Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

It reminded her of the graveyards in New Orleans, rows of dank stone structures covered in mold, with the dead resting in their afterlife above ground. It was an unusual sight in a northern town, and even more unusual for a commune of immortal Celts. She could only assume the water level in this particular area must be quite high, or something other than the dead resided in those tombs.

And she didn’t intend to stay and find out what. Tucker emerged like a white apparition from the narrow exit, his stance alert, silently scanning the darkness. Without pause, she listened for the sound of running water and tracked the nearest river upstream. Once she gained some distance, she began to run. Tucker kept in cadence with her strides.

Trees stood tall yet weakened, their roots exposed due to an eroded forest floor. Soon, one river merged with another, two sources of water that forked around Rosa’s secluded parcel of land. Just beyond the point where the two rivers merged, there was, as Rosa had promised, a trail of exposed rocks. The water flowed in steady currents but seemed shallow enough to cross.

Pausing by the river’s edge, Sophie spared a glance at the hound. “I hope you can keep up, Tuck.” A disgruntled canine huff reached her ears as she plunged forward. The water seeped through her jeans and found her skin, so cold it stole her breath. Tucker kept pace through the fast-moving currents, but just as they reached the other side, he looked to the woods and issued a soft whine.

A flash of blue, too vivid to be natural, caught her eye then disappeared.

Her heart sank. Mind racing, adrenaline pumping, she scanned the darkness and found a fallen log, rotted on one side. Low brush, thick and tangled, grew along the shoreline. She began to wade toward the covering.

Tucker barked and she cringed. She dared not speak to chastise him. But then a voice, a familiar voice she would recognize in every dream, over any man, and for the rest of her life, echoed from the forest.

She almost crumpled with relief.

“Tucker,” Dylan said. “Is that you? Where’s Sophie? Can you bring me to Sophie?”

With a cry, Sophie crawled her way out of the water, stumbling to gain purchase on dry land, and ran toward the sound of her husband’s voice. Dylan halted for a second when she came crashing through the brush, but then let out a growl and met her halfway.

“Sophie . . .” His hands were in her hair, patting her down, and then around her waist, lifting until her feet left the ground. She wrapped her legs around him, buried her face in the warmth of his neck and began to sob.

“Is Joshua okay?” She asked through broken breaths, almost unable to bear the answer.

“He’s safe, my love.” Dylan nuzzled her neck, then sought her lips in a desperate kiss that bared his soul as he shuddered in response. “He’s home, waiting for us.”

Relief made her sag in his arms, but once the tears came they wouldn’t stop. “My mother . . .”

“I know. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.” Dylan began to walk, carrying her in his arms. She told him about Math, about Siân, how Rosa had helped her escape. She gave him Rosa’s message. He remained silent, listening.

“Where are we going?” she finally asked.

“Home,” he said. “We’re going home.”

It wasn’t until they cleared the trail that she realized they were not alone. Too tired to ask questions, she tucked her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled the scent of safety.

THE PAIN WAS LIKE A FISTFUL OF HEATED NEEDLES shoved under her skin, greater than anything Merin had ever done to Elen in her childhood. Power did not like to be contained. It wanted release. Unfortunately, her body was the vessel that held it. Her nerves screamed with its force.

Elen winced as she undid the latch of the iron gate Koko had designed for her, an intricate weave of faeries on lilies that offered both beauty and privacy. Following the stone path, she stumbled toward the hidden gardens behind her beautiful little house. She regulated her breaths through clenched teeth, much like modern childbirth techniques.

With a broken moan of relief, after a day full of suspicious glances and avoidance from the villagers, Elen finally allowed the power to consume her. She collapsed in a bed of anise hyssop and let its vengeful pressure bleed from her skin and into the ground. Purple flowers bloomed around her and a licorice scent filled the air like a basketful of candy, offering treats and bellyaches of a more noxious variety.

The villagers thought she was this power-hungry freak, when in fact she was only a conductor, a mere rod of transference. She was a puppet of a merciless master, no more in control now than when it had first begun, when the gods had reached out their hands of vengeance with their unwanted gift.

Afterward, when the transference passed, she wept. If the villagers knew how much it hurt, would they be more understanding? Doubtful, she mused bitterly. Francine and Taran were dead because of her. And Cormack . . .

A ragged breath fell from her lips.

An ivy leaf broke ground through the hyssop, nourished by her tears, and reached for her cheek as if to console her. She ripped it from the earth until life drained from its roots. She knew when it died, because she felt it.

She was a freak. But not a power-hungry one. Never that. If possible, she would give her gift away, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to curse another soul with this burden.

Melissa is alive, she reminded herself, because of her ability to take life and transfer it to another source. Her ability had its purpose, a purpose she had just begun to learn. Still, Taran’s mate had refused to see his child until Elen left the clinic, more afraid of her than a Gwarchodwyr. They had been frightened of her before, and now . . .

Even Cormack refused to see her. He had changed back to his wolf form and growled every time she approached.

She had never felt more alone.

A brush of movement caught her eye. Before she could react, warm arms enclosed her. For a moment she was hopeful, for a moment she thought it was Cormack until ebony hair cascaded around her, distinctly familiar and brotherly .

“Luc, what are you doing here?” She tried to push him away but he only gathered her closer.

“Tell me what I can do for you, Elen.”

Shaking her head helplessly, she said, “There is nothing.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“You’ve been avoiding your family,” he accused softly. “Sophie’s been asking to see you.”

Knowing her new sister was safe and home gave Elen some comfort. She snuggled closer to her brother’s warmth. “Does she hate me?”

“Hate you?” She heard the frown in his voice, the confusion. “No, Elen, Sophie doesn’t hate you. Your actions saved her son. You did what you had to do to save our nephew. You are not to blame for the actions of the Guardians. Sophie knows that.”

Elen rubbed her sleeve across her face, drying her tears. Her brother thought like a warrior, not a healer. Still, his words soothed her. “I’ll come to the house tomorrow morning.”

“Come now,” he coaxed, tightening his arms. “Or Dylan will return to get you himself. His wife is grieving. Don’t make him chase after you when he should be with her.”

Guilt was a powerful persuader. “Fine.” She stood, bending forward to brush dirt off her slacks, a well-used trick to hide a sudden twinge of discomfort. She felt bruised internally, never before having pulled the life-force from another living animal. It had taken its toll on her body. “I’ll go see them now.” She hid the weariness from her voice. “Have you seen Cormack?”