Chapter 20

“No. That would be a pooka.”

Every hair on Rory’s body stood up and he shivered. The damn dog spoke those words, all the while staring at a big, black horse. “What the hell are you?”

Broc turned luminous brown eyes his direction and panted happily. “I’m a cù sìth.”

“Cooshee?” He snorted. “And that would be what? A furry cover for a cold beer?”

The dog offered him a long-suffering look. “Somethin’ you likely have no wish t’be knowin’. We have a long ways t’go, Riordan MacDermot. Arien has agreed t’take ya.”

“My name is Rory.”

“Nay. Yer name was and will be always Riordan. The sooner ya accept that, the sooner you’ll be settled into life here.”

He stood his ground, feet braced, hands on his hips. “Not gonna happen. I’m already crazy since I’m standing here talking to a dog. I’ll damn sure hang onto my name and I am not getting on some creature straight from the Wild Hunt.”

“Suit yerself then, mortal. The pooka and I have better things t’do with our time. But yee need to get yer sorry hide from here to there.” Broc pointed his nose through a pass. The mountain fell away to a long valley and in the far distance, craggy hills smudged the horizon.

The horse—pooka—thing stretched his neck. Velvety lips nibbled at Rory’s shoulder. “Do you talk, too?”

The horse whickered and shook his head. Then he nose-butted Rory as if to say, “Don’t be so stubborn. Get on and let’s ride.”

Rory reached deep and hung onto his instincts and training. He’d ridden horses as a kid. Hopefully, it was like riding a bicycle—once you learned, you never forgot. Without a word, he fisted the horse’s mane in his hand and leaped up, throwing his right leg over the animal’s back. He got settled, griped with his thighs and knees, but still held on to the mane. Broc trotted off, Arien right behind him.

By the time their little party reached the valley, Rory had relaxed enough to trust the horse. Pooka. Thing. Though he paid attention to his surroundings, his mind also worked through the situation. OODA. He had to work on the OODA Loop. Observe. Orient. Decide. Act. The countryside was beautiful, the colors as clear as a photograph but objects looked hazy around the edges, smudged like a water color painting. Time still did a number on his watch so he gave up trying to determine its passage. Besides, there was no guarantee he could find a way home from that beach. Now he wished he’d spent more time pumping Kieran—no, Ciaran—for information. Better yet, Becca. Becca had been trapped here in Tír Nan Óg. And she’d tricked Abhean into revealing the secret to return. Or had she? What was Abhean up to, and more importantly, what was the deal between Abhean and Manannán mac Lir?

Rory suspected something dark and hateful existed between the two men. If he could discover what it was, what the root cause was, he could exploit it to his benefit. Divide and conquer, only they were already divided. He could use that. A sense of dread blanketed him and he couldn’t breathe for a minute. Delaney.

“Damn you, Abhean!” Despite the futility, he tossed the curse into the cosmos.

“I already am, mortal.”

Rory almost fell off the horse as he twisted his body to locate the man with that hated voice. Scrambling, he managed to stay on board. The horse didn’t stop so he had to turn his head to keep the fae in sight. “Good.”

Abhean threw back his head and laughed. “You amuse me, mortal. Perhaps I shall keep company with you on your journey.”

The next thing Rory knew, Abhean rode knee-to-knee with him on a horse so white he had to squint to see the animal clearly. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“I don’t intend to, Riordan MacDermot.”

Refusing to engage Abhean, Rory clamped his mouth shut and stared resolutely forward, using only his eyes to scan the area. A bit of advice from Marine boot camp played on a loop in his head. After you know everything about yourself, learn everything about your enemy. In this situation, he had a lot to learn. About himself and the strange being riding alongside him.

“You have questions.”

Rory gave no indication he heard Abhean. This was part of the learning experience. The fae held all the cards yet he was the one who broke the silence first. Interesting.

“Stubborn are you? I give you this one chance to indulge your curiosity. I won’t offer again, mortal.”

He wished he’d learned to play chess better but he had excelled at strategy planning. If he guessed right, Abhean would keep pestering him. The fae thrived on feeling superior, on having information someone else wanted. Rory took a chance. “Manannán mac Lir answered what questions I had.” Abhean growled and the sound raised all the hair on Rory’s head. Oh, yeah. First point to him.

“Bah. Then you didn’t ask the right questions.”

“Found out what I needed to know, though. I figure there isn’t anything you can add to what he said.”

“Did he tell you that I brought you here and that I’m the only one who can return you?”

The only reaction Rory allowed himself was the squeeze of his thighs against the horse’s withers. “You have no intention of returning me, so the point is moot.”

In a flash of light, Abhean and his mount disappeared. In the distance, thunder rumbled. “Frying pan, fire.” He muttered the words, but the Irish wolfhound trotting beside him chuckled.

“Yee handled that well, human. Not many can put the harper into a snit.”

“Bully for me.”

The dog remained silent as he ran and the horse kept to a steady canter. Alone with his thoughts, Rory made plans. Escape. Evade. Survival. Get home to Delaney. His guts twisted. Delaney. The memory of staring through his sniper scope, seeing her face and the abject fear plastered on it, left him gasping for air. If she died because Abhean ripped him away, he’d spend the rest of his life searching for revenge. Magical being or not, there had to be a way. And by God, he’d find it.

His fingers twisted the horse’s mane and yanked, the visible expression of his inner turmoil. Arien whickered and turned his head to stare at Rory with one baleful eye. With effort, he loosened his grip but the horse slowed to a trot and then a walk before stopping altogether. They’d reached the rocky hills he’d first glimpsed through the pass in the mountains. He turned, amazed that the mountains now appeared a hazy blue swathed in mist. A path led up the side of the hill amongst boulders and bracken. Music floated down—pipes, he thought, though something light and sprightly. He snorted. Sprightly? The air of this place seemed to soak into his bones, affecting him in ways he could only guess at. And therein lay the problem. The clarity of the air—in vision and with each breath pulled deeply into the lungs—proved as intoxicating as any alcoholic spirit.

Some part of his psyche remembered the old tales—of humans lured into the land of Faerie never to be seen again. Those who managed to escape told stories of lethargy, of amazing food and drink, of dancing and music—and no sense of the passage of time. He glanced at his watch. The second hand was spinning madly. Backward. Broc stared up at him.

“Why so grim, human?”

“My name is Rory.”

The dog cocked his head and his panting bark almost sounded like laughter. “Me thinks, human, that the harper has bitten off more than he can chew this time.” Turning his head, he pointed his nose up the path. “At the top yee’ll find the standing stones, and there’ll be someone to see you settled in.”

“I don’t want to settle in.” Rory repeated his mantra in his head. Escape. Evade. Survive. And he added one more word. Return.

At the top of the path, a gentle meadow contained a circle of standing stones. Forest, looking impenetrable in places, surrounded the place on three sides. A lithe young woman, with long dark hair and laughing eyes, danced toward him, her movements languorous and seductive.

“Aye, an’ it’s about time yee be arrivin’, Riordan.” She threw her arms around him and peppered his face with kisses.

Rory stood stock still. He didn’t even breathe for a long moment, and he made no move to touch the woman. She stopped kissing him and tilted her head back to stare at him.

“Don’t yee know me, darlin’? ’Tis yer own sweet Alys.”

Rory stared at her. “Why go to all the trouble to change your appearance, Alys? You might try to look like Delaney, but you aren’t her. And never will be.”

“Can’t blame a cailín fer tryin’ now can yee?” She tightened her arms around his neck and leaned in to whisper in his ear—erotic words of what she planned to do to him.

Rory didn’t suppress the shudder running through him at her recitation. Once, he might have been that man. Once, he’d been a man who loved women freely and without reservation. And without commitment. Until Delaney. The moment he’d held her in his arms, her naked skin heating his, sliding together like silk and velvet—in that moment, he knew he’d never love another. Just her. His heart lurched at the memory of making love to her. He stepped back, tearing Alys’s hands from around his neck. With space between them, he could think. Observe. Orient. Decide. Act.

“I don’t care what Abhean promised you.”

The fae woman blinked in surprise and took a step backward, putting more space between them. He watched her expression change from surprise to cunning. “I’ll still be havin’ yee, lovey. Abhean promised. We’ve been lovers, life after life, and I find myself cravin’ yer kisses, hankerin’ for the feel of yer boidín drivin’ into me.” With a seductive smile on her face, she stalked toward him.

Rory held his ground as his brain sorted through his options. Submission. Deception. Cooperation. Lead. Guide. Distract. Survive. He could use Alys. And he would. Whatever it took to get back to Delaney. Becca had returned to Ciaran, all those lives ago. He was determined to do the same.

Alys pressed against him, rubbing up and down like a contented cat. This time, he clamped down on his revulsion. He cupped the fae’s cheek in his palm and kissed her forehead. He felt her elation shimmer through her body like an electrical charge. His lips curled into a smile despite his best efforts. She mistook the gesture and nuzzled his throat. “Come t’me bower, lovely man. Yee can show me how much yee’ve missed me.”

Thunder rumbled and the sky darkened. Broc appeared, trotting out of the woods and ignoring the gathering storm. The dog sat next to Rory’s knee and growled at the fae. Alys huffed and glared at the animal but backed away from Rory.

“Tell yer master he won’t always have his way. Riordan’s been promised t’me.” She pivoted on her toes and marched into the woods, which quickly swallowed her. One moment she was there, a blink and she’d disappeared.

Broc ducked his head and lazily scratched an ear with a back paw. The dog nosed a little lower.

Rory opened his mouth but snapped it shut. He had more important things to talk about than the dog’s hygienic habits.

He waved his hand to encompass the standing stones. “Tell me, Broc. How do they work?”

The dog barked, and again it sounded like laughter. “Yee think it’ll be that easy, human?”

“Rory. My name is Rory.”

Broc cocked his head to the side, his tongue lolling from the side of his muzzle. “Stubborn. That’ll bode well for yee here, hu—Rory.”

He stared down at the animal. “I’d kiss the king’s ass if it got me back to Delaney. Now tell me how to work these damn stones.”

“’Tis all a dream, Rory MacDermot.”

“What do you mean? If I pinch myself I’ll wake up and things will be back to normal? I’ll be in my own place, my own time?”

The big animal lumbered to his feet and padded over to the flat stone lying in the center of the circle. He put his front paws on the stone and stared out toward the misty-blue mountains in the distance. “Nay. This is your reality. There lies the dream.”

Clouds continued to roil overhead, gathering and bunching like dark shadows. Forks of lightning flickered across the surface. Broc hopped down and turned his head, staring at Rory. “Each must find his own dream, human.” He raised his muzzle, sniffed the rising wind, and barked. “Yee’ve a place in the forest, with food and drink. A bower t’lay yer head and stay dry.” He paced back to the edge of the woods, stopped and stared back over his shoulder. “Yee can’t follow Becca’s path, Rory. Each human must find their own way.”

Lightning lit the sky with fireworks to rival any Fourth of July celebration, and the thunder sounded like cannon fire. Rory squatted at the foot of the altar stone, squinted his eyes shut against the display, and didn’t move even as the skies opened and rain drenched him. He didn’t care. He’d been wet before. He’d be wet again. Sheltered partially by the stone, he pondered what the cù sìth had told him.

Dreams. Reality. Which was real, which wasn’t. Manannán mac Lir snatched Becca on Lughnasadh. She didn’t find her way home until Samhain. The whisper of a memory niggled in his subconscious. Sometimes, the veil between the worlds thinned and overlapped. Sometimes, unwary humans fell into the land of fae. And sometimes, smart humans found their way out. Each human must find his own way, Broc had said, and that Rory’s way was not Becca’s.

The storm passed, bringing sunshine and that clarity of vision that seemed so disconcerting to him. The craggy fingers of the mountains snared the tempest, trapping and holding the clouds as if to squeeze the last bit of thunder and lightning from them. As he watched, rainbows danced between the standing stones and the squall. And then Delaney’s face swam in his vision. Surrounded by dancing colors, she was hard to focus on, but he narrowed his eyes and concentrated, willing her to substance from shadow.

Objects solidified behind her. Her office. The wall behind her chair, covered with certificates. Rory willed her to full form. Solid. Real. She was speaking. He watched her mouth move, form words, and he hungered to touch those lips with his own. Her image wavered.

“No!” He reached for her and her image faded. He leaned on the stone and focused once more. In his mind, he pictured tuning a TV. Picture. Volume. Brightness. Yes. There. Her image flickered a few times then found substance. Her voice whispered across his skin and he strained to make out the words.

“I know you don’t want to be here. None of you ever do.”

“I just want back on duty. Captain Davis said I couldn’t roll out unless I finish these stupid sessions with you.”

“Dean, I really can help you. You’re having nightmares. Not sleeping. Let me help with that.”

“The hell with that. I just need to get back on the job.”

What? Dean Carter in her office? What was New Boy doing there? Why did he need counseling?

“You weren’t there. It was a righteous shoot. When that banger walked out holding that woman, I took my shot. Blew him away, too.”

“But he was surrendering.”

“Ha. Shows what you know. You weren’t there. Those two bangers had hostages, including a kid. I had the target. I had a green light. I fired. End of story. Not my fault the asshole moved. I got him with the second shot.”

“But you killed the child with the first one.”

Rory’s gut clenched and he wanted to throw up. NO! He screamed his denial to the heavens. He’d been there. He’d relieved Carter. He’d never taken the shot.

“But you weren’t there.”