Talorgan’s stance was loose and relaxed under his billowing robe. Ignoring Tritus’s question, he lifted a brow and drawled, “What do we have here? The Gaul and the Winter Goddess, and together no less. Please,” he said, sweeping an arm toward the log they’d just arisen from, “be seated, continue. Don’t stop for my benefit. I am aware of the secret you’ve been hiding for months.”
Cailleach could sense the Druid’s overpowering confidence and didn’t miss the fact that his robes were no longer the light brown of an initiate, but a deep, blood-red. Standing here now, she could not only see but could also feel a change in the man before her. He was not the same Druid she had met over a year ago.
There was a different aura about him. It felt…malevolent. But there was also something darker there, hovering at the edge of her senses. Cailleach couldn’t explain it, but she could feel it—a power that remained barely leashed. There was something about his signature that also tickled her memory. A whispered conversation she’d shared with her siblings when they were urchins.
Cailleach slipped her small hand into Tritus’s palm. Their internal bond was reinforced by their physical connection, and she knew he felt it too. Fear licked between her shoulder blades, and her heart raced at the predicament they were in. She should have been stronger than Talorgan, her powers undeniable, but ever since she’d been with child, her magic had all but disappeared.
It had taken her a while to understand that the majority of her power hadn’t left but had instead turned inward to nurture the child. Cailleach felt vulnerable at first, threatened. But then Tritus reminded her of his gift—the pendant. He reminded her that the amber-colored pendant was much more than a trinket—it was a shield that would protect her and the babe from any attack.
Besides, Tritus also watched over them, and they hadn’t needed to rely on her magic—until now. But even with the knowledge that Tritus and the pendant would keep her and the babe safe from Talorgan, her senses were still screaming that something was not right, and Cailleach felt as exposed and defenseless as any mortal.
As if reading her mind, Tritus pulled her behind him, his body her shield.
When Cailleach moved, Talorgan’s eyes dropped to fixate on her protruding belly. His lip curled. “There is no mistaking you’re fat with child,” he sneered. His eyes shifted to Tritus, his stare hot and burning with turbulent emotion. “And you! You’re clearly the father! I could not believe it when I followed you to Ben Macdui this eve, because no one else but her lover would attempt to climb this mountain so close to winter. How is it possible you have lived here with her this long, undetected?”
Cailleach opened her mouth to respond and temper the emotions that were flaring between the two men. But before she could voice a word, Talorgan’s expression flickered suddenly. “Drust,” he breathed, his skin paling beneath the blue whorls tattooed on his face. “He knew! That moment two years ago, at the cross-roads, was all just a ploy—an act to make me believe that you visited another village. But you didn’t visit the village; you returned to her.”
Talorgan’s face was warped into a mask of hate, the fractured burst of color in his left eye swirling with a vibrant intensity.
Tritus maintained his silence, as if aware that confirming Talorgan’s question would lead to violence. Cailleach did not know how it couldn’t. She could feel the intensity behind Talorgan’s gaze, could feel the purpose of his words and his actions, and knew without a doubt that tonight was about revenge.
As if in response, there was a muted hum against her chest and then a sharp flare of heat.
The pendant!
Cailleach’s breath froze in her chest. She knew what that flare of light meant—it was a warning, a portent that Talorgan’s intentions were not honorable. That her life, her lover’s, and that of their child were all in danger.
22
Brydie
I awoke with one hand on my lips, my heart racing as a deep-rooted fear chased down my spine. But the fledgling memory of an overwhelming danger fled from my mind as a raging thirst dominated all other thoughts.
I opened my eyes to find the room was dark and I was in bed. I felt like shit, my body boneless with exhaustion. My throat also felt hideously dry and sore, as if I was sick.
I instinctively turned to the nightstand, my fingers reaching for my habitual glass of water, but they never touched it, for a sharp, throbbing pain stabbed against my temples. I gasped aloud and collapsed back against the pillows, slowly breathing in once, twice, and then a third time as I waited on the pain in my head to subside.
When it was subdued enough to move, I tried again, this time slowly reaching for the glass. My fingers trembled as they closed around its rim, and I greedily gulped the liquid down, relishing the moisture against my raw throat.
“You’re awake.”
I cried out, water sloshing over the rim of the glass onto the bed. My heart pounded anew as I searched the dim interior of my bedroom. I almost missed him, hidden in the shadows to my left. His profile was still, but I could see the faint gleam of his eyes, intently focused on me.
“Gage.” My voice was hoarse, and I winced at the pounding in my head. “What are you doing here?”
“You don’t remember?”
Puzzled, I said quietly, “No.”
He leaned forward then and turned on the bedside lamp. The soft glow was bright in the darkness of the room. “How do you feel?”
“Like I went a round in the ring. My head hurts.”
He waved a hand at the glass in my hand. “Unfortunately, it’ll stay like that for a while as it’s not anything I can heal this time. You’ll need to see the effects of this one through.”
I realized he was referring to the glass he’d left by my bedside back in New Zealand. It was a special concoction that looked and tasted like water but had miraculously erased my pounding headache after I’d been drugged at a nightclub. His comment gave me pause and made me wonder exactly what had happened if my headache couldn’t be fixed even with magical aid?
As if he’d heard my unspoken question, Gage shared softly, “We visited the tarn.”
That word sparked a memory, and the images hit me all at once. There had been a clearing in the bush north of the Estate, a pool, and a carlin stone—which I had lain upon. The attempt to go under the wall rather than over. The dive down into the pool. The golden gleam of something in its depths. It had looked like a tree. I remembered breaking through the surface of the water, reaching out to touch one of its branches, but I hadn’t reached it. There had been such agony before there came a loud thunderclap of sound and complete, utter darkness.
“I remember,” I whispered. “What happened?”
His mouth tightened. “You lost consciousness.”
He didn’t elaborate, so I pushed for more. “How long have I been out?”
“Two days.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You were lucky, some have been out for months.”
Months? He’d known that I could have been out for months, and he’d willingly taken that risk?
“You bastard!” I accused, wincing as my head split at my vehement tone. “You should have told me! Losing months would have been detrimental to losing the progress we’ve made.”