Chapter Seven

He’d slept with a demon.

Micah slapped an open palm on the heavy wood door and stalked outside into the bright sunshine. He took a deep breath to loosen the tension in his jaw. What the hell had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been, obviously. If he had, he never would have let things go so far. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have been wounded by Brigid’s rejection a handful of hours later. Nor would he still be dwelling on it all several hours after waking from a fitful sleep.

She’s not just a demon, a small voice inside him countered.

Unwilling to listen to that annoying bit of logic, he continued down the path that led through the fields behind Sgàil na Faileas and toward the standing stones just beyond the line of thick trees. Demon, half-demon—it didn’t make a damned bit of difference. He’d let his guards down, his wards down, and he’d fallen right into her hands, a willing participant to her games of desire.

Worse, he had nearly failed at his purpose to keep Brigid confined until either she embraced mortality or the rest of her sisters and brothers found another means of destroying Drandar.

He shoveled a hand through his hair, came to a stop near the overgrown gardens, and dropped onto a carved stone bench. Out here he could think. Inside, Brigid’s rustling drove him to distraction.

Problem was, when his head cleared enough to connect logical thoughts, all the things he didn’t want to admit screamed louder. He hadn’t slept with a demon. He’d had amazing sex with a woman he had known, and wanted, for years. A woman he felt things for that he didn’t dare feel, because every one of the damned emotions would send him down a perilous path.

A woman who, despite her false bravado and sharp tongue, possessed a gentle soul that not a one of her brothers or sisters recognized. Micah probably wouldn’t have seen through her hard exterior and her calloused words if he hadn’t been forced to spend the last four months locked up with her for 18 out of every 24 hours. When two people had to share space that long, they began to recognize the little things.

Like the way Brigid’s face lit up at the sight of a butterfly. Or the way she talked to the songbirds when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Or the way her eyes held longing on the two occasions she’d encountered Beth and Fintan since she’d been locked away.

A woman who truly believed in Drandar’s teachings would never express such tenderness.

His gaze pulled to the tall windows on the backside of the castle, where Brigid had stood when he awakened in the middle of the night, and his breath hitched. She leaned against the frame, long red hair haloing her shoulders with enchanting color. Her gaze dropped to him, caressed for a timeless moment. Then she dropped her hand from the windowpane and turned away, her smile somewhere forgotten.

Remorse jammed Micah in the gut. How many times had he dropped in on Brigid and Fintan in the last handful of years, to find Brigid sitting on this very bench, staring at the wild garden, or rooting through the dirt to tend a struggling flower?

His feet touched the very land she had been born on centuries ago. Behind him, the monoliths hidden amidst the trees marked the rite of life and death for her people, her family. She possessed a connection with the nature surrounding him that even he, and his affinity for the elements and spirits, couldn’t fathom. He basked in the rising power of the coming sabot. He took comfort in the cool breeze that carried the voice of their ancestors.

While his wards confined her in a block of stone, where raising a window was forbidden.

He turned away, unable to look at that barren plane of glass and see her ghostly imprint. There had to be a way—

His thoughts skidded to a halt as he spied an octagonal work of stone off the eastern corner of the castle. Beth’s renovations were complete now. The mortar in the old stone pillars had been replaced, the sagging roof reinforced and redone with tile shingles. Behind the screens that covered the arched openings, her easel stood prominent.

Micah rose to his feet, his attention riveted on the outbuilding, his thoughts whirling. He jogged down a newly laid gravel path and turned the iron doorknob. The old wooden door, now painted in crisp white, creaked open. Cool shade blanketed a smooth pavestone floor.

He glanced behind him at the side entrance to the castle. Twenty-feet, give or take, of unprotected ground. She could overpower him in an instant.

Did he dare?

He walked inside and closed the door. The scent of late spring flowers wafted on the air, adding another layer of enticement to the hideaway. Fintan’s positive energies blended with the faint aroma and offered subtle sanctuary. No wonder Beth liked to paint here. The cool hideaway could calm the angriest of hornets.

Brigid would love this. She probably didn’t even realize Beth had restored the decrepit old outbuilding. But getting her here would be risky. On the off-chance Drandar lurked nearby, if Brigid didn’t make a break for it, Micah would leave himself wide open to intervention from her sire.

But if he could pull it off, if he could give her a taste of what she longed for, she might be willing to discuss her mother’s ritual. Progress that made the risk less daunting.

Micah moved to one high screen and pushed at the mesh. Strong. Combined with his wards, once Brigid was in here, she would be secured.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, and murmured an ancient prayer.

****

Brigid ignored the fierce pain that twisted around her ribs at Micah’s ability to roam where he wanted. She’d become too accustomed to that lance of longing. Too used to the hollow ache for the outdoors and the freedom she’d known just four months ago. The yearning was part of her now. Just as much as the yearning for Micah that refused to release its vise-like hold.

One of these days she’d unravel one of Micah’s wards and walk through the door, instead of sitting around to observe his reaction.

She sat down on the sofa, her mother’s ritual on the table before her knees. The fierce energy of light ebbed off the aged hide binding, an invisible beacon that beckoned her to safe harbor. What did it say? What did it want from her?

Even as she considered the answers, the dark half of her soul churned. It wanted nothing to do with those ancient words. It craved the life Brigid gave her sire’s blood. The runes locked within those pages would bring swift death.

Still, she couldn’t tamp out the curiosity. What crafty means had Nyamah concocted this time? There must be a way to find out. A way to read without antagonizing Drandar.

If she made it quick, he would never know. He could never accuse her of entertaining her mother’s calling.

Brigid’s hand snaked out and grabbed the hardened leather spine before her mind consciously became aware of the action. Fire coursed through her fingers, up her arm. It burned into her shoulder and spread like a strike of lightning through her veins.

She jerked away with a sharp cry.

Damn Micah!

Curled in the corner of the couch, Brigid cradled her burned hand. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip to stave the despicable wetness away. She hadn’t wept in a good hundred years. She would not do so now because a demonologist outsmarted her.

But oh how it stung. Not just the tingling beneath her skin, but the stark reminder of Micah. He had locked her in here. He enjoyed freedom while she remained a prisoner. She who, if he didn’t have his magical wards, could crush him with a flick of her thumb. He might have mastered her body last night, but he was a far cry away from mastering her.

She sat up and swiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. For too long she’d been playing games. The sabot approached. She would not be denied the opportunity to pay tribute to those who walked before her and the birthright of her Selgovae blood.

Micah made one fatal error last night. He had confessed how long he wanted her. And he had given her a glimpse of how that desire made him weak. Caught up in the throes of passion, he neglected his wards.

It would take little work to use that desire against him and sidetrack him once more. When he least expected it, she’d strike. Tonight. The night before Litha. Oh, she wouldn’t kill him—she respected him too much for death. Besides, leaving him alive would be far more rewarding. While she walked free, while she aided Drandar, Micah would live the rest of his life knowing she had outwitted him once and for all.

A smile slid across her lips, and excitement stuttered her pulse. Fitting revenge for all the suffering he’d cast upon her. He wouldn’t even see it coming.

Humming beneath her breath, Brigid rose to her feet and hurried to the shower. It was already noon. Micah wouldn’t stay out forever. She didn’t have much time to prepare.