Chapter Eighteen

Someone crashed into Beth, throwing her off balance. She stumbled sideways, out of the fleeing stream of bodies, into the open. Unable to regain her balance, she fell to one knee. Her gasp cracked in her ears as her frantic gaze landed on the man she loved. Writhing at his father’s feet, Fintan struggled to right the leg that twisted at a grotesque angle. Each twist pulled anguish from his throat, and as he kicked to one side, Beth’s stomach heaved. His blood flowed from the altar. Dripped down legs of stone to stain the barren earth where it pooled with the crimson that flowed from what remained of his back. A gaping hole seeped dangerously, spilling precious life. He writhed again, and through the tattered strips of clothing, bone flashed white.

A scream tore from her throat.

Drandar’s laughter ebbed. His attention locked on her. Brigid’s smile vanished, and she backed away from her father, closer to the thick trees. In that split-second of time that stretched out timelessly, Beth stared into soulless eyes and the energy in the sacred glade shifted. Brighter now. Filled with the familiar pulse of…hope. It filled her like sun breaking through a long night. Ray after ray, bit after bit, until anger replaced Beth’s fear. She didn’t know the first thing about killing demons, but those two were going to die.

“Here,” Dáire hissed at her side. “Take this. Defend yourself.” He shook a hand at her shoulder, though his attention remained on his sire.

Beth glanced at the bone-handled knife in his grasp. Firelight glinted off a long straight blade of steel. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, and memory flashed with blinding force.

Ealasaid. The altar. Her blood pooling on the stone.

Surging to her feet, Beth ran headlong at the timeworn table, barely hearing Dáire’s shout of warning. Her gaze connected with Fintan’s anguished grey eyes for a heartbeat. Then, before regret and sorrow could lodge in her heart, she blocked the sight of his suffering. As if guided by an invisible hand, she stuffed the blade between her teeth and vaulted onto the altar.

“You are a fool, mortal!” Drandar thundered. “He will live a crippled life, but you will walk with me in death.” He approached slowly, kicked Fintan in the spine. “Watch, ungrateful child, as I take her life.”

“Beth!” Dáire’s bellow blended with Fintan’s guttural whisper.

She looked down where he lay, memorized the handsome lines of his face. Committed him to memory as she committed herself to the calling of her past. Then, she took the blade from her teeth and lifted it toward the bright round moon.

Ealasaid’s passionate cry echoed in Beth’s head. She understood now. Knew the meaning of the words, and the ancient Gaelic tongue flowed from her lips as if someone else spoke for her. “Light shall bring the healing of the ancients while darkness shall be ensnared by blood!”

Swiftly, she jerked the blade toward her body. It sank into her forearm, ground against bone. Pain fragmented through her, and still she pulled on the knife, ripping it through muscle to her elbow.

Enraged howls deafened the roaring fire. Mingled with snarls that could come from no mortal throat.

Gasping, Beth fell to her knees, the sear of rending flesh too much to bear. Shadows fingered at her mind, pulling her into unconsciousness. She fought to remain aware.

She looked down at her arm, and the knife slipped from her fingers to clatter against the altar. Blood trickled down her elbow, splashed onto the stone at her feet. One droplet joined another, and another, forming a small scarlet pool.

Lightning flashed.

No, not lightning. When she’d lifted the blade, the clouds had finally departed. Snow ceased to fall. The moon looked down in silver radiance.

Beth smiled as she yielded to the pull of blissful nothingness and rested her check on the altar. Nyamah.

****

Soft fingertips feathered across Beth’s temple and through her hair, drawing her into awareness. The caress was gentle, much as she had imagined her mother’s might be like as a child. A touch she’d never known, though she spent her life seeking it. Convinced she was dreaming and unwilling to leave the comfort, she fought wakefulness.

“Rise, Beth,” a melodic feminine voice coaxed. “Open your eyes, Daughter of the Selgovae.”

The subtle command made her lashes flutter. Cold air skimmed down her bare arm. Even colder stone pressed into her cheek. Memories of Drandar, of cutting her flesh, of Fintan’s broken body slammed through contentment. Beth jerked upright, eyes wide, searching for the horror she last remembered.

“Shh,” the feminine voice soothed. “It is over.”

Confronted by the realization she hadn’t dreamt the woman, Beth looked toward the sound of the voice. The woman sat at Beth’s side, a vision of ethereal beauty. Long platinum hair flowed around narrow shoulders to cascade at her waist and over the edge of the stone table. Silvery eyes shone with kindness, offsetting the crisp indigo tattoos that adorned her forehead and cheekbones. She wore a hide tunic trimmed with the salt-and-pepper fur of a wolf. Simple. Ancient.

Breathtaking.

At once, Beth recalled the regal face, the long lithe form that carried silent confidence. “Nyamah?”

When she dipped her head in a nod, her hair tumbled over her shoulders like spun silk. Her slight smile radiated warmth. “Yes.”

“But where…how…” Beth trailed off, not knowing how to voice the questions in her head. The cacophony of noise gave way to one immediate unrelenting worry. “Where’s Fintan?”

With otherworldly grace, Nyamah gestured across her body at the ground near the sputtering bonfire. Beth’s gaze followed the motion of her arm. Her breath caught at the sight of Fintan’s motionless form. Fear spiked her heartbeat, but as she stared, praying against all odds he’d somehow survived, his chest rose. She exhaled a shuddering breath. Alive. His leg lay straight before him, and though his clothes were tattered and stained with blood, she found no sign of his earlier injuries.

She turned a look of disbelief on Nyamah. “How?”

“You, Beth.” Her smile broadened as she indicated the closed-over wound on Beth’s arm. “You spilled your blood and healed him. In so doing you bound Drandar once again and gave me the power to sit before you now.”

Blinking, Beth surveyed her surroundings, knowing there could be no doubt Nyamah spoke the truth but unable to comprehend the full reality. For the first time she noticed Dáire. Standing near the entrance to the standing stones, he held Brigid’s upper arm in a death grip. She stood dejectedly at his side, head bowed, shoulders slumped with the weight of defeat. The glade was empty, Fintan’s coven members nowhere to be seen. The altar Beth lay on no longer bore the stain of blood.

“Where is everyone?”

“Safe in their own homes.”

As Beth turned to Nyamah once more, the High Priestess embraced her. “I grow weak. I cannot stay. You know the means of defeating Drandar if the need should arise.” Releasing Beth, she leaned away but still held onto her shoulders, her grip firm, yet full of tenderness. “Now go to him.” She inclined her head toward Fintan.

Beth slid off the altar. On shaking legs, she took two steps forward, then stopped. Would Fintan turn her away? She’d run from him out of ignorance and fear. Had she waited too long to return? If she’d stayed as he had asked this morning, would it have prevented his suffering?

She turned to seek reassurance from Nyamah once more, only to find a thin column of misty white lingering in the air where the High Priestess had been sitting. More scared of facing Fintan’s possible anger than she’d been to face Drandar, Beth nervously stared at his impossibly healed body.

“Go, Beth. It is never too late to listen to your heart,” Nyamah’s voice echoed through the sacred grove.

Listen to her heart—hadn’t Fintan made references to the same thing? She swallowed with effort then shuffled across the barren ground. At his side, she crouched and set her palm in the center of his chest. “Fintan?” she whispered.

He stirred, a slight side-to-side motion of his head.

“Fintan, Drandar’s gone. The whole thing’s over. You’re healed. Please wake up.”

He raised his hand to capture hers at the wrist, but he didn’t open his eyes.

His awareness surged emotion through Beth’s veins. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision. A thousand confessions clamored in her head. Apologies, promises, gratitude, and guilt all warred for victory. Only one worked its way through her tight throat. One dominant thought that overruled all the rest.

“I love you.”