Chapter Five

As Fintan spoke, Beth closed her eyes and listened to his smooth baritone voice. The gentle movement of her hair beneath his fingers soothed the ball of nerves she’d become in the wake of his all-too-consuming kiss, and she began to relax. Her imagination ran away with her, though. She’d swear she heard emotion behind his words.

She couldn’t blame him—who could sacrifice children?

“Eight siblings survived. Nyamah hid them with an old woman in the nearby forest, presenting stillborns to Drandar.”

“Stillborns?” She opened her eyes, twisted to look at him. “Where did she get stillborn babies?”

A grimace tightened the lines on his handsome face. “War was a part of life, Beth. Those who were conquered didn’t always have a choice in the demands they must meet.”

She blinked. “So this Nyamah killed other babies?”

Fintan let out a heavy sigh. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s not clear where the stillborns came from, whether she took other babies or whether she claimed the already dead. What is clear is that she sought to protect her children and the tribe itself. It was an ancient way of life, Beth. Where decisions were made amidst standing stones and rings of fire held the ancestors’ absolute power.”

As she looked back to the hearth and the flickering flames within, the dream she’d had so often rose to the forefront of her mind. Tall monoliths stood erect against a darkened night sky while wild flames licked at a bonfire in the center. She shivered, hating the fear that woke her each night the dream came and feeling it creeping at the corners of her subconscious.

“Life, death—so long as it wasn’t family or clansman it didn’t carry the same weight. Enemies were meant to be killed. The Selgovae were suffering under Drandar’s influence, and Nyamah’s duty was foremost to her people.”

Beth supposed she could understand the principle. The Druids were known for their straw-man sacrifices, the Aztecs for the pyramids of flowing blood. Sacrifice had existed for twice as many eons as it had been taboo.

She stared at the fire, mesmerized by the rhythmic cadence of Fintan’s voice and the play of bright colors. As he talked, relaying more about the Selgovae, the life the early Celt tribes led, images took shape in her head. Thatch huts, packed earth clearings, and again the imposing stones reaching for the sky.

“Nyamah wasn’t alone in her quest to overthrow Drandar. But killing him wasn’t an option. By then, he’d gained a good following, people who turned on Nyamah and accused her of having dark purposes. Of aligning with the dark gods.”

Shaking her head, Beth tried to ward off the vision of a wraith-like blonde woman standing amidst the stones, a taller, more imposing, dark-haired man at her side. Crimson covered his hands. On a flat stone before them, a lifeless infant’s blood trickled across the slanted surface and pooled in a wide clay pot.

She closed her eyes to keep the image at bay. Fintan was one hell of a narrator. No wonder he was High Priest of his own coven. He had a way of putting life into his words.

“What happened to them?” she asked, hoping he’d skip the rest of the gore and jump to the finish.

Fintan’s fingers slid through her hair to fasten at the back of her neck. Gentle pressure massaged muscles that too many nights of research balled tight. Beth let out a soft pleasured moan and tipped her head forward. “That feels so good.”

“Nyamah tricked Drandar,” Fintan continued. “She discovered the means of defeating him, but sacrificed her life as well. He killed her for her betrayal. Her sister, Ealasaid, rose against Drandar that night, taking those who followed Nyamah across the borders into the lands of the Brigantes. Drandar assumed those who stood against him merged with the Novantae and eradicated the entire tribe looking for them to no avail.”

Beth chuckled and lifted her head to look at him. “I can almost see it, you’ve got such passion in your voice. The stones, a woman with reddish hair, another with pale blonde.” A shiver crept down her spine and she dropped her voice to a low whisper, “The child on an altar.”

****

Fintan’s hand stilled against the nape of Beth’s neck. See it? She must have a greater connection to her ancestor than he’d believed. Excitement stirred at the base of his spine. He did his best to hide it from his voice. “What do you see, Beth?”

She flashed him a grin that stole the air from his lungs. “I’ve always had a vivid imagination. I could create the most fantastic pictures in my head.”

Precisely why she should be painting, not standing before a jury. He gave her neck a firm squeeze, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Tell me.”

Obligingly, she closed her eyes. Her voice held a faint vibration as she spoke. “There’s four enormous stones standing on end, in a circle, like Stonehenge, only…not. In the center is a huge fire. Farther back, beyond the circle, the mountains rise against a clear, starry sky. And the whole grove is encased by thick trees.”

Fintan’s heart drummed to a slow stop. He swallowed thickly, her portrayal too accurate for comfort. The very same glade, the same stones blood had bathed, stood beyond the castle. They were guarded by the Sacred Tree’s stump, an old oak that splintered the night Drandar took Nyamah’s life.

Beth was seeing the past, though Fintan would wager everything he was she’d never believe it.

There was only one way to confirm both his suspicions and prove she wasn’t imagining pictures in her head.

He rose to his feet and set his wineglass on the table. Taking hers from her grasp, he asked, “Where’s your coat?”

“What?” She tipped her head, confusion blending with the faintest hint of an amused smile.

“Your coat. Where’d you leave it? There’s something I want to show you.” He tugged her to her feet and started for the door.

“Show me? Show me what? It’s in the front hall on the tree.”

Question was—did he answer, or did he leave her to be surprised? He considered for a moment as he led her toward the front foyer and the coat tree. No, he wouldn’t.

“It’s a surprise.”

This wasn’t the kind of thing that could come with preparation. If she knew what to anticipate, he couldn’t gauge her reaction accordingly, wouldn’t know if what she saw in the glade beyond the castle was anything more than a product of her vivid imaginings. Fintan didn’t think so, but he needed to be certain.

If he was right, he didn’t know what he would do. Explaining to Beth that her ancestors came from what many considered barbaric tribes was one thing. Detailing how she went back to the rise of an incubus was something entirely different. Telling her she shared flesh and blood with the woman who had possibly murdered children to save her people…Fintan was pretty certain Beth wouldn’t take that too well.

He was equally convinced he didn’t want to read the ancient ritual she brought to him either. No doubt his mother called for a duty Beth must uphold.

His very bones felt weary as he helped her slide into her heavy down coat. But the curious light in her eyes gave him strength. He glanced at the sweeping stairwell, checking to insure his sister wasn’t watching, then murmured a silent prayer to his mother’s spirit that she might keep Brigid from visiting the standing stones tonight.

“Where are you taking me?” Beth asked as Fintan ushered her down the long hall that spanned the castle’s rear wall.

“Outside.”

She came to an abrupt stop, laughter still crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Fintan, good grief, what does this have to do with my heritage or the scroll? I have three days here. We’re not making any progress, and last time it took a week to dig as far as we did.”

Firmly, he pulled on her hand, bringing her feet into motion again. “You are Celt, Beth. You know this. I’m taking you to a place where you can connect with your ancestors.”

“But we don’t know my origin.”

At that, Fintan came to a halt. He turned, his expression serious as he gazed into her sparkling jade eyes. “You already know it.”

Confusion clouded her expression. Her eyes searched his face for explanations. Answers he didn’t know how to give without throwing her into a world she wasn’t ready to accept.

He stepped in closer and cupped her cheek in one hand. “Sweet Beth.” His thumb brushed skin as soft as silk. Her mouth beckoned, daring him to become lost in her sweet flavor once more. “Have patience,” he whispered. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Without giving her opportunity to object, he hurried her to the original iron-studded door and out into the wintry air. When she shivered, he released her hand to wrap one arm around her lean shoulders, tucking her against his side to shelter her from the breeze.

As they walked down the path Brigid kept clear of snow, the rising power of the approaching Sabot prickled his skin. With it though, came another presence. A darker, more sinister strength. He glanced up at the high treetops as a splinter of apprehension needled down his spine. Drandar’s presence lurked. Summoned by Brigid? Or a product of the power contained within the scroll Beth possessed?

Whatever the cause, his sire loomed nearby. A certainty that could only endanger Beth more. Fintan stopped abruptly. “This isn’t a good idea. The wind’s worse than I thought. We can come back in the morning.”

But he had brought her too close. She stood transfixed, staring in awe at a ten-foot tall monolith peeking beyond a fat fir trunk. “No. I want to see this.” Beth ducked from beneath his arm and stepped closer to the edge of the ancient stone ring.

Muttering an oath beneath his breath, Fintan followed as she breached the sacred circle and entered the heart of the henge. He should have known better than to bring her out here, to expose her to the very likely presence of his vile sire. Now, he could only hope to convince her they shouldn’t linger. “We should make this quick…”

The rapt expression on Beth’s face drew Fintan’s protest into silence. She turned a slow circle, taking in the imposing blocks that rose amidst the trees. Her breath curled in the air, adding an ethereal quality to the way the silver moon illuminated her pale skin and delicate face.

“I’ve seen this,” she breathed in a near-whisper. With a shake of her head, she tore her attention away from the standing stones and drew slender fingers across a slanted stone altar at her left hip. “This is impossible. But this…”

Fintan choked down a groan. He hadn’t been wrong. Through some connection he couldn’t explain, Beth had seen this very grove. Gauging by her description, she’d witnessed the very night Nyamah lost her life.

She wasn’t merely Celt. She was Selgovae. A descendant of the same blood that ran in Fintan’s veins. A product of the people he had once laughed and loved with. People whose whispers lingered in his heart no matter how many centuries passed.

And that certainty turned all the brimming warmth in his system into a fire that burned as swift and fierce as if she had set a match to a bed of dry kindling. His heart drummed hard. His hands began to shake. He stuffed them into his pockets and sucked in a sharp breath, fighting back the overwhelming need to feel the press of her skin, the tingle of her breath, the hunger in her kiss.

“Beth.” His voice rang low, husky to his own ears.

“Hm?” She flashed him only a brief glance before wandering closer to the northernmost monolith.

“We need to go inside.” Before he forgot why they were there, that his sire watched. Before he could no longer remember the curse he bore and allowed the swelling behind his ribs to overtake good sense.

“What is this place, Fintan? How can I know it? How can I feel like I’ve stood here before when I know I’ve never seen it?”

The touch of fear that crept into her voice only tightened the knots around his lungs. He shook his head, unable to form an appropriate response.