Chapter 19

“Oh. Shit.” Rory blinked and gazed around, stunned.

He no longer stared at Delaney’s terrified face through his sniper scope. Turning a slow circle, Rory tried to figure out where the hell he was. And what the hell had happened.

A guy with long blond hair sat cross-legged on the ground playing a flute. The branches on the trees seemed to dip and sway in time to the music and his right foot started to tap along. Angry, Rory willed his feet still.

“Who the hell are you?”

The blond guy turned his head. Abhean. The man from the pub. Rory rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and looked again. Nope. Still the same guy.

“You know who I am, Riordan MacDermot. But perhaps you have forgotten that I am also the Harper to the Tuatha de Danaan.”

“I’m dreaming. There’s no such thing as fae harpers.”

“So you’d like to believe. Welcome to Tír Nan Óg, Riordan. The time has come to keep your bargain.”

“Bargain? What bargain? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Truly? Have you no memory of that day beside the river? The day you offered your life in exchange for the cailín’s. I distinctly remember givin’ yee the memory.” The fae looked well pleased.

Rory relaxed his hands from the fists he’d made at his sides. This whole thing was nuts. Maybe he had finally gone around the bend. He closed his eyes. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Relax. Breathe. When he opened his eyes, he’d be across the alley from the restaurant, rifle in his hands, eye glued to the scope. Delaney was depending on him. He’d go crazy later, after she was safe, when it was convenient for him to occupy a padded cell. Not now. Breathe.

He opened his eyes. “Well, shit.”

“’Tis no sense to fight the inevitable, Riordan.”

“You keep calling me that. My name is Rory.”

“Yee was born Riordan MacDermot, mortal, many lives ago, and no matter the moniker, yee’ll always be Riordan.”

“Put me back.”

“No.”

Rory’s fists clenched in front of him, and he fought the urge to grab the other man and beat him to a pulp. Was it even possible to hit a figment of the imagination? “I have to go back. Delaney needs me.”

Abhean returned the flute to his mouth and blew a few experimental notes, his fingers dancing along the instrument, coaxing and caressing. After a few measures, he looked up and stopped playing. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You made your bargain, Riordan. Do you now renege on your promise? Your life for hers, mortal, to be taken at my choosing.”

“And you choose now, you damned freak? She’s going to die.”

“Perhaps.”

“What the hell does that mean? I recognized the asshole holding a gun to her head. He’ll kill her. If I’m not there to stop him, he’ll kill her.” His voice broke on those words, his heart knowing the truth of them.

“A bargain is a bargain.”

The wind kicked up and leaves swirled around the fae. In moments, Rory couldn’t see him in the center of the whirlwind. He closed his eyes against the sting of dirt and debris, and seconds later the wind died. Completely. He opened his eyes but he was alone.

“Damn you, Abhean!” He shouted the words to an empty sky and felt impotent. “If she dies because of you, I’ll spend the rest of my life finding a way to kill you.”

Laughter danced around him, followed by a merry melody played on that damn flute. If he ever got his hands on that thing, Rory promised to break it. A soft giggle wafted on the balmy breeze now rustling the grass at his feet. On alert, he searched for the source of the sound. Movement in the trees pulled him in that direction one reluctant step at a time.

“Well, this is definitely not Kansas.” He hissed the admission even as he continued stalking the illusive laughter—laughter with a definite feminine lilt. A flash of color darting between tree trunks kept him moving deeper into the forest. Intrigued, he wasn’t yet so enthralled that he ignored his surroundings. Getting lost in the woods was not on his to-do list, especially these woods. He heard the crack of a branch behind him at almost the exact moment a hand brushed across his back. Rory whirled but the—what the hell had he just seen? Sprite? Faerie? Wood nymph? Slender, graceful, the woman—girl—danced away. Diaphanous material draped from her shoulders but did little to hide her charms. Ageless, beautiful, the sort of woman a man fantasized over. But she wasn’t Delaney.

Rory planted his feet and refused to follow her, despite the fact she peeked around a tree trunk and beckoned him with a crooked finger and come-hither smile. “What do you want?”

“Do yee not recognize me, Riordan. ’Tis Alys I am.”

He stared at her. “Alys? The waitress from the Crossing?”

She pouted prettily and with bare feet skimming the mossy ground, she approached him boldly. Stopping an arm’s width away, she smiled up at him. “Aye. From the Crossing and other places. I’ve never been far from you all your lives, Riordan MacDermot.”

“My name is Rory.”

She laughed, the sound gay and lilting like the calliope on the merry-go-round he’d loved as a child. He didn’t move, waiting for her to continue.

“Yee think it matters what yee call yourself, Riordan MacDermot? I know your heart. I know the look in your eye when yee want a woman. More often than not, that’s been me yee’ve reached for in the dark. After a battle, I warmed your bed, not that twit of a mortal. Delaney cannot see what’s as plain as the nose on her face. Always pining for another, her soul seeking his, life after life.”

Her eyes snapped and whirled, the once vibrant colors mixing and blurring into a muddy mishmash. She pressed the palm of her hand to his chest. “I’ve waited centuries for Abhean to take his vengeance. I’ve waited for you, Riordan. You are in Tír Nan Óg finally, and we can live a glorious life here, wanting for nothing but the touch of each other. Love me like yee’ve loved her, Rory. I won’t refuse you my bed.”

“Alys!”

She froze at the sound of her name. Rory could feel the tremble in her hand. He glanced over to the woman who approached. Memories stirred, shifted, and then clarified. Onagh. Queen of the Connaught Faeries. Alys dropped her hand, straightened her shoulders and turned to face the other’s terrible beauty.

“Leave off, your majesty. ’Tis no affair of yours.”

“There you are wrong, Alys. King Finvarra and I pledged our protection to those of Clann MacDermot. That extends to all in Ciaran’s house. The man who is as much his brother as his cousin is chief among them.”

Rory’s hair lifted off his scalp as animosity crackled like electricity in the air between them. The women ignored him so he backed away, one slow step at a time. So intent on them, he had no clue another had joined his audience of one until he backed into the very solid body.

“Easy, boyo.”

The voice, like hot caramel on ice cream, coated his skin and elicited a shiver. Hands gripped his biceps with bruising force and he couldn’t turn around.

“Will yee not run if I let yee go?”

Why was he even thinking about it? He knew there was no place to run. He dipped his chin in a curt nod. Those iron hands loosened and dropped away. The man stepped up beside him.

“I am—”

“Finvarra.”

The king chuckled. “Aye, I am. Your memories return then?”

“Some of them.”

“More will come with time. Yee know where yee are now?”

“Tír Nan Óg.”

“Aye. The Land of the Ever Young. Yee’ll not age, Riordan—Rory.” The king corrected his name without reminder. “This should be a place of peace for you, but I fear yee’ll be no more content than Becca before yee.”

Rory pivoted and glared at the man. The king was as beautiful in a strictly male way as Onagh was in female form. The expression in Finvarra’s eyes appeared kindly, but he didn’t trust the fae as far as he could throw him—which he doubted would be more than a few feet. “Abhean has condemned Delaney to die. Why the hell would I be content to sit here and twiddle my toes?”

Finvarra inclined his head toward the women, who still argued—Alys’s voice raised in a shout, Onagh’s husky and intent. “Yee’d be doin’ a bit more than twiddling your toes, boyo. Little Alys has long had her sights set on yee, and yee’ve been content to diddle with her down through time. Why not simply enjoy her obvious charms? She’ll help you forget the lives you’ve left behind.”

“She’s not Delaney.”

The weight of his pronouncement stifled the forest. The women quelled their argument and whirled to face him. Birds and humming insects froze like hitting the pause button on a DVD player. Not even a leaf dared rustle in the silence. The three fae stared at him. Rory squared his shoulders and stared back, each one in turn.

“Delaney is mine. Has always been. Will always be. Despite Abhean and his games. I will not rest here while she is in danger. I will not relinquish her to another. And I will not love another. Ever.” This last he directed toward Alys.

Color flared in Alys’s cheeks as she stalked toward him. Her whole body fairly vibrated with anger. “And yet yee swore never to love anyone, once upon a time, Riordan MacDermot. I heard your vow. As did Abhean. Yee stood there in the seat of your clann, and yee vowed to the heavens that yee’d never love one woman as Ciaran loved Becca.” She balled up her fist and hit him in the middle of the chest. Pain radiated from the spot.

“Even so, yee loved them all, Riordan, in your own way. Despite that yee were hidin’ from your heart’s desire.” Onagh’s voice felt like cool water on a bad burn, and the pain in his chest eased a bit. The queen exchanged a look with her husband.

“Yee were not tasked with the burden of the MacDermot Knot, Riordan. But that did not mean there wasn’t a heart meant to companion your own.” Finvarra patted him on the shoulder, the gesture oddly awkward for a man who seemed so in control and poised. “As yee’ve finally learned, Delaney is your other half, but consternation, man, yee’ve taken your own sweet time figuring it out.”

“No.” Alys all but screamed the denial. “Abhean promised me.”

“Promised you what?”

The three fae shrank back from that question. Rory swiveled his head and stared. Manannán mac Lir in the flesh. He couldn’t breathe—it was like the fae king had sucked all the air out of the forest.

“Alys.” Icicles should have decorated Manannán’s voice.

The little fae shivered as if she felt the frigidity. She refused to meet the king’s gaze. “The harper promised me the mortal. Said he’d be mine for the next millennium.”

“And what had you to do to earn this prize?”

She gulped, still studying the mossy ground around her toes. “Distract him.”

“So you warmed his bed and bespelled his thoughts away from the cailín.”

“Aye.” With a sudden jerk of her head, she thrust her chin at mac Lir. “Aye, I did. And I’d do it again, Manannán mac Lir, t’get what I wanted.” She pointed a shaking finger at Rory. “He was promised t’me and I want my due.”

Rory opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out. Moments later, he couldn’t move. Panicked, he struggled against unseen bonds.

“Cease, mortal.” Manannán’s words whispered from his mouth but swelled like the crescendo of a symphony with a clash of cymbals and roll of tympani drums as violins wept notes like falling leaves. Storm clouds gathered above and lightning flashed, strobing lights that left ghost images on the retina.

Rory stilled. He obviously couldn’t fight whatever magic the fae commanded. Better to save his strength. He’d forgotten everything he’d learned on the streets. Intel. Without intel, an operation went to hell in a heartbeat. Breathe. He inhaled. Exhaled. Willed his heart to smooth out, to slow to a steady beat. Breathe. Just…breathe. The argument among the fae faded as he found his focus. Delaney. Delaney would die if he didn’t get back to…? Where? Earth? Home? His real life? Yes. That was the answer. He had to find his way back to his life. The life where he was Rory MacDermot, Alpha Team sniper. With a job to do.

Breathe. Becca found a way, all that time ago. She’d returned to Ciaran on Samhain, after his cousin swore the binding oath. Crap. Rory had never sworn the oath to Delaney. They’d never been in the right place at the right time. She’d been eight, for god’s sake, the first time he held her in his arms. His chest burned with need. Even then he’d known she was his, that he need only be patient to claim her for his own. But…

Breathe. He’d waited too long. He’d blown off everything, wanting only to ease himself between the legs of a willing cailín. Alys. Alys in all her guises. And others too numerous and vague for him to remember. “You were an ass,” he muttered.

“Indeed you were.”

He looked up to find Manannán’s gaze boring into him. “How do I get back?”

The king’s stare wavered, dropped away and a cloak of sadness descended on his magnificent shoulders. “How did you get here?”

What the hell did that mean? He’d been looking through his scope and then... He blinked and opened his mouth to speak then closed it with a snap. How did he get here? A bargain. He’d made a bargain with Abhean and learned too late that a bargain with the fae was tantamount to a bargain with the devil.

Manannán watched him for a long moment, expression unchanging, and he waited. Something in Rory’s expression trigged a response. “Yes. You made a foolish bargain. And now you live to regret what was made in haste.”

Rory whipped his head back and forth, a vehement motion meant to deny the fae’s words. “No. I would do it again to save her life.”

Did the fae actually sigh? He certainly looked saddened again. “Each life is finite, mortal. To be lived in the time allotted. The cailín’s time had come. Had you let her go in that lifetime, the next would have come easier. And the next after.”

“What are you saying?” Stunned, Rory swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. He felt like a raw recruit, called on the commander’s carpet, and reamed out for being stupid.

“You feel in your heart my words, mortal. Know they are true.” Manannán clapped his hands and in a kaleidoscope of colors swirled with darkness, all the fae disappeared.

Rory blinked his eyes. He’d been transported, not the others. He stood on wet sand, facing the sea as inexorable waves swelled to foaming whitecaps only to wilt as they neared the shore, lapping against the black-sand beach with nervous tongues. He turned a slow circle to get his bearings. The narrow strand gave way to craggy dunes and cliffs. Beyond, mountains made of blue stone reared their crowns to the sky. Which way was the forest? The standing stones? Instinctively, he knew the standing stones were the key.

His stomach growled and he licked his dry lips. Were the stories true? If he ate or drank anything here, would he be trapped forever? He laughed out loud, a biting, harsh bark of sound. “I am so screwed.”

A dog bayed in the distance, the sound familiar and almost comforting. He could see no path up those cliffs so he started walking in the direction of the barking. After quite a hike, he rounded a headland and found the dog—a huge Irish wolfhound. The animal bounded to him and leaped, placing front paws on Rory’s shoulders with ease. With a lolling tongue, the dog looked to be grinning at him. Once more, memories flickered in his head, like old home movies, the film not quite threaded correctly.

“Broc?” He knew this dog. From before. Ciaran. Broc had been Ciaran’s wolfhound.

The dog wagged his whole body and licked Rory’s face before dropping to all fours. He rubbed the dog’s ears and patted his shoulder. “Wish you could talk, big guy. I need to get back to the standing stones. Delaney needs me.”

Broc woofed, turned and trotted up the beach. When Rory didn’t immediately follow, the dog stopped and looked back. He barked again.

“Where’re we goin’, big guy?”

The dog’s tail swept back and forth in a slow wag and he stepped forward again. This time, Rory followed. They walked along the beach for what seemed like several miles, but when Rory turned to check his back trail, he could still see the track of their footprints all the way back to the place they’d started. The dog trotted away from the waves, angling into a cut in the cliffs towering above them. Despite the prickle on the back of his neck, Rory paced beside the animal until he angled up a steep path. A bit more cautious, Rory followed, sometimes scrabbling with his hands to keep his balance.

For what seemed like an hour, though he wondered about the passage of time in this place, he climbed the cliff trail. His watch remained on his wrist but the time registered different whenever he glanced at it. Sometimes, the hands raced ahead. Once they even retreated backward. The dog waited for him and the two of them climbed over the top together. Rory could only trust the dog, even though a part of his brain wondered if the animal really was a dog. Maybe the thing was a pooka.