The Dracove (The Prophecy series) (19 page)

“Good, because I’m comin’ over anyway. It took you long enough to answer the phone. Were you tryin’ to decide if you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yep.” She giggled again. Oh, Christ.

“Oh, thanks,” he said. “I’ll be over soon so figure something out, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Maybe we could go to another movie or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Or a picnic in the park?”

“Possibly.”

“You want to give me more than just a one-word answer?”

“Nope.”

“Smartass.”

“Yep.”

“See ya soon.”

“Bye.”

She hung up the phone and drew a deep breath. The shakiness from Cianán’s call melted away with Grant’s soothing voice. She felt connected to him, comfortable with him. She wondered how it was possible when she’d only known him for a couple of days. He was such a gentleman. The proof was he didn’t take advantage of her drunken state when he could have, very easily. She was a little embarrassed by her poor attempts to seduce him, but he acted like nothing happened at breakfast.

Kylie thought of her mom and wished she was still alive so they could talk. She’d love to introduce her to Grant. Her mom would love him.

“This can’t come to pass again.” Cianán lifted one side of the desk with two fingers and tossed the heavy wood over, sending it slamming to the floor top down. The lamp on it shattered against the wall. Papers flew everywhere and floated softly to the floor.

“I’ll not let her die before this is finished. I won’t wait another six hundred goddamn years!”

He kicked the chair over and walked to the balcony. Shadows slowly crept northeasterly, shrinking from the sun rising into late morning. The morning dew on the grass of the courtyard reminded him of home.

She said she was going away, but where? Grantlund is probably taking her somewhere to keep her from me
. He growled.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ring he’d taken from her two nights earlier. The morning light reflected off the silver and the amethyst stone glowed. He was certain she was his Chosen One—a mistake perhaps made on Grantlund’s part, but it was all he needed. Now he didn’t have to search her body for the mark, although he’d have enjoyed doing so. The left corner of his mouth twisted into a smile. He could forget about the others the Fates had shown him.

Getting Kylie to his homeland could be difficult if she were to leave to who knew where with Grantlund. She needed to step foot in Ireland of her own free will. Unfortunately, that was the only way he’d be allowed to use her during the
Rítus
.

“Too many damn rules.” He squinted through his suite’s large glass windows. “I must find out where she’s going . . . even if it means going out in the sun again.” He dreaded the thought of it, but he had no other choice.

Siobhán crossed his mind. The mark was easy to see on her; it was on her arm. Because of it, she was to be his. Her father, Pádraig, promised her to him long before she was a sparkle in his eye, long before Pádraig even met his wife. Cianán spared his life back then. Pádraig offered his first-born daughter to him, thinking he would never have daughters. He was a man of many brothers, as was his father and his father’s father. Cianán had waited decades for the prophecy to come true. He knew Pádraig would have a daughter, and he marked the back of Pádraig’s neck with the talisman when he saved his life. When the time came, the mark would appear on his daughter, as it did Siobhán. He had no idea the mark would continue down the line, but he hadn’t expected the world to be as it was—that Siobhán would have died before her destiny fulfilled.

Then Grantlund came along, making her fall in love with him, despite her brothers’ interference. Cianán toyed with him at first, but his attempt to be rid of the boy was unsuccessful. Instead, Grantlund became like him, one of his children. Cianán still wasn’t certain how it happened.

Grantlund came to him because he’d seen Cianán talking with Siobhán earlier in the day. He told him to stay away from her, not knowing who or what Cianán was.

* * * * *

1403 A.D. – Ireland

Grantlund fidgeted with his coat’s collar. “She an’ I are to be married soon, my lord, an’ I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’ what, be her friend? Is she not allowed any friends?”

“Pardon?”

“Your betrothed, is she not to have any friends? I’m an old family friend an’ Siobhán is like a niece to me.”

“Of course she is, but—”

“Then what may I ask is the issue?”

Grantlund paused, confusion warping his face in the firelight. “Then, my lord, might I ask you, is your intent to be her friend or treat her as an uncle would his niece? I don’t believe uncles look at their nieces the way ye do Siobhán.”

Cianán grinned. He enjoyed toying with the young man. “You may ask, but I don’ think you’ll like what ye hear.”

“Pardon, my lord?”

Cianán crossed the room and stared out at the stars through the large pane window. The boy cleared his throat. His impatience shattered Cianán’s thoughts. He spun around. “Are ye worthy of ‘er love?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be standin’ here if I weren’t,” Grantlund answered with surety, love, and . . . pride. Cianán tasted the last one on the air. Pride had taken down many a man, and most certainly in the name of love.

“Are ye sure? I know I am.” Cianán grinned.

“My lord, if I understand ye correctly, your intent is far more than friendship.”

Cianán laughed and clapped his hands together. He stepped closer to the boy. “Ye certainly are an intelligent young lad.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Cianán slapped his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It wasn’t a compliment.” He squeezed his shoulder. Grantlund grimaced. “So, what do ye intend to do, dear boy? I’ll do everything in my power to have her. She belongs to me.”

“Are . . . are ye challengin’ me, my lord? I mean, I’ve asked for her hand in marriage—”

“Ah, lad. You’re still young. You’ve not yet discovered the ways of the world, have you? I don’t need to challenge ye, for she is moine, but if ye wish to call it that, ye may.”

“I don’t understand. She’s spoken for—”

“Aye, she is, but not by you.” Cianán walked away.

“But . . . I love her, an’ she loves me. Does that count for nothin’?”

“Ye don’ think she could love another?”

“No,” he said sternly.

Cianán stared into the flames within the hearth. “She can, she has great passion. I see it in her.”

“She’ll not come to you,” Grantlund said. “No matter what ye think you may do to persuade her—”

“She will,” Cianán said calmly. “An’ ye can’t change it.”

“What makes you think—”

“She was to be moine long before ye came ‘round. Long before she was born.”

“If all ye say is true, then why did she know nothin’ of you until today?”

Cianán grinned. “She did. Perhaps she doesn’t wish to break your heart.” He cleared his throat. “Everyone ‘round here knows she belongs to me. Why do ye think she’s as old as she is an’ not yet married?”

Grantlund stood straight, his chest pushed outward. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to marry her. If ye intend to get in the way, I’ll stop you.”

“
Mar sin é
? Do ye have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“My love for her won’t falter, nor hers for me. If you don’t show me the respect o’ my bloodline, I’ll cut ye down, old man.”

Cianán arched a brow, but remained calm. It was the one good trait he’d learned from his maker. “Ye know nothin’ o’ respect. People don’t respect ye until they fear ye; it’s not given to ye by your bloodline.” He paced across the floor. “I’m givin’ ye one chance to walk out o’ here. Leave now, an’ ye have my word you’ll not be harmed. But ye mus’ not go near her again.”

“I’m not leavin’,” Grantlund said defiantly, and drew his sword.

Cianán turned his head to the young man, hand resting on his sword. “Do ye truly love her enough to die for her? That’s what’ll happen if ye fight me.”

“Aye, but I’ll not be the one to die.”

“Confident, I admire that.” Cianán turned to face him and smiled, thinking how easily he could kill him. The boy knew nothing of him and in a way he respected the courage he showed. But no one would stand in the way of his destiny. It’d taken too long to get everything into place. “Do ye truly believe ye can kill me, for that’s what it’ll take to keep me from ‘er.”

“If that’s what I must do,” Grantlund replied.

“So be it.” Cianán gave a short bow and drew his sword.

Grantlund lunged forward. Cianán’s sword clashed with his, blocking his attack with a downward swing. Cianán stepped to the side, and Grantlund stumbled past him. The boy spun around and raised his sword. Cianán smiled. He gave a quick nod, and Grantlund stepped forward again.

The two fought in the large room. The sound of their swords echoed throughout the castle. Each move Grantlund made, Cianán countered.
He fights well
.

Cianán suffered no injury, but the boy was slowly tiring. Grantlund jumped onto the chair, Cianán’s blade just missing him. Cianán swung again. Grantlund jumped off the chair and somersaulted to his feet.

Time to end this.
Cianán raised his sword, blocking Grantlund’s next attack, and kicked him in the chest. The boy went flying over the chair behind him.

Grantlund rolled backward to his feet, but Cianán was already behind him. He grabbed Grantlund by his hair and pulled back, exposing his throat. He pressed the blade of his sword to his neck.

“I told ye that ye didn’t know what ye were dealin’ with.” Cianán dropped his sword and bit into Grantlund’s neck.

A short cry left Grantlund’s throat. He thrust a dagger into Cianán’s side, twisted the blade, making the wound bigger. Cianán immediately released him, placed his hands around the dagger, and pulled it out. Distracted, Cianán didn’t see Grantlund spin around. Using all of his strength, Grantlund hit him in the forehead with the butt of his sword. Cianán dropped to his knees, dazed. Grantlund walked over to him and plunged his sword into his chest. He wrenched the sword to the side and back again, and withdrew it. Cianán fell over.

Then he’d walked away. Not long after, the stench of fresh blood filtered through the room, stirring Cianán’s hunger and pulling him from the confusion.