Defending Destiny (The Warrior Chronicles) (14 page)

Before we begin, I need you to cut my hair.”

Rowan didn’t ask why. He cut.

With each curl shorn from his head, Magnus thought of Gleipnir and how he would craft a sword worthy of Daisy. How did one craft a sword worthy of its magical namesake? A sword to compare with the silken chain made by the dwarves so seemingly fragile in its beauty, yet strong enough to hold the mighty Fenris wolf at bay?

How did he craft a blade strong and flexible enough to protect the woman who kept his heart?

With everything you’ve got. And a prayer for something more. That’s how.

Magnus and Rowan worked through the night and all the next day. Forging and praying. Praying and forging. That was how magic happened; through focused intention, sweat-filled deed, and a loving heart. With all three and the words Merry gave him, words he fed his fire with, Magnus, with Rowan’s help, created Daisy’s sword of destiny. On the blade he inlaid the words in runic script:
Defy not the heart.

The new Gleipnir now carried the words from Magnus’ heart, the carbon from his hair, and the intention of his soul.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Daisy hadn’t seen Magnus in three days. Since the morning before she lost the single greatest find of her life so far. Find an ancient Viking sword in a Scottish riverbed, lose said sword the second you get it on the bank, and along with that loss, your chances to become a sanctioned Finder.
All in a day’s work, Grasshopper.

That wasn’t even the worst part, although losing something so recently in her possession was like the drop on a rollercoaster—a really scary rollercoaster. That was bad. The fact that she couldn’t share the loss with Magnus bothered her almost as much as losing it in the first place.

She couldn’t tell Lauren; he’d be furious with her for leaving without Magnus and even more furious that she’d been hurt. The humiliation she’d feel if Lauren learned of her incompetence in not hanging onto an artifact for more than thirty seconds after she found it was bad. That he’d be forced to share that information with the Council and the Arm-Righ would mean she’d never become a sanctioned Finder.

It’s never too late to go to haggis-making school.

Daisy’s shoulders slumped with the thought. Yes, it was too late to go to haggis-making school. Macski’s Highland Foods already made the best Haggis in the US, and since she had no intention of permanently living in Scotland, becoming a sausage maker here made no sense at all. Besides, the couple who founded Macski’s was friends of hers. She didn’t want to compete with them or their fine food. Maybe she could take up whisky making. The problem with that was it took so long to see the finished product. She’d be forty before she sold any.

The ideas that usually flowed through her mind didn’t seem quite so crazy when she had Magnus to discuss them with. Even though he made her crazy, he always knew what to say about her career ideas. When she told him she wanted to tour with a circus on the tightrope, he listened. He helped her weigh the pros and cons. Together they determined that she should start high school before taking up the nomad lifestyle. He then talked Jordon into letting her go to Las Vegas with him and his grandfather to see back-to-back Cirque du Soleil shows; four shows over three nights. Magnus said if she wanted to join a circus, she might as well join the coolest circus of them all. By sophomore year she’d given up on the circus. She still loved Cirque du Soleil. In her more honest moments, she admitted she still loved Magnus.

Where did Magnus go? The better question was, where was the new overbearing, sexy as hell and twice as irritating Magnus and why had he been gone three days? So much for being her constant protector. One had to be present to protect. Lauren had Daisy working all day every day on the Kilmartin Glen segment of the documentary for
Magical Scotland.
In reality, she’d never been more than a room away from Magnus or Gerry since they disappeared. So she was feeling protected in the most smothering interpretation of the word.

Until this moment.

Daisy was done filming for the day and she told Lauren and Gerry she was going to take a bath. The look she shot them both must have worked since neither of them followed her. She was pretty sure Gerry hid the keys to her bike. Lauren and Gerry were both only children; they had no idea what it was like being the “baby” in an extended, overprotective family. Planning one step ahead of them, she had two extra sets of keys hidden on the grounds and one set on her person.

Daisy closed her bedroom door and pulled her chair under the doorknob. It wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, but it would make enough noise if someone tried to come in. She did the same thing with Magnus’ door, stopping on her way through their shared bathroom to smell his aftershave, lavender and mint, like his shampoo, and something that smelled like the sea mingled with lime. She wouldn’t have put all that together, but when Magnus used it he smelled fabulous. Daisy put the dark blue glass bottle down, eyed the robe he kept on the brass hanger on the back of the door, and said, “Yeah, right. When have you ever worn a robe?”

There was no answer. Why would there be? She was finally alone, and after three days without Magnus she was more than ready to snoop. Magnus would know, of course, which was what stopped her the first two days. Now it was day three and the fact that Magnus was as savvy in high-tech and counter surveillance techniques as anyone in Jordon’s security detail wasn’t going to stop her from rifling through his stuff, looking for clues of his life over the past few years.

Magnus’ bedroom was quite a bit larger than hers. A bureau high enough to hang pants without folding them over themselves with a set of drawers underneath graced one wall. It was at least twice the size of the one in her room. Daisy found that funny, because for as long as she’d known Magnus he could fit every piece of clothing he owned in one medium-sized duffle bag. He didn’t like to have more than he could carry, which made a certain amount of sense given he traveled whenever and wherever a Celtic artifact of any significance was found. During the times in between finds, he went wherever Lauren sent him, to authenticate or study pieces for Lauren’s museums and archives. Magnus also found the time to create a new line of jewelry every year as well as at least three new weapons that he sold to elite collectors. Not that she paid any attention.

Daisy hoped to find something, anything, that would tell her about the man Magnus had become over the last decade. She knew what the others at Potters Woods knew, but she hoped to find something more personal, more intimate. Did he love someone? Had there been someone serious since she left? Magnus was a passionate man, one who was never at a loss for female company. Of course there’d been women, but, how many? More importantly, what did they mean to him?

Daisy swallowed past the sawdust in her throat at the next logical question: Did he love anyone enough to have a child with them? Not that love was a prerequisite for children, but for Magnus it would be. She knew that in every fiber of her being. He’d grown up without his father, Shay, and Daisy knew Magnus would never do that to a child. In fairness, his father hadn’t done that either. Shay didn’t know about his son until Magnus walked through his front door as an eighteen-year-old man.

The thought that Magnus could have loved a woman enough to father a child with her hit Daisy like a swift kick to her chest. It bruised her heart.

Daisy went straight to the bureau. Just as she thought: four pairs of jeans, two pairs of khakis, two dress shirts, one white, one blue, and surprisingly, a kilt in what Daisy knew to be MacDonald tartan. Alexander was a sept of Clan Donald. She knew that, but she’d only seen Magnus in a kilt once. The mental image still had the power to make her heart pound. She pushed past the kilt and started rifling through the drawers. His underwear, sports boxers, didn’t surprise her. The patterned socks, most with the Green Bay Packers emblem on them, did. He’d adopted the Pack as his team and embraced American football with a passion most Scots reserved for rugby.

The remaining drawers held short and long-sleeved t-shirts, mostly black, a pair of cargo shorts, and a single pair of sweatpants with the Glasgow School of Art logo on them. Every piece of clothing was well worn. There was nothing new. And nothing of interest.

Daisy checked the table next to the bed. She pulled out the drawer first. A pen, a blank pad of paper, and a set of reading glasses.

Interesting, but not very informative.

Moving to the roll-top desk, Daisy pulled out the drawer under the writing surface. There was one notebook with sketches, some of weapons, mostly swords and shields. There were also some of jewelry, torcs and broaches and belts, all accompanied by runic phrases Daisy didn’t understand. As she flipped through the pages she saw Ogham as well as runes under drawings of people in period costume, animals and trees. She put the notebook back as she found it, next to three drafting pencils and a large gum eraser.

Nothing.

There were books on the desk that Magnus brought with him. She knew that because they were all annotated and underlined with precise lines and exact penmanship. That was art in its own right, and uniquely Magnus’. Two of the books were on Druids: one by Markle, one by Ellis. She recognized his leather-bound and gilded copy of Yeats’
The Celtic Twilight.
It looked well worn and well loved. The only other book was the newest Reacher thriller, dog-eared to one of Childs’ few sex scenes. She gently fanned the pages.

Again, nothing.

Daisy checked under the bed. Magnus’ distressed leather messenger bag was there. He must have left in a hurry to have left it behind. Daisy pulled it out. Sitting on her heels, she was reluctant to open it. That made no sense at all, since invasion of Magnus’ privacy was exactly why she crossed the threshold into his inner sanctum.

With one shaking hand, Daisy opened the bag.

The usual things any traveler would pack were there: an extra toothbrush, a tiny deodorant, and an extra pair of boxers. There were also the things unique to Magnus: a small sketchpad, three drafting pencils in a leather pouch, a Velcro travel wallet holding American dollars, Canadian dollars, Euros, British pounds, and Scottish pounds, and his passport in a waterproof case.

Daisy opened his passport, curious to see where he’d traveled. She ran her thumb over the small photo. It had been taken eight years ago. His features were rounder in the photo, but no less arresting. His jaw had been noticeably square then too, but not as stark. Magnus had a small scar now on the left side of his jaw, just under his lip, but not then. She wondered how or when he got it. Magnus wasn’t smiling in the photo, but he was somehow softer looking. He’d been incredibly handsome then. Now, he wore his masculinity like a weapon, one that cut her deeply. He’d been more boy than man when this photo was taken.

Startled by the thought, Daisy sat back and crossed her legs in front of her. Magnus was five years older than she was, yet to her he’d always been a man, a grown-up certain of his place in his world and in hers. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that he hadn’t been. It hadn’t occurred to her that he may have feared being responsible not only for himself but for her as well.

“Bloody hell, Gus. I’ve never looked at any of what happened through your eyes. I’m not sure I want to now.”

Daisy fanned through the pages of his passport.
London, Paris, Rome, Nice, Toronto, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Barcelona, Shannon, Cardiff, Frankfurt, London again, Edinburgh twice more, Glasgow three more times, Shannon again, then Glasgow twice more…

He’d been busy. A woman in every airport? The thought made her queasy.

When Daisy got to the last few passport pages three photos fell out.

She stopped breathing as she gathered up the photos. They were all laminated, with well-worn corners. Daisy laid them reverently in an arch in front of her.

The first photo was taken on their wedding day by Magnus’ father. In the photo, she wasn’t looking at the camera, but at the bouquet of multi-colored daisies Magnus’ mother, Mari, arranged for her that morning. There was a smile on her face that started in her heart, traveled to her toes, and finally made its way to her lips on the way back up. She looked incredibly young and eager and beautiful in the photo.

She was no longer that doe-eyed girl, no matter how much she longed for that purity of feeling. She’d never be that girl again.

The second photo was of the day she graduated from the James Campbell School of Celtic Studies with her doctorate. She was grinning ear to ear, her diploma in one hand, a bottle of Dom Perignon in the other.

The last photo was the one that stopped her heart. It was much more recent, taken on a day she thought she’d been alone, contemplating the life she’d chosen, as she held her new niece in her arms. Her niece’s twin was on his way to the hospital with his parents because of a breathing condition that was scaring the bloody hell out of the whole family. Daisy remembered the day perfectly. She’d been down by the koi ponds praying and thanking the gods for those twin miracles, thinking about the fragility of life and love, willing both babies to live long and happy lives with a fervency she’d never felt before.

In the midst of her worry and fear, her niece blew a raspberry and laughed in the way babies do that makes anyone with a soul laugh with them. Daisy laughed. The tears were still visible in her eyes. The photographer captured that moment perfectly. She recalled that she felt alone that day. Then, for a just moment, she felt like someone was with her, sharing her fears and her love.