“You must become the Daughter of Winter. That is only possible if you return to your roots.”
I stared at him. Become the Daughter of Winter. As if it was that easy. “And then what?”
“You must kill Talorgan.”
I swallowed tightly. He said it so casually—as if it was a glib comment. I couldn’t help a small giggle, understanding I teetered on the edge of losing all control. “And how am I expected to kill an immortal?” I gasped on an inhale; my words barely audible.
His gaze narrowed. “Hysterics are wasted in this game. The sooner you accept the prophecy and the task laid before you, the better.”
He was right. Histrionics wouldn’t help me at all. I lifted a hand to run it through my wild mane, swallowing the flaring panic, and schooled my senses to remain calm, logical. “Who else is involved? Nora alluded that there are others who will support me. Others like us.”
He nodded. “There are five of us. All of us descendants of Druids affected by Cailleach’s actions. There is also The Oaken Tree, our Druidic clan. They are our people, bound by Cailleach to aid our task.”
His admission smothered my rising panic. Knowing that I wasn’t alone in all this made the weight of it easier to bear. The pendant hummed against my chest, a sharp reminder of its otherworld allure. I lifted a hand and gripped the cross tightly; the metal burned against my palm.
“Do all descendants have a pendant like this?”
“No. The pendant runs in Cailleach’s line only.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he added, “But all the descendants are branded.”
“Branded? What do you mean?”
“It’s easier to show you.”
Before I had a chance to reply, he had shrugged off his jacket and slung it over the kitchen chair. He peeled off his black sweater, and it joined the jacket. My mouth went dry as I witnessed his bare chest, the olive skin rippling with lean muscle. My fingers curled into my palms, and my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth as I forced out, “What are you doing?”
“Look at my neck,” he ordered, turning his back to me.
I stared at his smooth skin, ignoring the desire to reach out and touch him. The imperfection on his left shoulder instantly arrested my gaze. “What am I looking at? The scar?”
He shook his head. “Look to the center of my spine, then up to my neck.”
I squinted, but I couldn’t see anything. “There’s nothing there.”
He grunted. “It’s there. Look with your inner sight.”
My inner sight? What the hell did that mean? Biting my lip, I stared at his spine. I focused on the bumps of his vertebrae. There was a small flicker; then his skin began to blur and evolve. At first, it looked like a series of small pictures in a vertical line running up to his neck, but as my gaze sharpened, they became a series of symbols, stained in ink.
I gasped. “There’s a tattoo there!”
He turned then, and I was unprepared for the view of his naked upper body. My gaze jerked back up to his face, and I ignored the flush of my cheeks. “What does it mean?”
“It means guardian, or as close to the meaning behind that word as possible.”
I frowned. “Are you saying that you branded yourself and all other descendants with this tattoo?”
He shook his head. “No. We had no choice in the matter; prophecy demanded it. My tattoo appeared twenty-one years ago when I was six years old.”
My blood ran cold. Prophecy had that much power, thousands of years later?
His voice was quiet as he added, “As a descendant, you will have one too.”
I laughed sharply. “But I don’t.”
One black eyebrow rose, and he stepped forward, close enough that I could feel the heat emanating off his chest, smell his elusive scent. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured softly. “Do you trust me?”
I jerked my head in ascent, not trusting my voice.
“Good. Follow me.”
He moved fluidly from the kitchen, across the hallway, and into the bathroom. As if he unerringly knew where every room was. And he probably did, I reflected. He’d entered my home twice without my consent, and no doubt knew the layout well.
As I entered the bathroom after him, the small room immediately felt crowded, his broad shoulders and overpowering presence taking up the meager space.
“Put your back to the mirror,” he demanded.
I turned my back obediently, but then I felt his hands grab hold of the lapels of my shirt, tugging them upward as if trying to take it off. I jerked out of his reach. “What are you doing?”
“Relax, I’m not going to touch you.”
I flushed at his cold tone but stood there tense and mute as he tugged my shirt up a second time. I shivered as a rush of cool air touched my spine.
“Look in the mirror,” he said softly. “At your lower back.”
Bracing myself, I twisted sideways, craning my neck to peer into the mirror.
This was foolishness. I knew I didn’t have a tattoo on my back. I knew it with certainty. But then I caught the trail of ink running down the lower half of my spine.
What the hell?
16
Brydie
I felt my skin bead with sweat as the blood roared in my ears. Gage ground out a sharp oath behind me. I was thrust forward onto the cold marble tiles, my head shoved between my knees.
The movement caused a sharp stab of agony, a reminder of the injury I’d received earlier when the back of my head had hit the floor. The pain waved away the fog, and I reached up to push Gage’s hand aside, lifting my head to glare at him.
My voice was a thin reed. “How do I have a tattoo on my back?”
“You were born with it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense! How has it always been there—I would have seen it!”
“It is a legacy passed down to every Daughter of Winter and only becomes visible when you are the target of the prophecy.” His lips firmed as he added, “In your case, it was when Nora died.”
The thought of a tattoo being drawn on my back at the same time as her death was macabre. I felt violated that this had occurred without my control. Inhaling through my teeth, I fought the urge to scream. Nothing I said would change what had already happened.
I pushed myself to my feet, tugging my shirt back down to cover my bare midriff and turned to face him. His features were still, watchful, as if sensing that I wavered on a thin edge.
“If your tattoo means guardian, what does mine mean? Daughter? Descendent?”
Gage tilted his head to the side as he considered me, a thin scar on his jawline catching the light. “It means love.”
“Love?” It wasn’t what I’d expected.
“You are the daughter of Cailleach and her lover—a descendant of her own child, many generations removed, and who she has protected absolutely by tying your bloodline to a powerful prophecy. It is a fitting brand to carry.”
The characters on the tattoo had looked vaguely familiar. Similar to Japanese but different, the lines longer, the characters simpler. “I didn’t recognize the language. What is it?”
One of his dark eyebrows rose. “The only language that the Celts used—the Ogham Script.”
My jaw dropped as my mind struggled to dismantle the ramifications of that statement. The thoughts and emotions flitting around my head were a jumbled mess. Logic was screaming that this was all lies. What Nora had shared in her letter was unbelievable, easy to pass off as the ramblings of a crazed old woman. But the pendant and the tattoo were hard to ignore. So were the events from earlier this evening.