The Wild Sight (19 page)

Rylie curled against his chest. With his free hand, he pulled his jacket around her for warmth.

“Your shirt is wet,” she murmured in a voice that sounded weak and distant.

Donovan sucked in a breath and moved her slightly. “’Tis your blood, sweetheart.”

“Oh, s—sorry . . . ” Her voice faded.

Shock, no doubt. He wanted to rant, scream, do anything but sit here and helplessly watch her slipping away from him. He dropped
his lips to the top of her head and rubbed them across her silky hair.

“Don’t you even think about dying on me!” He declared in a fierce whisper. “You hear me?”

She did, for she roused a bit and looked at him with half-closed eyes. “I . . . won’ . . . ”

“Good! See that you don’t.” He pulled her tighter against him. Then to his utter humiliation a sob hung up in his throat.
He choked it back down and sputtered, “I love you far too much to lose you now.”

“Don’t cry . . . ” she breathed against the side of his neck. “ . . . love you, too . . . ”

The dry branches of the hawthorn rattled as if a gust of wind had passed through them. But the air remained deathly still.
Alarm leaped like wild fire through his veins, and in spite of Ro’s vow, Donovan peered anxiously at the curtain of fog surrounding
the clearing. He swiveled his head to the left, and an instant later, when he turned back to the right, the Druid stood over
him.

“She is injured,” Hain stated, pulling the jacket away from Rylie’s arm.

As Donovan nodded numbly, Rylie murmured, “The other one?”

“Yes, he’s here to help.”

He turned to watch Hain kneel and draw a fresh bucket of water from the well. Then the Druid opened a cloth bag attached to
his belt and pulled out a small gourd dipper and a leather pouch. He ladled up water from the bucket and sprinkled in a pinch
of herbs from the pouch. “Give her this to drink, ’twill ease her pain.”

Donovan raised the dipper to Rylie’s lips, but at the first trickle, she drew back with a cough. “Tastes awful.”

The strength of her refusal actually heartened him. “Drink it for me,” he urged and poured the rest into her mouth.

“No,” she spluttered, spitting most of it back into his face. Not that he cared, for at least she displayed some of her usual
spunk.

“I need to see the wound,” Hain requested and Donovan slowly released his vise-like grip.

Rylie gave a little whimper of fear and buried her face against his neck while the Druid carefully unbound the strips of bloody
cloth. Donovan shielded her eyes from the sight, and had to force himself to look. To his surprise, the ragged flesh didn’t
seem nearly so bloody. Too bad that didn’t ease his guilt.

“The bone is unbroken and the bleeding has nearly stopped,” Hain affirmed.

Donovan sagged with relief. Cradling Rylie’s head under his chin, he cooed nonsense sounds to her while he watched the Druid
retrieve the remains of the T-shirt and cover it with a mixture of water and more ground up ingredients from a different pouch.
Once the poultice was ready, Donovan helped Hain apply it to Rylie’s arm.

Though her eyes remained half-open, she didn’t appear to be aware of what the two of them were doing. Donovan wanted to believe
she’d swallowed enough of the herb to anesthetize her, but part of him insisted blood loss and shock were the real reasons.
Whatever the cause, she endured the re-bandaging without protest.

“Don’t worry, Dony,” Hain’s words echoed those of his warrior brother, as he secured the fabric with a strip from Rylie’s
hacked-off sweater sleeve. “Unless the wound putrefies, she shall recover. Her heart is strong.”

The mention of infection tightened Donovan’s grip with renewed worry.

The Druid stood and added, “And her love for you is true, my brother. Just as your mother’s was for the man who claimed and
raised you, though another’s blood flowed in your veins.”

Air refused to enter Donovan’s lungs as his gaze followed Hain’s to the rosary still hanging from his wrist.

“My mother . . . ” he finally wheezed out. “She came here?”

“Is here,” the other man corrected. His eyes moved from the rosary to the limbs of the hawthorn. “Her spirit and many others
sanctify this place.”

Donovan’s gaze moved from the tree to Rylie’s unresponsive form, and finally to the tall Druid. “Are we between then?”

Hain nodded, his dark blue eyes fathomless and unwavering. “For now.”

Though the ominous tone made Donovan feel sure of the answer, he asked anyway. “How long can we stay here?”

“Not long enough to escape the one who seeks you. Else you cannot return to your lives a’tall.” The leaves on the hawthorn
rattled again, and Hain’s eyes shifted from it back to Donovan. “And there are other things afoot tonight.”

Icy dread washed over Donovan and he felt as if he were drowning. Clutching Rylie, he labored first for breath then for words.
“H—how long can you remain with her if I go?”

The Druid shrugged. “Only an hour or maybe two by your reckoning. ’Tis our combined power that keeps the three of us here
beyond reach.” He bent and brushed a lock of hair from Rylie’s cheek, then rested his hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “Hers is
slight, and when you go, mine will fade.”

“And Ro?” The drowning feeling had been replaced with the helpless throes of a condemned man.

“Is equally limited.” Hain shook his shaggy head. “Though he will give his all to aid you.”

So that settled it. He had no choice.

“Do not believe yourself unworthy of this adversary, my brother,” Hain said, reading his thoughts. “You are equal to the task,
just as you are worthy of her love.”

Donovan wished he could believe the words. In truth, he’d never felt more incapable. He’d always viewed his so-called gift
as a weakness, so this power Hain spoke of was a foreign concept. But when he looked down into Rylie’s unconscious face, he
knew he must try.

She was only here because of him. He had put her in harm’s way and now he must get her out, or die trying. Flooded with guilt
and trepidation, he pressed his lips to her forehead, cool and lifeless as a marble mask.

“Help me move her.”

With Hain’s assistance, he placed Rylie on an unsullied patch of moss, being careful not to jostle her injured arm. When Donovan
finally let go of her, she uttered a whispered moan and curled into a fetal position. He spread his jacket over as much of
her as he could, and hoped it would provide enough warmth. Without her pressed against his body, he himself felt bereft, like
he might never be warm again.

His mother’s rosary lay on the ground beside the well. He picked it up and hung it back on the same thorn where’d he found
it. The silver crucifix flashed in the dull half-light of the clearing. Then he picked up the tattered remains of Rylie’s
red sweatshirt sleeve. Her blood had begun to stiffen and dry in brownish splotches all over the bright fabric. He tied it
around the end of a branch in his own bloody offering.

Taking a fortifying breath, Donovan turned to Hain. “If Ro is to aid me, where will I find him?”

“You can conjure him with your thoughts, my brother,” the Druid answered. “Even as you called us both when we were all young.”

Had he really done that?
Casting his mind back to the long ago memories, he supposed he did. Strange how he’d never really thought about it back then.

“Don’t I need a brooch or . . . something?”

Hain shook his head. “Not any more, and certainly not on Samhain.” He rested his big hand on Donovan’s shoulder and his words
were the final catalyst. “Call Ro to you and together you can stalk your enemy.”

Two against one. But that one had a gun.

Didn’t matter, for he was no longer the prey.

Lynch was.

Donovan’s gaze dropped back to Rylie and a fierce swell of love and protectiveness surged through him and hardened to resolve.
He would not fail.

He lifted his eyes back to Hain’s. “Stay with her until I return.”

“I shall, my brother,” the other man vowed.

With a lingering glance at Rylie, Donovan turned and left the clearing.

The wall of noise blasted into him the moment he stepped away from the sanctuary of the well. He clutched his hands to his
ears and stumbled aimlessly for a moment through the eerie half-light. Then he stopped,drew in a ragged breath, and closed
his eyes. Ignoring the noise and the cold, he brought the image of the big warrior into his mind, concentrating on every detail
he could remember—tangled black hair hanging below his wide shoulders, glittering blue eyes, green and ochre paint swirling
over his massive bare arms and chest.

When he opened his eyes a few moments later, Ro stood in front of him, round shield in his left hand, long sword in his right.
Scary as Rylie had described.

Donovan released his breath and dropped his hands from his ears. All around him had gone deathly calm and quiet, even the
pounding of his own heart.

Ro cocked his head to one side, the light and shadows flickering over his face so that he appeared by turns real and a spectral
apparition. He studied Donovan for a moment before he spoke. “You are ready then, my brother?”

“I am.” Donovan glanced down and saw the same shadows casting him as both his bedraggled self and as a Celtic warrior, armed
and decorated like Ro. They existed in both realms. “I intend to find the man who hurt my woman.”

The big warrior’s teeth gleamed in a feral grin. “We shall hunt him down like the animal he is.”

“He’s close by then?” Donovan could feel the same primitive urges for retribution and blood vengeance gripping him.

Ro nodded. “I have watched him. He seeks for you and your wee golden lass. He will not be hard to find.”

Donovan tested the weight of the sword and the shield in his hands. “Then let us hunt, my brother.”

Chapter 16

RO’S ASSESSMENT PROVED CORRECT. DONOVAN GUESSED that he and the big warrior crept stealthily through the muddy undergrowth
for less than fifteen minutes before they heard Lynch bellowing.

“Give it up, O’Shea!” The police inspector’s voice reverberated through the dark, heavy mist. “I know you’re here! Give it
up and I’ll let her live.”

How very fecking generous.

“Why does he think I’m there?” Donovan’s lips twisted with scorn. Beside him, Ro’s expression looked equally contemptuous,
as if he knew his thoughts.

“Because I laid down a trail even a child could follow. One that went in a circle, which that one failed to notice.” Even
though whispered, his response sounded derisive. “Shall we drive him before us into the lough? Let the spirits in the water
and the eels have him?”

Tempting as the idea sounded, Donovan shook his head. Forcing Lynch into the lough still left the possibility, however slight,
that he might escape. And Donovan intended for him to have no such opportunity. “I shall confront him.”

“He still has the fire stick,” Ro reminded. “The thing that hurt your wee lass.”

The mention of Rylie’s bullet wound made Donovan grind his teeth with pent-up fury. “Then we need to get it away from him,
don’t we?”

“Indeed we do,” said his companion with a deadly grin. With purpose they moved toward the sound of Lynch’s shouting. Donovan
searched his memory to count the number of times Lynch had fired his gun. Five? Six? Perhaps all they needed to do was make
the inspector fire all his rounds.
If
the gun had been full when he started. And
if
he had no more ammunition.

Shite!
Disarm him, then.

“Come out, O’Shea!” Lynch shouted again into the mist. “I know I hit one of you. I saw the blood.”

Donovan was hard-pressed not to rush him, hack him to bits with the heavy sword his warrior self carried. Instead, he caught
his breath and sought to summon the power Hain claimed he possessed. With slow deliberation, he channeled all his fury and
vengeful need into a single sharp focus. He scarcely noticed the throbbing pain in his temples.

The weird twilight from the clearing began to glow around him and Ro. Tendrils of it spread like vines around Lynch and the
scrubby bushes where he stood. And with it came the sounds of drums and war horns. Shadowy shapes of other warriors moved
in the flickering light.

Lynch crouched and spun in a slow circle, his pistol gripped tightly in his hand. “O’Shea? What the hell kind of parlor trick
are you trying to pull?”

“’Tis Samhain,” Donovan called out as he and Ro moved closer. “And you hold no sway here.”

“Like hell I don’t!” Lynch declared, and squeezed the trigger.

But the recoil sounded muted, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly through the air. With another curse, Lynch fired a second,
equally ineffectual shot.

“Steady,” Ro hissed. “Crowd him from the left. ’Tis his weak side.”

The instinctual, primitive part of Donovan echoed Ro’s words and recognized his enemy’s vulnerabilities. As he followed the
movements of his fierce companion, the throbbing in Donovan’s head moved beyond pain into something less tangible but far
more potent. He felt it growing, pulsating through every part of him, spreading out across the fens.

His eyes moved from Ro to himself, and to the moving shadows of other warriors all around them. Donovan wasn’t exactly sure
what Lynch could see, but whatever it was, sent the man stumbling backward, his gun no longer gripped at the ready. Donovan
and his companions followed in a bizarre kind of dance.

“I must’ve hit her, didn’t I?” Lynch’s tone of bravado now sounded strained, as if the weird surroundings frayed his nerves.
“Too bad. I’m betting she’s a sweet little piece. If she hasn’t bled to death, maybe I can still find out.”

The words caused Donovan’s control to slip a fraction in the flash of his rage. A white-hot surge lashed from him and shook
the trees and bushes with momentary ferocity, rendering everything else into an eerie silence. The fens and all within them
held a collective breath and waited.

Lynch would never touch Rylie. On any plane of
existence.
With every bone and sinew focused on his adversary, Donovan pressed silently closer. His control balanced on the edge of his
sword blade.

“I’ll let you watch, shall I?” Lynch boasted to the empty air. “Like when you were a wee lad. Did you watch your mother and
Malachy Flynn?”

With a roar, Donovan hurled himself at the other man. Forgetting about weapons, Donovan tackled him low, throwing Lynch off
balance. The gun flew from the inspector's grasp as he toppled backward. Amid unearthly rumblings and shrieks from the surrounding
brush, the two rolled over and over fighting like wild beasts.

Donovan felt the satisfying crunch of bone and the spurt of blood as his fist smashed Lynch’s nose. While his enemy pummeled
at Donovan’s ribs, he landed a solid blow to Lynch’s jaw that snapped his head back.

The muddy earth shuddered beneath them as they thrashed, and the noises grew louder. Donovan straightened to his knees, his
hands closed around Lynch’s throat. With Donovan’s thumbs digging into the inspector’s windpipe, his face purpled. His arms
flayed as he tried to break Donovan’s deadly hold.

Any satisfaction Donovan felt disappeared in the next instant when Lynch brought his knee up hard and fast between his legs.
Donovan crumpled with a wheezing groan. His enemy lunged and Donovan went over backward. Then they were both rolling on the
ground again, each struggling for dominance.

Donovan felt his arm entangle in something stringy. He glanced down at a long length of twine twisted around his wrist and
realized where they were a half-second before they tumbled into one of Sybil and McRory’s excavations. He landed face down
with Lynch on top of him.

Even with the breath momentarily knocked from his lungs, Donovan felt his leg twist in an unnatural angle and pain shot through
his knee. Concentration broken, he gasped and sucked in a mouthful of muddy water.

His strangled cough alerted Lynch to his advantage. With a roar of triumph, he smashed Donovan’s face into the muck that had
accumulated in the bottom of the hole. Donovan fought madly for air, shoving and writhing. His enemy eased up just long enough
for Donovan to draw in half a breath. Then Lynch’s knee crashed down on the back of his neck and he pinioned one of Donovan’s
arms, twisting it across his back.

The blood pounding in Donovan’s ears drowned out the other sounds, while his bursting lungs screamed for air. He couldn’t
think clearly enough to summon Ro or any other help. And he felt his consciousness slipping. Knew when he lost it he was dead.

Rylie floated in and out of awareness, alternating between cold black oblivion and red throbbing pain. Then a gunshot snapped
awareness through her fogged brain, followed quickly by a second shot.

“Donovan?” she cried out, struggling to sit up.

Though the pain made her gasp for breath, her adrenaline-laced fear kept her upright, braced on her good arm. The tall, robed
specter leaned over her, his voice and features equally blurred.

All around, unearthly silence loomed in the moist, chilly air. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Have to . . . find . . . Donovan!” she gritted out, pulling her legs under her. Pain left her voice unsteady. “Lynch . .
. might . . . kill him!”

The Druid must have understood, for a long arm extended down to her. Holding her breath, she wrapped her fingers around his
wrist. He clasped her forearm with both his hands and hauled her to her feet.

In spite of her best efforts, a whimper escaped her tightly drawn lips. A starburst of pain from her injured arm made her
sway, but she was determined not to fall back down.

She must find Donovan!

With the Druid’s hand under her arm for support, Rylie forced herself to shuffle forward. A wall of noise engulfed her as
soon as her feet slipped beyond the smooth green moss of the clearing. Suddenly, all the demons from hell screeched and beat
on drums, or maybe each other. Even the ground vibrated with fury. The racket sounded like nothing in this world, and spurred
her to a greater urgency.

Donovan needed her.

Panting, she struggled to keep up as the Druid pulled her along. Shadowy shapes moved through the rustling trees and bushes.
The Druid paused and she bumped into him, the jolt sending an excruciating wave of pain through her upper body and bringing
tears to her eyes.

Digging her fingers into his arm, she blinked hard, unwilling to waste any energy on crying.

The Druid turned to her, his expression unreadable in the flickering light, but tension quivered through his arm. He spoke
and she could make out two words, “fell spirits.” Rylie followed his dark gaze and saw eerie light gathering above a mound
of freshly dug dirt.

But it was the commotion on the nearby ground that snagged her attention. A writhing mass grunted and thrashed. In the wavering
twilight, she strained to make out two grappling figures just as they rolled to the lip of the hole and crashed down into
it.

The instant they fell, a blood-curdling howl shook the air and the Druid disappeared. Without his arm for support, Rylie crumpled
to the ground. She managed to break her fall with her good arm, while over her head the terrible wailing continued. Unable
to stand, she hobbled forward on her knees, her usable hand groping the earth in front of her.

As she inched closer to the hole, her fingers encountered something metallic. She closed it in her grasp and knew what it
was. Lynch’s gun!

Frantic now, Rylie scrambled a half-dozen yards, dragging the gun with her. In her quest, she doggedly ignored the incessant
noise and the pain in her arm. Through the yellowish light, she saw Lynch’s head bob above the top of the hole. He wasn’t
facing her, but she recognized his pale hair.

No sign of Donovan.

Her pulse pounded loud enough in her ears to override some of the noise. She pulled the heavy pistol into her lap, and wondered
how she could fire it effectively with one hand.

From what her stepfather had long ago taught her, she could see that the safety was off, and since it was a semi-automatic,
all she had to do was aim and pull the trigger. If only it were that simple. The thing weighed a ton. And the recoil would
be downright ugly.

Settling her left leg under her, Rylie brought her right up close to her chest, knee bent to help brace her arm. The pistol
wobbled and she fought to hold it in place.

Time seemed to stop.

Lynch straightened more fully, his left shoulder looming even with her line of vision. Willing her hand steady, she tightened
her grip, aimed and squeezed the trigger.

Her hand jerked so roughly she dropped the weapon, and the simultaneous bang momentarily deafened her. With a sickening heave
of her stomach, she saw Lynch jerk and then fall. She’d never shot at anything but a paper target. Trembling, she crawled
close enough to peer into the hole.

Lynch’s body pitched onto its side as, coughing and gagging, Donovan struggled from beneath. He rose to his knees, covered
in mud and blood.

Alive!

He was the most beautiful sight Rylie had ever seen. She tried to call to him, but with the horrific din still going on and
her own voice so damnably weak, he probably couldn’t hear her. But somehow he did, for he turned his head and made eye contact.

Her heart gave a strong thump.

She had to get him out!

She reached her shaking hand toward him, only to have him swivel his head aside. Confused, she followed Donovan’s gaze.

Two spectral beings hovered over the pit. One of them bore a distinct resemblance to Professor McRory, but with the side of
his head blown away. The scream of terror rushed up her throat.

Donovan’s head snapped up and he sucked in a swift, blessed breath of air. Lynch’s heavy body falling across him cut short
the second draw. Fortunately the first inhale revived him enough to struggle, and he met no resistance from his enemy.

Gasping in great drafts of air and coughing out mud, Donovan shoved the inert form aside. Warm sticky fluid ran down his hand.
The inspector bled profusely from a wound in his shoulder.

Stunned, Donovan sat up and looked for his rescuer. Rylie’s head and shoulders materialized near the edge of the pit. Her
injured left arm hugged tight against her side. As her gaze met his, she stretched her good arm toward him.

Beside him, Lynch shifted and at the same time, a terrible howl overrode the other noises assaulting his ears. Donovan jerked
his eyes upward and beheld a grisly sight.

Just over his head loomed Malachy Flynn and Aongus McRory. The dark stain of dried blood covered Flynn’s abdomen, while one
side of McRory’s head sported a bloody, gaping hole.

Stomach heaving in revulsion, Donovan flinched aside. Then he heard a scream that must be Rylie’s. He scrambled toward her
and tried to stand. But pain shot through his left knee the moment he put weight on it and he crumpled back to the muddy floor
of the pit.

By now, Lynch had regained his senses and cowered against the wall opposite the gruesome wraiths. A moan of mingled pain and
fright issued from his lips.

Both dreadful beings regarded him.

“Traitor!” accused Flynn.

“Murderer!” pronounced McRory.

Their voices grated and growled like the unholy creatures they were. Lynch yelped in reply, a terrified, cornered animal.
Donovan could almost feel sorry for the man, except he knew him to be guilty of both those crimes and more.

Taking advantage of Lynch being the momentary center of attention, Donovan hauled himself toward Rylie. He clawed his way
to the top of the hole, the pain in his knee rendering his left leg useless. She gave him as much assistance as she could,
but even her good arm was weak, undoubtedly from shock and blood loss. Still coughing and wheezing, he collapsed next to her.
She pulled his head into her lap and examined him.