Long minutes passed before either of them could speak as they lay wrapped together. She had thought the first time they had made love was magnificent, but this second time had been extraordinary.
“Sleep, wee Druid,” Quinn whispered in her ear.
Marcail let her eyes close as he tucked her more firmly against him. As she drifted off to sleep she realized he was still inside her.
Fifteen
Isla stood at the entrance of the doorway, but could go no farther. She had already descended deep into the mountain, far below the Pit and the other various dungeons.
But more stairs awaited her. These led to only one place, a place she put off visiting until she had no choice. Now was one of those times.
Isla saw the first two steps and then the blackness ate everything. Darkness and silence. Sounds surrounded her and drifted from above. She heard the screams of the tortured, the wails of the dying, and the growls of the Warriors.
But down the stairs was a different story.
Already she had put off descending to the point that Deirdre would mete out punishment. Not that Isla cared. There wasn’t a punishment Deirdre had that hadn’t already been inflicted on Isla.
Isla picked up her skirt with one hand and took the first stair. She didn’t bother with a light. She knew the way, but it was more than that. If she tripped and tumbled down the stairs, it was nothing more than she deserved.
She made her feet move down each step. There were nearly a thousand more to go before she reached her destination. She counted the steps each time, but it never came easier.
All too soon she reached the bottom landing. Isla paused one heartbeat, two, before she turned to her left and started toward the prison in the back. As always her heart bled for the man held there, because it was her fault he was imprisoned.
He bared his long fangs as she approached. He couldn’t harm her, though. Not only was he held at both wrists by thick chains that kept his arms out to his sides, but Deirdre had used her magic to prevent him from harming himself or others.
“Hello, Phelan,” Isla said.
He growled and jerked at the chains, causing them to rattle against the stones.
At one time Isla had tried talking to him, but it had become apparent that it was useless. The little boy with dark hair and trusting hazel eyes was no more. Before her was a Warrior who wanted nothing but her death by his hands.
She hoped one day that he would take her life. It was the least she could do to help him.
Isla lifted her hand to reveal the gold goblet she had kept hidden in her skirts. If her being there made him angry, seeing the goblet pushed him to the edge of insanity.
He jerked so hard on the chains that she feared they might rip from the stones, but no amount of strength or magic could free those chains, not unless Deirdre wanted it.
“Please, Phelan,” Isla begged. “Do not make this more difficult than it already is.”
She took a step toward his outstretched arm and unsheathed the dagger at her waist. There was something about Phelan’s blood that could cure anything. Though most Warriors’ blood could heal other Warriors, Phelan’s could heal anyone and anything.
And Deirdre had acquired a taste for it.
It was bad enough they kept Phelan chained in the bowels of the mountain, but to also take his blood seemed more than cruel. Deirdre knew Isla felt this way, which is why she sent Isla to him each time.
“I will kill you one day,” Phelan said between clenched teeth.
Isla raised the dagger over his wrist. As a Warrior, his coloring was that of gold skin and eyes. She met his gaze and nodded. “I know.”
“You doona fear death?”
It would be a blessing actually. “I do not.”
“I trusted you.”
Isla swallowed and lowered the dagger. This was the most Phelan had spoken to her since she had brought him to the mountain.
She thought back to that awful day so long ago. Deirdre had already begun using Isla’s sister as her seer. Lavena helped Deirdre locate potential Warriors, which is how they found Phelan.
Isla had refused Deirdre’s order to bring the child to the mountain. Lavena was lost to Isla already, but Isla had foolishly thought her niece was safe. That’s when Deirdre gave her the option of Grania’s death or Phelan’s imprisonment. There was no way Isla was going to watch her beloved niece die, so she had gone after Phelan.
“I trusted you!”
Isla flinched at Phelan’s bellow. She opened her mouth to respond when a blinding headache sliced through her. Isla dropped the goblet and dagger and held her head between her hands as she stumbled backward until she hit the wall. She slid to the ground as the pain grew and grew.
She knew what this was, knew it and loathed it. Because it was Deirdre.
“I’m talking to him. Just as you ordered,” she ground out through the pain.
Deirdre’s laugh echoed in her head.
Isla doubled over until her head rested on the stone floor. To her horror, tears she had not shed in hundreds of years began to trail down her cheeks.
Everything she had fought so hard to protect, Lavena and Grania, were lost to her. And even if she wanted to escape Deirdre, she was as chained as Phelan was.
“Isla?”
She blinked at Phelan’s quiet voice and raised her head. He was crouched down watching her with his brow furrowed. It was bad enough to cry, but to be seen crying was worst of all.
Isla turned her head and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She rose on unsteady legs, the pain still throbbing in her head. With her hand on the stones for balance she turned toward Phelan. The chamber swam around her; the vestiges of the headache would last for days, as she well knew.
“Tell me what just happened,” Phelan demanded.
Somewhere over time the innocent little boy had become a man — and a Warrior. She bent to retrieve the goblet and dagger, breathing through her mouth to dispel the nausea that simple movement had caused.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he insisted. His gold Warrior eyes impaled her. “You were in great pain.”
Isla didn’t want to talk about it, but more than that, she was cautious of Phelan’s change in attitude. A moment before Deirdre had invaded her head he had wanted to kill her. Now, his tone had softened and he no longer growled.
She licked her dry lips and swallowed. “May I come take your blood?”
Phelan sighed and gave a quick jerk of his head. Isla wasted no time in moving to the Warrior and slicing his wrist. Dark red blood welled out of the cut and poured into the goblet.
Isla held the cup carefully. She had made the mistake of spilling it once, which had meant she’d had to cut Phelan again. There was no way she could return to Deirdre without a goblet full of the Warrior’s blood.
“It was Deirdre, wasn’t it?” Phelan asked.
Isla glanced at his face. “Why do you want to know?”
“All I know is what I hear through the stones of this cursed mountain. I know Deirdre is as wicked as a person can get, but what I doona know is who she has caged and who is willingly working with her.”
