Chapter Seventeen

Darkness filled the spacious music room, save for the soft light that emitted from the silver candelabras mounted on the wall and the long tapers they held. Solène stared at the flickering flames, listening to the quiet drone of Isolde’s voice. Her right hand gripped Taran’s; his fingers held on a little too tight.

She couldn’t fault him for the painful grip. Nor would she pull away. Each syllable Isolde invoked left lines of strain around his mouth. Each jerk of the slender knife his sisters and brothers made against their arm, each drop of blood they let into the bowl they passed around their circle, made him grimace.

Worse, the presence of darkness weighed on her heavily, and no doubt, Taran’s spirit churned in recognition. Drandar surrounded them, filled the house as if the very boards breathed his foul composition. And the wariness that shadowed each somber expression told Solène they all sensed his nearness.

She shifted her hand in Taran’s and tipped her head to give him an encouraging half-smile. Behind the warm façade, her heart battered into her ribs. A staccato beat that made her pulse jump erratically. Drandar was here, but why had he not shown himself?

“Seven mixed with one,” Isolde intoned as she took the bowl from Cian. “To see the wrongs undone. Broken veins forge lost unity.” She paused to offer the small basin to Taran. “Beneath the harvest moon, bleed with me.”

As the last of the altered words slipped from her lips, the atmosphere shifted. Energy thrummed outward, originating with Isolde and spanning to grace them all. Solène sucked in a sharp breath, the sudden, unmistakable presence of Nyamah’s might even more arresting than the veil of evil that blanketed the house.

Taran shook his hand free and accepted the basin. He tucked it between his knees, held his palm out for the blade Fintan offered. It shook as he held it over the meaty underside of his forearm.

Isolde began the chant she had performed seven times earlier. “Let the free run of life bring the free reign of spirit. Let those who have opposed us, those who have divided us, suffer with the injury we take unto ourselves. With the swiftness of the dagger, let it be done.”

With a sharp intake of air, Taran whisked the blade across his arm. As blood seeped to the surface and pooled in the neat slice, a deafening roar split through the room. Taran’s hand jerked. The blade slid to his elbow, creating a frighteningly large gash.

A rush of air tousled Solène’s hair, though the windows remained closed. It blew through the room, rattling the crystal drops on the chandelier. The candles winked out.

“Carve deep, my son. Perhaps you will yet do something right in this existence.” Drandar’s voice thundered around them.

Solène recoiled. She leaned toward Taran in search of shelter, but found none. The brush of his knuckles against her ribs explained why—his free hand clenched the bleeding wound.

“As for you, insolent daughter.” Drandar’s voice moved closer. In the faint silver light of the harvest moon, his silhouette rose behind Isolde. “You may have learned much from your traitorous mother, but not everything.”

A flash of red-orange light erupted and knocked Isolde to her knees. She let out a pained cry and clutched at the back of her head. Angus rushed to her side, a flash of movement Solène caught before blackness once again descended. She gripped the edge of her chair. Fear broke perspiration over her skin.

“You cannot stop me,” Drandar murmured eerily. “Not when you allow my salvation to live.” His breath whispered across the back of Solène’s neck. “Or did she fail to mention Nyamah’s veiled hint, dear Solène? Did she tell you that the priestess of sublime light only guaranteed her son would live if you did not?”

Solène groaned inwardly. Now it all made sense, even more than Drandar’s dark plans for her. He’d brought her back as a failsafe against Nyamah’s ritual. He knew all along that if she lived, he would as well.

He drew icy fingers across her neck, moving her hair aside. The foul press of his lips dusted her skin. “Indeed, you were designed to destroy him. That is why you dreamt of Nyamah the night he took your life. Pity her ploy did not work then.” He lifted his head, but his fingers slipped deeper into her hair and clasped her scalp, drawing her back against her chair. “Oh, and Rhiannon? Do not waste your time with his severed artery. It is immune to magic.”

Severed artery? “Taran!” Solène jerked to the edge of her seat, but the sharp grip on her hair kept her from making contact with his hunched over form. “Taran!” No, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t be bleeding to death. The ritual had promised. Nyamah herself offered him words of hope.

“I’m…here…” He gritted out in a pained voice. “And so help me…I will tear him into pieces…”

Drandar’s laughter bounced off the walls. “You will fail. You are too weak to stand. A few moments more, and there will be nothing left of you.”

Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Solène’s thoughts collided as she searched the darkness for some sign that one of Taran’s siblings, if not all, were doing something other than sitting spellbound in shock. If she could summon her wards, she would have, but her body was too weak, and her magic compromised by Drandar.

As if Taran’s siblings all shared the same thought that surged through her mind, chaos burst through the room. A flash of blinding white exploded from where Isolde sat. Fire shot past Solène’s cheek from the direction she’d last seen Brigid. In the center of the room, Fintan held a pulsating ball of blue-white flame that grew in size with each breath he blew upon it. Bit by bit, it expanded, morphing slowly into a dome that sheltered the one person in the room strong enough to stand toe-to-toe with Drandar—Isolde.

A snarl tore past Drandar’s teeth. He jerked on Solène’s hair, yanking her to her feet. She clutched at her scalp, yelping against the pain. But the pangs ebbed as quickly as they came, and with the dullness of sensation came a healing caress that carried Rhiannon’s energy.

Drandar laughed again. “Such a petty bunch of fools. You are a disgrace.”

He hurtled toward the door, dragging Solène along with him. But as he reached for the doorknob, a flash of light blinded Solène once again. She couldn’t see the trajectory of Isolde’s attack, but she felt its impact. Behind her, Drandar stumbled. An agonized bellow echoed off the walls. When he jerked the door open and tugged Solène into the hall, he limped.

One vicious snarl kept the McLaine mates who had gathered in the hall at bay. Solène pried at Drandar’s fingers, panic overruling her capacity to think. Taran was wounded—he needed her. Her feet moved only because she would not suffer the pain of being literally dragged.

“Let me go,” she cried.

“We had an agreement. One you severed. Now you are mine.” He jerked on her hair again, sending her dangerously close to the stairs. “Walk.”

Dutifully, she obeyed and set a foot on the stairs.