as I am. She died at demon claws when I was but a child." 
"Your foster mother. A good and brave warrior. At her side you learned what you needed to learn. When she was taken from you, you learned more. Now, you will learn the rest. I am Rhee." 
"Rhee." Kadra, fearless in battle, went pale. "Rhee is a legend, a sorceress of unspeakable power. She is closed in a crystal mountain, of her own making, and will free herself when the world has need." 
"Stories and tales, with only some truths." For the first time, 
Rhee's lips curved in a smile lovely in humor. "The green of Tulle is my home. No mountain of glass. You have my magic in you, and it is you who must free herself. There is great need. In this world, and the other." 
"What other?" Kadra snapped. "This is the world. The only world." 
"There are more, countless others. The world from which the demons sprang. Worlds of fire, worlds of ice. And a world not so different from this yet so different. Sorak has gone to this world, through the portal opened by the glass key. He has gone to plunder and kill, to gather power until he is immortal. He wants your blood, wants your death to avenge his father. 
More, even more, he wants the power he believes he will gain by making you his mate." 
"He will not have me, in this world or any. He would have slain his own father in time if I had not destroyed Clud before him." 
"You see the truth. This is vision." 
"This is sense." 
"Whatever you choose to name it," Rhee said with a wave of her hand. "But a king cannot rule without vanquishing his most feared foe. Or changing her. He will not rest until you are destroyed by death or by his kiss. 
He goes through the portal to begin his own hunt. With every death from demon hands in that place, another here will die. This is the balance. This is the price." 
"You speak in riddles. I will fetch the healer before I hunt." 
"If you turn away," Rhee said as Kadra got to her feet, "if you choose the wrong path, all is lost. The world you know, the one you need to know. There is more than one key." Rhee breathed raggedly as her pain grew, took another clear globe from the folds of her skirt. "And more than one mirror." 
She waved a hand toward the empty hearth. Fire, bright as gold, leaped into the cold shadow. 
In it, Kadra saw another jungle. One of silver and black. Mountains 
No, structures of great height surely they could not be huts rivers of black and white that had no current. Over them great armies of people marched. Over them battalions of animals on four round legs raced. 
"What is this place?" 
"A great village. They call it a city. A place where people live and work, where they eat and sleep. Where they live and die. This is called New 
York, and it is there you'll find them. The demons you must stop, and the man who will help you." 
Though fascinated, and just a bit frightened of the images in the flames, 
Kadra smirked. "I need no man in battle." 
"So you have been taught," Rhee said with a smile. "Perhaps you needed to believe you needed no one, no man, to become what you have become. Now you will become more. To do so, you will need this man. He is called Doyle, Harper Doyle." 
"What good is a harper to a warrior?" Kadra demanded. "A fine warrior he'll make with his song and story as sword and shield." 
"He is what you need. You will fail without him. Even with him there is great risk." 
"Why should I believe any of this? Any witch might conjure pictures in a fire. Any woman might spin a tale as easily as thread." 
"The stone in your crown of rank, those in your sword, I gave to you. 
For strength, for clear vision, for valor, and last, for love. They were my tears when I gave you to your fate. In my eyes you see your own. In your heart, you see the truth. Now we must prepare." 
Kadra set her hand on the hilt of her sword. "I am prepared." 
With a heavy sigh, Rhee got to her feet. She walked to a wooden cupboard, took out a metal box. "Take this." She offered a bag of stones. 
"Where you go," she explained, "they have great value." 
Kadra looked into the bag of shining stones. "Then where I go is a very foolish place." 
"In some ways. In others, fantastic." Rhee's expression was soft. 
"You have much to see. I will give you what knowledge I can, but there are limits. Even for me." She held out her hands, gripped Kadra's before Kadra could draw back. 
"The rest," she said, and glinting tears scored down her cheeks, 
"is up to you, and the man called Doyle." 
A great roar, like rushing water over cliffs, filled Kadra's head. In it were words, a hundred thousand words, spoken in countless tongues. A pressure, as a boulder laid on her heart, filled her chest. 
The light was blinding. 
"Valor and strength you have, my child. Use them on this journey wild. 
But open yourself to vision, to love, before it's too late. Gather them close and face your fate. Would I could keep you safe with me," she murmured, and her lips brushed a kiss over Kadra's. "But once again I set you free." 
The world whirled and spun. The air sucked her in, tumbled her, then spat her rudely out. 
 
Chapter 2 
 
Sprawled in bed, plagued by the mother of all hangovers, the man called 
Doyle let out a surprised and pained grunt when a half-naked woman dropped on top of him. 
He saw eyes of intense and burning green. Eyes, he thought wearily, that he'd been dreaming of moments before he'd awakened with a head the size of 
Nebraska. 
There was an instant of recognition, a strange and intimate knowledge, and with it a bone-deep longing. Then there was nothing but shock. 
He had time to blink, a split second to admire what he was certain was a very creative hallucination, before the very sharp and very real point of a dagger pressed against his carotid artery. 
"I am Kadra," the mostly naked and well-armed hallucination stated in a throaty voice as oddly familiar as her eyes. "Slayer of Demons." 
"Okay, that's really interesting." If he'd been drunk and stupid enough the night before to bring a crazy woman back to his apartment, and couldn't even remember heating up the sheets with her, he deserved to get his throat cut. 
But it really wasn't the way he wanted to start the day. 
"Would you mind getting that pig-sticker away from my jugular? You're spoiling a perfectly good hangover." 
Frowning, she sniffed at him, then used her free hand to pull up his top lip and study his teeth. Satisfied, she drew back the dagger, slid it handily into its wrist sheath. 
"You are not a demon. You may live." 
"Appreciate it." Going with instinct rather than sanity, Harper shoved her, snatched at the dagger. The next thing he knew, she'd executed a neat back flip off the bed, landed on her feet beside it. With a very big sword raised over her head. 
"You win." He tossed the dagger aside, held up both hands. 
"You yield?" 
"Damn right. Why don't you put that thing down before somebody especially me gets hurt? Then we can go call the nice people at the asylum. They'll come pick you up and take you for a little ride." 
Disgusted that she'd landed on a coward, she shook her head. But she lowered the sword. "Are you the harper called Doyle?" 
"I'm Harper Doyle." 
"We have to hunt." 
"Sure, no problem." Smiling at her, he eased toward the far side of the bed. Whatever that feeling had been when he'd first looked into her eyes, he was sure now he hadn't been drunk enough, hadn't been stupid enough to bring her home with him. "Just let me get my hunting gear and we'll be off." 
Using his body to block her view, he slid open the drawer in the nightstand and drew out his Glock. "Now, put that goddamn sword down, Xena." 
"I am Kadra," she corrected and studied the object in his hand. 
"This is a gun." The name, the purpose of it were floating in her head, in the maze of knowledge Rhee had given her. The fascination for it, this new weapon, made her yearn. "I would like to have one." 
She looked at him, studying his face for the first time, and found herself shocked that it brought her another kind of yearning. 
"I was sent to you," she told him. 
"Fine, we'll get to that. But right now, put the sword down," he repeated. "I'd really hate to spoil my record and shoot a woman." 
It was more comfortable to study the gun, and her feelings for an interesting weapon. "The missile goes through flesh and bone. It can be very efficient." She nodded, sent her sword home. "Perhaps you are a warrior. We will talk." 
"Oh, yeah," Harper agreed. "We're going to have a very nice chat." 
His head felt as if someone had spent the night attempting a lobotomy with a dull, rusty blade. He could accept that. In a bemused celebration of his thirtieth birthday how could he be thirty when he'd been eighteen two minutes ago he'd consumed a tanker truck of alcohol. He'd been entitled to get plastered with a couple of pals. He was entitled to the hangover. 
Having a woman a gorgeous green-eyed Amazon who filled out her black leather bikini in a way that gratified every young boy's comic book fantasies leap on him out of nowhere was a really nice plus. Just the sort of happy birthday surprise a man who'd reached the point of no return on the path to adulthood could appreciate. 
But having that erotic armful hold a knife to his throat wasn't part of the acceptable package. 
And where the hell had she come from? he wondered as she stood there eyeing his gun. There was nothing but simple curiosity and avid interest on that sharp-boned siren's face. 
Had he been so drunk he'd forgotten to lock his door? It was a possibility a remote one, but a possibility. But she'd called him by name. No way she was from the neighborhood. He was a trained observer, and even if he'd been a myopic accountant rather than a private investigator he would have noticed a six-foot brunette with legs that went to eternity. 
"Jake." The solution trickled through his suffering brain. Though he relaxed a little, he held the gun steady. "Jake put you up to this, didn't he? Some weird-ass birthday surprise. Jake's who sent you." 
"I am sent by Rhee, the sorceress. How is it that a harper has such a weapon? Have you killed many demons?" 
"Look, it's too early in the morning for Dungeons and Dragons. Show's over, sister." 
"I am not your sister," she began as he eased out of bed. Then her eyebrows shot up. He was naked, but that neither surprised nor shocked her. Her instant and elemental attraction did. 
He was taller than she by nearly a full hand, broader in the chest and shoulders, with fine, sleek muscles. 
Reevaluating, she pursed her lips. His hair was the deep brown of oak bark, and though unkempt by sleep, it created a good frame for a strong face. His eyes were the bold blue of the marsh bells, his nose slightly crooked, which told her it had weathered a break. His mouth was firm, as was his jaw. Though his skin was pale, like a scholar's who closeted himself with scrolls, she began to see possibilities. 
"You have a fine build for a harper," she told him. 
"Yeah?" Amused now, though still cautious, he reached for the jeans he'd peeled off the night before. "How much did Jake pay you for the gig?" 
"I know no Jake. I do not take payment for slaying. It is my destiny. 
Do you require payment?" 
"Depends." How the hell was he going to get into his jeans and hold the gun at the same time? 
"The knowledge was given me that these have value in your world." 
She tugged the bag of stones from her belt, tossed them on the bed. "Take what you need, then dress. We must begin the hunt." 
"Look, I appreciate a joke as much as the next guy. But I'm naked and hungover, and it irritates me to wake up with a knife to my throat. I want coffee, a barrel of aspirin, and a shower." 
"Very well. If you will not hunt, show me how to use your weapon." 
"You're a piece of work." He gestured toward the bedroom door with the Glock. "Out. Back to Central Casting, or Amazons R Us, or wherever the hell " 
She moved so fast that all he saw was a blur of limbs and leather and flying hair. She leaped, executed a handspring off the bed, and some part of her boot, elbow, fist connected with his jaw. 
An entire galaxy of stars exploded in his head. By the time they novaed and died, he was flat on his back, with her standing astride him turning the Glock over in her hands. 
"It has good weight," she said conversationally. "How is the missile " She trailed off when with a twitch of her finger she fired. Her eyes widened with something like lust when through the open bathroom door, she saw the corner of his vanity sheared off. 
"It is faster than an arrow," she commented, very pleased. 
Not Jake, he corrected. Jake might have a weird sense of the ridiculous, but his old college friend wouldn't have sent him a lunatic who liked to play with guns. "Who the hell are you?" 
"I am Kadra." She nearly sighed with the repetitionperhaps the harper was loose in the brains. With some sympathy she offered a hand to help him up. "Slayer of Demons. I have come to hunt, to fulfill my destiny. Though it does not please either of us, you are obliged to assist." 
"Give me the gun, Kadra." 
"It is a good weapon." 
"Yeah, it's a good weapon. It belongs to me." 
Her lips moved into a pout, then her face brightened again. "I will fight you for it." 
"I'm at a disadvantage at the moment." He got to his feet, very slowly, kept his voice mild and easy. "You know, naked, hungover." 
"Hung over what?" 
"Maybe we could fight later, after we clear up a few points." 
"Very well. I will give you the weapon, and you will give me your word that you will help me hunt the Bok." 
"Helping people's what I do." Maybe she was in trouble, he thought. Not that he intended to get involved, but he could at least listen before he called the guys in the white coats. "Is that why you're here?" Gently, he nudged her gun hand aside so he wouldn't end up with a bullet in the belly. "You need help?" 
"I am a stranger here, and require a guide." She reached out, squeezed his biceps. "You are strong. But slow." With no little regret, she returned the Glock. "Can you make more of the gun?" 
"Maybe." She'd threatened him with a knife, with a sword. She'd knocked him on his ass and disarmed him. 
Damn if he didn't respect her for it. 
In any case, she'd made his first morning as a thirty-year-old man interesting. He hadn't become a PI because he liked the boring. 
Added to that, there was something  something about her that pulled at him. Her looks were enough to knock a man flat. But it wasn't that or not only that. You couldn't find the answers, he reminded himself, unless you asked the questions. 
"I'm going to put my pants on," he told her. "I want you to step back and keep your hands away from that sword." 
She stepped back. "I have no wish to harm you, or any of your people. 
You have my word as a slayer." 
"Good to know." When she was at a safe distance, he tugged on his jeans, then snugged the gun in the waistband. "Now, I'm going to make coffee, and we'll talk about all this." 
"Coffee. This is a stimulant consumed in liquid form." 
"There you go. In the kitchen," he added, gesturing toward the door. 
She strode out ahead of him. Whatever shape he might have been in, Harper thought, however baffled he might be, a man who didn't admire and appreciate that view was a sorry specimen. 
Still, he glanced at the front door of his apartment as he passed. It was locked, bolted, chained. 
So she'd locked up after she'd come in, he decided. He looked back to see her stop and gape out the living room window. Like a kid might, he mused, at her first eyeful of Disneyland. 
So high, she thought in wonder. She had never been in a hut where the ground was so far below and so many people swarmed beneath. Their costumes were strange to her, strange and fascinating. But fascination turned to awe when she watched a cab zip to the curb, saw the woman leap out. 
"She rose out of the belly of the yellow beast! How is this done?" 
"You pay the fare, they let you out. Where the hell are you from?" 
"I am from A'Dair. In my world, we have no beasts with round legs. I don't wait." She closed her eyes, searched through the knowledge 
Rhee had given her. "Cars!" Those brilliant eyes opened again, smiled into his. "They are machines called cars and are for transportation. That is wonderful." 
"Try to find one in the rain. Honey" 
"Yes, I would like honey, and bread. I am hungry." 
"Right." He shook his head. "Coffee. Coffee first, then all questions can be faced. Come with me. I want you where I can see you." 
She followed him into his tiny galley kitchen. While he measured coffee, she ran her fingers over the surface of the counter, over the refrigerator and stove. "So much magic," she said softly. "You must have great wealth." 
"Yeah, rolling in it." He made a reasonable living, Harper thought. But he was what you could call between active cases at the moment. 
Maybe he could hold off on the guys in the white coats, see if she needed an investigator, and had enough to pay his retainer. "Jake didn't send you, did he?" 
"I do not know this Jake." She peered at the side of the toaster, delighted with her own odd reflection. "I know no one in this world, save you." 
"How did you get here, to my place?" 
"Through the portal. It is&" She straightened, trying to decipher the knowledge, then to express it. "There are many dimensions. 
Yours and mine are two. The Bok stole a key and have entered yours. I have another." She drew the clear globe out of her pouch. "So I have followed. To hunt, to kill so that our worlds will be safe. You are to help me in this quest." 
Poor kid, he thought. She was definitely a few fries short of a Happy Meal. 
"You can't just kill people in this world. They lock you up for that." 
"You have no slayers to fight against evil here?" 
He dragged a hand through his hair, then rooted out some Extra-Strength 
Excedrin. Isn't that what his father had done? And what he himself had wanted to do as long as he could remember? To go after the bad guys, on his own terms? 
"Yeah, I guess we do." 
The woman was definitely in some sort of jam, even if it came out of her own oddball imagination. He would just keep her calm, ask some questions, see if he could dig out the problem. When he'd done what he could, he would make a few calls and have her taken someplace where she could get some help. 
It would be the first good deed of his new decade. 
"So, you come from another dimension, and you're here to hunt down some demons." 
"The king of demons and three of his warriors have entered your world. 
They will need to feed. First, they will hunt for animals, the easy kill, to gather strength. Where are your farms?" 
"We're a little short on farms on Second Avenue. So what do you do back in where was it?" 
"A'Dair." 
He could run a search on the name on his computer, see if he could pinpoint where she'd come from. She didn't have a discernible accent, but the cadence, the rhythm of her speech sure as hell didn't say New York. 
"What do you do back in A'Dair besides slay demons?" 
"This is my purpose. I was born a slayer, trained, educated. It is what 
I do." 
"Friends, family?" 
"I have no family. She who raised me was killed by a tribe of 
Bok." 
Mother killed, he thought. Trauma, role playing. "I'm sorry." 
"She was a fine warrior. Clud, sire of Sorak, took her life, and I have taken his. So there is balance. I have learned that she who bore me was another. Rhee, the sorceress. Her blood is in me. I think I am here, able to be here, because of that blood." She sniffed the air. "This is coffee?" 
"That's right." 
"It has a good scent." 
He poured two mugs, offered one. She sniffed again, sipped, then frowned. 
"Bitter, but good." 
To his surprise, she downed the entire mug in one swallow, then swiped a hand over her mouth. "I like this coffee. Dress now, Harper Doyle." 
"How do you know my name?" 
"It was told to me. We will hunt the Bok together." 
"Sure. We'll get to that in a little while." 
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't believe. You think I'm loose in the brain. You waste my time with too many questions when we should act." 
"Part of what I do in my little world is ask questions. Nobody's calling you a liar here. Why shouldn't I believe you're a demon slayer from an alternate universe? I'm always getting clients from other dimensions." 
She paced up and down the narrow room to work out the logic. He was mocking her, and this was not proper. Lesser warriors were not permitted to show a slayer disrespect. 
Yet, she admired him for it even as she found his demeanor frustrating. 
This was his world, Kadra reminded herself, one of wonders far beyond her ken. So her world would be beyond his. If she were in his place, she would not believe without proof. 
"You must be shown. I cannot blame you for doubt. You would be weak and foolish if you didn't question, and the weak and foolish would be of no use to me." 
"Darling, keep up that sweet talk and you'll turn my head." 
She didn't have to understand the words to recognize the sarcasm dripping from them. A little impatient, a little intrigued, she held one hand up, and the other, with the globe in its palm, out. 
"My blood is of the sorceress and the warrior. My blood is the blood of the slayer. I hold the power of the key." 
She drew her mind down to the globe, drew the power of the globe into her mind. 
Harper's kitchen wall dissolved as though it were a painting left out in the rain. Through it, he saw not the apartment next door but a thick, green jungle, a curving white ribbon, and a sky the color of pale blood under a fierce red sun. 
"Holy shit," he managed before he was sucked into it. 
 
Chapter 3 
 
The heat was enormous, a drenching, dripping wall of steaming water. It was a shock, even after the jolt of pain, the blast of blinding light. Even so, his bones felt frozen under his skin as he stared out at the tangle of towering green. 
New York was gone, it seemed. And so was he. 
Not a hangover, he thought, but some sort of psychotic event brought on, no doubt, by too much liquor and too many loose women. 
As he watched, dumbfounded, a snake with a body as thick as his thigh slithered off into the high, damp grass. 
"We can stay only a short time," Kadra told him, and her voice was dim, tinny, light-years away. "This is the west jungle of A'Dair, near the coast of the Great Sea. This is my world, which exists beyond yours. And the knowledge says, in balance with it." 
"I've been drugged." 
"This is not so." Annoyed now, she clamped her hands over his arms. "You can see, you can hear and feel. My world is as real as yours, and as much in peril." 
"Alternate universe." The words felt foolish on his tongue. 
"That's pure science fiction." 
"Is your world so perfect, so important, that you believe it stands alone in the vastness of time and space? Harper Doyle, can you have lived and still believe you are alone? My heart." She pressed his hand to her breast. "It beats as yours. I am, as you are." 
How could he dismiss what he saw with his own eyes. What he felt, touched and somehow knew. Just, he thought, as he had somehow known her the instant their eyes had met. "Why?" 
She nearly smiled. "Why not?" 
"I recognized you," he managed. "I pushed that aside, clicked back into what made sense so I could deny it. But I recognized you, somehow, the minute I saw you." 
"Yes." She kept her hand on his a moment longer. It felt right there, like a link. "It was the same for me. This is not something I understand, but only feel. I do not know the meaning." 
And in some secret chamber of her warrior's heart, she feared the meaning. 
"I'm standing here sweating in a jungle in some Twilight Zone, and it doesn't feel half as strange as it should. It doesn't feel half as strange as what's going on inside me, about you." 
"You begin to believe." 
"I'm beginning to something. I'm going to need a little time to process all the " 
She whirled, the sword streaking into her hand like a lightning bolt. A creature, no more than three feet high, with snapping teeth in both its mouths, shot out of the brush and leaped for Harper's throat. 
Despite the shock of it, his instincts were quick. His hand whipped down for his gun. It hadn't cleared the waistband of his jeans before Kadra's sword sliced through both heads with one massive stroke. There was a fountaining gush of vile green liquid that stank like sulfur. 
Heads and body thunked, a grisly trio, onto the ground, then began to smoke. 
"Loki demon," Kadra said as the three pieces melted away. 
"Small pests that usually travel in packs of three." She lifted her head, sniffed. "To your left. You will need your weapon," she added, and pivoted to her right as another of the creatures jumped through a curtain of vine. 
Instinct had his finger on the trigger, and if that finger trembled a bit, he wasn't ashamed. He heard the slice of her sword through air just as the last please, 
God of the miniature monsters charged him. 
He shot it between the eyes all four of them. 
"Christ. Jesus. Christ." 
"This is good aim." Giving Harper a congratulatory slap on the back, she nodded over the smoking heads. "This is a fine weapon," she added, sending his Glock an avaricious glance. "When we go back to your world, you will provide me with one. It lacks the beauty of the sword, but it makes an enjoyable noise." 
"Their blood's green," Harper said in a careful voice. "They have two heads and green blood. And now, how about that, they're just melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West." 
"All demons bleed green, though only the Loki and the mutant strain of the Ploon are two-headed. On death, the blood smokes and the body  melts is not inaccurate," she decided. "You have witches in the west of your world who die like demons?" 
When he only stared at her, she shrugged. "We have witches as well, and most of them the powers of life have instilled with good. My home is east," she continued. "Beyond the Stone Mountains, in the Shadowed 
Valley. It is beautiful, and the fields are rich. There is no time to show you." 
"This is real." He took one long, deep breath and swallowed it all at once. 
"Our time here is short. There is a clearing, and a village in it. Rhee lives there. We will go." 
Since she set off in a punishing jog, he had no choice but to follow. 
"Slow it down, Wonder Woman. I'm barefoot here." 
She tossed a scowl over her shoulder, but modified her pace. "You drank excessive spirits last night. I can smell them on you. Now you are sluggish." 
"Alert enough to kill a two-headed demon." 
She let out a snort. "A child with a training bow could do the same. 
Lokis are stupid." 
As they ran down the narrow, beaten path, a flock of birds flushed out of the trees and into that odd red sky. He staggered to a halt. Each was its own rainbow a bleeding, blending meld of pinks and blues and golds. And the song they sent up was like the trill of flutes. 
"Dregos," she told him. "Their gift is their song, as they are poor eating. Stringy." She slowed to a trot as they came to the clearing. 
He saw houses, small and tidy, most with colorful gardens in the front. 
People dressed in long, thin robes harvested out of them what looked to be massive blue carrots, tomatoes the size of melons, and long, yellow beans spotted with green flecks. 
There were men, women, children, and each stopped work or play and bowed as 
Kadra came into view. 
"Greetings, Demon Slayer," some called out. 
She acknowledged this with what Harper supposed was a kind of salute by laying her fist on her heart as she walked. 
Those long legs ate up the ground toward a small house with a lush garden and an open front door. She had to duck her head to enter. 
Inside, a young girl stood by what he assumed was a cookstove. She stirred an iron pot and looked up at them with quiet blue eyes. 
"Hail to Kadra, Slayer of Demons." 
"We come to speak with Rhee." 
"She sleeps," the girl said and continued to stir. "She suffered a demon bite during the attack." 
"She did not say." Kadra moved quickly, shoving open a door. 
Within, Rhee lay pale and still on a bed. The emotions that churned in her were mixed and confusing, and through them came one clear thought. 
Mother. Will I lose yet another mother before my own end? "Is it the sleep of change?" 
"No. She was not kissed, only bitten beneath the shoulder as she tried to guard the keys. Nor was it a mortal bite, though she had pain and there was sickness. More than necessary, as she did not see to the wound quickly." 
"She& spent too much time with me." 
"Not too much, only what was needed." 
"Your mother?" Harper looked through the doorway at the woman on the bed, and laid a hand on Kadra's shoulder. "Can we get her to a doctor?" 
"I am Mav the healer," the young girl told him. "I tend to her. I have drained the poison, given her the cure. She must sleep until her body regains strength. She said you would come, Kadra, with the one from the other world. You are to eat." 
Mav ladled out some of the thick broth from the pot. "And to wash in the falls. In this way, you will take some of this place with you into the next. You must be gone within the hour." 
"Do you want to sit with her awhile," Harper began. "Take some time with her?" 
His hand caressed her shoulder, a gesture of comfort she had known rarely in her life. "There is no time." Kadra turned away from the doorway. 
"She's your mother." 
"She bore me. She set me on this path. Now I can only follow it." 
She sat down at the table where Mav had put the bowls and a round loaf of golden bread. There was a squat pitcher of honey and another of water as white and sparkling as snow. 
Because he was tired, hungry, and confused, Harper sat. This is real, he thought again as he sampled the first taste of the rich, spiced broth. It wasn't a dream, a hallucination. He hadn't just lost his mind. 
Kadra tore off a hunk of bread, poured honey over it, and ate with a concentrated focus that told Harper she wasn't concerned with taste, only with fuel. 
"Do you have family?" she asked Mav between bites. 
"I have two brothers, younger. My mother who weaves. 
My father was a healer as well. Sorak, king of demons, killed him this morning." 
"I was not quick enough." Grief thickened Kadra's voice. "And your mother is a widow." 
"He would have killed us all, but you came. He fears you." 
"He has cause. I regret that death touched you." 
"He came for Rhee, for the key. Her powers are not as strong as they were, and he made demons from wizards so he might track her. She explained to me while I tended her so I might tell you." 
Mav folded her hands and spoke as if reciting a story learned by heart. 
"The other, the world beyond with yellow sun and blue sky, is full of so much life, and most who live there have closed themselves off from the magic. 
They will not understand, they will not believe, and so the Bok will slaughter them. Flesh, passion. Innocence and evil. Sorak craves this, and the power he will gain from it. The power to destroy you." 
"He will die there." Kadra drank the tankard of spring-water quickly. "This is my vow, on your father's blood." She pulled out her dagger, sliced a shallow gash across her palm, and let her blood drip onto the table. "And on mine." 
"It will comfort my mother to know it. But there should be no more bloodshed here." Mav reached in her pocket, took out a white cloth, and deftly wrapped it around Kadra's hand. "You must wash in the falls, for cleansing, then go." 
When Kadra got to her feet, Harper sighed and got to his. "Thanks for the food." 
Mav blushed, cast down her gaze. "It is little to give the Slayer and the savior. Blessings on you both." 
Harper took one last glance at her. Kid couldn't be more than ten, he thought, then ducked out the doorway. 
He had to double his pace to catch up with Kadra. "Look, just slow down a minute. I'm trying to keep up here, in more ways than one. I don't usually spend my mornings visiting alternate dimensions and killing loco demons." 
"Loki." 
"Whatever. So far you've jumped me, held a knife to my throat, threatened me with a sword, punched me in the face, and sucked me through some  wormhole in my kitchen. And all this on one lousy cup of coffee. 
This isn't your average first date." 
"You do not have the knowledge, so you require explanations." She moved through the jungle at a brisk pace, eyes tracking, ears pricked. "I understand this." 
"Beautiful. Then give them to me." 
"We will cleanse in the falls, return to your world, hunt down the Bok and kill them." 
He considered himself a reasonable guy, a man with an open mind, an active sense of adventure and curiosity. But enough was enough. He grabbed her arm, yanked her around to face him. "That's what you call an explanation? 
Listen, sister, if that's the best you can do, this is where we part ways. Send me back where I come from and we'll just put this all down to too much beer and fried food." 
"I am not your sister." 
He stared at her, at the faint irritation that clouded her glorious face. 
Helpless, he began to laugh. It rolled out of him, pumping up from the belly so that he had to bend over, brace his hands on his thighs as she cocked her head and studied him with a mixture of amusement, puzzlement, and impatience. 
"I'm losing it," he managed. "Losing what's left of my mind." Even as he sucked in a breath, a spider the size of a Chihuahua pranced between his feet on stiltlike legs and gibbered at him. Harper yelped, whipping out his gun as he stumbled back. 
But Kadra merely booted the enormous insect off the path. "That species is not poisonous," she informed him. 
"Good, great, fine! It just swallows a man whole." 
Kadra shook her head, then loped down the path. Keeping his gun handy, 
Harper followed. 
Red sun, he mused as he looked up at the sky. Like, well, Krypton. If he followed comic book logic, didn't that mean that he, from a planet with a yellow sun, had superpowers here. 
Concentrating, he took a little jump, then another. On the third, Kadra looked back at him, her face a study in baffled frustration. "This is not the time for dancing." 
"I wasn't dancing I was just&" Seeing if I could fly, he thought, amazed at himself. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He heard the roar like a highballing train. It grew, swelled, pounded on his eardrums as he jogged after her. She swung around a curve on the path, and he looked up. In front of them, white water plunged from a height of two hundred feet or more. 
It screamed over the cliff, dived in a thundering wall, then pounded into the surface of a white river. 
Flowers, some unrecognizable, some as simple as daisies, teemed along its banks. There, with the wild grass and wildflowers, with the sunlight spilling in rosy streaks through the canopy of trees, a unicorn lazily grazed. 
"My God." The hand still holding the gun fell to his side. The mythical beast raised its regal white head and stared at Harper out of eyes so blue and clear they might have been glass. Then it went back to cropping the grass. 
The beauty of it, the sheer wonder, wiped his temper away. Now I've seen it all, he thought. Nothing will ever surprise me again. 
He realized the fallacy of that a second later when he glanced back at 
Kadra. 
She'd stripped. The black leather lay piled on the bank, her sword, her dagger crossed over it. She'd pulled off her boots, her wrist sheaths, and was even now reaching up to lift the circlet from her hair. 
She was, Harper thought, more mythical, more wondrous that the white-horned creature. Her body was curved and sleek, the color of the fresh honey she had poured over the breakfast bread. Her dark hair, arrow straight, rained over her shoulders, down her back, lay tauntingly over one magnificent breast. 
His body tightened, his mouth went dry. For one blissful moment, he lost the power of speech. 
"This is a sacred place," she began as she laid her circlet on her crossed blades. "No demon can cross its borders. Take off your clothing, put down your weapon. You may take no cloth or metal into the falls." 
So saying, she dived. 
It was a picture he knew would remain etched in his mind forever. 
"Things are looking up," he decided, and peeling off his jeans, he jumped in after her. 
The water was cool, sluicing the sweat from his body in one glorious swipe. 
When he surfaced, he felt the last nasty dregs of the morning's hangover sink to the bottom of the river. In fact, he realized as he struck out after Kadra and the falls, he didn't just feel clearheaded, didn't just feel good. He felt charged, energized. 
She waited for him at the foot of the falls, treading the churning water lazily. Her eyes were impossibly green, impossibly brilliant. 
"What's in this water?" he shouted. 
"Cleansing properties. It washes away negative energies." 
"I'll say." 
She laughed, did a quick surface dive that gave him a brief and wonderful flash of her butt. Then she rose again, a vision of black and gold, under the pounding spill of the water. She climbed nimbly onto a plateau of rock, stretched her arms wide to the sides, and let the water beat over her. 
He lost his breath, and despite the cool relief of the water, his blood ran hot. He hoisted himself up in front of her, laid his hands on her hips. Her eyes opened again, and her eyebrow quirked. 
"You're the most magnificent thing I've ever seen. In any dimension." 
"I have a good build," she said easily. "It's made for fighting." She bent her right arm, flexed her biceps. 
"I bet it holds its own in other sports." 
Though she couldn't ignore the trip of her own heart, or the quick click of response in her belly, she only smiled. "I enjoy sporting, when there's time for such things. You're very handsome, Harper Doyle, and I have a yearning for you that is stronger than any I have known before." 
"Do you think you could pick one of my two names and stick with it?" Since she didn't seem to object, he slid his hands around her thighs, then over her silky butt. 
"Harper is your title." 
"No, it's my name. My first name." He really had to get a taste of that lush, frowning mouth. But as he dipped his head, she laid a restraining hand on his chest. 
"I do not understand. Are you the harper called Doyle?" 
"I'm Harper Doyle, and before this turns into a comedy routine, Doyle is my family name. Harper is the name my parents gave me when I was born. 
That's how it works in my world. I'm not a harper," he added as the light began to dawn. "I'm not, what, like a minstrel? Jesus. I'm a 
PI." 
"A pee-eye? What is this?" 
"Investigator. Private investigator. I& solve puzzles," he decided. 
"Ah! You are a seeker. This is better. A seeker is more useful on a hunt than a harper." 
"Now that we've worked that out, why don't we go back to me being handsome." He drew her closer so that her breastscool, wet, firm brushed his chest. His mouth was an inch from hers when he went flying. 
He landed clumsily, swallowing water on his own curse. She was still on the rocks when he came up and swiped the hair out of his eyes. She was grinning. 
"You made a good splash. It is time to go." 
She dived, struck out for the bank. Oh, he was handsome, she thought as she hoisted herself out. Very handsome, and with a clever look in his eyes that made her want to join her body to his. 
Something about him was making pricks on her heart, as if trying to find the weakness, the point of entry. 
He would be a strong lover, she knew. And it had been a long time since she had desired one. If time and fate allowed, they would have each other. But first, there was the hunt. 
By the time he pulled himself onto the bank put on his jeans, she was strapping on her sword. He didn't bother to think, just went with the moment. And tackled her. 
She let out a surprised little grunt and studied his face with some approval. "I misjudged. You do have speed." 
"Yeah, right, it'll help on the hunt. But right now&" He lowered his head, all but tasting that beautiful mouth. And once more he went flying. But this time it was through the portal. The blast of light, and sharp, shocking pain. 
He landed hard, with Kadra once more on top, on his kitchen floor. 
"Damn it!" He banged his head sharply on the base cabinet, felt the unmistakable shape of his gun dig into his bare back. "Give me some warning next time. A damn signal or something." 
"You have your mind too much on sporting." She gave his shoulder a pat, then levered off him. Sniffed the air. "We will have more coffee, and plan the hunt." 
"Okay, Sheena, let's reevaluate," he said as he got up. 
"I am Kadra" 
"Shut up." He slapped the gun down on the kitchen counter while her mouth dropped open. 
"You would speak so to a slayer?" 
"Yeah, I'd speak so to anybody who busts uninvited into my house and keeps giving me orders. You want my help, you want my cooperation? Then you can just stop telling me what to do and start asking." 
She was silent for a moment. She had a ready temper, something even her intense training hadn't completely tamed. To lose it now, she told herself, would be gratifying, but a sinful waste of time. Instead, she measured Harper, then nodded with sudden understanding. "Ah. You're talking with your man-thing. This is a common ailment in my world as well." 
"This isn't my dick talking." Or at least, he'd be damned if he'd admit it. "I want answers. The way I see it, you're looking to hire me. 
That's fine. You want me to help you track down these  things. That's what I do. I find things, solve problems. That's my job. I work my way. Let's get that part straight." 
"You are a seeker, and you require payment. Very well." Though she thought less of him for it, she wouldn't begrudge him his fee. "Come with me." She started out, turned when she saw him standing firm. "If you will," she added. 
"Better," he muttered, and followed her into the bedroom, where she scooped up the leather pouch she'd tossed on the bed earlier. 
"Is this enough?" 
He caught the bag when she flipped it to him. Curious, he opened it. And poured a storm of gems onto the bed. "Holy Mother of God!" 
"I am told these have value here. Is this so?" Intrigued, she stepped over to poke a finger into the pool of diamonds, rubies, emeralds. 
"They are common stones in my world. Pretty," she admitted. 
"Attractive for adornments. Will they satisfy your needs?" 
"Satisfy my needs," he grumbled. "Yeah, they're pretty satisfactory." 
He could retire. Move to Tahiti and live like a king. Hell, he could buy 
Tahiti and live like a god. For one outrageous moment, he saw himself living in a white palace by the crystal blue water, surrounded by gorgeous, scantily clad women eager to do his bidding. Drinking champagne by the gallons. Frolicking on white sand beaches with those same women not clad at all now. 
Master of all he surveyed. 
Then his conscience kicked in, a small annoyance he'd never been able to shake. On the heels of conscience nipped the lowering admission that the fantasy he'd just outlined would bore him brainless in a week. 
He picked a single diamond, comforting himself that it was worth more than he would earn in a decade. 
"This'll cover it." 
"That is all you require?" 
"Put the rest away, before I change my mind." For lack of a better option, he stuffed the stone into his pocket. "Now, we're going to sit down. You're going to explain this whole demon deal to me, and I'll figure out our first move." 
"They are out in your world. We have to hunt." 
"My world," Harper agreed. "My turf. I don't go after anything until I know the score." He walked to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a T-shirt. "Normally I don't meet clients at home," he said as he pulled the shirt on. "But we'll make an exception. Living room." He headed out, took a legal pad from a desk drawer, then plopped down on the sofa. 
However fantastic the client, however strange the case, he was going to approach it as he would any other. He made a few notes, then jerked his chin at a chair when she continued to stand. "Sit down. Bok demon, right? Is that 
B-O-K? Never mind. How many?" 
"They were four. Sorak, demon king, and three warriors." 
"Description?" 
She sprawled in a chair, all legs and attitude. He looked more scholar than warrior now, working with his odd scroll and quill. Though she had never found scholar appealing before, this aspect of him was attractive to her as well. 
He has brains as well as muscle, she thought. Intellect as well as brawn. 
"Description," Harper repeated. "What do they look like?" 
"They are deceptively human in appearance, and so often walk among people without detection. They are handsome, as you are. Though you have eyes blue as the marsh bell, and your hair is cropped short. Those who are foolish enough to be influenced by such things as beauty are easy victims." 
"We've established that you're nobody's victim, baby. Be more specific." 
She huffed. "They have good height, like you, but their build is less. 
It is more  slender. Hair and eyes are dark, black as a dead moon except in feeding or in attack, where they glow red." 
"Glowing red eyes," he noted. "I'd say that's a fairly distinguishing mark." 
"Sorak's hair curls." She demonstrated by waving a finger. 
"And is well groomed. He is vain." 
"They outfitted like you?" 
It took her a moment, then she glanced down at her hunting clothes. 
"No. They wear a kind of armor, black again, close to the body, and over this Sorak wears the tunic and cloak of his rank." 
"Even in New York, body armor and tunics should stand out. Maybe there's something on the news." He picked up the remote and flipped on the television. 
Kadra leaped up as if he'd set her chair on fire. Even before her feet were planted, her sword was out, raised high above her head in preparation for a downward thrust. 
"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" He jumped and, as he might have done to save a beloved child, threw himself between the blade and his TV. "I don't give a rat's ass about what you did to the bathroom sink, but put one scratch on my TV and you're going down." 
Her heart pounded in her chest, and her muscles quivered. "What is this sorcery?" 
"It's not magic, it's ESPN." He hissed out a breath, then moved in to clamp his hands over hers on the hilt of the sword. She tipped her head back so their eyes, their mouths, lined up. 
"It's television, which is arguably the national religion of my country. 
An entertainment device," he said more calmly. "A kind of communication. We have programs ah, like plays, I guess, that tell us what's happening in the world, even when it's happening far away." 
She drew a breath, slowly lowered the sword while she stared at the picture box where the machines called cars ran swiftly around a circle. "How is this done?" 
"Something about airwaves, transmissions, cameras, stuff. Hell, I don't know. You turn the thing on, pick a channel. This is a race. You get that?" 
"Yes, a contest of speed. I have won many races." 
"With those legs, baby, I'll just bet you have. Okay, I'm turning on the news now so we can see if there are any reports on your demons. So relax." 
"How can you use a thing when you have no knowledge of its workings?" 
"Same way I can use a computer. And don't ask. I thought you said you knew about this world." 
"I was given knowledge, but I cannot learn it all at once." It embarrassed her not to know, so she went back to sprawling in the chair, giving the television quick, suspicious glances. 
"All right, we'll take it in stages. Just don't attack any more of my household appliances." He sat again, flipped the channel to the all-news station, then picked up his pad. 
"Back to your demons. Distinguishing marks? You know, like two heads, for instance?" 
Feeling foolish, she sulked. He had nearly slain a spider with the weapon known as gun, but she had not made him feel loose in the brain. 
"They are Bok, not Loki." 
"What makes them stand out? How do you recognize them?" Even as she threw up her hands, he tapped his pencil. "And don't say they are Bok. 
Draw me a picture." 
Taking him literally, she reared up, snatched the pencil and pad. In fast, surprisingly deft strokes, she sketched a figure of a man with long, curled hair, a strong, rawboned face and large, dark eyes. 
"That's good. But it's going to be tough to pick him out of the millions of other tall, slim, dark-haired guys in New York. Doesn't shout out demon to me. How do you recognize them as a species, let's say." 
"A slayer is born for this. But others might do so by their stench. 
They have a scent." She struggled for a moment in her attempt to describe it. "Between the ripe and the rot. You would not mistake it." 
"Okay, they stink. Now we're getting somewhere. Anything else?" 
"Teeth. Two rows, long, thin, sharp. Claws, which they show or conceal at will. Thick, blue, curved like talons. And when they are wounded, their blood is green. Now we hunt." 
"Just settle down," he said mildly. He listened to the news reports with half an ear. The usual mayhem and gossip, but no frantic bulletins about man-eating demons on the loose in New York. 
"Why are they here?" he asked her. "Why leave one world for another?" 
"Sorak is greedy, and his hunger is great. For flesh, but also for power. There are more of you in this place than on our world. And you are unaware. They can move among you without fear of the slayer. They will feed, gluttonously. First on animals, for quick strength, then on humans. Those that he and his warriors do not consume, he will change so he can build a vast army. 
They will overtake the world you know and make it theirs." 
"Whoa, back up. Change? What do you mean by change?" 
"He will turn selected humans into demons, into slaves and warriors and concubines." 
"You're telling me he can make people into things? Like, what, vampires?" 
"I do not know this word. Explain." 
"Never mind." Harper pushed himself to his feet to pace. For reasons he couldn't explain, the idea of having human beings turned into monsters was more disturbing than having them served up as demon meals. 
"How do they do it? How are people changed?" 
"The Demon Kiss. Mouth against mouth. Tongue, teeth, lips. A bite, to draw blood, to mix it. Then the demon draws in the human essence, breathes his own into his prey. They are changed, and are compelled to hunt, to feed. They remember nothing of their humanity. This is worse than death." 
"Yeah." The thought sickened him. "Yeah, it's worse. No way this son of a bitch is going to turn my town into his personal breeding ground." When he faced her, his face was set, and the warrior gleam in his eye gave Kadra her first real hope. "Animals, you said. Cats, dogs, what?" 
"These are pets." She closed her eyes and searched the knowledge. 
"Such small prey would not please them. This would do only if the hunger was impossible. They prefer the flesh of the unicorn above all." 
"Unicorns don't spend a lot of time grazing in New York. Horses?" 
"Yes, horses, cows, goats. But there are no farms, you said. In the wild, they feed often on the lion or the ape." 
"Lions, tigers, and bears? The zoo. We'll start there. As soon as we figure out how to outfit you so you blend in a little better with the general population." 
Frowning, she looked down at herself. "I don't resemble the other females in your world?" 
He scanned the breasts barely constrained by black leather, the long, lean torso, the swatch of leather over curvy hips. And those endless legs encased in boots. Not to mention a two-and-a-half-foot sword. 
"I couldn't begin to tell you. Let's see what I can put together." 
When she came out of his bedroom fifteen minutes later, he decided she did more to sell a pair of Levi's than a million-dollar ad campaign. And the old denim shirt had never looked better. 
"Baby, you are a picture." 
She studied herself in his mirror, and agreed. "It is tolerable hunting gear." Testing it, she executed several quick deep-knee bends that had 
Harper's blood pressure rising. "It will do." So saying, she picked up her sword. 
"You can't walk around outside with that thing." 
She glanced up, smirked. "So, do I slay demons with bad thoughts?" 
"Aha, sarcasm. I like it. I've got something. Hold on." He went to the closet, shoved through it and came out with a long black coat. "A little warm for May, but we can't be picky." 
"Why do people in your world cover up so much flesh?" 
"I ask myself that question every day." He took another long look at her. Maybe, just maybe, if he'd been able to design his own ideal woman, he'd have come close to the reality of her. "You going to wear the little crown?" 
Her hand went to the gold on top of her head. "This is the circle of my rank." 
"You want to blend in?" He lifted the circlet off, set it aside. 
"Put on the coat and let's see." 
Scowling, she dragged the coat on, turned to him. "You're still going to turn heads and star in a lot of male fantasies tonight, but you'll do." 
Satisfied, he pulled on a battered bomber jacket, hitched it over his gun. 
"I want one." 
He noted her look at his Glock. "Yeah, I know. But I don't have one to spare." He slid on sunglasses, grabbed his keys. "Let's go." 
"Why do you cover your eyes?" 
"Styling, baby. I've got a pair for you in my car." He stopped at the elevator, pushed the Down button. "Try not to talk to anybody. If we have to have a conversation, let me handle it." 
She started to object, but the wall opened. "A portal? Where does it lead?" 
"It's an elevator. It goes up, it goes down. A kind of transportation." 
"A box," she nodded as she stepped in with him. "That moves." Her grin spread when she felt the shift. "This is clever. 
Your world is very interesting." 
The doors opened on three, and a woman and small boy got on. 
"The elevator," Kadra said politely. "Goes up and goes down." The woman slid an arm around the boy and drew him close to her side. 
"Didn't I tell you to keep quiet?" Harper hissed when they reached the lobby and the woman hustled her son away. 
"I spoke with good manners, and made no threat to her or her young." 
"Just stick close," he ordered, and took her hand firmly in his. 
When they stepped outside, he thought it was a good thing he had a grip on her. She froze in place, her head swiveling right and left. "What a world this is," she breathed. "Blue sky, great huts, so many people. So many scents. There." She pointed to a sidewalk vendor. "This is food." 
"Later." He pulled her along the sidewalk. "My car's in a garage a couple blocks over." 
"The ground is made of stone." 
He had to jerk her up when she bent over to tap a fist on the sidewalk. 
"Concrete. Men make it and pour it over the ground." 
"Why? Is the ground poisonous?" 
"No. It's just easier." 
"How can it be easier? The ground was already there." She stopped again, mouth agape as an ambulance whizzed by, sirens screaming, lights flashing. "Is it a war?" 
"No, it's transportation. For the sick or the wounded." 
She digested this and other wonders on the two-block hike. The shops with their goods locked behind glass, the crowds of people in a hurry, the clatter and din of the machines that ran on the wide stone road. 
"This is a noisy world," she commented. "I like it. What are these trees?" she asked, knocking a fist on a telephone pole. 
"I'll explain later. Just say nothing." 
Harper strolled into the garage with a death grip on Kadra's hand. He flipped a salute to the attendant, who was passing the time with a magazine. 
But one look at Kadra had the attendant gaping. 
"Oooh, baby! That is fine." 
"Why am I called baby here?" she demanded as he whipped into the stairway. "I am not new young." 
"It's an expression. Endearment or insult, depending on your point of view." On the second level, he crossed the lines of cars and stopped at his beloved '68 Mustang. He unlocked it, opened the passenger door. "Climb in." 
She sniffed first, caught the scent of leather and approved. She was already fiddling with dials and jiggling the gearshift when he got behind the wheel. 
"Don't touch." He slapped her hand away. She kicked her elbow under his jaw. "Cut it out." Shoving her arm down, he reached for her seat belt. "You need to strap in. It's the law of the land." 
When he bent to buckle her up, he saw that she was still miffed. "You sure push my buttons," he muttered. 
"This is an expression?" 
"Yeah. It means" 
"I do not need an explanation. You are aroused by me." 
"And then some." He trailed his fingers over her cheek. Then he opened the glove compartment and tossed a pair of wraparound shades in her lap. 
"I guess we have to go kick some demon butt before we deal with our buttons." 
 
Chapter 4 
 
 
She had a great deal to think about. 
She was primarily a physical creature. When she was hungry, she ate. When she was tired, she slept. And all of her life, her purpose, above all others, had been to hunt. 
It was a sacred trust, a sacred gift. She could laugh and weep, desire and dislike, dream and act. But over it all, through every cell in her body was the purpose. 
She had been born, raised and trained for it. 
But no slayer lived long if she didn't use her brain as well as her might. 
Even with the wonder of her first car ride, the thrill of seeing the structures and the people, hearing the blasts of horns, of music, of voices, her mind still chipped away at the puzzle. 
She had been sent to this place, and to this man. So their destinies were joined. She would protect him and his people with her life. 
He was a seeker, and deserved respect. But as a slayer she ranked highest, save for the sorcerer. And if Rhee had spoken true, she had that in her blood as well. 
The man had no right to usurp her authority. He would have to be put in his place for it. 
But he was correct. This was his world, and his knowledge of it exceeded hers. If he was to be her guide, then she must follow. However much it rankled. 
She desired him, which both pleased and irritated her. Pleased because he was strong and handsome, amusing and intelligent and he desired her in turn. Irritated because she was unused to experiencing a desire this keen without the time and means to act upon it. 
And she was not prepared for what was tangled in and woven through that desire. Lust was appetite, which could be easily sated. But this longing fluttering inside her, like a wild bird fighting to be free, was stronger, stranger than any need of the flesh. 
It distracted her, and she could not afford to be distracted. If the Bok escaped her, this world, and her world, were doomed. 
"So, how'd you get into the slayer business?" 
She turned her head, and even with the dark glasses, Harper felt the heat of her gaze. "It was a gift, given me at my creation. It is woven in my blood, in my bone." 
"Let's put it this way. You didn't pop out of the womb with a broadsword in your hand and a little dagger clenched in your teeth." 
"I was trained." She liked watching the lights turn colors. She'd processed their purpose herself because she was tired of asking questions. 
"To track, to hunt, in weaponry. To fight, to build my body, my mind, my spirit."' 
"How about your parents?" 
"I know no father. It is the way of slayers." 
"All slayers are women?" 
"We are female, birthed by females, raised, trained, and tested." 
"What do the guys do? The men." 
"Males hunt, farm, become warriors, scholars, seekers like yourself." She shrugged. "Whatever path is open to them. Some, in protecting their land, their families, in battle or in defense of self, kill demons. But they are not slayers." 
"Are there more like you back home?" 
"There were ten, now there are nine. Four weeks past, Sorak killed one of us. A trap. He drank the blood of a slayer. That is how he had the power, the strength, to elude me, to get this far. She was Laris. She was my friend." 
"I'm sorry." Harper closed a hand over hers. "He'll pay for it." 
The gesture, the simple warmth and connection, moved her. "There is no payment rich enough. His death will have to do." She looked over quickly when he lifted her hand to his mouth, brushed his lips over her knuckles. 
"A custom," he said, reading her shock. "Like an expression. 
Comfort, affection, seduction. Whatever fits." 
Her lips curved. "In my world you would be thrashed for taking such a liberty with a slayer." 
"We're in my world now, baby." 
"And here the sky is different, and the ground. The customs. I enjoy many of the new things in this place. The drink called coffee, the elevator, and the car. I have not decided if I like the box called television or all your expressions, but I enjoy the sensation of your mouth on my skin." 
He parked the car, turned off the ignition. "You got a man back home? A lover?" 
"No." 
"You're going to have one here." He climbed out, skirted the hood, and opened her door. "We'll walk for a while," he told her and took her hand again. "Stay close." 
She let him lead. It gave her the opportunity to observe and absorb, to identify scents. Food came to her again sweet, spiced, tart. Her stomach tightened in hunger. Perhaps traveling through the portal sharpened the appetites, she thought. If that were true for the Bok, they would already have fed at least once. 
She caught the scent of animal among the human. Great cats, reptile, fowl, and more she couldn't identify. And then she saw them, exotic beasts, prowling or dozing in enclosures while people strolled past or stopped to stare. 
It gave her a pang at the most elemental level. "It is not right to lock them up. They are not born for this." 
"Maybe it's not," he agreed. He hadn't come to the zoo since childhood because it invariably made him sad. "I can't say I care for it either." 
"This is a cruel thing you do here. This is a sorry place, this zoo. Is this what you teach your young?" she demanded, gesturing to a little girl being wheeled in a stroller by her parents. "That one species can be locked away for the amusement of another?" 
"I don't know how to explain it to you. Civilization has encroached. 
There isn't as much room as there once was. In captivity, they're safe, I guess, and tended. They can't be hunted or taken as trophies." 
"They are not free," was all she said, and turned away. 
"Okay, maybe this was a bad idea. It's depressing, and the place is jammed. I wasn't thinking about it being Sunday. It doesn't seem like the time and place for a demon snack. Maybe we should try the animal shelter dogs and cats. Or hit the stables." 
She held up a hand, bared her teeth. "Bok," was all she said. 
She was on the scent and ran like the wind. People scrambled out of her way, and those who caught a glimpse of the sword under her coat scrambled faster and farther. 
It was a challenge to keep up with her under normal circumstances, but with the obstacle course of people, children, benches, and trash receptacles in the zoo, Harper's lungs were burning by the time he caught up. 
"Slow down," he snapped. "You mow down innocent bystanders, we'll get arrested before we get where you want to go. And I can't begin to tell you how much fun the cops will have with your demon story." 
"There!" She pointed to a building, seconds before a stream of people rushed out. Screaming. 
She drew her sword as she raced through the doorway. 
Whatever Harper had expected, it hadn't been this, this stench of blood and death, of fear and rot. In the cages, monkeys were wild. Screeching, screaming, leaping desperately from branch to branch. 
He saw the blood and gore on the floor, tracked it with his eyes, and found to his horror a man, no, a demon, feeding savagely on a body. 
A human body. 
When the demon lifted his head, his teeth, his eyes glistened red. 
It all happened in seconds. The shock, the disgust, the fury. All of those vicious sensations burst through him as Harper drew his gun. And something hideous pounced on his back. 
Claws dug into his shoulders, gouged as the thing that attacked him let out a predatory howl. He spun, ramming back into the wall. His gun flew out of his hand and slid across the floor. Cursing, he battered the thing against the wall as his own blood spilled hot down his back. He felt the rough edge of a tongue slide through it, slurp hideously. 
Revolted, he flew back with his elbow, aiming high for the throat, hammered down with his heel on the instep of a booted foot hard enough to hear bone snap. 
There was a shriek, inhuman. Harper jabbed behind him with his fingers where he hoped to find eyes. 
Now it screamed, and the claws released. 
He saw what it was now, as he spun around. The face of a man, the eyes of a monster. It came for him, and Harper sprang into the fight. 
It was limping from the bones he'd crushed, but it was still fast. Lightning fast. Harper whirled, and the thing hurtled past him. When it turned to charge again, he met its face with a flying kick. 
Kadra fought her own demons, swinging her sword to block the slice of a curved blade, evading the swipe of claws as she carefully retreated. She gauged 
Harper's position by sound. She couldn't risk even a glance behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sorak, behind the bars, grinning, grinning as he feasted and watched the battle. 
Kadra flipped her dagger out of its sheath, managed to turn enough to judge 
Harper's distance and position. She feinted, thrust, then leaped to cleave the demon's sword arm from his body. 
"Harper Doyle!" She shouted, then heaved him her sword as she snatched the sickle blade from the air to battle the next demon. 
They fought back-to-back now, Harper wielding the sword, she slicing with the dagger and blade. Green blood mixed with red. 
Still, she saw, Sorak watched. 
"I will have you," he called out. "I will have your blood. I will have your body. I will have your mind." 
"I am Kadra!" she almost sang it as she thrust through slicing claws and pinned the point of the dagger in the demon warrior's throat. "I am your death." She spun, prepared to leap into the other battle. And watched Harper's sword cleave his opponent's belly. 
Through the smoke curling from the demon dead, she scooped the Glock up on the fly as she rushed to where Sorak fed and gloated. She saw only the quick flash of his teeth, the taunting swirl of his cloak as he bolted toward an open door on the side of the cage. 
She fired, the explosions of sound roaring through the building. Even so, she could hear the demon's laughter. She vaulted over the safety rail, closed her hands on the bars of the cage where beasts lay slaughtered, and battered at the steel. 
"Come on." Riding on adrenaline and pain, Harper wrenched her around. He shot the sword back into her sheath, snatched his gun and holstered it. "Put this away. Now," he snapped, handing her the dagger. 
"We're getting out, fast. There's no possible explanation for what just happened here, so we're not going to make one. Move!" 
She ran with him, through the building, out the rear. He tugged the coat over her sword, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and tried to look as normal as a couple could who had just battled a pack of demons. 
"Keep it slow. Cops are already heading in." He heard the sirens, the shouts. They turned away from the noise and kept walking. How long had they been inside? he wondered. It had seemed like hours. But now he realized it had been only minutes. 
"Can you track it?" Harper asked her. 
Alone, on her world, the answer would have been yes. But here, with the crowds of people, the scents and sights so unfamiliar to her senses, she was unsure. 
"He will go to ground now. He knew. He knew I would come here. Sorak has more knowledge than I thought. Now he has fed, he has amused himself. He will rest and wait. He will not feed again in the daylight." 
"Just as well. The place is going to be crawling with cops. Since we're covered with blood, and armed, we wouldn't get very far." 
And he had a bad feeling that a lot of the blood was his own. He wouldn't be any good to Kadra in the next round if he was light-headed and shocky. First things first, he thought as he concentrated on staying upright. Get bandaged up, get steady. Then think. 
"We'll hunt the bastard down and kill him with his belly full." 
It was difficult to turn away from the hunt. But she had seen the demon attack him from the rear and knew he was wounded. She would not leave him behind. 
"He has disguised his scent with the animals, and the humans. He will take time for me to find his lair." She steadied him when he swayed against her, and the hand she pressed to his shoulder came away smeared with his blood. 
"How bad is your wound?" 
"I don't know. Bad enough. Fucking claws. Went right through the leather. I've only had this jacket five, six years." 
She turned her head to look at the gouges and was relieved to see the demon had torn more cloth than flesh. "It is not so bad. It was a good battle," she said with sudden cheer. "You fight well." 
"Three out of four. It's just the one now." 
"He will make more." 
The horror of that seized Harper's belly. "We have to stop him." 
"We will do what must be done. Now we go back to your hut. Your wounds must be tended. We will rest, eat, think. We will be ready for the night." 
Her unerring sense of direction took them back to his car. "Can I sit on the side with the wheel now?" 
"No, you can't sit on the side with the wheel now. Or ever." 
Hurting, exhausted, he jabbed the key into the lock, wrenched open the door. 
"Are all so selfish with their possessions here?" 
"A man's car is his castle," Harper stated, and limped around to take the wheel. "Are you hurt?" he remembered to ask. 
"No, I am unharmed." Realizing he might take this as a criticism of his skill, she took his hand as he had taken hers. "But I am a slayer." 
"Kiss ass." 
She cocked her head. The battle had lifted her mood. "This is another expression?" 
He had to laugh, had to hiss in pain. On a combination of both, he started the car. "Yeah, baby, but it's one I wouldn't mind you taking literally." 
 
Chapter 5 
 
Though sheer will kept Harper conscious, he was in considerable pain and woozy from the loss of blood by the time he pulled back into his slot at the garage. Kadra's idea of how to deal with the problem was to carry him. 
He had just enough strength left to stop her from slinging him over her shoulder. And just enough wit to realize she could have pulled it off. 
"No." Since his limbs had gone watery on him, he warded her off with a scowl. "I'm not being carried across the Lower East Side by a woman." 
"This is foolish. You're injured. I am not." 
"Yeah, yeah, keep rubbing it in. Just give me a hand." When she frowned and held one out, he shook his head. "You're a literal creature." He slid an arm around her waist, let her take some of his weight. "Walk and talk," he told her. "Tell me more about this change." 
"After the kiss of change, the victim falls into a trancea sleep that is not a sleep, for one day. During the sleep, the demon blood mixes with the human's. The human becomes what has poisoned him, with the demon's instincts, his habits. His appetites." 
Since Harper's breathing was ragged, she tightened her grip and shortened her stride. "When the human wakes he is demon, though some wake before the change is complete and are demi-demons. In either stage, the one who has changed is bound to the one who changed him." 
"Is there a cure?" 
"Death," she said flatly, and shifted her grip on him as they stepped outside. He was pale, she noted. And his breath was only more labored. 
It would have been easier to carry him. 
But she understood a warrior's pride. 
"Your hut is only a short journey. We will go at your pace." 
"Just keep talking." His shoulder was going numb, and that worried him. "I need to focus." 
"Why did you become a seeker?" 
"I like to find things out. Without a PI license, it's called nosiness. 
With one, it's called a profession. Insurance fraud, missing persons, some skip tracing. I try to stay out of the marital arena. It's just humiliating for all parties to stand outside a motel room with a camera." 
She didn't know what he was talking about, but she liked his voice. Despite his wounds, or perhaps because of them, there was grit in it. "Are you a successful seeker?" 
"I get by." He looked around but couldn't quite pinpoint where they were. The sounds of traffic, the busy music of the city, sounded dim. She was the only thing clear to him now the supporting strength of her arm, the firm curves of her body, the scent of the sacred waterfall that lingered in her hair. 
It was as if both their worlds had receded and they themselves were all that was left. 
"What must you get by?" 
"Hmm?" He turned his head. He'd been right, he thought, there really was nothing but her. "I mean I do all right. I do regular legwork for a lawyer. Jake, the one I thought had hired you. He's got a sick sense of humor. That's why I love him." 
He staggered at the curb, tried to orient himself when she steadied him. 
"It is this way." She turned the corner, glanced up and down the street. "Where is the well? You require water." 
"Doesn't work that way here." But she was right about one thing. 
His thirst was vicious. He nodded toward a sidewalk vendor. "There." 
With her arm banded around his waist, Kadra watched Harper exchange several small disks for a bottle. He fought the top off, drank deep. 
"You must pay for water? Does it have magical properties?" She took it, drank. "Nothing but water," she said with some amazement. 
"The merchant is a robber. I will go back and speak to him." 
"No. No." Despite the dizziness, Harper laughed. "It's just one of the acceptable lunacies of our little world. When water comes out of the tap, it's free. Sort of. When it comes out of a bottle, you pay on the spot." 
She pondered this as they came to the intersection. She'd watched the way the people, the cars, the lights worked together. When the metal tree ordered the waiting group to walk, everyone hurried, often sliding and swooping between cars that jammed together and faced other metal trees with lights of amber, emerald, and ruby. 
Everyone in the village played along. 
She felt Harper sag, and pinched his waist ruthlessly to snap him back. 
"We have only&" She flipped back to his earlier term for the section of road. "One more block." 
"Okay, okay." He could feel sweat running a clammy line down his back. His vision was going in and out. "Let's talk about me. I'm thirty. 
As of yesterday. Unmarried. Came close a couple years ago, but I came to my senses." 
"Had the woman bewitched you?" 
"No." He had to smile at the term. "You could say that was the problem: she didn't bewitch me. This is a huge disappointment to my parents, who want grandchildren. As I'm an only child, I'm their one shot at it." 
"Is it not possible in this place to make young without a lifemate? Can you not select a breeding partner for this purpose?" 
"Yeah, you could, and a lot of people do. I guess I'm more of a traditionalist in that one area. If I have kids, I want them to have the package. You like kids?" 
"I am fond of young. They have innocence and potential, and a special kind of beauty. In time I will select a breeding partner so that I may make life. It is a great honor to make life." 
"I'm with you on that." Nearly there, he told himself. Please, 
God, we're nearly there. "Anyway, my parents live in New Jersey. Another world." 
"Was Old Jersey destroyed?" 
"Ah& no." His head was spinning now. Concentrate, he ordered himself. Just put one foot in front of the other. "Geography and world history lessons later. Let's stick with personal revelations. I didn't want to tie on my dad's cop's shoes, so I veered off into private investigation. I apprenticed with a big, slick firm uptown, but I didn't like the suit and tie brigade. Went out on my own about five years ago. I'm good at what I do." 
"It's wasteful to be bad at what you do." 
"You know, my dad would lap you right up. He'd like you," Harper explained, breathlessly now. "He was a good cop. Retired three years ago. 
He'd go for your sense of order." 
He fumbled out his keys as they approached his building's entrance. She wanted to ask him why everything had to be locked, like a treasure box, but his face was dead white now. 
She dragged him to the elevator, puzzled out the buttons. They had come down, so now they would go up. It pleased her enormously when the doors opened. 
"Four," he managed. "Push four. If we have to call 911, I'm going to leave it to you to explain that I've been clawed by a Bok demon." 
Ignoring him, and regretting that she couldn't fully appreciate the ride this time, she dragged him out when the doors opened again. She took the keys from him, selected the proper one, and unlocked his door. 
"You don't miss a trick, do you? You'd make a damn good PI." 
She merely booted the door closed behind them, then bending, lifted him onto her shoulder. 
"Honey." His voice slurred. "This is so sudden." 
She laid him facedown on the bed, peeled off his ruined jacket, then tore away what was left of his shut. 
His breath hissed through his teeth at the bright burn of pain. "Can you be a little more rough, Nurse Ratched? I live for pain." 
"Quiet now." The wounds were deeper than she'd thought. Four ugly grooves and one jagged puncture. The blood that had started to clot flowed freely again. "This must first be cleansed. How do I fetch water?" 
"Tap. Bathroom tap. The sink. Damn it. The white bowlah, the taller one," he added as he got an image of her scooping water out of his toilet. "Turn the handle." 
She found the bathing room, and the sink. And was delighted when water gushed out. She soaked a towel and carried it sopping wet into the bedroom. She felt his body shudder when she laid it over his back. 
He fought well, she thought again as she cleaned the wounds. And was stalwart in his pain. He had more than the strength of a warrior; he had the heart of one too. She remembered how his hand had whipped up and closed around the hilt of the sword she'd tossed him. 
A good team, she decided. She'd never found a partner she could admire, respect, and desire. 
She retrieved her supply bag, reached in for the vial of healing powder that all warriors carried. Her fingers brushed over the cloth Mav had wrapped around her hand. 
Lips pursed, Kadra studied her own unmarked palm. Perhaps some of the healer's powers were still in the cloth. Quickly, she made a paste from powder and water. 
"This will sting," she told him. "I'm sorry for it." 
"Sting" was a mild word for the blaze that erupted under his skin when she spread the medication over his wounds. His hands fisted in the spread, his body jerked in protest. 
"Only a moment," she murmured, wrenched by his pain. "It eats any infection." 
"Does it chew through flesh while it's at it?" He spit the words out through gritted teeth. 
"No, but it feels that way. It is no shame to scream." 
"I'll keep that in mind." But he swore instead, softly, steadily, viciously, and earned more of the slayer's respect. 
When the paste began to turn from sickly yellow to white, she breathed a sigh of relief. The infection was dying. Over the smeared wounds, she lay the thin healing cloth. 
"If there is any magic in my blood," she whispered, "let it help him. Sleep now, Harper the valiant." She brushed her fingers through his hair. "Sleep and heal." 
He dreamed, strange, colorful dreams. Battles and blood. Storms and swords. 
Kadra, with her war cry echoing through dark, dank tunnels. The king of demons feasting on flesh in the shadows. 
And he himself delivering the killing blow that sent green blood gushing. 
In dreams he knew her body, the feel of those luscious curves under his hand, the taste of her skin, the sound of her moan. He saw her rising over him, warrior, goddess, woman. 
He felt, real as life, the warm press of her lips on his. 
And woke aching for her. 
He sat up, instinctively reaching for the back of his shoulder. He found nothing, no wound, no break in the skin, no scar. 
Had it all been a dream after all? One wild booze-induced dream starring the most magnificent woman ever created? 
The idea that she was only in his mind depressed him brutally. What were a few Bok demons between friends, he thought as he pushed himself out of bed, when you had a Kadra in your life? 
Was the only woman who'd ever stirred him on every level just a product of his imagination? Of wishful thinking? If he could only fall in love in dreams, why the hell did he have to wake up? 
Back to reality, Doyle, he told himself, then took a step toward the bedroom door and nearly tripped over his leather jacket. 
He scooped it up, fingers rushing over the battered material. Nothing, nothing in his life had ever delighted him more than seeing those bloodstained rips. 
He tossed it aside and bolted for the door. 
She'd changed back into her own clothes. And was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her nose all but pressed to the television screen, where the Yankees were taking on the Tigers. 
"I like this battle," she said without turning around. "The warriors in the white are beating the warriors in the gray by three runs. They are better with the clubs." 
"Girl of my dreams," Harper said aloud. "She likes baseball." 
"There were other images in the box." And each had startled and fascinated. "But this is my favorite." 
"Okay, that does it. We have to get married." 
She turned then, smiled at him. His color was back, and that relieved her. 
His eyes were clear, and held more than recovered health. The lust in them aroused her. "You healed well." 
"I healed just dandy." 
"I hunted among your stores," she told him. "You have little, but I like this food and drink." She gestured toward the bag of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips and the bottle of Coors. 
"You're perfect. It's just a little scary." 
"We must eat. Fighting requires fuel." 
"Yeah, we'll eat. We'll order some pizza." 
He looked hungry as well, she noted. But not for food. She rose smoothly. 
Her blood was already warm for him. "I'm pleased you are well." 
"Yeah. I'm feeling real healthy just now. You can tell me how you managed that later." 
"You do not wish to talk at this time." She nodded, stepped toward him. Then she circled around him to check his shoulder and to admire his form. When she stopped face-to-face again, her eyes were level with his. 
"Do you wish to join your body to mine?" 
He blinked once, slow as an owl. "Is that a trick question?" 
"You have desire for me." 
Charmed, perplexed, he dipped his hands in his pockets. "Is that all it takes?" 
"No." She was never as sure of herself as a female as she was as a slayer. But this time, with him, she felt sure. "But I have desire for you as well. It is a heat in my belly, a burn in my blood. I want to join with you." 
"I wanted you before I even met you," he told her. 
"This is like a poem." And softened her under the skin. "You are well named. I cannot speak as cleverly, so I will say we have time for this and for food before we hunt again. And that our minds and bodies will be stronger for appeasing both appetites." 
On those long, tantalizing legs, she walked past him into the bedroom. 
Worlds, he thought as he followed her, were about to collide. 
"Whoa. Wait. Hold on." She'd already stripped off her top, and was pulling off her boots. "What's the rush?" 
She looked up, a crease between her brows. "Are you ready to sport?" 
"Yeah. But we could take a minute to&" He stared at her, golden skin, naked breasts. "What am I saying?" He scooped her off her feet and made her laugh by tossing her on the bed. 
She rolled, came up on her haunches. Saliva pooled in his mouth as she grinned at him. "You have energy. Good. Strip," she ordered. "We will wrestle first." 
"You wanna wrestle?" He unbuttoned his jeans. 
"It is stimulating," she began, then lowered her gaze. "You seem to be very stimulated already. I admire your body, baby." It pleased her to use one of his terms of affection. "I want to touch it." 
"Are you sure you're not a dream, brought on by one too many bourbons and bumps?" 
"I am real." Watching him, she stroked her hands over her breasts, cupped them. "Touch me." 
When he came forward, reached, she rolled away laughing. And crooked her finger at him. 
He dived. 
She obviously took her wrestling seriously he was pinned in under five seconds. "Two out of three," he said and put himself in the game. 
They tumbled over the bed, hands gripping, sliding, legs scissoring. Bodies straining. He wasn't sure if he pinned her by skill or because she'd allowed it. He didn't give a damn. Not when she was sprawled under him, her hair spread out, her eyes hot and green. 
"Let's call it a draw," he suggested, lowering his head. 
Her hand shot out, wedged between them. "There can be no mouth on mouth. This is not permitted." 
"Kisses are illegal in your world?" 
"A kiss is a gift." Now it was she who was breathless, from the press of his body, from the knowledge that his lips were nearly upon hers. 
"One given in promise between those who mate." 
"I had mating in mind." 
"No, joining. Joining is& sport. Mating is for life." 
He wanted that mouth, as much as he wanted to breathe. And he wanted her to give it to him. "In this world a kiss is a sign of trust, affection, love, friendship. All manner of things. When a man and a woman join here, a kiss is a part of the union. A pleasurable part. You've never kissed a man?" 
"I've made no promise to a man with my lips." 
Make one to me, he thought. "Let me show you the way it's done in my world." He brushed his lips over her cheek. "Let me have your mouth, 
Kadra." 
The hand separating them began to tremble. "I can take no lifemate." She felt his breath on her lips, warm, seductive. "It is not permitted for a slayer in my world." 
"This is here. This is now." He closed his hand over the one she still held to his heart. "Let me be the first. Let me be the only." 
She could have resisted. She had the strength, and though she could feel it melting, she still had the will. But his lips were so lovely, so soft against her skin. The glide of them was like all the promises that could never be given. 
And her own lips yearned. 
His world, she thought as she yielded. She was in his world now. 
Their lips met, silkily. And her breath rushed out in shock at the sensation. The intimacy, the sweet flavor, the smooth slide of tongue against tongue were more potent than any brew she had ever sipped. 
With one drink, she was drunk on him. 
"Again," she demanded, and dragged him down by the hair until mouth ravaged mouth. 
He had thought a kiss a simple thing, just another part of the mating dance. 
But with her he was whirled into the glory of it. He sank deep into her, and deeper still, until the taste of her was a craving in his belly. 
I've waited for you, she thought, bowing her body to his a body that ached for his hands. How could I have waited for you when I didn't know you existed? How could I have needed you when you were never there? 
But when his hands moved over her, she knew it was true. All the passion that was in her blood, all the passion newly discovered, she gave to him. 
She was a fantasy come to life. All curves and sleek skin. Urgent hands and avid mouth. She raged beneath him, demanding more even as he gave. She was a feast who commanded him to feed. 
Now when they wrestled, their breath was ragged and their skin damp. The mouth that had conquered hers rushed everywhere, tasted all of her. 
When she crested, it was like a wave rising up inside her, spilling out on a throaty cry and pouring into him. 
She rose above him, as she had in dreams. Woman, warrior, lover. She took him into her, closed around him, and throwing her head back, rode. 
Joined, he thought dimly as his blood pounded. Everything inside him was joined with her. 
He reared up, banding his arms around her, fusing his mouth to hers as they took each other over the brink. 
 
Chapter 6 
 
No joining had ever been so intense or so pleasurable. None had caused her to feel this mysterious sensation that was beyond the physical. Nor to find herself both conquered and victorious. 
Bards spoke of such unions, but she had never believed the words were more than romantic delusion. 
And they were joined still, she realized. Wrapped tight, fused like two links in one chain. This was more than sport, she thought. She didn't wish it to end. 
She rubbed her lips together, experimenting. His taste was still there his flesh, yes but it was more. His mouth, the intimacy of the kiss that had been like  feeding each other. She hadn't known such matters could have such heat, and yet be tender. 
She had never known tenderness, nor had she believed she required it. 
Small wonder that in the world she knew, a mouth kiss was reserved for lifemates and was part of the sacred vows that stretched for all time. 
If he lived in her world, or she in his, could there have been a lifetime between them? 
Thinking it brought such a pang, such a wrench of longing. She was a slayer, she reminded herself, and he a seeker. They could walk the same path only until their battle was won. Then they, like their worlds, would stand apart. 
But until their time was ended, she could have what she could take. 
"I like the kissing," she said, sliding her hands into his hair as she eased back to see his face. "I would like to do more if there's an opportunity to join again." 
"Kissing isn't just for joining." Still lost in her, still steeped in the first heady brew of love, he brushed his lips across hers. 
"What else? Teach me." 
At the idea of tutoring her, his pulse kicked again. "At times like this, after making love " 
"Making love." Following his lead, she leaned in to rub her lips over his. "I like this expression." 
"Sometimes, after, while a couple is still tuned to each other, they kiss to show how much pleasure they were given. It might be long and lazy, like this." 
He drew her in again on a slow, gentle glide that brought a purr of approval to her throat. Soft, so soft, deep without demand. Sweet as a maiden's dream. 
"Yes," she sighed. "Again." 
"Wait. Sometimes, when passions have been roused and people are still caught in that last edge of the storm of them, the tone of the kiss reflects that. Like this." 
He caught her to him, close and hard, and his mouth was like a fever on hers. Now she groaned and wrapped around him like rope. He felt the thrill of her on his skin, in his blood, down to the pit of his stomach. 
"You make me want." Her voice was thick now, and her heart galloped as if she'd raced to the pinnacle of the Stone Mountains. "In ways I have never wanted." 
"You make me need." He held her now, just held her. "In ways 
I've never needed. What are we going to do about this, Kadra?" 
She shook her head. "What must be done is all that can be done." 
"Things have changed. Things are different now." 
If only they could be, she thought. With him, a joy she hadn't known was locked inside her could be free. "What I feel for you fills me, and empties me. I've never known this with another." Still, she made herself draw back from him. "The fate of two worlds is in our hands. We can't take each other and lose them." 
"We'll save them. And then" 
"Don't talk of 'and then'." She touched her fingers to his lips. 
"Whatever fate holds for us, we have now. It's a gift to be treasured, not to be questioned." 
"I want a life with you." 
She smiled, but there was sorrow in her eyes. "Some lifetimes have to be lived in a day." 
He wasn't going to accept that. He was good at solving puzzles, Harper thought. He'd find a way to solve this one. He also knew when he was banging against a head as hard as his own. There were times for force, and times for strategy. 
"Having a warrior goddess drop on me out of another dimension, visiting an alternate reality, fighting demons, making love. It's been a pretty full day so far." He tangled his fingers in her hair. "What's next on the schedule?" 
Strength, Kadra thought, wasn't only a matter of muscle. It was a matter of courage. They would both be valiant enough to accept destiny. "We must hunt Sorak, but we will need food and planning time. He's the mightiest of his kind, and the most sly." 
"Okay, we'll order that pizza and fuel up while we figure out our plan of attack." 
Nodding, and grateful he hadn't pressed where she was now vulnerable, she rolled off the bed. "What is this pizza?" 
No pizza on A'Dair, he thought. Score one for Earth. "It's, ah, a kind of pie. Round, usually," he said as he allowed himself the pleasure of watching her slip on the brief bottom half of her hunting costume. 
"You're magnificent, Kadra. 'Beautiful' is too ordinary, too simple a word," he added when she stared at him. "Do men on A'Dair tell you that you take their breath away, that looking at you is like being struck blind by a force of beauty so strong it's painful?" 
His words made her weak, as if she'd slain a thousand demons in one day. 
"Men do not speak so to slayers." 
He rose. "I do." 
"You are different." So wonderfully different. "When I hear the words from you, they make me feel proud. And shy. I have never been shy," she added, baffled. "It pleases me that you find me attractive to look at." 
"Do you think that's all I meant? You are very attractive. You're right off the charts in that area. But then you add the courage, the brains, the compassion I saw in you when Mav told you of her father's death, the active curiosity, the sense of fun, the heart of a warrior. You're unique to any world, and I'm dazzled by you." 
"No one has ever&" Her throat burned. "I need time to find the words to give back to you that are as fine and rich." 
He took her hands, lifted them to his lips. "They were free. They don't require any trade or payment." 
"Like a gift?" 
"Exactly." 
"Thank you." 
He dressed, switched the TV to the news in case there were any updates. He started to call in the pizza order. Then he remembered it wasn't just his taste that had to be satisfied this time. "Okay, pizza can come with a variety of options. Meat, vegetables stuff like onions, mushrooms, peppers, sausage, pepperoni. It's an endless parade. I usually get it pretty loaded. Is there anything you don't eat?" 
"I don't care for the meat of the grubhog." 
He let out a quick, huffing laugh. "Check. Hold the grub-hog." 
He called in the order explained to her what a phone was then went into the kitchen for a couple of beers. "It'll take about twenty minutes. Let's figure out what step we take next over a beer." 
"I like the beer," she told him. 
"Just one more reason we're perfect for each other." He tapped his bottle to hers. "So." He dropped down on the couch, stretched out. 
"You said Sorak would have a lair. What sort of digs would he look for? 
What's his habit in living arrangements?" 
"Demons live belowground." She crossed her feet at the ankles, then lowered herself in one smooth move to the floor. "They like the dark after feeding. They will burrow, dig tunnels so they may travel under the ground." 
She picked up the portable phone he'd set down and began to play with it. 
"In the east, Laris and I once tracked a demon pack to a great lair, with many tunnels through the rock and dirt, with many chambers for stores and sleep and treasures. We slew the pack and destroyed the lair with fire. It was 
Clud's palace, and there I destroyed the king of demons. But Sorak, then prince, was not there. When he heard of this, he vowed to kill the slayers who had killed his sire, and to build a great new kingdom in a place where no slayer could defeat him. I have this." 
She flipped back her hair to show him a thin hooked scar at the base of her neck. "Only a demon king can leave his mark on a slayer. This is Clud's. 
The last swipe of his claws before my sword took his heart." 
"Impressive." Harper pulled down his shirt to expose the line of puckered skin on his shoulder. "Skip trace, with a bad attitude and a switchblade." 
She nodded. "How did you kill him?" 
"It doesn't work that way hereideally. I kicked his ass, then turned him over to the cops and collected my fee. The authorities," he explained. "We put bad guysour demonsin jail. In cages, like at the zoo today." 
"Ah." She considered that, and found it just. Captivity was a living death. "Is the demon who broke your nose also in his cage?" 
"Sucker punch," Harper told her, running his hand down the uneven line of his nose. "Yeah, he's doing a stretch. Pissant grifter going around snuggling up to rich women, then ripping them off, copping their jewelry, draining their bank accounts. Prick." 
Kadra angled her head. "I like the way you speak. I find it arousing to listen to your stories." 
"Oh, yeah?" He slid down onto the floor beside her, walked his fingers up her boot to her thigh. "I've got a million of them." 
"Sporting must wait." 
"I like your face. I find it arousing to look at your face." He touched it, just a skim of fingertips over her cheek. "When I was sleeping, I dreamed of making love with you. Then it happened, just the way I'd dreamed it." 
"This is vision." 
"Maybe." He thought of the blood and the battle, of the dark and the smoke. "One thing, before we get back on track. I've always liked working alone; that's why I went out on my own. I've liked living alone, which is why I've screwed up any potentially serious relationship with a woman. I never wanted a partner, until you." 
She lifted a hand to his cheek in turn. A kind of joining, she realized, with only a touch. "I have been alone. It is the way of slayers. I never wished it otherwise, until you. They will write songs about you in my world. 
The great warrior from beyond A'Dair." 
And when she listened to them by the fire, she thought, she would be alone again. 
She let her hand drop away, then took a deep drink of her beer. "I tracked Sorak across my world and killed many of his warriors. He has sired no young, and with his death, the power of the Bok will be diminished. I thought he meant to build a lair in some far-off place, a fortress of great defense. 
But in my world. I did not know he meant to come to this place, to build his kingdom in yours." 
"We won't give him the chance. You said he would burrow underground." 
"Yes. The Bok require the cool dark when they rest." 
"I've got an idea where he might've gone. The subway. We have a system of tunnels under the city, for transportation. The sewers are another option," Harper considered, "but I don't know why anyone, even a demon, would want to set up housekeeping in the sewers if he had any other choices. The trick will be pinpointing the right sector." 
"What creatures of your world travel this subway, this underground route?" 
"The variety is endless. Just people, of all walks. It's a crowded city. It's another reasonably efficient and inexpensive way to get around it." 
He spent the next few minutes explaining the idea and basic workings of the subway system. 
"This is clever. You have an innovative and interesting culture. I would like to have more time to study it." 
"Stick around, take all the time you want." He rose when his buzzer sounded. He went to the intercom by the front door, verified the pizza delivery, and buzzed the entrance door open. 
"You keep a servant in that small box?" 
"No." Amused when she came over to peer at it, he explained its function, then opened his door to the delivery boy's knock, paid him, and sent him on his way. 
"Was that your servant?" 
"No. I gave my servants this century off. He works for the place that makes the food. It's his job to bring it to people when they call on the phone. 
Hungry?" 
"Yes." She sniffed. "It smells very good." 
He set the pizza box on the coffee table. "I'll get some napkins we'll need them then you can see if it tastes as good as it smells." 
When he came back she was sitting on the floor, the lid of the box open, poking a finger at the crust. "It is very colorful. Is this a staple of your people's diet?" 
"It's a staple of mine." He lifted a slice, flicked strings of cheese with his finger. "You just pick it up with your hands and go for it." He demonstrated with an enthusiastic bite. 
Following suit, Kadra brought a slice to her lips. She bit through pepperoni, through pepper, through onion into cheese and spicy sauce, down to the thin, yeasty crust. 
The sound she made, Harper thought, was very like one she'd made during sex. 
"I like this pie called pizza," she stated, and bit in again. 
"It is good food," she added, her mouth full. 
"Baby, this is the perfect food." 
"It goes well with the beer. It's like a celebration to have kissing and joining, then pizza and beer." 
He knew it was ridiculous, but his heart simply melted. "I'm crazy about you, Kadra. I'm a goddamn mental patient." 
"This is an expression?" 
"It means I'm in love with you. I go thirty years without a scratch, and in less than a day I'm fatally wounded." 
"Don't speak of death, even as an expression. Not before battle." 
She reached out, closed her hand tight over his. "It is bad luck. When it is done  When it is done, Harper, we will talk more of feelings." 
"All right, we'll table itif I have your word that when it's done you let me make my pitch." 
Baffled, she frowned at him over what was left of her first slice. 
"Like in the battle of baseball?" 
"Not exactly. That you'll let me tell you the way it could be for us." 
"When it is done, you will make your pitch. Now tell me more of the subway." 
"Hold on." He switched his attention to the televised news bulletin. 
The reporter spoke of the attack at the zoo, the murder of the guard and the mutilation of several animals. Witness reports were confused and conflicting, ranging from the claim of an attack by a dozen armed men to one by a pack of wild animals. 
"They don't know what they're up against," Harper said quietly as the newscaster reported that the police were investigating the incident and that the zoo would remain closed until further notice. "They don't have a clue. I call them with the truth, I'm just another loony." 
"It is for us," Kadra told him. "Rhee has said that we would fight this battle together. He must be destroyed here or driven back where he belongs. There must be balance again." 
"Here." Harper rolled his shoulder where a demon had dug its claws. "We finish it here. New York style." 
Kadra pondered the images on the television, the moving paintings of the zoo. "This subway. Does it go near the place where they keep the animals? 
Where we battled today?" 
"There are possibilities." 
"Sorak would like a lair near prey. It will be dark soon," she said with a long look at the sky through the window. "Then we hunt." 
 
Chapter 7 
 
She balked at changing her hunting gear for jeans a second time, claiming they restricted her. He let it pass, figuring the long coat would cloak most of her  attributes. 
The thing about New York, Harper thought, as they passed a guy with shoulder-length white hair, two nose rings, and a black leather jumpsuit, was there was always someone dressed weirder than you were. 
He wore his ripped jacket, for sentimental reasons. And for the practical one that if he was going up against a demon again, there was no point to sacrificing another garment to the long blue claws. 
He had his Glock in a shoulder holster, a backup .38 in an ankle holster, a combat knife sheathed at his back, and a switchblade in his left boot. 
He'd have preferred an Uzi, but what he had on hand would have to do. 
"I like my work," he told Kadra. "And I like to think it makes a difference to some of the people who come to me with problems." He paused to take a good look at his neighborhood his city his world. 
"But this heading out to save the planet stuff brings on a real high." 
"You were born for it." When he glanced over at her, she shrugged. 
"This is what I believe. We are born for a purpose. How we live, how we treat others who live with us forms our spirit and determines if we will fulfill that purpose or fail. We were meant to face this night together. Meant for it from the moment we were created." 
"I like that. And I'll take it one step further. We were meant for each other, too." 
Meant to love each other, she thought, and to live alone in two different worlds. Her life had been filled with sacrifices, but none would bring the sorrow of the one she had yet to make. 
Harper led Kadra down into the station for the train heading uptown. She would have vaulted over the turnstile if he hadn't blocked her. 
"You have to use a token, then you walk through." 
"These are very flimsy barricades," she pointed out as she bumped through. "Even a child could get over them." 
"Yeah, well, it's& tradition." 
"Like a ritual," she decided, satisfied. She heard the roar, felt the floor vibrate. "The earth trembles." She was prepared to drag him to safety when he grabbed her hand. 
"It's just a train coming in." Still holding her hand, he pulled her onto the platform, where she studied the other waiting passengers. 
It was a huge cave, strongly lit. She had never seen so much life, so much motion and magic in one place. "Your people have so many colors of skin. 
It's beautiful. You are blessed to have such richness of person, such variety." When she glanced back at him, she saw he was smiling at her in an odd way. "What is it?" 
"Nothing." He leaned toward her, and to her utter shock, kissed her mouth. 
"We cannot join here," she said in a hissing whisper. "It is a private activity." 
"It wasn't that kind of a kiss. Remember, there are all kinds." 
"I thought you were pretending." 
"Is that a polite word for lying? On this side of the portal, people kiss all the time. Lovers, friends, relatives. Complete strangers." 
She snorted. "Now I will say you are lying." 
"Locking lips is practically a global pastime. And this one'll get you: people pay a fee to sit in a big, darkened room as a group and watch other people's images on a screen a larger version of the TV, where you saw baseball. One of the things those images often do is kiss." 
"I think you are a harper after all, because you tell fantastic tales with great ease and skill." 
"Nothing in those knowledge banks about movies?" 
She frowned, but tipped her head and searched through. When her eyes widened, lit with delight, he knew she'd hit on it. 
"Movies." She tested the word. "I would like to see one." 
"It's a date." He heard the rumble of the approaching uptown train. They had another date to keep first. 
She liked the train that flew under the earth. She liked the way people crowded inside, bumping together as they clung to metal straps. There were colorful drawings to study and read. Some spoke of magical liquid that gifted the user with shiny, sexy hair. Another advised her to practice safe sex. There was a wall map provided for lost travelers, and yet another picture that boasted its elixir could transform the skin to make it sexually attractive to others. 
Kadra leaned close to Harper's ear. "Is sex the religion of your world?" 
"Ah& you could say a lot of people worship it. Why are you whispering?" 
"No one is speaking. Is conversation permitted?" 
"Sure. It's just that most of these people don't know each other. 
They're strangers, so they don't have anything to say." 
Kadra considered it, and finding it reasonable, she tapped the shoulder of the woman standing beside her. "I am Kadra, Slayer of Demons. My companion in this dimension is Harper Doyle. Together we hunt Sorak." 
The sound Harper made was somewhere between a laugh and a moan. 
"Rehearsing," he said with what he hoped was a nonthreatening smile. 
"New play. Way, way off Broadway. Honey," Harper said to Kadra as the woman edged as far away as the press of bodies would allow, "maybe you should just talk to me." 
"Making introductions is courteous." 
"Yeah, well, you start chatting about demons, it tends to weird people out." 
The train stopped. People poured off, people poured on. Kadra scowled and planted her feet. "As you said, how can they defend against Sorak if they are unaware of him?" 
"I've thought about that. Thought about going to the cops. The National 
Guard." Frustrated, he dragged a hand through his hair. "Nobody's going to believe us, and the time we'd waste trying to convince them we're not candidates for a padded cell would only give Sorak more of an advantage." 
"You said there were demons in this world, that you put them in cages." 
"There are plenty of them. But they're a different type than you're used to fighting. They're not another species, they're us. People come in a variety pack, Kadra. Most of them are good at the core, they're good. But a lot of them aren't. So they prey on their own kind." 
"To prey on your own kind is the greatest sin. You hunt these demons. 
Who else hunts them?" 
"Ideally? The law. It just doesn't always work out. It'll take more than a subway ride for me to explain it to you. I don't always understand it myself." 
"There is good and there is evil. The good must always fight the evil as the strong must always protect the weak. This is nothing that can change by walking through a portal." 
He linked his hand with hers. Her vision was so clear, he thought. And her spirit so pure. "I love you," he murmured. "I love everything about you." 
The warmth poured into her, flooding her belly, overflowing her heart. 
"You only know one day of me." 
"Time doesn't mean a damn." The train jerked to a halt at the next station. "We'll be getting off soon. Whatever happens tonight, I need you to believe what I'm telling you now. I love you. My world was incomplete until you came into it." 
"I believe what you say." It felt strange and right to press her lips to his. "My heart is joined to yours." 
But what she didn't say, what she couldn't bear to say, was that her world would be forever incomplete when she left him. 
"You're thinking that when this is over, we won't be able to be together." He put his hand on her cheek now, kept his gaze steady on hers. 
"That I'll have to stay in this world, and you'll have to go back to yours." 
"There is only one thing that should be occupying our minds now. That is Sorak." 
"When we get off this train, we'll worry about Sorak. Right now, it's you and me." 
"You have a very domineering nature. I find it strangely appealing." 
"Same goes. When this is over, Kadra, we'll find a way. That's what people do when they love each other. They find a way." 
She thought of the globe in her pouch. The key that was hers only until the battle was done. The weight of it dragged on her heart like a stone. "And when there is no way to be found?" 
"Then they make one. Whatever I have to do to make it work, I'll do. 
But I won't lose you." 
"I can't stay in your world, Harper. I am a slayer, bound by blood, by oath, and by honor to protect my people." 
"Then I'll go with you." 
Stunned, she stared at him. "You would give up your world, the wonders of it, for me? For mine?" 
"For us. I'll do whatever has to be done to have a life with you." 
Tears swam into her eyes. She would never have shed one for pain, but one spilled down her cheek now. For love. "It is not possible. It would never be permitted." 
"Who the hell's in charge? We'll have ourselves a sit-down." 
She managed a wobbly smile. "It would take more than a subway ride to explain it to you. There are balances, Harper, that must be carefully held. I am here to right a wrong, and am given entrance by the power of Rhee's magic. 
When I have done what I've been sent here to do, I'll have no choice but to return. You will have no choice but to stay." 
"We'll just see about that. Here's our stop." 
"You are angry." 
"No, this isn't my angry face. This is my if-I-can-fight-demons-I-can-sure-as-hell-fight-the-cosmos face." He gave her hand a squeeze. "Trust me." 
She trusted no one more. If she had been permitted to take a lifemate, it would have been Harper Doyle. His strength, his honesty, his courage had stolen her heart. She would miss, for the rest of her life, his strange humor, his bravery, his skilled mouth. 
When they had defeated Sorak, she would go quickly and spare them both the pain of leaving. And now she would treasure the time they had left as companions. She would relish the great deed they were fated to accomplish together. 
The first order of business, Harper thought, was to get down on the tracks and into the tunnels while avoiding detection by the subway cops. He explained the problem to Kadra as they moved down the platform away from the bulk of the waiting commuters. 
"Very well," she said, and solved the dilemma by jumping down onto the tracks. 
"Or we could do it that way," he grumbled. He flashed his ID in the direction of a couple of gawking businessmen. "Transit inspectors." 
Hoping they subscribed to the New York credo of minding their own business, he jumped. "Move fast." He took her arm. "Stay out of the light. 
Once we're into the tunnels our main goal is to avoid being smeared on the tracks by an oncoming train. Then there's the third-rail factor. See that?" He pointed. "Whatever you do, don't step on that, don't touch it. It'll fry you like a trout." 
He pulled his penlight from his pocket as they followed the track into the tunnel. "There are some areas in the system where homeless people set up housekeeping." 
"If they have a house to keep, they cannot be homeless." 
"We'll save the tutorial on society's disenfranchised for later. Some of the people who manage to live down here are mentally unstable. Some are just desperate. What we're looking for, I figure, are the maintenance areas. Off the main tracks, where there's room to establish a lair." 
"There is no scent of people or demon here." 
"Let me know when that changes." He felt the vibration, saw the first flicker of light in the dark. "Train. Let's move." 
He doubled his pace toward the recess of an access door, and pulling her up with him, he plastered himself to the door. "Think thin," he advised. 
He held on as the roar of the train blasted the air, gritted his teeth as the air pummeled them. Through the train's lighted windows, faces and bodies of its passengers blurred by. 
"It is more exciting to be outside the box as it flies by than to be inside it." 
He looked over at Kadra as the last car whizzed past. "One of these days you'll have to tell me what you do for entertainment back in A'Dair. I have a feeling I'll be riveted." 
He tried to keep a map in his head as they wound through the labyrinth. 
Twice more they were forced to leap for a narrow shelter as a train sped past. 
But it was Kadra who swung toward a side tunnel. 
"Here. Sorak has been this way." 
Harper caught no scent in the stale air other than the grease and metal of machines. "Can you tell how long ago?" 
"Some hours past, but fresh enough to track." 
She moved carefully, knowing the dangers of an underground ruled by a demon. 
She kept her voice low as they began to hunt. "The Bok sees as well in the dark as in the light. Perhaps better. He will fight more fiercely for his lair than he would even for food." 
"In other words, that skirmish we had this morning was just a preview of coming attractions." 
She thought she was beginning to understand his odd expressions, so nodded. 
"Tonight, it is to the death." 
She whirled, coat billowing, as she laid a hand on the hilt of her sword. 
Though he had heard no sound, the beam of Harper's light picked out a shadow in the dark. He'd nearly drawn his gun when he recognized the uniform. 
"Transit cop." He said it under his breath to Kadra. "Let me handle this. Hey, Officer. Riley and Tripp from the Post. We're cleared to do a feature on " 
He broke off as the figure took one shambling step toward him and his stiletto-like teeth gleamed in the narrow beam of light. 
The teeth parted, row after monstrous row. The hands, tipped with bluing claws, lifted. But the eyes the eyes were still painfully human. 
"Help me. Please, God, help me." And with a sound trapped between a sob and a howl, he leaped. 
Kadra's dagger shot through the air and into his throat with an ugly sound of steel piercing flesh. The blood that trickled out of the wound was a thin reddish green. 
"The change was not complete with this one," Kadra stated. 
"He was still human." Furious, Harper dropped to his knees and tried to find a pulse. "Goddamn it, he was still a human being. He was a fucking cop. You killed him without a thought." 
"He was neither human nor demon, but trapped between. I ended his life to save yours." 
"Is that all there is?" Harper's head whipped around, and his gaze burned into hers. "Life or death? He asked for help." 
"I gave him the only help I could. Do you think it gives me pleasure? 
With his death, one of my people dies. That is the balance." She crouched, pulled his dagger free. "That is the price." 
"We could have gotten him to the hospital. A blood transfusion, something." 
"That is fantasy!" She shot her dagger home. "He was dead the instant Sorak kissed him." She gestured toward the body as it began to smoke. "Infected with demon blood. 
There was nothing to be done for him, in your world or in mine. If Sorak has found one human to change, he has changed others." 
She glanced toward the dark maw of tunnel. She would rather face it, even if her own death waited inside, than the hot accusation in his eyes. "If you are unable to do what must be done, go back now. I will go on alone." 
"He asked for help. He was scared. I saw the fear." Now all Harper could see was a blackened skeleton. "And he never had a chance." 
Sickened, Harper got to his feet. "We'll finish it together." 
"This is the way. I smell blood, some still fresh." She walked deeper into the tunnel. 
 
Chapter 8 
 
They moved in the dark, guided by the thin beam of Harper's penlight and 
Kadra's instincts. And they moved in silence. 
She had killed a man and to Harper the charred remains they had left behind in the tunnel were still a man. She had done so with the same cold efficiency she had used to destroy the hideous little two-headed monster in 
A'Dair. 
In the zoo he'd found her brutal focus fascinating, admirable. Even sexy. 
But there they had fought beasts savage and hungry and alien despite their form. 
This had been a man. How could she be so certain that his lunge forward had been an attack instead of a plea? 
"You said it takes time for the transformation," Harper began. 
"In my world." She snapped the words out. "I can't know no one can know how the change happens in yours. No demon has ever traveled from my world to yours until now. In A'Dair, the demon carries his victim off, into a lair. For twelve hours the human sleeps, a changing sleep that is like death. Only during this period is there any hope of being saved, and even that hope is small. Once the demon wakes, it is too late. The change is irreversible even if he is not complete. He is demon. And he feeds." 
"If there's a different time frame here, maybe there's a different structure to the change." 
"He waked. He walked. He would have fed on you if he had not been stopped. The blood was already mixed, Harper. His death was a mercy. What was still human inside knew." 
She hadn't known love could be painful. She hadn't known that when your heart lay open to another it could be so easily wounded. But hers was, and the hurt ran down to the bone: he had looked at her as if she were the monster. 
She didn't want to speak of it. She wished to push it aside and do only what she had come to do. But the ache in her heart was a distraction. 
"Every human death is a death inside me." She spoke quietly, without looking at him. "I cannot save them all. I would give my life if that would make it otherwise." 
"I know that." But they both heard the doubt in his voice. 
The pain of it sliced through her, made her careless, made her vulnerable to what leaped at her out of the dark. 
It was snarling, teeth snapping. Its claws swiped, scoring her neck as she whirled to block. 
It was old and female. And it was mad. It skittered back, impossibly fast, like a spider, into the shadows. Kadra freed her sword and, going by scent and sound, struck out. 
It cackled. That was the only way to describe the sound it made as it attacked Kadra from behind. 
Harper's bullet caught it in midair. Blood gushed, that awful hue of mixed red and green, as it thudded to the ground, arms and legs drumming. 
An old woman, Harper thought as he stared into the crazed and dying face. 
One of the pitiful who so often slipped through society's fingers and into its bowels. 
She was old enough to be his grandmother. 
"You did not kill her." Kadra crouched beside him. "You did not end her life, and you must not take the weight of it. Sorak killed her, and you ended her torment. You slayed the monster. The woman was already dead." 
"Do you get used to it?" 
She hesitated, nearly lied. But when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, she gave him the truth. "Yes. You must, or how could you pick up your sword day after day? But there is regret, Harper. There is sorrow for what is lost. The demon has no regret, no sorrow. No joy or passion, no love. I think when they feed on us, they hope to consume what it is that makes us human. Our heart, our soul. But they cannot. All they can take and transform is the body. The heart and soul live on in another place. And that place is locked to them." 
"So Sorak's come here. Maybe he thinks he'll have better luck eating souls in this dimension." 
"Perhaps." 
The woman was all but ashes when Harper looked at Kadra again. "I'm sorry about before. I didn't want to believe it could happen, that we could be used this way. It was easier to blame you for stopping it than Sorak for starting it." 
"There will be more." 
"And we'll both stop it." He reached out, touched a fingertip to the claw marks on her neck. "You're hurt." 
"Scratches, because I was careless. I won't be a second time." 
"Neither will I." Not with the battle, he thought, and not with her. He took her hand as they got to their feet. "Let's find this bastard, and welcome him to New York." 
Harper kept his Glock in one hand, the knife in the other. The tunnel curved, and a dim light glowed at the end of it. He heard the rumble of a train behind them, but ahead there was silence. 
He could see signs of human habitation now. Broken glass, an empty pint bottle that had held cheap whiskey. Food wrappers, an old tennis shoe with the toe ripped out. 
"His lair." Gesturing with her chin, Kadra slid her sword out of its sheath. "He is not alone." 
"Well, why don't we join the party?" He turned the knife in his hand. "We've brought our host some nice gifts." 
She stripped off the coat, flung it aside. "He will not be pleased to see us." 
The tunnel widened. There was more debris from the life that had chosen to spread underground. Spoiled food, battered boxes that might have served as shelter. A headless doll. And as they drew closer to the light, a splatter of blood against the dingy wall. 
The first three came out in a mad rush, all claws and teeth. Harper fired, sweeping his aim left to right. There was a stench of something not human as one threw the wounded at Harper, then came in like a missile beneath the body. 
Its teeth fixed in his calf as he sliced upward with the knife. 
The teeth continued to grip his leg like a vice even as the thing began to smoke. He cursed, kicked, and felt both cloth and flesh tear as the demi-demon struck the tunnel wall. 
He spun clear to see that Kadra had already killed the third, and a fourth that had tried to use the cover of their attack for one of his own. 
She wasn't even winded. 
"That was too easy," she commented. 
"Yeah." He limped over, gritting his teeth against the burning pain of the bite. "That was a real breeze." 
"He toys with us." Now she pulled out the healing cloth. "He insults us. Bind your wound." 
He knelt, quickly tied the cloth around his bleeding leg. "And just how is sending four advance men with really nasty teeth an insult?" 
"He knew we would destroy them. Four, not fully changed, are child's play." 
"Yeah." Grimly he tightened the knot on the cloth. "I'm feeling real childlike at the moment." 
"He wants us in there. Wants to watch the battle. The smell of blood feeds him almost as much as the taste." 
"Okay." He tested his weight on the injured leg. It would have to hold. "Let's go give his majesty a real five-star meal." 
She drew her dagger, checked the balance of both blades, then nodded. 
"For your world and for mine. To the death." 
"Let's make that Sorak's death." 
They charged. 
Kadra caught a blur of movement above, and went into a roll that sent the demon flying over her head. She ran him through with one thrust, pulled her sword out clean before his body hit the ground. Using her hips, she reared up, shot her boots into the next attacker's face. And was on her feet, hacking and whirling. 
She heard gunshots and, pivoting, saw Harper slay two demi-demons on his left and set to meet another on his right with his blade. 
She spun clear, slicing with her sword, and positioned herself so they fought back-to-back. 
"Sorak is close!" she shouted. "I smell him." 
"Yeah." Sweat dripped into Harper's eyes and was ignored. "So do I." 
He shot a bony, bald demi-demon who still wore a torn and faded New York 
Mets T-shirt. As the demon smoked and died at his feet, Harper scanned the tunnel. 
He couldn't think about who they had been, he told himself, only what they had become. 
"I don't see any more of them." 
Still back-to-back, they circled. "Sorak!" Kadra shouted. 
"Come and meet your fate." 
As if on cue, light flashed into the tunnel. Through the glare of it, three demons charged. 
"He's used the portal. He's brought more through." 
Harper fired, and when the Glock clicked on empty, he used it as a club. His leg screamed as he sprang off it to launch himself into a roundhouse kick. The demon barely staggered, shoving Harper so that his wounded leg buckled. He skidded over the floor, and lost his breath and the gun when the demon landed on him. 
For the second time, he felt the bite of claws. Screaming in rage, he plunged the knife into the demon's throat, snarled like an animal himself when the thick green spewed onto his hands and face. 
When he crawled out, covered with blood, he saw Kadra fighting both of the remaining demons. 
Her blades flashed like lightning. She blocked the sickle sword that one of them swung at her, then plunged her dagger into his belly while she hacked her blade through the second demon. 
"Next time," Harper said as he limped toward her, "I get the two-on-one." 
Winded, she nodded. "Next time." 
The smoking blood hazed the air. She peered through it, pointed her sword at 
Sorak. His claws and face were smeared with the blood of the body that lay at his feet. 
He had fed, and fed again, she realized, and would have the strength of ten. 
Still, her stance was cocky, her voice a sneer. "You should have brought an army, demon king. We would have littered this place with your dead." 
"I brought better than an army." Sorak reached back and hefted a small girl by the scruff of her neck. She let out a sobbing squeal as her little legs kicked in the air, two full feet off the ground. 
Leering, Sorak skimmed his teeth over her throat. "The young are so sweet to the taste. How much for her life?" 
Kadra lowered her blade. Though her hand was steady, her heart stumbled in her chest. "Will you bargain your life with a human child's? Is not a king worth more?" 
"I was not speaking to you, Kadra, Slayer of Demons." Sorak lifted his other hand, and the gun. 
Subway cop, Harper thought on a jolt of panic. Sorak had taken the gun from the transit cop, and he had been too angry to notice the empty holster. 
On an oath, Harper shoved Kadra aside as Sorak fired. As she fell, blood streaming from her temple, the sword clattered to the ground. 
"No. Goddamn it, no!" Harper fell to his knees, gathering her up, checking quickly for a pulse. 
"I was born for her death." Sorak shook the child until she began to wail. "Tell me, Harper Doyle, were you born for death?" 
She was alive, he told himself. And slayers healed quickly. He would do whatever he could to give her that time, and to save an innocent child from death. Or worse. 
He got to his feet, the knife gripped in his hand. "For yours. I was born for yours." 
"Approach me and&" Sorak ran a blue claw teasingly down the girl's round cheek as her wails became the mewling sounds of a trapped animal. 
"I tear her to pieces. How much for the child, Harper Doyle? How much are the young worth in this world?" 
Her eyes were blue, Harper noted. Glassy as a doll's now, filled with shock. 
"How much do you want?" 
"You will do. Your life for her life. I would enjoy taking what is the slayer's and making it mine. Throw down your blade, or the child dies now." 
"And Kadra?" 
Through the stinking smoke Harper saw the gleam of jagged teeth. "Do you think your life is worth both of theirs?" Sorak stepped forward, and 
Harper could see blood coming from wounds of the claws sliding down the girl's white neck. "I could kill you where you stand with this weapon. But it would be  unsporting. Make the bargain, or watch while I give her my kiss." 
There was no bargaining with monsters. Even knowing that, Harper could see no choice. "Set her down, let her go. A knife isn't much good against a gun. You're smart enough to know that. In this world, using a kid as a shield is a sign of a coward. I thought you were a king." 
"I am more than king here. I am god." Carelessly, he tossed the girl on the floor, then drew out the globe. The portal burst open. "Run, little human child. Run quickly, or I will take you after all." 
She ran, weeping. The portal snapped shut behind her. 
"And now." Grinning, Sorak streaked forward in a move so fast that 
Harper had no chance to evade or defend. Using the back of his hand, Sorak struck Harper in the face with a blow so vicious that it threw Harper back against the wall. The knife spurted out of his hand like wet soap. 
With the wall bracing him, Harper slid to the ground. 
"You are mine now. A warrior slave in my army, in this world. I will rule here." 
"Fry in hell," Harper choked out as those claws closed over his throat. In his mind, he called out to Kadra to wake, to save herself from the horror that was coming. 
"Soon you will see what it is to be as I am. To lose those weaknesses that make you human." Sorak leaned close, his mouth only a fetid breath away from Harper's, his gleaming teeth bared. "I will give you the slayer when you wake, and we will feed on her together." 
He knew pain, agony beyond imagining as that mouth, those teeth closed over him. The shock of it ripped through his system, tore at his sanity as those keen blue claws tore through flesh until he felt his own heart prepare to burst. 
The hand that had been fighting to reach the gun in his boot convulsed, dropped limply to the ground. 
He had visions of fire and smoke, of blood and brutal death. Torment and anguish. With them came a lethargy that weighed his limbs down like molten lead. 
Through the smoke, through the pain, he heard Kadra scream his name. 
His trembling fingers closed over the gun. His numb arm moved, slowly, slowly, in exquisite pain to bring it between their bodies. Without being fully aware of where the muzzle was pointed, he fired. 
 
Chapter 9 
 
When Kadra came to, her vision was smeared with blood and pain. Her body knew a thousand stings and aches from the battle. Her ears still rang from it. 
And her first thought as she pushed to her knees was: Harper. 
The air was clogged with smoke and stink from the blood of a dozen demons and demi-demons. She remembered the child and her heart jerked. Burying her pain, she picked up her sword, gripped it in both hands. 
The sound she heard now, slicing through the filthy air, was one of greed, one of bitter glory. Whirling, she swung the sword high over her head. 
She saw, huddled by the dripping wall, Sorak, his regal cape unstained as he gifted the bleeding Harper with his evil kiss. 
Fear, rage, horror gushed through her and poured out in a single urgent cry that was Harper's name. 
She ran, screaming still, the point of her blade pointing toward the ceiling, where it caught the dim light and glinted like vengeance. 
The gunshot was a small sound, a muffled crack like the rap of a fist on wood. 
Sorak's body jerked, and his head lifted with a kind of baffled shock. He pressed a hand to his belly where his blood spilled between his slender blue-tipped fingers. 
"I am king of the Bok." Sorak watched in confusion as his own blood poured. "I am god here. I cannot be destroyed by human means." 
"Wanna bet?" With what little strength he had left, Harper fired again. "You lose," he managed before his head slumped. 
Kadra leaped between them as Sorak collapsed. She whipped her sword down, the point at its heart. "He has killed you. Harper the warrior has sent you to hell." 
"And I have made him mine." His grin spread. "And you, Kadra, 
Slayer of Demons, must destroy what you love or be destroyed by it. I have won." 
"He will never be yours. That is my vow." With all of her strength, she rammed the sword home. Leaving it buried in Sorak's body and in the stone beneath, she dropped to her knees beside Harper. 
There was blood, his own and Sorak's, on his face. The healing cloth around his wounded leg had soaked through. His eyes were already going dim. 
But they met Kadra's now with something like triumph. "He's done." 
"Yes." The slayer's fingers shook as she brushed Harper's hair from his face. "He is finished." 
"Mission accomplished, huh? The kid." He closed his eyes on a wave of agony, a flood of impossible fatigue. "The kid got back through the portal." 
"You traded your life for hers." For mine, she thought. And for mine. 
"She couldn't've been more than two. I couldn't stand there and let him  Christ." He had to gather strength just to breathe. "Your head's bleeding." 
"It's only" 
"A scratch. Yeah, yeah. Got a few of my own." He bore down, fought to clear his vision so he could see her better. "Baby, I'm pretty messed up here." 
"I will get you to a healer." 
"Kadra." He wanted to take her hand, but couldn't lift his arm. 
"Bastard kissed me. It works faster here, the change. We can't be sure how fast." 
"You will not change. You will not." Tears ran down her cheeks unchecked. "I will take you back, through the portal. To Rhee, the sorceress." 
"I'm going under. I can feel it." He was cold, cold to the bone. 
Losing, he knew, the warmth of his own humanity. "We can't take the chance. You know what you have to do." 
"No." She gripped his face with desperate hands. "No." 
"I dropped the gun. Get it for me, let me do it myself." 
"No." She pressed his face to her breast and rocked. "No, no, no." 
The smell of her flesh brought comfort, but under it, creeping under it, was an ugly, alien hunger that horrified him. "Don't let me change. If you love me, end it. Let me die human." He pressed his lips to her heart. 
"I love you. Let that be the last thing we both remember from this. I love you." 
He went limp. Panic filled her, a wild weeping as she shook him, slapped him, called to him. But he was in the changing sleep, a kind of living death, and could not be reached. 
"No. You will not take him." She leaped up, whirled to where Sorak had died. All that was left was her sword, still in the stone, and the globe the demon king had stolen. She scooped up the globe, then with a piercing battle cry, wrenched her sword free. 
Tears streamed down her stony face as she dropped down beside Harper again, wrapped her arms around him. 
But when the portal opened and the light burst over them, it took them to a world she had never seen. 
The room was white. Through a wall of glass were trees of crimson and sapphire against a pale gold sky. Framed by it, robed in white, stood Rhee. 
"Help him." Kadra laid Harper between them, stretched out her arms in pleading. "Save him." 
"I cannot." 
"You have power." 
"So do we all. Child" 
"Do not call me child." Furious, primed for battle, Kadra leaped to her feet. "Some are saved from the changing sleep through sorcery. I have heard the tales." 
"It is beyond my means to save him." 
"You say we share blood, but you refuse the one thing I have ever asked of you. You sent me to him." 
"Not I, but destiny." 
"Destiny," Kadra spat out. "Who weaves a destiny that asks a man to fight what is not his war, to risk his life in a battle not his own? 
This he did. He fought with me, and for me. He destroyed the Bok king when I failed. He laid down his life for a child who was not his own. And for this courage, for this valor, he is repaid by becoming what he fought against. Who asks such a sacrifice?" 
"There are no answers to the questions you ask. What did he bring to you, what was your gift to him?" 
"Love." 
"Then there is a way. Courage and strength," Rhee said as she stepped forward. "Vision and love. With these there is a way for you, only you, to save him." 
"How? Whatever it is, I will do. A quest, a battle? Tell me, and it is done." 
"A kiss." 
"A kiss?" 
"A gift of breath, of life and love. If your love is true, if it is pure, one to the other, the power of that kiss, of the love in it, will overcome the evil of the demon's." 
"Can it be so simple?" 
"Nothing ever is," Rhee said with a smile. "You must be cleansed first. I will help you, and tell you the rest." 
"There is no time." Her heart lurched as she gestured to Harper. 
His fingernails were a pale blue. "He is already changing." 
"Time stops here. That I can give you. He will remain as he is while we prepare." 
"There is choice," Rhee said while Kadra bathed. "There is great risk." 
"I am a warrior," Kadra replied. 
"You must be woman and warrior now." 
"So I bathe in scented oils, wash my hair with jasmine blossoms. I have no patience for such matters." 
"Rituals." Rhee's lips curved as she held out a thick white towel. 
"Do you not sharpen your sword before battle? This is not so different. 
Not all warriors are female, daughter, but all females should be warriors. He will need all you are if he is to survive this." 
"If I fail, may he stay here? Sleep, as he is sleeping now?" 
Gently, Rhee touched Kadra's hair. "Would you wish that for him? An eternity of nothing?" 
"I cannot let him change. It was the last thing he asked of me, to take his life so he might end it as a man." 
"And will you?" 
"I will not let him die a beast. I will not fail him. If I use my sword to end it, I will never lift it again." 
This, Rhee thought, was what I wished for you. Beyond valor and might, beyond battle cries and quests, a love so deep it is a drowning pool. 
"These are choices that only you can make. There is one more. The magic that passed from my blood to yours is strong. But more potent is the magic you found in your own heart. Trust it." 
Rhee closed her hands around her daughter's arms. Arms, she thought now, that had learned to lift a sword and to embrace a man who was her equal. 
"Give yourself to it without hesitation. If you waver, if you doubt and still do this thing, he may live. You may not." 
Rhee offered a long white robe. "Wear this." 
"Strange garb for battling life and death." Kadra put it on, belted it. "If my love isn't strong enough, I die." 
Rhee folded her hands because they longed to reach out, to touch, to soothe. 
"Yes. I gave you to your fate once before. And my arms ached from emptiness. I watched you, in my way, as you grew, as you became. And I was proud. But my arms were empty. Now, I give you once more to your fate." 
"Did you love the man who was my father?" 
"With everything I am. And yet I could not save him. I could only watch while he was taken from me. He would have been proud, as I am, of the life we made together in you." 
"Mother," Kadra said when Rhee turned to the arched opening. And she stepped forward, let herself be gathered close. Let herself hold. 
"You found kindness," Rhee murmured. "And forgiveness. They will make you stronger." She held tight one moment more, just one moment more. "Be strong, my daughter. It is time." 
She led Kadra back into the white room. Now Harper lay on a bed that was draped with thin white curtains. A garden of white flowers surrounded it. 
Dozens of slender, milky tapers added a quiet light. 
He wore a white shirt and trousers. His face, while deathly pale, was unmarked. 
Kadra parted the bed curtains. "His wounds." 
"This much I could do. His flesh is healed, as yours is." 
"He is beautiful. He is&" My life, she thought. "I have only known him a day, yet he has changed me forever." 
"You changed each other. And that change will be stronger than the one 
Sorak put inside him. You must believe it." 
"A sword is not enough." Kadra glanced over. "Is this my lesson?" 
"You have always had more than a sword. Sorak is dead. Together you have accomplished this great feat, and both our worlds are safe. For this gift, each of you is granted passage into both worlds. As you choose." 
"How can this be? The balance" 
"Love makes its own balance." Rhee walked to a table where each of the globes stood on a small pedestal. One emerald, one ruby. 
"The emerald is your stone, and its key opens the portal to the world you knew. The ruby is his, and its key opens to his world. I must leave you. 
What you do now is between only you two. I will always be with you. Kadra, 
Slayer of Demons, your fate is again in your own hands." 
Rhee held up her arms and vanished. 
"This I must do without sword or dagger." Still, she took her circlet from the table, placed it on her scented hair. "But I am what I am. And all I am is yours, Harper Doyle." 
She stepped to the bed, placed a hand on his cold cheek. The words were inside her, as if they, too, had been sleeping. "I love you with heart, with soul, with body. In all worlds, in all times. Come back to me." 
And bending, she laid her lips on his. 
Love and life, she thought as she breathed both into his mouth. Life and love. Strong as a stallion, pure as a dove. She drew the poison in, gave him her breath. Gift of heart and soul take now from me, and from the Demon Kiss be free. 
Pain vibrated through her, but she kept her lips warm and gentle on his. Dizzy, she braced a hand beside his head, and gave. 
I would die for you, she thought. I would live for you. 
When his mouth moved under hers, when he stirred, she slid bonelessly to her knees beside the bed. 
Outside, the sky deepened, gleamed gold, and the jeweled trees shimmered. 
Harper dreamed of swimming, fighting through a black and churning sea that was swallowing him whole. He broke through its icy void, searching for her, battling the greedy waves that sucked him back. 
Until he slid into a warm white river, floated there. And woke speaking her name. 
She lifted her head, and felt no shame at the tears as she gripped his hand. 
"Yes. Yes, yes." She pressed his hand to her cheek, kissed it, then taking his hand, she laughed in relief at the healthy color in his skin and nails. "Baby," she said, relishing the term, "I am with you." 
He saw only white, the gauzy draperies, the glow of candles through them, the richness of the flowers. Then he saw her as she rose up beside him and again laid her lips on his. 
"If this is hell," he said aloud, "it's not so bad." 
"You are not dead. You live. You are unchanged." 
He sat up, amazed at the energy running through him, the absolute freedom from pain. "How?" 
"Love was enough." 
"Works for me. Where are we? What did you do?" 
"We're in yet another dimension. Rhee the sorceress& my mother, brought us. She healed us." 
"And what, exorcised the demon?" 
"That was for me. A kiss waked you, and brought you back whole." 
"Like Sleeping Beauty? You're kidding." 
She leaned back. "You look displeased." 
"Well, Jesus, it's embarrassing." He scooped his hair back, slid off the bed. 
"You would rather die, with pride?" Though part of her understood the sentiment perfectly well, it still rankled. She who had never believed in romance had found the event desperately romantic. The kind of moment the bards write of. "You are ungrateful and stupid." 
"Stupid, maybe. Ungrateful, definitely not. But if it's all the same to you, let's just keep this one portion of the experience completely to ourselves." 
She jerked a shoulder, lifted her chin. And made him smile. "You saved my life, and you made me a man. Thank you." 
Now she sniffed. "You are a brave warrior and did not deserve the fate 
Sorak intended for you." 
"There you go. My ego's nearly back to normal now. And can I just say you look gorgeous. Incredible. In fact, there's an expression in my world about how you look right now. It goes something like, wow." 
"Ritual foolishness," she replied, flipping a hand at the robe. 
"I love the way you look. I love you, Kadra." 
She sighed. "I know. If the love between us was not strong and true, you would not have waked so I could be annoyed with you." She looked away from him, deliberately, when he came to her, when he wrapped his arms tight around her. 
So he kissed her cheek, kissed her temple where a bullet had grazed. "I thought I had lost you, and that was worse than thinking I'd lost myself." 
Yielding, she turned her lips to his. "Harper Doyle." 
"Kadra, Slayer of Demons." 
She eased back, her eyes solemn despite the humor in his. "Do you wish me to be your lifemate and bear your young?" 
"You bet I do." 
"This is what I wish as well. This is not a traditional path for a slayer." 
He lifted a hand to skim a finger over her circlet of rank. "We'll make new traditions. Stay with me, Kadra. Be with me. We'll stay here, wherever this is. It doesn't matter." 
"This is not our place." She stepped back, gestured to the two globes. "The one on the emerald stand opens to my world. The ruby to yours. I believed that to keep the balance we must each go back, must each remain in the world where we came from. But, I have vision." 
She looked back at him. "My mother is a sorceress, and her blood is my blood. I see what I once refused to see. I have magic inside me. I must practice with this as I once practiced with a sword. Until I am skilled." 
"Slayer and sorceress. I get a two-for-one." 
"There can be no balance when love is denied and refused. We are meant, so we will be." 
"Choose," he told her. "I'll live in any world, as long as it's with you." 
She picked up the bag that held their things, tossed it to him. She lifted her sword. And, crossing to the table, she lifted the globe that rested on a ruby stand. 
"The Bok have lost their king, and the slayers who are my sisters will rout them, and continue the fight against all demons. But there are battles to be fought in your world, demons of a different kind to be vanquished. I wish to fight with you there." 
"Partners, then." He took her hand, kissed it. "We make a hell of a team." 
"And I like the pie called pizza, and the beer. And even more than these, the kissing." 
"Baby, we were made for each other." 
He swung her into his arms, crushed his lips to hers. When the portal opened, and the light washed in, they leaped into it together. 
And went home. 

EVER AFTER

Chapter 1

"This," the old woman said, "is for you."
Allena studied the pendant that swung gently from the thickly braided links of a silver chain. Really, she'd only come in to browse. Her budget didn't allow for impulse buys which were, of course, the most fun and the most satisfying. And her affection for all things impulsive was the very reason she couldn't afford to indulge herself.
She shouldn't have entered the shop at all. But who could resist a tiny little place tucked into the waterfront of a charming Irish village? Especially a place called Charms and Cures.
Certainly not Allena Kennedy.
"It's beautiful, but I"
"There's only one." The woman's eyes were faded and blue, like the sea that slapped and spewed against the stone wall barely a stone's throw from the door. Her hair was steel gray and bundled into a bun that lay heavy on her thin neck.
She wore a fascinating rattle of chains and pins, but there was nothing,
Allena thought, like the pendant she held in her bony fingers. "Only one?"
"The silver was cured in Dagda's Cauldron over the Midsummer's fire and carved by the finger of Merlin. He that was Arthur's."
"Merlin?"
Allena was a sucker for tales of magic and heroics. Her stepsister Margaret would have sniffed and said no, she was simply a sucker.
"The high king's sorcerer wandered through Ireland in his time. It was here he found the Giant's Dance, and coveting it for Arthur, floated it away over the Irish Sea to Britain. But while he took magic from this land, some he also left." Watching Allena, she set the pendant swaying. "Here is some, and it belongs to you."
"Well, I really can't&" But Allena trailed off, her gaze locked on the pendant. It was a long oval, dulled and tarnished a bit, and centered in it was a carving in the shape of a bursting star.
It seemed to catch the murky, cloud-filtered light coming through the small shop window, hold it, expand it, so that it glittered hypnotically in Allena's eyes. It seemed the star shimmered.
"I just came in to look around."
"Sure and if you don't look, you can't find, can you? You came looking, all the way from America."
She'd come, Allena tried to remember, to assist Margaret with the tour group. Margaret's business, A Civilized Adventure, was very successful and very regimented. Everyone said that Allena needed some regimentation. And Margaret had been clear, brutally clear, that this opportunity was her last chance.
"Be organized, be prepared, and be on time," Margaret had told her as she'd sat behind her polished desk in her perfectly terrifying and perfectly ordered office in New York. "If you can manage that, there might be a chance for you. If you can't, I wash my hands of you, Lena."
It wouldn't be the first time someone had washed their hands of her. In the past three years she'd lost three jobs. Well, four, but it didn't seem necessary to count those hideous two days she'd spent as assistant to her uncle's mother-in-law's sister.
It wasn't as if she'd spilled ink on the white Valentino gown on purpose.
And if the Social Dragon hadn't insisted that she use a fountain pen I mean, really for all correspondence, there wouldn't have been ink to spill.
But that wasn't the point, she reminded herself as she stared at the pendant. She'd lost that job and all the others, and now Margaret was giving her a chance to prove she wasn't a complete moron.
Which, Allena feared, she probably was.
"You need to find your place."
Blinking, Allena managed to tear her gaze away from the pendant and look back into the old woman's eyes. They seemed so kind and wise. "Maybe I don't have one."
"Oh, there now, each of us has one, but there are those who don't fit so easily into the world the way others see it. And us. You've only been looking in the wrong places. Till now. This," she said again,
"belongs to you."
"I really can't afford it." There was apology in her voice, even as she reached out. Just to touch. And touching, she felt heat from the silver, and terrible longing inside her. A thrill raced up her spine even as something heavy seemed to settle over her heart.
It couldn't hurt to try it on. Surely there was no harm in just seeing how it looked on her, how it felt.
As if in a dream, she took the chain from the old woman, slipped it around her neck. The heaviness in her heart shifted. For a moment, the light through the window strengthened, beamed brilliantly over the trinkets and pots of herbs and odd little stones crammed on the shelves and counters.
An image swam into her mind, an image of knights and dragons, of wild wind and water, of a circle of stones standing alone under a black and raging sky.
Then a shadow that was a man, standing still as the stones, as if waiting.
In her heart she knew he waited for her, as no one had before and no one would after. And would wait, eternally.
Allena closed her hand over the pendant, ran her thumb over the star. Joy burst through her, clear as the sunlight. Ah, she thought. Of course. It's mine. Just as I'm his, and he's mine.
"How much is it?'' she heard herself say, and knew no price would be too dear.
"Ten pounds, as a token."
"Ten?" She was already reaching for her purse. "It has to be worth more." A king's ransom, a sorcerer's spell, a lover's dream.
"It is, of course." But the woman merely held out her hand for the single note. "And so are you. Go on your journey, a chuid, and see."
"Thank you."
"You're a good lass," the woman said as Allena walked to the door.
And when it shut, her smile turned bright and crafty. "He won't be pleased, but you'll bring him 'round by Midsummer's Eve. And if you need a bit of help, well, that will be my pleasure."
Outside, Allena stared at the sea wall, the dock, the line of cottages as if coming out of a dream. Odd, she thought, hadn't that all been wonderfully odd?
She traced a finger over the pendant again. Only one, cast in Dagda's Cauldron, carved by Merlin.
Of course, Margaret would sneer and tell her that the old woman had a dozen more in the stockroom ready to pass them off to birdbrained tourists. And
Margaret, as always, was probably right. But it didn't matter.
She had the pendant and a wonderful story to go with it. And all for ten pounds. Quite a bargain.
She glanced up now, wincing. The sky was heavy with clouds, and all of them were thick and gray. Margaret would not be pleased that the weather wasn't falling in line with today's plans. The ferry ride to the island had been meticulously arranged.
Tea and scones would be served on the trip over, while Margaret lectured her twenty-person group on the history of the place they were about to visit. It had been Allena's job to type up Margaret's notes and print the handouts.
First stop would be the visitors' center for orientation. There would be a tour of a ruined abbey and graveyard, which Allena looked forward to, then lunch, picnic style, which the hotel had provided in hampers. Lunch was to last precisely sixty minutes.
They would then visit the beehive cottages, and Margaret would deliver a lecture on their history and purpose. The group would be allotted an hour to wander on their own, into the village, the shops, down to the beach, before gathering at four-thirty on the dot for high tea at the restored castle, with, naturally, another lecture on that particular spot.
It was Allena's job to keep all of Margaret's lecture notes in order, to help herd the group, to watch valuables, to haul parcels should there be any, and to generally make herself available for any and all menial chores.
For this she would be paid a reasonable salary by Margaret's definition.
But, more important, it was explained, she would receive training and experience that, her family hoped, would teach her responsibility and maturity.
Which, by the age of twenty-five, she should have learned already.
There was no point in explaining that she didn't want to be responsible and mature if it turned her into another Margaret. Here she was, four days into her first tour and already something inside her was screaming to run away.
Dutifully, she quashed the rebellion, glanced at her watch. Stared at it, dumbfounded.
That couldn't be. It was impossible. She'd only meant to slip into the shop for a few minutes. She couldn't possibly have spent an hour in there. She couldn't oh, God, she couldn't have missed the ferry.
Margaret would murder her.
Gripping the strap of her bag, she began to run.
She had long, dancer's legs and a slim build. The sturdy walking shoes
Margaret had ordered her to buy slapped pavement on her race to the ferry dock.
Her bag bounced heavily against her hip. Inside was everything ordered from the
Civilized Adventure directive and a great deal more.
The wind kicked in from the sea and sent her short blond hair into alarmed spikes around her sharp-boned face. The alarm was in her eyes, gray as the clouds, as well. It turned quickly to despair and self-disgust when she reached the dock and saw the ferry chugging away.
"Damn it!" Allena grabbed her own hair and pulled viciously.
"That's it and that's all. I might as well jump in and drown myself."
Which would be more pleasant, she had no doubt, than the icy lecture Margaret would deliver.
She'd be fired, of course, there was no doubt of it. But she was used to that little by-product of her professional endeavors. The method of termination would be torture.
Unless  There had to be another way to get to the island. If she could get there, throw herself on Margaret's stingy supply of mercy, work like a dog, forfeit her salary. Make an excuse. Surely she'd be able to come up with some reason for missing the damn ferry.
She looked around frantically. There were boats, and if there were boats, there were people who drove boats. She'd hire a boat, pay whatever it cost.
"Are you lost, then?"
Startled, she lifted a hand, closed it tight over her pendant. There was a young man hardly more than a boy, really, she noted standing beside a small white boat. He wore a cap over his straw-colored hair and watched her out of laughing green eyes.
"No, not lost, late. I was supposed to be on the ferry." She gestured, then let her arms fall. "I lost track of time."
"Well, time's not such a matter in the scheme of things."
"It is to my sister. I work for her." Quickly now, she headed down toward him where the sea lapped the shore. "Is this your boat, or your father's?"
"Aye, it happens it's mine."
It was small, but to her inexperienced eye looked cheerful. She had to hope that made it seaworthy. "Could you take me over? I need to catch up. I'll pay whatever you need."
It was just that sort of statement, Allena thought the minute the words left her mouth, that would make Margaret cringe. But then bargaining wasn't a priority at the moment. Survival was.
"I'll take you where you need to be." His eyes sparkled as he held out a hand. "For ten pounds."
"Today everything's ten pounds." She reached for her purse, but he shook his head.
"It was your hand I was reaching for, lady, not payment. Payment comes when you get where you're going."
"Oh, thanks." She put her hand in his and let him help her into the boat.
She sat starboard on a little bench while he cast off. Closing her eyes with relief, she listened to the boy whistle as he went about settling to stern and starting the motor. "I'm very grateful," she began. "My sister's going to be furious with me. I don't know what I was thinking of."
He turned the boat, a slow and smooth motion. "And couldn't she have waited just a bit?"
"Margaret?" The thought made Allena smile. "It wouldn't have occurred to her."
The bow lifted, and the little boat picked up speed. "It would have occurred to you,'' he said, and then they were skimming over the water.
Thrilled, she turned her face to the wind. Oh, this was better, much better, than any tame ferry ride, lecture included. It was almost worth the price she would pay at the end, and she didn't mean the pounds.
"Do you fish?" she called out to him.
"When they're biting."
"It must be wonderful to do what you want, when you want. And to live so near the water. Do you love it?"
"I've a fondness for it, yes. Men put restrictions on men. That's an odd thing to my way of thinking."
"I have a terrible time with restrictions. I can never remember them." The boat leaped, bounced hard and made her laugh. "At this rate, we'll beat the ferry."
The idea of that, the image of her standing on shore and giving Margaret a smug look when the ferry docked, entertained Allena so much she didn't give a thought to the shiver of lightning overhead or the sudden, ominous roar of the sea.
When the rain began to pelt her, she looked around again, shocked that she could see nothing but water, the rise and fall of it, the curtain that closed off light.
"Oh, she won't like this a bit. Are we nearly there?"
"Nearly, aye, nearly." His voice was a kind of crooning that smoothed nerves before they could fray. "Do you see there, through the storm? There, just ahead, is where you need to be."
She turned. Through the rain and wind, she saw the darker shadow of land, a rise of hills, the dip of valley in shapes only. But she knew, she already knew.
"It's beautiful," she murmured.
Like smoke, it drifted closer. She could see the crash of surf now and the cliffs that hulked high above. Then in the flash of lightning, she thought, just for an instant, she saw a man.
Before she could speak, the boat was rocking in the surf, and the boy leaping out into the thrashing water to pull them to shore.
"I can't thank you enough, really." Drenched, euphoric, she climbed out onto the wet sand. "You'll wait for the storm to pass, won't you?" she asked as she dug for her wallet.
"I'll wait until it's time to go. You'll find your way, lady. Through the rain. The path's there."
"Thanks." She passed the note into his hand. She'd go to the visitors' center, take shelter, find Margaret and do penance. "If you come up with me, I'll buy you some tea. You can dry off."
"Oh, I'm used to the wet. Someone's waiting for you," he said, then climbed back into his boat.
"Yes, of course." She started to run, then stopped. She hadn't even asked his name. "I'm sorry, but" When she rushed back, there was nothing there but the crash of water against the shore.
Alarmed that he'd sailed back into that rising storm, she called out, began to hurry along what she could see of the shore to try to find him. Lightning flashed overhead, more vicious than exciting now, and the wind slapped at her like a furious hand.
Hunching against it, she jogged up the rise, onto a path. She'd get to shelter, tell someone about the boy. What had she been thinking of, not insisting that he come with her and wait until the weather cleared?
She stumbled, fell, jarring her bones with the impact, panting to catch her breath as the world went suddenly mad around her. Everything was howling wind, blasting lights, booming thunder. She struggled to her feet and pushed on.
It wasn't fear she felt, and that baffled her. She should be terrified. Why instead was she exhilarated? Where did this wicked thrill of anticipation, of knowledge, come from?
She had to keep going. There was something, someone, waiting. If she could just keep going.
The way was steep, the rain blinding. Somewhere along the way she lost her bag, but didn't notice.
In the next flash of light, she saw it. The circle of stones, rising out of the rough ground like dancers trapped in time. In her head, or perhaps her heart, she heard the song buried inside them.
With something like joy, she rushed forward, her hand around the pendant.
The song rose, like a crescendo, filling her, washing over her like a wave.
And as she reached the circle, took her first step inside, lightning struck the center, the bolt as clear and well defined as a flaming arrow. She watched the blue fire rise in a tower, higher, higher still, until it seemed to pierce the low-hanging clouds. She felt the iced heat of it on her skin, in her bones.
The power of it hammered her heart.
And she fainted.

Chapter 2
The storm made him restless. Part of the tempest seemed to be inside him, churning, crashing, waiting to strike out. He couldn't work. His concentration was fractured. He had no desire to read, to putter, to simply be. And all of those things were why he had come back to the island.
Or so he told himself.
His family had held the land, worked it, guarded it, for generations. The
O'Neils of Dolman had planted their seed here, spilled their blood and the blood of their enemies for as far back as time was marked. And further still, back into the murky time that was told only in songs.
Leaving here, going to Dublin to study, and to work, had been Conal's rebellion, his escape from what others so blithely accepted as his fate. He would not, as he'd told his father, be the passive pawn in the chess game of his own destiny.
He would make his destiny.
And yet, here he was, in the cottage where the O'Neils had lived and died, where his own father had passed the last day of his life only months before.
Telling himself it had been his choice didn't seem quite so certain on a day where the wind lashed and screamed and the same violence of nature seemed to thrash inside him.
The dog, Hugh, which had been his father's companion for the last year of his life, paced from window to window, ears pricked up and a low sound rumbling in his throat, more whimper than growl.
Whatever was brewing, the dog sensed it as well, so that his big gray bulk streamed through the cottage like blown smoke. Conal gave a soft command in
Gaelic, and Hugh came over, bumping his big head under Conal's big hand.
There they stood, watching the storm together, the large gray dog and the tall, broad-shouldered man, each with a wary expression. Conal felt the dog shudder. Nerves or anticipation? Something, all Conal could think, was out there in the storm.
Waiting.
"The hell with it. Let's see what it is."
Even as he spoke, the dog leaped toward the door, prancing with impatience as Conal tugged a long black slicker off the peg. He swirled it on over rough boots and rougher jeans and a black sweater that had seen too many washings.
When he opened the door, the dog shot out, straight into the jaws of the gale. "Hugh! Cuir uait!"
And though the dog did stop, skidding in the wet, he didn't bound back to
Conal's side. Instead he stood, ears still pricked, despite the pounding rain, as if to say hurry!
Cursing under his breath, Conal picked up his own pace, and let the dog take the lead.
His black hair, nearly shoulder-length and heavy now with rain, streamed back in the wind from a sharply-honed face. He had the high, long cheekbones of the Celts, a narrow, almost aristocratic nose, and a well-defined mouth that could look, as it did now, hard as granite. His eyes were a deep and passionate blue.
His mother had said they were eyes that saw too much, and still looked for more.
Now they peered through the rain, and down, as Hugh climbed, at the turbulent toss of the sea. With the storm, the day was almost black as night, and he cursed again at his own foolishness in being out in it.
He lost sight of Hugh around a turn on the cliff path. More irritated than alarmed, he called the dog again, but all that answered was the low-throated, urgent bark. Perfect, was all Conal could think. Now the both of us will likely slip off the edge and bash our brains on the rocks.
He almost turned away, at that point very nearly retreated, for the dog was surefooted and knew his way home. But he wanted to go on too much wanted to go on. As if something was tugging him forward, luring him on, higher and higher still, to where the shadow of the stone dance stood, singing through the wind.
Because part of him believed it, part of him he had never been able to fully quiet, he deliberately turned away. He would go home, build up the fire, and have a glass of whiskey in front of it until the storm blew itself out.
Then the howl came, a wild and primitive call that spoke of wolves and eerie moonlight. The shudder that ran down Conal's spine was as primal as the call.
Grimly now, he continued up the path to see what caused young Hugh to bay.
The stones rose, gleaming with wet, haloed by the lightning strikes so that they almost seemed to glow. A scent came to him, ozone and perfume. Hot, sweet, and seductive.
The dog sat, his handsome head thrown back, his great throat rippling with his feral call. There was something in it, Conal thought, that was somehow triumphant.
"The stones don't need guarding," Conal muttered. He strode forward, intending to grab the dog by the collar and drag them both back to the warmth of the cottage.
And saw that it wasn't the stones Hugh guarded, but the woman who lay between them.
Half in and half out of the circle, with one arm stretched toward the center, she lay on her side almost as if sleeping. For a moment he thought he imagined her, and wanted to believe he did. But when he reached her side, his fingers instinctively going to her throat to check her pulse, he felt the warm beat of life.
At his touch her lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened. They were gray as the stones and met his with a sudden and impossible awareness. A smile curved her lips, parted them as she lifted a hand to his cheek.
"There you are," she said, and with a sigh closed her eyes again.
Her hand slid away from his cheek to fall onto the rain-trampled grass.
Delirious, he told himself, and most likely a lunatic. Who else would climb the cliffs in a storm? Ignoring the fact that he'd done so himself, he turned her over, seeing no choice but to cart her back to the cottage.
And when he started to gather her into his arms, he saw the pendant, saw the carving on it in another spit of lightning.
His belly pitched. His heart gave one violent knock against his chest, like an angry fist.
"Damn it."
He stayed crouched as he was, closing his eyes while the rain battered both of them.
She woke slowly, as if floating lazily through layers of thin, white clouds.
A feeling of well-being cushioned her, like satin pillows edged with the softest of lace. Savoring it, she lay still while sunlight played on her eyelids, cruised warm over her face. She could smell smoke, a pleasant, earthy scent, and another fragrance, a bit darker, that was man.
She enjoyed that mix, and when she opened her eyes, her first thought was she'd never been happier in her life.
It lasted seconds only, that sensation of joy and safety, of contentment and place. Then she shot up in bed, confused, alarmed, lost.
Margaret! She'd missed the ferry. The boat. The boy in the boat. And the storm. She'd gotten caught in it and had lost her way. She couldn't quite remember, couldn't quite separate the blurry images.
Stones, higher than a man and ringed in a circle. The blue fire that burned in the center without scorching the grass. The wild scream of the wind. The low hum of the stones.
A wolf howling. Then a man. Tall, dark, fierce, with eyes as blue as that impossible fire. Such anger in his face. But it hadn't frightened her. It had amused her. How strange.
Dreams, of course. Just dreams. She'd been in some sort of accident.
Now she was in someone's house, someone's bed. A simple room, she thought, looking around to orient herself. No, not simple, she corrected, spartan. Plain white walls, bare wood floor, no curtains at the window. There was a dresser, a table and lamp and the bed. As far as she could tell, there was nothing else in the room but herself.
Gingerly now, she touched her head to see if there were bumps or cuts, but found nothing to worry her. Using the same caution, she turned back the sheet, let out a little sigh of relief. Whatever sort of accident there'd been, it didn't appear to have hurt her.
Then she gaped, realizing she wore nothing but a shirt, and it wasn't her own. A man's shirt, faded blue cotton, frayed at the cuffs. And huge.
Okay, that was okay. She'd been caught in the storm. Obviously she had gotten soaked. She had to be grateful that someone had taken care of her.
When she climbed out of bed, the shirt hung halfway to her knees. Modest enough. At her first step, the dog came to the door. Her heart gave a little hitch, then settled.
"So at least you're real. Aren't you handsome?" She held out a hand and had the pleasure of him coming to her to rub his body against her legs. "And friendly. Good to know. Where's everyone else?"
With one hand on the dog's head, she walked to the bedroom door and discovered a living area that was every bit as spartan. A couch and chair, a low burning fire, a couple of tables. With some relief she saw her clothes laid over a screen in front of the fire.
A check found them still damp. So, she hadn't been asleep unconscious for long. The practical thing to do, now that she'd apparently done everything impractical, was to find her rescuer, thank him, wait for her clothes to dry, then track down Margaret and beg for mercy.
The last part would be unpleasant, and probably fruitless, but it had to be done.
Bolstering herself for the task, Allena went to the door, opened it. And let out a soft cry of sheer delight.
The watery sunlight shimmered over the hills, and the hills rolled up green in one direction, tumbled down in the other toward the rock-strewn shore. The sea reared and crashed, the walls of waves high and wonderful. She had an urge to rush out, to the edge of the slope, and watch the water rage.
Just outside the cottage was a garden gone wild so that flowers tangled with weeds and tumbled over themselves. The smell of them, of the air, of the sea had her gulping in air, holding her breath as if to keep that single sharp taste inside her forever.
Unable to resist, she stepped out, the dog beside her, and lifted her face to the sky.
Oh, this place! Was there ever a more perfect spot? If it were hers, she would stand here every morning and thank God for it.
Beside her, the dog let out one quiet woof, at which she rested her hand on his head again and glanced over at the little building, with its rough stone, thatched roof, wide-open windows.
She started to smile, then the door of it opened. The man who came out stopped as she did, stared as she did. Then with his mourn hard set, he started forward.
His face swam in front of her. The crash of the sea filled her head with roaring. Dizzy, she held out a hand to him, much as she had to the dog.
She saw his mouth move, thought she heard him swear, but she was already pitching forward into the dark.

Chapter 3
She looked like a faerie, standing there in a wavery sunbeam. Tall and slender, her bright hair cropped short, her eyes long-lidded, tilted at the tips, and enormous.
Not a beauty. Her face was too sharp for true beauty, and her mouth a bit top-heavy. But it was an intriguing face, even in rest.
He'd thought about it even after he'd dumped her in bed after carrying her in from the storm. Undressing her had been an annoying necessity, which he'd handled with the aloof detachment of a doctor. Then, once she was dry and settled, he'd left her, without a backward glance, to burn off some of the anger in work.
He worked very well in a temper.
He didn't want her here. He didn't want her. And, he told himself, he wouldn't have her, no matter what the fates decreed.
He was his own man.
But now when he came out, saw her standing in the doorway, in the sunlight, he felt the shock of it sweep through him longing, possession, recognition, delight, and despair. All of those in one hard wave rose inside him, swamped him.
Before he could gain his feet, she was swaying.
He didn't manage to catch her. Oh, in the storybooks, he imagined, his feet would have grown wings and he'd have flown across the yard to pluck her nimbly into his arms before she swooned. But as it was, she slid to the ground, melted wax pooling into the cup and taking all the candle as well, before he'd closed half the distance.
By the time he reached her, those long gray eyes were already opening again, cloudy and dazed. She stared at him, the corners of her mouth trembling up.
"I guess I'm not steady yet," she said in that pretty American voice. "I know it's a cliché and predictable, but I have to say it where am I?''
She looked ridiculously appealing, lying there between the flowers, and made him all too aware she wore nothing but one of his shirts. "You're on
O'Neil land."
"I got losta bad habit of mine. The storm came up so fast."
"Why are you here?"
"Oh, I got separated from the group. Well, I was lateanother bad habit and missed the ferry. But the boy brought me in his boat." She sat up then. "I hope he's all right. He must be, as he seemed to know what he was doing and it was such a quick trip anyway. Is the visitors' center far?"
"The visitors' center?"
"I should be able to catch up with them, though it won't do me a lot of good. Margaret'll fire me, and I deserve it."
"And who is Margaret?"
"My stepsister. She owns A Civilized Adventure. I'm working for her or I did work for her for the last twenty-three days." She let out a breath, tried the smile again. "I'm sorry. I'm Allena Kennedy, the moron. Thank you for helping me."
He glanced down at the hand she held out, then with some reluctance took it.
Instead of shaking it, he pulled her to her feet. "I've a feeling you're more lost than you know, Miss Kennedy, as there's no visitors' center here on
Dolman Island."
"Dolman? But that's not right." The hand in his flexed, balled into a little fist of nerves. "I'm not supposed to be on Dolman Island.
Oh, damn it. Damn it! It's my fault. I wasn't specific with the boy. He seemed to know where I was going, was supposed to be going. Or maybe he got turned around in the storm, too. I hope he's all right."
She paused, looked around, sighed. "Not just fired," she murmured.
"Disinherited, banished, and mortified all in one morning. I guess all I can do is go back to the hotel and wait to face the music."
"Well, it won't be today."
"Excuse me?"
Conal looked out to sea, studying the crashing wall of waves. "You won't find your way back today, and likely not tomorrow, as there's more coming our way."
"But" She was talking to his back as he walked inside as though he hadn't just sealed her doom. "I have to get back. She'll be worried."
"There'll be no ferry service in these seas, and no boatman with a brain in his head would chance the trip back to the mainland."
She sat on the arm of a chair, closed her eyes. "Well, that caps it. Is there a phone? Could I use your phone to call the hotel and leave a message?"
"The phones are out."
"Of course they are." She watched him go to the fire to add some bricks of turf. Her clothes hung on the screen like a recrimination. "Mr.
O'Neil?"
"Conal." He straightened, turned to her. "All the women I undress and put into bed call me Conal."
It was a test, deliberately provocative. But she didn't flush or fire.
Instead her eyes lit with humor. "All the men who undress me and put me into bed call me Lena."
"I prefer Allena."
"Really? So do I, but it seems to be too many syllables for most people. Anyway, Conal, is there a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast where I can stay until the ferry's running again?"
"There's no hotel on Dolman. It's a rare tourist who comes this far.
And the nearest village, of which there are but three, is more than eight kilometers away."
She gave him a level look. "Am I staying here?"
"Apparently."
She nodded, rubbing her hand absently over Hugh's broad back as she took stock of her surroundings. "I appreciate it, and I'll try not to be a nuisance."
"It's a bit late for that, but we'll deal with it." When her only response was to lift her eyebrows and stare steadily, he felt a tug of shame.
"Can you make a proper pot of tea?"
"Yes."
He gestured toward the kitchen that was separated from the living area by a short counter. "The makings are in there. I've a few things to see to, then we'll talk this out over a cup."
"Fine." The word was rigidly and properly polite. Only the single gunshot bang of a cupboard door as he started out again told him she was miffed.
She'd make the damn tea, she thought, jerking the faucet on to fill the kettle, which was no easy matter since the cast-iron sink was loaded with dishes. And she'd be grateful for Conal O'Neil's hospitality, however reluctantly, however rudely given.
Was it her fault she'd ended up on the wrong island? Was it her fault she'd gotten turned around in a storm and passed out and had to be carted back to his house? Was it her fault she had nowhere else to go?
Well, yes. She rolled her eyes and began to empty the dishes out of the sink so that she could fill it with soapy water and wash them. Yes, technically it was her fault. Which just made it all the more annoying.
When she got back to New York she would be jobless. Again. And once more she'd be the object of pity, puzzlement, and pursed lips. And that was her fault, too. Her family expected her to fail now flighty, scatterbrained
Lena.
Worse, she realized, was that she expected it, too.
The problem was she wasn't particularly good at anything. She had no real skill, no craft, and no driving ambitions.
She wasn't lazy, though she knew Margaret would disagree. Work didn't frighten her. Business did.
But that was tomorrow's problem, she reminded herself as she dealt with the dishes and waited for the kettle to boil. Today's problem was Conal O'Neil and how to handle the situation she'd put them both into.
A situation, she thought, as she went about stacking dishes, wiping counters, heating the teapot, that should have been thrilling. A storm-swept island; a handsome, brooding man; a cozy, if rustic, cottage isolated from the world.
This, she decided, perking up, was an adventure. She was going to find a way to enjoy it before the axe fell.
When Conal came back in, the old teapot was sitting snugly in a frayed and faded cozy. Cups and saucers were set on the table, and the table scrubbed clean. The sink was empty, the counters sparkling, and the chocolate biscuits he'd had in a tin were arranged prettily on a plate.
"I was hungry." She was already nibbling on one. "I hope you don't mind."
"No." He'd nearly forgotten what it was like to sit down and have tea in tidiness. Her little temper snap appeared to be over as well, he noted.
She looked quietly at home in his kitchen, in his shirt.
"So." She sat down to pour. The one thing she was good at was conversation. She'd often been told she was too good at it. "You live here alone?"
"I do."
"With your dog."
"Hugh. He was my father's. My father died some months back."
She didn't say she was sorry, as so many too many would have.
But her eyes said it, and that made it matter more. "It's a beautiful spot. A perfect spot. That's what I was thinking before I fell into your garden. You grew up here?"
"I did."
"I grew up in New York, in the city. It never fit, somehow." She studied him over her teacup. "This fits you. It's wonderful to find the right fit. Everyone in my family fits except me. My parents and Margaret and
James my brother and sister. Their mother died when Margaret was twelve and James ten. Their father met my mother a couple of years later, then they married and had me."
"And you're Cinderella?"
"No, nothing as romantic as that." But she sighed and thought how lovely it would be. "Just the misfit. They're all brilliant, you see.
Every one of them. My father's a doctor, a surgeon. My mother's a lawyer. James is a wildly successful cosmetic surgeon, and Margaret has her own business with
A Civilized Adventure."
"Who would want an adventure civilized?"
"Yes." Delighted, Allena slapped a palm on the table. "That's exactly what I thought. I mean, wouldn't regimenting it mean it wasn't an adventure at all? But saying that to Margaret earned me a twenty-minute lecture, and since her business is thriving, there you go."
The light was already shifting, he noted, as a new sea of clouds washed in.
But there was enough of the sun yet to sprinkle over her hair, into her eyes.
And make his fingers itch for a pencil.
He knew just what he would do with her, exactly how it would be. Planning it, he let his gaze wander over her. And nearly jolted when he saw the pendant.
He'd all but forgotten it.
"Where did you get that?"
She'd seen those vivid blue eyes travel down, had felt a shiver of response, and now another of relief that she hoped it was the pendant that interested him.
"This? It's the heart of my problem."
She'd meant it as a joke, but his gaze returned to her face, all but seared the flesh with the heat of it. "Where did you get it?"
Though the edge to his voice puzzled her, she shrugged. "There was a little shop near the waterfront. The display window was just crammed with things. Wonderful things. Magic."
"Magic."
"Elves and dragons, books and jewelry in lovely, fascinating shapes. A hodgepodge, but a crafty one. Irresistible. I only meant to go in for a minute.
I had time before we were to meet at the ferry. But the old woman showed me this, and somehow while we were talking, time just went away. I didn't mean to buy it, either. But I do a lot of things I don't mean to do."
"You don't know what it is?"
"No." She closed her hand over it, felt that low vibration that couldn't be there, blinked as something tried to slide in on the edge of her vision. "It feels old, but it can't be old, not valuably old, because it only cost ten pounds."
"Value's different for one than for another." He reached out. It was irresistible. With his eyes steady and level he closed his hand over hers that held the pendant.
The jolt snapped into her, sharp as an electric current. The air seemed to turn the blue of lightning. She was on her feet, her head tipping back to keep her eyes locked with his as he shoved back from the table with enough violence to send his chair crashing.
That same violence was in him when his mouth crushed hers. The need, so bright, so strong, so right, whipped through her even as the wind rushed sudden and sharp through the window at her back. Her hand fisted in his hair, her body lifted itself to his.
And fit.
The pounding of her heart was like a song, each note a thrill. Here, with him, it was enough, even if the world crumbled to dust around them.
He couldn't stop. The taste of her was like water, cool and clean, after a lifetime of thirst. Empty pockets he hadn't known he carried inside him filled, bulged, overflowed. His blood was a rage of heat, his body weak with wanting.
He gathered the back of the shirt in his bunched fingers, prepared to rip.
Then they dropped the pendant they held between them to reach for each other. And he snapped back as if from a blow.
"This is not what I want." He took her shoulders, intending to shake her, but only held her. She looked dazed. Faerie-struck. "This is not what I'll accept."
"Would you let me go?" Her voice was low, but it didn't quaver.
When he did, and stepped back, she let out a short, quiet breath. There was no point in being a coward, she told herself.
"I have a couple of choices here," she began. "One is I hit my head when I fell and I have a concussion. The other is that I just fell in love with you. I think I prefer the concussion theory, and I imagine you do, too."
"You didn't hit your head." He jammed his hands in his pockets and strode away from her. The room was suddenly too small. "And people don't fall in love in an instant, over one kiss."
"Sensible ones don't. I'm not sensible. Ask anyone." But if there was ever a time to try to be, it was now.
"I think I should get dressed, take a walk, clear my head or whatever."
"Another's storm's brewing."
Allena tugged her clothes off the screen. "You're telling me," she muttered and marched into the bedroom.

Chapter 4
Conal wasn't in the cottage when she came out again, but Hugh sat by the fire as if waiting for her. He got up as she came through and pranced to the door, turning his big head so that his eyes met hers.
"Want a walk? Me, too."
It was a pity about the gardens, Allena thought as she paused between them.
She'd have enjoyed getting down into them, yanking out those choking weeds, pinching off deadheads. An hour's pleasant work, she thought, maybe two, and instead of looking wild and neglected, those tumbling blossoms would just look wild. Which is what was needed here.
Not her job, she told herself, not her home, not her place. She cast an eye at the little outbuilding. He was probably in there doing  whatever the hell he did. And doing it, she imagined, angrily.
Why was there so much anger in him?
Not her problem, she thought, not her business, not her man.
Though for a moment, when their hands and mouths were joined, he had seemed to be.
I don't want this. I don't want you.
He'd made himself very clear. And she was tired of finding herself plopped down where she wasn't wanted.
The wind raced in off the sea, driving thick black-edged clouds toward the island. As she began to walk, she could see the pale and hopeful blue being gradually, inevitably consumed.
Conal was right. A storm was coming.
Walking along the shoreline couldn't do any harm. She wouldn't climb the hills, though she longed to. She would just stick to the long curve of surf and sand and enjoy the jittery thrill of watching the fierce waves crash.
Hugh seemed content to walk at her side. Almost, she thought, like a guard.
Eight kilometers to the nearest village, she remembered. That wasn't so very far. She could wait for the weather to clear, then walk it if Conal wouldn't drive her. There'd been a truck parked between the cottage and the outbuilding, a sleek and modern thing, anachronistic but surely serviceable.
Why had he kissed her like that?
No, that wasn't right. It hadn't been his doing. It had simply happened, to both of them. For both of them. There'd been a roar in her head, in her blood, that she'd never experienced before. More than passion, she thought now, more than lust. It was a kind of desperate recognition.
There you are. Finally. At last.
That, of course, was ridiculous, but she had no other way to explain what had spurted to life inside her. And what had spread from that first hot gush felt like love.
You couldn't love what you didn't know. You couldn't love where there was no understanding, no foundation, no history. Her head told her all these sensible, rational things. And her heart laughed at them.
It didn't matter. She could be conflicted, puzzled, annoyed, even willing to accept. But it didn't matter when he didn't want her or what had flamed to life between them.
She stopped, let the wind beat its frantic wings over her, let the spray from the waves fly on her. Overhead a gull, white as the moon, let out its triumphant scream and streamed off in the current of electric air.
Oh, she envied that freedom, for the heart of flight was inside her. To simply fly away, wherever the wind took her. And to know that when she landed, it would be her place, her time, her triumph.
But you have to live in the present, don't you, Lena? Her mother's patient and puzzled voice murmured in her ear. You have to apply yourself, to pay attention. You can't keep drifting this way and make something of yourself. It's time you focused on a career, put your considerable energy into making your mark.
And under that voice, unsaid, was You disappoint me.
"I know it. I'm sorry. It's awful. I wish I could tell you how awful it is to know I'm your only failure."
She would do better, Allena promised herself. She'd talk Margaret into giving her a second chance. Somehow. Then she'd work harder, pay more attention, be responsible, be practical.
Be miserable.
The dog bumped his head against her leg, rubbed his warm fur against her.
The small gesture comforted her and turning away from the water, she continued to walk along its verge.
She'd come out to clear her head, she reminded herself, not to fill it with more problems. Surely there couldn't be a more perfect spot for easing heart and mind. Under those threatening skies, the rough hills shone, the wicked cliffs gleamed. Wildflowers, dots and splashes of color, tangled in the green and gray, and she saw a shadowy spread of purple that was heather.
She wanted to gather it, fill her arms with it, bury her face in the scent.
Delighted with the idea, she turned to scramble over rocks where sprigs of it thrived in the thin soil, then higher to mounds bumpy and thick until the fragrance of it overpowered even the primitive perfume of the sea.
When her arms were full, she wanted more. Laughing, she hurried along a narrow path. Then stopped dead. Startled, she shook her head. She heard the oddest hum. She started to step forward again, and couldn't. Simply couldn't.
It was as if a wall of glass stood between her and the next slope of rock and flowers.
"My God, what is this?"
She lifted a trembling hand, sending sprigs of heather falling, then flying free in the wind. She felt no barrier, but only a kind of heat when her hand pressed the air. And try as she might, she couldn't push through it.
Lightning burst. Thunder rolled. Through it, she heard the sound of her name. She looked down to the beach, half expecting to see dragons or sorcerers.
But it was only Conal, standing with his legs spread, his hair flying, and his eyes annoyed.
"Come down from there. You've no business clambering up the rocks when a storm's breaking."
What a picture she made. He'd come after her out of responsibility, he liked to think. But he'd been dumbstruck when he'd seen her walking the cliff path in the eerie light, her hair fluttering, her arms overflowing with flowers. It made him want to climb after her, to whirl her and her flowers into his arms, to press his mouth to hers again while the wind whipped savagely over them.
Because he wanted it, could all but taste her, his tone was blade-sharp when she met him on the beach. "Have you no more sense than to pick flowers in such weather?"
"Apparently not. Would you walk down there?"
"What?"
"Just humor me, and walk down the beach five more feet."
"Maybe you did rattle your brains." He started to grab her hand, pull her away, but she took a nimble step aside.
"Please. It'll only take you a minute."
He hissed out an oath, then strode off, one foot, two, three. His abrupt halt had Allena closing her eyes, shivering once. "You can't do it, can you? You can't go any farther than that. Neither could I." She opened her eyes again, met his furious ones when he turned. "What does it mean?"
"It means we deal with it. We'll go back. I've no desire to find myself drenched to the skin a second time in one day."
He said nothing on the way back, and she let him have his silence. The first fat drops of rain splattered as they reached the cottage door.
"Do you have anything to put these in?" she asked him.
"They'll need water, and I'd like to keep my hands busy while you explain things to me."
He shrugged, made a vague gesture toward the kitchen, then went to add more turf to the fire.
It was a downpour. The wind rose to a howl, and she began to gather vases and bottles and bowls. When he remained silent, scowling into the fire, she heated up the tea.
He glanced over when she poured the cups, then went into the kitchen himself to take out a bottle of whiskey. A healthy dollop went into his own tea, then he lifted a brow, holding the bottle over hers.
"Well, why not?"
But when it was laced, she picked up the flowers instead of the cup and began to tuck them into vases. "What is this place? Who are you?"
"I've told you that already."
"You gave me names." The homey task calmed her, as she'd known it would. When her gaze lifted to his again, it was direct and patient.
"That's not what I meant."
He studied her, then nodded. Whether she could handle it or not, she deserved to know. "Do you know how far out in the sea you are?"
"A mile, two?"
"More than ten."
"Ten? But it couldn't have taken more than twenty minutes to get here and in rough weather."
"More than ten miles out is Dolman Island from the southwest coast of
Ireland. Here we straddle the Atlantic and Celtic Seas. Some say the silkies come here, to shed their hides and sun on the rocks in human form. And the faeries come out of their rafts under the hills to dance in the moonlight."
Allena slipped the stems of shorter blossoms into a squat bottle. "Do you say it?"
"Some say," he continued without answering, "that my great-grandmother left her raft, her palace under the hill, and pledged herself to my great-grandfather on the night of the summer solstice while they stood by the king stone of the dance on the cliffs. One hundred years ago. As a hundred years before, another with my blood stood with his woman in that same place to pledge. And a century before that as well, and always on that same night in that same place when the star shows itself."
She touched her pendant. "This star?"
"They say."
"And in two days it's the solstice, and your turn?"
"If I believed my great-grandmother was other than a simple woman, that
I have elfin blood in my veins and could be directed to pledge to a woman because of the way a star shines through the stones, I wouldn't be in this place."
"I see." She nodded and carried one of the vases into the living room to set it on a table. "So you're here to prove that everything you've just told me is nonsense."
"Can you believe otherwise?"
She had no idea what she believed, but had a feeling there was a great deal, a very great deal, that she could believe. "Why couldn't I walk away from here, Conal? Why couldn't you?"
She left the question hanging, walked back into the kitchen. She took a sip of her tea, felt the hot flow of whiskey slide into her, then began to select her other arrangements and put them where she liked. "It would be hard for you, being told this story since you were a child, being expected to accept it."
"Can you accept it?" he demanded. "Can you just shrug off education and reason and accept that you're to belong to me because a legend says so?"
"I would've said no." Pleasing herself, she set bottles of heather on the narrow stone mantel over the simmering fire. "I would have been intrigued, amused, maybe a little thrilled at the idea of it all. Then I would have laughed it off. I would have," she said as she turned to face him.
"Until I kissed you and felt what I felt inside me, and inside you."
"Desire's an easy thing."
"That's right, and if that had been it, if that had been all, we'd both have acted on it. If that had been all, you wouldn't be angry now, with yourself and with me."
"You're awfully bloody calm about it."
"I know." She smiled then, couldn't help herself. "Isn't that odd? But then, I'm odd. Everyone says so. Lena, the duck out of water, the square peg, the fumbler always just off center. But I don't feel odd or out of place here. So it's easier for me to be calm."
Nor did she look out of place, he thought, wandering through the cottage placing her flowers. "I don't believe in magic."
"And I've looked for it all my life." She took a sprig of heather, held it out to him. "So, I'll make you a promise."
"You don't owe me promises. You don't owe me anything."
"It's free. I won't hold you with legends or magic. When I can leave, if that's what you want, I'll go."
"Why?"
"I'm in love with you, and love doesn't cling."
Humbled, he took the heather, slipped it into her hair. "Allena, it takes clear eyes to recognize what's in the heart so easily. I don't have them.
I'll hurt you." He skimmed his fingers down her cheek. "And I find
I'd rather not."
"I'm fairly sturdy. I've never been in love before, Conal, and I might be terrible at it. But right now it suits me, and that's enough."
He refused to believe anything could be so simple. "I'm drawn to you. I want my hands on you. I want you under me. If that's all, it might not be enough for you, or for me in the end. So it's best to stand back."
He walked to the peg, tugged down his slicker. "I need to work," he said, and went out into the rain.
It would be more than she'd had, she realized, and knew that if necessary, she could make it enough.
The storm was only a grumble when he came back. Evening was falling, soft and misty. The first thing he noticed when he stepped inside, was the scent.
Something hot and rich that reminded his stomach it was empty.
Then he noticed the little changes in the living room. Just a few subtle touches: a table shifted, cushions smoothed. He wouldn't have noticed the dust, but he noticed the absence of it, and the faint tang of polish.
She'd kept the fire going, and the light, mixed with that of the candles she'd found and set about, was welcoming. She'd put music on as well and was humming along to it as she worked in the kitchen.
Even as he hung up his slicker, the tension he'd carried through his work simply slid off his shoulders.
"I made some soup," she called out. "I hunted up some herbs from the kitchen bed, foraged around in here. You didn't have a lot to work with, so it's pretty basic."
"It smells fine. I'm grateful."
"Well, we have to eat, don't we?"
"You wouldn't say that so easy if I'd been the one doing the cooking." She'd already set the table, making the mismatched plates and bowls look cheerful and clever instead of careless. There were candles there, too, and one of the bottles of wine he'd brought from Dublin stood breathing on the counter.
She was making biscuits.
"Allena, you needn't have gone to such trouble."
"Oh, I like puttering around. Cooking's kind of a hobby." She poured him wine. "Actually, I took lessons. I took a lot of lessons. This time I thought maybe I'd be a chef or open my own restaurant."
"And?"
"There's a lot more to running a restaurant than cooking. I'm horrible at business. As for the chef idea, I realized you had to cook pretty much the same things night after night, and on demand, to suit the menu, you know? So, it turned into one of my many hobbies." She slipped the biscuits into the oven. "But at least this one has a practical purpose. So." She dusted her hands on the dishcloth she'd tucked into her waistband. "I hope you're hungry."
He flashed a grin that made her heart leap. "I'm next to starving."
"Good." She set out the dish of cheese and olives she'd put together. "Then you won't be critical."
Where he would have ladled the soup straight from the kettle, she poured it into a thick white bowl. Already she'd hunted out the glass dish his mother had used for butter and that he hadn't seen for years. The biscuits went in a basket lined with a cloth of blue and white checks. When she started to serve the soup, he laid a hand over hers.
"I'll do it. Sit."
The scents alone were enough to make him weep in gratitude. The first taste of herbed broth thick with hunks of vegetables made him close his eyes in pleasure.
When he opened them again, she was watching him with amused delight. "I like your hobby," he told her. "I hope you'll feel free to indulge yourself with it as long as you're here."
She selected a biscuit, studied it. It was so gratifying to see him smile.
"That's very generous of you."
"I've been living on my own poor skills for some months now." His eyes met hers, held. "You make me realize what I've missed. I'm a moody man, Allena."
"Really?" Her voice was so mild the insult nearly slipped by him.
But he was quick.
He laughed, shook his head, and spooned up more soup. "It won't be a quiet couple of days, I'm thinking."

Chapter 5
He slept in his studio. It seemed the wisest course.
He wanted her, and that was a problem. He had no doubt she would have shared the bed with him, shared herself with him. As much as he would have preferred that to the chilly and narrow cot crammed into his work space, it didn't seem fair to take advantage of her romantic notions.
She fancied herself in love with him.
It was baffling, really, to think that a woman could make such a decision, state it right out, in a fingersnap of time. But then, Allena Kennedy wasn't like any of the other women who'd passed in and out of his life. A complicated package, she was, he thought. It would have been easy to dismiss her as a simple, almost foolish sort. At a first and casual glance.
But Conal wasn't one for casual glances. There were layers to her thoughtful, bubbling, passionate, and compassionate layers. Odd, wasn't it? he mused, that she didn't seem to recognize them in herself.
That lack of awareness added one more layer, and that was sweetness.
Absently, with his eyes still gritty from a restless night, he began to sketch. Allena Kennedy from New York City, the square peg in what appeared to be a family of conformists. The woman who had yet to find herself, yet seemed perfectly content to deal with where she'd landed. A modern woman, certainly, but one who still accepted tales of magic.
No, more than accepted, he thought now. She embraced them. As if she'd just been waiting to be told where it was she'd been going all along.
That he wouldn't do, refused to do. All his life he'd been told this day would come. He wouldn't passively fall in, give up his own will. He had come back to this place at this time to prove it.
And he could almost hear the fates giggling.
Scowling, he studied what he'd drawn. It was Allena with her long eyes and sharp bones, the short and shaggy hair that suited that angular face and slender neck. And at her back, he'd sketched in the hint of faerie wings.
They suited her as well.
It annoyed the hell out of him.
Conal tossed the pad aside. He had work to do, and he'd get to it as soon as he'd had some tea.
The wind was still up. The morning sun was slipping through the stacked clouds to dance over the water. The only thunder now was the crash and boom of waves on the shore. He loved the look of it, that changing and capricious sea.
His years in Dublin hadn't been able to feed this single need in him, for the water and the sky and the rough and simple land that was his.
However often he left, wherever he went, he would always be drawn back. For here was heart and soul.
Turning away from the sea, he saw her.
She knelt in the garden, flowers rioting around her and the quiet morning sun shimmering over her hair. Her face was turned away from him, but he could see it in his mind. She would have that half-dreaming, contented look in her eyes as she tugged away the weeds he'd ignored.
Already the flowers looked cheerful, as if pleased with the attention after weeks of neglect.
There was smoke pluming from the chimney, a broom propped against the front wall. She'd dug a basket out of God knew where, and in this she tossed the weeds. Her feet were bare.
Warmth slid into him before he could stop it and murmured welcome in his ear.
"You don't have to do that."
She looked up at his voice, and she was indeed happy. "They needed it.
Besides, I love flowers. I have pots of them all over my apartment, but this is so much better. I've never seen snapdragons so big." She traced a finger on a spike of butter-yellow blooms. "They always make me think of
Alice."
"Alice?"
"In Wonderland. I've already made tea." She got to her feet, then winced at the dirt on the knees of her trousers. "I guess I should've been more careful. It's not like I have a vast wardrobe to choose from at the moment. So. How do you like your eggs?"
He started to tell her she wasn't obliged to cook his breakfast. But he remembered just how fine the soup had been the night before. "Scrambled would be nice, if it's no trouble."
"None, and it's the least I can do for kicking you out of your own bed." She stepped up to the door, then turned. Her eyes were eloquent, and patient. "You could have stayed."
"I know it."
She held his gaze another moment, then nodded. "You had some bacon in your freezer. I took it out last night to thaw. Oh, and your shower dripped. It just needed a new washer."
He paused at the doorway, remembered, as he hadn't in years, to wipe his feet. "You fixed the shower?"
"Well, it dripped." She was already walking into the kitchen.
"You probably want to clean up. I'll get breakfast started."
He scratched the back of his neck. "I'm grateful."
She slanted him a look. "So am I."
When he went into the bedroom, she did a quick dance, hugged herself. Oh, she loved this place. It was a storybook, and she was right in the middle of it. She'd awakened that morning half believing it had all been a dream. But then she'd opened her eyes to that misty early light, had smelled the faint drift of smoke from the dying fire, the tang of heather she'd put beside the bed.
It was a dream. The most wonderful, the most real dream she'd ever had. And she was going to keep it.
He didn't want it, didn't want her. But that could change. There were two days yet to open his heart. How could his stay closed when hers was so full?
Love was nothing like she'd expected it to be.
It was so much more brilliant.
She needed the hope, the faith, that on one of the days left to her he would wake up and feel what she did.
Love, she discovered, was so huge it filled every space inside with brightness. There was no room for shadows, for doubts.
She was in love, with the man, with the place, with the promise. It wasn't just in the rush of an instant, though there was that thrill as well. But twined with it was a lovely, settled comfort, an ease of being, of knowing. And that was something she wanted for him.
For once in her life, she vowed, she wouldn't fail. She would not lose.
Closing her eyes, she touched the star that hung between her breasts.
"I'll make it happen," she whispered, then with a happy sigh, she started breakfast.
He didn't know what to make of it. He couldn't have said just what state the bathroom had been in before, but he was dead certain it hadn't sparkled. There may or may not have been fresh towels out the last time he'd seen it. But he thought not. There hadn't been a bottle of flowers on the windowsill.
The shower had dripped, that he remembered. He'd meant to get to that.
He could be certain that it was a great deal more pleasant to shower and shave in a room where the porcelain gleamed and the air smelled faintly of lemon and flowers.
Because of it, he guiltily wiped up after himself and hung the towel to dry instead of tossing it on the floor.
The bedroom showed her touch as well. The bed was tidily made, the pillows fluffed up. She'd opened the windows wide to bring in the sun and the breeze.
It made him realize he'd lived entirely too long with dust and dark.
Then he stepped out. She was singing in the kitchen. A pretty voice. And the scents that wafted to him were those of childhood. Bread toasting, bacon frying.
There was a rumble he recognized as the washer spinning a load. He could only shake his head.
"How long have you been up and about?" he asked her.
"I woke up at dawn." She turned to pass him a mug of tea over the counter. "It was so gorgeous I couldn't get back to sleep. I've been piddling."
"You've a rare knack for piddling."
"My father calls it nervous energy. Oh, I let Hugh out. He bolted to the door the minute my feet hit the floor, so I figured that was the routine."
"He likes to run around in the mornings. Dog piddling, I suppose."
It made her laugh as she scooped his eggs from skillet to plate. "He's terrific company. I felt very safe and snug with him curled up at the foot of the bed last night."
"He's deserted me for a pretty face." He sat, then caught her hand.
"Where's yours?"
"I had something earlier. I'll let you eat in peace. My father hates to be chattered at over breakfast. I'll just hang out the wash."
"I'm not your father. Would you sit? Please." He waited until she took a seat and for the first time noticed nerves in the way she linked her fingers together. Now what was that about? "Allena, do you think I expect you to cater to me this way? Cook and serve and tidy?"
"No, of course not." The lift had gone out of her voice, out of her eyes. "I've overstepped. I'm always doing that. I didn't think."
"That's not what I meant. Not at all." His eyes were keen, part of his gift, and they saw how her shoulders had braced, her body tensed.
"What are you doing? Waiting for the lecture?" With a shake of his head, he began to eat. "They've done what they could, haven't they, to stifle you? Why is it people are always so desperate to mold another into their vision, their way? I'm saying only that you're not obliged to cook my meals and scrub my bath. While you're here you should do what pleases you."
"I guess I have been."
"Fine. You won't hear any complaints from me. I don't know what you've done with these humble eggs unless it's magic."
She relaxed again. "Thyme and dill, from your very neglected herb bed.
If I had a house, I'd plant herbs, and gardens." Imagining it, she propped her chin on her fist. "I'd have stepping-stones wandering through it, with a little bench so you could just stop and sit and look. It would be best if it was near the water so I could hear the beat of it the way I did last night.
Pounding, like a quickened heart."
She blinked out of the image, found him staring at her. "What? Oh, I was running on again." She started to get up, but he took her hand a second time.
"Come with me."
He got to his feet, pulled her to hers. "The dishes"
"Can wait. This can't."
He'd already started it that morning with the sketch. In his head, it was all but finished, and the energy of it was driving him, so he strode quickly out of the house, toward his studio. She had to run to keep up.
"Conal, slow down. I'm not going anywhere."
Ignoring her, he shoved open the door, pulled her in after him. "Stand by the window."
But she was already moving in, eyes wide and delighted. "You're an artist. This is wonderful. You sculpt."
The single room was nearly as big as the main area of the cottage. And much more cramped. A worktable stood in the center, crowded with tools and hunks of stone, pots of clay. A half dozen sketch pads were tossed around. Shelves and smaller tables were jammed with examples of his work. Mystical, magical creatures that danced and flew.
A blue mermaid combed her hair on a rock. A white dragon breathed fire.
Faeries no bigger than her thumb ringed in a circle with faces sly. A sorcerer nearly as tall as she, held his arms high and wept.
"They're all so alive, so vivid." She couldn't help herself, she had to touch, and so she ran her finger down the rippling hair of the mermaid.
"I've seen this before," she murmured. "Not quite this, but the same feeling of it, but in bronze. At a gallery in New York."
She looked over then where he was impatiently flipping through a sketch pad.
"I've seen your work in New York. You must be famous."
His answer was a grunt.
"I wanted to buy itthe mermaid. I was with my mother, and I couldn't because she'd have reminded me I couldn't afford the price. I went back the next day, because I couldn't stop thinking about it, but it was already sold."
"In front of the window, turn to me."
"That was two years ago, and I've thought about her a dozen times since. Isn't it amazing that she was yours?"
Muttering an oath, he strode to her, pulled her to the window. "Lift your head, like that. Hold it there. And be quiet."
"Are you going to draw me?"
"No, I'm after building a boat here. Of course I'm drawing you. Now be quiet for one bloody minute."
She shut her mouth, but couldn't do anything about the grin that trembled on her lips. And that, he thought, was precisely what he wanted. Just that trace of humor, of energy, of personal delight.
He would do a clay model, he thought, and cast her in bronze. Something that gleamed gold and warmed to the touch. She wasn't for stone or wood. He did three quick studies of her face, moving around her for a change of angle. Then he lowered his pad.
"I need the line of your body. Your shape. Take off your clothes."
"Excuse me?"
"I have to see how you're made. The clothes are in the way of you."
"You want me to pose nude?"
With an effort, he brought himself back from his plans, met her eyes.
"If this was a matter of sex, I wouldn't have slept on that rock in the corner last night. You've my word I won't touch you. But I have to see you."
"If this was a matter of sex, I wouldn't be so nervous. Okay." She shut her eyes a minute, bolstered her courage. "I'm like a bowl of fruit," she told herself and unbuttoned her shirt.
When she slipped it off, folded it, set it aside, Conal lifted a brow.
"No, you're like a woman. If I wanted a bowl of fruit, I'd get one."

Chapter 6
She was slim, leaning toward angular, and exactly right. Eyes narrowed, mind focused, he flipped up a fresh page and began.
"No, keep your head up," he ordered, faintly irritated that she should be so exactly right. "Hold your arms back. Just a bit more. Palms down and flat. No, you're not a flaming penguin, spread your fingers a little.
Ah."
It was then he noticed the faint flush spreading over her skin, the stiffness in her movements. Moron, he told himself and bit back a sigh. Of course she was nervous and embarrassed. And he'd done nothing to put her at ease.
He'd grown too used, he supposed, to professional models who undraped without a thought. She liked to talk, so he would let her talk.
"Tell me about these lessons of yours."
"What?"
"The lessons. You said you'd taken a number of lessons on this and that. What was it you studied?"
She pressed her lips together, fought back the foolish urge to cross her arms over her breasts. "I thought you said I wasn't supposed to talk."
"Now I'm saying you can."
She heard the exasperation, rolled her eyes. What was she, a mind reader?
"I, ah, took art lessons."
"Did you now? Turn to the right just a bit. And what did you learn from them?"
"That I'm not an artist." She smiled a little. "I'm told I have a good eye for color and shapes and aesthetics, but no great skill with the execution."
Yes, it was better when she talked. Her face became mobile again. Alive again. "That discouraged you?"
"Not really. I draw now and then when I'm in the mood."
"Another hobby?"
"Oh, I'm loaded with them. Like music. I took music lessons."
Ah, she was relaxing. The doe-in-the-crosshairs look was fading from her eyes. "What's your instrument?"
"The flute. I'm reasonably adept, but I'm never going to have a chair with the Philharmonic."
She shrugged, and he bit back a sharp order for her not to change the line.
"I took a course in computer programming, and that was a complete wash.
As most of my business courses were, which scuttled the idea I had of opening a little craft shop. I could handle the craft part, but not the shop part."
Her gaze was drawn back to the mermaid. She coveted that, not just the piece itself, but the talent and vision that had created it.
"Stand on your toes. That's it, that's lovely. Hold a minute. Why don't you take on a partner?"
"For what?"
"The shop, if it's what you want. Someone business-minded."
"Mostly because I have enough business sense to know I could never afford the rent in New York, the start-up costs." She moved a shoulder.
"Overhead, equipment, stock. I guess running a business is a study in stress. Margaret always says so."
Ah, he thought, the inestimable Margaret, whom he'd already decided to detest. "What do you care what she says? No, that's not right. It's not quite right. Turn around. You have a beautiful back."
"I do?" Surprise had her turning her head to look at him.
"There! Hold that. Lower your chin a little more to your shoulder, keep your eyes on me."
That was what he wanted. No shyness here. Coyness was something different altogether. There was a hint of that in the upward angle of her gaze, the tilt of her head. And just a bit of smugness as well, in the slight curve of her lips.
Allena of the Faeries, he thought, already eager to begin in clay. He ripped the sheets off the pad, began tacking them to the wall.
"I'll do better with you as well as the sketches. Relax a minute while
I prep the clay." As he passed, he touched a hand absently to her shoulder. He stopped. "Christ, you're cold. Why didn't you say something?"
She was turning toward him, a slow shift of her body. "I didn't notice."
"I didn't think to keep the fire going." His hand skimmed over her shoulder, fingers tracing the blade where he imagined wings. "I'll build one now." Even as he spoke he was leaning toward her, his eyes locked on hers. Her lips parted, and he could feel the flutter of her breath.
He jerked back, like a man snapping out of a dream. Lifted his hand, then held them both up, away from her. "I said I wouldn't touch you. I'm sorry."
The rising wave of anticipation in her broke, then vanished as he walked away to yank a blanket from the cot. "I wish you weren't. Sorry, I mean."
He stood with the table between them, the blanket in his hands, and felt like a man drowning. There was no shyness in her now, nor coyness. But the patience was there, and the promise.
"I don't want this need for you. Do you understand?"
"You want me to say yes." She was laid bare now, she realized.
Much more than her body laid bare. "It would make it easier if I said that
I understand. But I can't, I don't. I want that need, Conal. And you."
"Another place, another time," he murmured. "There'd be no need to understand. Another place, another time, I'd want it as well."
"This is here," she said quietly. "And this is now. It's still your choice."
He wanted to be sure of it, wanted to know there was nothing but her.
"Will you take that off?"
She lifted a hand to the pendant, her last shield. Saying nothing, she slipped the chain over her head, then walked to the table, set it down.
"Do you think I'll feel differently without it?"
"There's no magic between us now. We're only who and what we are."
He stepped to her, swept the blanket around her shoulders. "It's as much your choice as mine, Allena. You've a right to say no."
"Then&" She laid her hands on his shoulders, brought her lips to within a breath of his. "I've also a right to say yes."
It was she who closed that tenuous distance so mouths and bodies met. And she who let the blanket drop when her arms went around him.
She gave, completely, utterly. All the love, so newly discovered in her heart, poured out for him. Her lips seduced, her hands soothed, her body yielded.
There was a choice. She had made hers, but he still had his own. To draw back, step away and refuse. Or to gather close and take. Before his blood could take over, before it was all need and heat, he took her face in his hands until their eyes met again.
"With no promises, Allena."
He suffered. She could see the clouds and worry in his eyes, and said what she hoped would comfort. And be the truth as well. "And no regrets."
His thumbs skimmed over her cheeks, tracing the shape of her face as skillfully as he'd drawn it on paper. "Be with me, then."
The cot was hard and narrow, but might have been a bed of rose petals as they lay on it. The air was chill, still damp from the storm, but she felt only warmth when his body covered hers.
Here. At last.
He knew his hands were big, the palms rough and calloused from his work, and very often careless. He would not be careless with her, would not rush through the moment they offered each other. So he touched her, gently, giving himself the pleasure of the body he'd sketched. Long limbs, long bones, and soft white skin. Her sigh was like music, the song his name.
She tugged off his sweater, sighing again when flesh met flesh, and again murmuring his name against the pulse of his own throat. With only that, she gave him the sweetness he'd denied himself. Whatever he had of that simple gift inside him, he offered back.
Under him she lifted and moved as if they'd danced this dance together for a lifetime. Flowed with and against him, now fluid, now strong. And the quickening pulse that rose in her was like his own.
Her scent was soap, her taste fresh as rain.
He watched her glide up, the faerie again, soaring on one long spread of wings. As she crested, her eyes opened, met his. And she smiled.
No one had brought her so much, or shown her how much she had to offer. Her body quivered from the thrill of it, and in her heart was the boundless joy of finding home.
She arched up, opened so he would fill her. As he slid inside her, the beauty dazzled, and the power hummed.
While they took each other, neither noticed the star carved in silver, glowing blue as flame.
She lay over him now, snug under his arm with her cheek upon his chest. It was lovely to hear how his heart still pounded. A kind of rage, she thought, though he'd been the most tender of lovers.
No one could have shown her that kind of caring if there wasn't caring inside.
And that, she thought, closing her eyes, was enough.
"You're cold," he murmured.
"Am not." She snuggled against him and would have frozen to the bone before she let him move. But she lifted her head so she could grin at him.
"Allena Kennedy." His fingers trailed lightly down the back of her neck. "You look smug."
"I feel smug. Do you mind?"
"I would be a foolish man to mind."
She bent down to kiss his chin, a sweet and casual gesture that moved him.
"And Conal O'Neil is not a foolish man. Or is he?" She angled her head. "If we can't go beyond a certain point and walk to the village, wouldn't it follow that no one from the village can come here?"
"I suppose it would."
"Then let's do something foolish. Let's go swim naked in the sea."
"You want to swim naked in the sea?"
"I've always wanted to. I just realized it this minute." She rolled off the cot and tugged at his hand. "Come be foolish with me,
Conal."
"Leannan, the first wave'll flatten you."
"Will not." Leannan. She had no idea what it meant, but it sounded tender, and made her want to dance. She raked both hands through her hair, then the light of challenge lighted her eyes. "Race you."
She darted off like a rabbit and had him scrambling up. "Wait. Damn it, the seas are too rough for you."
Bird bones, he thought, snatching up the blanket on his way. She would crack half a dozen of them in minutes.
No, she didn't run like a rabbit, he realized. She ran like a bloody gazelle, with long, loping strides that had her nearly at the foaming surf. He called out her name, rushing after her. His heart simply stopped when she raced into the water and dived under its towering wall.
"Sweet Jesus."
He'd gotten no farther than the beach when she surfaced, laughing. "Oh, it's cold!" She struggled to the shallows, slicking her hair back, lifted her face, her arms. For the second time his heart stopped, but now it had nothing to do with alarm.
"You're a vision, Allena."
"No one's ever said that to me before." She held out a hand.
"No one's ever looked at me the way you do. Ride the sea with me."
It had been, he decided, much too long since he'd been foolish. "Hold on, then."
It tossed them up, a rush of power. It sucked them down into a blind, thundering world. The tumult of it was freedom, a cocky dare to fate. Wrapped around each other, they spun as the waves rolled over them.
Breathless, they surfaced, only to plunge in again. Her scream wasn't one of fear, but a cry of victory as, latched around him, she was swept into the air again.
"You'll drown us both!" he shouted, but his eyes were lit with wicked humor.
"I won't. I can't. Nothing but wonders today. Once more." She locked her arms around his neck. "Let's go under just once more."
To her shrieking delight, he snatched her off her feet and dived into the cresting wave with her.
When they stumbled out, panting, their hands were linked.
"Your teeth are chattering."
"I know. I loved it." But she snuggled into the blanket he wrapped around them both. "I've never done anything like that. I guess you've done it dozens of times."
"Not with the likes of you."
It was, she thought, the perfect thing to say. She held the words to her for a moment even as she held him. Hard against her heart.
"What does leannan mean?"
"Hmm?" Her head was on his shoulder, her arms linked around his waist. Everything inside him was completely at peace.
"Leannan. You said that to me, I wondered what it means."
His hand paused in midstroke on her hair. "It's a casual term," he said carefully. "A bit of an endearment, is all. 'Sweetheart' would be the closest."
"I like it."
He closed his eyes. "Allena, you ask for too little."
And hope for everything, she thought. "You shouldn't worry, Conal. I'm not. Now, before we both turn blue out here, I'll make fresh tea, and you'll build up the fire." She kissed him. "Right after I pick up some of these shells."
She wiggled away, leaving him holding the blanket and shaking his head. Most of the shells that littered the beach had been broken by the waves, but that didn't appear to bother her. He left her to it and went into the studio to tug on his jeans.
She had a pile of shells when he came back, offering her his sweater and her pendant.
"I won't wear it if it bothers you."
"It's yours." Deliberately, as if challenging the fates, he slipped it around her neck. "Here, put this on before you freeze."
She bundled into it, then crouched to put the shells into the blanket.
"I love you, Conal, whether I'm wearing it or not. And since loving you makes me happy, it shouldn't worry you."
She rose. "Don't spoil it," she murmured. "Let's just take today, then see about tomorrow."
"All right." He took her hand, brought it to his lips. "I'll give you a promise after all."
"I'll take it."
"Today will always be precious to me, and so will you."

Chapter 7
She dug out an ancient pair of Conal's jeans, found a hunk of frayed rope, and went to work with scissors. As a fashion statement the chopped jeans, rough belt, and baggy sweater said Island Shipwreck, but they did the job.
As he insisted on making the tea this time around, she busied herself hanging the wash. And dreaming.
It could be just this way, she thought. Long, wonderful days together. Conal would work in his studio, and she'd tend the house, the gardens  and, oh, the children when they came along.
She would paint the shutters and the little back porch. She'd put an arbor in front, plant roses the only roses she would have so that they'd climb up and twine and ramble and it would be like walking through a fairy tale every time she went into the house.
And it would be her fairy tale, ever after.
They would need to add rooms, of course, for those children. A second floor, she imagined, with dormer windows.
Another bath, a bigger kitchen, but nothing that would take away from the lovely cottage-by-the-sea feeling.
She'd make wonderful meals, keep the windows sparkling, sew curtains that would flutter in the breeze.
She stopped, pegging a sheet that flapped wetly. Her mother would be appalled. Household chores were something you hired other people to do because you had a career. You were a professional  something.
Of course, it was all just fantasy, she told herself as she moved down the clothesline. She had to make a living somehow. But she'd worry about that later. For now, she was going to enjoy the moment, the thrilling rush of being in love, the jittery ache of waiting to be loved in return.
They would have today, and their tomorrow. Whatever happened after, she'd have no regrets.
With the last of the laundry hung, she stepped back, lifted the basket to rest it on her hip. She saw Hugh prancing down the hill.
"Well, so you decided to come home. What have you got there?" Her eyes widened as she recognized the brown bulk he carried in his mouth. "My bag!"
She dropped the basket and rushed to him. And Hugh, sensing a game, began to race in circles around her.
Conal watched from the doorway. The tea was steeping in the pot, and he'd been about to call to her. Now he simply stood.
Sheets billowed like sails in the wind. He caught the clean, wet scent of them, and the drift of rosemary and lemon balm from the herb bed she'd weeded that morning. Her laughter lifted up, bright and delighted, as she raced with the dog.
His tattered old jeans hung on her, though she'd hacked them off to above her ankles. She'd rolled up the cuffs, pushed up the sleeves on his sweater, but now as she ran around with Hugh, they'd come down again and fell over her hands. She hadn't put on her shoes.
She was a joy to watch. And when, he wondered, had he stopped letting joy into his life? The shadow of his fate had grown longer with each passing year.
He'd huddled under it, he thought now, telling himself he was standing clear.
He had let no one touch him, let nothing be important to him but his work.
He had estranged himself from his father and his home. Those had been his choices, and his right. Now, watching Allena play tug-of-war with the big dog in a yard filled with sun and sailing white sheets, he wondered for the first time what he'd missed along the way.
And still, whatever he'd missed, she was here.
The pendant was here.
The solstice was closing in.
He could refuse it. He could deny it. However much this woman called to his blood, he would, at the end of that longest day, determine his own fate.
It would not be magic that forced his destiny, but his own will.
He saw Allena yank, Hugh release. She stumbled back, clutching something to her chest, then landed hard on her back. Conal was out the door and across the yard in a single skipping heartbeat.
"Are you hurt?" He issued one sharp order to the dog in Gaelic that had Hugh hanging his head.
"Of course not." She started to sit up, but Conal was already gathering her, stroking, murmuring something in Gaelic that sounded lovely.
Loving. Her heart did one long, slow cartwheel. "Conal."
"The damn dog probably outweighs you, and you've bones like a bird."
"We were just playing. There, now, you've hurt Hugh's feelings. Come here, baby, it's okay."
While Conal sat back on his heels and scowled, she hugged and cuddled the dog. "It's all right. He didn't mean it, whatever it was. Did you,
Conal?"
Conal caught the sidelong glance the dog sent him, and had to call it smug.
"I did."
She only laughed and kissed Hugh's nose. "Such a smart dog, such a good dog," she crooned. "He found my bag and brought it home. I, on the other hand, am a moron. I forgot all about it."
Conal studied the oversized purse. It was wet, filthy, and now riddled with teeth marks. That didn't seem to bother her a bit. "It's taken a beating."
"I must've dropped it in the storm. Everything's in here. My passport, my credit cards, my ticket. My makeup." She hugged the bag, thrilled to have her lipstick back. "Oh, and dozens of things. Including my copy of
Margaret's itinerary. Do you think the phone's working now?"
Without waiting for him to answer, she leaped up. "I can call her hotel, let her know I'm all right. She must be frantic."
She dashed into the house, clutching the bag, and Conal stayed as he was.
He didn't want the phones to be working. He didn't want that to break their bubble. Realizing it left him shaken. Here, he thought, at the first chance to reach out of their world, she'd run to do it.
Of course she had. He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Wouldn't he have done the same? She had a life beyond this, beyond him. The romance of it had swept her away for a while, just as it had nearly swept him. She would get her feet back under her and move on. That was as it should be. And what he wanted.
But when he rose to go after her, there was an ache inside him that hadn't been there before.
"I got through." Allena sent him a brilliant smile. She stood by the counter, the phone in her hand and what appeared to be half her worldly goods dumped on the table. "She's cheeked in, and they're going to ring her room. I only hope she didn't call my parents. I'd hate to think they'd Margaret! Oh, I'm so glad you're "
She broke off again, and Conal watched the light in her eyes go dim.
"Yes, I know. I'm so sorry. I missed the ferry and&"
Saying nothing, he moved past her and got down mugs for tea. He had no intention of leaving her to her privacy.
"Yes, you're right, it was irresponsible. Inexcusable, yes, that, too, to leave you shorthanded this way. I tried to "
He saw the moment she gave up, when her shoulders slumped and her face went carefully blank. "I understand. No, of course, you can't be expected to keep me on after this. Oh, yes, I know it was against your better judgment in the first place. You were very clear about that. I'm sorry I let you down. Yes, again."
Shame, fatigue, resignation closed in on her, a dingy fog of failure. She shut her eyes. "No, Margaret, excuses don't matter when people are depending on you. Did you call Mom and Dad? No, you're right. What would have been the point?"
"Bloody bitch," Conal muttered. They'd just see how Margaret liked being on the other end of a tongue-lashing, he decided, and grabbed the phone out of Allena's hand. The buzz of the dial tone left him no victim for his outrage.
"She had to go," Allena managed. "Schedule. I should Excuse me."
"No, damned if I will." He took her shoulders in a firm grip before she could escape. There were tears on her lashes. He wanted Margaret's neck in his hands. "You'll not go off to lick your wounds. Why did you take that from her?"
"She was right. I was irresponsible. She has every reason to fire me.
She'd never have taken me on in the first place without family pressure."
"Family pressure? Bugger it. Where was her family concern? Did she ask if you were all right? What had happened? Where you were? Did she once ask you why?"
"No."
A tear spilled over, slid down her cheek and inflamed him. "Where is your anger?" he demanded.
"What good does it do to be angry?" Wearily, she brushed the tear away. "I brought it on myself. I don't care about the job. That's the problem, really. I don't care about it. I wouldn't have taken it if I'd had a choice. Margaret's probably right. I bungle this way on purpose."
"Margaret is a jackass."
"No, really, she's not." She managed a wobbly grin. "She's just very disciplined and goal-oriented. Well, there's no use whining about it." She patted his hand, then moved away to pour the tea. "I'll call my parents after I've settled down a little, explain  oh, God."
Pressing her palms to the counter, she squeezed her eyes shut. "I hate disappointing them this way. Over and over, like a cycle I can't break. If I could just do something, if I could just be good at something."
Shaking her head, she went to the refrigerator to take out last night's soup to heat for lunch. "You don't know how much I envy you your talent and your confidence in it. My mother always said if I'd just focus my energies instead of scattering them a dozen different ways, I'd move beyond mediocre."
"It should have shamed her to say such a thing to you."
Surprised by the violence in his tone, she turned back. "She didn't mean it the way I made it sound. You have to understand, they're all so smart and clever and, well, dedicated to what they do. My father's chief of surgery, my mother's a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms on the East
Coast. And I can't do anything."
There was the anger. It whipped through her as she slammed the pot on the stove. Pleased to see it, Conal folded his arms, leaned back, and watched it build.
"There's James with his glossy practice and his gorgeous trophy wife and certified genius child, who's a complete brat, by the way, but everyone says she's simply precocious. As if precocious and rude are synonymous. And
Margaret with her perfect office and her perfect wardrobe and her perfect home and her perfectly detestable husband, who won't see anything but art films and collects coins."
She dumped soup into the pot. "And every Thanksgiving they all sit around patting each other on the back over how successful and brilliant they are. Then they look at me as if I'm some sort of alien who got dumped on the doorstep and had to be taken in for humanitarian purposes. And I can't be a doctor or a lawyer or a goddamn Indian chief no matter how hard I try because I just can't do anything."
"Now you should be ashamed."
"What?" She pressed her fingers to her temples. Temper made her dizzy, and fuzzy-headed, which is why she usually tried to avoid it.
"What?"
"Come here." He grabbed her hand, pulled her into the living room.
"What did you do here?"
"About what?"
"What are the things you did in here?"
"I& dusted?"
"To hell and back again with the dust, Allena. Look here at your flowers and candles and your bowl of broken shells. And out here."
He dragged her to the door, shoved it open. "Here's a garden that was suffering from neglect until the morning. Where's the sand that was all over the walk that I didn't even notice until it was gone? There are sheets drying in the wind out back and soup heating in the kitchen. The bloody shower doesn't drip now. Who did those things?"
"Anyone can sweep a walk, Conal."
"Not everyone thinks to. Not everyone cares to. And not everyone finds pleasure in the doing of it. In one day you made a home out of this place, and it hasn't been one in too long, so that I'd all but forgotten the feel of a home around me. Do you think that's nothing? Do you think there's no value in that?"
"It's just& ordinary," she said for lack of a better word.
"I can't make a career out of picking wildflowers."
"A living can be made where you find it, if a living must be made.
You've a need to pick wildflowers and sea-shells, Allena. And there are those who are grateful for it, and notice the difference you make."
If she hadn't loved him already, she would have fallen at that moment with his words still echoing and his eyes dark with impatience. "That's the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me." She laid her hands on his cheeks.
"The very kindest." Softly, she touched her lips to his. "Thank you."
Before he could speak, she shook her head, then rested it on his shoulder.

Chapter 8
They shut out the world. Turned off time. Conal would have bristled at the idea that they were making a kind of magic, but for Allena there was no other word for it.
She posed for him again, in the studio where the afternoon sun slanted through the windows. And she watched herself be born in clay.
Because she asked, he told her of his years in Dublin. His studies and his work. The lean student years when he'd lived on tinned food and art. Then the recognition that had come, like a miracle, in a dingy gallery.
The first sale had given him the luxury of time, room to work without the constant worry of paying the rent. And the sales that followed had given him the luxury of choice, so that he'd been able to afford a studio of his own.
Still, though he spoke of it easily, she noticed that when he talked of
Dublin, he didn't refer to it as home. But she said nothing.
Later, when he'd covered the clay with a damp cloth and washed in the little sink, they went for a walk along the shore. They spoke of a hundred things, but never once of the star she wore against her heart, or the stone circle that threw its shadows from the cliff.
They made love while the sun was still bright, and the warmth of it glowed on her skin when she rose over him.
As the day moved to evening, the light remained, shimmering as though it would never give way to night. She entertained herself mending the old lace curtains she'd found on a shelf in the closet while Conal sketched and the dog curled into a nap on the floor between them.
She had the most expressive face, he thought. Dreamy now as she sat and sewed. Everything she felt moved into her eyes of soft, clear gray. The witch behind those eyes had yet to wake. And when she did, he imagined that any man she cast them on would be spellbound.
How easily she had settled in to him, his home, his life. Without a break of rhythm, he thought, and with such contentment. And how easy it would be to settle in to her. Even with these edgy flashes of need and desire, there was a comfort beneath.
What was he to do about her? Where was he to put these feelings she'd brought to life inside him? And how was he to know if they were real?
"Conal?" She spoke quietly. His troubled thoughts were like a humming in the air, a warning. "Can't you put it aside for now? Can't you be content to wait and see?"
"No." It irritated him that she'd read his mood in his silence.
"Letting others shape your life is your way, not mine."
Her hand jerked, as if it had been slapped, then continued to move smoothly.
"Yes, you're right. I've spent my life trying to please people I love, and it hasn't gotten me anywhere. They don't love me enough to accept me."
He felt a hitch in his gut, as if he'd shoved her away when he should have taken hold. "Allena."
"No, it's all right. They do love me, under it all, just not as much, or in the same way, or  however I love them. They want things for me that
I'm not capable of or that I just don't want for myself enough to make a real effort. I can't put restrictions on my feelings. I'm not made that way."
"And I can." He rose, paced. "It's not a matter of feelings, but of being. I can't and won't be led. I care for you more than should be possible in this short a time."
"And because of that you don't trust what's happened, what's happening between us." She nodded and, clipping the thread, set her needle aside.
"That's reasonable."
"What do you know of reason?" he demanded. "You're the damnedest, most irrational woman I've ever met."
She smiled at that, quick and bright. "It's so much easier to recognize reason when you have so little yourself."
His lips twitched, but he sat down. "How can you be so calm in the middle of all this?"
"I've had the most amazing two days of my life, the most exciting, the most beautiful." She spread her hands. "Nothing can ever take that away from me now that I've had it. And I'll have one more. One more long and wonderful day. So " She got to her feet, stretched. "I think
I'll get a glass of wine and go outside and watch the stars come out."
"No." He took her hand, rose. "I'll get the wine."
It was a perfect night, the sky as clear as glass. The sea swept in, drew back, then burst again in a shower of water that caught those last shimmers of day and sparkled like jewels.
"You should have benches," Allena began. "Here and here, with curved seats and high backs, in cedar that would go silver in the weather."
He wondered why he hadn't thought of it himself, for he loved to sit and watch the sea. "What else would you have, were you me?"
"Well, I'd put big pots near the benches and fill them with flowers that spilled out and spiked up. Dark blue crocks," she decided, then slanted him a look. "You could make them."
"I suppose I could. Flowerpots." The idea was amusing.
No one had ever expected flowerpots from him before. He skimmed a hand over her hair as he sipped his wine and realized he would enjoy making them for her, would like to see her pleasure in them.
"Dark blue," she repeated, "to match the shutters when they're fixed up with the paint I found in the laundry room."
"Now I'm painting shutters?"
"No, no, no, your talents are much too lofty for such mundane chores.
You make the pots, sturdy ones, and I'll paint the shutters."
"I know when someone's laughing at me."
She merely sent him a sly wink and walked down toward the water. "Do you know what I'm supposed to be doing tonight?"
"What would that be?"
"I should be manning the slide projector for Margaret's after-dinner lecture on megalithic sites."
"Well, then, you've had a narrow escape, haven't you?"
"You're telling me. Do you know what I'm going to do instead?"
"Ah, come back inside and make wild love with me?"
She laughed and spun in a circle. "I'm definitely putting that on the schedule. But first, I'm going to build a sand castle."
"A sand castle, is it?"
"A grand one," she claimed and plopped down on the beach to begin.
"The construction of sand castles is one of my many talents. Of course,
I'd do better work if I had a spade and a bucket. Both of which," she added, looking up at him from under her lashes, "can be found in the laundry room."
"And I suppose, as my talent for this particular art is in doubt, I'm delegated to fetch."
"Your legs are longer, so you'll get there and back faster."
"Can't argue with that."
He brought back the garden spade and the mop bucket, along with the bottle of wine.
As the first bold stars came to life, he sat and watched her build her castle of sand.
"You need a tower on that end," he told her. "You've left it undefended."
"It's a castle, not a fortress, and my little world here is at peace.
However, I'd think a famous artist could manage to build a tower if he saw the need for one."
He finished off his glass of wine, screwed the stem in the sand, and picked up the challenge.
She added more turrets, carefully shaping, then smoothing them with the edge of her spade. And driven by his obviously superior talent with his hands, began to add to the structure, elaborately.
"And what, I'd like to know, is that lump you've got there?"
"It's the stables, or will be when I'm finished."
"It's out of proportion." He started to reach over to show her, but she slapped his hand away. "As you like, but your horses would have to be the size of Hugh to fit in there."
She sniffed, rocked back on her heels. Damn it, he was right. "I'm not finished," she said coolly. She scooped up more sand and worked it in.
"And what is that supposed to be?"
"It will be the drawbridge."
"A drawbridge?" Delighted, she leaned over to study the platform he fashioned with his quick, clever hands. "Oh, that's wonderful. You're definitely sand castle-skilled. I know just what it needs."
She scrambled up and raced to the house. She came back with some wooden kitchen matches and a bit of red ribbon that she'd cut in a triangle.
"Chain would be better, but we'll be innovative." She poked the tip of the long match into the side of the drawbridge, slid the other end into the castle wall. "Fortunately, the royal family here is having a ball, so the drawbridge stays down." She set a second match in the other side.
She broke a third match, looped her ribbon around it, then hoisted her makeshift flag on the topmost tower. "Now that's a sand castle."
She plucked up the bottle of wine and poured for both of them. "To
Dolman Castle." A dream, she thought, they'd made together.
After clinking her glass to his, she drew up her knees and looked out to sea. "It's a beautiful night. So many stars. You can't see sky like this in New York, just slices of it, pieces between buildings, so you forget how big it is."
"When I was a boy, I used to come out at night and sit here."
She turned her head, rested her cheek on her knee. "What else did you do when you were a boy?"
"Climbed the cliffs, played with my friends in the village, worked very hard to get out of chores that would have taken less time and less effort than the eluding of them took. Fished with my father."
He fell into silence, and the depth of it had Allena reaching out to take his hand. "You miss him."
"I left him, alone. I didn't know he was ill that last year. He never told me, never once asked me to come back and tend to him. He died by himself rather than ask me for that."
"He knew you'd come back."
"He should have told me. I could've brought him to Dublin, gotten him to hospital, for treatments, specialists."
"It's always so much harder on the ones who're left behind," she murmured. "He wanted to be here, Conal. To die here."
"Oh, aye, to die here, that was his choice. And knowing he was ill, and frail, he climbed the cliffs. And there at the stone dance is where his heart gave out. That was his choice."
"It makes you angry."
"It makes me helpless, which is the same thing to me. So I miss him, and I regret the time and distance that was between us the time and distance I put between us. I sent him money instead of myself. And he left me all he had. The cottage, and Hugh."
He turned to her then and pulled the chain at her neck until the pendant slid clear. "And this. He left this for me in that small wood box you see on the dresser in the bedroom."
The shiver raced over her skin, chill and damp. "I don't understand."
"His mother had given it to him on his eighteenth birthday, as it had been given to her. And he gave it to my mother on the day he asked her to marry him, at the stone circle, as is the O'Neil tradition. She wore it always. And gave it back to him, to hold for me, on the night she died."
Cured in Dagda's Cauldron. Carved by the finger of Merlin. "It's yours," she murmured.
"No. No longer mine, never mine as I refused it. The day I buried my father, I came here and I threw this into the sea. That, I told myself, was the end of things."
There's only one, the old woman had told her. It belonged to her. She had found it, or it had found her. And led her, Allena thought, to him. How could she feel anything but joy at knowing it? And how, being who he was, could
Conal feel anything but anger?
For her it was a key. For him a lock.
Allena touched his cheek. "I don't know how to comfort you."
"Neither do I." He rose, pulled her to her feet. "No more of this tonight. No more castles and stars. I want what's real. My need is real enough." He swept her up. "And so are you."

Chapter 9
She couldn't sleep. No matter how short the night, she couldn't bear to waste it in dreams. So she lay quiet, and wakeful, reliving every moment of the day that had passed.
They'd ended it, she thought now, with love. Not the slow and tender sort they'd brought each other the first time. There'd been a desperation in Conal when he carried her into bed from the beach. A kind of fierce urgency that had streaked from him and into her so that her hands had been as impatient as his, her mouth as hungry.
And her body, she thought, oh, her body had been so very alive.
That kind of craving was another sort of beauty, wasn't it? A need that deep, that strong, that willful could dig deep and lasting roots.
Why wouldn't he let himself love her?
She turned to him, and in sleep he drew her against him. I'm here, she wanted to say. I belong here. I know it.
But she kept the words inside her, and simply took his mouth with hers.
Soft, seductive, drawing what she needed and giving back. Slow and silky, a mating of lips and tongues. The heat from bodies wrapped close weighing heavy on the limbs.
He drifted into desire as a man drifts through mists. The air was thick, and sweet, and she was there for him. Warm and willing. And real.
He heard her breath catch and sigh out, felt her heart beat to match the rhythm of his own. And she moved against him, under him, bewitching in the dark.
When he slid into her, she took him in with a welcome that was home.
Together they lifted and fell, steady and smooth. Mouths met again as he felt her rise up to peak, as he lost himself, gave himself. And emptied.
"Allena." He said her name, only her name as he once more gathered her against him. Comforted, settled, he slipped back into sleep never knowing that she wept.
Before dawn she rose, afraid that if she stayed beside him any longer in the dark she would ask more afraid that if he offered some pale substitute for love and lifetimes, she would snatch at it, pitifully.
She dressed in silence and went out to wait for the dawn of the longest day.
There was no moon now, and no stars, nothing to break that endless, spreading dark. She could see the fall of land, the rise of sea, and to the west the powerful shadows of the jagged cliffs where the stone circle stood, and waited.
The pendant weighed heavy on her neck.
Only hours left, she thought. She wouldn't lose hope, though it was hard in this dark and lonely hour to cling to it. She'd been sent here, brought here, it didn't matter. What mattered was that she was here, and here she had found all the answers she needed.
She had to believe that Conal would find his in the day that was left to them.
She watched dawn break, a slow, almost sly shifting of light that gave the sky a polish. Mists slipped and slid over the ground, rose into the air like a damp curtain. And there, in the east, it flamed, gold, then spread to red over sky and water, brighter, and brighter still, until the world woke.
The air went from gray to the shimmer of a pearl.
On the beach, the castle had been swamped by the tide. And seeing what could be so easily washed away broke her heart a little.
She turned away from it and went back inside.
She needed to keep her hands busy, her mind busy. She could do nothing about the state of her heart, but she wouldn't mope, today of all days.
When Hugh came padding out, she opened the door so he could race through.
She put on the kettle for tea. She already knew how Conal liked his, almost viciously strong with no sugar or cream to dilute the punch.
While it steeped, she got a small pot from a cupboard. Conal had mentioned there were berries ripening this time of year. If she could find them, and there were enough, they'd have fresh fruit for breakfast.
She went out the back, past the herb garden and a huge shrub covered with dozens of conical purple blossoms that smelled like potpourri. She wondered how they would look dried and spearing out of a big copper urn.
Ground fog played around her ankles as she walked and made her think it was something like wading in a shallow river. The wind didn't reach it, but fluttered at her hair as she climbed the gentle rise behind the cottage. Far off was the sound of Hugh's deep-throated bark, and somewhere nearer, the liquid trill of a bird. Over it all was the forever sound of the sea.
On impulse, she slipped off her shoes to walk barefoot over the cool, wet grass.
The hill dipped, then rose again. Steeper now, with the mist thickening like layers of filmy curtain. She glanced back once, saw the cottage was merely a silhouette behind the fog. A prickle over her skin had her pausing, nearly turning back. Then she heard the dog bark again, just up ahead.
She called out to him, turned in the direction of his bark, and kept climbing. On the top of the next rise was a scattering of trees sculpted by wind, and with them the bushes, brambles, and berries she hunted.
Pleased with her find, she set down her shoes and began to pick. And taste.
And climb still higher to where the ripest grew. She would make pancakes, she thought, and mix the berries in the batter.
Her pot was half full when she scrambled up on a rock to reach a solitary bush pregnant with fat fruit of rich and deep purple.
"The most tempting are always the ones just out of reach."
Allena's breath caught, and she nearly overturned her pot when she saw the woman standing on the rough track on the other side of the bush.
Her hair was dark and hung past her waist. Her eyes were the moody green of the ocean at dawn. She smiled and rested her hand on Hugh's head as he sat patiently beside her.
"I didn't know anyone was here." Could be here, she thought.
"I" She looked back now, with some alarm, and couldn't see the cottage. "I walked farther than I realized."
"It's a good morning for a walk, and for berry picking. Those you have there'd make a fine mixed jam."
"I've picked too many. I wasn't paying attention."
The woman's face softened. "Sure, you can never pick too many as long as someone eats them. Don't fret," she said quietly. "He's sleeping still. His mind's quiet when he sleeps."
Allena let out a long breath. "Who are you?"
"Whoever you need me to be. An old woman in a shop, a young boy in a boat."
"Oh." Surrendering to shaky legs, she sat on the rock.
"God."
"It shouldn't worry you. There's no harm meant. Not to you, or to him.
He's part of me."
"His great-grandmother. He saidthey say"
The woman's smile widened. "They do indeed."
Struggling for composure, Allena reached under her sweater, drew out the pendant. "This is yours."
"It belongs to whom it belongs to& until it belongs to another."
"Conal said he threw it into the sea."
"Such a temper that boy has." Her laugh was light and rich as cream over whiskey. "It does me proud. He could throw it to the moon, and still it would come to whom it belongs to when it was time. This time is yours."
"He doesn't want to love me."
"Oh, child." She touched Allena's cheek, and it was like the brush of wings. "Love can't be wanted away. It simply is, and you already know that. You have a patient heart."
"Sometimes patience is just cowardice."
"That's wise." The woman nodded, obviously pleased, and helped herself to one of the berries in the pot. "And true as well. But already you understand him, and are coming to understand yourself, which is always a more difficult matter. That's considerable for such a short time. And you love him."
"Yes, I love him. But he won't accept love through magic."
"Tonight, when the longest day meets the shortest night, when the star cuts through with power and light, the choice you make, both you and he, will be what was always meant to be."
Then she took Allena's face in her hands, kissed both her cheeks. "Your heart will know," she said and slipped into the mist like a ghost.
"How?" Allena closed her eyes. "You didn't give us enough time."
When Hugh bumped his head against her legs, she bent down to bury her face in his neck. "Not enough time," she murmured. "Not enough to mope about it, either. I don't know what to do, except the next thing. I guess that's breakfast."
She wandered back the way she had come, with Hugh for company on this trip.
The fog was already burning off at the edges and drawing into itself. It seemed that fate had decreed one more clear day for her.
When the cottage came into view, she saw Conal on the little back porch, waiting for her.
"You worried me." He walked out to meet her, knowing his sense of relief was out of proportion. "What are you doing, roaming away in the mist?"
"Berries." She held up the pot. "You'll never guess what
I " She trailed off as his gaze tracked down to the pendant.
"I'll never guess what?"
No, she thought, she couldn't tell him what had happened, whom she had seen.
Not when the shadows were in his eyes, and her heart was sinking because of them. "What I'm going to make for breakfast."
He dipped a hand into the pot. "Berries?"
"Watch," she told him and took her gatherings into the house.
"And learn."
He did watch, and it soothed him. He'd wakened reaching for her, and that had disturbed him. How could a man spend one night with a woman, then find his bed so cold, so empty when she wasn't in it? Then that panic, that drawing down in the gut, when he hadn't been able to find her. Now she was here, mixing her batter in a bowl, and the world was right again.
Was there a name for this other than love?
"You really need a griddle." She set the bowl aside to heat a skillet. "But we'll make do."
"Allena.''
"Hmm?" She glanced back. Something in his eyes made her dizzy.
"Yes?" When she turned, the pendant swung, and caught at the sunlight.
The star seemed to flash straight into his eyes, taunting him. Without moving, Conal took a deliberate step back. No, he would not speak of love.
"Where are your shoes?"
"My shoes?" He'd spoken with such gentle affection that her eyes stung as she looked down at her own bare feet. "I must have left them behind. Silly of me."
"So you wander barefoot through the dew, pretty Allena?"
Words strangled in her throat. She threw her arms around him, burying her face at his shoulder as emotions whirled inside her.
"Allena." He pressed his lips to her hair and wished, for both of them, he could break this last chain that held his heart. "What am I to do about you?"
Love me. Just love me. I can handle all of the rest. "I can make you happy. If only you'd let me, I can make you happy."
"And what of you? There are two of us here. How can you believe, and accept, all I've told you and be willing to change your life for it?" He drew her back, touched a fingertip to the pendant. "How can you, Allena, so easily accept this?"
"Because it belongs to me." She let out a shaky breath, then took one in, and her voice was stronger. "Until it belongs to another."
Steadier, she took a ladle from a drawer and spooned batter into the skillet. "You think I'm naive, and gullible, and so needy for love that
I'll believe anything that offers the possibility of it?"
"I think you have a soft heart."
"And a malleable one?" The cool gaze she sent him was a surprise, as was her nod. "You may be right. Trying to fit yourself into forms so that the people you love will love you back the way you want keeps the heart malleable. And while I hope to be done with that, while I'm going to try to be done with that, I prefer having a heart that accepts imprints from others."
A patient heart, she thought, but by God if it was a cowardly one.
Deftly, she flipped the pancakes. "What hardened yours, Conal?"
"You've good aim when you decide to notch the arrow."
"Maybe I haven't reached into the quiver often enough." But she would now. Movements smooth and unhurried, she turned the pancakes onto a platter, spooned more batter into the pan. "Why don't you ever speak of your mother?"
Bull's-eye, he thought, and said nothing as she set him a place at the table.
"I have a right to know."
"You do, yes."
She got out honey, cinnamon, poured the tea. "Sit down. Your breakfast will get cold."
With a half laugh, he did as she asked. She was a puzzle, and why had he believed he'd already solved her? He waited until she'd emptied the skillet, turned it off, and come to the table to join him.
"My mother was from the near village," he began. "Her father was a fisherman, and her mother died in childbirth when my own mother was a girl. The baby died as well, so my mother was the youngest and the only daughter and pampered, she told me, by her father and brothers."
"You have uncles in the village?"
"I do. Three, and their families. Though some of the younger have gone to the mainland or beyond. My father was an only child."
She drizzled honey on her pancakes, passed the bottle to Conal. He had family, she thought, and still kept so much alone. "So you have cousins here, too?"
"Some number of them. We played together when I was a boy. It was from them that I first heard of what runs in me. I thought it a story, like others you hear, like silkies and mermaids and faerie forts."
He ate because it was there and she'd gone to the trouble to make it.
"My mother liked to draw, to sketch, and she taught me how to see things.
How to make what you see come out in pencil and chalk. My father, he loved the sea, and thought I would follow him there. But she gave me clay for my eighth birthday. And I "
He paused, lifted his hands, stared at them through narrowed eyes. They were very like his father's. Big, blunt, and with strength in them. But they had never been made for casting nets.
"The shaping of it, the finding what was inside it& I was compelled to see. And wood, carving away at it until you could show others what you'd seen in it. She understood that. She knew that."
"Your father was disappointed?"
"Puzzled more, I think." Conal moved his shoulders, picked up his fork again. "How could a man make a living, after all, whittling at wood or chipping at hunks of rock? But it pleased my mother, so he let it be. For her, and I learned later, because in his mind my fate was already set. So whether I sculpted or fished wouldn't matter in the end."
When he fell silent, looked back at the pendant, Allena slipped it under her sweater. And feeling the quiet heat of it against her heart, waited for him to continue.

Chapter 10
"After me, my parents tried for more children. Twice my mother miscarried, and the second, late in her term  damaged her. I was young, but I remember her having to stay in bed a long time and how pale she was even when she could get up. My father set a chair out for her, so she could be outside and watch the sea. She was never well after that, but I didn't know."
"You were just a boy." When she touched a hand to his, he looked down, smiled a little.
"Soft heart, Allena." He turned his hand over, squeezed hers once, then released. "She was ill the summer I was twelve. Three times that spring, my father took her on the ferry, and I stayed with my cousins. She was dying, and no one could find a way to save her. Part of me knew that, but I pushed it out of my mind. Every time she came home again, I was certain it was all right."
"Poor little boy," Allena murmured.
"He doesn't deserve as much sympathy as you think. That summer, when I was twelve, she walked down to the sea with me. She should've been in bed, but she wouldn't go. She told me of the stone dance and the star and my place in it. She showed me the pendant you're wearing now, though I'd seen it countless times before. She closed my hand around it with her own, and I felt it breathe.
"I was so angry. I wasn't different from the other lads I knew, no different from my cousins and playmates. Why would she say so? She told me I was young to have it passed on to me, but she and my father had discussed it.
He'd agreed to let her do it, in her time and her own way. She wanted to give me the pendant before she left us."
"You didn't want it."
"No, by God, I didn't. I wanted her. I wanted things to be as they were. When she was well and I was nothing more than a lad running over the hills. I wanted her singing in the kitchen again, the way she did before she was ill."
Everything inside her ached for him, but when she reached out, Conal waved her off. "I shouted at her, and I ran from her. She called after me, and tried to come after me, but I was strong and healthy and she wasn't. Even when
I heard her weeping, I didn't look back. I went and hid in my uncle's boat shed. It wasn't till the next morning that my father found me.
"He didn't take a strap to me as I might have expected, or drag me home by the ear as I deserved. He just sat down beside me, pulled me against him, and told me my mother had died in the night."
His eyes were vivid as they met Allena's. She wondered that the force of them didn't burn away the tears that swam in her own. "I loved her. And my last words to her were the bitter jabs of an angry child."
"Do you thinkoh, Conal, can you possibly believe those words are what she took with her?"
"I left her alone."
"And you still blame a frightened and confused twelve-year-old boy for that? Shame on you for your lack of compassion."
Her words jolted him. He rose as she did. "Years later, when I was a man, I did the same with my father."
"That's self-indulgent and untrue." Briskly, she stacked plates, carried them to the sink. It wasn't sympathy he needed, she realized. But plain, hard truth. "You told me yourself you didn't know he was ill. He didn't tell you."
She ran the water hot, poured detergent into it, stared hard at the rising foam. "You curse the idea you havewhat did you call itelfin blood but you sure as hell appear to enjoy the notion of playing
God."
If she'd thrown the skillet at his head he'd have been less shocked.
"That's easy for you to say, when you can walk away from all of this tomorrow."
"That's right, I can." She turned the faucet off and turned to him. "I can, finally, do whatever I want to do. I can thank you for that, for helping me see what I was letting happen, for showing me that I have something of value to give. And I want to give it, Conal. I want to make a home and a family and a life for someone who values me, who understands me and who loves me. I won't take less ever again. But you will. You're still hiding in the boat shed, only now you call it a studio."
Vile and hateful words rose up in his throat. But he was no longer a young boy, and he rejected them for the sharper blade of ice. "I've told you what you asked to know. I understand what you want, but you have no understanding of what I need."
He walked out, letting the door slap shut behind him.
"You're wrong," she said quietly. "I do understand."
She kept herself busy through the morning. If she did indeed go away the next day, she would leave something of herself behind. He wouldn't be allowed to forget her.
She hung the curtains she'd mended, pleased when the sunlight filtered through the lace into patterns on the floor. In the laundry room she found tools and brushes and everything she needed. With a kind of defiance she hauled it all outside. She was going to scrape and paint the damn shutters.
The work calmed her, and that malleable heart she'd spoken of began to ache.
Now and then she glanced over at the studio. He was in there, she knew. Where else would he be? Though part of her wanted to give up, to go to him, she did understand his needs.
He needed time.
"But it's running out," she murmured. Stepping back, she studied the results of her labors. The paint gleamed wet and blue, and behind the windows the lace fluttered in the breeze.
Now that it was done and there was nothing else, her body seemed to cave in on itself with fatigue. Nearly stumbling with it, she went into the house. She would lie down for a little while, catch up on the sleep she'd lost the night before.
Just an hour, she told herself and, stretching out on the bed, went under fast and deep.
Conal stepped back from his own work. His hands were smeared with clay to the wrists, and his eyes half blind with concentration.
Allena of the Faeries. She stood tall, slim, her head cocked slyly over one shoulder, her eyes long and her mouth bowed with secrets. She wasn't beautiful, nor was she meant to be. But how could anyone look away?
How could he?
Her wings were spread as if she would fly off at any moment. Or fold them again and stay, if you asked her.
He wouldn't ask her. Not when she was bound by something that was beyond both of them.
God, she'd infuriated him. He went to the sink, began to scrub his hands and arms. Snipping and sniping at him that way, telling him what he thought and felt. He had a mind of his own and he'd made it up. He'd done nothing but tell her the truth of that, of everything, from the beginning.
He wanted peace and quiet and his work. And his pride, he thought, as his hands dripped water. The pride that refused to accept that his path was already cut. In the end, would he be left with only that?
The emptiness stretched out before him, staggeringly deep. Were these, then, after all, his choices? All or nothing? Acceptance or loneliness?
Hands unsteady, he picked up a towel, drying off as he turned and studied the clay figure. "You already know, don't you? You knew from the first."
He tossed the towel aside, strode to the door. The light shifted, dimmed even as he yanked it open. Storm clouds crept in, already shadowing the sea.
He turned for the cottage, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. She'd painted the shutters, was all he could think. The curtains she'd hung danced gaily in the rising wind. She'd hung a basket beside the door and filled it with flowers.
How was a man to resist such a woman?
How could it be a trap when she'd left everything, even herself, unlocked and unguarded?
All or nothing? Why should he live with nothing?
He strode toward the cottage and three steps from the door found the way barred to him. "No." Denial, and a lick of fear, roughened his voice as he shoved uselessly at the air. "Damn you! You'd keep me from her now?"
He called out to her, but her name was whisked away by the rising wind, and the first drops of rain pelted down.
"All right, then. So be it." Panting, he stepped back. "We'll see what comes at the end of the day."
So he went through the storm to the place that called to his blood.
She woke with a start, the sound of her own name in her ears. And woke in the dark.
"Conal?" Disoriented, she climbed out of bed, reached for the lamp. But no light beamed when she turned the switch. A storm, she thought blearily. It was storming. She needed to close the windows.
She fumbled for the candle, then her hand jerked and knocked it off the little table.
Dark? How could it be dark?
Time. What time was it? Frantically she searched for the candle, found a match.
Before she could light it, lightning flashed and she saw the dial of the little wind-up clock.
Eleven o'clock.
No! It was impossible. She'd slept away all but the last hour of the longest day.
"Conal?" She rushed out of the room, out of the house, into the wind. Rain drenched her as she ran to his studio, fought to open the door.
Gone. He was gone. Struggling against despair, she felt along the wall for the shelves, and on the shelves for the flashlight she'd seen there.
The thin beam made her sigh with relief, then her breath caught again at what stood in the line of that light.
Her own face, her own body, made fanciful with wings. Did he see her that way? Clever and confident and lovely?
"I feel that way. For the first time in my life, I feel that way."
Slowly, she shut the light off, set it aside. She knew where he'd gone, and understood, somehow, that she was meant to find her own way there, as he had, in the dark.
The world went wild as she walked, as wild as the day she had come to this place. The ground shook, and the sky split, and the sea roared like a dragon.
Instead of fear, all she felt was the thrill of being part of it. This day wouldn't pass into night without her. Closing her hand over the star between her breasts, she followed the route that was clear as a map in her head.
Steep and rough was the path that cut through rock, and slippery with wet.
But she never hesitated, never faltered. The stones loomed above, giants dancing in the tempest. In its heart, the midsummer fire burned, bright and gold, despite the driving rain.
And facing it, the shadow that was a man.
Her heart, as she'd been told, knew.
"Conal."
He turned to her. His eyes were fierce as if whatever wild was in the night pranced in him as well. "Allena."
"No, I've something to say." She walked forward, unhurried though the air trembled. "There's always a choice, Conal, always another direction. Do you think I'd want you without your heart? Do you think I'd hold you with this?"
In a violent move she pulled the pendant from around her neck and threw it.
"No!" He grabbed for it, but the star only brushed his fingertips before it landed inside the circle. "Can you cast it off so easily? And me with it?"
"If I have to. I can go, make a life without you, and part of me will always grieve. Or I can stay, make a home with you, bear your children, and love you for everything you are. Those are my choices. You have yours."
She held out her arms. "There's nothing but me here to hold you. There never was."
Emotions tumbled through him, end over end. "Twice I've let the people
I loved go without telling them. Even when I came here tonight I thought I might do so again."
He pushed dripping hair away from his face. "I'm a moody man,
Allena."
"So you told me once before. I never would have known it otherwise."
His breath came out in a half laugh. "You'd slap at me at such a time?" He took a step toward her. "You painted the shutters."
"So what?"
"I'll make you pots in dark blue, to fill with your flowers."
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
She opened her mouth, closed it again, took a careful breath. "Because
I painted the shutters?"
"Yes. Because you would think to. Because you mended my mother's curtains. Because you pick berries. Because you swim naked in the sea. Because you look at me and see who I am. Whatever brought you here, brought us here, doesn't matter. What I feel for you is all there is. Please, God, don't leave me."
"Conal." The storm, inside her and around her, quieted. "You only have to ask."
"They say there's magic here, but it's you who brought it. Would you take me, Allena?" He reached for her hand, clasped it. "And give yourself to me. Make that home and that life and those children with me. I pledge to you I'll love you, and I'll treasure you, ever hour of every day." He lifted her hand, pressed his lips to it. "I'd lost something, and you brought it back to me. You've brought me my heart."
So, she thought, he'd found the key after all. "I'll take you, Conal, and give myself to you." Her eyes were dry and clear and steady. "And everything we make, we'll make together. I promise to love you now and ever after."
As she wrapped her arms around him, the mists cleared. In the dark sea of the sky a star began to pulse. The fire shimmered down to a pool of gold flame, tipped red as ruby. The air went sharp and cool so the stones stood out like a carving in glass.
And they sang in whispers.
"Do you hear it?" Allena murmured.
"Yes. There." He turned her, held her close to his side as the shimmering beam from the midsummer star shot through the stones and like an arrow pinned its light to its mate on the ground.
The pendant burst blue, a clean fire, star-shaped and brilliant. While star joined star, the circle was the world, full of light and sound and power.
Then the longest day passed, slipping into the shortest night. The light rippled, softened, faded. The stones sighed to silence.
Conal drew her farther into the circle. The fire rose up again, and shot sparks into her eyes, stroked warmth over his skin. He bent to pick up the pendant, and slipping the chain around her neck, sealed the promise.
"This belongs to you, and so do I."
"It belongs to me." She pressed their joined hands against it.
"Until it belongs to another. I'll always be yours."
She kissed him there, inside the echo of magic, then stepped back.
"Come home," she said.
Some say that the faeries came out of their raft to celebrate and danced round the midsummer fire while the star showered the last of its light. But those who had magic in their hearts and had pledged it left the circle, walked from the cliffs and along the quiet beach to the cottage with dark blue shutters that waited by the sea.

IN DREAMS

Prologue
All he had were the dreams. Without them he was alone, always and ever alone. For the first hundred years of his solitude, he lived on arrogance and temper. He had plenty of both to spare.
For the second, he lived on bitterness. Like one of his own secret brews, it bubbled and churned inside him. But rather than healing, it served as a kind of fuel that pushed him from day to night, from decade to decade.
In the third century, he fell into despair and self-pity. It made him miserable company, even for himself.
His stubbornness was such that it took four hundred years before he began to make a home for himself, to struggle to find some pleasure, some beauty, some satisfaction in his work and his art. Four hundred years before his pride made room for the admission that he may have been, perhaps, just slightly and only partially responsible for what had become of him.
Still, had his actions, his attitude, deserved such a harsh judgment from the Keepers? Did his mistake, if indeed it had been a mistake, merit centuries of imprisonment, with only a single week of each hundred-year mark in which to really live?
When half a millennium had passed, he surrendered to the dreams. No, it was more than surrender. He embraced them, survived on them. Escaped into them when his soul cried out for the simple touch of another being.
For she came to him in dreams, the dark-haired maid with eyes like blue diamonds. In dreams she would run through his forest, sit by his fire, lie willing in his bed. He knew the sound of her voice, the warmth of it. He knew the shape of her, long and slender as a boy. He knew the way the dimple would wink to life at the corner of her mouth when she laughed. And the exact placement of the crescent moon birthmark on her thigh.
He knew all of this, though he had never touched her, never spoken to her, never seen her but through the silky curtain of dreams.
Though it had been a woman who had betrayed him, a woman who was at the root of his endless solitude, he yearned for this dark-haired maid. Yearned for her, as the years passed, as much as he yearned for what had been.
He was drowning in a great, dark sea of alone.

Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a vacation. It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, enlightening.
It was not supposed to be terrifying.
No, no, terrifying was an exaggeration. Slightly.
A wicked summer storm, a strange road snaking through a dark forest where the trees were like giants cloaked in the armor of mists. Kayleen Brennan of the Boston Brennans wasn't terrified by such things. She was made of sterner stuff. She made a point of reminding herself of that, every ten seconds or so as she fought to keep the rental car on the muddy ditch that had started out as a road.
She was a practical woman, had made the decision to be one quite deliberately and quite clearly when she was twelve. No flights of fancy for Kayleen, no romantic dreams or foolish choices. She had watched—was still watching—such occupations lead her charming, adorable, and baffled mother into trouble.
Financial trouble. Legal trouble. Man trouble.
So Kayleen had become an adult at twelve, and had stayed one.
An adult was not spooked by a bunch of trees and a few streaks of lightning, or by mists that thickened and thinned as if they breathed. A grown woman didn't panic because she'd made a wrong turn. When the road was too narrow, as this one was, to allow her to safely turn around, she simply kept going until she found her way again.
And a sensible person did not start imagining she heard things in the storm.
Like voices.
Should have stayed in Dublin, she told herself grimly as she bumped over a rut. In Dublin with its busy streets and crowded pubs, Ireland had seemed so civilized, so modern, so urbane. But no, she'd just had to see some of the countryside, hadn't she? Just had to rent a car, buy a map, and head out to explore.
But honestly, it had been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. She'd intended to see the country while she was here and perhaps find a few treasures for her family's antique shop back in Boston. She'd intended to wander the roads, to drive to the sea, to visit the pretty little villages, and the great, grand ruins.
Hadn't she booked her stay in a licensed bed-and-breakfast for each night that she'd be traveling? Confirmed reservations ensured there would be no inconvenience and no surprises at the end of each day's journey.
Hadn't she precisely mapped out her route and each point of interest, how long she intended to stay studying each?
She hadn't anticipated getting lost. No one did. The weather report had indicated some rain, but this was Ireland, after all. It had not indicated a wild, windy, wicked thunderstorm that shook her little car like a pair of dice in a cup and turned the long, lovely summer twilight into raging dark.
Still, it was all right. It was perfectly all right. She was just a bit behind schedule, and it was partly her own fault. She'd lingered a bit longer than she intended at Powers-court Demesne on her way south. And a bit longer again at the churchyard she'd come across when she headed west.
She was certainly still in County Wicklow, certainly somewhere in Avondale Forest, and the guidebook had stated that the population through the forested land was thin, the villages few and far between.
She had expected to find it charming and atmospheric, a delightful drive on her way to her night's stay in Enniscorthy, a destination she'd been scheduled to reach by seven-thirty. She tipped up her arm, risked a quick glance at her watch, and winced when she saw she was already a full hour late.
Doesn't matter. Surely they wouldn't lock the doors on her. The Irish were known for their hospitality. She intended to put that to the test as soon as she came across a town, a village, or even a single cottage. Once she did, she'd get her bearings again.
But for now…
She stopped dead in the road, realizing she hadn't even seen another car for over an hour. Her purse, as ruthlessly organized as her life, sat on the seat beside her. She took out the cell phone she'd rented, turned it on.
And swore softly when the readout told her, as it had since she'd driven into the forest far enough to realize she was lost, that she had no signal.
"Why don't I have a signal?" She nearly rapped the phone against the steering wheel in frustration. But that would have been foolish. "What is the point of renting mobile phones to tourists if they're not going to be able to use them?"
She put the phone away, took a deep breath. To calm herself, she closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and allowed herself two minutes of rest.
The rain lashed the windows like whips, the wind continued its feral howl. At jolting intervals the thick darkness was split by yet another lance of blue-edged lightning. But Kayleen sat quietly, her dark hair still tidy in its band, her hands folded in her lap.
Her mouth, full and shapely, gradually relaxed its tight line. When she opened her eyes, blue as the lightning that ripped the sky, they were calm again.
She rolled her shoulders, took one last cleansing breath, then eased the car forward.
As she did, she heard someone—something—whisper her name.
Kayleen.
Instinctively, she glanced to the side, out the rain-spattered window, into the gloom. And there, for an instant, she saw a shadow take shape, the shape of a man. Eyes, green as glass, glittered.
She hit the brakes, jerking forward as the car slid in the mud. Her heart raced, her fingers shook.
Have you dreamed of me? Will you?
Fighting fear, she quickly lowered the window, leaned out into the driving rain. "Please. Can you help me? I seem to be lost."
But there was no one there. No one who would—could—have said, so low and sad, So am I.
Of course there was no one. With one icy finger she jabbed the button to send the window back up. Just her imagination, just fatigue playing tricks. There was no man standing in the forest in a storm. No man who knew her name.
It was just the sort of foolishness her mother would have dreamed up. The woman lost in the enchanted forest, in a dramatic storm, and the handsome man, most likely a prince under a spell, who rescued her.
Well, Kayleen Brennan could rescue herself, thank you very much. And there were no spellbound princes, only shadows in the rain.
But her heart rapped like a fist against her ribs. With her breath coming fast, she hit the gas again. She would get off of this damned road, and she would get to where she intended to be.
When she got there, she would drink an entire pot of tea while sitting neck-deep in a hot bath. And all of this… inconvenience would be behind her.
She tried to laugh it off, tried to distract herself by mentally composing a letter home to her mother, who would have enjoyed every moment of the experience.
An adventure, she would say. Kayleen! You finally had an adventure!
"Well, I don't want a damn adventure. I want a hot bath. I want a roof over my head and a civilized meal." She was getting worked up again, and this time she couldn't seem to stop. "Won't somebody please help me get where I'm supposed to be!"
In answer, lightning shot down, a three-pronged pitchfork hurled out of the heavens. The blast of it exploded the dark into blinding light.
As she threw up an arm to shield her eyes, she saw, standing like a king in the center of the road, a huge buck. Its hide was violently white in the slash of her headlights, its rack gleaming silver. And its eyes, cool and gold, met her terrified ones through the rain.
She swerved, stomped on the brakes. The little car fish-tailed, seemed to spin in dizzying circles propelled by the swirling fog. She heard a scream—it had to be her own—before the car ran hard into a tree.
And so she dreamed.
Of running through the forest while the rain slapped down like angry fingers. Eyes, it seemed a thousand of them, watched her through the gloom. She fled, stumbling in the muck stirred up by the storm, her bones jolting as she fell.
Her head was full of sound. The roar of the wind, the booming warning of thunder. And under it a thousand voices chanting.
She wept, and didn't know why. It wasn't the fear, but something else, something that wanted to be wrenched out of her heart as a splinter is wrenched from an aching finger. She remembered nothing, neither name nor place—only that she had to find her way. Had to find it before it was too late.
There was the light, the single ball of it glowing in the dark. She ran toward it, her breath tearing out of her lungs, rain streaming from her hair, down her face.
The ground sucked at her shoes. Another fall tore her sweater. She felt the quick burn on her flesh and, favoring her left arm, scrambled up again. Winded, aching, lost, she continued at a limping run.
The light was her focus. If only she could make it to the light, everything would be all right again. Somehow.
A spear of lightning struck close, so close she felt it sear the air, felt it drench the night with the hot sting of ozone. And in its afterglow she saw that the light was a single beam, from a single window in the tower of a castle.
Of course there would be a castle. It seemed not odd at all that there should be a castle with its tower light glowing in the middle of the woods during a raging storm.
Her weeping became laughter, wild as the night, as she stumbled toward it, tramping through rivers of flowers.
She fell against the massive door and with what strength she had left, slapped a fist against it.
The sound was swallowed by the storm.
"Please," she murmured. "Oh, please, let me in."
By the fire, he'd fallen into the twilight-sleep he was allowed, had dreamed in the flames he'd set to blaze—of his dark-haired maid, coming to him. But her eyes had been frightened, and her cheeks pale as ice.
He'd slept through the storm, through the memories that often haunted him even in that drifting place. But when she had come into those dreams, when she had turned those eyes on him, he stirred. And spoke her name.
And jolted awake, that name sliding out of his mind again. The fire had burned down nearly to embers now.
He could have set it roaring again with a thought, but didn't bother.
In any case, it was nearly time. He saw by the pretty crystal clock on the ancient stone mantel—he was amused by such anachronisms—that it was only seconds shy of midnight.
His week would begin at that stroke. For seven days, and seven nights, he would be. Not just a shadow in a world of dreams, but flesh, blood, and bone.
He lifted his arms, threw back his head, and waited to become.
The world trembled, and the clock struck midnight.
There was pain. He welcomed it like a lover. Oh, God, to feel. Cold burned his skin. Heat scorched it. His throat opened, and there was the blessed bliss of thirst.
He opened his eyes. Colors sprang out at him, clear and true, without that damning mist that separated him for all the other time.
Lowering his hands, he laid one on the back of his chair, felt the soft brush of velvet. He smelled the smoke from the fire, the rain that pounded outside and snuck in through his partially open window.
His senses were battered, so overwhelmed with the rush of sensations that he nearly swooned. And even that was a towering pleasure.
He laughed, a huge burst of sound that he felt rumble up from his belly. And fisting his hands, he raised them yet again.
"I am."
Even as he claimed himself, as the walls echoed with his voice, he heard the pounding at the door. Jolted, he lowered his arms, turned toward a sound he'd not heard in five hundred years. Then it was joined by another.
"Please." And it was his dream who shouted. "Oh, please, let me in."
A trick, he thought. Why would he be tortured with tricks now? He wouldn't tolerate it. Not now. Not during his week to be.
He threw out a hand, sent lights blazing. Furious, he strode out of the room, down the corridor, down the circling pie-shaped stairs. They would not be allowed to infringe on his week. It was a breach of the sentence. He would not lose a single hour of the little time he had.
Impatient with the distance, he muttered the magic under his breath. And appeared again in the great hall.
He wrenched open the door. Met the fury of the storm with fury of his own.
And saw her.
He stared, transfixed. He lost his breath, his mind. His heart.
She had come.
She looked at him, a smile trembling on her lips and sending the dimple at the corner of her mouth to winking.
"There you are," she said.
And fainted at his feet.

Chapter 2

Shadows and shapes and murmuring voices. They swirled in her head, swelling, fading in a cycle of confusion.
Even when she opened her eyes, they were there. Revolving. What? was her only thought. What is it?
She was cold and wet, and every part of her was a separate ache. An accident. Of course, an accident. But…
What is it?
She focused and saw overhead, high overhead, a curved ceiling where plaster faeries danced among ribbons of flowers. Odd, she thought. How odd and lovely. Dazed, she lifted a hand to her brow, felt the damp. Thinking it blood, she let out a gasp, tried to sit up.
Her head spun like a carousel.
"Uh-oh." Trembling now, she looked at her fingers and saw only clear rainwater.
And, turning her head, saw him.
First came the hard jolt of shock, like a vicious strike to the heart. She could feel panic gathering in her throat and fought to swallow it.
He was staring at her. Rudely, she would think later when fear had made room for annoyance. And there was anger in his eyes. Eyes as green as the rain-washed hills of Ireland. He was all in black. Perhaps that was why he looked so dangerous.
His face was violently handsome—"violent" was the word that kept ringing in her ears. Slashing cheekbones, lancing black brows, a fierce frown on a mouth that struck her as brutal. His hair was as dark as his clothing and fell in wild waves nearly to his shoulders.
Her heart pounded, a primal warning. Even as she shrank back, she gathered the courage to speak. "Excuse me. What is it?"
He said nothing. Had been unable to speak since he'd lifted her off the floor. A trick, a new torment? Was she, after all, only a dream within a dream?
But he'd felt her. The cold damp of her flesh, the weight and the shape of her. Her voice came clear to him now, as did the terror in her eyes.
Why should she be afraid? Why should she fear when she had unmanned him? Five hundred years of solitude hadn't done so, but this woman had accomplished it with one quick stroke.
He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her face. "You are come. Why?"
"I… I don't understand. I'm sorry. Do you speak English?"
One of those arching brows rose. He'd spoken in Gaelic, for he most often thought in the language of his life. But five hundred years of alone had given him plenty of time for linguistics. He could certainly speak English, and half a dozen other languages besides.
"I asked why you have come."
"I don't know." She wanted to sit up but was afraid to try it again. "I think there must have been an accident. I can't quite remember."
However much it might hurt to move, she couldn't stay flat on her back looking up at him. It made her feel foolish and helpless. She set her teeth, pushed herself up slowly. Her stomach pitched, her head rang, but she managed to sit.
And sitting, glanced around the room.
An enormous room, she noted, and filled with the oddest conglomeration of furnishings. There was an old and beautiful refectory table that held dozens of candlesticks. Silver, wrought iron, pottery, crystal. Pikes were crossed on the wall, and near them was a dramatic painting of the Cliffs of Mohr.
There were display cabinets from various eras. Charles II, James I. Neoclassic bumped up against Venetian, Chippendale against Louis XV. An enormous big-screen television stood near a priceless Victorian davenport.
Placed at random were Waterford bowls, T'ang horses, Dresden vases, and… several Pez dispensers.
Despite discomfort, the eccentricity tickled her humor. "What an interesting room." She glanced up at him again. He'd yet to stop staring. "Can you tell me how I got here?"
"You came."
"Yes, apparently, but how? And… I seem to be very wet."
"It's raining."
"Oh." She blew out a breath. The fear had ebbed considerably. After all, the man collected Pez dispensers and Georgian silver. "I'm sorry, Mister…"
"I'm Flynn."
"Mister Flynn."
"Flynn," he repeated.
"All right. I'm sorry, Flynn, I can't seem to think very clearly." She was shivering, violently now, and wrapped her arms around her chest. "I was going somewhere, but… I don't know where I am."
"Who does?" he murmured. "You're cold." And he'd done nothing to tend to her. He would see to her comfort, he decided, and then… He would simply see.
He scooped her off the couch, faintly irritated when she pushed a hand against his shoulder defensively.
"I'm sure I can walk."
"I'm more sure I can. You need dry clothes," he began as he carried her out of the room. "A warm brew and a hot fire."
Oh, yes, she thought. It all sounded wonderful. Nearly as wonderful as being carried up a wide, sweeping staircase as if she weighed nothing.
But that was a romantic notion of the kind her mother lived on, the kind that had no place here. She kept that cautious hand pressed to a shoulder that felt like a sculpted curve of rock.
"Thank you for…" She trailed off. She'd turned her head just a fraction, and now her face was close to his, her eyes only inches from his eyes, her mouth a breath from his mouth. A sharp, unexpected thrill stabbed clean through her heart. The strike was followed by a hard jolt that was something like recognition.
"Do I know you?"
"Wouldn't you have the answer to that?" He leaned in, just a little, breathed. "Your hair smells of rain." Even as her eyes went wide, he skimmed his mouth from her jaw-line to her temple. "And your skin tastes of it."
He'd learned to savor over the years. To sip even when he wished to gulp. Now he considered her mouth, imagined what flavors her lips would carry. He watched them tremble open.
Ah, yes.
He shifted her, drawing her ever so slightly closer. And she whimpered in pain.
He jerked back, looked down and saw the raw scrape just below her shoulder, and the tear in her sweater. "You're injured. Why the bloody hell didn't you say so before?"
Out of patience—not his strong suit in any case—he strode into the closest bedchamber, set her down on the side of the bed. In one brisk move he tugged the sweater over her head.
Shocked, she crossed her arms over her breasts. "Don't you touch me!"
"How can I tend your wounds if I don't touch you?" His brows had lowered, drawn together. She was wearing a bra. He knew they were called that, as he'd seen them worn on the television and in the thin books that were called magazines.
But it was the first time he had witnessed an actual female form so attired.
He liked it very much.
But such delights would have to wait until he saw what condition the woman was in. He leaned over, unhooked her trousers.
"Stop it!" She shoved, tried to scramble back and was hauled not so gently into place.
"Don't be foolish. I've no patience for female flights. If I was after ravishing you, t'would already be done." Since she continued to struggle, he heaved a breath and looked up.
It was fear he saw—not foolishness but raw fear. A maiden, he thought. For God's sake, Flynn, have a care.
"Kayleen." He spoke quietly now, his voice as soothing as balm on a burn. "I won't harm you. I only want to see where you're hurt."
"Are you a doctor?"
"Certainly not."
He seemed so insulted, she nearly laughed.
"I know of healing. Now be still. I ought to have gotten you out of your wet clothes before." His eyes stayed on hers, seemed to grow brighter. And brighter still, until she could see nothing else. And she sighed. "Lie back now, there's a lass."
Mesmerized, she lay on the heaps of silk pillows and, docile as a child, let him undress her.
"Sweet Mary, you've legs that go to forever." His distraction with them caused the simple spell to waver, and she stirred. "A man's entitled to the view," he muttered, then shook his head. "Look what you've done to yourself. Bruised and scraped one end to the other. Do you like pain, then?"
"No." Her tongue felt thick. "Of course not."
"Some do," he murmured. He leaned over her again. "Look at me," he demanded. "Look here. Stay."
Her eyes drooped, half closed as she floated where he wanted, just above the aches. He wrapped her in the quilt, flicked his mind toward the hearth and set the fire roaring.
Then he left her to go to his workshop and gather his potions.
He kept her in the light trance as he tended her. He wanted no maidenly fidgets when he touched her. God, it had been so long since he'd touched a woman, flesh against flesh.
In dreams he'd had her under him, her body eager. He'd laid his lips on her, and his mind had felt her give and arch, her rise, her fall. And so his body had hungered for her.
Now she was here, her lovely skin bruised and chilled.
Now she was here, and didn't know why. Didn't know him.
Despair and desire tangled him in knots.
"Lady, who are you?"
"Kayleen Brennan."
"Where do you come from?"
"Boston."
"That's America?"
"Yes." She smiled. "It is."
"Why are you here?"
"I don't know. Where is here?"
"Nowhere. Nowhere at all."
She reached out, touched his cheek. "Why are you sad?"
"Kayleen." Overcome, he gripped her hand, pressed his lips to her palm. "Do they send you to me so I might know joy again, only to lose it?"
"Who are they'?"
He lifted his head, felt the fury burn. So he stepped away and turned to stare into the fire.
He could send her deeper, into the dreaming place. There she would remember what there was, would know what she knew. And would tell him. But if there was nothing in her, he wouldn't survive it. Not sane.
He drew a breath. "I will have my week," he vowed. "I will have her before it's done. This I will not cast off. This I will not abjure. You cannot break me with this. Not even with her can you break Flynn."
He turned back, steady and resolved again. "The seven days and seven nights are mine, and so is she. What remains here at the last stroke of the last night remains. That is the law. She's mine now."
Thunder blasted like cannon shot. Ignoring it, he walked to the bed. "Wake," he said, and her eyes opened and cleared. As she pushed herself up, he strode to a massive carved armoire, threw the doors open, and selected a long robe of royal blue velvet.
"This will suit you. Dress, then come downstairs." He tossed the robe on the foot of the bed. "You'll want food."
"Thank you, but—"
"We'll talk when you've supped."
"Yes, but I want—" She hissed in frustration as he walked out of the room and shut the door behind him with a nasty little slam.
Manners, she thought, weren't high on the list around here. She dragged a hand through her hair, stunned to find it dry again. Impossible. It had been dripping wet when he'd brought her up here only moments before.
She combed her fingers through it again, frowning. Obviously she was mistaken. It must have been all but dry. The accident had shaken her up, confused her. That was why she wasn't remembering things clearly.
She probably needed to go to a hospital, have X rays taken. Though a hospital seemed silly, really, when she felt fine. In fact, she felt wonderful.
She lifted her arms experimentally. No aches, no twinges. She poked gingerly at the scrape. Hadn't it been longer and deeper along her elbow? It was barely tender now.
Well, she'd been lucky. And now, since she was starving, she'd take the eccentric Flynn up on a meal. After that, her mind was bound to be steadier, and she'd figure out what to do next.
Satisfied, she tossed the covers back. And let out a muffled squeal. She was stark naked.
My God, where were her clothes? She remembered, yes, she remembered the way he'd yanked her sweater off, and then he'd… Damn it. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple. Why couldn't she remember? She'd been frightened, she'd shoved at him, and then… then she'd been wrapped in a blanket, in a room warmed by a blazing fire and he'd told her to get dressed and come down to dinner.
Well, if she was having blackouts, the hospital was definitely first on the agenda.
She snatched up the robe. Then simply rubbed the rich fabric over her cheek and moaned. It felt like something a princess would wear. Or a goddess. But certainly nothing that Kayleen Brennan of Boston would slip casually into for dinner.
This will suit you, he'd said. The idea of that made her laugh, but she slid her arms into it and let herself enjoy the lustrous warmth against her skin.
She turned, caught her own reflection in a cheval glass. Her hair was a tumble around the shoulders of the deep blue robe that swept down her body and ended in a shimmer of gold lace at the ankles.
I don't look like me, she thought. I look like something out of a fairy tale. Because that made her feel foolish, she turned away.
The bed she'd lain in was covered with velvet as well and lushly canopied with more. On the bureau, and certainly that was a Charles II in perfect condition, sat a lady's brush set of silver with inlays of lapis, antique perfume bottles of opal and of jade. Roses, fresh as morning and white as snow, stood regally in a cobalt vase.
A fairy tale of a room as well, she mused. One fashioned for candlelight and simmering fires. There was a Queen Anne desk in the corner, and tall windows draped in lace and velvet, pretty watercolors of hills and meadows on the walls, lovely faded rugs over the thick planked floors.
If she'd conjured the perfect room, this would have been it.
His manners might be lacking, but his taste was impeccable. Or his wife's, she corrected. For obviously this was a woman's room.
Because the idea should have relieved her, she ignored the little sinking sensation in her belly and satisfied her curiosity by opening the opal bottle.
Wasn't that strange? she thought after a sniff. The bottle held her favorite perfume.

Chapter 3

Flynn had a stiff whiskey before he dealt with the food. It hit him like a hot fist.
Thank God there were still some things a man could count on.
He would feed his woman—for she was unquestionably his—and he would take some care with her. He would see to her comfort, as a man was meant to do, then he would let her know the way things were to be.
But first he would see that she was steadier on her feet.
The dining hall fireplace was lit. He had the table set with bone china, heavy silver, a pool of fragrant roses, the delicacy of slim white candles and the jewel sparkle of crystal.
Then closing his eyes, lifting his hands palms out, he began to lay the table with the foods that would please her most.
She was so lovely, his Kayleen. He wanted to put the bloom back in her cheeks. He wanted to hear her laugh.
He wanted her.
And so, that was the way things would be.
He stepped back, studied his work with cool satisfaction. Pleased with himself, Flynn went out again to wait at the base of the stairs.
And as she came down toward him, his heart staggered in his chest. "Speirbhean."
Kayleen hesitated. "I'm sorry?"
"You're beautiful. You should learn the Gaelic," he said, taking her hand and leading her out of the hall. "I'll teach you."
"Well, thank you, but I really don't think that'll be necessary. 1 really want to thank you, too, for taking me in like this, and I wonder if I might use your phone." A little detail, Kayleen thought, that had suddenly come to her.
"I have no telephone. Does the gown please you?"
"No phone? Well, perhaps one of your neighbors might have one I can use."
"I have no neighbors."
"In the closest village," she said, as panic began to tickle her throat again.
"There is no village. Why are you fretting, Kayleen? You're warm and dry and safe."
"That may be, but… how do you know my name?"
"You told me."
"I don't remember telling you. I don't remember how I—"
"You've no cause to worry. You'll feel better when you've eaten."
She was beginning to think she had plenty of cause to worry. The well-being she'd felt upstairs in that lovely room was eroding quickly. But when she stepped into the dining room, she felt nothing but shock.
The table was large enough to seat fifty, and spread over it was enough food to feed every one of them.
Bowls and platters and tureens and plates were jammed end to end down the long oak surface. Fruit, fish, meat, soups, a garden of vegetables, an ocean of pastas.
"Where—" Her voice rose, snapped, and had to be fought back under control. "Where did this come from?"
He sighed. He'd expected delight and instead was given shock. Another thing a man could count on, he thought. Women were forever a puzzle.
"Sit, please. Eat."
Though she felt little flickers of panic, her voice was calm and firm. "I want to know where all this food came from. I want to know who else is here. Where's your wife?"
"I have no wife."
"Don't give me that." She spun to face him, steady enough now. And angry enough to stand and demand. "If you don't have a wife, you certainly have a woman."
"Aye. I have you."
"Just… stay back." She grabbed a knife from the table, aimed it at him. "Don't come near me. I don't know what's going on here, and I'm not going to care. I'm going to walk out of this place and keep walking."
"No." He stepped forward and neatly plucked what was now a rose from her hand. "You're going to sit down and eat."
"I'm in a coma." She stared at the white rose in his hand, at her own empty one. "I had an accident. I've hit my head. I'm hallucinating all of this."
"All of this is real. No one knows better than I the line between what's real and what isn't. Sit down." He gestured to a chair, swore when she didn't move. "Have I said I wouldn't harm you? Among my sins has never been a lie or the harm of a woman. Here." He held out his hand, and now it held the knife. "Take this, and feel free to use it should I break my word to you."
"You're…" The knife was solid in her hand. A trick of the eye, she told herself. Just a trick of the eye. "You're a magician."
"I am." His grin was like lightning, fast and bright. Whereas he had been handsome, now he was devastating.
His pleasure shone. "That is what I am, exactly. Sit down, Kayleen, and break fast with me. For I've hungered a long time."
She took one cautious step in retreat. "It's too much."
Thinking she meant the food, he frowned at the table. Considered. "Perhaps you're right. I got a bit carried away with it all." He scanned the selections, nodded, then sketched an arch with his hand.
Half the food vanished.
The knife dropped out of her numb fingers. Her eyes rolled straight back.
"Oh, Christ." It was impatience as much as concern. At least this time he had the wit to catch her before she hit the floor. He sat her in a chair, gave her a little shake, then watched her eyes focus again.
"You didn't understand after all."
"Understand? Understand?"
"It'll need to be explained, then." He picked up a plate and began to fill it for her. "You need to eat or you'll be ill. Your injuries will heal faster if you're strong."
He set the plate in front of her, began to fill one for himself. "What do you know of magic, Kayleen Brennan of Boston?"
"It's fun to watch."
"It can be."
She would eat, she thought, because she did feel ill. "And it's an illusion."
"It can be." He took the first bite—rare roast beef—and moaned in ecstasy at the taste. The first time he'd come to his week, he'd gorged himself so that he was sick a full day. And had counted it worth it. But now he'd learned to take his time, and appreciate.
"Do you remember now how you came here?"
"It was raining."
"Yes, and is still."
"I was going…"
"How were you going?"
"How?" She picked up her fork, sampled the fish without thinking. "I was driving… I was driving," she repeated, on a rising note of excitement. "Of course. I was driving, and I was lost. The storm. I was coming from—" She stopped, struggling through the mists. "Dublin. I'd been in Dublin. I'm on vacation. Oh, that's right, I'm on vacation and I was going to drive around the countryside. I got lost. Somehow. I was on one of the little roads through the forest, and it was storming. I could barely see. Then I…"
The relief in her eyes faded as they met his. "I saw you," she whispered. "I saw you out in the storm."
"Did you now?"
"You were out in the rain. You said my name. How could you have said my name before we met?"
She'd eaten little, but he thought a glass of wine might help her swallow what was to come. He poured it, handed it to her. "I've dreamed of you, Kayleen. Dreamed of you for longer than your lifetime. And dreaming of you I was when you were lost in my forest. And when I awoke, you'd come. Do you never dream of me, Kayleen?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. There was a storm. I was lost. Lightning hit very near, and there was a deer. A white deer in the road. I swerved to avoid it, and I crashed. I think I hit a tree. I probably have a concussion, and I'm imagining things."
"A white hind." The humor had gone from his face again. "You hit a tree with your car? They didn't have to hurt you," he muttered. "They had no right to hurt you."
"Who are you talking about?"
"My jailers." He shoved his plate aside. "The bloody Keepers."
"I need to check on my car." She spoke slowly, calmly. Not just eccentric, she decided. The man was unbalanced. "Thank you so much for helping me."
"If you want to check on your car, then we will. In the morning. There's hardly a point in going out in a storm in the middle of the night." He laid his hand firmly on hers before she could rise. "You're thinking, 'This Flynn, he's lost his mind somewhere along the way.' Well, I haven't, though it was a near thing a time or two. Look at me, leannana. Do I mean nothing to you?"
"I don't know." And that was what kept her from bolting. He could look at her, as he was now, and she felt tied to him. Not bound by force, but tied. By her own will. "I don't understand what you mean, or what's happening to me."
"Then we'll sit by the fire, and I'll tell you what it all means." He rose, held out his hand. Irritation washed over his face when she refused to take it. "Do you want the knife?"
She glanced down at it, back up at him. "Yes."
"Then bring it along with you."
He plucked up the wine, and the glasses, and led the way.
He sat by the fire, propped his boots on the hearth, savored his wine and the scent of the woman who sat so warily beside him. "I was born in magic," he began. "Some are. Others apprentice and can learn well enough. But to be born in it is more a matter of controlling the art than of learning it."
"So your father was a magician."
"No, he was a tailor. Magic doesn't have to come down through the blood. It simply has to be in the blood." He paused because he didn't want to blunder again. He should know more of her, he decided, before he did. "What is it you are, back in your Boston?"
"I'm an antique dealer. That came through the blood. My uncles, my grandfather, and so on. Brennan's of Boston has been doing business for nearly a century."
"Nearly a century, is it?" he chuckled. "So very long."
"I suppose it doesn't seem so by European standards. But America's a young country. You have some magnificent pieces in your home."
"I collect what appeals to me."
"Apparently a wide range appeals to you. I've never seen such a mix of styles and eras in one place before."
He glanced around the room, considering. It wasn't something he'd thought of, but he'd had only himself to please up until now. "You don't like it?"
Because it seemed to matter to him, she worked up a smile. "No, I like it very much. In my business I see a lot of beautiful and interesting pieces, and I've always felt it was a shame more people don't just toss them together and make their own style rather than sticking so rigidly to a pattern. No one can accuse you of sticking to a pattern."
"No. That's a certainty."
She started to curl up her legs, caught herself. What in the world was wrong with her? She was relaxing into an easy conversation with what was very likely a madman. She cut her gaze toward the knife beside her, then back to him. And found him studying her contemplatively.
"I wonder if you could use it. There are two kinds of people in the world, don't you think? Those who fight and those who flee. Which are you, Kayleen?"
"I've never been in the position where I had to do either."
"That's either fortunate or tedious. I'm not entirely sure which. I like a good fight myself," he added with that quick grin. "Just one of my many flaws. Fact is, I miss going fist to fist with a man. I miss a great many things."
"Why? Why do you have to miss anything?"
"That's the point, isn't it, of this fireside conversation. The why. Are you wondering, mavourneen, if I'm off in my head?"
"Yes," she said, then immediately froze.
"I'm not, though perhaps it would've been easier if I'd gone a bit crazy along the way. They knew I had a strong mind—part of the problem, in their thinking, and part of the reason for the sentence weighed on me."
"They?" Her fingers inched toward the handle of the knife. She could use it, she promised herself. She would use it if she had to, no matter how horribly sad and lonely he looked.
"The Keepers. The ancient and the revered who guard and who nurture magic. And have done so since the Waiting Time, when life was no more than the heavens taking their first breath."
"Gods?" she said cautiously.
"In some ways of thinking." He was brooding again, frowning into the flames. "I was born of magic, and when I was old enough I left my family to do the work. To heal and to help. Even to entertain. Some of us have more of a knack, you could say, for the fun of it."
"Like, um, sawing a lady in half."
He looked at her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "This is illusion, Kayleen."
"Yes."
"I speak of magic, not pretense. Some prophesy, some travel and study, for the sake of it. Others devote their art to healing body or soul. Some choose to make a living performing. Some might serve a worthy master, as Merlin did Arthur. There are as many choices as there are people. And while none may choose to harm or profit for the sake of it, all are real."
He slipped a long chain from under his shirt, held the pendant with its milky stone out for her to see. "A moonstone," he told her. "And the words around are my name, and my title. Draiodoir. Magician."
"It's beautiful." Unable to resist, she curved her hand around the pendant. And felt a bolt of heat, like the rush of a comet, spurt from her fingertips to her toes. "God!"
Before she could snatch her hand away, Flynn closed his own over hers. "Power," he murmured. "You feel it. Can all but taste it. A seductive thing. And inside, you can make yourself think there's nothing impossible. Look at me, Kayleen."
She already was, could do nothing else. Wanted nothing else. There you are, she thought again. There you are, at last.
"I could have you now. You would willingly lie with me now, as you have in dreams. Without fear. Without questions."
"Yes."
And his need was a desperate thing, leaping, snapping at the tether of control. "I want more." His fingers tightened on hers. "What is it in you that makes me crave more, when I don't know what more is? Well, we've time to find the answer. For now, I'll tell you a story. A young magician left his family. He traveled and he studied. He helped and he healed. He had pride in his work, in himself. Some said too much pride."
He paused now, thinking, for there had been times in this last dreaming that he'd wondered if that could be so.
"His skill, this magician's, was great, and he was known in his world. Still, he was a man, with the needs of a man, the desires of a man, the faults of a man. Would you want a man perfect, Kayleen?"
"I want you."
"Leannana." He leaned over, pressed his lips to her knuckles. "This man, this magician, he saw the world. He read its books, listened to its music. He came and went as he pleased, did as he pleased. Perhaps he was careless on occasion, and though he did no harm, neither did he heed the rules and the warnings he was given. The power was so strong in him, what need had he for rules?"
"Everyone needs rules. They keep us civilized."
"Do you think?" It amused him how prim her voice had become. Even held by the spell, she had a strong mind, and a strong will. "We'll discuss that sometime. But for now, to continue the tale. He came to know a woman. Her beauty was blinding, her manner sweet. He believed her to be innocent. Such was his romantic nature."
"Did you love her?"
"Yes, I loved her. I loved the angel-faced, innocent maid I saw when I looked at her. I asked for her hand, for it wasn't just a tumble I wanted from her but a lifetime. And when I asked, she wept, ah, pretty tears down a smooth cheek. She couldn't be mine, she told me, as much as her heart already was. For there was a man, a wealthy man, a cruel man, who had contracted for her. Her father had sold her, and her fate was sealed."
"You couldn't let that happen."
"Ah, you see that, too." It pleased him that she saw it, stood with him on that vital point. "No, how could I let her go loveless to another? To be sold like a horse in the marketplace? I would take her away, I said, and she wept the more. I would give her father twice what had been given, and she sobbed upon my shoulder. It could not be done, for then surely the man would kill her poor father, or see him in prison, or some horrible fate. So long as the man had his wealth and position, her family would suffer. She couldn't bear to be the cause of it, even though her heart was breaking."
Kayleen shook her head, frowned. "I'm sorry, but that doesn't make sense. If the money was paid back and her father was wealthy now, he could certainly protect himself, and he would have the law to—"
"The heart doesn't follow such reason," he interrupted, impatiently because if he'd had the wit in his head at the time, instead of fire in his blood, he'd have come to those same conclusions. "It was saving her that was my first thought—and my last. Protecting her, and yes, perhaps, by doing so having her love me the more. I would take this cruel man's wealth and his position from him. I vowed this, and oh, how her eyes shone, diamonds of tears. I would take what he had and lay it at her feet. She would live like a queen, and I would care for her all my life."
"But stealing—"
"Will you just listen?" Exasperation hissed through his voice.
"Of course." Her chin lifted, a little tilt of resentment. "I beg your pardon."
"So this I did, whistling the wind, drawing down the moon, kindling the cold fire. This I did, and did freely for her. And the man woke freezing in a crofter's cot instead of his fine manor house. He woke in rags instead of his warm nightclothes. I took his life from him, without spilling a drop of blood. And when it was done, I stood in the smoldering dark of that last dawn, triumphant."
He fell into silence a moment, and when he continued, his voice was raw. "The Keepers encased me in a shield of crystal, holding me there as I cursed them, as I shouted my protests, as I used the heart and innocence of my young maid as my defense for my crime. And they showed me how she laughed as she gathered the wealth I'd sent to her, as she leapt into a carriage laden with it and fell into the arms of the lover with whom she'd plotted the ruin of the man she hated. And my ruin as well."
"But you loved her."
"I did, but the Keepers don't count love as an excuse, as a reason. I was given a choice. They would strip me of my power, take away what was in my blood and make me merely human. Or I would keep it, and live alone, in a half world, without companionship, without human contact, without the pleasures of the world that I, in their estimation, had betrayed."
"That's cruel. Heartless."
"So I claimed, but it didn't sway them. I took the second choice, for they would not empty me. I would not abjure my birthright. Here I have existed, since that night of betrayal, a hundred years times five, with only one week each century to feel as a man does again.
"I am a man, Kayleen." With his hand still gripping hers, he got to his feet. Drew her up. "1 am," he murmured, sliding his free hand into her hair, fisting it there.
He lowered his head, his lips nearly meeting hers, then hesitated. The sound of her breath catching, releasing, shivered through him. She trembled under his hand, and he felt, inside himself, the stumble of her heart.
"Quietly this time," he murmured. "Quietly." And brushed his lips, a whisper, once… twice over hers. The flavor bloomed inside him like a first sip of fine wine.
He drank slowly. Even when her lips parted, invited, he drank slowly. Savoring the texture of her mouth, the easy slide of tongues, the faint, faint scrape of teeth.
Her body fit against his, so lovely, so perfect. The heat from the moonstone held between their hands spread like sunlight and began to pulse.
So even drinking slowly he was drunk on her.
When he drew back, her sigh all but shattered him.
"A ghra." Weak, wanting, he lowered his brow to hers. With a sigh of his own he tugged the pendant free. Her eyes, soft, loving, clouded, began to clear. Before the change was complete, he pressed his mouth to hers one last time.
"Dream," he said.

Chapter 4

She woke to watery sunlight and the heady scent of roses. There was a low fire simmering in the grate and a silk pillow under her head.
Kayleen stirred and rolled over to snuggle in.
Then shot up in bed like an arrow from a plucked bow.
My God, it had really happened. All of it.
And for lord's sake, for lord's sake, she was naked again.
Had he given her drugs, hypnotized her, gotten her drunk? What other reason could there be for her to have slept like a baby—and naked as one—in a bed in the house of a crazy man?
Instinctively, she snatched at the sheets to cover herself, and then she saw the single white rose.
An incredibly sweet, charmingly romantic crazy man, she thought and picked up the rose before she could resist.
That story he'd told her—magic and betrayal and five hundred years of punishment. He'd actually believed it. Slowly she let out a breath. So had she. She'd sat there, listening and believing every word—then. Hadn't seen a single thing odd about it, but had felt sorrow and anger on his behalf. Then…
He'd kissed her, she remembered. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, stunned at her own behavior. The man had kissed her, had made her feel like rich cream being gently lapped out of a bowl. More, she'd wanted him to kiss her. Had wanted a great deal more than that.
And perhaps, she thought, dragging the sheets higher, there had been a great deal more than that.
She started to leap out of bed, then changed her mind and crept out instead. She had to get away, quickly and quietly. And to do so, she needed clothes.
She tiptoed to the wardrobe, wincing at the creak as she eased the door open. It was one more shock to look inside and see silks and velvets, satins and lace, all in rich, bold colors. Such beautiful things. The kind of clothes she would covet but never buy. So impractical, so frivolous, really.
So gorgeous.
Shaking her head at her foolishness, she snatched out her own practical trousers, her torn sweater… but it wasn't torn. Baffled, she turned it over, inside out, searching for the jagged rip in the arm. It wasn't there.
She hadn't imagined that tear. She couldn't have imagined it. Because she was beginning to shake, she dragged it over her head, yanked the trousers on. Trousers that were pristine, though they had been stained and muddy.
She dove into the wardrobe, pushing through evening slippers, kid boots, and found her simple black flats. Flats that should have been well worn, caked with dirt, scarred just a little on the inside left where she had knocked against a chest the month before in her shop.
But the shoes were unmarked and perfect, as if they'd just come out of the box.
She would think about it later. She'd think about it all later. Now she had to get away from here, away from him. Away from whatever was happening to her.
Her knees knocked together as she crept to the door, eased it open, and peeked out into the hallway. She saw beautiful rugs on a beautiful floor, paintings and tapestries on the walls, more doors, all closed. And no sign of Flynn.
She slipped out, hurrying as quickly as she dared. Wild with relief, she bolted down the stairs, raced to the door, yanked it open with both hands.
And barreling through, ran straight into Flynn.
"Good morning." He grasped her shoulders, steadying her even as he thought what a lovely thing it would be if she'd been running toward him instead of away from him. "It seems we've done with the rain for now."
"I was—I just—" Oh, God. "I want to go check on my car."
"Of course. You may want to wait till the mists burn off. Would you like your breakfast?"
"No, no." She made her lips curve. "I'd really like to see how badly I damaged the car. So, I'll just go see and… let you know."
"Then I'll take you to it."
"No, really."
But he turned away, whistled. He took her hand, ignoring her frantic tugs for release, and led her down the steps.
Out of the mists came a white horse at the gallop, the charger of folklore with his mane flying, his silver bridle ringing. Kayleen managed one short shriek as he arrowed toward them, powerful legs shredding the mists, magnificent head tossing.
He stopped inches from Flynn's feet, blew softly, then nuzzled Flynn's chest.
With a laugh, Flynn threw his arms around the horse's neck. With the same joy, she thought, that a boy might embrace a beloved dog. He spoke to the horse in low tones, crooning ones, in what she now recognized as Gaelic.
Still grinning, Flynn eased back. He lifted a hand, flicked the wrist, and the palm that had been empty now held a glossy red apple. "No, I would never forget. There's for my beauty," he said, and the horse dipped his head and nipped the apple neatly out of Flynn's palm.
"His name is Dilis. It means faithful, and he is." With economical and athletic grace, Flynn vaulted into the saddle, held down a hand for Kayleen.
"Thank you all the same, and he's very beautiful, but I don't know how to ride. I'll just—" The words slid back down her throat as Flynn leaned down, gripped her arm, and pulled her up in front of him as though she weighed less than a baby.
"I know how to ride," he assured her and tapped Dilis lightly with his heels.
The horse reared, and Kayleen's scream mixed with Flynn's laughter as the fabulous beast pawed the air. Then they were leaping forward and flying into the forest.
There was nothing to do but hold on. She banded her arms around Flynn, buried her face in his chest. It was insane, absolutely insane. She was an ordinary woman who led an ordinary life. How could she be galloping through some Irish forest on a great white horse, plastered against a man who claimed to be a fifteenth-century magician?
It had to stop, and it had to stop now.
She lifted her head, intending to tell him firmly to rein his horse in, to let her off and let her go. And all she did was stare. The sun was slipping in fingers through the arching branches of the trees. The air glowed like polished pearls.
Beneath her the horse ran fast and smooth at a breathless, surely a reckless, pace. And the man who rode him was the most magnificent man she'd ever seen.
His dark hair flew, his eyes glittered. And that sadness he carried, which was somehow its own strange appeal, had lifted. What she saw on his face was joy, excitement, delight, challenge. A dozen things, and all of them strong.
And seeing them, her heart beat as fast as the horse's hooves. "Oh, my God!"
It wasn't possible to fall in love with a stranger. It didn't happen in the real world.
Weakly, she let her head fall back to his chest. But maybe it was time to admit, or at least consider, that she'd left the real world the evening before when she'd taken that wrong turn into the forest.
Dilis slowed to a canter, stopped. Once again, Kayleen lifted her head. This time her eyes met Flynn's. This time he read what was in them. As the pleasure of it rose in him, he leaned toward her.
"No. Don't." She lifted her hand, pressed it to his lips. "Please."
His nod was curt. "As you wish." He leapt off the horse, plucked her down. "It appears your mode of transportation is less reliable than mine," he said, and turned her around.
The car had smashed nearly headlong into an oak. The oak, quite naturally, had won the bout. The hood was buckled back like an accordion, the safety glass a surrealistic pattern of cracks. The air bag had deployed, undoubtedly saving her from serious injury. She'd been driving too fast for the conditions, she remembered. Entirely too fast.
But how had she been driving at all?
That was the question that struck her now. There was no road. The car sat broken on what was no more than a footpath through the forest. Trees crowded in everywhere, along with brambles and wild vines that bloomed with unearthly flowers. And when she slowly turned in a circle, she saw no route she could have maneuvered through them in the rain, in the dark.
She saw no tracks from her tires in the damp ground. There was no trace of her journey; there was only the end of it.
Cold, she hugged her arms. Her sweater, she thought, wasn't ripped. Cautiously, she pushed up the sleeve, and there, where she'd been badly scraped and bruised, her skin was smooth and unmarred.
She looked back at Flynn. He stood silently as his horse idly cropped at the ground. Temper was in his eyes, and she could all but see the sparks of impatience shooting off him.
Well, she had a temper of her own if she was pushed far enough. And her own patience was at an end. "What is this place?" she demanded, striding up to him. "Who the hell are you, and what have you done? How have you done it? How the devil can I be here when I can't possibly be here? That car—" She flung her hand out. "I couldn't have driven it here. I couldn't have." Her arm dropped limply to her side. "How could I?"
"You know what I told you last night was the truth."
She did know. With her anger burned away, she did know it. "I need to sit down."
"The ground's damp." He caught her arm before she could just sink to the floor of the forest. "Here, then." And he lowered her gently into a high-backed chair with a plump cushion of velvet.
"Thank you." She began to laugh, and burying her face in her hands, shook with it. "Thank you very much. I've lost my mind. Completely lost my mind."
"You haven't. But it would help us both considerably if you'd open it a bit."
She lowered her hands. She was not a hysterical woman, and would not become one. She no longer feared him. However savagely handsome his looks, he'd done her no harm. The fact was, he'd tended to her.
But facts were the problem, weren't they? The fact that she couldn't be here, but was. That he couldn't exist, yet did. The fact that she felt what she felt, without reason.
Once upon a time, she thought, then drew a long breath.
"I don't believe in fairy tales."
"Now, then, that's very sad. Why wouldn't you? Do you think any world can exist without magic? Where does the color come from, and the beauty? Where are the miracles?"
"I don't know. I don't have any answers. Either I'm having a very complex dream or I'm sitting in the woods in a"—she got to her feet to turn and examine the chair—"a marquetry side chair, Dutch, I believe, early eighteenth century. Very nice. Yes, well." She sat again. "I'm sitting here in this beautiful chair in a forest wrapped in mists, having ridden here on that magnificent horse, after having spent the night in a castle—"
"'Tisn't a castle, really. More a manor."
"Whatever, with a man who claims to be more than five hundred years old."
"Five hundred and twenty-eight, if we're counting."
"Really? You wear it quite well. A five-hundred-and-twenty-eight-year-old magician who collects Pez dispensers."
"Canny little things."
"And I don't know how any of it can be true, but I believe it. I believe all of it. Because continuing to deny what I see with my own eyes makes less sense than believing it."
"There." He beamed at her. "I knew you were a sensible woman."
"Oh, yes, I'm very sensible, very steady. So I have to believe what I see, even if it's irrational."
"If that which is rational exists, that which is irrational must as well. There is ever a balance to things, Kayleen."
"Well." She sat calmly, glancing around. "I believe in balance." The air sparkled. She could feel it on her face. She could smell the deep, dark richness of the woods. She could hear the trill of birdsong. She was where she was, and so was he.
"So, I'm sitting in this lovely chair in an enchanted forest having a conversation with a five-hundred-and-twenty-eight-year-old magician. And, if all that isn't crazy enough, there's one more thing that tops it all off. I'm in love with him."
The easy smile on his face faded. What ran through him was so hot and tangled, so full of layers and routes he couldn't breathe through it all. "I've waited for you, through time, through dreams, through those small windows of life that are as much torture as treasure. Will you come to me now, Kayleen? Freely?"
She got to her feet, walked across the soft cushion of forest floor to him. "I don't know how I can feel like this. I only know I do."
He pulled her into his arms, and this time the kiss was hungry. Possessive. When she pressed her body to his, wound her arms around his neck, he deepened the kiss, took more. Filled himself with her.
Her head spun, and she reveled in the giddiness. No one had ever wanted her—not like this. Had ever touched her like this. Needed her. Desire was a hot spurt that fired the blood and made logic, reason, sanity laughable things.
She had magic. What did she need of reason?
"Mine." He murmured it against her mouth. Said it again and again as his lips raced over her face, her throat. Then, throwing his head back, he shouted it.
"She's mine now and ever. I claim her, as is my right."
When he lifted her off her feet, lightning slashed across the sky. The world trembled.
They rode through the forest. He showed her a stream where golden fish swam over silver rocks. Where a waterfall tumbled down into a pool clear as blue glass.
He stopped to pick her wildflowers and thread them through her hair. And when he kissed her, it was soft and sweet.
His moods, she thought, were as magical as the rest of him, and just as inexplicable. He courted her, making her laugh as he plucked baubles out of thin air and painted rainbows in the sky.
She could feel the breeze on her cheeks, smell the flowers and the damp. What was in her heart was like music. Fairy tales were real, she thought. All the years she'd turned her back on them, dismissed the happily-ever-after that her mother sighed over, her own magic had been waiting for her.
Nothing would ever, could ever, be the same again.
Had she known it somehow? Deep inside, had she known it had only been waiting, that he had only been waiting for her to awake?
They walked or rode while birds chorused around them and mists faded away into brilliant afternoon.
There beside the pool he laid a picnic, pouring wine out of his open hand to amuse her. Touching her hair, her cheek, her shoulders dozens of times, as if the contact was as much reassurance as flirtation.
She'd never had a romance. Never taken the time for one. Now it seemed a lifetime of love and anticipation could be fit into one perfect day.
He knew something about everything. History, culture, art, literature, science. It was a new thrill to realize that the man who held her heart, who attracted her so completely, appealed to her mind as well. He could make her laugh, make her wonder, make her yearn. And he brought her a contentment she hadn't known she'd lived without.
If this was a dream, she thought, as twilight fell and they mounted the horse once more, she hoped never to wake.

Chapter 5

A perfect day deserved a perfect night. She had thought, hoped, that when they returned from their outing, he would take her inside. Take her to bed.
But he had only kissed her in that stirring way that made her weak and jittery and asked if she might like to change for the evening.
So she had gone up to her room to worry and wonder how a woman prepared, after the most magical of days, for the most momentous night of her life. Of one thing she was certain. It wouldn't do to think. If she let her thoughts take shape, the doubts would creep in. Doubts about everything that had happened—and about what would happen yet.
For once, she would simply act. She would simply be.
The bath that adjoined her room was a testament to modern luxury. Stepping from the bedchamber with its antiques and plush velvets into this sea of tile and glass was like stepping from one world into another.
Which was, she supposed, something she'd done already. She filled the huge tub with water and scent and oil, let the low hum of the motor and quiet jets relax her as she sank in up to her chin.
Silver-topped pots sat on the long white counter. From them she scooped out cream to smooth over her skin. And watched herself in the steam-hazed window. This was the way women had prepared for a lover for centuries. Scenting and softening themselves for a man's hands. For a man's mouth.
A woman's magic.
She wouldn't be afraid, she wouldn't let anxiety crowd out the pleasure.
In the wardrobe she found a long gown of silk in the color of ripe plums. It slid over her body like sin and scooped low over her breasts. She slipped her feet into silver slippers, started to turn to the glass.
No, she thought, she didn't want to see herself reflected in a mirror. She wanted to see herself reflected in Flynn's eyes.
He felt like a green youth, all eager nerves and awkward moves. In his day, he'd had quite a way with the ladies. Though five hundred years could certainly make a man rusty in certain areas, he'd had dreams.
But even in dreams, he hadn't wanted so much.
How could he? he thought as Kayleen started down the staircase toward him. Dreams paled next to the power of her.
He reached out, almost afraid that his hand would pass through her and leave him nothing but this yearning. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known."
"Tonight"—she linked her fingers with his—"everything's beautiful." She stepped toward him and was confused when he stepped back.
"I thought… Will you dance with me, Kayleen?"
As he spoke, the air filled with music. Candles, hundreds of them, spurted into flame. The light was pale gold now, and flowers blossomed down the walls, turning the hall into a garden.
"I'd love to," she said, and moved into his arms.
They waltzed in the Great Hall, through the swaying candlelight and the perfume of roses that bloomed everywhere. Doors and windows sprang open, welcoming the glow of moon and stars and the fragrance of the night.
Thrilled, Kayleen threw back her head and let him sweep her in stirring circles. "It's wonderful! Everything's wonderful. How can you know how to waltz like this when there was no waltz in your time?"
"Watching through dreams. I see the world go by in them, and I take what pleases me most. I've danced with you in dreams, Kayleen. You don't remember?"
"No," she whispered. "I don't dream. And if I do, I never remember. But I'll remember this." She smiled at him. "Forever."
"You're happy."
"I've never in my life been so happy." Her hand slid from his shoulder, along his neck, to rest on his cheek. The blue of her eyes deepened. Went dreamy. "Flynn."
"Wine," he said, when fresh nerves kicked in his belly. "You'll want wine."
"No." The music continued to swell as they stood. "I don't want wine."
"Supper, then."
"No." Her hand trailed over, cupped the back of his neck. "Not supper either," she murmured and drew his mouth to hers. "You." She breathed it. "Only you."
"Kayleen." He'd intended to romance her, charm her. Seduce her. Now she had done all of that to him. "I don't want to rush you."
"I've waited so long, without even knowing. There's never been anyone else. Now I think there couldn't have been, because there was you. Show me what it's like to belong."
"There's no woman I've touched who mattered.
They're shadows beside you, Kayleen. This," he said and lifted her into his arms, "is real."
He carried her through the music and candlelight, up the grand stairs. And though she felt his arms, the beat of his heart, it was like floating.
"Here is where I dreamed of you in the night." He took her into his bedchamber, where the bed was covered with red silk and the petals of white roses, where candles stood flaming and the fire shimmered. "And here is where I'll love you, this first time. Flesh to flesh."
He set her on her feet. "I won't hurt you, that I can promise. I'll give you only pleasure."
"I'm not afraid."
"Then be with me." He cupped her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers.
In dreams there had been longing, and echoes of sensations. Here and now, with those mists parted, there was so much more.
Gently, so gently, his mouth took from hers. Warmth and wanting. With tenderness and patience, his hands moved over her. Soft and seductive. When she trembled, he soothed, murmuring her name, and promises. He slid the gown off her shoulders, trailed kisses over that curve of flesh. And thrilled to the flavor and the fragrance.
"Let me see you now, lovely Kayleen." He skimmed his lips along her throat as he eased the gown down her body. When it pooled at her feet, he stepped back and looked his fill.
There was no shyness in her. The heat that rose up to bloom on her skin was anticipation. The tremble that danced through her was delight when his gaze finished its journey and his eyes locked on hers.
He reached out, caressed the curve of her breast, let them both absorb the sensation. When his fingertips trailed down, he felt her quiver under his touch.
She reached for him, her hands not quite steady as she unbuttoned his shirt. And when she touched him, it was like freedom.
"A ghra." He pulled her against him, crushed her mouth with his, lost himself in the needs that stormed through him. His hands raced over her, took, sought more, until she gasped out his name.
Too fast, too much. God help him. He fought back through the pounding in his blood, gentled his movements, chained the raw need. When he lifted her again, laid her on the bed, his kiss was long and slow and gentle.
This, she thought, was what the poets wrote of. This was why a man or a woman would reject reason for even the chance of love.
This warmth, this pleasure of another's body against your own. This gift of heart, and all the sighs and secrets it offered.
He gave her pleasure, as he had promised, drowning floods of it that washed through her in slow waves. She could have lain steeped in it forever.
She gave to him a taste, a touch, so that sensation pillowed the aches. He savored, and lingered, and held fast to the beauty she offered.
When flames licked at the edges of warmth, she welcomed them. The pretty clouds that had cushioned her began to thin. Falling through them, she cried out. A sound of triumph as her heart burst inside her.
And heard him moan, heard the quick whispers, a kind of incantation as he rose over her. Through the candlelight and the shimmer of her own vision she saw his face, his eyes. So green now they were like dark jewels. Swamped with love, she laid a hand on his cheek, murmured his name.
"Look at me. Aye, at me." His breath wanted to tear out of his lungs. His body begged to plunge. "Only pleasure."
He took her innocence, filled her, and gave her the joy. She opened for him, rose with him, her eyes swimming with shocked delight. And with the love he craved like breath.
And this time, when she fell, he gathered himself and plunged after her.
Her body shimmered. She was certain that if she looked in the mirror she would see it was golden. And his, she thought, trailing a hand lazily up and down his back. His was so beautiful. Strong and hard and smooth.
His heart was thundering against hers still. What a fantastic sensation that was, to be under the weight of the man you loved and feel his heart race for you.
Perhaps that was why her mother kept searching, kept risking. For this one moment of bliss. Love, Kayleen thought, changes everything.
And she loved.
Was loved. She repeated that over and over in her head. She was loved. It didn't matter that he hadn't said it, in those precise words. He couldn't look at her as he did, couldn't touch her as he did and not love her.
A woman didn't change her life, believe in spells and fairy tales after years of denial, and not be given the happy ending.
Flynn loved her. That was all she needed to know.
"Why do you worry?"
She blinked herself back. "What?"
"I feel it. Inside you." He lifted his head and studied her face. "The worry."
"No. It's only that everything's different now. So much is happening to me in so little time." She brushed her fingers through his hair and smiled. "But it's not worry."
"I want your happiness, Kayleen."
"I know." And wasn't that love, after all? "I know." And laughing, she threw her arms around him. "And you have it. You make me ridiculously happy."
"There's often not enough ridiculous in a life." He pulled her up with him so they were sitting tangled together on silk roses. "So let's have a bit."
The stone in his pendant glowed brighter as he grinned. He fisted his hands, shot them open.
In a wink the bed around them was covered with platters of food and bottles of wine. It made her jolt. She wondered if such things always would. Angling her head, she lifted a glass.
"I'd rather champagne, if you please."
"Well, then."
She watched the glass fill, bottom to top, with the frothy wine. And laughing, she toasted him and drank it down.

Chapter 6

All of her life Kayleen had done the sensible thing. As a child, she'd tidied her room without being reminded, studied hard in school and turned in all assignments in a timely fashion. She had grown into a woman who was never late for an appointment, spent her money wisely, and ran the family business with a cool, clear head.
Looking back through the veil of what had been, Kayleen decided she had certainly been one of the most tedious people on the face of the planet.
How could she have known there was such freedom in doing the ridiculous or the impulsive or the foolish?
She said as much to Flynn as she lay sprawled over him on the bed of velvety flowers.
"You couldn't be tedious."
"Oh, but I could." She lifted her head from his chest. She wore nothing but her smile, with its dimple, and flowers in her hair. "I was the queen of tedium. I set my alarm for six o'clock every morning, even when I didn't have to get up for work. I even set alarms when I was on vacation."
"Because you didn't want to miss anything."
"No. Because one must maintain discipline. I walked to work every day, rain or shine, along the exact same route. This was after making my bed and eating a balanced breakfast, of course."
She slithered down so that she could punctuate her words with little kisses over his shoulders and chest. "I arrived at the shop precisely thirty minutes before opening, in order to see to the morning paperwork and check any displays that might require updating. Thirty minutes for a proper lunch, fifteen minutes, exactly, at four for a cup of tea, then close shop and walk home by that same route."
She worked her way up his throat. "Mmmm. Watched the news during dinner—must keep up with current affairs. Read a chapter of a good book before bed. Except for Wednesdays. Wednesdays I went wild and took in an interesting film. And on my half day, I would go over to my mother's to lecture her."
Though her pretty mouth was quite a distraction, he paid attention to her words, and the tone of them. "You lectured your mother?"
"Oh, yes." She nibbled at his ear. "My beautiful, frivolous, delightful mother. How I must have irritated her. She's been married three times, engaged double that, at least. It never works out, and she's heartbroken about it for, oh, about an hour and a half."
With a laugh, Kayleen lifted her head again. "That's not fair, of course, but she manages to shake it all off and never lose her optimism about love. She forgets to pay her bills, misses appointments, never knows the correct time, and has never been known to be able to find her keys. She's wonderful."
"You love her very much."
"Yes, very much." Sighing now, Kayleen pillowed her head on Flynn's shoulder. "I decided when I was very young that it was my job to take care of her. That was after her husband number two."
He combed his fingers through her flower-bedecked hair. "Did you lose your father?"
"No, but you could say he lost us. He left us when I was six. I suppose you could call him frivolous, too, which was yet another motivation for me to be anything but. He never settled into the family business well. Or into marriage, or into fatherhood. I hardly remember him."
He stroked her hair, said nothing. But he was beginning to worry. "Were you happy, in that life?"
"I wasn't unhappy. Brennan's was important to me, maybe all the more so because it wasn't important to my father. He shrugged off the tradition of it, the responsibility of it, as carelessly as he shrugged off his wife and his daughter."
"And hurt you."
"At first. Then I stopped letting it hurt me."
Did you? Flynn wondered. Or is that just one more pretense?
"I thought everything had to be done a certain way to be done right. If you do things right, people don't leave," she said softly. "And you'll know exactly what's going to happen next. My uncle and grandfather gradually let me take over the business because I had a knack for it, and they were proud of that. My mother let me handle things at home because, well, she's just too good-natured not to."
She sighed again, snuggled into him. "She's going to get married again next month, and she's thrilled. One of the reasons I took this trip now is because I wanted to get away from it, from those endless plans for yet another of her happy endings. I suppose I hurt her feelings, leaving the way I did. But I'd have hurt them more if I'd stayed and spoke my mind."
"You don't like the man she'll marry?"
"No, he's perfectly nice. My mother's fiancés are always perfectly nice. Funny, since I've been here I haven't worried about her at all. And I imagine, somehow, she's managing just fine without me picking at her. The shop's undoubtedly running like clockwork, and the world continues to spin. Odd to realize I wasn't indispensable after all."
"To me you are." He wrapped his arms around her, rolled over so he could look down at her. "You're vital to me."
"That's the most wonderful thing anyone's ever said to me." It was better, wasn't it? she asked herself. Even better than "I love you."
"I don't know what time it is, or even what day. I don't need to know. I've never eaten supper in bed unless I was ill. Never danced in a forest in the moonlight, never made love in a bed of flowers. I've never known what it was like to be so free."
"Happy, Kayleen." He took her mouth, a little desperately. "You're happy."
"I love you, Flynn. How could I be happier?"
He wanted to keep her loving him. Keep her happy. He wanted to keep her beautifully naked and steeped in pleasures.
More than anything, he wanted to keep her.
The hours were whizzing by so quickly, tumbling into days so that he was losing track of time himself. What did time matter now, to either of them?
He could give her anything she wanted here. Anything and everything. What would she miss of the life she had outside? It was ordinary and tedious. Hadn't she said so herself? He would see that she never missed what had been. Before long she wouldn't even think of it. The life before would be the dream.
He taught her to ride, and she was fearless. When he thought of how she'd clung to him in terror when he'd pulled her up onto Dilis the first time, he rationalized the change by saying she was simply quick to learn. He hadn't changed her basic nature, or forced her will.
That was beyond his powers and the most essential rule of magic.
When she galloped off into the forest, her laughter streaming behind her, he told himself he let his mind follow her only to keep her from harm.
Yet he knew, deep inside himself, that if she traveled near the edge of his world, he would pull her back.
He had that right, Flynn thought, as his hands fisted at his sides. He had claimed her. What he claimed during his imprisonment was his to keep.
"That is the law." He threw his head back, scowling up at the heavens. "It is your law. She came to me. By rights of magic, by the law of this place, she is mine. No power can take her from me."
When the sky darkened, when lightning darted at the black edges of clouds, Flynn stood in the whistling wind, feet planted in challenge. His hair blew wild around his face, his eyes went emerald-bright. And the power that was his, that could not be taken from him, shimmered around him like silver.
In his mind he saw Kayleen astride the white horse. She glanced uneasily at the gathering storm, shivered in the fresh chill of the wind. And turned her mount to ride back to him.
She was laughing again as she raced out of the trees. "That was wonderful!" She threw her arms recklessly in the air so that Flynn gripped the halter to keep Dilis steady. "I want to ride every day. I can't believe the feeling"
Feeling, he thought with a vicious tug of guilt, was the one thing he wouldn't be able to offer her much longer.
"Come, darling." He lifted his arms up to her. "We'll put Dilis down for the night. A storm's coming."
She welcomed it too. The wind, the rain, the thunder. It stirred something in her, some whippy thrill that made her feel reckless and bold. When Flynn set the fire to blaze with a twist of his hand, her eyes danced.
"I don't suppose you could teach me to do that?"
He glanced back at her, the faintest of smiles, the slightest lift of brow. "I can't, no. But you've your own magic, Kayleen."
"Have I?"
"It binds me to you, as I've been bound to no other. I will give you a boon. Any that you ask that is in my power to give."
"Any?" A smile played around her mouth now as she looked up at him from under her lashes. The blatantly flirtatious move came to her much more naturally than she'd anticipated. "Well, that's quite an offer. I'll have to consider very carefully before making any decision."
She wandered the room, trailing a fingertip over the back of the sofa, over the polished gleam of a table. "Would that offer include, say, the sun and the moon?"
Look at her, he thought. She grows more beautiful by the hour. "Such as these?" He held out his hands. From them dripped a string of luminous white pearls with a clasp of diamonds.
She laughed, even as her breath caught. "Those aren't bad, as an example. They're magnificent, Flynn. But I didn't ask for diamonds or pearls."
"Then I give them freely." He crossed to her, laid the necklace over her head. "For the pleasure of seeing you wear them."
"I've never worn pearls." Surprised by the delight they brought her, she lifted them, let them run like moonbeams through her fingers. "They make me feel regal."
Holding them out, she turned a circle while the diamond clasp exploded with light. "Where do they come from? Do you just picture them in your mind and… poof?"
"Poof?" He decided she hadn't meant that as an insult. "More or less, I suppose. They exist, and I move them from one place to another. From there, to here. Whatever is, that has no will, I can bring here, and keep. Nothing with heart or soul can be taken. But the rest… It's sapphires, I'm thinking, that suit you best."
As Kayleen blinked, a string of rich black pearls clasped with brilliant sapphires appeared around her neck. "Oh! I'll never get used to… Move them?" She looked back at him. "You mean take them?"
"Mmm." He turned to pour glasses of wine.
"But…" Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked around the room. The gorgeous antiques, the modern electronics—which she'd noticed ran without electricity, the glamour of Ming vases, the foolishness of pop art.
Almost nothing in the room would have existed when he'd been banished here.
"Flynn, where do all these things come from? Your television set, your piano, the furniture and rugs and art. The food and wine?"
"All manner of places."
"How does it work?" She took the wine from him. "I mean, is it like replicating? Do you copy a thing?"
"Perhaps, if I've a mind to. It takes a bit more time and trouble for that process. You have to know the innards, so to speak, and the composition and all matter of scientific business to make it come right. Easier by far just to transport it."
"But if you just transport it, if you just take it from one place and bring it here, that's stealing."
"I'm not a thief." The idea! "I'm a magician. The laws aren't the same for us."
Patience was one of her most fundamental virtues. "Weren't you punished initially because you took something from someone?"
"That was entirely different. I changed a life for another's gain. And I was perhaps a bit… rash. Not that it deserved such a harsh sentence."
"How do you know what lives you've changed by bringing these here?" She held up the pearls. "Or any of the other things? If you take someone's property, it causes change, doesn't it? And at the core of it, it's just stealing." Not without regret, she lifted the jewels over her head. "Now, you have to put these back where you got them."
"I won't." Fully insulted now, he slammed his glass down. "You would reject a gift from me?"
"Yes. If it belongs to someone else. Flynn, I'm a merchant myself. How would I feel to open my shop one morning and find my property gone? It would be devastating. A violation. And beyond that, which is difficult enough, the inconvenience. I'd have to file a police report, an insurance claim. There'd be an investigation, and—"
"Those are problems that don't exist here," he interrupted. "You can't apply your ordinary logic to magic. Magic is."
"Right is, Flynn, and even magic can't negate what's right. These may be heirlooms. They may mean a great deal to someone even beyond their monetary value. I can't accept them."
She laid the pearls, the glow and the sparkle, on the table.
"You have no knowledge of what governs me." The air began to tremble with his anger. "No right to question what's inside me. Your world hides from mine, century by century, building its pale layers of reason and denial. You come here, and in days you stand in judgment of what you can't begin to comprehend?"
"I don't judge you, Flynn, but your actions." The wind had come into the room. It blew over her face, through her hair. And it was cold. Though her belly quaked, she lifted her chin. "Power shouldn't take away human responsibility. It should add to it. I'm surprised you haven't learned that in all the time you've had to think."
His eyes blazed. He threw out his arms, and the room exploded with sound and light. She stumbled back, but managed to regain her balance, managed to swallow a cry. When the air cleared again, the room was empty but for the two of them.
"This is what I might have if I lived by your rules.
Nothing. No comfort, no humanity. Only empty rooms, where even the echoes are lifeless. Five hundred years of alone, and I should worry that another whose life comes and goes in a blink might do without a lamp or a painting?"
"Yes." Temper snapped off him, little flames of gold. Then he vanished before her eyes.
What had she done? Panicked, she nearly called out for him, then realized he would hear only what he chose to hear.
She'd driven him away, she thought, sinking down in misery to sit on the bare floor. Driven him away with her rigid stance on right and wrong, her own unbending rules of conduct, just as she had kept so many others at a distance most of her life.
She'd preached at him, she admitted with a sigh. This incredible man with such a magnificent gift. She had wagged her finger at him, just the way she wagged it at her mother. Taken on, as she habitually did, the role of adult to the child.
It seemed that not even magic could burn that irritating trait out of her. Not even love could overcome it.
Now she was alone in an empty room. Alone, as she had been for so long. Flynn thought he had a lock on loneliness, she thought with a half laugh. She'd made a career out of alone.
She drew up her knees, rested her forehead on them. The worst of it, she realized, was that even now—sad, angry, aching—she believed she was right.
It wasn't a hell of a lot of comfort.

Chapter 7

It took him hours to work off his temper. He walked, he paced, he raged, he brooded. When temper had burned off, he sulked, though if anyone had put this term on his condition, he'd have swung hard back into temper again.
She'd hurt him. When anger cleared away enough for that realization to surface, it came as a shock. The woman had cut him to the bone. She'd rejected his gift, questioned his morality, and criticized his powers. All in one lump.
In his day such a swipe from a mere woman would have…
He cursed and paced some more. It wasn't his day, and if there was one thing he'd learned to adjust to, it was the changes in attitudes and sensibilities. Women stood toe-to-toe with men in this age, and in his readings and viewings over the years, he'd come to believe they had the right of it.
He was hardly steeped in the old ways. Hadn't he embraced technology with each new development? Hadn't he amused himself with the quirks of society and fashion and mores as they shifted and changed and became? And he'd taken from each of those shifts what appealed most, what sat best with him.
He was a well-read man, had been well read and well traveled even in his own time. And since that time, he'd studied. Science, history, electronics, engineering, art, music, literature, politics. He had hardly stopped using his mind over the last five hundred years.
The fact was, he rarely had the chance to use anything else.
So, he used it now and went over the argument in his head.
She didn't understand, he decided. Magic wasn't bound by the rules of her world, but by itself. It was, and that was all. No conscientious magician brought harm to another deliberately, that was certain. All he'd done was take a few examples of technology, of art and comfort, from various points in time. He could hardly be expected to live in a bloody cave, could he?
Stealing? Why, the very idea of it!
He sat on a chair in his workshop and indulged in more brooding.
It wasn't meant to be stealing, he thought now. Magicians had moved matter from place to place since the beginning of things. And what were jewels but pretty bits of matter?
Then he sighed. He supposed they were considerably more, from her point of view. And he'd wanted her to see them as more. He'd wanted her to be dazzled and delighted, and dote on him for the gift of them.
Much as he had, he admitted, wanted to dazzle and delight the woman who'd betrayed him. Or, to be honest, the woman who'd tempted him to betray himself and his art. That woman had greedily gathered what he'd given, what he'd taken, and left him to hang.
What had Kayleen done? Had she been overpowered by the glitter and the richness? Seduced by them?
Not in the least. She'd tossed them back in his face.
Stood up for what she believed was right and just. Stood up to him. His lips began to curve with the image of that. He hadn't expected her to, he could admit that. She'd looked him in the eye, said her piece, and stuck to it.
God, what a woman! His Kayleen was strong and true. Not a bauble to ride on a man's arm but a partner to stand tall with him. That was a grand thing. For while a man might indulge himself in a pretty piece of fluff for a time, it was a woman he wanted for a lifetime.
He got to his feet, studied his workroom. Well, a woman was what he had. He'd best figure out how to make peace with her.
Kayleen considered having a good cry, but it just wasn't like her. She settled instead for hunting up the kitchen which was no easy task. On the search she discovered Flynn had chosen to make his point with only that one empty room. The rest of the house was filled to brimming, and in his fascinatingly eclectic style.
She softened by the time she brewed tea in a kitchen equipped with a restaurant-style refrigerator, a microwave oven, and a stone fireplace in lieu of stove. It took her considerable time to get the fire going and to heat water in the copper pot. But it made her smile.
How could she blame him, really, for wanting things around him? Pretty things, interesting things. He was a man who needed to use his mind, amuse himself, challenge himself. Wasn't that the man she'd fallen in love with?
She carried the tea into the library with its thousands of books, its scrolls, its manuscripts. And its deep-cushioned leather chairs and snappy personal computer.
She would light the fire, and enough candles to read by, then enjoy her tea and the quiet.
Kneeling at the hearth, she tried to light the kindling and managed to scorch the wood. She rearranged the logs, lodged a splinter painfully in her thumb, and tried again.
She created a hesitant little flame, and a great deal of smoke, which the wind cheerfully blew back in her face. She hissed at it, sucked on her throbbing thumb, then sat on her heels to think it through.
And the flames burst into light and heat.
She set her teeth, fought the urge to turn around. "I can do it myself, thank you."
"As you wish, lady."
The fire vanished but for the smoke. She coughed, waved it away from her face, then got to her feet. "It's warm enough without one."
"I'd say it's unnaturally chilly at the moment." He walked up behind her, took her hand in his. "You've hurt yourself."
"It's only a splinter. Don't," she said when he lifted it to his lips.
"Being strong-minded and being contrary are two different matters." He touched his lips to her thumb, and the throbbing eased. "But not contrary enough, I notice, to ignore the comforts of a cup of tea, a book, and a pleasant chair."
"I wasn't going to stand in an empty room wringing my hands while you worked out your tantrum."
He lifted his eyebrows. "Disconcerting, isn't it? Emptiness."
She tugged her hand free of his. "All right, yes. And I have no true conception of what you've dealt with, nor any right to criticize how you compensate. But—"
"Right is right," he finished. "This place and what I possessed was all I had when first I came here. I could fill it with things, the things that appealed to me. That's what I did. I won't apologize for it."
"I don't want an apology."
"No, you want something else entirely." He opened his hands, and the rich loops of pearls gleamed in them.
"Flynn, don't ask me to take them."
"I am asking. I give you this gift, Kayleen. They're replicas, and belong to no one but me. Until they belong to you."
Her throat closed as he placed them around her neck. "You made them for me?"
"Perhaps I'd grown a bit lazy over the years. It took me a little longer to conjure them than it might have, but it made me remember the pleasure of making."
"They're more beautiful than the others. And much more precious."
"And here's a tear," he murmured, and caught it on his fingertip as it spilled onto her cheek. "If it falls from happiness, it will shine. If it's from sorrow, it will turn to ashes. See."
The drop glimmered on his finger, shimmered, then solidified into a diamond in the shape of a tear. "And this is your gift to me." He drew the pendant from beneath his shirt, passed his hand over it. The diamond drop sparkled now beneath the moonstone. "I'll wear it near my heart. Ever."
She leapt into his arms, clung to his neck. "I missed you!"
"I let temper steal hours from us."
"So did I." She leaned back. "We've had our first fight. I'm glad. Now we never have to have a first one again."
"But others?"
"We'll have to." She kissed his cheek. "There's so much we don't understand about each other. And even when we do, we won't always agree."
"Ah, my sensible Kayleen. No, don't frown," he said, tipping up her chin. "I like your mind. It stimulates my own."
"It annoyed you."
"At the first of it." He circled her around, lighting the fire, the candles as he did. "And I spent a bit of time pondering on how much more comfortable life would be if you'd just be biddable and agree with everything I said and did. 'Yes, Flynn, my darling,' you would say. 'No indeed, my handsome Flynn'."
"Oh, really?"
"But then I'd miss that battle light in your eyes, wouldn't I, and the way your lovely mouth goes firm. Makes me want to…" He nipped her bottom lip. "But that's another kind of stimulation altogether. I'm willing to fight with you, Kayleen, as long as you're willing to make up again with me."
"And I'm willing to have you stomp off in a temper—"
"I didn't stomp."
"Metaphorically speaking. As long as you come back." She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes. "The storm's passed," she murmured. "Moonlight's shining through the windows."
"So it is." He scooped her up. "I have the perfect way to celebrate our first fight." He closed her hand over his pendant. "Would you like to fly, Kayleen?"
"Fly? But—"
And she was soaring through the air, through the night. Air swirled around her, then seemed to go fluid so it was like cutting clean through a dark sea. The stone pulsed against her palm. She cried out in surprise, and then in delight, reaching out as if she could snatch one of the stars that shone around her.
Fearless, Flynn thought, even now, or perhaps it was more a thirst for all the times she'd denied herself a drink. When she turned her face to his, her eyes brighter than the jewels, brighter than the stars, he spun her in dizzying circles.
They landed in a laughing tumble to roll over the soft cushion of grass by the side of his blue waterfall.
"Oh! That was amazing. Can we do it again?"
"Soon enough. Here." He lifted a hand, and a plump peach balanced on the tips of his fingers. "You haven't eaten your supper."
"I wasn't hungry before." Charmed, she took the peach, bit into the sweetness. "So many stars," she murmured, lying back again to watch them. "Were we really flying up there?"
"It's a kind of manipulation of time and space and matter. It's magic. That's enough, isn't it?"
"It's everything. The world's magic now."
"But you're cold," he said when she shivered.
"Mmm. Only a little." Even as she spoke, the air warmed, almost seemed to bloom.
"I confess it." He leaned over to kiss her. "I stole a bit of warmth from here and there. But I don't think anyone will miss it. I don't want you chilled."
"Can it always be like this?"
There was a hitch in his chest. "It can be what we make it. Do you miss what was before?"
"No." But she lowered her lashes, so he was unable to read her eyes. "Do you? I mean, the people you knew? Your family?"
"They've been gone a long time."
"Was it hard?" She sat up, handed him the peach. "Knowing you'd never be able to see them again, or talk to them, or even tell them where you were?"
"I don't remember." But he did. This was the first lie he'd told her. He remembered that the pain of it had been like death.
"I'm sorry." She touched his shoulder. "It hurts you."
"It fades." He pushed away, got to his feet. "All of that is beyond, and it fades. It's the illusion, and this is all that's real. All that matters. All that matters is here."
"Flynn." She rose, hoping to comfort, but when he spun back, his eyes were hot, bright. And the desire in them robbed her of breath.
"I want you. A hundred lifetimes from now I'll want you. It's enough for me. Is it enough for you?"
"I'm here." She held out her hands. "And I love you. It's more than I ever dreamed of having."
"I can give you more. You still have a boon."
"Then I'll keep it. Until I need more." Because he'd yet to take her offered hands, she cupped his face in them.
"I've never touched a man like this. With love and desire. Do you think, Flynn, that because I've never felt them before I don't understand the wonder of knowing them now? Of feeling them now for one man? I've watched my mother search all of her life, be willing to risk heartbreak for the chance—just the chance—of feeling what I do right at this moment. She's the most important person to me outside this world you've made. And I know she'd be thrilled to know what I've found with you."
"Then when you ask me for your heart's desire, I'll move heaven and earth to give it to you. That's my vow."
"I have my heart's desire." She smiled, stepped back. "Tell me yours."
"Not tonight. Tonight I have plans for you that don't involve conversation."
"Oh? And what might they be?"
"Well, to begin…"
He lifted a hand and traced one finger down through the air between them. Her clothes vanished.

Chapter 8

"Oh!" This time she instinctively covered herself. "You might have warned me."
"I'll have you bathed in moonlight, and dressed in star-shine."
She felt a tug, gentle but insistent, on her hands. Her arms lowered, spread out as if drawn by silken rope. "Flynn."
"Let me touch you." He kept his eyes on hers as he stepped forward, as he traced his fingertips down her throat, over the swell of her breasts. "Excite you." He took her mouth in quick, little bites. "Possess you."
Something slid through her mind, her body, at the same time. A coiled snake of heat that bound both together. The rise of it, so fast, so sharp, slashed through her. She hadn't the breath to cry out, she could only moan.
He had barely touched her.
"How can you… how could I—"
"I want to show you more this time." Now his hands were on her, rough and insistent. Her skin was so soft, so fragrant. In the moonlight it gleamed so that wherever he touched, the warmth bloomed on it. Roses on silk. "I want to take more this time."
For a second time he took her flying. Though her feet never left the ground, she spun through the air. A fast, reckless journey. His mouth was on her, devouring flesh. She had no choice but to let him feed. And his greed erased her past reason so that her one desire was to be consumed.
Abandoning herself to it, she let her head fall back, murmuring his name like a chant as he ravished her.
He mated his mind with hers, thrilling to every soft cry, every throaty whimper. She stood open to him in the moonlight, soaked with pleasure and shuddering from its heat.
And such was his passion for her that his fingers left trails of gold over her damp flesh, trails that pulsed, binding her in tangled ribbons of pleasure.
When his mouth found hers again, the flavor exploded, sharp and sweet. Drunk on her, he lifted them both off the ground.
Now freed, her arms came tight around him, her nails scraping as she sought to hold, sought to find. She was hot against him, wet against him, her hips arching in rising demand.
He drove himself into her, one desperate thrust, then another. Another. With her answering beat for urgent beat, he let the animal inside him spring free.
His mind emptied but for her and that primal hunger they shared. The forest echoed with a call of triumph as that hunger swallowed them both.
She lay limp, useless. Used. A thousand wild horses could have stampeded toward her, and she wouldn't have moved a muscle.
The way Flynn had collapsed on her, and now lay like the dead, she imagined he felt the same.
"I'm so sorry," she said on a long, long sigh.
"Sorry?" He slid his hand through the grass until it covered hers.
"Umm. So sorry for the women who don't have you for a lover."
He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "Generous of you, mavourneen. I prefer being smug that I'm the only man who's had the delights of you."
"I saw stars. And not the ones up there."
"So did I. You're the only one who's given me the stars." He stirred, pressing his lips to the side of her breast before lifting his head. "And you give me an appetite as well—for all manner of succulent things."
"I suppose that means you want your supper and we have to go back."
"We have to do nothing but what pleases us. What would you like?"
"At the moment? I'd settle for some water. I've never been so thirsty."
"Water, is it?" He angled his head, grinned. "That I can give you, and plenty." He gathered her up and rolled. She managed a scream, and he a wild laugh, as they tumbled off the bank and hit the water of the pool with a splash.
It seemed miraculous to Kayleen how much she and Flynn had in common. Considering the circumstance and all that differed between them, it was an amazing thing that they found any topic to discuss or explore.
But then, Flynn hadn't sat idle for five hundred years. His love of something well made, even if its purpose was only for beauty, struck home with her. All of her life she'd been exposed to craftsmanship and aesthetics—the history of a table, the societal purpose of an enameled snuffbox, or the heritage of a serving platter. The few pieces she'd allowed herself to collect were special to her, not only because of their beauty but also because of their continuity.
She and Flynn had enjoyed many of the same books and films, though he had read and viewed far more for the simple enjoyment of it than she.
He listened to her, posing questions about various phases of her life, until she was picking them apart for him and remembering events and things she'd seen or done or experienced that she'd long ago forgotten.
No one had ever been so interested in her before, in who she was and what she thought. What she felt. If he didn't agree, he would lure her into a debate or tease her into exploring a lighter side of herself rarely given expression.
It seemed she did the same for him, nudging him out of his brooding silences, or leaving him be until the mood had passed on its own.
But whenever she made a comment or asked a question about the future, those silences lasted long.
So she wouldn't ask, she told herself. She didn't need to know. What had planning and preciseness gotten her, really, but a life of sameness? Whatever happened when the week was up—God, why couldn't she remember what day it was—she would be content.
For now, every moment was precious.
He'd given her so much. Smiling, she wandered the house, running her fingers along the exquisite pearls, which she hadn't taken off since he'd put them around her neck. Not the gifts, she thought, though she treasured them, but romance, possibilities, and above all, a vision.
She had never seen so clearly before.
Love answered all questions.
What could she give him? Gifts? She had nothing. What little she still possessed was in the car she'd left abandoned in the wood. There was so little there, really, of the woman she'd become, and was still becoming.
She wanted to do something for him. Something that would make him smile.
Food. Delighted with the idea, she hurried back toward the kitchen. She'd never known anyone to appreciate a single bite of apple as much as Flynn.
Of course, since there wasn't any stove, she hadn't a clue what she could prepare, but… She swung into the kitchen, stopped short in astonishment.
There certainly was one beauty of a stove now. White and gleaming. All she'd done was mutter about having to boil water for tea over a fire and—poof!—he'd made a stove.
Well, she thought, and pushed up her sleeves, she would see just what she could do with it.
In his workroom, Flynn gazed through one of his windows on the world. He'd intended to focus on Kayleen's home so that he could replicate some of her things for her. He knew what it was to be without what you had, what had mattered to you.
For a time he lost himself there, moving his mind through the rooms where she had once lived, studying the way she'd placed her furniture, what books were on her shelves, what colors she'd favored.
How tidy it all was, he thought with a great surge in his heart. Everything so neatly in place, and so tastefully done. Did it upset her sense of order to be in the midst of his hodgepodge?
He would ask her. They could make some adjustments. But why the hell hadn't the woman had more color around her? And look at the clothes in the closet. All of them more suited to a spinster—no, that wasn't the word used well these days. Plain attire without the richness of fabric and the brilliance of color that so suited his Kayleen.
She would damn well leave them behind if he had any say in it.
But she would want her photographs, and that lovely pier glass there, and that lamp. He began to set them in his mind, the shape and dimensions, the tone and texture. So deep was his concentration that he didn't realize the image had changed until the woman crossed his vision.
She walked through the rooms, her hands clasped tightly together. A lovely woman, he noted. Smaller than
Kayleen, fuller at the breasts and hips, but with the same coloring. She wore her dark hair short, and it swung at her cheeks as she moved.
Compelled, he opened the window wider and heard her speak.
"Oh, baby, where are you? Why haven't you called? It's almost a week. Why can't we find you? Oh, Kayleen." She picked up a photograph from a table, pressed it to her. "Please be all right. Please be okay."
With the picture hugged to her heart, she dropped into a chair and began to weep.
Flynn slammed the window shut and turned away.
He would not be moved. He would not.
Time was almost up. In little more than twenty-four hours, the choice would be behind him. Behind them all.
He closed his mind to a mother's grief. But he wasn't fully able to close his heart.
His mood was edgy when he left the workroom. He meant to go outside, to walk it off. Perhaps to whistle up Dilis and ride it off. But he heard her singing.
He'd never heard her sing before. A pretty voice, he thought, but it was the happiness in it that drew him back to the kitchen.
She was stirring something on the stove, something in the big copper kettle that smelled beyond belief.
It had been a very long time since he'd come into a kitchen where cooking was being done. But he was nearly certain that was what had just happened. Since it was almost too marvelous to believe, he decided to make sure of it.
"Kayleen, what are you about there?"
"Oh!" Her spoon clattered, fell out of her hand and plopped into the pot. "Damn it, Flynn! You startled me. Now look at that, I've drowned the spoon in the sauce."
"Sauce?"
"I thought I'd make spaghetti. You have a very unusual collection of ingredients in your kitchen. Peanut butter, pickled herring, enough chocolate to make an entire elementary school hyper for a month. However, I managed to find plenty of herbs, and some lovely ripe tomatoes, so this seemed the safest bet. Plus you have ten pounds of spaghetti pasta."
"Kayleen, are you cooking for me?"
"I know it must seem silly, as you can snap up a five-star meal for yourself without breaking a sweat. But there's something to be said for home cooking. I'm a very good cook. I took lessons. Though I've never attempted to make sauce in quite such a pot, it should be fine."
"The pot's wrong?"
"Oh, well, I'd do better with my own cookware, but I think I've made do. You had plenty of fresh vegetables in your garden, so I—"
"Just give me a few moments, won't you? I'll need a bit of time."
And before she could answer, he was gone.
"Well." She shook her head and went back to trying to save the spoon.
She had everything under control again, had adjusted the heat to keep the sauce at low simmer, when a clatter behind her made her jolt. The spoon plopped back into the sauce.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" She turned around, then stumbled back. There was a pile of pots and pans on the counter beside her.
"I replicated them," Flynn said with a grin. "Which took me a little longer, but I didn't want to argue with you about it. Then you might not feed me."
"My pots!" She fell on them with the enthusiasm of a mother for lost children.
More enthusiasm, Flynn realized as she chattered and held up each pan and lid to examine, than she'd shown for the jewels he'd given her.
Because they were hers. Something that belonged to her. Something from her world.
And his heart grew heavy.
"This is going to be good." She stacked the cookware neatly, selected the proper pot. "I know it must seem a waste of time and effort to you," she said as she transferred the sauce. "But cooking's a kind of art. It's certainly an occupation. I'm used to being busy. A few days of leisure is wonderful, but I'd go crazy after a while with nothing to do. Now I can cook."
While the sauce simmered in the twenty-first-century pot, she carried the ancient kettle to the sink to wash it. "And dazzle you with my brilliance," she added with a quick, laughing glance over her shoulder.
"You already dazzle me."
"Well, just wait. I was thinking, as I was putting all this together, that I could spend weeks, months, really, organizing around here. Not having a pattern is one thing, but having no order at all is another. You could use a catalogue system for your books. And some of the rooms are just piled with things. I don't imagine you even know what there is. You could use a listing of your art, and the antiques, your music. You have the most extensive collection of antique toys I've ever seen. When we have children…"
She trailed off, her hands fumbling in the soapy water. Children. Could they have children? What were the rules? Might she even now be pregnant? They'd done nothing to prevent conception. Or she hadn't, she thought, pressing her lips together.
How could she know what he might have done?
"Listen to me." She shook her hair back, briskly rinsed the pot. "Old habits. Lists and plans and procedures. The only plan we need right now is what sort of dressing I should make for the salad."
"Kayleen."
"No, no, this is my performance here. You'll just have to find something to do until curtain time." She heard the sorrow in his voice, the regret. And had her answers. "Everything should be ready in an hour. So, out."
She turned, smiling, shooing at him. But her voice was too thick.
"I'll go and tend to Dilis, then."
"Good, that's fine."
He left the room, waited. When the tear fell from her eye he brought it from her cheek into his palm. And watched it turn to ashes.

Chapter 9

He brought her flowers for the table, and they ate her meal with the candles glowing.
He touched her often, just a brash of fingers on the back of her hand. A dozen sensory memories stored for a endless time of longing.
He made her laugh, to hear the sound of it and store that as well. He asked her questions only to hear her voice, the rise and fall of it.
When the meal was done, he walked with her, to see how the moonlight shone in her hair.
Late into the night, he made love with her, as tenderly as he knew how. And knew it was for the last time.
When she slept, when he sent her deep into easy dreams, he was resolved, and he was content with what needed to be done.
She dreamed, but the dreams weren't easy ones. She was lost in the forest, swallowed by the mists that veiled the trees and smothered the path. Light shimmered through it, so drops of moisture glittered like jewels. Jewels that melted away at the touch of her hand, and left her nothing.
She could hear sounds—footsteps, voices, even music—but they seemed to come from underwater. Drowning sounds that never took substance. No matter how hard she tried to find the source, she could come no closer.
The shapes of trees were blurred, the color of the flowers deadened. When she tried to call out, her voice seemed to carry no farther than her own ears.
She began to run, afraid of being lost and being alone. She only had to find the way out. There was always a way out. And her way back to him. As panic gushed inside her, she tried to tear the mists away, ripping at them with her fingers, beating at them with her fists.
But her hands only passed through, and the curtain stayed whole.
Finally, through it, she saw the faint shadow of the house. The spear of its turrets, the sweep of its battlements were softened like wax in the thick air. She ran toward it, sobbing with relief. Then with joy as she saw him standing by the massive doors.
She ran to him now, her arms flung out to embrace, her lips curved for that welcoming kiss.
When her arms passed through him, she understood he was the mist.
And so was she.
She woke weeping and reaching out for him, but the bed beside her was cold and empty. She shivered, though the fire danced cheerfully to warm the room. A dream, just a dream. That was all. But she was cold, and she got out of bed to wrap herself in the thick blue robe.
Where was Flynn? she wondered. They always woke together, almost as if they were tied to each other's rhythms. She glanced out the windows as she walked toward the fire to warm her chilled hands. The sun was beaming and bright, which explained why Flynn hadn't been wrapped around her when she woke.
She'd slept away the morning.
Imagine that, she thought with a laugh. Slept away the morning, dreamed away the night. It was so unlike her.
So unlike her, she thought again as her hands stilled. Dreaming. She never remembered her dreams, not even in jumbled pieces. Yet this one she remembered exactly, in every detail, almost as though she'd lived it.
Because she was relaxed, she assured herself. Because her mind was relaxed and open. People were always saying how real dreams could be, weren't they? She'd never believed that until now.
If hers were going to be that frightening, that heartbreaking, she'd just as soon skip them.
But it was over, and it was a beautiful day. There were no mists blanketing the trees. The flowers were basking in the sunlight, their colors vibrant and true. The clouds that so often stacked themselves in layers over the Irish sky had cleared, leaving a deep and brilliant blue.
She would pick flowers and braid them into Dilis's mane. Flynn would give her another riding lesson. Later, perhaps she'd begin on the library. It would be fun to prowl through all the books. To explore them and arrange them.
She would not be obsessive about it. She wouldn't fall into that trap again. The chore would be one of pleasure rather than responsibility.
Throwing open the windows, she leaned out, breathed in the sweet air. "I've changed so much already," she murmured. "I like the person I'm becoming. I can be friends with her."
She shut her eyes tight. "Mom, I wish I could tell you. I'm so much in love. He makes me so happy. I wish I could let you know, and tell you that I understand now. I wish I could share this with you."
With a sigh, she stepped back, leaving the windows open.
He kept himself busy. It was the only way he could get through the day. In his mind, in his heart, he'd said goodbye to her the night before. He'd already let her go.
There was no choice but to let her go.
He could have kept her with him, drawing her into the long days, the endless nights of the next dreaming. His solitude would be broken, the loneliness diminished. And at the end of it, she would be there for that brief week. To touch. To be.
The need for her, the desire to have her close, was the strongest force he'd ever known. But for one.
Love.
Not just with the silken beauty of the dreams he'd shared with her. But with the pains and joys that came from a beating heart.
He would not deny her life, steal from her what she had known, what she would be. How had he ever believed he could? Had he really thought that his own needs, the most selfish and self-serving of them, outweighed the most basic of hers?
To live. To feel heat and cold, hunger, thirst, pleasure and pain.
To watch herself change with the years. To shake the hand of a stranger, embrace a loved one. To make children and watch them grow.
For all his power, all his knowledge, he could give her none of those things. All he had left for her was the gift of freedom.
To comfort himself, he pressed his face to Dilis's neck, drew in the scents of horse and straw, of oat and leather. How was it he could forget, each time forget the wrenching misery of these last hours? The sheer physical pain of knowing it was all ending again.
He was ending again.
"You've always been free. You know I have no claim to keep you here, should you choose to go." He lifted his head, stroking the stallion's head as he looked into his eyes. "Carry her away safe for me. And if you go beyond, I'll not count it against you."
He stepped back, drew his breath. There was work yet, and the morning was passing fast.
When it was done, the last spell, the thin blanket of forget spread at the edges of his prison, he saw Kayleen in his mind's eye.
She wandered through the gardens toward the verge of the forest. Looking for him, calling his name. The pain was like an arrow in the heart, almost driving him to his knees.
So, he was not prepared after all. He fisted his hands, struggled for composure. Resolved but not prepared. How would he ever live without her?
"She will live without me," he said aloud. "That I want more. We'll end it now, quick and clean."
He could not will her away, will her back into her world and into life. But he could drive her from him, so that the choice to go was her own.
Taking Dilis's reins, only for the comfort of contact, he walked for the last time as a man, for yet a century to come, through the woods toward home.
She heard the jingle of harness and the soft hoofbeats. Relieved, she turned toward the sound, walking quickly as Flynn came out of the trees.
"I wondered where you were." She threw her arms around his neck, and he let her. Her mouth pressed cheerfully to his, and he absorbed the taste of it.
"Oh, I had a bit of work." The words cut at his throat like shards of glass. "It's a fine day for it, and for your travels."
"For my travels."
"Indeed." He gave her a little pat, then moved away to adjust the stirrups of Dilis's saddle. "I've cleared the path, so you'll have no trouble. You'll find your way easily enough. You're a resourceful woman."
"My way? Where?"
He glanced back, gave her an absent smile. "Out, of course. It's time for you to go."
"Go?"
"There, that should do." He turned to her fully. Every ounce of power he owned went into the effort. "Dilis will take you as far as you need. I'd go with you myself, but I've so much to see to yet. I saw you have one of those little pocket phones in your car. Fascinating things. I have to remember to get one myself for the study of it. You should be able to use it once you're over the border."
"I don't understand what you're saying." How could she when her mind had gone numb, when her heart had stopped beating. "I'm not going."
"Kayleen, darling, of course you are." He patted her cheek. "Not that it hasn't been a delight having you here. I don't know when I've been so diverted."
"Di… diverted?"
"Mmm. God, you're a tasty bit," he murmured, then leaned down to nip at her bottom lip. "Perhaps we could take just enough time to…" His hands roamed down her, giving her breasts a teasing squeeze.
"Stop!" She stumbled back, came up hard against Dilis, who shifted, restless. "A diversion? That's all this was to you? A way to pass the time?"
"Passed it well, didn't we? Ah, sweetheart, I gave as much pleasure as I got. You can't deny it. But we've both got things to get back to, don't we?"
"I love you."
She was killing him. "God bless the female heart." And he said it with a chuckle. "It's so generous." Then he lifted his brows, rolled his eyes under them. "Ah, don't be making a scene and spoil this parting moment. We've enjoyed each other, and that's the end. Where did you think this was going? It's time out of time, Kayleen. Now don't be stubborn."
"You don't love me. You don't want me."
"I loved you well enough." He winked at her. "And wanted you plenty." When the tears swam into her eyes, he threw up his hands as if exasperated. "For pity's sake, woman, I brought some magic and romance into a life you yourself said was tedious. I gave you some sparkle." He lifted her pearls with a fingertip.
"I never asked for jewels. I never wanted anything but you."
"Took them, though, didn't you? Just as another took the sparkles from me once. Do you think, after having a woman damn me to this place, I'd want another around for longer than it takes to amuse myself?"
"I'm not like her. You can't believe—"
"A woman's a woman," he said carelessly. "And I've given you a pretty holiday, with souvenirs besides. The least you can do is be grateful and go along when I bid you. I've no more time for you, and none of the patience to dry your tears and cuddle. Up you go."
He lifted her, all but tossed her into the saddle.
"You said you wouldn't hurt me." She dragged the pearls over her head, hurled them into the dirt at his feet. She stared at him, and in his face she saw the savageness again, the brutality, and none of the tenderness. "You lied."
"You hurt yourself, by believing what wasn't there. Go back to your tame world. You've no place in mine."
He slapped a hand violently on Dilis's flank. The horse reared, then lunged forward.
When she was gone, swallowed up by the forest, Flynn dropped to his knees on the ground—and grieved.

Chapter 10
She wanted to find anger. Bitterness. Anything that would overpower this hideous pain. It had dried up even her tears, had smothered any rage or sorrow before it could fully form.
It had all been a lie. Magic was nothing but deceit.
In the end, love hadn't been the answer. Love had done nothing but make her a fool.
Didn't it prove she'd been right all along? Her disdain of the happy ending her mother had regaled her with had been sense, not stubbornness. There were no fairy tales, no loves that conquered all, no grand sweep of romance to ride on forever.
Letting herself believe, even for a little while, had shattered her.
Yet how could she not have believed? Wasn't she even now riding on a white horse through the forest? That couldn't be denied. If she'd misplaced her heart, she couldn't deny all that she'd seen and done and experienced. How did she, logical Kayleen, resolve the unhappy one with the magnificent other?
How could he have given her so much, shown her so much, and thought of her as only a kind of temporary entertainment? No, no, something was wrong. Why couldn't she think?
Dilis walked patiently through the trees as she pondered. It had all happened so quickly. This change in him had come like a fingersnap, and left her reeling and helpless. Now, she willed her mind to clear, to analyze. But after only moments, her thoughts became scattered and jumbled once again.
Her car was unmarked, shining in the sunlight that dappled through the trees. It sat tidily on a narrow path that ran straight as a ruler through the forest.
He'd cleared the path, he'd said. Well, he certainly was a man of his word. She slid off the horse, slowly circled the car. Not a scratch, she noted. Considerate of him. She wouldn't have to face the hassle that a wrecked car would have caused with the rental company.
Yes, he'd cleared that path as well. But why had he bothered with such a mundane practicality?
Curious, she opened the car door and sliding behind the wheel, turned the key. The engine sprang to life, purred.
Runs better than it did when I picked it up, she thought And look at that, to top things off, we have a full tank.
"Did you want me out of your life so badly, Flynn, that you covered all contingencies? Why were you so cruel at the end? Why did you work so hard to make me hate you?"
He'd given her no reason to stay, and every rational reason to go.
With a sigh, she got out of the car to say good-bye to Dilis. She indulged herself, running her hands over his smooth hide, nuzzling at his throat. Then she patted his flank. "Go back to him now," she murmured, and turned away to spare her heart as the horse pranced off.
Because she wanted some tangible reminder of her time there, she picked a small nosegay of wildflowers, twined the stems together, and regardless of the foolishness of the gesture, tucked them into her hair.
She got into the car again and began to drive.
The sun slanted in thin beams through the trees, angled over the little lane. As she glanced in her mirror, she saw the path shimmer, then vanish behind her in a tumble of moss and stones and brambles. Soon there would be nothing but the silent wood, and no trace that she had ever walked there with a lover.
But she would remember, always, the way he'd looked at her, the way he would press his lips to the heart of her hand. The way he'd bring her flowers and scatter them over her hair.
The way his eyes would warm with laughter, or heat with passion when… His eyes. What color were his eyes? Slightly dizzy, she stopped the car, pressed her fingers to her temples.
She couldn't bring his face into her mind, not clearly. How could she not know the color of his eyes? Why couldn't she quite remember the sound of his voice?
She shoved out of the car, stumbled a few steps. What was happening to her? She'd been driving from Dublin on the way to her bed-and-breakfast. A wrong turn. A storm. But what…
Without thinking, she took another step back down the now overgrown path. And her mind snapped clear as crystal.
Her breath was coming short. She turned, stared at the car, the clear path in front of it, the impassable ground behind.
"Flynn's eyes are green," she said. His face came clearly into her mind now. And when she took a cautious step forward, her memory of him went hazy.
This time she stepped back quickly, well back. "You wanted me to forget you. Why? Why if none of it mattered did you care if I remembered you or not? Why would it matter if I broke my heart over you?"
A little shaky, she sat down on the ground. And she began to do what she'd always done best. Be logical.
Flynn sat as he had on the night it had begun. In the chair in front of the fire in the tower. He'd watched in the flames until Kayleen had gotten into her car. After that, he hadn't been able to bear it, so he had hazed the vision with smoke.
He'd lost track of the time that he'd sat there now, chained by his own grief. He knew the day was passing. The slant of sunlight through the window had shortened and was dimming.
She would be beyond now, and would have forgotten him. That was for the best. There would be some confusion, of course. A loss of time never fully explained. But she would put that behind her as well.
In a year or two, or twenty, he might look into the fire again, and see how she was. But he would never open his mind to her in dreams, for that would be more torment than he could ever possibly bear.
She would be changed a little by what had passed between them. More open to possibilities, to the magic of life. He lifted the strings of pearls, watched them glow in the light of the dying fire. At least that was a gift she hadn't been able to hurl at his feet.
With the pearls wrapped around his fingers, he lowered his face into his hands. He willed the time to come when pain could strike only his mind, when every sense wasn't tuned so sharply that he could smell her even now. That soft scent that whispered in the air.
"Bring on the bloody night," he muttered and threw his head back.
Then he was stumbling to his feet, staring. She stood not three feet away. Her hair was tangled, her clothes torn. Scratches scored her hands and face.
"What trick is this?"
"I want my boon. I want what you promised me."
"What have you done?" His knees unlocked and he lunged toward her, grabbing her hard by the arms. "How are you hurt? Look at you. Your hands are all torn and bleeding."
"You put briars in my way." She gave him a shove, and such was his shock that she knocked him back two full steps. "You bastard. It took hours to get through them."
"Get through." His head snapped back, as if she'd slapped him. "You have to go. Go! Now! What's the time?" He was pushing her out of the room, and when that wasn't quick enough he began to drag her.
"I'm not going. Not until you grant my boon."
"You damn well are." Terrified, he tossed her over his shoulder and began to run. As she struggled and cursed him, he began to fly.
The night was closing in. Time that had dripped began to flood. He went as deep into the forest as he dared. The edges of his prison seemed to hiss around him.
"There." Fear for her slicked his skin. "Your car's just up ahead. Get in it and go."
"Why? So I can drive a little farther and forget all this? Forget you? You'd have stolen that from me."
"I've no time to argue with you." He grabbed her shoulders and shook. "There is no time. If you stay past the last stroke of twelve, you're trapped here. A hundred years will pass before you can walk away again."
"Why do you care? It's a big house. A big forest. I won't get in your way."
"You don't understand. Go. This place is mine, and I don't want you here."
"You're trembling, Flynn. What frightens you?"
"I'm not frightened, I'm angry. You've abused my hospitality. You're trespassing."
"Call the cops," she suggested. "Call your Keepers. Or… why don't you just flick me out, the way you flick things in? But you can't, can you?"
"If I could, you'd be gone already." He yanked her a few steps toward the car, then swore when the ground in front of his boots began to spark and smoke. That was the edge of his prison.
"Big, powerful magician, but you can't get rid of me that way. You couldn't bring me here, and you can't send me away. Not with magic, because I have heart and soul. I have will. So you tried to drive me away with careless words. Cruel, careless words. You didn't think I'd see through them, did you? Didn't think I'd figure it all out. You forgot who you were dealing with."
"Kayleen." He took her hands now, squeezing desperately. "Do this thing I ask now, won't you?"
"A diversion," she said. "That's a crock. You love me."
"Of course I love you." He shook her harder, shouted so his voice boomed through the forest. "That's the bloody point. And if you care for me, you'll do what I tell you, and do it now."
"You love me." Her breath came out on a sob as she flung herself against him. "I knew it. Oh, I'm so angry with you. I'm so in love with you."
His arms ached to grip, to hold. He made himself push her away, hold her at arm's length. "Listen to me, Kayleen. Clear the stars out of your eyes and be sensible. I've no right to love you. Be quiet!" he snapped when she started to speak. "You remember what I told you about this place, about me. Do you feel my hands on you, Kayleen?"
"Yes. They're trembling."
"After midnight, one breath after, you won't feel them, or anything else. No touch, no contact. You'll pick a flower, but you won't feel the stem or the petals. Its perfume will be lost to you. Can you feel your own heart beat? Beating inside you? You won't. It's worse than death to be and yet not be. Day by day into the decades with nothing of substance. Nothing but what's in your mind. And, a ghra, you haven't even the magic to amuse yourself into some sanity. You'll be lost, little more than a ghost."
"I know." Like the dream, she thought. A mist within the mist.
"There's more. There can be no children. During the dreaming nothing can grow in you. Nothing can change in or of you. You will have no family, no comfort. No choice. This is my banishment. It will not be yours."
Though her nerves began to dance, her gaze stayed steady. "I'll have my boon."
He swore, threw up his hands. "Woman, you try me to the bone. All right, then. What will you?"
"To stay."
"No."
"You took a vow."
"And so I break it. What more can be done to me?"
"I'll stay anyway. You can't stop me."
But he could. There was one way to save her in the time left him. One final way. "You defeat me." He drew her close, rocked her against him. "You've a head like a rock. I love you, Kayleen. I loved you in dreams, when dreams were all there was for me. I love you now. It killed me to hurt you."
"I want to be with you, no matter how short the time or how long. We'll dream together until we can live together again."
He took her mouth. A deep kiss, a drugging one that spun in her head, blurred her vision. Joy settled sweetly in her heart.
When she sighed, he stepped back from her. "Five hundred years," he said quietly. "And only once have I loved. Only you."
"Flynn." She started to move toward him, but the air between them had hardened into a shield. "What is this?" She lifted her fisted hands to it, pushed. "What have you done?"
"There's a choice, and it's mine to make. I will not damn you to my prison, Kayleen. No power can sway me."
"I won't go." She pounded a fist on the shield.
"I know it, and understand it as well. I should have before. I would never leave you, either. Manim astheee hu." My soul, he said in the language of his birth, is within you. "You brought me a gift, Kayleen. Love freely given."
The wind began to kick. From somewhere a sound boomed, slow and dull, like a clock striking the hour.
"I give you a gift in return. Life to be lived. I have a choice, one offered me long ago. A hundred years times five."
"What are you… No!" She flung herself at the shield, beat against it. "No, you can't. You'll die. You're five hundred years old. You can't live without your powers."
"It's my right. My choice."
"Don't do this." How many strikes of the clock had there been? "I'll go. I swear it."
"There's no time now. My powers," he said, lifting his arms. "My blood, my life. For hers." Lightning spewed from the sky, struck like a comet between them. "For foolishness, for pride, for arrogance I abjure my gifts, my skills, my birthright. And for love I cast them away."
His eyes met Kayleen's through the wind and light as the clock struck. "For love, I offer them freely. Let her forget, for there is no need for her to suffer."
He fisted his hands, crossed his arms over his chest. Braced as the world went mad around him. "Now."
And the clock struck twelve.
The world went still. Overhead the skies broke clear so the stars poured free. The trees stood as if carved out of the dark. The only sound was of Kayleen's weeping.
"Do I dream?" Flynn whispered. Cautious, he held out a hand, opened and closed his fist. Felt the movement of his own fingers.
The air began to stir, a soft, sweet breeze. An owl called.
"I am." Flynn dropped to his knees beside Kayleen, with wonder in his eyes. "I am."
"Flynn!" She threw her arms around him, dragging him close, breathing him in. "You're real. You're alive."
"I am restored." He dropped his head on her shoulder. "I am freed. The Keepers."
He was breathless, fighting to clear his mind. Drawing her back, he framed her face in his hands. Solid, warm. His.
"You're free." She pressed her hands against his. The tears that fell from her eyes shimmered into diamonds on the ground between them. "You're alive! You're here."
"The Keepers said I have atoned. I was given love, and I put the one I loved before myself. Love." He pressed his lips to her brow. "They told me it is the simplest, and most potent of magic. I took a very long time to learn it."
"So have I. We saved each other, didn't we?"
"We loved each other. Manim astheee hu," he said again. "These are the words I give you." He opened his hand and held out the pearls. "Will you take them, and this gift, as a symbol of betrothal? Will you take them, and me?"
"I will."
He drew her to her feet. "Soon, then, for I've a great respect for time, and the wasting of it. Now, look what you've done." He trailed his fingers gently over the scratch on her cheek. "There's a mess you've made of yourself."
"That's not very romantic."
"I'll fill you with romance, but first I'll tend those hurts." He scooped her off her feet.
"My mother's going to be crazy about you."
"I'm counting on it." Because he wanted to savor, he walked for a bit. "Will I like Boston, do you think?"
"Yes, I think you will." She twirled a lock of his hair around her fingers. "I could use someone who knows something about antiques in my family business."
"Is that so? Ha. A job. Imagine that. I might consider that, if there was thought of opening a branch here in Ireland, where a certain wildly-in-love married couple could split their time, so to speak."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
She laughed as he spun her around, pressed her lips to his, and held on tight as they leaped into space and flew toward home.
And happily-ever-afters.
 
SPELLBOUND

Prologue

Love. My love. Let me into your dreams. Open your heart again and hear me. 
Calin, I need you so. Don't turn from me now, or all is lost. I am lost. Love. 
My love.
Calin shifted restlessly in sleep, turned his face into the pillow. Felt her  there, somehow. Skin, soft and dewy. Hands, gentle and soothing. Then drifted  into dreams of cool and quiet mists, hills of deep, damp green that rolled to  forever. And the witchy scent of woman.
The castle rose atop a cliff, silver stone spearing into stormy skies, its base  buried in filmy layers of fog that ran like a river. The sound of his mount's  bridle jingled battle-bright on the air as he rode, leaving the green hills  behind and climbing high on rock. Thunder sounded in the west, over the sea. And  echoed in his warrior's heart.
Had she waited for him?
His eyes, gray as the stone of the castle, shifted, scanned, searching rock and  mist for any hole where a foe could hide. Even as he urged his mount up the  rugged path cleaved into the cliff he knew he carried the stench of war and  death, that it had seeped into his pores just as the memories of it had seeped  into his brain.
Neither body nor mind would ever be fully clean of it.
His sword hand lay light and ready on the hilt of his weapon. In such places a  man did not lower his guard. Here magic stung the air and could embrace or  threaten. Here faeries plotted or danced, and witches cast their spells for good  or ill.
Atop the lonely cliff, towering above the raging sea, the castle stood, holding  its secrets. And no man rode this path without hearing the whispers of old  ghosts and new spirits.
Had she waited for him?
The horse's hooves rang musically over the rock until at last they traveled to  level ground. He dismounted at the foot of the keep just as lightning cracked  the black sky with a blaze of blinding white light.
And she was there, just there, conjured up out of storm-whipped air. Her hair  was a firefall over a dove-gray cloak, alabaster skin with the faint bloom of  rose, a generous mouth just curved in knowledge. And eyes as blue as a living  star and just as filled with power.
His heart leaped, and his blood churned with love, lust, longing.
She came to him, wading through the knee-high mists, her beauty staggering. With  his eyes on hers, he swung off his horse, eager for the woman who was witch, and  lover.
"Caelan of Farrell, 'tis far you've traveled in the dark of the night. What do  you wish of me?"
"Bryna the Wise." His hard, ridged lips bowed in a smile that answered hers. "I  wish for everything."
"Only everything?" Her laugh was low and intimate. "Well, that's enough, then. I  waited for you."
Then her arms were around him, her mouth lifting to his. He pulled her closer,  desperate for the shape of her, wild to have whatever she would offer him, and  more.
"I waited for you," she repeated with a catch in her voice as she pressed her  face to his shoulder. " 'Twas almost too long this time. His power grows while  mine weakens. I can't fight him alone. Alasdair is too strong, his dark forces  too greedy. Oh, love. My love, why did you shut me out of your mind, out of your  heart?"
He drew her away. The castle was gone—only ruins remained, empty,  battle-scarred. They stood in the shadow of what had been, before a small house  alive with flowers. The scent of them was everywhere, heady, intoxicating. The  woman was still in his arms. And the storm waited to explode.
"The time is short now," she told him. "You must come. Calin, you must come to  me. Destiny can't be denied, a spell won't be broken. Without you with me, he'll  win."
He shook his head, started to speak, but she lifted a hand to his face. It  passed through him as if he were a ghost. Or she was. "I have loved you  throughout time." As she spoke, she moved back, the mists flowing around her  legs. "I am bound to you, throughout time."
Then lifting her arms, raising palms to the heavens, she closed her eyes. The  wind roared in like a lion loosed from a cage, lifted her flaming hair, whipped  the cloak around her.
"I have little left," she called over the violence of the storm. "But I can  still call up the wind. I can still call to your heart. Don't keep it from me, 
Calin. Come to me soon. Find me. Or I'm lost."
Then she was gone. Vanished. The earth trembled beneath his feet, the sky  howled. And all went silent and still.
He awoke gasping for breath. And reaching out.

Chapter 1

"Calin Farrell, you need a vacation."
Cal lifted a shoulder, sipped his coffee, and continued to brood while staring  out the kitchen window. He wasn't sure why he'd come here to listen to his  mother nag and worry about him, to hear his father whistle as he meticulously  tied his fishing flies at the table. But he'd had a deep, driving urge to be in  the home of his childhood, to grab an hour or two in the tidy house in Brooklyn 
Heights. To see his parents.
"Maybe. I'm thinking about it."
"Work too hard," his father said, eyeing his own work critically. "Could come to 
Montana for a couple of weeks with us. Best fly-fishing in the world. Bring your  camera." John Farrell glanced up and smiled. "Call it a sabbatical."
It was tempting. He'd never been the fishing enthusiast his father was, but 
Montana was beautiful. And big. Cal thought he could lose himself there. And  shake off the restlessness. The dreams.
"A couple of weeks in the clean air will do you good." Sylvia Farrell narrowed  her eyes as she turned to her son. "You're looking pale and tired, Calin. You  need to get out of that city for a while."
Though she'd lived in Brooklyn all of her life, Sylvia still referred to 
Manhattan as "that city" with light disdain and annoyance.
"I've been thinking about a trip."
"Good." His mother scrubbed at her countertop. They were leaving the next  morning, and Sylvia Farrell wouldn't leave a crumb or a mote of dust behind. 
"You've been working too hard, Calin. Not that we aren't proud of you. After  your exhibit last month your father bragged so much that the neighbors started  to hide when they saw him coming."
"Not every day a man gets to see his son's photographs in the museum. I liked  the nudes especially," he added with a wink.
"You old fool," Sylvia muttered, but her lips twitched. "Well, who'd have  thought when we bought you that little camera for Christmas when you were eight  that twenty-two years later you'd be rich and famous? But wealth and fame carry  a price."
She took her son's face in her hands and studied it with a mother's keen eye. 
His eyes were shadowed, she noted, his face too thin. She worried for the man  she'd raised, and the boy he had been who had always seemed to have… something  more than the ordinary.
"You're paying it."
"I'm fine." Reading the worry in her eyes, recognizing it, he smiled. "Just not  sleeping very well."
There had been other times, Sylvia remembered, that her son had grown pale and  hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. She exchanged a quick glance with her husband  over Cal's shoulder.
"Have you, ah, seen the doctor?"
"Mom, I'm fine." He knew his voice was too sharp, too defensive. Struggled to  lighten it. "I'm perfectly fine."
"Don't nag the boy, Syl." But John studied his son closely also, remembering, as  his wife did, the young boy who had talked to shadows, had walked in his sleep,  and had dreamed of witches and blood and battle.
"I'm not nagging. I'm mothering." She made herself smile.
"I don't want you to worry. I'm a little stressed-out, that's all." That was  all, he thought, determined to make it so. He wasn't different, he wasn't odd. 
Hadn't the battalion of doctors his parents had taken him to throughout his  childhood diagnosed an overdeveloped imagination? And hadn't he finally  channeled that into his photography?
He didn't see things that weren't there anymore.
Sylvia nodded, told herself to accept that. "Small wonder. You've been working  yourself day and night for the last five years. You need some rest, you need  some quiet. And some pampering."
"Montana," John said again. "Couple of weeks of fishing, clean air, and no  worries."
"I'm going to Ireland." It came out of Cal's mouth before he'd realized the idea  was in his head.
"Ireland?" Sylvia pursed her lips. "Not to work, Calin."
"No, to… to see," he said at length. "Just to see."
She nodded, satisfied. A vacation, after all, was a vacation. "That'll be nice. 
It's supposed to be a restful country. We always meant to go, didn't we, John?"
Her husband grunted his assent. "Going to look up your ancestors, Cal?"
"I might." Since the decision seemed to be made, Cal sipped his coffee again. He  was going to look up something, he realized. Or someone.
It was raining when he landed at Shannon Airport. The chilly late-spring rain  seemed to suit his mood. He'd slept nearly all the way across the Atlantic. And  the dreams had chased him. He went through customs, arranged to rent a car,  changed money. All of this was done with the mechanical efficiency of the  seasoned traveler. And as he completed the tasks, he tried not to worry, tried  not to dwell on the idea that he was having a breakdown of some kind.
He climbed into the rented car, then simply sat in the murky light wondering  what to do, where to go. He was thirty, a successful photographer who could name  his own price, call his own shots. He still considered it a wild twist of fate  that he'd been able to make a living doing something he loved. Using what he saw  in a landscape, in a face, in light and shadow and texture, and translating that  into a photograph.
It was true that the last few years had been hectic and he'd worked almost  nonstop. Even now the trunk of the Volvo he'd rented was loaded with equipment,  and his favored Nikon rested in its case on the seat beside him. He couldn't get  away from it—didn't want to run away from what he loved.
Suddenly an odd chill raced through him, and he thought, for just a moment, that  he heard a woman weeping.
Just the rain, he told himself and scrubbed his hands over his handsome face. It  was long, narrow, with the high, strong cheekbones of his Celtic forefathers. 
His nose was straight, his mouth firm and well formed. It smiled often—or it had  until recently.
His eyes were gray—a deep, pure gray without a hint of green or blue. The brows  over them were strongly arched and tended to draw together in concentration. His  hair was black and thick and flowed over his collar. An artistic touch that a  number of women had enjoyed.
Again, until recently.
He brooded over the fact that it had been months since he'd been with a  woman—since he'd wanted to. Overwork again? he wondered. A byproduct of stress? 
Why would he be stressed when his career was advancing by leaps and bounds? He  was healthy. He'd had a complete physical only weeks before.
But you didn't tell the doctor about the dreams, did you? he reminded himself. 
The dreams you can't quite remember when you wake up. The dreams, he admitted,  that had pulled him three thousand miles over the ocean.
No, damn it, he hadn't told the doctor. He wasn't going that route again. There  had been enough psychiatrists in his youth, poking and prodding into his mind,  making him feel foolish, exposed, helpless. He was a grown man now and could  handle his own dreams.
If he was having a breakdown, it was a perfectly normal one and could be cured  by rest, relaxation, and a change of scene.
That's what he'd come to Ireland for. Only that.
He started the car and began to drive aimlessly.
He'd had dreams before, when he was a boy. Very clear, too realistic dreams. 
Castles and witches and a woman with tumbling red hair. She'd spoken to him with  that lilt of Ireland in her voice. And sometimes she'd spoken in a language he  didn't know—but had understood nonetheless.
There'd been a young girl—that same waterfall of hair, the same blue eyes. 
They'd laughed together in his dreams. Played together—innocent childhood games. 
He remembered that his parents had been amused when he'd spoken of his friend. 
They had passed it off, he thought, as the natural imagination of a sociable  only child.
But they'd been concerned when he seemed to know things, to see things, to speak  of places and people he couldn't have had knowledge of. They'd worried over him  when his sleep was disturbed night after night—when he began to walk and talk  while glazed in dreams.
So, after the doctors, the therapists, the endless sessions, and those quick,  searching looks that adults thought children couldn't interpret, he'd stopped  speaking of them.
And as he'd grown older, the young girl had grown as well. Tall and slim and  lovely—young breasts, narrow waist, long legs. Feelings and needs for her that  weren't so innocent had begun to stir.
It had frightened him, and it had angered him. Until he'd blocked out that soft  voice that came in the night. Until he'd turned away from the image that haunted  his dreams. Finally, it had stopped. The dreams stopped. The little flickers in  his mind that told him where to find lost keys or had him reaching for the phone  an instant before it rang ceased.
He was comfortable with reality, Cal told himself. Had chosen it. And would  choose it again. He was here only to prove to himself that he was an ordinary  man suffering from overwork. He would soak up the atmosphere of Ireland, take  the pictures that pleased him. And, if necessary, take the pills his doctor had  prescribed to help him sleep undisturbed.
He drove along the storm-battered coast, where wind roared in over the sea and  held encroaching summer at bay with chilly breath.
Rain pattered the windshield, and fog slithered over the ground. It was hardly a  warm welcome, yet he felt at home. As if something, or someone, was waiting to  take him in from the storm. He made himself laugh at that. It was just the  pleasure of being in a new place, he decided. It was the anticipation of finding  new images to capture on film.
He felt a low-grade urge for coffee, for food, but easily blocked it as he  absorbed the scenery. Later, he told himself. He would stop later at some pub or  inn, but just now he had to see more of this haunting landscape. So savagely  beautiful, so timeless.
And if it was somehow familiar, he could put that down to place memory. After  all, his ancestors had roamed these spearing cliffs, these rolling green hills. 
They had been warriors, he thought. Had once painted themselves blue and  screamed out of the forests to terrorize the enemy. Had strapped on armor and  hefted sword and pike to defend their land and protect their freedom.
The scene that burst into his mind was viciously clear. The flash of sword  crashing, the screams of battle in full power. Wheeling horses, wild-eyed,  spurting blood from a severed arm and the agonizing cry of pain as a man  crumpled. The burn as steel pierced flesh.
Looking down as the pain bloomed, he saw blood welling on his thigh.
Carrion crows circling in silent patience. The stench of roasting flesh as  bodies burned on a pyre, and the hideous and thin cries of dying men waiting for  release.
Cal found himself stopped on the side of the road, out of the car, dragging air  into his lungs as the rain battered him. Had he blacked out? Was he losing his  mind? Trembling he reached down and ran his hand over his jeans. There was no  wound, and yet he felt the echoing ache of an old scar he knew wasn't there.
It was happening again. The river of fear that flowed through him froze over and  turned his blood to ice. He forced himself to calm down, to think rationally. 
Jet lag, he decided. Jet lag and stress, that was all. How long since he'd  driven out of Shannon? Two hours? Three? He needed to find a place to stay. He  needed to eat. He would find some quiet, out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfast, he  thought. Somewhere he could rest and ease his mind. And when the storm had  passed, he would get his camera and go for a long walk. He could stay for weeks  or leave in the morning. He was free, he reminded himself. And that was sane,  that was normal.
He climbed back into the car, steadied himself, and drove along the winding  coast road.
The ruined castle came into view as he rounded the curve. The keep, he supposed  it was, was nearly intact, but walls had been sheared off, making him think of  an ancient warrior with scars from many battles. Perched on a stony crag, it  shouted with power and defiance despite its tumbled rocks.
Out of the boiling sky, one lance of lightning speared, exploded with light, and  stung the air with the smell of ozone.
His blood beat thick, and an ache, purely sexual, began to spread through his  belly. On the steering wheel his fingers tightened. He swung onto the narrow,  rutted dirt road that led up. He needed a picture of the castle, he told  himself. Several studies from different angles. A quick detour—fifteen or twenty  minutes—then he would be on his way to that B and B.
It didn't matter that Ireland was dotted with ruins and old castles—he needed  this one.
Mists spread at its base like a river. So intent was he on the light and shadows  that played on stone, on the texture of the weeds and wildflowers that forced  their way through crevices, that he didn't see the cottage until he was nearly  upon it.
It made him smile, though he didn't realize it. It was so charming, so  unexpected there beside the ancient stones. Inviting, welcoming, it seemed to  bloom like the flowers that surrounded it, out of the cliffside as if planted by  a loving hand.
It was painted white with bright blue shutters. Smoke trailed up out of the  stone chimney, and a sleek black cat napped beside a wooden rocker on the little  covered porch.
Someone made a home here, he thought, and tended it.
The light was wrong, he told himself. But he knew he needed to capture this  place, this feeling. He would ask whoever lived here if he could come back, do  his work.
As he stood in the rain, the cat uncurled lazily, then sat. It watched him out  of startlingly blue eyes.
Then she was there—standing in the lashing rain, the mists swirling around her. 
Though he'd hadn't heard her approach, she was halfway between the tidy cottage  and the tumbling stones of the old castle. One hand was lifted to her heart, and  her breath was coming fast as if she'd been running.
Her hair was wet, hanging in deep-red ropes over her shoulders, framing a face  that might have been carved out of ivory by a master. Her mouth was soft and  full and seemed to tremble as it curved into a smile of welcome. Her eyes were  star blue and swimming with emotions as powerful as the storm.
"I knew you would come." The cloak she wore flew back as she raced to him. "I  waited for you," she said with the musical lilt of Ireland before her mouth  crushed his.

Chapter 2

There was a moment of blinding, searing joy. Another of dark, primal lust.
Her taste, sharp, potent, soaked into his system as the rain soaked his skin. He  was helpless to do anything but absorb it. Her arms were chained around his  neck, her slim, curvy body pressed intimately to his, the heat from it seeping  through his sodden shirt and into his bones.
And her mouth was as wild and edgy as the sky thundering above them.
It was all terrifyingly familiar.
He brought his hands to her shoulders, torn for a staggering instant as to  whether to pull her closer or push her away. In the end he eased back, held her  at arm's length.
She was beautiful. She was aroused. And she was, he assured himself, a stranger. 
He angled his head, determined to handle the situation.
"Well, it's certainly a friendly country."
He saw the flicker in her eyes, the dimming of disappointment, a flash of  frustration. But he couldn't know just how deeply that disappointment, that  frustration cut into her heart
He's here, she told herself. He's come. That's what matters most now. "It is,  yes." She gave him a smile, let her fingers linger in his hair just another  second, then dropped them to her sides. "Welcome to Ireland and the Castle of 
Secrets."
His gaze shifted toward the ruins. "Is that what it's called?"
"That's the name it carries now." She had to struggle to keep her eyes from  devouring him, every inch, every expression. Instead she offered a hand, as she  would have to any wayward traveler. "You've had a long journey. Come, sit by my  fire." Her lips curved. "Have some whiskey in your tea."
"You don't know me." He made it a statement rather than a question. Had to.
In answer, she looked up at the sky. "You're wet," she said, "and the wind's  cold today. It's enough to have me offer a seat by the hearth." She turned away  from him, stepped up onto the porch where the cat stirred itself to wind through  her legs. "You've come this far." Her eyes met his again, held. "Will you come  into my home, Calin Farrell, and warm yourself?"
He scooped dripping hair out of his face, felt his bones tremble. "How do you  know my name?"
"The same way you knew to come here." She picked up the cat, stroked its silky  head. Both of them watched him with patient, unblinking blue eyes. "I baked  scones fresh this morning. You'll be hungry." With this, she turned and walked  inside, leaving him to come or go as he willed.
Part of him wanted to get back in the car, drive away, pretend he'd never seen  her or this place. But he climbed onto the porch, pushed the front door open. He  needed answers, and it seemed she had at least some of them.
The warmth struck him instantly. Welcoming warmth redolent with the fragrances  of bread recently baked, of peat simmering in the hearth, of flowers just  picked.
"Make yourself at home." She set the cat on the floor. "I'll see to the tea."
Cal stepped into the tiny parlor and near to the red eye of the fire. There were  flowers, he noted, their petals still damp, filling vases on the stone mantel,  pots on the table by the window.
A sugan chair sat by the hearth, but he didn't sit. Instead he studied the room  with the sharp eye of an artist.
Quiet colors, he thought. Not pale, but soothing in the choice of deep rose and  mossy greens. Woven rugs on the polished floors, mirror-bright woods lovingly  cared for and smelling lightly of beeswax. Candles everywhere, in varying  lengths, standing in holders of glass and silver and stone.
There, by the hearth, a spinning wheel. Surely an antique, he mused as he  stepped closer to examine it. Its dark wood gleamed, and beside it sat a straw  basket heaped with beautifully dyed wools.
But for the electric lamps and their jewellike shades, the small stereo tucked  into a stack of books on a shelf, he might have convinced himself he'd stepped  into another century.
Absently he crouched to pet the cat, which was rubbing seductively against his  legs. The fur was warm and damp. Real. He hadn't walked into another century, 
Cal assured himself. Or into a dream. He was going to ask his hostess some very  pointed questions, he decided. And he wasn't going anywhere until he was  satisfied with the answers.
As she carried the tray back down the short hallway, she berated herself for  losing her sense in the storm of emotion, for moving too quickly, saying too  much. Expecting too much.
He didn't know her. Oh, that cut through the heart into the soul. But it had  been foolish of her to expect him to, when he had blocked out her thoughts, her  need for him for more than fifteen years.
She had continued to steal into his dreams when he was unaware, to watch him  grow from boy to man as she herself blossomed into womanhood. But pride, and  hurt, and love had stopped her from calling to him.
Until there had been no choice.
She'd known it the moment he stepped onto the ground of her own country. And her  heart had leaped. Had it been so wrong, and so foolish, to prepare for him? To  fill the house with flowers, the kitchen with baking? To bathe herself in oils  of her own making, anointing her skin as a bride would on her wedding night?
No. She took a deep breath at the doorway. She had needed to prepare herself for  him. Now she must find the right way to prepare him for her—and what they must  soon face together.
He was so beautiful, she thought as she watched him stroke the cat into ecstasy. 
How many nights had she tossed restlessly in sleep, longing for those long,  narrow hands on her? Oh, just once to feel him touch her. How many nights had  she burned to see his eyes, gray as storm clouds, focused on her as he buried  himself deep inside her and gave her his seed?
Oh, just once to join with him, to make those soft, secret sounds in the night.
They were meant to be lovers. This much she believed he would accept. For a man  had needs, she knew, and this one was already linked with her physically—no  matter that he refused to remember.
But without the love in the act of mating, there would be no joy. And no hope.
She braced herself and stepped into the room. "You've made friends with Hecate, 
I see." His gaze whipped up to hers, and her hands trembled lightly. Whatever  power she still held was nothing compared with one long look from him. "She's  shameless around attractive men." She set the tray down. "Won't you sit, Calin,  and have some tea?"
"How do you know who I am?"
"I'll explain what I can." Her eyes went dark and turbulent with emotions as  they scanned his face. "Do you have no memory of me then? None at all?"
A tumble of red hair that shined like wet fire, a body that moved in perfect  harmony with his, a laugh like fog. "I don't know you." He said it sharply,  defensively. "I don't know your name."
Her eyes remained dark, but her chin lifted. Here was pride, and power still. "I  am Bryna Torrence, descendant of Bryna the Wise and guardian of this place. 
You're welcome in my home, Calin Farrell, as long as you choose to stay."
She bent to the tray, her movements graceful. She wore a long dress, the color  of the mists curling outside the window. It draped her body, flirted with her  ankles. Columns of carved silver danced from her ears.
"Why?" He laid a hand on her arm as she lifted the first cup. "Why am I welcome  in your home?"
"Perhaps I'm lonely." Her lips curved again, wistfully. "I am lonely, and it's  glad I am for your company." She sat, gestured for him to do the same. "You need  a bit of food, Calin, a bit of rest. I can offer you that."
"What I want is an explanation." But he did sit, and because the hot liquid in  his cup smelled glorious, he drank. "You said you knew I would come, you knew my  name. I want to know how either of those things is possible."
It wasn't permitted to lie to him. Honesty was part of the pledge. But she could  evade. "I might have recognized your face. You're a successful and famous man, 
Calin. Your art has found its way even into my corner of the world. You have  such talent," she murmured. "Such vision." She arranged scones on a small plate,  offered it. "Such power inside you."
He lifted a brow. There were women who were willing, eager to rock onto their  backs for a man who had a hold on fame. He shook his head. "You're no groupie, 
Bryna. You didn't open the door to me so that you could have a quick bout of sex  with a name."
"But others have."
There was a sting of jealousy in her voice. He couldn't have said why, but under  the circumstances it amused him. "Which is how I know that's not what this is,  not what you are. In any case, you didn't have the time to recognize my face  from some magazine or talk show. The light was bad, the rain pouring down."
His brows drew together. He couldn't be dreaming again, hallucinating. The  teacup was warm in his hand, the taste of the sweet, whiskey-laced brew in his  mouth. "Damn it, you were waiting for me, and I don't understand how."
"I've waited for you all my life." She said it quietly, setting her cup down  untouched. "And a millennium before it began." Raising her hands, she laid them  on his face. "Your face is the first I remember, before even my own mother's. 
The ghost of your touch has haunted me every night of my life."
"That's nonsense." He brought a hand up, curled his fingers around her wrist.
"I can't lie to you. It's not in my power. Whatever I say to you will be truth,  whatever you see in me will be real." She tried to touch that part of his mind,  or his heart, that might still be open to her. But it was locked away, fiercely  guarded. She took one long breath and accepted. For now. "You're not ready to  know, to hear, to believe." Her eyes softened a little, her fingertips stroking  his temples. "Ah, Calin, you're tired, and confused. It's rest you're needing  now and ease for your mind. I can help you."
His vision grayed, and the room swam. He could see nothing but her eyes, dark  blue, utterly focused. Her scent swam into his senses like a drug. "Stop it."
"Rest now, love. My love."
He felt her lips brush his before he slid blissfully into the dark.
Cal awoke to silence. His mind circled for a moment, like a bird looking for a  place to perch. Something in the tea, he thought. God, the woman had drugged  him. He felt a quick panic as the theme from Stephen King's Misery played in his  head.
Obsessed fan. Kidnapping.
With a jolt, he sat straight up, terrified, reaching for his foot. Still  attached. The black cat, which had been curled on the edge of the bed, stretched  lazily and seemed to snicker.
"Yeah, funny," Cal muttered. He let out a long breath that trailed into a weak  laugh. Letting your imagination turn cartwheels again, Calin, he told himself. 
Always been a bad habit of yours.
He ordered himself to calm down, take stock of the situation. And realized he  was buck naked.
Surprise ran a swift race with embarrassment as he imagined Bryna undressing him  with those lovely tea-serving hands. And getting him into bed. How in the hell  had the woman carted him into a bedroom?
For that was where he was. It was a small and charming room with a tiny stone  hearth, a glossy bureau. Flowers and candles again, books tucked into a recessed  nook. A doll-size chair sat near a window that was framed in white lace  curtains. Sunlight slipped through them and made lovely and intricate patterns  on the dark wood floor.
At the foot of the bed was an old chest with brass fittings. His clothes, clean  and dry, were folded neatly on it. At least she didn't expect him to run around  in his skin, he decided, and with some relief reached quickly for his jeans.
He felt immediately better once they were zipped, then realized that he felt not  just better. He felt wonderful.
Alert, rested, energized. Whatever she'd given him, he concluded, had rocked him  into the solid, restful sleep he hadn't experienced in weeks. But he wasn't  going to thank her for it, Cal thought grimly as he tugged on his shirt. The  woman went way past eccentric—he didn't mind a little eccentricity. But this  lady was deluded, and possibly dangerous.
He was going to see to it that she gave him some satisfactory answers, then he  was going to leave her to her fairytale cottage and ruined castle and put some  miles between them.
He looked in the mirror over the bureau, half expecting to see a beard trailing  down to his chest like Rip Van Winkle. But the man who stared back at him hadn't  aged. He looked perplexed, annoyed, and, again, rested. The damnedest thing, Cal  mused, scooping his hair back.
He found his shoes neatly tucked beside the chest. Putting them on, he found  himself studying the patterns the sunlight traced on the floor.
Light. It struck him all at once, had him jumping to his feet again. The rain  had stopped. For Christ's sake, how long had he been sleeping?
In two strides he was at the window, yanking back those delicate curtains. Then  he stood, spellbound.
The view was stunning. He could see the rugged ground where the ruined castle  climbed, make out the glints of mica in the stone where the sun struck. The  ground tumbled away toward the road, then the road gave way to wave after  rolling wave of green fields, bisected with stone walls, dotted with lolling  cattle. Houses were tucked into valleys and on rises, clothes flapped cheerfully  on lines. Trees twisted up, bent by the years of resisting the relentless wind  off the sea and glossy green with spring.
He saw quite clearly a young boy pedaling his blue bike along one of the narrow  trenches of road, a spotted black-and-white dog racing beside him through thick  hedgerows.
Home, Cal thought. Home for supper. Ma doesn't like you to be late.
He found himself smiling, and reached down without thinking to raise the window  and let in the cool, moist air.
The light. It swelled his artist's heart No one could have described the light  of Ireland to him. It had to be seen, experienced. Like the sheen of a fine  pearl, he thought, that makes the air glimmer, go luminous and silky. The sun  filtering through layers of clouds had a softness, a majesty he'd never seen  anywhere else.
He had to capture it. Now. Immediately. Surely such magic couldn't last He  bolted out of the room, clattered down the short flight of steps, and burst out  into the gentle sun with the cat scampering at his heels.
He grabbed the Nikon off the front seat of his car. His hands were quick and  competent as he changed lenses. Then swinging his case over his shoulder, he  picked his position.
The fairy-tale cottage, he thought the abundance of flowers. The light. Oh, that  light. He framed, calculated and framed again.

Chapter 3

Bryna stepped through the arched doorway of the ruin and watched him. Such  energy, such concentration. Her lips bowed up. He was happy in his work, in his  art. He needed this time, she thought, just as he'd needed those hours of deep,  dreamless sleep.
Soon he would have questions again, and she would have to answer. She stepped  back inside, wanting to give him his privacy. Alone with her thoughts, she  walked to the center of the castle, where flowers grew out of the dirt in a  circle thick with blooms. Lifting her face to the light, raising her arms to the  sky, she began her chant.
Power tingled in her fingertips, but it was weak. So weak that she wanted to  weep in frustration. Once she had known its full strength; now she knew the pain  of its decline.
It was ordained, this I know. But here on ground where flowers grow, I call the  wind, I call the sun. What was done can be undone. No harm to him shall come  through me. As I will, so mote it be.
The wind came, fluttering her hair like gentle fingers. The sun beat warm on her  upturned face.
I call the faeries, I call the wise. Use what power you can devise. Hear me  speak, though my charms are weak. Cast the circle for my own true love, guard  him fast from below, from above. Harm to none, my vow is free. As I will, so  mote it be.
The power shimmered, brighter, warmer. She fought to hold it, to absorb what  gift was given. She thrust up a hand, the silver of the ring she wore exploding  with light as a single narrow beam shot through the layering clouds and struck. 
The heat of it flowed up her arm, made her want to weep again. This time in  gratitude.
She was not yet defenseless.
Cal clicked the shutter again and again. He took nearly a dozen pictures of her. 
She stood, still as a statue in a perfect circle of flowers. Some odd trick of  the wind made it blow her hair away from her glowing face. Some odd trick of the  light made it beam down on her in a single perfect diagonal shaft.
She was beautiful, unearthly. Though his heart stumbled when her fingers  appeared to explode with light, he continued to circle her and capture her on  film.
Then she began to move. Just a sway of her body, rhythmic, sensual. The wind  whipped the thin fabric of her dress, then had it clinging to those slim curves. 
The language she spoke now was familiar from his dreams. With unsteady hands, 
Cal lowered the camera. It was unsettling enough that he somehow understood the  ancient tongue. But he would see beyond the words and into her thoughts as  clearly as if they were written on a page.
Protect. Defend. The battle is nearly upon us. Help me. Help him.
There was desperation in her thoughts. And fear. The fear made him want to reach  out, soothe her, shield her. He stepped forward and into the circle.
The moment he did, her body jerked. Her eyes opened, fixed on his. She held up a  hand quickly before he could touch her. "Not here." Her voice was raw and thick. 
"Not now. It waits for the moon to fill."
Flowers brushed her knees as she walked out of the circle. The wind that had  poured through her hair gentled, died.
"You rested well?" she asked him.
"What the hell is going on here?" His eyes narrowed. "What the hell did you put  in my tea?"
"A dollop of Irish. Nothing more." She smiled at his camera. "You've been  working, I wondered what you would see here, and need to show."
"Why did you strip me?"
"Your clothes were damp." She blinked once, as she saw his thoughts in his eyes. 
Then she laughed, low and long with a female richness that stirred his blood. 
"Oh, Cal, you have a most attractive body. I'll not deny I looked. But in truth, 
I'm after preferring a man awake and participating when it comes to the matters  you're thinking of."
Though furious, he only angled his head. "And would you find it so funny if  you'd awakened naked in a strange bed after taking tea with a strange man?"
Her lips pursed, then she let out a breath. "Your point's taken, well taken. I'm  sorry for it. I promise you I was thinking only of giving you your ease." Then  the humor twinkled again. "Or mostly only of that." She spread her arms. "Would  you like to strip me, pay me back in kind?"
He could imagine it, very well. Peeling that long, thin dress away from her,  finding her beneath. "I want answers." His voice was sharp, abrupt. "I want them  now."
"You do, I know. But are you ready, I wonder?" She turned a slow circle. "Here, 
I suppose, is the place for it. I'll tell you a story, Calin Farrell. A story of  great love, great betrayal. One of passion and greed, of power and lust. One of  magic, gained and lost."
"I don't want a story. I want answers."
"It's the same they are. One and the other." She turned back to him, and her  voice flowed musically. "Once, long ago, this castle guarded the coast, and its  secrets. It rose silver and shining above the sea. Its walls were thick, its  fires burned bright. Servants raced up and down the stairways, into chambers. 
The rushes were clean and sweet on the floor. Magic sang in the air."
She walked toward curving steps, lifted her hem and began to climb. Too curious  to argue, Cal followed her. He could see where the floors had been, the lintels  and stone bracings. Carved into the walls were small openings. Too shallow for  chambers, he imagined. Storage, perhaps. He saw, too, that some of the stones  were blackened, as if from a great fire. Laying a hand on one, he swore he could  still feel heat.
"Those who lived here," she continued, "practiced their art and harmed none. 
When someone from the village came here with ails or worries, help was offered. 
Babies were born here," she said as she stepped through a doorway and into the  sun again. "The old died."
She walked across a wide parapet to a stone rail that stood over the lashing  sea.
"Years passed in just this way, season to season, birth to death. It came to be  that some who lived here went out into the land. To make new places. Over the  hills, into the forests, up into the mountains, where the faeries have always  lived."
The view left him thunderstruck, awed, thrilled. But he turned to her, cocked a  brow. "Faeries."
She smiled, turned and leaned back against the rail.
"One remained. A woman who knew her fate was here, in this place. She gathered  her herbs, cast her spells, spun her wool. And waited. One day he came, riding  over the hills on a fine black horse. The man she'd waited for. He was a  warrior, brave and strong and true of heart. Standing here, just here, she saw  the sun glint off his armor. She prepared for him, lighting the candles and  torches to show him the way until the castle burned bright as a flame. He was  wounded."
Gently she traced a fingertip on Cal's thigh. He forced himself not to step  back, not to think about the hallucination he'd had while driving through the  hills toward this place.
"The battle he had fought was fierce. He was weary in body and heart and in  mind. She gave him food and ease and the warmth of her fire. And her love. He  took the love she gave, offered back his own. They were all to each other from  that moment. His name was Caelan, Caelan of Farrell, and hers Bryna. Their  hearts were linked."
He stepped back now, dipping his hands into his pockets. "You expect me to buy  that?"
"What I offer is free. And there's more of the story yet." The frustration at  having him pull back flickered over her face. "Will you hear it, or not?"
"Fine." He moved a shoulder. "Go ahead."
She turned, clamped her hands on the stone balustrade, let the thunder of the  sea pound in her head. She stared down at that endless war of water and rock  that fought at the base of the cliff.
"They loved each other, and pledged one to the other. But he was a warrior, and  there were more battles to fight. Whenever he would leave her, she watched in  the fire she made, saw him wheel his horse through smoke and death, lift his  sword for freedom. And always he came back to her, riding over the hills on a  fine black horse. She wove him a cloak out of dark gray wool, to match his eyes. 
And a charm she put on it, for protection in battle."
"So you're saying she was a witch?"
"A witch she was, yes, with the power and art that came down through the blood. 
And the vow she'd taken to her heart, as close as she'd taken the man she loved,  to harm none. Her powers she used only to help and to heal. But not all with  power are true. There was one who had chosen a different path. One who used his  power for gain and found joy in wielding it like a bloody sword."
She shuddered once, violently, then continued. "This man, Alasdair, lusted for  her—for her body, her heart, her soul. For her power as well—for she was strong,  was Bryna the Wise. He came into her dreams, creeping like a thief, trying to  steal from her what belonged to another. Trying to take what she refused to  give. He came into her home, but she would not have him. He was fair of face,  his hair gold and his eyes black as the path he'd chosen. He thought to seduce  her, but she spurned him."
Her fingers tightened on the stone, and her heart began to trip. "His anger was  huge, his vanity deep. He set to kill the man she loved, casting spells, weaving  charms of the dark. But the cloak she had woven and the love she had given  protected him from harm. But there are more devious ways to destroy. Alasdair  used them. Again in dreams he planted seeds of doubt, hints of betrayal in 
Caelan's sleeping mind. Alasdair gave him visions of Bryna with another, painted  pictures of her wrapped in another man's arms, filled with another man's seed. 
And with these images tormenting his mind, Caelan rode his fine black horse over  the hills to this place. And finding her he accused her.
"She was proud," Bryna said after a moment. "She would not deny such lies. They  argued bitterly, tempers ruling over hearts. It was then that he  struck—Alasdair. He'd waited only for the moment, laughing in the shadows while  the lovers hurled pain at each other. When Caelan tore off his cloak, hurled it  to the ground at her feet, Alasdair struck him down so that his blood ran  through the stones and into the ground.''
Tears glinted into her eyes, but went unshed as she faced Calin. "Her grief  blinded her, but she cast the circle quickly, fighting to save the man she  loved. His wound was mortal and there was no answer for him but death. She knew  but refused to accept, and turned to meet Alasdair."
She lifted her voice over the roar of the sea. It came stronger now, this story  through her. "Then the walls of this place rang with fury, with magic loosed. 
She shielded her love and fought like a warrior gone wild. And the sky  thundered, clouds dark and thick covered the full white moon and blotted out the  stars. The sea thrashed like men pitched in battle and the ground trembled and  heaved.
"In the circle, weak and dying, Caelan reached for his sword. But such weapons  are useless against witchcraft, light and dark, unless wielded with strength. In  his heart he called for her, understanding now his betrayal and his own foolish  pride. Her name was on his lips as he died. And when he died, her heart split in  two halves and left her defenseless."
She sighed, closed her eyes briefly. "She was lost without him, you see. 
Alasdair's power spread like vultures' wings. He would have her then, willing or  not. But with the last of her strength, she stumbled into the circle where her  lover's blood stained the ground. There a vow she made, and a spell she cast. 
There, while the walls rang and the torches burned, she swore her abiding love  for Caelan. For a thousand years she would wait, she would bide. She sent the  fire roaring through her home, for she would not let Alasdair have it. And the  spell she cast was this."
She drew a deep breath now, kept her eyes on his. "A thousand years to the  night, they would come back and face Alasdair as one. If their hearts were  strong, they would defeat him in this place. But such spells have a price, and  hers was to vow that if Caelan did not believe, did not stand with her that  night as one, her power would wink out. And she would belong to Alasdair. 
Pledging this, she knelt beside her love, embraced him. And vanished them both."
He waited a moment, surprised that he'd found her story and the telling of it  hypnotic. Studying her, he rocked back on his heels. "A pretty tale, Bryna."
"Do you still see it as such?" She shook her head, her eyes pleading. "Can you  look at me, hear me, and remember nothing?"
"You want me to believe I'm some sort of reincarnation of a Celtic warrior and  you're the reincarnation of a witch." He let out a short laugh. "We've waited a  millennium and now we're going to do battle with the bad witch of the west? Come  on, honey, do I look that gullible?"
She closed her eyes. The telling of the tale, the reliving of it had tired her. 
She needed all her resources now. "He has to believe," she murmured, pacing away  from the wall. "There's no time for subtle persuading." She whirled back to face  him. "You had a vivid imagination as a child," she said angrily. "It's a pity  you tossed it aside. Tossed me aside—"
"Listen, sweetheart—"
"Oh, don't use those terms with me. Haven't I heard you croon them to other  women as you guided them into bed? I didn't expect you to be a monk waiting for  this day, but did you have to enjoy it so damn much?"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, never mind. Just never mind." She gestured impatiently as she paced. " 'A  pretty tale,' he says. Did it take a millennium to make him so stubborn, so  blind? Well, we'll see, Calin Farrell, what we'll see."
She stopped directly in front of him, her eyes burning with temper, her face  flushed with it. "A reincarnation of a witch? Perhaps that's true. But you'll  see for yourself one simple fact. I am a witch, and not without power yet."
"Crazy is what you are." He started to turn.
"Hold!" She drew in a breath, and the wind whipped again, wild and wailing. His  feet were cemented to the spot. "See," she ordered and flung a hand down toward  the ground between them.
It was the first charm learned, the last lost. Though her hand trembled with the  effort, the fire erupted, burning cold and bright.
He swore and would have leaped back if he'd been able. There was no wood, there  was no match, just that golden ball of flame shimmering at his feet. "What the  hell is this?"
"Proof, if you'll take it." Over the flames, she reached out a hand. "I've  called to you in the night, Calin, but you wouldn't hear me. But you know me—you  know my face, my mind, my heart. Can you look at me and deny it?"
"No." His throat was dust-dry, his temples throbbing. "No, I can't. But I don't  want this."
Her hand fell to her side. The fire vanished. "I can't make you want. I can only  make you see." She swayed suddenly, surprising them both.
"Hey!" He caught her as her legs buckled.
"I'm just tired." She struggled to find her pride at least, to pull back from  him. "Just tired, that's all."
She'd gone deathly pale, he noted, and she felt as limp as if every bone in her  body had melted. "This is crazy. This whole thing is insane. I'm probably just  having another hallucination."
But he swept her up into his arms and carried her down the circle of stone steps  and away from the Castle of Secrets.

Chapter 4

"Brandy," he muttered, shouldering open the door to the cottage. The cat slipped  in like smoke and led the way down the short hall. "Whiskey. Something."
"No." Though the weakness still fluttered through her, she shook her head. "I'm  better now, truly."
"The hell you are." She felt fragile enough to dissolve in his arms. "Have you  got a doctor around here?"
"I don't need a doctor." The idea of it made her chuckle a little. "I have what 
I need in the kitchen."
He turned his head, met her eyes. "Potions? Witch's brews?"
"If you like." Unable to resist, she wound her arms around his neck. "Will you  carry me in, Calin? Though I'd prefer it if you carried me upstairs, took me to  bed."
Her mouth was close to his, already softly parted in invitation. He felt his  muscles quiver. If he was caught in a dream, he mused, it involved all of the  senses and was more vivid than any he'd had in childhood.
"I didn't know Irish women were so aggressive. I might have visited here  sooner."
"I've waited a long time. I have needs, as anyone."
Deliberately he turned away from the steps and started down the hall. "So,  witches like sex."
That chuckle came again, throaty and rich. "Oh, aye, we're fond of it. I could  give you more than an ordinary woman. More than you could dream."
He remembered the jolt of that staggering kiss of welcome.
And didn't doubt her word. He made a point of dropping her, abruptly, on one of  the two ladder-back chairs at a scrubbed wooden table in the tiny kitchen.
"I dream real good," he said, and she smiled silkily.
"That I know." The air hummed between them before she eased back, tidily folded  her hands on the table. "There's a blue bottle in the cupboard there, over the  stove. Would you mind fetching it for me, and a glass as well?''
He opened the door she indicated, found the cupboard neatly lined with bottles  of all colors and shapes. All were filled with liquids and powders, and none  were labeled. "Which one of these did you put in my tea?"
Now she sighed, heavily. "Cal, I put nothing in your tea but the whiskey. I gave  you sleep—a small spell, and a harmless one—because you needed it. Two hours  only, and did you not wake feeling well and rested?"
He scowled at the bottles, refusing to argue the point. "Which blue one?"
"The cobalt bottle with the long neck."
He set the bottle and a short glass on the table. "Drugs are dangerous."
She poured a careful two fingers of liquid as blue as the bottle that held it. " 
'Tis herbs." Her eyes flickered up to his, laughed. "And a touch or two of  magic. This is for energy and strength." She sipped with apparent enjoyment. 
"Will you be sitting down, Calin? You could use a meal, and it should be ready  by now."
He'd already felt his stomach yearn at the scents filling the room, puffing out  of the steam from a pot on the stove.
"What is it?"
"Craibechan." She smiled as his brows drew together. "A kind of soup," she  explained. "It's hearty, and your appetite's been off. You've lost more than a  pound or two in recent weeks, and I feel the blame for that."
Wanting to see just what craibechan consisted off—and make sure there was no eye  of newt or tongue of frog in the mix, he had started to reach for the lid on the  pot. Now he drew back, faced her. He was going to make one vital point perfectly  clear.
"I don't believe in witches."
A glint of amusement was in her eyes as she pushed back from the table. "We'll  set to working on that soon enough."
"But I'm willing to consider some sort of… I don't know… psychic connection."
"That's a beginning, then." She took out a loaf of brown bread, set it in the  oven to warm. "Would you have wine with your meal? There's a bottle you could  open. I've chilled it a bit." She opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle.
He accepted it, studied the label. It was his favorite Bourdeax—a wine that he  preferred chilled just a bit. Considering, he took the corkscrew she offered.
The obsessed-fan theory just didn't hold, he decided, as he set the open bottle  on the slate-gray counter to breathe. No matter how much information she might  have dug up about him, she couldn't have predicted he would come to Ireland—and  certainly not to this place.
He would accept the oddity of a connection. What else could he call it? It had  been her voice echoing through his dreams, her face floating through the mists  of his memory. And it had been his hands on the wheel of the car he'd driven up  to this place. To her.
It was time, he thought, to discover more about her.
"Bryna."
She paused in the act of spooning stew into thick white bowls. "Aye?"
"How long have you lived here, alone like this?"
"The last five years I've been alone. It was part of the pattern. The  wineglasses are to the right of you there."
"How old are you?" He took down two crystal glasses, poured blood-red wine.
"Twenty-six. Four years less than you." She set the bowls on the table, took one  of the glasses. "My first memory of you, this time, was of you riding a horse  made out of a broom around a parlor with blue curtains. A little black dog  chased you. You called him Hero."
She took a sip from her glass, set it down, then turned to take the warmed bread  from the oven. "And when he died, fifteen years later on a hot summer day, you  buried him in the backyard, and your parents helped you plant a rosebush over  his grave. All of you wept, for he'd been very dear. Neither you nor your  parents have had a pet since. You don't think you have the heart to lose one  again."
He let out a long, uneasy breath, took a deep gulp of wine. None of that  information, none of it, was in his official bio. And certainly none of the  emotions were public fare. "Where is your family?"
"Oh, here and there." She bent to give Hecate an affectionate scratch between  the ears. "It's difficult for them just now. There's nothing they can do to  help. But I feel them close, and that's comfort enough."
"So… your parents are witches too?"
She heard the amusement in his voice and bristled. "I'm a hereditary witch. My  power and my gift runs through the blood, generation to generation. It's not an  avocation I have, Calin, nor is it a hobby or a game. It is my destiny, my  legacy and my pride. And don't be insulting me when you're about to eat my  food." She tossed her head and sat down.
He scratched his chin. "Yes, ma'am." He sat across from her, sniffed at the  bowl. "Smells great." He spooned up some, sampled, felt the spicy warmth of it  spread through his system. "Tastes even better."
"Don't flatter me, either. You're hungry enough to eat a plate of raw  horsemeat."
"Got me there." He dug in with relish. "So, any eye of newt in here?"
Her eyes kindled. "Very funny."
"I thought so." It was either take the situation with humor or run screaming, he  decided. "Anyway, what do you do up here alone?" No, he realized, he wasn't sure  he wanted to know that. "I mean, what do you do for a living?"
It was no use being annoyed with him, she told herself. No use at all. "You're  meaning to make money? Well, that's a necessary thing." She passed him the bread  and salt butter. "I weave, and sell my wares. Sweaters, rugs, blankets, throws,  and the like. It's a soothing art, and a solitary one. It gives me  independence."
"The rugs in the other room? Your work?"
"They are, yes."
"They're beautiful—color, texture, workmanship." Remembering the spinning wheel,  he blinked. "Are you telling me you spin your own wool?"
"It's an old and venerable art. One I enjoy."
Most of the women he knew couldn't even sew on a button. He'd never held the  lack of domesticity against anyone, but he found the surplus of it intriguing in 
Bryna. "I wouldn't think a witch would… well, I'd think she'd just—you  know—poof."
"Proof?" Her brows arched high. "Saying if I wanted a pot of gold I'd just  whistle up the wind and coins would drop into my hands?" She leaned forward. 
Annoyance spiked her voice. "Tell me why you use that camera with all the  buttons and business when they make those tidy little things that all but think  for you and snap the picture themselves?"
"It's hardly worthwhile if you automate the whole process. If it's to mean  anything I have to be involved, in control, do the planning out, see the  picture…" He trailed off, catching her slow, and smug, smile. "Okay, I get it. 
If you could just snap your fingers it wouldn't be art."
"It wouldn't. And more, it's a pledge, you see. Not to abuse a gift or take it  for granted. And most vital, never to use power to harm. You nearly believe me, 
Calin."
Stunned that she was right, he jerked back. "Just making conversation," he  muttered, then rose to refill his empty bowl, the cat trailing him like a  hopeful shadow. "When's the last time you were in the States?"
"I've never been to America." She picked up her wine after he topped it off. "It  wasn't permitted for me to contact you, face-to-face, until you came here. It  wasn't permitted for you to come until one month before the millennium passed."
Cal drummed his fingers on the table. She sure knew how to stick to a story. "So  it's a month to the anniversary of… the spell casting."
"No, it's on the solstice. Tomorrow night." She picked up her wine again, but  only turned the stem around and around in her fingers.
"Cutting it close, aren't you?"
"You didn't want to hear me—and I waited too long. It was pride. I was wanting  you to call to me, just once." Defeated by her own heart, she closed her eyes. 
"Like some foolish teenage girl waiting by the phone for her boy to call her. 
You'd hurt me when you turned away from me." Her eyes opened again, pinned him  with the sharp edge of her unhappiness. "Why did you turn from me, Calin? Why  did you stop answering, stop hearing?"
He couldn't deny it. He was here, and so was she. He'd been pulled to her, and  no matter how he struggled to refuse it, he could remember—the soft voice, the  plea in it. And those eyes, so incredibly blue, with that same deep hurt glowing  in them.
It was, he realized, accept this or accept insanity. "Because I didn't want to  answer, and I didn't want to be here." His voice roughened as he shoved the bowl  aside. "I wanted to be normal."
"So you rejected me, and the gift you'd been given, for what you see as  normality?"
"Do you know what it's like to be different, to be odd?" he tossed back  furiously. Then he hissed through his teeth. "I suppose you do," he muttered. 
"But I hated it, hated seeing how it worried my parents."
"It wasn't meant to be a burden but a joy. It was part of her, part of me that  was passed to you, Calin, that small gift of sight. To protect you, not to  threaten."
"I didn't want it!" He shoved back from the table. "Where are my rights in all  this? Where's my choice?"
She wanted to weep for him, for the small boy who hadn't understood that his  uniqueness had been a loving gift. And for the man who would reject it still. 
"The choice has always been yours."
"Fine. I don't want any of this."
"And me, Calin." She rose as well, slowly, pride in the set of her shoulders,  the set of her head. "Do you not want me as well?"
"No." It was a lie, and it burned on his tongue. "I don't want you."
He heard the laughter, a nasty buzz on the air. Hecate hissed, arched her back,  then growled out a warning. Cal saw fear leap into Bryna's eyes even as she  whirled and flung herself in front of him like a shield.
"No!" Her voice boomed, power and authority. "You are not welcome here. You have  no right here."
The shadows in the doorway swirled, coalesced, formed into a man. He wore  sorcerer's black, piped with silver, on a slender frame. A face as handsome as a  fairy-tale prince was framed with golden hair and accented with eyes as black as  midnight.
"Bryna, your time is short." His voice was smooth, laced with dark amusement. 
"There is no need for this war between us. I offer you such power, such a world. 
You've only to take my hand, accept."
"Do you think I would? That a thousand years, or ten thousand, would change my  heart? Doomed you are, Alasdair, and the choice was your own."
"The wait's nearly at an end." Alasdair lifted a hand, and thunder crashed  overhead like swords meeting. "Send him away and I will allow it. My word to  you, Bryna. Send him away and he goes unharmed by me. If he stays, his end will  be as it was before, and I will have you, Bryna, unbound or in chains. That  choice is your own."
She lifted a hand, and light glinted off her ring of carved silver. "Come into  my circle now, Alasdair." Her lips curved in a sultry dare, though her heart was  pounding in terror, for she was not ready to meet him power to power. "Do you  risk it?"
His lips thinned in a sneer, his dark eyes glittering with malicious promise. 
"On the solstice, Bryna." His gaze flickered to Cal, amusement shining dark. 
"You, warrior, remember death."
There was pain, bright and sharp and sudden, stabbing into Cal's belly. It  burned through him like acid, cutting off his breath, weakening his knees, even  as he gripped Bryna's shoulders and shoved her behind him.
"Touch her and die." He felt the words rise in his throat, heard them come  through his lips. He felt the sweat pearl cold and clammy on his brow as he  faced down the image. And so it faded, leaving only a dark glint like a smudge,  and an echo of taunting laughter.

Chapter 5

Cal pressed a hand to his stomach, half expecting to find blood, and worse,  dripping through his fingers. The pain had dulled to numbness, with a slick echo  of agony.
"He can't harm you." Bryna's voice registered dimly, made him aware that he was  still gripping her arm. "He can only make you remember, deceive you with the  pain. It's all tricks and lies with him."
"I saw him." Dazed, Cal studied his own fingers. "I saw it."
"Aye. He's stronger than I'd believed, and more rash, to come here like this." 
Gently she put a hand over the one bruising her arm. "Alasdair is sly and full  of lies. You must remember that, Calin. You must never forget it."
"I saw him," Cal repeated, struggling to absorb the impossible into reality. "I  could see through him, the table in the hall, the flowers on it."
"He wouldn't dare risk coming here in full form. Not as yet. Calin, you're  hurting my arm."
His fingers jerked, dropped. "Sorry. I lost my head. Seeing ghosts does that to  me."
"A ghost he isn't. But a witch, one who embraced the dark and closed out the  light. One who broke every oath."
"Is he a man?" He whirled on her so abruptly that she caught her breath, then  winced as his hands gripped her arms again. "He looked at you as a man would,  with desire."
"We're not spirits. We have our needs, our weaknesses. He wants me, yes. He has  broken into my dreams and shown me just what he wants from me. And rape in  dreams is no less a rape." She trembled and her eyes went blind. For a moment  she was only a woman, with a woman's fears. "He frightens me. Is that enough for  you? Is it enough that I'd rather die than have his hands on me? He frightens  me," she said again and pressed her face into Cal's shoulder. "Oh, Calin, his  hands are cold, so cold."
"He won't touch you." The need to protect was too strong to deny. His arms  tightened, brought her close. "He won't touch you. Bryna." His lips brushed over  her hair, down her temple. Found hers. "Bryna," he said again. "Sweet God."
She melted into him, yielding like wax, giving like glory. All the confusion,  the doubt, the fear slid away from him. Here was the woman, the only, the ever. 
His hands dived into her hair, fisted in those soft ropes of red silk, pulled  her head back so that he could drive the kiss deeper.
Whatever had brought him here he would face. Whatever else he might continue to  deny, there was no denying this. Need could be stronger than reason.
The sounds humming in her throat were both plea and seduction. Her heart  hammered fast and hard against his, and her body shuddered lightly. She nipped  at his lip, urging him on. He heard her sigh his name, moan it, then whisper  words ripe with longing.
The words were in Gaelic, and that was what stopped him. He understood them as  if he'd been speaking the language all his life.
"Love," she had said. "My love."
"Is this the answer?" The fury returned as he pushed her back against the wall. 
"Is this what you want?" Now his kiss tasted of violence, of desperation, nearly  of punishment.
Her own fears sprang hot to her throat, taunting her to fight him, to reject the  anger. But she offered no struggle, took the heat, the rough hands until he drew  back and stared at her out of stormy eyes.
She took a steadying breath, waited until she was sure her voice would be strong  and sure. "It's one answer. Yes, I want you." Slowly she unfastened the buttons  running down the front of her dress. "I want you to touch me, to take me."
Parted the material, let it slide to the floor so that she stood before him  defenseless and naked. "Where you like, when you like, how you like."
He kept his eyes on hers. "You said that to me before, once before."
Emotions swirling, she closed her eyes, then opened them again. And smiled. "I  did. A thousand years ago. More or less."
He remembered. She had stood facing him, flowers blooming at her feet. And she  had undraped herself so that the pearly light had gleamed on her skin. She had  offered herself without restrictions. He'd lost himself in her, flowers crushed  and fragrant under their eager bodies.
He shook his head, and the image faded away. Memory or imagination, it no longer  mattered. He knew only one vital thing. "This is now. This is you and me. 
Nothing else touches it. Whatever happened or didn't happen before, this is for  us."
He scooped her into his arms. "That's the way I want it," he stated.
She stared at him, for she was spellbound now. She'd thought he would simply  take her where they stood, seeking release, even oblivion. She'd tasted the  sharp edge of his passion, felt the violence simmering under his skin. Instead,  he carried her in his arms as if she were something he could cherish.
And when he laid her on the bed, stepped back to look at her, she felt a flush  warm her cheeks. She managed a quick smile. "You'll be needing your clothes  off," she said, tried to laugh and sit up, but he touched a hand to her  shoulder.
"I'll do it. Lie back, Bryna. I want to see you with your hair burning over the  pillows, and the sun on your skin." He would photograph her like this, he  realized. Would be compelled to see if he could capture the magic of it, of  her—long limbs, slender curves, eyes full of needs and nerves.
He watched her as he undressed, and his voice was quiet and serious when he  spoke. "Are you afraid of me?"
"I wasn't. I didn't expect to be." But her heart was fluttering like bird's  wings. "I suppose I am, yes. A little. Because it means… everything."
He tossed his clothes toward the little chair, never taking his eyes from hers. 
"I don't know what I believe, what I can accept. Except one thing." He lowered  himself to her, kept his mouth a whisper from hers. "This matters. Here. Now. 
You. It matters."
"Love me." She drew his mouth down to hers. "I've ached for you so long."
It was slow and testing and sweet. Sighs and secrets, tastes and textures. He  knew how her mouth would fit against his, knew the erotic slide of her tongue,  the suggestive arch of her hips. He swallowed each catchy breath as he took his  hands slowly, so slowly over her. Skimming curves, warming flesh. He filled his  hands with her breasts, then his mouth, teasing her nipples with tongue and  teeth until she groaned out his name like a prayer.
She took her hands over him, testing those muscles, tracing the small scars. Not  a warrior's body, but a man's, she thought. And for now, hers. Her heart beat  slow and thick as he used his mouth on her with a patience and concentration she  knew now she'd been foolish not to expect.
Her heart beat thickly, the sun warmed her closed lids as pleasure swamped her. 
And love held so long in her heart bloomed like wild roses.
"Calin."
His name shuddered through her lips when he cupped her. He watched her eyes fly  open, saw the deep-blue irises go glassy and blind in speechless arousal. He  sent her over the edge, viciously delighted when she cried out, shuddered, when  her hands fell weakly.
His, was all he could think as he blazed a hot trail down her thigh. His. His.
Blood thundered in his head as he slipped inside her, as she moaned in pleasure,  arched in welcome. Now her eyes were open, vivid blue and intense. Now her arms  were around him, a circle of possession. She mated with him, their rhythm  ancient and sure.
His strokes went deep, deeper, and his mouth crushed down on hers in breathless,  mutual pleasure. She flew, as she had waited a lifetime to fly, as he emptied  himself into her.
She held him close as the tension drained from his body. Stroked his hair as he  rested his head between her breasts. "It's new," she said quietly. "Ours. I  didn't know it could be. Knowing so much, yet this I never knew."
He shifted, lifted his head so that he could see her face. Her skin was soft,  dewy, her eyes slumberous, her mouth rosy and swollen. "None of this should be  possible." He cupped a hand under her chin, turned her profile just slightly,  already seeing it in frame, in just that light. Black and white. And he would  title it Aftermath. "I'm probably having a breakdown."
Her laugh was a quick, silly snort. Carefree, careless. "Well, your engine  seemed to be running fine, Calin, if you're after asking me."
His mouth twitched in response. "We're pushing into the twenty-first century. I  have a fax built into my car phone, a computer in my office that does everything  but make my bed, and I'm supposed to believe I've just made love to a witch. A  witch who makes fire burn out of thin air, calls up winds where there isn't a  breeze in sight."
She combed her fingers through his hair as she'd dreamed of doing countless  times. "Magic and technology aren't mutually exclusive. It's only that the  second so rarely takes the first into account. Normality is only in the  perspective." She watched his eyes cloud at that. "You had visions, Calin. As a  child you had them."
"And I put away childish things."
"Visions? Childish?" Her eyes snapped once, then she closed them on a sigh. "Why  must you think so? A child's mind and heart are perhaps more open to such  matters. But you saw and you felt and you knew things that others didn't. It was  a gift you were given."
"I'm no witch."
"No, that only makes the gift more special. Calin—"
"No." He sat up, shaking his head. "It's too much. Let it be for a while. I  don't know what I feel." He scrubbed his hands over his face, into his hair. 
"All I know is that here was where I had to be—and you're who I had to be with. 
Let the rest alone for a while."
They had so little time. She nearly said it before she stopped herself. If time  was so short, then what they had was precious. If she was damned for taking it  for only the two of them, then she was damned.
"Then let it rest we will." She lay back, stretched out a hand for his. "Come  kiss me again. Come lie with me."
He skimmed a hand up her thigh, watched her smile bloom slow. And the light. Oh,  the light. "Stay right there." He bounded out of bed, grabbing his jeans on the  run.
She blinked. "What? Where are you going?"
"Be right back. Don't move. Stay right there."
She huffed out a breath at the ceiling. Then her face softened again and she  stretched her arms high. Oh, she felt well loved. Like a cat thoroughly stroked. 
Chuckling, she glanced over at Hecate, curled in front of the hearth and  watching her.
"Aye, you know the feeling, don't you? Well, I like it." The cat only stared,  unblinking. Ten seconds. Twenty. Bryna closed her eyes. "I need the time. Damn  it, we need it. A few hours after so many years. Why should we be denied it? Why  must there be a price for every joy? Go then, leave me be. If the fare comes  due, I'll pay it freely."
With a swish of her tail, the cat rose and padded out of the room. Calin's  footsteps sounded on the steps seconds later. Prepared to smile, Bryna widened  her eyes instead. He'd snapped two quick pictures before she could push herself  up and cross her arms over her breast.
"What do you think you're about? Taking photographs of me without my clothes. 
Put it away. You won't be hanging me on some art gallery wall."
"You're beautiful." He circled the bed, changing angles. "A masterpiece. Drop  your left shoulder just a little."
"I'll do no such thing. It's outrageous." Shocked to the core, she tugged at the  rumpled spread, pulled it up—and to Cal's mind succeeded only in looking more  alluring and rumpled.
But he lowered the camera. "I thought witches were supposed to like to dance  naked under the full moon."
"Going skyclad isn't an exhibition. And there's a time and place for such  things. No one snaps pictures of private matters nor of rituals."
"Bryna." Using all his charm, he stepped closer, tugged gently at the sheet  she'd pulled over her breasts. "You have a beautiful body, your coloring is  exquisite, and the light in here is perfect. Unbelievable." He skimmed the back  of his fingers over her nipple, felt her tremble. "I'll show them to you first."
She barely felt the sheet slip to her waist. "I know what I look like."
"You don't know how I see you. But I'll show you. Lie back for me. Relax." 
Murmuring, he spread her hair over the pillows as he wanted it. "No, don't cover  yourself. Just look at me." He shot straight down, then moved back. "Turn your  head, just a little. I'm touching you. Imagine my hands on you, moving over you. 
There. And there." He braced a knee on the foot of the bed, working quickly. "If 
I had a darkroom handy, I'd develop these tonight and you'd see what I see."
"I have one." Her voice was breathless, aroused.
"What?"
"I had one put in for you, off the kitchen." Her smile was hesitant when he  lowered the camera and stared at her. "I knew you would come, and I wanted you  to have what you needed, what would make you comfortable."
So you would stay with me, she thought, but didn't say it.
"You put in a darkroom? Here?"
"Aye, I did."
With a laugh, he shook his head. "Amazing. Absolutely amazing." Rising, he set  the camera down on the bureau. "I think you need to be a little more… mussed  before I shoot the rest of that roll." He climbed onto the bed. "The things I do  for my art," he murmured and covered her laughing mouth with his.

Chapter 6

Later, in the breezy evening when the sun gilded the sky and polished the air,  he walked with her toward the cliffs. Both his mind and his body were relaxed,  limber.
Logically he knew he should be racing to the nearest psychiatric ward for a full  workup. But a lonely cliffside, a ruined castle, a beautiful woman who claimed  to be a witch—visions and sex and legends. It was a time and place to set logic  aside, at least for a while.
"It's a beautiful country," he commented. "I'm still trying to adjust that I've  only been here since this morning. Barely twelve hours."
"Your heart's been here longer." It was so simple to walk with him, fingers  linked. So simple. So ordinary. So miraculous. "Tell me about New York. All the  movies, the pictures I've seen have only made me wonder more. Is it like that,  really? So fast and crowded and exciting?"
"It can be." And at that moment it seemed a world away. A thousand years away.
"And your house?"
"It's an apartment. It looks out over the park. I wanted a big space so I could  have my studio right there. It's got good light."
"You like to stand on the balcony," she began, then rolled her eyes when he shot  her a quick look. "I've peeked now and then."
''Peeked." He caught her chin in his hand before she could turn away. "At what? 
Exactly?"
"I wanted to see how you lived, how you worked."
She eased away and walked along the rocks, where the water spewed up, showered  like diamonds in the sunlight. Then she turned her head, tilting it in an eerily  feline movement.
"You've had a lot of women, Calin Farrell—coming and going at all hours in all  manner of dress. And undress."
He hunched his shoulders as if he had an itch he couldn't scratch. "You watched  me with other women?"
"I peeked," she corrected primly. "And never watched for long in any case. But  it seemed to me that you often chose women who were lacking in the area of  intelligence."
He ran his tongue around his teeth. "Did it?"
"Well…" A shrug, dismissing. "Well, so it seemed." Bending, she plucked a  wildflower that had forced its way through a split in the rock. Twirled it gaily  under her nose. "Is it worrying you that I know of them?"
He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Not particularly."
"That's fine, then. Now, if I were the vindictive sort, I might turn you into an  ass. Just for a short time."
"An ass?"
"Just for a short time."
"Can you do that sort of thing?" He realized when he asked it that he was ready  to believe anything.
She laughed, the sound carrying rich music over wind and sea. "If I were the  vindictive sort." She walked to him, handed him the flower, then smiled when he  tucked it into her hair. "But I think you'd look darling with long ears and a  tail."
"I'd just as soon keep my anatomy as it is. What else did you… peek at?"
"Oh, this and that, here and there." She linked her fingers with his and walked  again. "I watched you work in your darkroom—the little one in the house where  you grew up. Your parents were so proud of you. Startled by your talent, but  very proud. I saw your first exhibition, at that odd wee gallery where everyone  wore black—like at a wake."
"SoHo," he murmured. "Christ, that was nearly ten years ago."
"You've done brilliant things since. I could look through your eyes when I  looked at your pictures. And felt close to you."
The thought came abruptly, stunning him. He turned her quickly to face him,  stared hard into her eyes. "You didn't have anything to do with… you haven't  made what I can do?"
"Oh, Calin, no." She lifted her hands to cover the ones on her shoulders. "No, I  promise you. It's yours. From you. You mustn't doubt it," she said, sensing that  he did. "I can tell you nothing that isn't true. I'm bound by that. On my oath,  everything you've accomplished is yours alone."
"All right." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms absently. "You're  shivering. Are you cold?"
"I was for a moment." Bone-deep, harrowing. Alasdair. She cast it out, gripped  his hand tightly and led him over the gentle slope of the hill. "Even as a child 
I would come here and stand and look out." Content again, she leaned her head  against his shoulder, scanning hill and valley, the bright flash of river, the  dark shadows cast by twisted trees. "To Ireland spread out before me, green and  gold. A dreaming place."
"Ireland, or this spot?"
"Both. We're proud of our dreamers here. I would show you Ireland, Calin. The  bank where the columbine grows, the pub where a story is always waiting to be  told, the narrow lane flanked close with hedges that bloom with red fuchsia. The  simple Ireland."
Tossing her hair back, she turned to him. "And more. I would show you more. The  circle of stones where power sleeps, the quiet hillock where the faeries dance  of an evening, the high cliff where a wizard once ruled. I would give it to you,  if you'd take it."
"And what would you take in return, Bryna?"
"That's for you to say." She felt the chill again. The warning. "Now I have  something else to show you, Calin." She glanced uneasily over her shoulder,  toward the ruins. Shivered. "He's close," she whispered. "And watching. Come  into the house."
He held her back. He was beginning to see that he had run from a good many  things in his life. Too many things. "Isn't it better to face him now, be done  with it?"
"You can't choose the time. It's already set." She gripped his hand, pulled. 
"Please. Into the house."
Reluctantly, Cal went with her. "Look, Bryna, it seems to me that a bully's a  bully whatever else he might be. The longer you duck a bully, the worse he gets. 
Believe me, I've dealt with my share."
"Oh, aye, and had a fine bloody nose, as I remember, from one. The two of you,  pounding on each other on the street corner. Like hoodlums."
"Hey, he started it. He tried to shake me down once too often, so I…" Cal  trailed off, blew out a long breath. "Whoa. Too weird. I haven't thought about 
Henry Belinski in twenty years. Anyway, he may have bloodied my nose, but I  broke his."
"Oh, and you're proud of that, are you now? Breaking the nose of an  eight-year-old boy."
"I was eight too." He realized that she had maneuvered him neatly into the  house, turned the subject, and gotten her own way. "Very clever, Bryna. I don't  see that you need magic when you can twist a conversation around like that."
"Just a small talent." She smiled and touched his cheek. "I was glad you broke  his nose. I wanted to turn him into a toad—I had already started the charm when  you dealt with it yourself."
"A toad?" He couldn't help it, the grin just popped out. "Really?"
"It would have been wrong. But I was only four, and such things are forgiven in  the child." Then her smile faded, and her eyes went dark. "Alasdair is no child, 
Calin. He wants more than to wound your pride, skin your knees. Don't take him  lightly."
Then she stepped back, lifting both hands. I call the wind around my house to  swirl. She twisted a wrist and brought the wind howling against the windows. 
Fists of fog against my windows curl. Deafen his ears and blind his eyes. Come  aid me with this disguise. Help me guard what was trusted to me. As I will, so  mote it be.
He'd stepped back from her, gaping. Fog crawled over the windows, the wind  howled like wolves. The woman before him glowed like a candle, shimmering with a  power he couldn't understand. The fire she'd made out of air was nothing  compared with this.
"How much am I supposed to believe? Accept?"
She lowered her hands slowly. "Only what you will. The choice will always be  yours, Calin. Will you come with me and see what I would show you?"
"Fine." He blew out a breath. "And after, if you don't mind, I'd like a glass of  that Irish of yours. Straight up."
She managed a small smile. "Then you'll have it. Come." As she started toward  the stairs, she chose her words carefully. "We have little time. He'll work to  break the spell. His pride will demand it, and my powers are more… limited than  they were."
"Why?"
"It's part of it," was all she would say. "And so is what I have to show you. It  isn't just me he wants, you see. He wants everything I have. And he wants the  most precious treasure of the Castle of Secrets."
She stopped in front of a door, thick with carving. There was no knob, no lock,  just glossy wood and that ornate pattern on it that resembled ancient writing. 
"This room is barred to him by power greater than mine." She passed a hand over  the wood, and slowly, soundlessly, the door crept open.
"'Open locks,' " Cal murmured, " 'whoever knocks.'"
"No, only I. And now you." She stepped inside, and after a brief hesitation, he  crossed the threshold behind her.
Instantly the room filled with the light of a hundred candles. Their flames  burned straight and true, illuminating a small, windowless chamber. The walls  were wood, thickly carved like the door, the ceiling low, nearly brushing the  top of his head.
"A humble place for such a thing," Bryna murmured.
He saw nothing but a simple wooden pedestal standing in a white circle in the  center of the room. Atop the column was a globe, clear as glass.
"A crystal ball?"
Saying nothing, she crossed the room. "Come closer." She waited, kept her hands  at her side until he'd walked up and put the globe between them.
"Alasdair lusts for me, envies you, and covets this. For all his power, for all  his trickery, he has never gained what he craves the most. This has been guarded  by a member of my blood since before time. Believe me, Calin, wizards walked  this land while men without vision still huddled in caves, fearing the night. 
And this ancient ball was conjured by one of my blood and passed down generation  to generation. Bryna the Wise held this in her hands a thousand years past and  through her power, and her love, concealed it from Alasdair at the last. And so  it remained hidden. No one outside my blood has cast eyes on it since."
Gently, she lifted the globe from its perch, raised it high above her head. 
Candlelight flickered over it, into it, seemed to trap itself inside until the  ball burned bright. When she lowered it, it glowed still, colors dazzling,  pulsing, beating.
"Look, my love." Bryna opened her hand so that the globe rolled to her  fingertips, clung there in defiance of gravity. "Look, and see."
He couldn't stop his hands from reaching out, cupping it. Its surface was  smooth, almost silky, and warmed in his hands like flesh. The pulse of it, the  life of it, seemed to swim up his arms.
Colors shifted. The bright clouds they formed parted, a magic sea. He saw  dragons spewing fire and a silver sword cleaving through scales. A man bedding a  woman in a flower-strewn meadow under a bright white sun. A farmer plowing a  rocky field behind swaybacked horses. A babe suckling at his mother's breast.
On and on it went, image after image in a blur of life. Dark oceans, wild stars,  a quiet village as still as a photograph. An old woman's face, ravaged with  tears. A small boy sleeping under the shade of a chestnut tree.
And even when the images faded into color and light, the power sang. It flooded  him, a river of wine. Cool and clean.
It hummed still when the globe was clear again, tossing the flames of the  candles into his eyes.
"It's the world." Cal's voice was soft and thick. "Here in my hands."
"The heart of it. The hope for it. Power gleams there. In your hands now."
"Why?" He lifted his gaze to hers. "Why in my hands, Bryna?"
"I am the guardian of this place. My heart is in there as well." She took a slow  breath. "I am in your hands, Calin Farrell."
"I can refuse?"
"Aye. The choice is yours."
"And if he—Alasdair—claims this?"
She would stop him. It would cost her life, but she would stop him. "Power can  be twisted, abused—but what is used will turn on the abuser, ten times ten."
"And if he claims you?"
"I will be bound to him, a thousand years of bondage. A spell that cannot be  broken." But with death, she thought. Only with death. "He is wicked, but not  without weaknesses." She laid her hand on the globe so that they held it  together. "He will not have this, Calin. Nor will he bring harm to you. That is  my oath."
She stared hard into his eyes, murmuring. His vision blurred, his head spun. He  lifted a hand as if to push back what he couldn't see. "No."
"To protect." She laid a hand on his cheek as she cast the charm. "My love."
He blinked, shook his head. For a moment his mind remained blank with some faint  echo of words. "I'm sorry. What?"
Her lips curved. He would remember nothing, she knew. It was all she could do  for him. "I said we need to go." She placed the globe back on the pedestal. 
"We're not to speak of this outside this room." She walked toward the door, held  out a hand. "Come. I'll pour you that whiskey."

Chapter 7

That night his dreams were restful, lovely. Bryna had seen to that.
There was a man astride a gleaming black horse, riding hard over hills,  splashing through a bright slash of river, his gray cape billowing in a brisk  and icy wind.
There was the witch who waited for him in a silver castle atop a spearing cliff  where candles and torches burned gold.
There was a globe of crystal, clear as water, where the world swam from decade  to decade, century past century.
There was love sweet as honey and need sharp as honed steel.
And when he turned to her in the night, lost in dreams, she opened for him, took  him in.
Bryna didn't sleep, nor did she dream. She lay in the circle of his arms while  the white moon rose and the shudders his hands had caused quieted.
Who had loved her? she wondered. Cal, or Caelan? She turned her face into his  shoulder, seeking comfort, a harbor from fear on this last night before she  would face her fate.
He would be safe, she thought, laying a hand over his heart. She had taken great  pains, at great risk, to assure it. And her safety depended on the heart that  beat quietly under her palm. If he did not choose to give it freely, to stand  with her linked by love, she was lost.
So it had been ordained in fire and in blood, on that terrible night a  millennium before.
For a thousand years we sleep, a hundred years times ten.
But blood stays true and hearts are strong when we are born again. And in this  place we meet, with love our lifted shield. In the shortest night the battle  will rage and our destiny be revealed. My warrior's heart his gift to me, his  sword bright as the moon. If he brings both here of his own free will, we will  bring to Alasdair his doom. When the dawn breaks that longest day and his love  has found a way, our lives will then be free of thee. As I will, so mote it be.
The words of Bryna the Wise, lifted high the blazing castle walls, echoed in her  head, beat in her heart. When the moon rose again, it would be settled.
Bryna lay in the circle of Cal's arms, listened to the wind whisper, and slept  not at all.
When Cal woke, he was alone, and the sun was streaming. For a moment, he thought  it had all been a dream. The woman—the witch—the ruined castle and tiny cottage. 
The globe that held the world. A hallucination brought on, he thought, by  fatigue and stress and the breakdown he'd secretly worried about.
But he recognized the room—the flowers still fresh in the vases, the scent of  them, and Bryna, on the air. True, then. He pressed his fingers to his eyes to  rub away sleep. All true, and all unbelievable. And all somehow wonderful.
He got out of bed, walked into the charming little bathroom, stepped into the  clawfoot tub, and twitched the circling curtain into place. He adjusted the  shower for hot and let the steam rise.
He hadn't showered with her yet, Cal thought, grinning as he turned his face  into the spray. Hadn't soaped that long, lovely body of hers until it was slick  and slippery, hadn't seen the water run through that glorious mane of flame-red  hair. Had yet to ease inside her while the water ran hot and the steam rose in  clouds.
His grin winked off, replaced by a look of puzzlement. Had he turned to her in  the night, in his dreams, seeking that tangle of tongues and limbs, that slow,  satiny slide of bodies?
Why couldn't he remember? Why couldn't he be sure?
What did it matter? Annoyed with himself, he flicked off the water, snatched a  towel from the heating rack. Whether it had been real or a dream, she was there  for him as he'd wanted no one to be before.
Was it you, or another, she moved under in the night?
Cal's eyes went dark as the voice whispered slyly in his head. He toweled off  roughly.
She uses you. Uses you to gain her own ends. Spellbinds you until she has what  she seeks.
The room was suddenly airless, the steam thick and clogging his lungs. He  reached blindly for the door, found only swirling air.
She brought you here, drew you into her web. Other men have been trapped in it. 
She seeks to possess you, body and soul. Who will you be when she's done with  you?
Cal all but fell into the door, panicked for a shuddering instant when he  thought it locked. But his slippery hands yanked it open and he stumbled into  the cool, sun-washed air of the bedroom. Behind him the mists swirled dark,  shimmered greedily, then vanished.
What the hell? He found himself trembling all over, like a schoolboy rushing out  of a haunted house. It had seemed as if there had been… something, something  cold and slick and smelling of death crowded into that room with him, hiding in  the mists.
But when Cal turned and stepped back to the door, he saw only a charming room, a  fogged mirror, and the thinning steam from his shower.
Imagination working overtime, he thought, then let out half a laugh. Whose  wouldn't, under the circumstances? But he shut the bathroom door firmly before  he dressed and went down to find her.
She was spinning wool. Humming along with the quiet, rhythmic clacking of  spindle and wheel. Her hands were as graceful as a harpist's on strings and her  wool was as white as innocence.
Her dress was blue this morning, deep as her eyes. A thick silver chain carrying  an ornately carved pendant hung between her breasts. Her hair was pinned up,  leaving that porcelain face unframed.
Cal's hands itched for his camera. And for her.
She looked up, her hands never faltering, and smiled. "Well, did you decide to  join the living, then?"
"My body clock's still in the States. Is it late?"
"Hmm, nearly half-ten. You'll be hungry, I'll wager. Come, have your coffee. 
I'll fix your breakfast."
He caught her hand as she rose. "You don't have to cook for me."
She laughed, kissed him lightly. "Oh, we'd have trouble soon enough if you  thought I did. As it happens, it's my pleasure to cook for you this morning."
His eyes gleamed as he nibbled on her knuckles. "A full Irish breakfast? The  works."
"If you like."
"Now that you mention it…" His voice trailed off as he took a long, thorough  study of her face. Her eyes were shadowed, her skin paler than it should have  been. "You look tired. You didn't sleep well."
She only smiled and led him into the kitchen. "Maybe you snore."
"I do not." He nipped her at the waist, spun her around and kissed her. "Take it  back."
"I only said maybe." Her brows shot up when his hands roamed around, cupped her  bottom. "Are you always so frisky of a morning?"
"Maybe. I'll be friskier after I've had that coffee." He gave her a quick kiss  before turning to pour himself a cup. "You know I noticed things this morning  that I was too… distracted to take in yesterday. You don't have a phone."
She put a cast-iron skillet on a burner. "I have ways of calling those I need to  call."
"Ah." He rubbed the chin he had neglected to shave. "Your kitchen's equipped  with very modern appliances."
"If I choose to cook why would I use a campfire?" She sliced thick Irish bacon  and put it on to sizzle and snap.
"Good point. You're out of sugar," he said absently when he lifted the lid on  the bowl. "You spin your own wool, but you have a state-of-the-art stereo."
"Music is a comfort," she murmured, watching him go unerringly to the pantry and  fetch the unmarked tin that held her sugar supply.
"You make your own potions, but you buy your staples at the market." With quick  efficiency, he filled her sugar bowl. "The contrast is fascinating. I wonder…" 
He stopped, stood with the sugar scoop in his hand, staring. "I knew where to  find this," he said quietly. "I knew the sugar was on the second shelf in the  white tin. The flour's in the blue one beside it. I knew that."
"'Tis a gift. You've only forgotten to block it out. It shouldn't disturb you."
"Shouldn't disturb me." He neglected to add the sugar and drank his coffee black  and bitter.
"It's yours to control, Cal, or to abjure."
"So if I don't want it, I can reject it."
"You've done so for half your life already."
It was her tone, bitter as the coffee, that had his eyes narrowing. "That annoys  you."
She cut potatoes into quick slices, slid them into hot oil. "It's your choice."
"But it annoys you."
"All right, it does. You turn your back on it because you find it uncomfortable. 
Because it disturbs your sense of normality. As I do.'' She kept her back to him  as she took the bacon out of the pan, set it to drain, picked up eggs. "You shut  out your gift and me along with it because we didn't fit into your world. A tidy  world where magic is only an illusion done with smoke and mirrors, where witches  wear black hats, ride broomsticks, and cackle on All Hallows' Eve."
As the eggs cooked, she spooned up porridge, plopped the bowl on the table, and  went back to slice bread. "A world where I have no place."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Cal said evenly. "Did I choose to be, Bryna, or did you  will it?''
She uses you. She's drawn you into her web.
"Will it?" Insulted, struck to the bone, she whirled around to face him. "Is  that what you think? After all I've told you, after all we've shared?"
"If I accept even half of what you've told me, if I put aside logic and my own  sense of reality and accept that I'm standing in the kitchen with a witch, a  stone's throw away from an enchanted castle, about to do battle of some kind  with an evil wizard in a war that has lasted a millennium, I think it's a  remarkably reasonable question."
"Reasonable?" With clenched teeth she swept back to the stove and shoveled eggs  onto a platter. " 'It's reasonable,' says he. Have I pulled him in like a spider  does a fly, lured him across an ocean and into my lair?" She thumped the laden  platter down and glared at him. "For what, might I ask you, Calin Farrell? For a  fine bout of sex, for the amusement of having a man for a night or two. Well, I  needn't have gone to such trouble for that. There's men enough in Ireland. Eat  your breakfast or you'll be wearing it on your head like a hat."
Another time he might have smiled, but that sly voice was muttering in his ear. 
Still he sat, picked up his fork, tapped it idly against the plate. "You didn't  answer the question. If I'm to believe you can't lie to me, isn't it odd that  you've circled around the question and avoided a direct answer? Yes or no, 
Bryna. Did you will me here?"
"Yes or no?"
Her eyes were burning-dry, though her heart was weeping. Did he know he was  looking at her with such doubt, such suspicion, such cool dispassion? There was  no faith in the look, and none of the love she needed.
One night, she thought on a stab of despair, had not been enough.
"No, Calin, will you here I did not. If that had been my purpose, or in my  power, would I have waited so long and so lonely for you? I asked you to come,  begged without pride, for I needed you. But the choice to come or not was  yours."
She turned away, gripping the counter as she looked out the window toward the  sea. "I'll give you more," she said quietly, "as time is short." She inhaled  deeply. "You broke my heart when you shut me out of yours. Broke it to pieces,  and it's taken me years to mend it as best I could. That choice was yours as  well, for the knowledge was there in your head, and again in your heart if you  chose to see it. All the answers are there, and you have only to look."
"I want to hear them from you."
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "There are some I can't tell you, that you  must find for yourself." She opened her eyes again, lifted her chin and turned  back to him.
Her face was still pale, he noted, her eyes too dark. The hair she'd bundled up  was slipping its pins, and her shoulders were stiff and straight.
"But there's something that's mine to tell, and I'll give you that. I was born  loving you. There's been no other in my heart, even when you turned from me. 
Everything I am, or was, or will be, is yours. I cannot change my heart. I was  born loving you," she said again. "And I will die loving you. There is no choice  for me."
Turning, she bolted from the room.

Chapter 8

She'd vanished. Cat went after her almost immediately but found no trace. He  rushed through the house, flinging open doors, calling her. Then cursing her.
Damn temperamental female, he decided. The fury spread through him. That she  would tell him she loved him, then leave him before he had even a moment to  examine his own heart!
She expected too much, he thought angrily. Wanted too much. Assumed too much.
He hurried out of the house, raced for the cliffs. But he didn't find her  standing out on the rocks, staring out to sea with the wind billowing her hair. 
His voice echoed back to him emptily, infuriating him.
Then he turned, stared at the scarred stone walls of the castle. And knew. "All  right, damn it," he muttered as he strode toward the ruins. "We're going to talk  this through, straight. No magic, no legends, no bullshit. Just you and me."
He stepped toward the arch and bumped into air that had gone solid. Stunned, he  reached out, felt the shield he couldn't see. He could see through it to the  stony ground, the fire-scored walls, the tumble of rock, but the clear wall that  blocked him was cold and solid.
"What kind of game is this?" Eyes narrowed, he drove his shoulder against it,  yielded nothing. Snarling, he circled the walls, testing each opening, finding  each blocked.
"Bryna!" He pounded the solidified air with his fists until they ached. "Let me  in. Goddamn it, let me pass!"
From the topmost turret, Bryna faced the sea. She heard him call for her, curse  her. And oh, she wanted to answer. But her pride was scored, her power  teetering.
And her decision made.
Perhaps she had made it during the sleepless night, curled against him,  listening to him dream. Perhaps it had been made for her, eons before. She had  been given only one single day with him, one single night. She knew, accepted,  that if she'd been given more she might have broken her faith, let her fears and  needs tumble out into his hands.
She couldn't tell him that her life, even her soul, was lost if by the hour of  midnight his heart remained unsettled toward her. Unless he vowed his love,  accepted it without question, there was no hope.
She had done all she could. Bryna turned her face to the wind, let it dry the  tears that she was ashamed to have shed. Her charge would be protected, her  lover spared, and the secrets of this place would die with her.
For Alasdair didn't know how strong was her will. Didn't know that in the amulet  she wore around her neck was a powder of poison. If she should fail, and her  love not triumph, then she would end her life before she faced one of bondage.
With Cal's voice battering the air, she closed her eyes, lifted her arms. She  had only hours now to gather her forces.
She began the chant.
Hundreds of feet below, Cal backed away, panting. What the hell was he doing? he  asked himself. Beating his head against a magic wall to get to a witch.
How had his life become a fairy tale?
Fairy tale or not, one thing was solid fact. Tick a woman off, and she sulks.
"Go on and sulk, then," he shouted. "When you're ready to talk like civilized  people, let me know." His mood black, he stalked back to the house. He needed to  get out, he told himself. To lose himself in work for a while, to let both of  them cool off.
One day, he fumed. He'd had one day and she expected him to turn his life  around. Pledge his undying love. The hell with that. She wasn't pushing him into  anything he wasn't ready for. She could take her thousand-year-old spell and  stuff it. He was a normal human being, and normal human beings didn't go riding  off into the sunset with witches at the drop of a hat.
He shoved open the bedroom door, reached for his camera. Under it, folded  neatly, was a gray sweater. He pulled his hand back and stared.
"That wasn't there an hour ago," he muttered. "Damn it, that wasn't there."
Gingerly he rubbed the material. Soft as a cloud, the color of storms. He  remembered vaguely something about a cloak and a charm and wondered if this was 
Bryna's modern-day equivalent.
With a shrug, he peeled off his shirt and tried the sweater on. It fit as though  it had been made for him. Of course it had, he realized. She'd spun the wool,  dyed it, woven it. She'd known the length of his arms, the width of his chest.
She'd known everything about him.
He was tempted to yank it off, toss it aside. He was tired of his life and his  mind being open to her when so much of hers was closed to him.
But as he started to remove the sweater, he thought he heard her voice,  whispering.
A gift. Only a gift.
He lifted his head, looked into the mirror. His face was unshaven, his hair  wild, his eyes reflecting the storm-cloud color of the sweater.
"The hell with it," he muttered, and snatching up his camera and case, he left  the house.
He wandered the hills for an hour, ran through roll after roll of film. 
Mockingbirds sang as he clambered over stone walls into fields where cows grazed  on grass as green as emeralds. He saw farmers on tractors, tending their land  under a cloud-thickened sky. Clothes flapping with whip snaps on the line, cats  dozing in dooryards and sunbeams.
He wandered down a narrow dirt road where the hedgerows grew tall and thick. 
Through small breaks he spotted sumptuous gardens with flowers in rainbows of  achingly beautiful colors. A woman with a straw hat over her red hair knelt by a  flower bed, tugging up weeds and singing of a soldier gone to war. She smiled at  him, lifted her hand in a wave as he passed by.
He wandered near a small wood, where leaves unfurled to welcome summer and a  brook bubbled busily. The sun was straight up, the shadows short. Spending the  morning in normal pursuits had settled his mood. He thought it was time to go  back, see if Bryna had cooled down—perhaps try out the darkroom she had  equipped.
A flash of white caught his eye, and he turned, then stared awestruck. A huge  white stag stood at the edge of the leafy shadows, its blue eyes proud and wise.
Keeping his movements slow, controlled, Cal raised his camera, then swore  lightly when the stag lifted his massive head, whirled with impossible speed and  grace, and bounded into the trees.
"No, uh-uh, I'm not missing that." With a quick glance at the ruins, which he  had kept always just in sight, Cal dived into the woods.
He had hunted wildlife with his camera before, knew how to move quietly and  swiftly. He followed the sounds of the stag crashing through brush. A bird  darted by, a black bullet with a ringed neck, as Cal leaped over the narrow  brook, skidded on the damp bank, and dug in for the chase.
Sun dappled through the leaves, dazzling his eyes, and sweat rolled down his  back. Annoyed, he pushed the arms of the sweater up to his elbows and strained  to listen.
Now there was silence, complete and absolute. No breeze stirred, no bird sang. 
Frustrated, he shoved the hair out of his eyes, his breath becoming labored in  the sudden stifling heat. His throat was parchment-dry, and thinking of the  cold, clear water of the brook, he backtracked.
The sun burned like a furnace through the sheltering leaves now. It surprised  him that they didn't singe and curl under the onslaught. Desperate for relief,  he pulled off the sweater, laid it on the ground beside him as he knelt by the  brook.
He reached down to cup water in his hand. And pulled back a cup of coffee.
"Do you good to get away for a few days, change of scene."
"What?" He stared down at the mug in his hand, then looked up into his mother's  concerned face.
"Honey, are you all right? You've gone pale. Come sit down."
"I… Mom?"
"Here, now, he needs some water, not caffeine." Cal saw his father set down his  fishing flies and rise quickly. Water ran out of the kitchen faucet into a  glass. "Too much caffeine, if you ask me. Too many late nights in the darkroom. 
You're wearing yourself out, Cal."
He sipped water, tasted it. Shuddered. "I—I had a dream."
"That's all right." Sylvia rubbed his shoulders. "Everybody has dreams. Don't  worry. Don't think about them. We don't want you to think about them."
"No—I thought it was, it wasn't…" Wasn't like before? he thought. It was more  than before. "I went to Ireland." He took a deep breath, tried to clear his hazy  brain. Desperately, he wanted to turn, rest his head against his mother's breast  like a child. "Did I go to Ireland?"
"You haven't been out of New York in the last two months, slaving to get that  exhibition ready." His father's brow creased. Cal saw the worry in his eyes,  that old baffled look of concern. "You need a rest, boy."
"I'm not going crazy."
"Of course you're not." Sylvia murmured it, but Cal caught the faint uncertainty  in her voice. "You're just imagining things."
"No, it's too real." He took his mother's hand, gripped it hard. He needed her  to believe him, to trust him. "There's a woman. Bryna."
"You've got a new girl and didn't tell us." Sylvia clucked her tongue. "That's  what this is about?"
Was that relief in her voice, Cal wondered, or doubt?
"Bryna—that's an odd name, isn't it, John? Pretty, though, and old-fashioned."
"She's a witch."
John chuckled heartily. "They all are, son. Each and every one." John picked up  one of his fishing lures. The black fly fluttered in his fingers, its wings  desperate for freedom. "Don't you worry now."
"I—I need to get back."
"You need to sleep," John said, toying with the fly. "Sleep and don't give her a  thought. One woman's the same as another. She's only trying to trap you. 
Remember?"
"No." The fly, alive in his father's fingers. No, no, not his father's hand. Too  narrow, too long. His father had workingman's hands, calloused, honest. "No," 
Cal said again, and as he scraped back his chair, he saw cold fury light his  father's eyes.
"Sit down."
"The hell with you."
"Calin! Don't you speak to your father in that tone."
His mother's voice was a shriek—a hawk's call to prey—cutting through his head. 
"You're not real." He was suddenly calm, deadly calm. "I reject you."
He was running down a narrow road where the hedgerows towered and pressed close. 
He was breathless, his heart hammering. His eyes were focused on the ruined  walls of the castle high on the cliff—and too far away.
"Bryna."
"She waits for you." The woman with the straw hat over her red hair looked up  from her weeding and smiled sadly. "She always has, and always will."
His side burned from cramping muscles. Gasping for air, Cal pressed a hand  against the pain. "Who are you?"
"She has a mother who loves her, a father who fears for her. Do you think that  those who hold magic need family less than you? Have hearts less fragile? Needs  less great?"
With a weary sigh, she rose, walked toward him and stepped into the break in the  hedge. Her eyes were green, he saw, and filled with worry, but the mouth with  its serious smile was Bryna's.
"You question what she is—and what she is bars you from giving your heart  freely. Knowing this, and loving you, she has sent you away from danger and  faces the night alone."
"Sent me where? How? Who are you?"
"She's my child," the woman said, "and I am helpless." The smile curved a little  wider. "Almost helpless. Look to the clearing, Calin Farrell, and take what is  offered to you. My daughter waits. Without you, she dies this night."
"Dies?" Terror gripped his belly. "Am I too late?"
She only shook her head and faded back into air.
He awoke, drenched with sweat, stretched out on the cool, damp grass of the  bank. And the moon was rising in a dark sky.
"No." He stumbled to his feet, found the sweater clutched in his hand. "I won't  be too late. I can't be too late." He dragged the sweater over his head as he  ran.
Now the trees lashed, whipped by a wind that came from nowhere and howled like a  man gone mad. They slashed at him, twined together like mesh to block his path  with gnarled branches armed with thorns. He fought his way through, ignored the  gash that sliced through denim into flesh.
Overhead, lighting cut like a broadsword and dimmed the glow of the full white  moon.
Alasdair. Hate roiled up inside him, fighting against the love he'd only just  discovered. Alasdair would not win, if he had to die to prevent it.
"Bryna." He lifted his head to the sky as it exploded with wild, furious rain. 
"Wait for me. I love you."
The stag stood before him, white as bone, its patient eyes focused. Cal rushed  forward as it turned and leaped into the shadows. With only instinct to trust,  he plunged into the dark to follow the trail. The ground trembled under his  feet, thorns ripped his clothes to tatters as he raced to keep that flash of  white in sight.
Then it was gone as he fell bleeding into a clearing where moonlight fought  through the clouds to beam on a jet-black horse.
Without hesitation, Calin accepted the impossible. Taking the reins, he vaulted  into the saddle, his knees vising as the stallion reared and trumpeted a battle  cry. As he rode, he heard the snap of a cloak flying and felt the hilt of a  sword gripped in his own hand.

Chapter 9

The Castle of Secrets glimmered with the light of a thousand torches. Its walls  glinted silver and speared up toward the moon. The stone floor of the great hall  was smooth as marble. In the center of the charmed circle cast by the ancients, 
Bryna stood in a robe of white, her hair a fall of fire, her eyes the blue of  heated steel.
Here she would make her stand.
"Do you call the thunder and whistle up the winds, Alasdair? Such showmanship."
In a swirl of smoke, a sting of sulphur, he appeared before her. Solid now, his  flesh as real as hers. He wore the robes of crimson, of blood and power. His  golden looks were beautiful, an angel's face but for the contrast of those dark,  damning eyes.
"And an impressive, if overdone entrance," Bryna said lightly, though her pulse  shuddered.
"Your trouble, my darling, is that you fail to appreciate the true delights of  power. Contenting yourself with your woman's charms and potions when worlds are  at your mercy."
"I take my oath, and my gifts, to heart, Alasdair. Unlike you."
"My only oath is to myself. You'll belong to me, Bryna, body and soul. And you  will give me what I want the most." He flung up a hand so that the walls shook. 
"Where is the globe?"
"Beyond you, Alasdair, where it will remain. As I will."
She gestured sharply, shot a bolt of white light into the air to land and burn  at his feet. A foolish gesture, she knew, but she needed to impress him.
He angled his head, smiled indulgently. "Pretty tricks. The moon is rising to  midnight, Bryna. The time of waiting is ending. Your warrior has deserted you  once again."
He stepped closer, careful not to test the edge of the circle and his voice  became soft, seductive. "Why not accept—even embrace—what I offer you? Lifetimes  of power and pleasure. Riches beyond imagination. You have only to accept, to  take my hand, and we will rule together."
"I want no part of your kingdom, and I would rather be bedded by a snake than  have your hands on me."
Murky blue fire gleamed at his fingertips, his anger taking form. "You've felt  them on you in your dreams. And you'll feel them again. Gentle I can be, or  punishing, but you'll never feel another's hand but mine. He's lost to you, 
Bryna. And you are lost to me."
"He's safe from you." She threw up her head. "So I have already won." Lifting  her hands, she loosed a whip of power, sent him flying back. "Be gone from this  place." Her voice filled the great hall, rang like bells. "Or face the death of  mortals."
He wiped a hand over his mouth, furious that she'd drawn first blood. "A battle,  then."
At his vicious cry, a shadow formed at his feet, and the shadow took the shape  of a wolf, black-pelted, red-eyed, fangs bared. With a snarl, it sprang, leaping  toward Bryna's throat.
Cal pounded up the cliff, driving his mount furiously. The castle glowed  brilliant with light, its walls tall and solid again, its turrets shafts of  silver that nicked the cloud-chased moon. With a burst of knowledge, he thrust a  hand inside the cloak and drew out the globe that waited there.
It swam red as blood, fire sparks of light piercing the clouds. He willed them  to clear, willed himself to see as he thundered higher toward the crest of the  cliff.
Visions came quickly, overlapping, rushing. Bryna weeping as she watched him  sleep. The dark chamber with the globe held between them and her whispering her  spell.
You will be safe, you will be free. There is nothing, my love, you cannot ask of  me. Follow the stag whose pelt is white, if your heart is not open come not back  in the night. This gift and this duty I trust unto you. The globe of hope and  visions true. Live, and be well, and remember me not. What cannot be held is  best forgot. What I do I do free. As I will, so mote it be.
And terror struck like a snake, its fangs plunging deep into the heart. For he  knew what she meant to do.
She meant to die.
She wanted to live, and fought fiercely. She sliced the wolf, cleaving its head  from its body with one stroke of will. And its blood was black.
She sent her lights blazing, the burning cold that would scorch the flesh and  freeze the bone.
And knew she would lose when midnight rang.
Alasdair's robes smoked from the violence of her power. And still he could not  break the circle and claim her.
He sent the ground heaving under her feet, watched her sway, then fall to her  knees. And his smile bloomed dark when her head fell weakly and that fiery  curtain of hair rained over the shuddering stones.
"Will you ask for pain, Bryna?" He stepped closer, felt the hot licks when his  soft boots skimmed the verge of the circle. Not yet, he warned himself, inching  back. But soon. Her spell was waning. "Just take my hand, spare yourself. We  will forget this battle and rule. Give me your hand, and give me the globe."
Her breath was short and shallow. She whispered words in the old tongue, the  secrets of magic, incantations that flickered weakly as her power slipped like  water through her fingers.
"I will not yield."
"You will." He inched closer again, pleased when he met with only faint  resistance. "You have no choice. The charm was cast, the time has come. You  belong to me now."
He reached down, and her shoulder burned where his fingers brushed. "I belong to 
Calin." She gripped the amulet, steeling herself, then flipped its poison  chamber open with her thumb. She whipped her head up and, with a last show of  defiance, smiled. "You will never have what is his."
She brought the amulet to her lips, prepared to take the powder.
The horse and rider burst into the torchlight in a flurry of black, storm-gray,  and bright steel.
"Would you rather die than trust me?" Cal demanded furiously.
The amulet slipped through her fingers, the powder sifted onto the stones. 
"Calin."
"Touch her, Alasdair"—Cal controlled the restless horse as if he'd been born  astride one—"and I'll cut off your hands at the wrists."
Though there was alarm, and there was shock, Alasdair straightened slowly. He  would not lose now. The woman was already defeated, he calculated, and the man  was, after all, only a foolish mortal. "You were a warrior a thousand years ago, 
Caelan of Farrell. You are no warrior tonight."
Cal vaulted from the horse, and his sword sang as he pulled it from its  scabbard. "Try me."
Unexpected little flicks of fear twisted in Alasdair's belly. But he circled his  opponent, already plotting. "I will bring such fury raining down on your head…" 
He crossed his arms over his chest, then flung them to the side. Black balls of  lightning shot out, hissing trails of snaking sparks.
Instinctively Cal raised the sword. Pain and power shot up his arm as the  charges struck, careened away, and crashed smoking into stone.
"Do you think such pitiful weapons can defend against a power such as mine?" 
Arrogance and rage rang in Alasdair's voice as he hurled arrows of flame. His  cry echoed monstrously as the arrows struck Cal's cloak and melted into water.
"Your power is nothing here."
Bryna was on her feet again, her white robe swirling like foam. And her face so  glowed with beauty that both men stared in wonder.
"I am the guardian of this place." Her voice was deeper, fuller, as if a  thousand voices joined it. "I am a witch whose power flows clean. I am a woman  whose heart is bespoken. I am the keeper of all you will never own. Fear me, 
Alasdair. And fear the warrior who stands with me."
"He will not stand with you. And what you guard, I will destroy." With fists  clenched, he called the flames, shot the torches from their homes to wheel and  burn and scorch the air. "You will bow yet to my will."
With lifted arms, Bryna brought the rain, streaming pure and cool through the  flames to douse them. And felt as the damp air swirled, the power pour through  her, from her, as rich and potent as any she'd known.
"Save this place," Alasdair warned, "and lose the man." He whirled on Cal,  sneered at the lifted sword. "Remember death."
Like a blade sliced through the belly, the agony struck. Blood flowed through  his numbed fingers, and the sword clattered onto the wet stone. He saw his  death, leaping like a beast, and heard Bryna's scream of fear and rage.
"You will not harm him. It's trickery only, Calin, hear me." But her terror for  him was so blinding that she ran to him, leaving the charm of the circle.
The bolt of energy slapped her like a jagged fist, sent her reeling, crumbling. 
Paralyzed, she fought for her strength but found the power that had flowed so  pure and true now only an ebbing flicker.
"Calin." The hand she'd flung out to shield him refused to move. She could only  watch as he knelt on the stones, unarmed, bleeding, beyond her reach. "You must  believe," she whispered. "Trust. Believe or all is lost."
"He loses faith, you lose your power." Robes singed and smoking, Alasdair stood  over her. "He is weak and blind, and you have proven yourself more woman than  witch to trade your power for his life."
Reaching down, he grabbed her hair and dragged her roughly to her knees. "You  have nothing left," he said to her. "Give me the globe, come to me freely, and I  will spare you from pain."
"You will have neither." She gripped the amulet, despairing that its chamber was  empty. She bit off a cry as icy fingers squeezed viciously around her heart.
"From this time and this place, you are in bondage to me for a hundred years  times ten. And this pain you feel will be yours to keep until you bend your will  to mine."
He lowered his gaze to her mouth. "A kiss," he said, "to seal the spell."
She was wrenched out of his arms, her fingers locked with Cal's. Even as she  whispered his name, he stepped in front of her, raised the sword in both hands  so that it shimmered silver and sharp.
"Your day is done." Cal's eyes burned and the pain swirling through him only  added to his strength. "Can you bleed, wizard?" he demanded and brought the  sword down like fury.
There was a cry, ululating, inhuman, a stench of sulphur, a blinding flash. The  ground heaved, the stones shook, and lightning, cold and blue, speared out of  the air and struck.
The explosion lifted him off his feet. Even as he grabbed for Bryna, Cal felt  the hot, greedy hand of it hurl him into the whirling air, into the dark.

Chapter 10
Contents - Prev

Visions played through his head. Too many to count. Voices hummed and murmured. 
Women wept. Charms were chanted. He swam through them, weighed down with  weariness.
Someone told him to sleep, to be easy, but he shook off the words and the  phantom hands that stroked his brow.
He had slept long enough.
He came to, groggy, aching in every bone. The thin light of pre-dawn filtered  the air. He thought he heard whispering, but decided it was just the beat of the  sea and the flow of the wind through grass.
He could see the last of the stars just winking out. And with a moan, he turned  his head and tried to shake off the dream.
The cat was watching him, sitting patiently, her eyes unblinking. Dazed, he  pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing from the pain, and saw that he was  lying on the ground outside the ruins.
Gone were the tall silver spears, the glowing torches that had lighted the great  hall. It was, as it had been when he'd first seen it, a remnant of what it once  had been, a place where the wind wound about and the grass and wildflowers  forced their way through stony ground.
But the scent of smoke and blood still stung the air.
"Bryna." Panicked, he heaved himself to his feet. And nearly stumbled over her.
She was sprawled on the ground, one arm outflung. Her face was pale, bruised,  her white robe torn and scorched. He fell to his knees, terrified that he would  find no pulse, no spark of life. But he found it, beating in her throat, and  shuddering with relief, he lowered his lips to hers.
"Bryna," he said again. "Bryna."
She stirred, her lashes fluttering, her lips moving against his. "Calin. You  came back. You fought for me."
"You should have known I would." He lifted her so that he could cradle her  against him, resting a cheek on her hair. "How could you have kept it from me? 
How could you have sent me away?"
"I did what I thought best. When it came to facing it, I couldn't risk you."
"He hurt you." He squeezed his eyes tight as he remembered how she'd leaped from  safety and been struck down.
"Small hurts, soon over." She turned, laid her hands on his face. There were  bruises there as well, cuts and burns. "Here." Gently, she passed her hands over  them, took them away. Her face knit in concentration, she knelt and stroked her  fingers over his body, skimming where the cloak hadn't shielded until every  wound was gone. "There. No pain," she murmured. "No more."
"You're hurt." He lifted her as he rose.
"It's a different matter to heal oneself. I have what I need in the cupboard, in  the kitchen."
"We weren't alone here. After?"
"No." Oh, she was so weary, so very weary. "Family watches over. The white  bottle," she told him as he carried her through the kitchen door and sat her at  the table. "The square one, and the small green one with the round stopper."
"You have explaining to do, Bryna." He set the bottles on the table, fetched her  a glass. "When you're stronger."
"Yes, we've things to discuss." With an expert hand, an experienced eye, she  mixed the potions into the glass, let them swirl and merge until the liquid went  clear as plain water. "But would you mind, Calin, I'd like a bath and a change  of clothes first."
"Conjure it," he snapped. "I want this settled."
"I would do that, but I prefer the indulgence. I'll ask you for an hour." She  rose, cupping the glass in both hands. "It's only an hour, Calin, after all."
"One thing." He put a hand on her arm. "You told me you couldn't lie to me, that  it was forbidden."
"And never did I lie to you. But I came close to the line with omission. One  hour," she said on a sigh that weakened him. "Please."
He let her go and tried to soothe his impatience by brewing tea. His cloak was  gone, he noted, and the sweater she'd woven for him stank of smoke and blood. He  stripped it off, tossed it over the back of a chair, then glanced down as the  cat came slinking into the room.
"So how do I handle her now?" Cal cocked his head, studied those bland blue  eyes. "Any suggestions? You'd be her familiar, wouldn't you? Just how familiar  are you?"
Content with the cat for company, he crouched down and stroked the silky black  fur. "Are you a shape-shifter too?" He tilted the cat's head up with a finger  under the chin. "Those eyes looked at me from out of the face of a white stag."
Letting out a breath, he simply sat on the floor, let the cat step into his lap  and knead. "Let me tell you something, Hecate. If a two-headed dragon walked up  and knocked on the kitchen door, I wouldn't blink an eye. Nothing is ever going  to surprise me again."
But he was wrong about that. He was stunned with surprise when Bryna came  downstairs again. She was as he'd seen her the night before, when her power had  glowed in her face, striking it with impossible beauty.
"You were beautiful before," he managed, "but now… Is this real?"
"Everything's real." She smiled, took his hand. "Would you walk with me, Cal? 
I'm wanting the air and the sun."
"I have questions, Bryna."
"I know it," she said as they stepped outside. Her body felt light again, free  of aches. Her mind was clear. "You're angry because you feel I deceived you, but  it wasn't deception."
"You sent the white stag to lure me into the woods, away from you."
"I did, yes. I see now that Alasdair knew, and he used it against me. I wanted  you safe. Knowing you now—the man you are now—that became more important than…" 
She looked at the castle. "Than the rest. But he tricked you into removing the  protection I'd given you, then sent you into dreams to cloud your mind and make  you doubt your reason."
"There was a woman… she said she was your mother."
"My mother." Bryna blinked once, then her lips curved. "Was she in her garden,  wearing a foolish hat of straw?"
"Yes, and she had your mouth and hair."
Clucking her tongue, Bryna strolled toward the ruins. "She wasn't meant to  interfere. But perhaps it was permitted, as I bent the rules a bit myself. The  air's clearing of him," she added as she stepped under the arch. "The flowers  still bloom here."
He saw the circle of flowers, untouched, unscarred. "It's over, then. 
Completely?"
Completely, she thought and fought to keep her smile in place. "He's destroyed. 
Even at the moment of his destruction he tried to take us with him. He might  have done it if you hadn't been quick, if you hadn't been willing to risk."
"Where's the globe now?"
"You know where it is. And there it stays. Safe."
"You trusted me with that, but you didn't trust me with you."
"No." She looked down at the hands she'd linked together. "That was wrong of  me."
"You were going to take poison."
She bit her lip at the raw accusation in his voice. "I couldn't face what he had  in mind for me. I couldn't bear it, however weak it makes me. I couldn't bear  it."
"If I'd been a moment later, you would have done it. Killed yourself. Killed  yourself," he repeated, jerking her head up. "You couldn't trust me to help  you."
"No, I was afraid to. I was afraid and hurt and desperate. Have I not the right  to feelings? Do you think what I am strips me of them?"
Her mother had asked almost the same of him, he remembered. "No." He said it  very calmly, very clearly. "I don't. Do you think what I'm not makes me less?"
Stunned, she shook her head, and pressing a hand to her lips, turned away. It  wasn't only he who had questioned, she realized. Not only he who had lacked  faith.
"I've been unfair to you, and I'm sorry for it. You came here for me and learned  to accept the impossible in only one day."
"Because part of me accepted it all along. Burying something doesn't mean it  ceases to exist. We were born for what happened here." He let out an impatient  breath. Why were her shoulders slumped, he wondered, when the worse of any life  was behind them? "We've done what we were meant to do, and maybe it was done as  it was meant to be."
"You're right, of course." Her shoulders straightened as she turned, and her  smile was bright. And false, he realized as he looked into her eyes.
"He can't come back and touch you now."
"No." She shook her head, laid a hand briefly on his. "Nor you. He was swallowed  by his own. His kind are always here, but Alasdair is no more."
Then with a laugh she brought his hand to her cheek. "Oh, Cal, if I could give  you a picture, as fine and bold as any of your own. How you looked when you  hefted that sword over your head, the light in your eyes, the strength rippling  in waves around you. I'll carry that with me, always."
She turned then, walked regally to the circle of flowers. In the center she  turned, faced him, held out her hands. "Calin Farrell, you met your fate. You  came to me when my need was great, when my life was imperiled. In this place you  stood between me and the unbearable, fought against magic dark and deadly,  wielded sword for me. You've saved my life and in so doing saved this place and  all I guard in it."
"Quite a speech," he murmured and stepped closer.
She only smiled. "You're brave and true of heart. And from this hour, from this  place you are free."
"Free?" Understanding was dawning, and he angled his head. "Free from you, 
Bryna?"
"Free from all and ever. The spell is broken, and you have no debt to pay. But a  debt is owed. Whatever you ask that is in my power you shall have. Whatever boon  you wish will be yours."
"A boon, is it?" He tucked his tongue in his cheek. "Oh, let's say, like  immortality?"
Her eyes flickered—disappointment quickly masked. "Such things aren't within the  power I hold."
"Too tough for you, huh?" With a nod, he circled around her as if considering. 
"But if I decided on, say, unlimited wealth or incredible sexual powers, you  could handle that."
Her chin shot up another inch, went rigid. "I could, if it's what you will. But  a warning before you choose. Be wary and sure of what you wish for. Every gift,  even given freely, has a price."
"Yeah, yeah. I've heard that. Let's think about it. Money? Sex? Power, maybe. 
Power's good. I could have a nice island in the Caribbean, be a benign despot. I  could get into that."
"This offer was not made for your amusement," she said stiffly.
"No? Well, it tickles the hell out of me." Rocking back on his heels, he tucked  his hands into his pockets. "All I had to do was knock off an evil wizard and  save the girl, and I can have whatever I want. Not a bad deal, all in all. So,  just what do I want?"
He narrowed his eyes in consideration, then stepped into the circle. "You."
Eyes widening, she jerked back. "What?"
"You. I want you."
"To—to do what?" she said stupidly, then blinked when he roared with laughter. 
"Oh, you've no need to waste a boon there." She lifted her hands to unfasten her  dress, and found them caught in his.
"That, too," he said, walking her backward out of the circle, keeping her arms  up, her hands locked behind her head. "Yeah, in fact, I look forward to quite a  bit of that."
The warrior was back, she thought dizzily. There, the glint of battle and  triumph in his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I'm holding you to your boon. You, Bryna, all of you, no restrictions. For  better or worse," he continued until he had her backed against the wall. "For  richer or poorer. That's the deal."
She couldn't get her breath, couldn't keep her balance. "You want… me?"
"I'm not getting down on one knee when it's my boon."
"But you're free. The spell is broken. I have no hold on you."
"Don't you?" He lowered his mouth, buckling her knees with his kiss. "You can't  lie to me." He crushed his lips to hers again, pulling her closer. "You were  born loving me." He swallowed her moan and dived deeper. "You'll die loving me."
"Yes." Powerless, she flexed the hands he held above her head.
"Look at me," he murmured, easing back as she trembled. "And see." He gentled  his hands, lowered them to stoke her shoulders. "Beautiful Bryna. Mine. Only  mine."
"Calin." Her heart wheeled when his lips brushed tenderly over hers. "You love  me. After it's done, after it's only you and only me. You love me."
"I was born loving you." The kiss was deep and sweet. "I'll die loving you." He  sipped the tears from her cheeks.
"This is real," she said in a whisper. "This is true magic."
"It's real. Whatever came before, this is what's real. I love you, Bryna. You,"  he repeated. "The woman who puts whiskey in my tea, and the witch who weaves me  magic sweaters. Believe that."
"I do." Her breath released on a shudder of joy. She felt it. Love. Trust. 
Acceptance. "I do believe it."
"It's time we made a home together, Bryna. We've waited long enough."
"Calin Farrell." She wound her arms around his neck, pressed her cheek against  his. "Your boon is granted."

WINTER ROSE

Chapter 1
The world was white. And bitter, bitter cold. Exhausted, he drooped in the  saddle, unable to do more than trust his horse to continue to trudge forward. 
Always forward. He knew that to stop, even for moments, in this cruel and  keening wind would mean death.
The pain in his side was a freezing burn, and the only thing that kept him from  sliding into oblivion.
He was lost in that white globe, blinded by the endless miles of it that covered  hill and tree and sky, trapped in the frigid hell of vicious snow gone to icy  shards in the whip of the gale. Though even the slow, monotonous movements of  his horse brought him agony, he did not yield.
At first the cold had been a relief from the scorching yellow sun. It had, he  thought, cooled the fever the wound had sent raging through him. The unblemished  stretch of white had numbed his mind so that he'd no longer seen the blood  staining the battleground. Or smelled the stench of death.
For a time, when the strength had drained out of him along with his blood, he'd  thought he heard voices in the rising wind. Voices that had murmured his name,  had whispered another.
Delirium, he'd told himself. For he didn't believe the air could speak.
He'd lost track of how long he'd been traveling. Hours, days, weeks. His first  hope had been to come across a cottage, a village where he could rest and have  his wound treated. Now he simply wanted to find a decent place to die.
Perhaps he was dead already and hell was endless winter.
He no longer hungered, though the last time he'd eaten had been before the  battle. The battle, he thought dimly, where he'd emerged victorious and  unscathed. It had been foolish, carelessly foolish, of him to ride for home  alone.
The trio of enemy soldiers had, he was sure, been trying to reach their own  homes when they met him on that path in the forest. His first instinct was to  let them go. The battle had been won and the invasion crushed. But war and death  were still in their eyes, and when they charged him his sword was in his hand.
They would never see home now. Nor, he feared, would he.
As his mount plodded onward, he fought to remain conscious. And now he was in  another forest, he thought dully as he struggled to focus. Though how he had  come to it, how he had gotten lost when he knew his kingdom as intimately as a  man knew a lover's face, was a mystery to him.
He had never traveled here before. The trees looked dead to him, brittle and  gray. He heard no bird, no brook, just the steady swish of his horse's hooves in  the snow.
Surely this was the land of the dead, or the dying.
When he saw the deer, it took several moments to register. It was the first  living thing he'd seen since the flakes had begun to fall, and it watched him  without fear.
Why not? he mused with a weak laugh. He hadn't the strength to notch an arrow. 
When the stag bounded away, Kylar of Mrydon, prince and warrior, slumped over  the neck of his horse.
When he came to again, the forest was at his back, and he faced a white, white  sea. Or so it seemed. Just as it seemed, in the center of that sea, a silver  island glittered. Through his hazy vision, he made out turrets and towers. On  the topmost a flag flew in the wild wind. A red rose blooming full against a  field of white.
He prayed for strength. Surely where there was a flag flying there were people. 
There was warmth. He would have given half a kingdom to spend the last hour of  his life by a fire's light and heat.
But his vision began to go dark at the edges and his head swam. Through the  waves of fatigue and weakness he thought he saw the rose, red as blood, moving  over that white sea toward him. Gritting his teeth, he urged his horse forward. 
If he couldn't have the fire, he wanted the sweet scent of the rose before he  died.
He lacked even the strength to curse fate as he slid once more into  unconsciousness and tumbled from the saddle into the snow.
The fall shot pain through him, pushed him back to the surface, where he clung  as if under a thin veil of ice. Through it, he saw a face leaning close to his. 
Lovely long-lidded eyes, green as the moss in the forests of his home, smooth  skin of rose and cream. A soft, full mouth. He saw those pretty lips move, but  couldn't hear the words she spoke through the buzzing in his head.
The hood of her red cloak covered her hair, and he reached up to touch the  cloth. "You're not a flower after all."
"No, my lord. Only a woman."
"Well, it's better to die warmed by a kiss than a fire." He tugged on the hood,  felt that soft, full mouth meet his—one sweet taste—before he passed out.
Men, Deirdre thought as she eased back, were such odd creatures. To steal a kiss  at such a time was surely beyond folly. Shaking her head, she got to her feet  and took in hand the horn that hung from the sash at her waist. She blew the  signal for help, then removed her cloak to spread over him. Sitting again, she  cradled him as best she could in her arms and waited for stronger hands to carry  the unexpected guest into the castle.
The cold had saved his life, but the fever might snatch it back again. On his  side of the battle were his youth and his strength. And, Deirdre thought,  herself. She would do all in her power to heal him. Twice, he'd regained  consciousness during his transport to the bedchamber. And both times he'd  struggled, weakly to be sure, but enough to start the blood flowing from his  wound again once he was warm.
In her brisk, somewhat ruthless way, she'd ordered two of her men to hold him  down while she doused him with a sleeping draught. The cleaning and closing of  the wound would be painful for him if he should wake again. Deirdre was a woman  who brooked no nonsense, but she disliked seeing anyone in pain.
She gathered her medicines and herbs, pushed up the sleeves of the rough tunic  she wore. He lay naked on the bed, in the thin light of the pale gold sun that  filtered through the narrow windows. She'd seen unclothed men before, just as  she'd seen what a sword could do to flesh.
"He's so handsome." Cordelia, the servant Deirdre had ordered to assist her,  nearly sighed.
"What he is, is dying." Deirdre's voice was sharp with command. "Put more  pressure on that cloth. I'll not have him bleed to death under my roof."
She selected her medicines and, moving to the bed, concentrated only on the  wound in his side. It ranged from an inch under his armpit down to his hip in  one long, vicious slice. Sweat dewed on her brow as she focused, putting her  mind into his body to search for damage. Her cheeks paled as she worked, but her  hands were steady and quick.
So much blood, she thought as her breath came thick and ragged. So much pain. 
How could he have lived with this? Even with the cold slowing the flow of blood,  he should have been long dead.
She paused once to rinse the blood from her hands in a bowl, to dry them. But  when she picked up the needle, Cordelia blanched. "My lady…"
Absently, Deirdre glanced over. She'd nearly forgotten the girl was there. "You  may go. You did well enough."
Cordelia fled the room so quickly, Deirdre might have smiled. The girl never  moved so fast when there was work to be done. Deirdre turned back to her patient  and began carefully, skillfully, to sew the wound closed.
It would scar, she thought, but he had others. His was a warrior's body, tough  and hard and bearing the marks of battle. What was it, she wondered, that made  men so eager to fight, to kill? What was it that lived inside them that they  could find pride in both?
This one did, she was sure of it. It had taken strength and will, and pride, to  keep him mounted and alive all the miles he'd traveled to her island. But how  had he come, this dark warrior? And why?
She coated the stitched wound with a balm of her own making and bandaged it with  her own hands. Then with the worse tended, she examined his body thoroughly for  any lesser wounds.
She found a few nicks and cuts, and one more serious slice on the back of his  shoulder. It had closed on its own and was already scabbed over. Whatever battle  he'd fought, she calculated, had been two days ago, perhaps three.
To survive so long with such grievous hurts, to have traveled through the 
Forgotten to reach help, showed a strong will to live. That was good. He would  need it.
When she was satisfied, she took a clean cloth and began to wash and cool the  fever sweat from his skin.
He was handsome. She let herself study him now. He was tall, leanly muscled. His  hair, black as midnight, spilled over the bed linens, away from a face that  might have been carved from stone. It suited the warrior, she thought, that  narrow face with the sharp jut of cheekbones over hollowed cheeks. His nose was  long and straight, his mouth full and somewhat hard. His beard had begun to grow  in, a shadow of stubble that made him appear wicked and dangerous even  unconscious.
His brows were black slashes. She remembered his eyes were blue. Even dazed with  pain, fever, fatigue, they had been bold and brilliantly blue.
If the gods willed it, they would open again.
She tucked him up warm, laid another log on the fire. Then she sat down to watch  over him.
For two days and two nights the fever raged in him. At times he was delirious  and had to be restrained lest his thrashing break open his wound again. At times  he slept like a man dead, and she feared he would never rouse. Even her gifts  couldn't beat back the fire that burned in him.
She slept when she could in the chair beside his bed. And once, when the chills  racked him, she crawled under the bedclothes with him to soothe him with her own  body.
His eyes did open again, but they were blind and wild. The pity she tried to  hold back when healing stirred inside her. Once when the night was dark and the  cold rattled its bones against the windows, she held his hand and grieved for  him.
Life was the most precious gift, and it seemed cruel that he should come so far  from home only to lose his.
To busy her mind she sewed or she sang. When she trusted him to be quiet for a  time, she left him in the care of one of her women and tended to the business of  her home and her people.
On the last night of his fever, despair nearly broke her.
Exhausted, she mourned for his wife, for his mother, for those he'd left behind  who would never know of his fate. There in the quiet of the bedchamber, she used  the last of her strength and her skill. She laid hands on him.
"The first and most vital of rules is not to harm. I have not harmed you. What I  do now will end this, one way or another. Kill or cure. If I knew your name"—she  brushed a hand gently over his burning brow—"or your mind, or your heart, this  would be easier for both of us. Be strong." She climbed onto the bed to kneel  beside him. "And fight."
With one hand over the wound that she'd unbandaged, the other over his heart,  she let what she was rush through her, race through her blood, her bone. Into  him.
He moaned. She ignored it. It would hurt, hurt both of them. His body arched up,  and hers back. There was a rush of images that stole her breath. A grand castle,  blurring colors, a jeweled crown.
She felt strength—his. And kindness. A light flickered inside her, nearly made  her break away. But it drew her in, deeper, and the light grew soft, warm.
For Deirdre, it was the first time, even in healing that she had looked into  another's heart and felt it brush and call her own.
Then she saw, very clearly, a woman's face, her deep-blue eyes full of pride,  and perhaps fear.
Come back, my son. Come home safe.
There was music—drumbeats—the laughter and shouts of men. Then a flash that was  sun striking off steel, and the smell of blood and battle choked her.
She muffled a cry as she caught a glimpse in her mind. Swords clashing, the  stench of sweat and death and fear.
He fought her, thrashing, striking out as she bore down with her mind. Later,  she would tend the bruises they gave each other in this final pitched battle for  life.
Her muscles trembled, and part of her screamed to pull back, pull away. He was  nothing to her. Still, as her muscles trembled, she pit her fire against the  fever, just as the enemy sword in his mind slashed against them both.
She felt the bite of it in her side, steel into flesh. The agony ripped a scream  from her throat. On its heels, she tasted death.
His heart galloped under her hand, and the wound on his side was like a flame  against her palm. But she'd seen into his mind now, and she fought to rise above  the pain and use what she'd been given, what she'd taken, to save him.
His eyes were open, glassy with shock in a face white as death.
"Kylar of Mrydon." She spoke clearly, though each breath she took was a misery. 
"Take what you need. Fire of healing. And live."
The tension went out of his body. His eyes blurred, then fluttered shut. She  felt the sigh shudder through him as he slid into sleep.
But the light within her continued to glow. "What is this?" she murmured,  rubbing an unsteady hand over her own heart. "No matter. No matter now. I can do  no more to help you. Live," she said again, then leaned down to brush her lips  over his brow. "Or die gently."
She started to climb down from the bed, but her head spun. When she fainted, her  head came to rest, quite naturally, on his heart.



Chapter 2


He drifted in and out. There were times when he thought himself back in battle,  shouting commands to his men while his horse wheeled under him and his sword  hacked through those who would dare invade his lands.
Then he was back in that strange and icy forest, so cold he feared his bones  would shatter. Then the cold turned to fire, and the part of him that was still  sane prayed to die.
Something cool and sweet would slide down his throat, and somehow he would sleep  again.
He dreamed he was home, drifting toward morning with a willing woman in his bed. 
Soft and warm and smelling of summer roses.
He thought he heard music, harpsong, with a voice, low and smooth, matching  pretty words to those plucked notes.
Sometimes he saw a face. Moss-green eyes, a lovely, wide mouth. Hair the color  of dark, rich honey that tumbled around a face both unbearably beautiful and  unbearably sad. Each time the pain or the heat or the cold would become  intolerable, that face, those eyes, would be there.
Once, he dreamed she had called him by name, in a voice that rang with command. 
And those eyes had been dark and full of pain and power. Her hair had spilled  over his chest like silk, and he'd slept once more—deeply, peacefully—with the  scent of her surrounding him.
He woke again to that scent, drifted into it as a man might drift into a cool  stream on a hot day. There was a velvet canopy of deep purple over his head. He  stared at it as he tried to clear his mind. One thought came through.
This was not home.
Then another.
He was alive.
Morning, he decided. The light through the windows was thin and very dull. Not  long past dawn. He tried to sit up, and the movement made his side throb. Even  as he hissed out a breath, she was there.
"Carefully." Deirdre slid a hand behind his head to lift it gently as she  brought a cup to his lips. "Drink now."
She gave him no choice but to swallow before he managed to bring his hand to  hers and nudge the cup aside. "What…" His voice felt rusty, as if it would  scrape his throat. "What is this place?"
"Drink your broth, Prince Kylar. You're very weak."
He would have argued, but to his frustration he was as weak as she said. And she  was not. Her hands were strong, hard from labor. He studied her as she urged  more broth on him.
That honey hair fell straight as rain to the waist of a simple gray dress. She  wore no jewels, no ribbons, and still managed to look beautiful and wonderfully  female.
A servant, he assumed, with some skill in healing. He would find a way to repay  her, and her master.
"Your name, sweetheart?"
Odd creatures indeed, she thought as she arched a brow.
A man would flirt the moment he regained what passed for his senses. "I am 
Deirdre."
"I'm grateful, Deirdre. Would you help me up?"
"No, my lord. Tomorrow, perhaps." She set the cup aside. "But you could sit up  for a time while I tend your wound."
"I dreamed of you." Weak, yes, he thought. But he was feeling considerably  better. Well enough to put some effort into flirting with a beautiful housemaid. 
"Did you sing to me?"
"I sang to pass the time. You've been here three days."
"Three—" He gritted his teeth as she helped him to sit up. "I've no memory of  it."
"That's natural. Be still now."
He frowned at her bent head as she removed the bandage. Though a generous man by  nature, he wasn't accustomed to taking orders. Certainly not from housemaids. "I  would like to thank your master for his hospitality."
"There is no master here. It heals clean," she murmured, and probed gently with  her fingers. "And is cool. You'll have a fine scar to add to your collection." 
With quick competence, she smeared on a balm. "There's pain yet, I know. But if  you can tolerate it for now, I'd prefer not to give you another sleeping  draught."
"Apparently I've slept enough."
She began to bandage him again, her body moving into his as she wrapped the  wound. Fetching little thing, he mused, relieved that he was well enough to feel  a tug of interest. He skimmed a hand through her hair as she worked, twined a  lock around his finger. "I've never had a prettier physician."
"Save your strength, my lord." Her voice was cool, dismissive, and made him  frown again. "I won't see my work undone because you've a yen for a snuggle."
She stepped back, eyeing him calmly. "But if you've that much energy, you may be  able to take some more broth, and a bit of bread."
"I'd rather meat."
"I'm sure. But you won't get it. Do you read, Kylar of Mrydon?"
"Yes, of course I… You call me by name," he said cautiously. "How do you know  it?"
She thought of that dip she'd taken into his mind. What she'd seen. What she'd  felt. Neither of them, she was sure, was prepared to discuss it. "You told me a  great many things during the fever," she said. And that was true enough. "I'll  see you have books. Bed rest is tedious. Reading will help."
She picked up the empty cup of broth and started across the chamber to the door.
"Wait. What is this place?"
She turned back. "This is Rose Castle, on the Isle of Winter in the Sea of Ice."
His heart stuttered in his chest, but he kept his gaze direct on hers. "That's a  fairy tale. A myth."
"It's as real as life, and as death. You, my lord Kylar, are the first to pass  this way in more than twenty years. When you're rested and well, we'll discuss  how you came here."
"Wait." He lifted a hand as she opened the thick carved door. "You're not a  servant." He wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for one. The simple  dress, the lack of jewels, the undressed hair did nothing to detract from her  bearing. Her breeding.
"I serve," she countered. "And have all my life. I am Deirdre, queen of the Sea  of Ice."
When she closed the door behind her, he continued to stare. He'd heard of Rose 
Castle, the legend of it, in boyhood. The palace that stood on an island in what  had once been a calm and pretty lake, edged by lush forests and rich fields. 
Betrayal, jealousy, vengeance, and witchcraft had doomed it all to an eternity  of winter.
There was something about a rose trapped in a pillar of ice. He couldn't quite  remember how it all went.
Such things were nonsense, of course. Entertaining stories to be told to a child  at bedtime.
And yet… yet he'd traveled through that world of white and bitter cold. He'd  fought and won a battle, in high summer, then somehow had become lost in winter.
Because he, in his delirium, had traveled far north. Perhaps into the Lost 
Mountains or even beyond them, where the wild tribes hunted giant white bear and  dragons still guarded caves.
He'd talked with men who claimed to have been there, who spoke of dark blue  water crowded with islands of ice, and of warriors tall as trees.
But none had ever spoken of a castle.
How much had he imagined, or dreamed? Determined to see for himself, he tossed  back the bedcovers. Sweat slicked his skin, and his muscles trembled, appalling  him—scoring his pride—as the simple task of shifting to sit on the side of the  bed sapped his strength. He sat for several moments more, gathering it back.
When he managed to stand, his vision wavered, as if he was looking through  water. He felt his knees buckle but managed to grip the bedpost and stay on his  feet.
While he waited to steady, he studied the room. It was simply appointed, he  noted. Tasteful, certainly, even elegant in its way unless you looked closely  enough to see that the fabrics were fraying with age. Still, the chests and the  chairs gleamed with polish. While the rug was faded with time, its workmanship  was lovely. The candlesticks were gleaming silver, and the fire burned quietly  in a hearth carved from lapis.
As creakily, as carefully, as an aged grandfather, he walked across the room to  the window.
Through it, as far as he could see, the world was white. The sun was a dim haze  behind the white curtain that draped the sky, but it managed to sparkle a bit on  the ice that surrounded the castle. In the distance, he saw the shadows of the  forest, hints of black and gray smothered in snow. In the north, far north,  mountains speared up. White against white.
Closer in, at the feet of the castle, the snow spread in sheets and blankets. He  saw no movement, no tracks. No life.
Were they alone here? he wondered. He and the woman who called herself a queen?
Then he saw her, a regal flash of red against the white. She walked with a long,  quick stride—as a woman might, he thought, bustle off to the market. As if she  sensed him there, she stopped, turned. Looked up at his window.
He couldn't see her expression clearly, but the way her chin angled told him she  was displeased with him. Then she turned away again, her fiery cloak swirling,  as she continued over that sea toward the forest.
He wanted to go after her, to demand answers, explanations. But he could barely  make it back to the bed before he collapsed. Trembling from the effort, he  buried himself under the blankets again and slept the day away.
"My lady, he's demanding to see you again."
Deirdre continued to work in the precious dirt under the wide dome. Her back  ached, but she didn't mind it. In this, what she called her garden, she grew  herbs and vegetables and a few precious flowers in the false spring generated by  the sun through the glass.
"I have no time for him, Orna." She hoed a trench. It was a constant cycle,  replenishing, tending, harvesting. The garden was life to her world. And one of  her few true pleasures. "Between you and Cordelia he's tended well enough."
Orna pursed her lips. She had nursed Deirdre as a babe, had tutored her, tended  her, and since the death of Queen Fiona, had stood when she could as mother. She  was one of the few in Rose Castle who dared to question the young queen.
"It's been three days since he woke. The man is restless."
Deirdre straightened, rested her weight on the hoe. "Is he in pain?"
Orna's weathered face creased with what might have been impatience. "He says  not, but he's a man, after all. He has pain. Despite it, and his weakness, he  won't be kept to his chamber much longer. The man is a prince, my lady, and used  to being obeyed."
"I rule here." Deirdre scanned her garden. The earlier plantings were  satisfactory. She couldn't have the lush, but she could have the necessary. 
Even, she thought as she looked at her spindly, sun-starved daisies, the  occasional indulgence.
"One of the kitchen boys should gather cabbages for dinner," she began. "Have  the cook choose two of the hens. Our guest needs meat."
"Why do you refuse to see him?"
"I don't refuse." Annoyed, Deirdre went back to her work. She was avoiding the  next meeting, and she knew it. Something had come into her during the healing,  something she was unable to identify. It left her uneasy and unsettled.
"I stayed with him three days, three nights," she reminded Orna. "It's put me  behind in my duties."
"He's very handsome."
"So is his horse," Deirdre said lightly. "And the horse is of more interest to  me."
"And strong," Orna continued, stepping closer. "A prince from outside our world. 
He could be the one."
"There is no one." Deirdre tossed her head. Hope put no fuel in the fire nor  food in the pot. It was a luxury she, above all, could ill afford. "I want no  man, Orna. I will depend on no one but myself. It's woman's foolishness, woman's  need, and man's deceit that have cursed us."
"Woman's pride as much as foolishness." Orna laid a hand on the staff of the  hoe. "Will you let yours stop you from taking a chance for freedom?"
"I will provide for my people. When the time comes I will lie with a man until I  conceive. I will make the next ruler, train the child as I was trained."
"Love the child," Orna murmured.
"My heart is so cold." Tired, Deirdre closed her eyes. "I fear there is no love  in me. How can I give what isn't mine?"
"You're wrong." Gently Orna touched her cheek. "Your heart isn't cold. It's only  trapped, as the rose is trapped in ice."
"Should I free it, Orna, so it could be broken as my mother's was?" She shook  her head. "That solves nothing. Food must be put on the table, fuel must be  gathered. Go now, tell our guest that I'll visit him in his chambers when time  permits."
"This seems like a fine time." So saying, Kylar strode into the dome.



Chapter 3


He'd never seen anything like the garden before. But then, Kylar had seen a  great deal of the unexpected in Rose Castle in a short time. Such as a queen  dressed in men's clothing—trousers and a ragged tunic. The result was odd, and  strangely alluring. Her hair was tied back, but not with anything so female as a  ribbon. She'd knotted it with a thin leather strap, such as he did himself when  doing some quick spot of manual labor.
Her face was flushed from her work and as lovely as the flower he'd first taken  her for. She did not look pleased to see him. Even as he watched, her eyes  chilled.
Behold the ice queen, he thought. A man would risk freezing off important parts  of his body should he try to thaw her.
"I see you're feeling better, my lord."
"If you'd spared me five minutes of your time, you'd have seen so before."
"Will you pardon us, Orna." She knelt and began to plant the long eyes of  potatoes harvested earlier in the year. It was a distraction, one she needed. 
Seeing him again stirred her, in dangerous ways. "You'll excuse me, my lord, if 
I continue with my task."
"Are there no servants to do such things?"
"There are fifty-two of us in Rose Castle. We all have our places and our  duties."
He squatted beside her, though it caused his side to weep. Taking her hand, he  turned it over and examined the ridge of callus. "Then I would say, my lady, you  have too many duties."
"It's not for you to question me."
"You don't give answers, so I must continue to question. You healed me. Why do  you resent me?"
"I don't know. But I do know that I require both hands for this task." When he  released her, she continued to plant. "I'm unused to strangers," she began. 
Surely that was it. She had never seen, much less healed, a stranger before. 
Wouldn't that explain why, after looking into his mind, into his heart, she felt  so drawn to him?
And afraid of him.
"Perhaps my manners are unpolished, so I will beg your pardon for any slight."
"They're polished diamond-bright," he corrected. "And stab at a man."
She smiled a little. "Some men, I imagine, are used to softer females. I thought 
Cordelia would suit your needs."
"She's biddable enough, and pretty enough, which is why you have the dragon  guarding her."
Her smile warmed fractionally. "Of course."
"I wonder why I prefer you to either of them."
"I couldn't say." She moved down the row, and when he started to move with her,  he gasped. She cursed. "Stubborn." She rose, reached down, and to his surprise,  wrapped her arms around him. "Hold on to me. I'll help you inside."
He simply buried his face in her hair. "Your scent," he told her. "It haunts  me."
"Stop it."
"I can't get your face out of my head, even when I sleep."
Her stomach fluttered, alarming her. "Sir, I will not be trifled with."
"I'm too damn weak to trifle with you." Hating the unsteadiness, he leaned  heavily against her. "But you're beautiful, and I'm not dead." When he caught  his breath, he eased away. "I should be. I've had time to think that through." 
He stared hard into her eyes. "I've seen enough battle to know when a wound is  mortal. Mine was. How did I cheat death, Deirdre? Are you a witch?"
"Some would say." Because his color concerned her, she unbent enough to put an  arm around his waist. "You need to sit before you fall. Come back inside."
"Not to bed. I'll go mad."
She'd tended enough of the sick and injured to know the truth of that. "To a  chair. We'll have tea."
"God spare me. Brandy?"
She supposed he was entitled. She led him through a doorway, down a dim corridor  away from the kitchen. She skirted the main hallway and moved down yet another  corridor. The room where she took him was small, chilly, and lined floor to  ceiling with books.
She eased him into a chair in front of the cold fireplace, then went over to  open the shutters and let in the light.
"The days are still long," she said conversationally as she walked to the  fireplace. This one was framed in smooth green marble. "Planting needs to be  finished while the sun can warm the seeds."
She crouched in front of the fire, set the logs to light. "Is there grass in  your world? Fields of it?"
"Yes."
She closed her eyes a moment. "And trees that go green in spring?"
He felt a wrench in his gut. For home—and for her. "Yes."
"It must be like a miracle." Then she stood, and her voice was brisk again. "I  must wash, and see to your brandy. You'll be warm by the fire. I won't be long."
"My lady, have you never seen a field of grass?"
"In books. In dreams." She opened her mouth again, nearly asked him to tell her  what it smelled like. But she wasn't sure she could bear to know. "I won't keep  you waiting long, my lord."
She was true to her word. In ten minutes she was back, her hair loose again over  the shoulders of a dark green dress. She carried the brandy herself.
"Our wine cellars were well stocked once. My grandfather, I'm told, was shrewd  in that area. And in this one," she added, gesturing toward the books. "He  enjoyed a glass of good wine and a good book."
"And your
"The books often, the wine rarely."
When she glanced toward the door, he saw her smile, fully, warmly, for the first  time. He could only stare at her as his throat went dry and his heart shuddered.
"Thank you, Magda. I would have come for it."
"You've enough to do, my lady, without carting trays." The woman seemed ancient  to Kylar. Her face as withered as a winter apple, her body bowed as if she  carried bricks on her back. But she set the tea tray on the sideboard and  curtseyed with some grace. "Should I pour for you, my lady?"
"I'll see to it. How are your hands?"
"They don't trouble me overmuch."
Deirdre took them in her own. They were knotted and swollen at the joints. 
"You're using the ointment I gave you?"
"Yes, my lady, twice daily. It helps considerable."
Keeping her eyes on Magda's, Deirdre rubbed her thumbs rhythmically over the  gnarled knuckles. "I have a tea that will help. I'll show you how to make it,  and you'll drink a cup three times a day."
"Thank you, my lady." Magda curtseyed again before she left the room.
Kylar saw Deirdre rub her own hands as if to ease a pain before she reached for  the teapot. "I'll answer your questions, Prince Kylar, and hope that you'll  answer some of mine in turn." She brought him a small tray of cheese and  biscuits, then settled into a chair with her tea.
"How do you survive?"
To the point, she thought. "We have the garden. Some chickens and goats for eggs  and milk, and meat when meat is needed. There's the forest for fuel and, if  we're lucky, for game. The young are trained in necessary skills. We live  simply," she said, sipping her tea. "And well enough."
"Why do you stay?"
"Because this is my home. You risked your life in battle to protect yours."
"How do you know I didn't risk it to take what belonged to someone else?"
She watched him over the rim of her cup. Yes, he was handsome. His looks were  only more striking now that he'd regained some of his strength. One of the  servants had shaved him, and without the stubble of beard he looked younger. But  little less dangerous. "Did you?"
"You know I didn't." His gaze narrowed on her face. "You know. How is that, 
Deirdre of the Ice?" He reached out, clamped a hand on her arm. "What did you do  to me during the fever?"
"Healed you."
"With witchcraft?"
"I have a gift for healing," she said evenly. "Should I have used it, or let you  die? There was no dark in it, and you are not bound to me for payment."
"Then why do I feel bound to you?"
Her pulse jumped. His hand wasn't gripping her arm now. It caressed. "I did  nothing to tie you. I have neither desire nor the skill for it." Cautiously, she  moved out of reach. "You have my word. When you're well enough to travel, you're  free to go."
"How?" It was bitter. "Where?" Pity stirred in her, swam into her eyes. She  remembered the face of the woman in his mind, the love she'd felt flow between  them. His mother, she thought. Even now watching for his return home.
"It won't be simple, nor without risk. But you have a horse, and we'll give you  provisions. One of my men will travel with you as far as possible. I can do no  more than that."
He put it aside for now. When the time came, he would find his way home. "Tell  me how this came to be. This place. I've heard stories—betrayal and witchcraft  and cold spells over a land that was once fruitful and at peace."
"So I am told." She rose again to stir the fire. "When my grandfather was king,  there were farms and fields. The land was green and rich, the lake blue and  thick with fish. Have you ever seen blue water?"
"I have, yes."
"How can it be blue?" she asked as she turned. There was puzzlement on her face,  and more, he thought. An eagerness he hadn't seen before. It made her look very  young.
"I haven't thought about it," he admitted. "It seems to be blue, or green, or  gray. It changes, as the sky changes."
"My sky never changes." The eagerness vanished as she walked to the window. 
"Well," she said, and straightened her shoulders. "Well. My grandfather had two  daughters, twin-born. His wife died giving them life, and it's said he grieved  for her the rest of his days. The babes were named Ernia, who was my aunt, and 
Fiona, who was my mother, and on them he doted. Most parents dote on their  children, don't they, my lord?"
"Most," he agreed.
"So he did. Like their mother, they were beautiful, and like their mother, they  were gifted. Ernia could call the sun, the rain, the wind. Fiona could speak to  the beasts and the birds. They were, I'm told, competitive, each vying for their  father's favor though he loved them both. Do you have siblings, my lord?"
"A brother and a sister, both younger."
She glanced back. He had his mother's eyes, she thought. But her hair had been  light. Perhaps his father had that ink-black hair that looked so silky.
"Do you love them, your brother and your sister?"
"Very much."
"That is as it should be. But Ernia and Fiona could not love each other. Perhaps  it was because they shared the same face, and each wanted her own. Who can say? 
They grew from girl to woman, and my grandfather grew old and ill. He wanted  them married and settled before his death. Ernia he betrothed to a king in a  land beyond the Elf Hills, and my mother he promised to a king whose lands  marched with ours to the east. Rose Castle was to be my mother's, and the Palace  of Sighs, on the border of the Elf Hills, my aunt's. In this way he divided his  wealth and lands equally between them, for he was, I'm told, a wise and fair  ruler and a loving father."
She came back to sit and sip at tea gone cold. "In the weeks before the  weddings, a traveler came and was welcome here as all were in those days. He was  handsome and clever, quick of tongue and smooth with charm. A minstrel by trade,  it's said he sang like an angel. But fair looks are no mirror of the heart, are  they?"
"A pleasant face is only a face." Kylar lifted a shoulder. "Deeds make a man."
"Or woman," she added. "So I have always believed, and so, in this case, it was. 
In secret, this handsome man courted and seduced both twins, and both fell  blindly in love with him. He came to my mother's bed, and to her sister's,  bearing a single red rose and promises never meant to be kept. Why do men lie  when women love?"
The question took him aback. "My lady… not all men are deceivers."
"Perhaps not." Though she was far from convinced. "But he was. One evening the  sisters, of the same mind, wandered to the rose garden. Each wanted to pluck a  red rose for her lover. It was there the lies were discovered. Instead of  comforting each other, instead of raging against the man who had deceived them  both, they fought over him. She-wolves over an unworthy badger. Ernia's temper  called the wind and the hail, and Fiona's had the beasts stalking out of the  forest to snarl and howl."
"Jealousy is both a flawed and a lethal weapon." She angled her head. Nodded. 
"Well said. My grandfather heard the clamor and roused himself from his sickbed. 
Neither marriage could take place now, as both his daughters were disgraced. The  minstrel, who had not slipped away quickly enough, was locked in the dungeon  until his punishment could be decided. There was weeping and wailing from the  sisters, as that punishment would surely be banishment, if not death. But he was  spared when it came to be known that my mother was with child. His child, for  she had lain with no other."
"You were the child."
"Yes. So, by becoming, I saved my father's life. The grief of this, the shame of  this, ended my grandfather's. Before he died, he ordered Ernia to the Palace of 
Sighs. Because of the child, he decreed that my mother would marry the minstrel. 
It was this that drove Ernia mad, and on the day the marriage took place, the  day her own father died in despair, she cast her spell.
"Winter, endless years of it. A sea of ice to lock Rose Castle away from the  world. The rosebush where flowers had been plucked from lies would not bear bud. 
The child her sister carried would never feel the warmth of summer sun on her  face, or walk in a meadow or see a tree bear fruit. One faithless man, three  selfish hearts, destroyed a world. And so became the Isle of Winter in the Sea  of Ice."
"My lady." He laid a hand on hers. Her life, he thought, the whole of it had  been spent without the simple comfort of sunlight. "A spell cast can be broken. 
You have power."
"My gift is of healing. I cannot heal the land." Because she wanted to turn her  hand over in his, link fingers, feel that connection, she drew away. "My father  left my mother before I was born. Escaped. Later, as she watched her people  starve, my mother sent messengers to the Palace of Sighs to ask for a truce. To  beg for one. But they never came back. Perhaps they died, or lost their way. Or  simply rode on into the warmth and the sun. No one who has left here has ever  come back. Why would they?"
"Ernia the Witch-Queen is dead."
"Dead?" Deirdre stared into the fire. "You're sure of this?"
"She was feared, and loathed. There was great celebration when she died. It was  on the Winter Solstice, and I remember it well. She's been dead for nearly ten  years."
Deirdre closed her eyes. "As her sister has. So they died together. How odd, and  how apt." She rose again to walk to the window. "Ten years dead, and her spell  holds like a clenched fist. How bitter her heart must have been."
And the faint and secret hope she'd kept flickering inside that upon her aunt's  death the spell would break, winked out. She drew herself up. "What we can't  change, we learn to be content with." She stared out at the endless world of  white. "There is beauty here."
"Yes." It was Deirdre that Kylar watched. "Yes. There is beauty here."



Chapter 4


He wanted to help her. More, Kylar thought, he wanted to save her. If there had  been something tangible to fight—a man, a beast, an army—he would have drawn his  sword and plunged into battle for her.
She moved him, attracted him, fascinated him. Her steady composure in the face  of her fate stirred in him both admiration and frustration. This was not a woman  to weep on a man's shoulder. It annoyed him to find himself wishing that she  would, as long as the shoulder was his.
She was an extraordinary creature. He wanted to fight for her. But how did a man  wage war on magic?
He'd never had any real experience with it. He was a soldier, and though he  believed in luck, even in fate, he believed more in wile and skill and muscle.
He was a prince, would one day be a king. He believed in justice, in ruling with  a firm touch on one hand and a merciful one on the other.
There was no justice here, where a woman who had done no wrong should be  imprisoned for the crimes and follies and wickedness of those who had come  before.
She was too beautiful to be shut away from the rest of the world. Too small, he  mused, too fragile to work her hands raw. She should be draped in silks and  ermine rather than homespun.
Already after less than a week on the Isle of Winter, he felt a restlessness, a  need for color and heat. How had she stayed sane never knowing a single summer?
He wanted to bring her the sun.
She should laugh. It troubled him that he had not once heard her laugh. A smile,  surprisingly warm when it was real enough to reach her eyes. That he had seen. 
He would find a way to see it again.
He waded through the snow across what he supposed had once been a courtyard. 
Though his wound had troubled him on waking, he was feeling stronger now. He  needed to be doing, to find some work or activity to keep his blood moving and  his mind sharp. Surely there was some task, some bit of work he could undertake  for her here. It would repay her in some small way, and serve to keep his mind  and hands busy while his body healed.
He recalled the stag he'd seen in the forest. He would hunt, then, and bring her  meat. The wind that had thrashed ceaselessly for days had finally quieted. 
Though the utter stillness that followed it played havoc with the nerves, it  would make tracking through the forest possible.
He moved through a wide archway on the other side of the courtyard. And stopped  to stare.
This, he realized with wonder, had been the rose garden. Gnarled and blackened  stalks tangled out of the snow. Once, he imagined, it would have been  magnificent, full of color and scent and humming bees.
Now it was a great field of snow cased in ice.
Bisecting that field were graceful paths of silver stone, and someone kept them  clear. There were hundreds of bushes, all brittle with death, the stalks  spearing out of their cold graves like blackened bones.
Benches, these, too, cleared of snow and ice, stood in graceful curves of deep  jewel colors. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, they gleamed in the midst of the stark  and merciless white. There was a small pond in the shape of an open rose, and  its flower held a rippled sheet of ice. Dead branches with vicious thorns  strangled iron arbors. More spindly corpses climbed up the silver stone of the  walls as if they'd sought to escape before winter murdered them.
In the center, where all paths led, was a towering column of ice. Under the  glassy sheen, he could see the arch of blackened branches studded with thorns,  and hundreds of withered flowers trapped forever in their moment of death.
The rosebush, he thought, where the flowers of lies had been plucked. No, he  corrected as he moved toward it. More a tree, for it was taller than he was and  spread wider than the span of both his arms. He ran his fingertips over the ice,  found it smooth. Experimentally, he took the dagger from his belt, dragged its  tip over the ice. It left no mark.
"It cannot be reached with force."
Kylar turned and saw Orna standing in the archway. "What of the rest? Why  haven't the dead branches been cleared and used for fire?" he asked her.
"To do so would be to give up hope." She had hope still, and more when she  looked into Kylar's eyes.
She saw what she needed there. Truth, strength, and courage.
"She walks here."
"Why would she punish herself in such a way?" he demanded.
"It reminds her, I think, of what was. And what is." But not, Orna feared, of  what might be. "Once, when my lady was but eight, and the last of the dogs died,  breaking her heart, she took her grandfather's sword. In her grief and temper,  she tried to hack through that ice into the bush. For nearly an hour she stabbed  and sliced and beat at it, and could not so much as scratch the surface. In the  end, she went to her knees there where you stand now and wept as if she'd die  from it. Something in her did die that day, along with the last of the dogs. I  have not heard her weep since. I wish she would."
"Why do you wish for your lady's tears?"
"For then she would know her heart is not dead but, like the rose, only  waiting."
He sheathed his dagger. "If force can't reach it, what can?"
She smiled, for she knew he spoke of the heart as much as the rose. "You will  make a good king in your time, Kylar of Mrydon, for you listen to what isn't  said. What can't be vanquished with sword or might can be won with truth, with  love, with selflessness. She is in the stables, what is left of them. She  wouldn't ask for your company, but would enjoy it."
The stables lined three sides of another courtyard, but this one was  crisscrossed with crooked paths dug through or trampled into the snow. Kylar saw  the reason for it in the small troop of children waging a lively snow battle at  the far end. Even in such a world, he thought, children found a way to be  children.
As he drew closer to the stables, he heard the low cackle of hens. There were  men on the roof, working on a chimney. They tipped their caps to him as he  passed under the eaves and into the stables.
It was warmer, thanks to carefully banked fires, and clean as a parlor. The  queen, he thought, tended her goats and chickens well. Iron kettles heated over  the fires. Water for the stock, he concluded, made from melted snow. He noted  barrows of manure. For use in her garden, he decided. A wise and practical  woman, Queen Deirdre.
Then he saw the wise and practical woman, with her red hood tossed back, her  gold hair raining down as she cooed up at his warhorse.
When the horse shook its great head and blew, she laughed. The rich female sound  warmed his blood more thoroughly than the fires.
"His name is Cathmor."
Startled, embarrassed, Deirdre dropped the hands she'd lifted to stroke the  horse's muzzle. She knew she shouldn't have lingered, that he would come check  on his horse as it had been reported he did twice daily. But she'd so wanted to  see the creature herself.
"You have a light step."
"You were distracted." He walked up beside her, and to her surprise and delight,  the horse bumped his shoulder in greeting.
"Does that mean he's glad to see you?"
"It means he's hoping I have an apple."
Deirdre fingered the small carrot from her garden she'd tucked in her pocket. 
"Perhaps this will do." She pulled it out, started to offer it to Kylar.
"He would enjoy being fed by a lady. No, not like that." He took her hand and,  opening it, laid the carrot on her palm. "Have you never fed a horse?"
"I've never seen one." She caught her breath as Cathmor dipped his head and  nibbled the carrot out of her palm. "He's bigger than I imagined, and more  handsome. And softer." Unable to resist, she stroked her hand down the horse's  nose. "Some of the children have been keeping him company. They'd make a pet of  him if they could."
"Would you like to ride him?"
"Ride?"
"He needs the exercise, and so do I. I thought I would hunt this morning. Come  with me."
To ride a horse? Just the idea of it was thrilling. "I have duties."
"I might get lost alone." He brought her hand back up, ran it under his along 
Cathmor's silky neck. "I don't know your forest. And I'm still a bit weak."
Her lips twitched. "Your wits are strong enough. I could send a man with you."
"I prefer your company."
To ride a horse, she thought again. How could she resist? Why should she? She  was no fluttery girl who would fall into stutters and blushes by being alone  with a man. Even this man.
"All right. What do I do first?" . "You wait until I saddle him."
She shook her head. "No, show me how to do it."
When it was done, she sent one of the boys scurrying off to tell Orna she was  riding out with the prince. She needn't have bothered, for as they walked the  horse out of the stables, her people began to gather at the windows, in the  courtyard.
When he vaulted into the saddle, they cheered him like a hero.
"It's been a long time since they've seen anyone ride," she explained as Cathmor  pranced in place. "Some of them, like me, never have." She let out a breath. 
"It's a long way up."
"Give me your hand." He reached down to her. "Trust me."
She would have to if she wanted this amazing treat. She offered her hand, then  yelped in shock when he simply hauled her up in the saddle in front of him.
"You might have warned me you intended to drag me up like a sack of turnips. If  you've opened your wound again—"
"Quiet," he whispered, entirely too close to her ear for comfort, and with her  people cheering, he kicked Cathmor into a trot.
"Oh." Her eyes popped wide as her bottom bounced. "It's not what I expected." 
And hardly dignified.
With shouts and whoops, children raced after them as they trotted out of the  castle.
"Match the rhythm of your body to the gait of the horse," he told her.
"Yes, I'm trying. Must you be so close?" He grinned. "Yes. And I'm enjoying it. 
You shouldn't be uneasy with a man, Deirdre, when you've seen him naked."
"Seeing you naked hardly gives me cause to relax around you," she shot back.
With a rolling laugh, he urged the horse to a gallop.
Her breath caught, but with delight rather than fear. Wind rushed by her cheeks,  and snow flew up into the air like tattered lace. She closed her eyes for an  instant to absorb the sensation, and the wild thrill made her dizzy.
So fast, she thought. So strong. When they charged up a hill she wanted to throw  her arms in the air and shout for the sheer joy of it.
Her heart raced along with the horse, continued to pound even when they slowed  at the verge of the forest that had been known as the Forgotten for the whole of  her lifetime.
"It's like flying," she mused. "Oh, thank you." She leaned down to press her  cheek to the horse's neck. "I'll never forget it. He's a grand horse, isn't he?"
Flushed with pleasure, she turned. His face was too close, so close she felt the  warmth of his breath on her cheek. Close enough that she saw a kind of heat  kindling in his eyes.
"No." He caught her chin with his hand before she could turn away again. "Don't. 
I kissed you before, when I thought I was dying." His lips hovered a breath from  hers. "I lived."
He had to taste her again; it seemed his sanity depended on it. But because he  saw her fear, he took her mouth gently, skimming his lips over ones that  trembled. Soothing as well as seducing. He watched her eyes go soft before her  lashes fluttered down.
"Kiss me back, Deirdre." His hand slid down until his arm could band her waist  and draw her closer. "This time kiss me back."
"I don't know how." But she already was.
Her limbs went weak, wonderfully weak, even as her pulse danced madly. Warmth  enveloped her, reaching places inside that had never known its comfort.
The light that had sparked inside her when their hearts had brushed in healing  spread.
On the Isle of Winter in the snowy rose garden, beneath a shield of ice, a tiny  bud—tender green—formed on a blackened branch.
He nibbled at her lips until she parted them. And when he deepened the kiss she  felt, for the first time in her life, a true lance of heat in her belly.
Yearning for more, she eased back, then indulged herself by letting her head  rest briefly on his shoulder. "So it's this," she whispered. "It's this that  makes the women sing in the kitchen in the morning."
He stroked her hair, rubbed his cheek against it. "It's a bit more than that." 
Sweet, he thought. Strong. She was everything a man could want. Everything, he  realized, that he wanted.
"Yes, of course." She sighed once. "More than that, but it starts like this. It  can't for me."
"It has." He held her close when she would have drawn away. "It did, the minute 
I saw you."
"If I could love, it would be you. Though I'm not sure why, it would be you. If 
I were free, I would choose you." She turned away again. "We came to hunt. My  people need meat."
He fought the urge to yank her around, to plunder that lovely mouth until she  yielded. Force wasn't the answer. So he'd been told. There were better ways to  win a woman.



Chapter 5


She spotted the tracks first. They moved soundlessly through the trees, and she  was grateful for the need for silence.
How could she explain or ask him to understand, when she couldn't understand  herself? Her heart was frozen, chilled to death by pride and duty, and the fear  that she might do her people more harm.
Her father had made her in lies, then had run away from his obligation. Her  mother had done her duty, and she had been kind. But her heart had been broken  into so many pieces there had been none left for her child.
And what sort of child was it who could grieve more truly for a dead dog than  for her own dead mother?
She had nothing emotionally to give a man, and wanted nothing from one. In that  way she would survive, and keep her people alive.
Life, she reminded herself, mattered most. And what she felt for him was surely  no more than a churning in the blood.
But how could she have known what it was like to be held by him? To feel his  heart beat so strong and fast against hers? None of the books she'd read had  captured with their clever words the true thrill of lips meeting.
Now that she understood, it would be just another precious memory, like a ride  on horseback, to tuck away for the endless lonely nights.
She would decide later, she thought, if the nights were longer, lonelier, with  the memory than they were without it.
But today she couldn't allow herself to think like a woman softened by a man's  touch. She must think like a queen with people to provide for.
She caught the scent of the stag even before the horse did, and held up a hand. 
"We should walk from here," she said under her breath.
He didn't question her, but dismounted, then reached up to lift her down. Then  his arms were around her again, her hands on his shoulders, and her face tilted  up to his. Even as she shook her head, he brushed his lips over her brow.
"Deirdre the fair," he said softly. "Such a pretty armful."
The male scent of him blurred the scent of the stag. "This is not the time."
Because the catch in her voice was enough to satisfy him, for now, he reached  over for his bow and quiver. But when she held out her hands for them, he lifted  his eyebrows.
"The bow is too heavy a draw for you." When she continued to stare, hands  outstretched, he shrugged and gave them to her.
So, he thought, he would indulge her. They'd make do with more cabbage tonight.
Then he was left blinking as she tossed aside her cloak and streaked through the  trees in her men's clothes like a wraith—soundless and swift. Before he could  tether his horse, she'd vanished and he could do no more than follow in her  tracks.
He stopped when he caught sight of her. She stood in the gloomy light, nearly  hip-deep in snow. With a gesture smooth and polished as a warrior, she notched  the arrow, drew back the heavy bow. The sharp ping of the arrow flying free  echoed. Then she lowered the bow, and her head.
"Everyone misses sometimes," he said as he started toward her.
Her head came up, her face cold and set. "I did not miss. I find no pleasure in  the kill. My people need meat."
She handed the bow and quiver back to him, then trudged through the snow to  where the stag lay.
Kylar saw she'd taken it down, fast, mercifully fast, with a single shot.
"Deirdre," he called out. "Do you ask yourself how game, even so sparse, come to  be here where there is no food for them?"
She continued walking. "My mother did what she could, leaving a call that would  draw them to the forest. She hoped to teach me to do the same, but it's not my  gift."
"You have more than one," he said. "I'll get the horse."
Once the deer was strapped onto the horse, Kylar cupped his hands to help 
Deirdre mount. "Put your right foot in my hands, swing your left leg over the  saddle."
"There isn't room for both of us now. You ride, I'll walk."
"No, I'll walk."
"It's too far when you've yet to fully recover. Mount your horse." She started  to move past him, but he blocked her path. Her shoulders straightened like an  iron bar. "I said, mount. I am a queen, and you merely a prince. You will do as 
I bid."
"I'm a man, and you merely a woman." He shocked her speechless by picking her up  and tossing her into the saddle. "You'll do what you're told."
However much she labored side by side with her people, no one had ever disobeyed  a command. And no man had ever laid hands on her. "You… dare."
"I'm not one of your people." He gathered the reins and began to walk the horse  through the forest. "Whatever our ranks, I'm as royal as you. Though that  doesn't mean a damn at the moment. It's difficult to think of you as a queen  when you're garbed like a man and I've seen you handle a bow that my own squire  can barely manage. It's difficult to think of you as a queen, Deirdre," he added  with a glance back at her furious face, "when I've held you in my arms."
"Then you'd best remember what that felt like, for you won't be allowed to do so  again."
He stopped, and turning, ran his hand deliberately up her leg. When she kicked  out at him, he caught her boot and laughed. "Ah, so there's a temper in there  after all. Good. I prefer bedding a woman with fire in her."
Quick as a snake the dagger was out of her belt and in her hand. And its killing  point at his throat. "Remove your hand."
He never flinched, but realized to his own shock that this wasn't merely a woman  he could want. It was a woman he could love. "Would you do it, I wonder? I think  you might while the temper's on you, but then you'd regret it." He brought his  hand up slowly, gripped her knife hand by the wrist. "We'd both regret it. I  tell you I want to bed you. I give you the truth. Do you want lies?"
"You can bed Cordelia, if she's willing."
"I don't want Cordelia, willing or not." He took the knife from her hand, then  brushed a kiss over her palm. "But I want you, Deirdre. And I want you willing." 
He handed her back the dagger, hilt first. "Can you handle a sword as well as  you do a dagger?"
"I can."
"You're a woman of marvels, Deirdre the fair." He began to walk again. "I  understand developing skill with the bow, but what need have you for sword or  dagger?"
"Ignoring training in defense is careless and lazy. The training itself is good  for the body and the mind. If my people are expected to learn how to handle a  blade, then so should I be."
"Agreed."
When he paused a second time, her eyes narrowed in warning. "I'm going to  shorten the stirrups so you can ride properly. What happened to your horses?"
"Those who left the first year took them." She ordered herself to relax and  pleased herself by stroking Cathmor's neck again. "There were cattle, too, and  sheep. Those that didn't die of the cold were used as food. There were cottages  and farmhouses, but people came to the castle for shelter, for food. Or wandered  off hoping to find spring. Now they're under the snow and ice. Why do you want  to bed me?"
"Because you're beautiful."
She frowned down at him. "Are men so simple, really?" He laughed, shook his  head, and her fingers itched to tangle in his silky black mane rather than the  horse's. "Simple enough about certain matters. But I hadn't finished the answer. 
Your beauty would be enough to make me want you for a night. Try this now, heels  down. That's fine."
He gave her foot a friendly pat, then walked back to the horse's head. "Your  strength and your courage add layers to beauty. They appeal to me. Your mind's  sharp and cleaves clean. That's a challenge. And a woman who can plant potatoes  like a farmwife and draw a dagger like an assassin is a fascinating creature."
"I thought when a man wanted to pleasure himself with a woman, he softened her  with pretty words and poetry and long looks full of pain and longing."
What a woman, Kylar mused. He'd never seen the like of her. "Would you like  that?"
She considered it, and was relaxed again. It was easier to discuss the whole  business as a practical matter. "I don't know."
"You wouldn't trust them."
She smiled before she could stop it. "I wouldn't, no. Have you bedded many  women?"
He cleared his throat and began to walk a bit faster. "That, sweetheart, isn't a  question I'm comfortable answering."
"Why not?"
"Because it's… it's a delicate matter," he decided.
"Would you be more comfortable telling me if you've killed many men?"
"I don't kill for sport, or for pleasure," he said, and his voice turned as  frigid as the air. "Taking a man's life is no triumph, my lady. Battle is an  ugly business."
"I wondered. I meant no offense."
"I would have let them go." He spoke so softly that she had to lean forward to  hear clearly.
"Who?"
"The three who set upon me after the battle had been won. When I was for home. I  would have let them pass in peace. What purpose was there in more blood?"
She'd already seen this inside him, and knew it for truth. He had not killed in  hate nor in some fever of dark excitement. He had killed to live. "They wouldn't  let you pass in peace."
"They were tired, and one already wounded. If I'd had an escort as I should,  they would have surrendered. In the end, it was their own fear and my  carelessness that killed them. I'm sorry for it."
More for the waste of their lives, she realized, than for his own wounds. 
Understanding this, she felt something sigh inside her. "Kylar."
It was the first time she'd spoken his name, as she might to a friend. And she  leaned down to touch his cheek with her fingertips, as she might touch a  lover's.
"You'll rule well."
She invited him to sup with her that night. Another first. He dressed in the  fresh doublet Cordelia brought him, one of soft linen that smelled lightly of  lavender and rosemary. He wondered from what chest it had been unearthed for his  use, but as it fit well enough, he had no cause to complain.
But when he followed the servant into the dining hall, he wished for his court  clothes.
She wore green again, but no simple dress of homespun. The velvet gown poured  down her body, dipping low at the creamy rise of her breasts and sweeping out  from her waist in soft, deep folds. Her hair was long and loose, but over it  sparkled a crown glinting with jewels. More draped in shimmering ropes around  her throat.
She stood in the glow of candlelight, beautiful as a vision, and every inch a  queen.
When she offered a hand, he crossed to her, bowed deeply before touching his  lips to her knuckles. "Your Majesty."
"Your Highness. The room," she said with a gesture she hoped hid the nerves and  pleasure she felt upon seeing the open approval on his face, "is overlarge for  two. I hope you'll be comfortable."
"I see nothing but you."
She titled her head. Curious, this flirting, she decided. And entertaining. "Are  these the pretty words and poetry?"
"They're the truth."
"They fall pleasantly on the ear. It's an indulgence to have a fire in here,"  she began as she let him escort her to the table. "But tonight there is wine,  and venison, and a welcome guest."
At the head of the long table were two settings. Silver and crystal and linen  white as the snow outside the windows. Behind them, the mammoth fire roared.
Servants slipped in to serve wine and the soup course. If he'd been able to tear  his gaze away from Deirdre, he might have seen the glint in their eyes, the  exchanged winks and quick grins.
She missed them as well, as she concentrated on the experience of her first  formal meal with someone from outside her world. "The fare is simple," she  began.
"As good as a bounty. And the company feeds me."
She studied him thoughtfully. "I do think I like pretty words, but I have no  skill in holding a conversation with them."
He took her hand. "Why don't we practice?"
Her laugh bubbled out, but she shook her head. "Tell me of your home, your  family. Your sister," she remembered. "Is she lovely?"
"She is. Her name is Gwenyth. She married two years ago."
"Is there love?"
"Yes. He was friend and neighbor, and they had a sweetness for each other since  childhood. When I last saw her she was great with her second babe." The faintest  cloud passed over his face. "I'd hoped to make my way home for the birthing."
"And your brother?"
"Riddock is young, headstrong. He can ride like the devil."
"You're proud of him."
"I am. He'd give you poetry." Kylar lifted his goblet. "He has a knack for it,  and loves nothing more than luring pretty maids out to the garden in the  moonlight."
She asked questions casually so he would talk. She was unsure of her  conversational skills in this arena, and it was such a pleasure to just sit and  listen to him speak so easily of things that were, to her, a miracle.
Summer and gardens, swimming in a pond, riding through a village where people  went to market. Carts of glossy red apples—what would they taste like? Baskets  of flowers whose scent she could only dream of.
She had a picture of his home now, as she had pictures in books.
She had a picture of him, and it was more than anything she'd ever found in a  book.
Willing to pay whatever it cost her later, she lost herself in him, in the way  his voice rose and fell, in his laugh. She thought she could sit this way for  days, to talk like this with no purpose in it, no niggling worries. Just to be  with him by the warmth of the fire, with wine sweet on her tongue and his eyes  so intimately on hers.
She didn't object when he took her hand, when his fingers toyed with hers. If  this was flirtation, it was such a lovely way to pass the time.
They spoke of faraway lands and cultures. Of paintings and of plays.
"You've put your library to good use," he commented. "I've known few scholars as  well read."
"I can see the world through books, and lives through the stories. Once a year,  on Midsummer, we put on a pageant. We have music and games. I choose a story,  and everyone takes a part as if it were a play. Surviving isn't enough. There  must be life and color."
There were times, secretly, when she pined near weeping for true color.
"All the children are taught to read," she continued, "and to do sums. If you  have only a window on the world, you must look out of it. One of my men—well,  he's just a boy really—he makes stories. They're quite wonderful."
She caught herself, surprised at the sound of her own voice rambling. "I've kept  you long enough."
"No." His hand tightened on hers. He was beginning to realize it would never be  long enough. "Tell me more. You play music, don't you? A harp. I heard you  playing, singing. It was like a dream."
"You were feverish. I play a little. Some skill inherited from my father, I  suppose."
"I'd like to hear you play again. Will you play for me, Deirdre?"
"If you like."
But as she started to rise, one of the men who'd helped serve rushed in. "My  lady, my lady, it's young Phelan!"
"What's happened?"
"He was playing with some of the boys on the stairs, and fell. We can't wake  him. My lady, we fear he's dying."



Chapter 6


Afraid to move him, they'd left the boy covered with a blanket at the base of  the stairs. At first glance, Kylar thought the child, for he was hardly more,  was already dead. He'd seen enough of death to recognize its face.
He judged the boy to be about ten, with fair hair and cheeks still round with  youth. But those cheeks were gray, and the hair was matted with blood.
Those who circled and knelt around the boy made way when Deirdre hurried  through.
"Get back now," she ordered. "Give him room."
Before Deirdre could kneel, a weeping woman broke free to fall at her feet and  clutch at her skirts with bloodstained hands. "My baby. Oh, please, my lady! 
Help my little boy."
"I will, Ailish. Of course I will." Knowing that time was precious, Deirdre bent  down and firmly loosened the terrified woman's hold on her. "You must be strong  for him, and trust. Let me see to him now."
"He slipped, my lady." Another youth came forward with a jerky step. His eyes  were dry, but huge, and there were tracks of tears still drying on his cheeks. 
"We were playing horse and rider on the stairs, and he slipped."
"All right." Too much grief, she thought, feeling waves of it pressing over her. 
Too much fear. "It's all right now. I'll tend to him."
"Deirdre." Kylar kept his voice low, so only she could hear over the mother's  weeping. "There's nothing you can do here. I can smell death on him."
As could she, and so she knew she had little time. "What is the smell of death  but the smell of fear?" She ran her hands gently over the crumpled body, feeling  the hurts, finding so much broken in the little boy that her heart ached from  it. Medicines would do no good here, but still her face was composed as she  looked up.
"Cordelia, fetch my healing bag. Make haste. The rest, please, leave us now. 
Leave me with him. Ailish, go now."
"Oh, no, please, my lady. Please, I must stay with my boy."
"Do you trust me?"
"My lady." She gripped Deirdre's hand, wept on it. "I do."
"Then do as I bid you. Go now and pray."
"His neck," Kylar began, then broke off when Deirdre whipped her head around and  stared at him.
"Be silent! Help me or go, but don't question me."
When Ailish was all but carried away, and the two of them were alone with the  bleeding boy, Deirdre closed her eyes. "This will hurt him. I'm sorry for it. 
Hold him down, hold him as still as you can, and do nothing to interfere. 
Nothing, do you understand?"
"No." But Kylar shifted until he could clamp the boy's arms.
"Block thoughts of death from your mind," she ordered. "And fear, and doubt. 
Block them out as you would in battle. There's too much dark here already. Can  you do this?"
"I can." And because she asked it of him, Kylar let the cold come into him, the  cold that steeled the mind to face combat.
"Phelan," she said. "Young Phelan, the bard." Her voice was soft, almost a  crooning as she traced her hands over him again. "Be strong for me."
She knew him already, had watched him grow and learn and be. She knew the sound  of his voice, the quick flash of his grin, the lively turn of his mind. He had  been hers, as all in Rose Castle were hers, from the moment of his first breath.
And so she merged easily with him.
While her hands worked, stroking, kneading, she slid into his mind. She felt his  laughter inside her as he pranced and raced with his friends up and down the  narrow stone steps. Felt his heart leap inside her own as his feet slipped. Then  the fear, oh, the terror, an instant only before the horrible pain.
The snap of bone made her cry out softly, had her head rearing back. Something  inside her crushed like thin clay under a stone hammer, and the sensation was  beyond torment.
Her eyes were open now, Kylar saw. A deep and too brilliant green. Her breath  came fast and hard, sweat pearled on her brow. And the boy screamed thinly,  straining under his grip.
Both made a sound of agony as she slid a hand under the boy to cup his neck,  laid her other on his heart. Both shuddered. Both went pale as death.
Kylar started to call out to her, to reach for her as she swayed. But he felt  the heat, a ferocious fist of it that seemed to pump out of her, into the boy  until the arms he held were like sticks of fire.
And the boy's eyes opened, stared up blindly.
"Take, young Phelan." He voice was thick now, echoed richly off the stone. "Take  what you need. Fire of healing." She leaned down, laid her lips gently on his. 
"Live. Stay with us. Your mother needs you."
As Kylar watched, thunderstruck, color seeped back into the boy's face. He would  have sworn he felt death skitter back into the shadows.
"My lady," the boy said, almost dreamily. "I fell."
"Yes, I know. Sleep now." She brushed her hand over his eyes, and they closed on  a sigh. "And heal. Let his mother in, if you will," she said to Kylar. "And 
Cordelia."
"Deirdre—"
"Please." The weakness threatened to drag her under, and she wanted to be away,  in her own chamber before she lost herself to it. "Let them in so I can tell  them what must be done for him."
She stayed kneeling when Kylar rose. The sounds of her people were like the dull  roar of the ocean in her head. Even as Ailish collapsed next to her son, to  gather him close to kiss Deirdre's now trembling hand, Deirdre gave clear,  careful instructions for his care.
"Enough!" Alarmed by her pallor, Kylar swept her off the floor and into his  arms. "Tend the boy."
"I'm not finished," Deirdre managed.
"Yes, by the blood, you are." The single glance he swept over those gathered  challenged any to contradict him. "Where is your chamber?"
"This way, my lord prince." Orna led him through a doorway, down a corridor to  another set of stairs. "I know what to do for her, my lord."
"Then you'll do it." He glanced down at Deirdre as he carried her up the stairs. 
She had swooned after all, he noted. Her skin was like glass, her eyes closed. 
The boy's blood was on her hands. "What did she risk by snatching the boy from  death?"
"I cannot say, my lord." She opened a door, hurried across a chamber to the bed. 
"I will care for her now."
"I stay."
Orna pressed her lips together as he laid Deirdre on the bed. "I must undress  her. Wash her."
Struggling with temper, he turned to stalk to the window. "Then do so. Is this  what she did for me?"
"I cannot say." Orna met his eyes directly when he turned back. "She did not  speak of it to me. She does not speak of it with anyone. Prince Kylar, I will  ask you to turn your back until my lady is suitably attired in her night garb."
"Woman, her modesty is not an issue with me." But he turned, stared out the  window.
He had heard of those who could heal with the mind. But he had not believed it,  not truly believed, before tonight. Nor had he considered what price the healer  paid to heal.
"She will sleep," Orna said some time later.
"I won't disturb her." He came to the bed now, gazed down. There was still no  color in her cheeks, but it seemed to him her breathing was steadier. "Nor will 
I leave her."
"My lady is strong, as valiant as ten warriors."
"If I had ten as valiant, there would never be another battle to fight."
Pleased with his response, Orna inclined her head. "And my lady has, despite  what she believes, a tender heart." Orna set a bottle and goblet on the table  near the bed. "See that you don't bruise it. When she wakes, give her some of  this tonic. I will not be far, should you need me."
Alone, Kylar drew a chair near the bed and watched Deirdre sleep. For an hour,  and then two. She was motionless and pale as marble in the firelight, and he  feared she would never wake but would sleep like the beauty in another legend,  for a hundred years.
Even days before he would have deemed such things foolishness, stories for  children. But now, after what he'd seen, what he'd felt, anything seemed  possible.
Still, side by side with the worry inside him, anger bloomed. She had risked her  life. He had seen death slide its cold fingers over her. She had bargained her  life for the child's.
And, he was sure now, for his own.
When she stirred, just the slightest flutter of her lashes, he poured the tonic 
Orna had left into the cup.
"Drink this." He lifted her head from the pillow. "Don't speak. Just drink now."
She sipped, and sighed. The hand she lifted to his wrist slid limply away again. 
"Phelan?" she whispered.
"I don't know." He brought the cup to her lips a second time. "Drink more."
She obeyed, then turned her head. "Ask. Ask how young Phelan fares. Please. I  must be sure."
"Drink first. Drink it all."
She did as he bade, and kept her eyes open and on his now. If she'd had the  strength, she would have gone to find out herself. But the weakness was still  dragging at her, and she could only trust Kylar to the task. "Please. I won't be  easy until I know his condition."
Kylar set the empty cup aside, then crossed the chamber to the door. Orna sat on  a chair in the corridor, sewing by candlelight. She glanced up when she saw him. 
"Tell my lady not to fret. Young Phelan is resting. Healing." She got to her  feet. "If you would like to retire, my lord, I will sit with my lady."
"Go to your bed," he said shortly. "I stay with her tonight."
Orna bowed her head and hid a smile. "As you wish."
He stepped back inside, closed the door. And turning saw that Deirdre was  sitting up in bed, with her hair spilling like honey over the white lawn of her  nightdress.
"Your boy is resting, and well."
At his words, he saw color return to her face, watched the dullness clear from  her eyes. He came to the foot of the bed, which was draped in deep red velvet. 
"You recover quickly, madam."
"The tonic is potent." Indeed she now felt clear of mind, and even the echoes of  pain were fading from her body. "Thank you for your help. His mother and father  would have been too distraught to assist. Their worry could have distracted me. 
More, fear feeds death."
She glanced around the room, a little warily. Orna hadn't laid out her  nightrobe. "If you'd excuse me now, I'll go see for myself."
"Not tonight."
To her shock he sat on the side of the bed near her. Only pride kept her from  shifting over, or tugging up the blankets.
"I have questions."
"I've answered several of your questions already."
He lifted his brows. "Now I have more. The boy was dying. His skull crushed, his  neck damaged if not broken. His left arm was shattered."
"Yes," she said calmly. "And inside his body, more was harmed. He bled inside  himself. So much blood for such a little boy. But he has a strong heart, our 
Phelan. He is particularly precious to me."
"He would have been dead in minutes."
"He is not dead."
"Why?"
"I can't answer." Restlessly, she pushed at her hair. "I can't explain it to  you."
"Won't."
"Can't."
When she would have turned her face away, he caught her chin, held it firmly. 
"Try."
"You overstep," she said stiffly. "Continually."
"Then you should be growing accustomed to it. I held the boy," he reminded her. 
"I watched, and I felt life come back into him. Tell me what you did."
She wanted to dismiss him, but he had helped her when she'd needed his help. So  she would try. "It's a kind of search, and a merging. An opening of both." She  lifted a hand, let it fall. "It is a kind of faith, if you will."
"It caused you pain."
"Do you think fighting death is painless? You know better. To heal, I must feel  what he feels, and bring him up…" She shook her head, frustrated with words. 
"Take him back to the pain. Then we ride it together, so that I see, feel,  know."
"You rode more than pain. You rode death. I saw you."
"We were stronger."
"And if you hadn't been?"
"Then death would have won," she said simply. "And a mother would be grieving  her firstborn tonight."
"And you? Deirdre of the Ice, would your people be grieving you?"
"There is a risk. Do you turn from battle, Kylar? Or do you face it knowing your  life might be the price paid at end of day? Would you not stand for any one of  your people if they had need? Would you expect me to do less for one of mine?"
"I was not one of yours." He took her hand before she could look away. "You rode  death with me, Deirdre. I remember. I thought it a dream, but I remember. The  pain, as if the sword cut into me fresh. That same pain mirrored in your eyes as  you looked down at me. The heat of your body, the heat of your life pouring into  me. I was nothing to you."
"You were a man. You were hurt." She reached out now, laying her hand on his  cheek. "Why are you angry? Should I have let you die because my medicines  weren't enough to save you? Should I have stepped back from you and my own gift  because it would cause me a moment's pain to save you? Does your pride bleed now  because a woman fought for your life?"
"Perhaps it does." He closed his hand over her wrist. "When I carried you in  here I thought you would die, and I was helpless."
"You stayed with me. That was kind."
He made some sound, then pushed himself off the bed to pace. "When a man goes  into battle, Deirdre, it's sword to sword, lance to lance, fist to fist. These  are tangible things. What you've done, magic or miracle, is so much more. And  you were right. I can't understand it."
"It changes how you think of me."
"Yes."
She lowered her lashes, hid the fresh pain. "There is no shame in it. Most men  would not have stayed to help, certainly not have stayed to speak with me. I'm  grateful. Now if you'd excuse me, I'd like to be alone."
Slowly, he turned back to her. "You misunderstand me. Before I thought of you as  a woman—beautiful, strong, intelligent. Sad. Now I think of you as all of that,  and so much more. You humble me. You expect me to step away from you, because of  all you are. I can't. I want to be with you, and I have no right."
With her heart unsteady, she looked at him again. "Is it gratitude that draws  you to me?"
"I am grateful. I owe you for every breath I take. But it isn't gratitude I feel  when I look at you."
She slid out of bed to stand on her own feet. "Is it desire?"
"I desire you."
"I've never had a man's arms around me in love. I want them to be yours."
"What right do I have when I can't stay with you? I should already be gone. Both  my family and my people wait."
"You give me truth, and truth means more than pretty words and empty promises. I  wondered about this, and now I know. When I healed you I felt something I've  never felt before. Mixed with the pain and the cold that comes into me so bitter  there was… light."
Watching him, she spread her hands. "I said I did nothing to bind you to me, and  that is truth. But something happened in me when I was part of you. It angered  me, and it frightened me. But now, just now…" She drew a breath and spoke  without a blush. "It excites me. I've been so cold. Give me one night of warmth. 
You said you wanted me willing." She reached up, tugged the ribbons loose from  the bodice of the nightdress. "And I am," she said as the white gown slid down  to pool at her feet.



Chapter 7


She was a vision. Mote than he could have dreamed. Slim and small, she stood in  the glow of candle and firelight.
"Will you give me a night?" she asked him.
"Deirdre. My love. I would give you a lifetime."
"I want no pledges that can't be kept, no words but truth. Only give me what can  be, and it will be enough," she replied somberly.
"My lady." He felt, somehow, that the step toward her was the most momentous of  his life. And when he took her hands, that he was taking the world. "It is the  truth. Why or how I don't know. But never have I spoken cleaner truth."
She believed he meant it, in this time. In this place. "Kylar, lifetimes are for  those who are free."
So she would be, he promised himself. Whatever had to be done. But now wasn't  for plans and battles. "If you won't accept that pledge, let me pledge this. 
That I have loved no other as I love you tonight."
"I can give that vow back to you. I thought it would be for duty." She lifted  her hands to his face, traced the shape of it with her fingers. "And I thought  the first time, it would be with fear." She laughed a little. "My heart jumps. 
Can you feel it?"
He laid a hand on her breast, felt the shiver. Felt the leap. "I won't hurt  you."
"Oh, no." She laid a hand on his heart in turn. They had brushed once before,  she thought. Heart to heart. Nothing had been the same for her since. Nothing  would be the same for her ever again. "You won't hurt me. Warm me, Kylar, as a  man warms his woman."
He drew her into his arms. Gently, gently. Laid his lips on hers. Tenderly. 
There once more, she thought. There. That miracle of mouth against mouth. 
Sighing out his name, she let herself melt into the kiss.
"The first time you kissed me, I thought you were foolish."
His lips curved on hers. "Did you?"
"Half frozen and bleeding, and you would waste your last breath flirting with a  woman. Such is a man."
"Not a waste," he corrected. "But I can do better now." With a flourish that  pleased them both, he swept her into his arms. "Come to bed, my lady."
As she had once longed to do, she toyed with his silky black hair. "You must  teach me what to do."
His muscles tightened, nerves and thrills, at the thought of her innocence. 
Tonight she would give him what she had given no other. In the candle glow he  saw her face, saw that she gave him this treasure without fear, without shame.
No, he would not hurt her, but would do all in his power to bring her joy.
He laid her on the bed, rubbed his cheek against hers. "It will be my pleasure  to instruct you."
"I've seen the goats mate."
His burst of laughter was muffled in her hair. "This, I can promise, will be  somewhat different than the mating of goats. So pay attention," he said,  grinning now as he lifted his head, "while I give you your first lesson."
He was a patient teacher, and surely, she thought as her skin began to shiver  and sing under his hands, a skilled one. His mouth drank from hers, deep, then  deeper until it was how she imagined it might be to slide bonelessly into a warm  river.
Surrounded, floating, then submerged.
His hands roamed over her breasts, then cupped them as if he could hold her  heartbeat in his palms. The sensation of those strong, hard hands on her flesh  shimmered straight down to her belly. His mouth skimmed the side of her throat,  nibbling.
"How lovely." She murmured it, arching a little to invite more. "How clever for  breasts to give pleasure as well as milk."
"Indeed." His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and made her gasp. "I've often  thought the same."
"Oh… but what do I…" Her words, her thoughts trailed off into a rainbow when  that nibbling mouth found her breast
She made a sound in her throat, half cry, half moan. It thrilled him, that sound  of shocked pleasure, the sudden shudder of her body, the quick jolt of her heart  under his lips. As she arched again, her fingers combed through his hair,  gripped there and pressed him closer. The sweet taste of her filled him like  warmed wine.
He rose over her to tug his doublet aside, but before he could satisfy himself  with that glorious slide of his flesh to her flesh, she lifted her hands, ran  them experimentally over his chest.
"Wait." She needed to catch her breath. It was all running through her so  quickly that it nearly blurred. She wanted everything, but clearly, so that she  might remember each stroke, each taste, each moment.
"I touched you when you were hurt. But this is different. I looked at your body,  but didn't see it as I do now." Carefully she traced her finger along the scar  running up his side. "Does this trouble you?"
He felt the line of heat, took her hand quickly. "No." Even now, he thought, she  would try to heal. "There will be no pain tonight, for either of us."
He lowered to her, took her mouth again. There was a hint of urgency now, a  taste of need. So much to feel, she mused dreamily. So much to know. And with  the warmth of him coursing through her, she enfolded him. There was a freedom  here, she discovered, in being about to touch him, stroke, explore, with no  purpose other than pleasure. The hard muscles, the pucker in his smooth skin  that was a scar of battle.
The strength of him excited her, challenged her own so that her hands, her  mouth, her movements under him became more demanding.
This was fire, she realized. The first true licks of flame that brought nothing  but delight and a bright, blinding need for more.
"I'm not fragile." Indeed she felt alive with power, nearly frantic with a kind  of raging hunger. "Show me more. Show me all."
No matter how his blood swam, he would be careful with her. But he could show  her more. His hands roamed down her body, over her thighs. As if she knew what  they both needed, she opened to him. Her breath came short, shivering out with  quick little moans. Her nails bit into his back as she began to writhe under  him.
He lifted his head and watched her fly over that first peak of pleasure.
Heat, such heat. She had never known such fire outside of healing magic. And  this, somehow, this went deeper, spread wider. Her body was like a single wild  flame. She cried out, the wanton sound of her own voice another shock to her  system. Beyond control, beyond reason, she gripped his hips and called out his  name.
When he plunged into her, the glory of it was like a shaft of lightning, bright  and brilliant. There was a storm of those glorious and violent shocks as he  thrust inside her. She locked herself around him, her face pressed against his  neck and repeated his name as that miraculous heat consumed her.
"Sweetheart." When he could speak again, he did so lazily, with his head nuzzled  between her breasts. "You are the most clever of students."
She felt golden, beautiful, and for the first time in her memory, more woman  than queen. For one night, she told herself, one miraculous night, she would be  a woman.
"I'm sure I could do better, my lord, with a few more lessons."
She was flushed, all but glowing, and her hair was a tangle of honeyed ropes  over the white linen. "I believe you're right." He grinned and nibbled his way  up her throat, lingered over her lips, then shifted so that she lay curled  beside him.
"I'm so warm," she told him. "I never knew what it was like to be so warm. Tell  me, Kylar, what's it like to have the sun on your face, full and bright?"
"It can burn."
"Truly?"
"Truly." He began to toy with her hair. "And the skin reddens or browns from  it." He ran a fingertip down her arm. Pale as milk, soft as satin. "It can  dazzle the eyes." He turned so he could look down at her. "You dazzle mine."
"There was an old man who was my tutor when I was a child. He'd been all over  the world. He told me of great tombs in a desert where the sun beat like fury,  of green hills where flowers bloomed wild and the rain came warm. Of wide oceans  where great fish swam that could swallow a boat whole and dragons with silver  wings flew. He taught me so many marvelous things, but he never taught me the  wonders that you have tonight."
"There's never been another. Not like you. Not like this."
Because she read the truth in his eyes, she drew him closer. "Show me more."
As they loved, inside a case of ice, the first green bud on a blackened stalk  unfurled to a single tender leaf. And a second began to form.
When he woke, she was gone. At first he was baffled, for he slept like a  soldier, and a soldier slept light as a cat. But he could see she had stirred  the fire for him and had left his clothes folded neatly on the chest at the foot  of the bed.
It occurred to him that he'd slept only an hour or two, but obviously like the  dead. The woman was tireless—bless her—and had demanded a heroic number of  lessons through the night.
A pity, he mused, she hadn't lingered in bed a bit longer that morning. He  believed he might have managed another.
He rose to draw back the hangings on the windows. He judged it to be well into  the morning, as her people were about their chores. He couldn't tell the time by  the light here, for it varied so little from dawn to dusk. It was always soft  and dull, with that veil of white over sky and sun. Even now a thin snow was  falling.
How did she bear it? Day after day of cold and gloom. How did she stay sane, and  more—content? Why should so good and loving a queen be cursed to live her life  without warmth?
He turned, studied the chamber. He'd paid little attention to it the night  before. He'd seen only her. Now he noted that she lived simply. The fabrics were  rich indeed, but old and growing thin.
There had been silver and crystal in the dining hall, he recalled, but here her  candlestands were of simple metal, the bowl for her washing a crude clay. The  bed, the chest, the wardrobe were all beautifully worked with carved roses. But  there was only a single chair and table.
He saw no pretty bottles, no silks, no trinket boxes.
She'd seen to it that the appointments in his guest chamber were suited to his  rank, but for herself, she lived nearly as spartanly as a peasant.
His mother's ladies had more fuss and fancy in their chambers than this queen. 
Then he glanced at the fire and with a clutching in his belly realized she would  have used much of the furniture for fuel, and fabric for clothes for her people.
She'd worn jewels when they dined. Even now he could see how they gleamed and  sparkled over her. But what good were diamonds and pearls to her? They couldn't  be sold or bartered, they put no food on the table.
A diamond's fire brought no warmth to chilled bones.
He washed in the bowl of water she'd left for him, and dressed.
There on the wall he saw the single tapestry, faded with age. Her rose garden,  in full bloom, and as magnificent in silk thread as he'd imagined it. Alive with  color and shape, it was a lush paradise caught in a lush moment of summer.
There was a figure of a woman seated on the jeweled bench beneath the spreading  branches of the great bush that bloomed wild and free. And a man knelt at her  feet, offering a single red rose.
He trailed his fingers over the threads and thought he would give his life and  more to be able to offer her one red rose.
He was directed by a servant to Phelan's room, where the young bard had his  quarters with a gaggle of other boys. The other boys gone, Phelan was sitting up  in the bed with Deirdre for company. The chamber was small, Kylar noted, simple,  but warmer by far than the queen's own.
She was urging a bowl of broth on Phelan and laughing in delight at the faces he  made.
"A toad!"
"No, my lady. A monkey. Like the one in the book you lent me." He bared his  teeth and made her laugh again.
"Even a monkey must eat."
"They eat the long yellow fruit."
"Then you'll pretend this is the long yellow fruit." She snuck a spoonful in his  mouth.
He grimaced. "I don't like the taste."
"I know, the medicine spoils it a bit. But my favorite monkey needs to regain  his strength. Eat it for me, won't you?"
"For you, my lady." On a heavy sigh, the boy took the bowl and spoon himself. 
"Then can I get up and play?"
"Tomorrow, you may get up for a short while."
"My lady." There was a wealth of horror and grief in the tone. Kylar could only  sympathize. He'd once been a small boy and knew the tedium of being forced to  stay idle in bed.
"A wounded soldier must recover to fight another day," Kylar said as he crossed  to the bed. "Were you not a soldier when you rode the horse on the stairs?"
Phelan nodded, staring up at Kylar as if fascinated. To him the prince was as  magnificent and foreign as every hero in every story he'd ever heard or read. "I  was, my lord."
"Well, then. Do you know your lady kept me abed three full days when I came to  her wounded?" He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over and sniffed at the  bowl. "And forced the same broth on me. It's a cruelty, but a soldier bears such  hardships."
"Phelan will not be a soldier," Deirdre said firmly. "He is a bard."
"Ah." Kylar inclined his head in a bow. "There is no man of more import than a  bard."
"More than a soldier?" Phelan asked, with eyes wide.
"A bard tells the tales and sings the songs. Without him, we would know  nothing."
"I'm making a story about you, my lord." Excited now, Phelan spooned up his  broth. "About how you came from beyond, traveled the Forgotten wounded and near  death, and how my lady healed you."
"I'd like to hear the story when you've finished it."
"You can make the story while you rest and recover." Pleased that the bowl was  empty, Deirdre took it as she stood, then leaned over to kiss Phelan's brow.
"Will you come back, my lady?"
"I will. But now you rest, and dream your story. Later, I'll bring you a new  book."
"Be well, young bard." Kylar took Deirdre's hand to lead her out.
"You rose early," he commented.
"There's much to be done."
"I find myself jealous of a ten-year-old boy."
"Nearly twelve is Phelan. He's small for his age."
"Regardless, you didn't sit and feed me broth or kiss my brow when I was well  enough to sit up on my own."
"You were not so sweet-natured a patient."
"I would be now." He kissed her, surprised that she didn't flush and flutter as  females were wont to do. Instead she answered his lips with a reckless passion  that stirred his appetite. "Put me to bed, and I'll show you."
She laughed and nudged him back. "That will have to wait. I have duties."
"I'll help you."
Her face softened. "You have helped me already. But come. I'll give you work."



Chapter 8


There was no lack of work. The prince of Mrydon found himself tending goats and  chickens. Shoveling manure, hauling endless buckets of snow to a low fire,  carting precious wood to a communal pile.
The first day he labored he tired so quickly that it scored his pride. On the  second, muscles that had gone unused during his recovery ached continually.
But the discomfort had the benefit of Deirdre rubbing him everywhere with one of  her balms. And made the ensuing loving both merry and slippery.
She was a joy in bed, and he saw none of the sadness in her eyes there. Her  laughter, the sound he'd longed to hear, came often.
He grew to know her people and was surprised and impressed by the lack of  bitterness in them. He thought them more like a family, and though some were  lazy, some grim, they shouldered together. They knew, he realized, that the  survival of the whole depended on each.
That, he thought, was another of Deirdre's gifts. Her people held the will to go  on, day after day, because their lady did. He couldn't imagine his own soldiers  bearing the hardships and the tedium with half as much courage.
He came upon her in her garden. Though the planting and maintenance there was  divided, as all chores were in Rose Castle, he knew she often chose to work or  walk there alone.
She did so now, carefully watering her plantings with snowmelt.
"Your goat herd has increased by one." He glanced down at his stained tunic. 
"It's the first such birthing I've attended."
Deirdre straightened, eased her back. "The kid and the she-goat are well?"
"Well and fine, yes."
"Why wasn't I called?"
"There was no need. Here, let me." He took the spouted bucket from her. "Your  people work hard, Deirdre, but none as hard as their queen."
"The garden is a pleasure to me."
"So I've seen." He glanced up at the wide dome. "A clever device."
"My grandfather's doing." Since he was watering, she knelt and began to harvest  turnips. "He inherited a love for gardening from his mother, I'm told. It was  she who designed and planted the rose garden. I'm named for her. When he was a  young man, he traveled, and he studied with engineers and scientists and learned  much. I think he was a great man."
"I've heard of him, though I thought it all legend." Kylar looked back at her as  she placed turnips in a sack. "It's said he was a sorcerer."
Her lips curved a little. "Perhaps. Magic may come through the blood. I don't  know. I do know he gathered many of the books in the library, and built this  dome for his mother when she was very old. Here she could start seedlings before  the planting time and grow the flowers she loved, even in the cold. It must have  given her great pleasure to work here when her roses and other flowers were  dormant with winter."
She sat back on her heels, looked over her rows and beyond to the sad and  spindly daisies she prized like rubies. "I wonder if somehow he knew that his  gift to his mother would one day save his people from starvation."
"You run low on fuel."
"Yes. The men will cut another tree in a few days." It always pained her to  order it. For each tree cut meant one fewer left. Though the forest was thick  and vast, without new growth there would someday be no more.
"Deirdre, how long can you go on this way?"
"As long as we must."
"It's not enough." Temper that he hadn't realized was building inside him burst  out. He cast the bucket aside and grabbed her hands.
She'd been waiting for this. Through the joy, through the sweetness, she'd known  the storm would come. The storm that would end the time out of time. He was  healed now, and a warrior prince, so healed, could not abide monotony.
"It's enough," she said calmly, "because it's what we have."
"For how much longer?" he demanded. "Ten years? Fifty?"
"For as long as there is."
Though she tried to pull away, he turned her hands over. "You work them raw,  haul buckets like a milkmaid."
"Should I sit on my throne with soft white hands folded and let my people work?"
"There are other choices."
"Not for me."
"Come with me." He gripped her arms now, tight, firm, as if he held his own  life.
Oh, she'd dreamed of it, in her most secret heart. Riding off with him, flying  through the forest and away to beyond. Toward the sun, the green, the flowers.
Into summer.
"I can't. You know I can't."
"We'll find the way out. When we're home, I'll gather men, horses, provisions. 
I'll come back for your people. I swear it to you."
"You'll find the way out." She laid her hands on his chest, over the thunder of  his heart. "I believe it. If I didn't I would have you chained before I'd allow  you to leave. I won't risk your death. But the way back…" She shook her head,  turned away from him when his grip relaxed.
"You don't believe I'll come back."
She closed her eyes because she didn't believe it, not fully. How could he turn  his back on the sun and risk everything to travel here again for what he'd known  for only a few weeks? "Even if you tried, there's no certainty you'd find us  again. Your coming was a miracle. Your safe passage home will be another. I  don't ask for three in one lifetime."
She drew herself up. "I won't ask for your life, nor will I accept it. I will  send a man with you—my best, my strongest—if you will take him. If you will give  him good horses, and provisions, I will send others if the gods show him the way  back again."
"But you won't leave."
"I'm bound to stay, as you are bound to go." She turned back, and though tears  stung her throat, her eyes were dry. "It's said that if I leave here while  winter holds this place, Rose Castle will vanish from sight, and all within will  be trapped for eternity."
"That's nonsense."
"Can you say that?" She gestured to the white sky above the dome. "Can you be  sure of it? I am queen of this world, and I am prisoner."
"Then bid me stay. You've only to ask it of me."
"I won't. And you can't. First, you're destined to be king. It is your fate, and 
I have seen the crown you'll wear inside your own mind and heart. And more, your  family would grieve and your people mourn. With that on your conscience, the  gift we found together would be forever tainted. One day you would go in any  case."
"So little faith in me. I ask you this: Do you love me?"
Her eyes filled, sheened, but the tears did not fall. "I care for you. You  brought light inside me."
"'Care' is a weak word. Do you love me?"
"My heart is frozen. I have no love to give."
"That is the first lie you've told me. I've seen you cuddle a fretful babe in  your arms, risk your life to save a small boy."
"That is a different matter."
"I've been inside you." Frustrated fury ran over his face. "I've seen your eyes  as you opened to me."
She began to tremble. "Passion is not love. Surely my father had passion for my  mother, for her sister. But love he had for neither. I care for you. I desire  you. That is all I have to give. The gift of a heart, woman to man, has doomed  me."
"So because your father was feckless, your mother foolish, and your aunt  vindictive, you close yourself off from the only true warmth there is?"
"I can't give what I don't have."
"Then take this, Deirdre of the Sea of Ice. I love you, and I will never love  another. I leave tomorrow. I ask you again, come with me."
"I can't. I can't," she repeated, taking his arm. "I beg you. Our time is so  short, let us not have this chill between us. I've given you more than ever I  gave a man. I pledge to you now there will never be another. Let it be enough."
"It isn't enough. If you loved, you'd know that." One hand gripped the hilt of  his sword as if he would draw it and fight what stood between them. Instead, he  stepped back from her. "You make your own prison, my lady," he said, and left  her.
Alone, Deirdre nearly sank to her knees. But despair, she thought, would solve  no more than Kylar's bright sword would. So she picked up the pail.
"Why didn't you tell him?"
Deirdre jolted, nearly splashing water over the rim. "You have no right to  listen to private words, Orna."
Ignoring the stiff tone, Orna came forward to heft the bag of turnips. "Hasn't  he the right to know what may break the spell?"
"No." She said it fiercely. "His choices, his actions must be his own. He is  entitled to that. He won't be influenced by a sense of honor, for his honor runs  through him like his blood. I am no damsel who needs rescuing by a man."
"You are a woman who is loved by one."
"Men love many women."
"By the blood, child! Will you let those who made you ruin you?"
"Should I give my heart, take his, at the risk of sacrificing all who depend on  me?"
"It doesn't have to be that way. The curse—"
"I don't know love." When she whirled around, her face was bright with temper. 
"How can I trust what I don't know? She who bore me couldn't love me. He who  made me never even looked on my face. I know duty, and I know the tenderness I  feel for you and my people. I know joy and sadness. And I know fear."
"It's fear that traps you."
"Haven't I the right to fear?" Deirdre demanded. "When I hold lives in my hands,  day and night? I cannot leave here."
"No, you cannot leave here." The undeniable truth of that broke Orna's heart. 
"But you can love."
"And loving, risk trapping him in this place. This cold place. Harsh payment for  what he's given me. No, he leaves on the morrow, and what will be will be."
"And if you're with child?"
"I pray I am, for it is my duty." Her shoulders slumped. "I fear I am, for then 
I will have imprisoned his child, our child, here." She pressed a hand to her  stomach. "I dreamed of a child, Orna, nursing at my breast and watching me with  my lover's eyes, and what moved through me was so fierce and strong. The woman I  am would ride away with him to save what grows inside me. The queen cannot. You  will not speak of this to him, or anyone."
"No, my lady."
Deirdre nodded. "Send Dilys to me, and see that provisions are set aside for two  men. They will have a long and difficult journey. I await Dilys in the parlor."
She set the bucket aside and walked quickly away.
Before going inside, Orna hurried through the archway and into the rose garden.
When she saw that the tiny leaf she'd watched unfurl from a single green bud was  withering, she wept.



Chapter 9


Even pride couldn't stop her from going to him. When time was so short there was  no room for pride in her world. She brought him gifts she hoped he would accept.
And she brought him herself.
"Kylar." She waited at his chamber door until he turned from the window where he  stared out at the dark night. So handsome, she thought, her dark prince. "Would  you speak with me?"
"I'm trying to understand you."
That alone, that he would try, lightened her heart. "I wish you could." She came  forward and laid what she carried on the chest by his bed. "I've brought you a  cloak, since yours was ruined. It was my grandfather's, and with its lining of  fur is warmer than what you had. It befits a prince. And this brooch that was  his. Will you take it?"
He crossed to her, picked up the gold brooch with its carved rose. "Why do you  give it to me?"
"Because I treasure it." She lifted a hand, closed it over his on the brooch. 
"You think I don't cherish what you've given me, what you've been to me. I can't  let you leave believing that. I can't bear the thought of you going when there's  anger and hard words between us."
There was a storm in his eyes as they met hers. "I could take you from here,  whether you're willing or not. No one could stop me."
"I would not allow it, nor would my people."
He stepped closer, and circled her throat with his hand with just enough force  that the pulse against his palm fluttered with fear. "No one could stop me." His  free hand clamped over hers before she could draw her dagger. "Not even you."
"I would never forgive you for it. Nor lie willingly with you again. Anger makes  you think of using force as an answer. You know it's not."
"How can you be so calm, and so sure, Deirdre?"
"I'm sure of nothing. And I am not calm. I want to go with you. I want to run  and never look back, to live with you in the sunlight. To once smell the grass,  to breathe the summer. Once," she said in a fierce whisper. "And what would that  make me?"
"My wife."
The hand under his trembled, then steadied before she drew it away. "You honor  me, but I will never marry."
"Because of who made you, how you were made?" He took her by the shoulders now  so that their gazes locked. "Can you be so wise, so warm, Deirdre, and at the  same time so cold and closed?"
"I will never marry because my most sacred trust is to do no harm. If I were to  take a husband, he would be king. I would share the welfare of all my people  with him. This is a heavy burden."
"Do you think I would shirk it?"
"I don't, no. I've been inside your mind and heart. You keep your promises, 
Kylar, even if they harm you."
"So you spurn me to save me?"
"Spurn you? I have lain with you. I have shared with you my body, my mind, as I  have never shared with another. Will never share again in my lifetime. If I take  your vow and keep you here, if you keep your vow and stay, how many will be  harmed? What destinies would we alter if you did not take your place as king in  your own land? And if I went with you, my people would lose hope. They would  have no one to look to for guidance. No one to heal them. There is no one here  to take my place."
She thought of the child she knew grew inside her.
"I accept that you must go, and honor you for it," she said. "Why can't you  accept that I must stay?"
"You see only black and white."
"I know only black and white." Her voice turned desperate now, with a pleading  he'd never heard from her. "My life, the whole of it, has been here. And one  single purpose was taught to me. To keep my people alive and well. I've done  this as best I can."
"No one could have done better."
"But it isn't finished. You want to understand me?" Now she moved to the window,  pulled the hangings over the black glass to shut out the dark and the cold. 
"When I was a babe, my mother gave me to Orna. I never remember my mother's arms  around me. She was kind, but she couldn't love me. I have my father's eyes, and  looking at me caused her pain. I felt that pain."
She pressed her hands to her heart. "I felt it inside me, the hurt and the  longing and the despair. So I closed myself off from it. Hadn't I the right?"
There was no room for anger in him now. "She had no right to turn from you."
"She did turn from me, and that can't be changed. I was tended well, and taught. 
I had duties, and I had playmates. And once, when I was very young there were  dogs. They died off, one by one. When the last… his name was Griffen—a foolish  name for a dog, I suppose. He was very old, and I couldn't heal him. When he  died, it broke something in me. That's foolish, too, isn't it, to be shattered  by the death of a dog."
"No. You loved him."
"Oh, I did." She sat now, with a weary sigh. "So much love I had for that old  hound. And so much fury when I lost him. I was mad with grief and tried to  destroy the ice rose. I thought if I could chop it down, hack it to bits, all  this would end. Somehow it would end, for even death could never be so bleak. 
But a sword is nothing against magic. My mother sent for me. There would be  loss, she told me. I had to accept it. I had duties, and the most vital was to  care for my people. To put their well-being above my own. She was right."
"As a queen," Kylar agreed. "But not as a mother."
"How could she give what she didn't have? I realize now, with her bond with the  animals, she must have felt grief as I did for the loss. She was grief, my  mother. I watched her pine and yearn for the man who'd ruined her. Even as she  died, she wept for him. His deceit, his selfishness stole the color and warmth  from her life, and doomed her and her people to eternal winter. Yet she died  loving him, and I vowed that nothing and no one would ever rule my heart. It is  trapped inside me, as frozen as the rose in the tower of ice outside this  window. If it were free, Kylar, I would give it to you."
"You trap yourself. It's not a sword that will cut through the ice. It's love."
"What I have is yours. I wish it could be more. If I were not queen, I would go  with you on the morrow. I would trust you to take me to beyond, or would die  fighting to get there with you. But I can't go, and you can't stay. Kylar, I saw  your mother's face."
"My mother?"
"In your mind, your heart, when I healed you. I would have given anything,  anything, to have seen such love and pride for me in the eyes of the one who  bore me. You can't let her grieve for a son who still lives."
Guilt clawed at him. "She would want me happy."
"I believe she would. But if you stay, she will never know what became of you. 
Whatever you want for yourself, you have too much inside you for her to leave  her not knowing. And too much honor to turn away from your duties to your family  and your own land."
His fists clenched. She had, with the skill of a soldier, outflanked him. "Does  it always come to duty?"
"We're born what we're born, Kylar. Neither you nor I could live well or happy  if we cast off our duty."
"I would rather face a battle without sword or shield than leave you."
"We've been given these weeks. If I ask you for one more night, will you turn me  away?"
"No." He reached for her hand. "I won't turn you away."
He loved her tenderly, then fiercely. And at last, when dawn trembled to life,  he loved her desperately. When the night was over, she didn't cling, nor did she  weep. A part of him wished she would do both. But the woman he loved was strong,  and helped him prepare for his journey without tears.
"There are rations for two weeks." She prayed it would be enough. "Take whatever  you need from the forest." As he cinched the saddle on his horse, Deirdre  slipped a hand under his cloak, laid it on his side.
And he moved away. "No." More than once during the night, she'd tried to explore  his healing wound. "If I have pain, it's mine. I won't have it be yours. Not  again."
"You're stubborn."
"I bow before you, my lady. The queen of willful."
She managed a smile and laid a hand on the arm of the man she'd chosen to guide  the prince. "Dilys. You are Prince Kylar's man now."
He was young, tall as a tree and broad of shoulder. "My lady, I am the queen's  man."
This time she touched his face. They had grown up together, and once had romped  as children. "Your queen asks that you pledge now your loyalty, your fealty, and  your life to Prince Kylar."
He knelt in the deep and crusted snow. "If it is your wish, my queen, I so  pledge."
She drew a ring from her finger, pressed it into his hand. "Live." She bent to  kiss both his cheeks. "And if you cannot return—"
"My lady."
"If you cannot," she continued, lifting his head so their gazes met, "know you  have my blessing, and my wish for your happiness. Keep the prince safe," she  whispered. "Do not leave him until he's safe. It is the last I will ever ask of  you."
She stepped back. "Kylar, prince of Mrydon, we wish you safe journey."
He took the hand she offered. "Deirdre, queen of the Sea of Ice, my thanks for  your hospitality, and my good wishes to you and your people." But he didn't  release her hand. Instead, he took a ring of his own and slid it onto her  finger. "I pledge to you my heart."
"Kylar—"
"I pledge to you my life." And before the people gathered in the courtyard, he  pulled her into his arms and kissed her, long and deep. "Ask me now, one thing. 
Anything."
"I will ask you this. When you're safe again, when you find summer, pluck the  first rose you see. And think of me. I will know, and be content."
Even now, he thought, she would not ask him to come back for her. He touched a  hand to the brooch pinned to his cloak. "Every rose I see is you." He vaulted  onto his horse. "I will come back."
He spurred his horse toward the archway with Dilys trotting beside him. The  crowd rushed after them, calling, cheering. Unable to resist, Deirdre climbed to  the battlements, stood in the slow drift of snow and watched him ride away from  her.
His mount's hooves rang on the ice, and his black cloak snapped in the frigid  wind. Then he whirled his horse, and reared high.
"I will come back!" he shouted.
When his voice echoed back to her, over her, she nearly believed it. She stood,  her red cloak drawn tight, until he disappeared into the forest.
Alone, her legs trembling, she made her way down to the rose garden. There was a  burning inside her chest, and an ache deep, deep within her belly. When her  vision blurred, she stopped to catch her breath. With a kind of dull surprise  she reached up to touch her cheeks and found them wet.
Tears, she thought. After so many years. The burning inside her chest became a  throbbing. So. She closed her eyes and stumbled forward. So, the frozen chamber  that trapped her heart could melt after all. And, melting, bring tears.
Bring a pain that was like what came with healing.
She collapsed at the foot of the great ice rose, buried her face in her hands.
"I love." She sobbed now, rocking herself for comfort. "I love him with all I am  or will ever be. And it hurts. How cruel to show me this, to bring me this. How  bitter your heart must have been to drape cold over what should be warmth. But  you did not love. I know that now."
Steadying as best she could, she turned her face up to the dull sky. "Even my  mother did not love, for she willed him back with every breath. I love, and I  wish the one who has my heart safe, and whole and warm. For I would not wish  this barren life on him. I'll know when he feels the sun and plucks the rose. 
And I will be content."
She laid a hand on her heart, on her belly. "Your cold magic can't touch what's  inside me now."
And drawing herself up, turning away, she didn't see the delicate leaf  struggling to live on a tiny green bud.
The world was wild, and the air itself roared like wolves. The storm sprang up  like a demon, hurling ice and snow like frozen arrows. Night fell so fast that  there was barely time to gather branches for fuel.
Wrapped in his cloak, Kylar brooded into the fire. The trees were thick here,  tall as giants, dead as stones. They had gone beyond where Deirdre harvested  trees and into what was called the Forgotten.
"When the storm passes, can you find your way back from here?" Kylar demanded. 
Though they sat close to warm each other, he was forced to shout to be heard  over the screaming storm.
Dilys's eyes, all that showed beneath the cloak and hood, blinked once. "Yes, my  lord."
"Then when travel is possible again, you'll go back to Rose Castle."
"No, my lord."
It took Kylar a moment. "You will do as I bid. You have pledged your obedience  to me."
"My queen charged me to see you safe. It was the last she said to me. I will see  you safe, my lord."
"I'll travel more quickly without you."
"I don't think this is so," Dilys said in his slow and thoughtful way. "I will  see you home, my lord. You cannot go back to her until you have reached home. My  lady needs you to come back to her."
"She doesn't believe I will. Why do you?"
"Because you are meant to. You must sleep now. The road ahead is longer than the  road behind."
The storm raged for hours. It was still dark, still brutal when Kylar awoke. 
Snow covered him, turning his hair and cloak white, and even the fur did little  to fight the canny cold.
He moved silently to his horse. It would take, he knew, minutes only to move far  enough from camp that his trail would be lost. In such a hellish world, you  could stand all but shoulder to shoulder with another and not see him beside  you.
The man Dilys would have no choice but to return home when he woke and found  himself alone.
But though he walked his horse soundlessly through the deep snow, he'd gone no  more than fifty yards when Dilys was once more trudging beside him.
Brave of heart and loyal to the bone, Kylar thought. Deirdre had chosen her man  well.
"You have ears like a bat," Kylar said, resigned now.
Dilys grinned. "I do."
Kylar stopped, jumped down from the horse. "Mount," he ordered. "If we're  traveling through hell together, we'll take turns riding." When Dilys only stood  and stared, Kylar swore. "Will you argue with me over everything or do as your  lady commanded and I now bid?"
"I would not argue, my lord. But I don't know how to mount the horse."
Kylar stood in the swirling snow, cold to the marrow of his bones, and laughed  until he thought he would burst from it.



Chapter 10
Contents - Prev

On the fourth day of the journey, the wind rose so fierce that they walked in  blindness. Hoods, cloaks, even Cathmor's dark hide were white now. Snow coated 
Dilys's eyebrows and the stubble of his beard, making him look like an old man  rather than a youth not yet twenty.
Color, Kylar thought, was a stranger to this terrible world. Warmth was only a  dim memory in the Forgotten.
When Dilys rode, Kylar waded through snow that reached his waist. At times he  wondered if it would soon simply bury them both.
Fatigue stole through him and with it a driving urge just to lie down, to sleep  his way to a quiet death. But each time he stumbled, he pulled himself upright  again.
He had given her a pledge, and he would keep it. She had willed him to live,  through pain and through magic. So he would live. And he would go back to her.
Walking or riding, he slipped into dreams. In dreams he sat with Deirdre on a  jeweled bench in a garden alive with roses, brilliant with sunlight.
Her hands were warm in his.
So they traveled a full week, step by painful step, through ice and wind,  through cold and dark.
"Do you have a sweetheart, Dilys?"
"Sir?"
"A sweetheart?" Taking his turn in the saddle, Kylar rode on a tiring Cathmor  with his chin on his chest. "A girl you love."
"I do. Her name is Wynne. She works in the kitchens. We'll wed when I return."
Kylar smiled, drifted. The man never lost hope, he thought, nor wavered in his  steady faith. "I will give you a hundred gold coins as a marriage gift."
"My thanks, my lord. What is gold coins?"
Kylar managed a weak chuckle. "As useless just now as a bull with teats. And  what is a bull, you'd ask," Kylar continued, anticipating his man. "For surely  you've seen a teat in your day."
"I have, my lord, and a wonder of nature they are to a man. A bull I have heard  of. It is a beast, is it not? I read a story once—" Dilys broke off, raising his  head sharply at the sound overhead. With a shout, he snagged the horse's reins,  dragged at them roughly. Cathmor screamed and stumbled. Only instinct and a  spurt of will kept Kylar in the saddle as the great tree fell inches from 
Cathmor's rearing hooves.
"Ears like a bat," Kylar said a second time while his heart thundered in his  ears. The tree was fully six feet across, more than a hundred in length. One  more step in its path and they would have been crushed. "It is a sign."
The shock roused Kylar enough to clear his mind. "It is a dead tree broken by  the weight of snow and ice."
"It is a sign," Dilys said stubbornly. "Its branches point there." He gestured,  and still holding the reins, he began to lead the horse to the left.
"You would follow the branches of a dead tree?" Kylar shook his head, shrugged. 
"Very well, then. How could it matter?"
He dozed and dreamed for an hour. Walked blind and stiff for another. But when  they stopped for midday rations from their dwindling supply, Dilys held up a  hand.
"What is that sound?"
"The bloody wind. Is it never silent?"
"No, my lord. Beneath the wind. Listen." He closed his eyes. "It is like…  music."
"I hear nothing, and certainly no music."
"There."
When Dilys went off at a stumbling run, Kylar shouted after him. Furious that  the man would lose himself without food or horse, he mounted as quickly as he  could manage and hurried after.
He found Dilys standing knee-deep in snow, one hand lifted, and trembling. "What  is it? My lord, what is this thing?"
"It's only a stream." Concerned that the man's mind had snapped, Kylar leaped  down from the horse. "It's just a… a stream," he whispered as the import raced  through him. "Running water. Not ice, but running water. The snow." He turned a  quick circle. "It's not so deep here. And the air. Is it warmer?"
"It's beautiful." Dilys was hypnotized by the clear water rushing and bubbling  over rock. "It sings."
"Yes, by the blood, it is, and it does. Come. Quick now. We follow the stream."
The wind still blew, but the snow was thinning. He could see clearly now, the  shape of the trees, and tracks from game. He had only to find the strength to  draw his bow, and they would have meat.
There was life here.
Rocks, stumps, brambles began to show themselves beneath the snow. The first  call of a bird had Dilys falling to his knees in shock.
Snow had melted from their hair, their cloaks, but now it was Dilys's face that  was white as ice.
"It's a magpie," Kylar told him, both amused and touched when his stalwart man  trembled at the sound. "A song of summer. Rise now. We've left winter behind  us."
Soon Cathmor's hooves hit ground, solid and springy, and a single beam of light  streamed through trees that were thick with leaves.
"What magic is this?"
"Sun." Kylar closed his hand over the rose brooch. "We found the sun." He  dismounted and on legs weak and weary walked slowly to a brilliant splash of  color. Here, at the edge of the Forgotten, grew wild roses, red as blood.
He plucked one, breathed in its sweet scent, and said: "Deirdre."
And she, carrying a bucket of melted snow to her garden, swayed. She pressed a  hand to her heart as it leaped with joy. "He is home."
She moved through her days now with an easy contentment. Her lover was safe, and  the child they'd made warm inside her. The child would be loved, would be  cherished. Her heart would never be cold again.
If there was yearning in her, it was natural. But she would rather yearn than  have him trapped in her world.
On the night she knew he was safe, she gave a celebration with wine and music  and dancing. The story would be told, she decreed, of Kylar of Mrydon. Kylar the  brave. And of the faithful Dilys. And all of her people, all who came after,  would know of it.
On a silver chain around her neck, she wore his ring.
She hummed as she cleared the paths in her rose garden.
"You sent men out to scout for Dilys," Orna said.
"It is probably too early. But I know he'll start for home as soon as he's  able."
"And Prince Kylar. You don't look for him?"
"He doesn't belong here. He has family in his world, and one day a throne. I  found love with him, and it blooms in me—heart and womb. So I wish for him  health and happiness. And one day, when these memories have faded from his mind,  a woman who loves him as I do."
Orna glanced toward the ice rose, but said nothing of it. "Do you doubt his love  for you?"
"No." Her smile was warm and sweet as she said it. "But I've learned, Orna. I  believe he was sent to me to teach me what I never knew. Love can't come from  cold. If it does, it's selfish, and is not love but simply desire. It gives me  such joy to think of him in the sunlight. I don't wish for him as my mother  wished for my father, or curse him as my aunt cursed us all. I no longer see my  life here as prison or duty. Without it, I would never have known him."
"You're wiser than those who made you."
"I'm luckier," Deirdre corrected, then leaned on her shovel as Phelan rushed  into the garden.
"My lady, I've finished my story. Will you hear it?"
"I will. Fetch that shovel by the wall. You can tell me while we work."
"It's a grand story." He ran for the shovel and began heaving snow with great  enthusiasm. "The best I've done. And it begins like this: Once, a brave and  handsome prince from a far-off land fought a great battle against men who would  plunder his kingdom and kill his people. His name was Kylar, and his land was 
Mrydon."
"It is a good beginning, Phelan the bard."
"Yes, my lady. But it gets better. Kylar the brave defeated the invaders, but,  sorely wounded, became lost in the great forest known as the Forgotten."
Deirdre continued to work, smiling as the boy's words brought her memories back  so clearly. She remembered her first glimpse of those bold blue eyes, that first  foolish brush of lips.
She would give Phelan precious paper and ink to scribe the story. She would bind  it herself in leather tanned from deer hide. In this way, she thought with  pride, her love would live forever.
One day, their child would read the story, and know what a man his father was.
She cleared the path past jeweled benches, toward the great frozen rose while  the boy told his tale and labored tirelessly beside her.
"And the beautiful queen gave him a rose carved on a brooch that he wore pinned  over his heart. For days and nights, with his faithful horse, Cathmor, and the  valiant and true Dilys, he fought the wild storms, crossed the iced shadows of  the Forgotten. It was his lady's love that sustained him."
"You have a romantic heart, young bard."
"It is a true story, my lady. I saw it in my head." He continued on,  entertaining and delighting her with words of Dilys's stubborn loyalty, of black  nights and white days, of a giant tree crashing and leading them toward a stream  where water ran over rock like music.
"Sunlight struck the water and made it sparkle like diamonds."
A bit surprised by the description, she glanced toward him. "Do you think sun on  water makes diamonds?"
"It makes tiny bright lights, my lady. It dazzles the eye."
Something inside her heart trembled. "Dazzles the eye," she repeated on a  whisper. "Yes, I have heard of this."
"And at the edge of the Forgotten grew wild roses, fire-red. The handsome prince  plucked one, as he had promised, and when its sweetness surrounded him, he said  his lady's name."
"It's a lovely story."
"It is not the end." He all but danced with excitement.
"Tell me the rest, then." She started to smile, to rest on her shovel. Then  there came the sound of wild cheering and shouts from without the garden.
"This is the end!" The boy threw his shovel carelessly aside and raced to the  archway. "He is come!"
"Who?" she began, but couldn't hear her own voice over the shouts, over the  pounding of her blood.
Suddenly the light went brilliant, searing into her eyes so that with a little  cry of shock, she threw a hand up to shield them. Wild wind turned to breeze  soft as silk. And she heard her name spoken.
Her hand trembled as she lowered it, and her eyes blinked against a light she'd  never known. She saw him in the archway of the garden, surrounded by a kind of  shimmering halo that gleamed like melted gold.
"Kylar." Her heart, every chamber filled with joy, bounded in her breast. Her  shovel clattered on the path as she ran to him.
He caught her up, spinning her in circles as she clung to him. "Oh, my love, my  heart. How can this be?" Her tears fell on his neck, her kisses on his face. 
"You should not be here. You should never have come back. How can I let you go  again?"
"Look at me. Sweetheart, look at me." He tipped up her chin. "So there are tears  now. I'd hoped there would be. I ask you again. Do you love me, Deirdre?"
"So much I could live on nothing else my whole life. I would not have had to  risk yours to come back." She laid her palms on his cheeks. Then her lips  trembled open, her fingers shook. "You came back," she whispered.
"I would have crossed hell for you. Perhaps I did."
She closed her eyes. "That light. What is that light?"
"It is the sun. Unveiled. Here, take off your cloak. Feel the sun, Deirdre."
"I'm not cold."
"You'll never be cold again. Open your eyes, my love, and look. Winter is over."
Gripping his hand, she turned to watch the snow melting away, vanishing before  her staring eyes. Blackened stalks began to crackle, break out green and at  their feet soft, tender blades of grass spread in a shimmering carpet.
"The sky." Dazed, she reached up as if she could touch it. "It's blue. Like your  eyes. Feel it, feel the sun." She held her hands out to cup the warmth.
On a cry of wonder, she knelt, ran her hands over the soft grass, brought her  hands to her face to breathe in the scent. Though tears continued to fall, she  laughed and held those hands out to him. "Is it grass?"
"It is."
"Oh." She covered her face with her hands again, as if she could drink it. "Such  perfume."
He knelt with her, and would remember, he knew, the rapture on her face the  first time she touched a simple blade of grass. "Your roses are blooming, my  lady."
Speechless, she watched buds spear, blooms unfold. Yellows, pinks, reds, whites  in petals that flowed from bud to flower, and flowers so heavy they bent the  graceful green branches. The fragrance all but made her drunk.
"Roses." Her voice quivered as she reached out to touch, felt the silky texture. 
"Flowers." And buried her face in blooms.
She squealed like a girl when a butterfly fluttered by her face and landed on a  tender bud to drink.
"Oh!" There was so much, almost too much, and she was dizzy from it. "See how it  moves! It's so beautiful."
In turn, she tipped her face back and drank in the sunlight.
"What is that across the blue of the sky? That curve of colors?"
"It's a rainbow." Watching her was like watching something be born. And once  again, he thought, she humbled him. "Your first rainbow, my love."
"It's lovelier than in the books. In them it seemed false and impossible. But  it's soft and it's real."
"I brought you a gift."
"You brought me summer," she murmured.
"And this." He snapped his fingers, and through the arch, down the path raced a  fat brown puppy. Barking cheerfully, it leaped into Deirdre's lap. "His name is 
Griffen."
Drowned in emotion, she cradled the pup as she might a child, pressed her face  into its warm fur. She felt its heartbeat, and the quick, wet lash of its tongue  on her cheek.
"I'm sorry," she managed, and broke down and sobbed.
"Weep, then." Kylar bent to touch his lips to her hair. "As long as it's for  joy."
"How can this be? How can you bring me so much? I turned you away, without  love."
"No, you let me go, with love. It took me time to understand that—and you. To  understand what it cost you. There would have been no summer if I hadn't left  you, and returned."
He lifted her damp face now, and the puppy wiggled free and began to race  joyfully through the garden. "Is that not so?"
"It is so. Only the greatest and truest love, freely given, could break the  spell and turn away winter."
"I knew. When I plucked the rose, I understood. I watched summer bloom. It came  with me through the forest. As I rode, the trees behind me went into leaf,  brooks and streams sprang free of ice. With every mile I put behind me, every  mile I came closer to you, the world awoke. Others will come tomorrow. I  couldn't wait."
"But how? How did you come back so quickly?"
"My land is only a day's journey from here. It was magic that kept you hidden. 
It's love that frees you."
"It's more." Phelan wiggled his way through the crowd of people who gathered in  the archway. He gave a cry of delight as the pup leaped at him. "It is truth,"  he began, "and sacrifice and honor. All these tied by love are stronger than a  shield of ice and break the spell of the winter rose. When summer comes to Rose 
Castle, the Isle of Winter becomes the Isle of Flowers and the Sea of Ice  becomes the Sea of Hope. And here, the good queen gives hand and heart to her  valiant prince."
"It is a good ending," Kylar commented. "But perhaps you would wait until I ask  the good queen for her hand and her heart."
She dashed tears from her cheeks. Her people, her love, would not see her weep  at such a time. "You have my heart already."
"Then give me your hand. Be my wife."
She put her hand in his, but because she must be a queen, turned first to her  people. "You are witness. I pledge myself in love and in marriage, for a  lifetime, to Kylar, prince of Mrydon. He will be your king, and to him you will  give your service, your respect, and your loyalty. From this day, his people  will be your brothers and your sisters. In time, our lands will be one land."
She let them cheer, let his name ring out along with hers into the wondrous blue  bowl of sky. And her hand was warm in Kylar's.
"Prepare a feast of celebration and thanks, and make ourselves ready to welcome  the guests that come on the morrow. Leave us now, for I need a moment with my  betrothed. Take the pup to the kitchen, Phelan, and see that he is well fed. 
Keep him for me."
"Yes, my lady."
"His name is Griffen." Her gaze met Orna's, and smiled as her people left her  alone with her prince. "There is one last thing to be done."
She walked with him down the path to where the reddest roses bloomed on the  tallest bush under thinning ice. Without a thought, she plunged her hand through  it, and the shield shattered like glass. She picked the first rose of her life,  offered it to him.
"I've accepted you as queen. That is duty. Now I give myself to you as a woman. 
This is for love. You brought light to my world. You freed my heart. Now and  forever, that heart is yours."
She started to kneel, and he stopped her. "You won't kneel to me."
Her brows lifted, and command once again cloaked her. "I am queen of this place. 
I do as I wish." She knelt. "I am yours, queen and woman. From this hour, this  day will be known and celebrated as Prince Kylar's Return."
With a gleam in his eye, he knelt as well, and made her lips twitch. "You will  be a willful wife."
"This is truth."
"I would not have it otherwise. Kiss me, Deirdre the fair."
She put a hand on his chest. "First, I have a gift for you."
"It can wait. I lived on dreams of your kisses for days in the cold."
"This gift can't wait. Kylar, I have your child in me. A child made from love  and warmth."
The hand that had touched her face slid bonelessly to her shoulder. "A child?"
"We've made life between us. A miracle, beyond magic."
"Our child." His palm spread over her belly, rested there as his lips took hers.
"It pleases you?"
For an answer he leaped up, hoisted her high until her laughter rang out. She  threw her arms toward the sky, toward the sun, the sky, the rainbow.
And the roses grew and bloomed until branches and flowers reached over the  garden wall, tumbled down, and filled the air with the promise of summer.