Authors: Jory Strong
His free hand lifted, fingers sliding through her hair. He caressed her cheek, cupping it, the soft touch a blossom of pleasure and hope, an acknowledgement of her point.
“You’ve told me not much is known about the
seidic
,” she said. “You’ve told me that my magic feels old to you. When I look at the bands my mother tattooed on my wrists, I see the Dragon’s green. When I face it, that green travels up my arm as though the sigils making up its name are written there like inked destiny.”
“Etaín.” Her name held his doubt, his worry, the wealth of his desire as the estate gate slid back as it had the first night she’d come here, revealing Cathal waiting there instead of Eamon.
Eamon released her so she could get to Cathal, but sudden imperative held her. “Trust me to do the right thing,” she said, before taking the freedom he offered. Her arms were around Cathal an instant later, her mouth fused to his.
Cathal couldn’t get enough of her. He was as desperate for her as he’d been after the encounter with the gangbanger, except this was honest, with no agenda other than to celebrate life and love.
His mouth ate hungrily at hers, his cock about to tear through
the front of his jeans to get to the place it considered home. His arms tightened on her at Eamon’s approach.
Not jealously. Not possessiveness. But a grab for sanity to keep from stripping her out of her clothing.
Talk would have to wait. Confessions. Neither of them was as important as the touch of skin to skin, the urgent need to be inside her, to share her.
Pulling his mouth from hers, he said, “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” thoughts flashing to his fire and smoke and water-damaged house. Not Eamon’s bedroom but
their
bedroom. For a while. Maybe permanently. And he found that the thought of living here, where she’d be safer—hell, where
he’d
be safer—didn’t bother him.
His lips returned to hers, hands settling on her hips, though the will to stop the grind of her cunt against his cock deserted him.
In his mind he said,
we need to stop now
, but his body refused to yield, relishing the rub and press, the heat and scent of Etaín and the joy of being alive.
* * *
Q
uinn pulled to a stop near the chain-link fence, cutting the engine steps away from an opening in the fence to the right of a No Trespassing sign. Again he contemplated calling Sean. Again he dismissed it.
He pulled his gun from its holster and got out of the car. He’d just take a quick look around, enough to either confirm he was nuts or…
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
The refrain pounded through him with each heartbeat. Racing until there was no break between utterances.
The twist in his gut got tighter with each step, until caution was a struggle.
He heard voices speaking Spanish. Harsh-edged, ugly laughter
followed by the sound of someone being hit. A cry of pain, a piteous whimper.
Derrick’s cry. Derrick’s whimper.
Rage poured into Quinn. The red of furious fire burning away years of training, eradicating any thought of stealth.
He raced forward, driven by fierce possessiveness past abandoned buildings covered in graffiti, the sound of violence and agony, the scent of blood reaching him, feeding his urgency and providing a trail. He led with his gun, finger steady on the trigger despite the adrenaline rushing through him and the pounding beat of his heart.
“Please, no!” Derrick screamed, terror peaking, and Quinn promised himself Derrick would never beg again, unless it was in bed with him, and the words would be “Please. Yes!”
“Do it, Drooler,” someone said as Quinn rounded the corner and saw Derrick held between two teens, struggling as a third raised a gun.
Pop. Pop. Pop
The rounds left Quinn’s gun in staccato beats, taking the immediate threat to Derrick down, before eliminating the others.
Shoot to kill.
Instinct. Training.
He was rushing forward when something slammed into him.
He took two additional steps before his brain interpreted what his body knew. He’d been shot. Realization came with the delayed impression of a man ducking behind a stripped, abandoned car.
Quinn hit the ground. His hand went to his chest in a feeble attempt to stop the escape of blood, his consciousness wavering. His vision was wet and blurry as Derrick dragged himself toward him on his belly, using one arm while the other trailed.
“No, no, no,” Derrick sobbed, his face was bloody and swollen.
Quinn wanted to scream
Run! Get out of here!
But a bubble of blood gurgled up his throat and prevented it.
The shooter stepped out from behind the car.
A roar of denial blasted from Quinn’s core. A determination to protect Derrick that held him to life and lent him enough strength to angle the gun upward and get off two shots.
Hits, both of them.
The man went down and didn’t get back up.
Satisfaction tempered the pain of having lost a future with Derrick.
He’ll use my cellphone. He’ll make it out of here.
Comforting thoughts as Quinn slid into the oblivion that was death.
* * *
E
taín seized without warning, the violence of it tearing her out of Cathal’s arms and throwing her to the driveway to flail and thrash, limbs wild and back bowing as though it would snap. He dropped immediately, grabbing an arm, pinning it to the cool concrete as his other hand pressed against her chest in an effort to hold her down.
Eamon was instantly there, kneeling opposite her. Etaín’s hand flashed out, grabbing Eamon’s wrist, her palm pressed to his flesh. Concern for her went to fear of her, a glimmer of expression quickly smoothed to hide its turbulence, but not quickly enough.
“Sire?” Liam said, stepping forward, Heath and Myk immediately flanking him.
“What’s going on?” Cathal managed, and yet he could feel it in the tattoos along his forearms. Magic.
Eamon stiffened, head snapping back, the muscles of his throat taut, his face reflecting struggle, as if he tried to break away from Etaín’s grip but couldn’t.
Terror crawled into Cathal’s throat. Survival instinct screaming for him to break contact with Etaín now, while he still could, demanding he flee because he was only human.
He held tight, denying everything, willing to sacrifice everything, believing in that instant that she needed him now more
than ever, that magic, something intrinsically a part of her, had chosen him for more than a save from the Harlequin Rapist.
“She consumes you, Lord,” Liam said, voice urgent, determined. “Order me to kill her!”
* * *
T
he magic blazed a trail for Cage though he didn’t need one, given his close proximity to Quinn. He pushed through the opening in the chain link fence, urgent now with the scent of blood, Kestrel awake and hungry, the sound of a man crying, a body dragging chilling him to his core.
He did not limit himself to human speed in order to reach Quinn. Knew by the soaked front of Quinn’s clothing and pool of blood spreading next to him that only the magic held him to this life and this body.
Cage scooped Quinn up, taking in the three dead, one of whom Kestrel had hungered for outside Saoirse. Pity moved through him when he recognized Derrick, beaten and broken but dragging his body forward in an effort to get to his lover.
There was no time to offer comfort. And reassurance was premature even this close to water.
Cage raced forward, hurling Quinn into the bay.
Behind him Derrick screamed. A heart-wrenching, primal sound of such anguish that it silenced even Kestrel’s demands.
* * *
A
wordless scream left Eamon and this time Cathal’s head snapped back as pain ripped through him as though he were being eviscerated from the inside out.
“Eamon. Lord. Order me to kill her!”
“No.” Cathal gasped. “Trust her.”
“No!” Liam urged, tensed and coiled like a panther ready to spring. “No! Today’s events demonstrated that the magic controls
her, not the other way around. Accept her loss for the good of those who call you Lord.”
Another wave of pain clawed through Cathal. Pulsing simultaneously to what was happening to Eamon. Building, building, then suddenly condensing, shattering in his chest.
* * *
C
age watched as the bubbles rising to the surfaced ceased, the body disappearing, sinking.
He caught himself holding his breath and forced an exhale, guilt settling into his chest with the next inhalation.
Brother. The sense of it was stronger now.
He had not been his brother’s keeper here.
It wasn’t too late. Not yet, though he could guess what the magical channeling was doing to the
seidic
changeling who’d made this possible with her ink. In the end, this might cause her death.
* * *
J
acko tried to use the car to get to his feet, but left only a smear of blood against metal next to concrete blocks and rusted axel. His thoughts drifted, sliding into the past with the memory of stabbing a shank into the last guy he’d killed in prison.
What was the motherfucker’s name? His thoughts blurred. He could remember the blood wet on his hand and wrist.
Reality blurred, he looked down and blood gushed out faster, his heart pumping hard at seeing the gut shots, his fingers splayed across his stomach though his intestines were leaking out.
Motherfuck. He dug into his pocket for his phone, hearing Cyco say, “I’m about finished my business. You done?
“Jacko! Jacko!” The shout brought him back. He shivered. Fear coming when he realized he was shaking, so cold now he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Couldn’t actually feel much of anything.
Motherfuck, they weren’t going to find him curled up in a ball.
They weren’t going to say he went out like a pussy. When they talked about him, they were going to say he was a man.
“Dead. Guy showed up.” The words were slurred but he kept going, forcing more of them out. “I took him out. Need you to finish Cathal Dunne.” Couldn’t believe the asshole had survived the launcher attack.
“Him. His woman. Anybody else who’s with him.”
“Good,” Jacko said, the phone dropping away as the numbness spread and all awareness ceased.
* * *
E
taín opened her eyes to tranquility, if facing a Dragon could be tranquil. It rose from the water, creating a ripple, and in that ripple Etaín saw Eamon on his knees, body bowed, rigid, his image thin, appearing more apparition than solid man while Cathal—
Agony engulfed her at seeing him prone, still, sightless eyes staring at nothing.
There is always a price to pay. He is human, mortal born, not created to be conduit or vessel for magic.
“No!” she screamed, the sound of it reverberating, making her aware of the ebb and flow, the serration of her own heart, still beating while Cathal’s was silenced.
Clever changeling.
The sigil of servitude appeared, writ in the air like a fiery brand.
It’s what I can offer you now. There’s still time for your human. Take it and return to him, transformed into what you were meant to be.
Trust me to do the right thing
, the words spoken before racing to Cathal mocked her now, everything inside her saying no price was too high to pay for Cathal’s life. But those moments when she’d lost control of her limbs, when the ability to speak had been choked off at the Dragon’s will, were too visceral.
This servitude was another name for slavery. And that slavery would extend to him.
Not slavery. The honoring of a promise. The righting of a wrong.
At what ultimate cost? In the water Eamon continued to fade, as if her touch was draining him of magic and gift, his accusation ringing in her ears that the lives of those who depended on him as Lord would worsen because he’d tied their future to hers.
“No,” she said, concentrating on the complex shapes Eamon had painstakingly taught her, building the sigil segment by segment in the hopes it would allow him to get free of her.
* * *
S
ire!” Liam urged again, enough control finally returning that Eamon was able to speak.
“No.” The answer came from his heart, more gasp than word.
Liam’s face reflected understanding and grief even as he moved to disobey, willing to give his life for his lord’s. But Myk and Heath reacted as well, as if anticipating it, grabbing Liam, risking his gift, struggling though that struggle lasted only moments before Etaín’s body stilled in human death and the flow of magic abruptly stopped.
Eamon felt as though his own heart had been ripped out of his chest. Searing pain spread through him, growing in intensity as moments passed instead of the barely perceptible seconds that had marked his own change, the tattoos on his arms inert, nothing more than ink, giving him no way to call her back.
“Fight, Etaín, fight.”
* * *
T
he lake, the Dragon, the burning sigil and the complex one she’d been building disappeared in a white burst and an echo of pain. Nothingness followed, an inky blackness that drained into the vines on her arms, and in its wake she again faced the Dragon—except this time there was silence. So she was dead now too.
* * *
C
age smiled when the water began churning violently, smoke rising from its depths along with bubbles and blackened debris. The thrashing continuing, creating a whirlpool that sucked them back in. A light show of color only he could see as a Dragon battled to regain a human shape, to make sense of facts and divergent realities, though those born in this rare, rare manner were born old.
Behind him Derrick sobbed, the slow scrape of his body marking his determination to reach his lover even now. Quinn had chosen well. Or the
seidic
had with her ink.
Cage turned away from the water, using his true speed to reach Derrick, offering comfort with a whispered, “He lives, and so will you,” before offering merciful oblivion with a spelled charm he’d gained from Eamon.