Indecent: The Moray Druids #2 (Highland Historical) (6 page)

Niall watched his mate disappear into the flames with a horrified sense of awe. Smoke curled into his already weakened lungs, and slowed the ineffectual struggles against his bonds.

Who knew nuns were so good at tying knots?

Had he his usual strength, he’d be able to rip through rope as though it was parchment. But he was weak, he’d given all of his essence, his potency, to the woman he and his Berserker had chosen.

And he’d do it again, gladly.  Though, his heart wept for his men, scattered around the court yards like corpses, yet still drawing precious breaths.

This was no sort of death for a warrior of Freya. Rendered helpless by the poison from a gaggle of frightened women and left out in the storm for these fucking harpies to use as fodder.

Flames began to lick closer to his flesh, and despite himself, Niall felt a frantic sort of rage well within him at his impotency. If only he had more time. If only he could see blood.

If only…

She was like a goddess, standing on her pyre, her clothes turned to ash and her hair flowing behind her, lifted by the fingers of the flames. Her precious skin was unmarred by burns, but glowed with power and strength.

“Give us the Grimoire, Kenna de Moray, and we may spare your life,” the witch in the middle spoke in a child’s voice dripping with an eerie innocence that she’d likely never possessed.

“Not a fucking chance,” Niall growled, knowing the depth of his woman’s devotion to her cause. To humanity.

Three heads swiveled toward him in sinister synchronization. “Another Berserker,” the crone hissed.

Their momentary distraction gave Kenna the time she needed to gather the flames to her body, creating a sort of human torch. Niall’s skin had broken into a sweat as the fire arced closer to him, but she seduced it toward her, as well, leaving none for the evil witches to gain control of.

It crawled to her glowing body like a child to a mother, and once Kenna had it in her possession, she released an arc of flames toward the Wyrd Sisters with lyrical words spoken in her ancient language.

The older women leapt out of the way as the girl child deflected the arrow of flames with an arcane hand gesture and a few whispered words of her own. The fire illuminated the terrified, owlish eyes of cloistered women all huddled beneath the archway, desperately praying to a God who would not intervene.

Thunder roiled over the tops of the craggy Highland hills, bringing flashes of lightning forking toward them, just barely out of reach. The air promised moisture, and Niall knew that flames would be more difficult to maintain once the air and water Druids could concentrate storms to drench his mate.

“The book, Kenna,” the Crone demanded.  “It is
here
, I can feel it.”

“It doesn’t belong in your hands,” Kenna called from the flames. “You cannot use it as an instrument for the end of days.”

Despite what was happening around him, Niall couldn’t tear his eyes away from his mate. Her clothes had been incinerated, her bonds no more than ashes at her feet. She was a vision of bliss and beauty ensconced in a deadly heat. A warrior of the elements, a protector of truth and power. A paladin, in her own right.

And she was
his
.

How could one man be so fortunate as to find such a mate, and so tragically cursed to perhaps lose her so soon?

The flames around her body seemed to culminate toward her middle as she gathered them within the shapes of her hands, and again arced fire toward the Wyrd Sisters.

This time, when Nemain deflected, the ball of fire hit the stupefied Mother Superior and engulfed her instantly. The woman didn’t have time to scream before she was nothing but a pile of soot.

“She’s the first casualty,” the girl taunted. “We can slaughter these hundred virgins before you take your next breath, and then we’ll flay the skins of the Vikings from their screaming bodies. Is that what you wish, Kenna, to be the cause of all that?”

Niall could see the way the old nun’s death affected Kenna in the rapid, horrified blinks of her eyes, but she said nothing.

“We’ll leave your Berserker for last.” The Crone licked her dry lips and lifted herself toward him as though she floated on a pocket of air. “And we’ll leave you alive long enough to endure their suffering, to relive it in your dreams. When the horror passes, and your soul dies, we’ll end your life, as well, with the knowledge that Malcolm belongs to us.”

“I can’t,” Kenna gasped, her frantic eyes touching each prone Viking body, and scanning the line of frightened nuns before resting upon Niall’s face. “I won’t. I must protect the Grimoire.” She said this like an apology. For that’s exactly what it was.

“I know,” Niall acknowledged, pride welling in his heart along with a slew of other transcendent emotions. “I gave you my power, woman, I want you to use it to defeat your enemies. No matter the cost.”

***

The cost. The cost would be the future he represented to Kenna. The life they might have had. For those with responsibility such as hers, the cost was always too high.

Kenna couldn’t let the crone drift any closer to Niall, so she threw one more flaming arc between her and the man who was very slowly gathering his strength, cutting him off from the evil sisters.

“I swear to the Goddess that I will destroy the Grimoire before I let you take it,” she declared.

“Don’t be foolish,” the water witch, Macha, scoffed, the long sleeves of her dark robes rustling with hidden movement. “The Doomsday Grimoire has survived barbarians, genocide, Romans, fires, floods, and countless catastrophes. It is written in the blood of the First Druids and bound in the skin of their enemies. It is the height of arrogance to think that a slip of a fire witch like you could wield the power hidden within, let alone destroy it.”

Lightning struck the spire of the abbey, punctuating the truth of Macha’s words. Rain pelted the ground, and hissed through Kenna’s fire, weakening her barrier between Niall and the witches.

Nemain was the first to step through her wall, as she was immune to the flames as Kenna. Then Macha, followed by the levitating Badb. They surrounded Niall in a triangle each of them running hands over his magnificent body.

“You feel for this one, I think,” Badb sneered, her dry, white tongue snaking out to lick at his cheek.

Niall growled at her, and the witch growled back, uncovering rotten, sharp teeth.

“He tastes like fire and sex. Your doing, I believe,” the crone continued.

Kenna wanted to lash out at her. The masculine power within her carried with it a bit of the man from which it was drained. A desperate fury called for her to murder the witch and peel the flesh from her bones to wear as a trophy. But she dare not strike, lest she miss, or the witches use her weapon against Niall.

Where are you Malcolm and Morgana? Please hurry!
She silently prayed.  

“The pain we could cause your Berserker,” Badb crooned. “He would beg for death.”

“Do your worst,” Niall sneered, then laughed, his muscles seeming to come alive with his struggles, and the ropes creaking beneath his impressive weight. He was regaining his strength, just not fast enough. “I’m not afraid to die.”

“My worst?” Badb cackled over the sound of the storm. “My worst, Barbarian is something you can not fathom. So much more terrifying than death, but just as final. You see, I know where your soul resides. I can reach for it with my dark magick through the empty spaces between the tiny fibers that comprise your thick, strong body. I can render you helpless. I can do things that you can’t swing a sword at. I’ll rattle the cage where your beast hides and rip your very essence through the cracks. It’ll be bound to me, a slave to my bidding. And once I die, your soul will be trapped here, never to be reborn, never to see the Other World. Just a wraith for a lonely eternity until the end of days.”

“You couldn’t,” Kenna gasped, her fire shield sputtering around her body weakened by her fear, and taking more energy to maintain. “The Goddess wouldn’t allow it.”

“I have done,” Badb argued. “I have quite the collection of souls, already. But he would be my greatest acquisition. I no longer draw my power from the Goddess, but from something darker and more ancient than even
her
. Once they belong to me, their powers are mine, as well.”

The possession she’d felt before exploded into a fury of frantic need, and Kenna made a decision that could forever alter her stars. “You cannot have his soul,” she called, the flames whipping around her and reaching toward the triad of witches. “For it belongs to me, and I belong to him.
He
is my mate and I accept him as such.”

Invisible cords, as soft and yet unyielding as silk reached through the ether and slid through the very fibers of her being.

Niall’s handsome face registered so many things, she couldn’t blink lest she miss something.  Astonishment, pleasure, relief, victory, and finally, wrath. Storms and shadows gathered in his eyes and his lips pulled back from teeth as sharp as a predator’s.

The Wyrd Sisters were about to meet his Berserker.

In one powerful flex, the ropes surrounding him snapped, and Macha flew through the air with a swipe of his hand, breaking on the wall and slumping to the mud. Niall leapt after her, clearly intent on murder.

Kenna attacked, as well, slinging her flames in great, lashing whips trying to keep both Nemain and Badb from Niall.

She failed; Nemain had fire of her own, and seemed to steal it from Kenna each time they fought, or lash back at her, forcing her to parry. They were at an impasse.

If only Morgana were here.

Levitating herself above the fray, Badb flew at Niall with a blood-curdling screech, her talon-like fingers clawed into the air and made a fist as though she grasped something ultimately difficult to hold. “His blood is strong, and his soul stronger, but I can still take it,” she cackled gleefully, as Niall grunted his steps faltering. “He will serve me well. He will be locked in the cold darkness of the nether, always hungering, ever thirsting. And you’ll be left with his perfectly preserved corpse as a reminder of what you’ve done to him.”

“Stop!” Kenna cried out desperately, blasting Badb with a lash of flames that the old woman easily dodged.

Niall groaned and dropped to his knees, a strange illumination beginning to tear away from his back, rippling along his spine and arching as though struggling to stay inside of him.

“No!” Kenna cried. “Stop!”

The beast roared, not the roar of dominance or victory, but that of a wounded bear, desperate and furious as more of his soul ripped out of his flesh with a sound so horrible Kenna wanted to cover her ears like a child.

That roar pierced her own soul, cutting through her as nothing else had. Never had a fear of loss been so great. Never had her heart beat so hard, not because of herself but
for
another.

She’d given that heart to him, and would lose it completely if she lost him.

“Come to me, Berserker,” Badb taunted. “I will take you apart, and rebuild you. I will make you forget who you are. Who you love. Forget everything and everyone but
me
and my will. You will help me to bring about the Apocalypse and I will take my place among the demons to rule the afterlife.”

The tragedy of that threat broke Kenna’s will, at last. “I’ll tell you where it is!” she cried. Hurling one last fire bolt at Nemain, knowing it would do no damage. “The Grimoire, you can have it. Just— let him go.”

Badb’s eyes glowed with silver light, so evil and malignant that Kenna wanted to claw them out. “Where?” she demanded.

Kenna’s shoulder slumped, her lungs deflated, and her voice wavered as she forced out the words that may just damn the world. “The library,” she croaked, pointing to the appropriate window. “Beneath the window seat.”

Instead of rushing for it, Badb dropped Niall, curled her fingers again, and lifted Nemain from her feet. With a throwing motion, she hurled the girl at the window of the library. “Get the Grimoire,” she hissed. “Do not fail me this time.”

Wet, slick, and grotesque popping sounds echoed from the far wall of the courtyard, and Kenna turned to see Macha setting bones and mending them, the rain lending her powers of healing.

Niall faced the water witch still, shaking off the effect of Badb’s terrifying grip, and rubbing his sternum as though to prove it was still there. Recovering, he rose from the mud like the warrior he was, comprised of parts earth, water, air and fire. Like all creatures.

Rivulets of rain ran into the cuts and groves of his muscles, disappearing into his trews. His back rippled with readiness and his hands curled at his sides.

Kenna could only see him from behind, but she knew how fierce his handsome face could be, and that Macha read murder in his eyes. His speed was blinding. Suddenly he had a sword, and then Macha had no head.

Her powers were quickly waning, and she lashed out again at Badb, who leapt toward Macha with a scream that shattered the clay pots in the courtyard. Kenna’s arrows of flame pierced Badb’s robes, but were quickly extinguished by the wind and rain.

“I will end you!” she screeched at Niall. “I will end everything!”

Kenna’s legs gave as the earth beneath her shifted, plaster and stone dust fell from awnings and the short towers of Westmire Abbey. The rain abated, as though someone had swept the clouds aside, and the ground began to quake with a furious rumble.

“What fresh sorcery is this?” Niall demanded, whirling about with his sword raised.

Kenna stumbled toward him, though her heart lifted with relief. “Malcolm,” she sobbed with relief. “Morgana.”

Once again, three figures stood framed in the broken archway of the abbey. Only this time, the lone woman was Morgana de Moray, princess of the Highland Picts. She stood in the middle dwarfed by two very broad, very powerful men. One in the garb of a barbarian, holding an axe the size of a small man, and the other in rich, earth-toned robes, crowned with Pictish gold and holding a staff carved from the sacred ash tree.

Malcolm stepped forward, and forlorn howls and vicious snarls rang from outside the walls. He’d brought help, warriors of the animal world. His shrewd green eyes missed nothing, locking the scene away in his fantastic mind. Niall’s bloody sword, Macha’s headless corpse, Kenna’s waning flames, and the scattered, stirring Viking bodies.