Rafael's Misfortune, page 2
part #1 of Celtic Immortals Series
Under her breath, she mumbled a spell in ancient Gaelic—and disappeared. The invisibility spell would only last a few minutes, but she hoped it would give her enough time to get to the cave. With each step, she muttered another spell, which reversed the soft wind and masked her scent, so the cave was now downwind from the werewolves.
She sprinted into the cave, stepping around the boxes and junk still littering the small interior until she found a small hiding place near the back. It was as good a defensive position as she was going to get.
The rotting vegetation odor in the cave was overwhelming and almost as bad as the sulfur from the werewolves. All she could do now was wait and hope someone noticed her absence.
The Immortals, as the good wolves called themselves, were in a fight for her sister’s and her and Torin’s unborn twins’ lives against the Dark Fae, Fer-Diorich. Gwyn constantly got onto her for not thinking before she charged into battle.
Something, though, in this forest clearing called to her, and she couldn’t let it go. She was meant to be here, right now, in this impossible position. Now, if she could figure out why.
The curse driving the Dark Fae was about her and her twin sister, so somewhere deep in Morgan’s mind, she knew she wouldn’t die. She couldn’t, or all would be lost. Not just her family’s lives but everyone’s lives.
The person who knew the most about this craziness was one of the Immortals, Fáelán. Trained as a druid by his father, he believed the Fae’s ultimate goal was to combine the Seelie and Unseelie courts, which would pretty much end life on Earth. No one would survive with his army of Ironclaws running amok and eating everyone.
Holding her breath, she listened for a movement outside. Had they found her hideout yet? A loud howl filled the cave, giving her the answer. They knew where she had gone and would be tracking her in earnest. She left her position and moved closer to the opening, listening to their heavy footfalls as they crisscrossed the ground just outside the cave.
Deciding enough was enough, and prolonging the oncoming agony would be fruitless, she slid out of her hiding place and faced the three Ironclaws. With the twin silver daggers in each hand, she braced herself for the oncoming fight.
Sneering, she hoped to rile their anger. No one fought well when angered. That’s when mistakes happened. “Come and get me, boys,” she whispered, waiting for their first move. Like a dancer, she moved her weight from one foot to the other. Just as the nearest werewolf took a step, she leaned forward and feinted downward and to the right.
Thankfully, this was the smallest of the three, and she knew she could best him. He was inexperienced or he wouldn’t have moved with her. She thrust the knife upward and sliced open his stomach.
His shrill scream momentarily deafened her. As he fell, he clutched his abdomen, trying to keep the organs from spilling out.
The one closest to him reached out, his claws aiming at her throat, but in one of her better baseball moves, she ducked underneath his arm and slid behind him. Knowing she couldn’t let him turn, she plunged both blades into the beast’s lower chest, burying them to their hilts. She pulled out two more blades and threw them as she twisted, hitting the third creature in his cheek and neck, hoping it would stop him.
Without a backward glance, she heard one of the creatures fall to the ground with a heavy thud. Moving as fast as she could, she raced for the path Rafael had taken to the castle but didn’t make it. The remaining werewolf’s claws pierced her back, just above her left shoulder blade.
Reaching behind her with her good arm, she inhaled, trying not to cough from the air-laden stench of sulfur, and pulled out one of Makari’s special knives. She loved these knives. Evening out her stance, she tightened her grip around the leather-covered handle, the weight from the metal becoming one with her hand.
She slashed at the werewolf, who, at the last second, jerked out of her way. Her frustration grew after several more near misses. She blinked, and he leaped across the clearing, surprising her. With his long reach, he used his claws like knives, slicing at her abdomen.
She tried to close off the pain from the shallow cuts and gathered as much energy as possible. Swinging her leg up, she kicked the werewolf’s snout. With a sharp yelp, the creature tumbled backward and grabbed his nose as a low growl escaped, sending shivers through her body.
Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the single step he took toward her. Morgan let out a bone-chilling scream as she lunged, the serpentine blade slicing across his thick neck.
It was a huge mistake. Before her next breath, the injured beast lunged, blood spraying from the deep neck laceration, but he never stopped as he tore into her, slashing and clawing at her chest and stomach. She fell backward, backpedaling into the cave to escape the Ironclaw’s fury.
Reaching the center of the dark cavern, she lay on her back, uncaring that her shirt was in tatters and blood pooled in the dirt beneath her. She pulled out her remaining dagger and threw it with the last of her strength. The werewolf glanced down at the knife protruding from his furry chest and fell, landing on her.
She scowled at the disgusting creature, trying not to breathe from the offensive odor wafting off it in waves. “Good gods, how much do you weigh,” she grumbled. Struggling to get her arms out from where they were pinned under the body, she finally managed to pull them free.
Studying the cave ceiling, she wondered if it was natural or if people thousands of years ago chiseled it as their shelter. Breathing shallowly through the overwhelming pain, her mind wandered. She tried to remember bits and pieces of history lessons regarding ancient times until, finally, her wayward thoughts slowed.
Lifting her arms, she tried to shove the body off her, but her arms fell to the ground, her strength gone. Slowly, her body numbed until she couldn’t feel anything, and her eyes drooped. “I’m sorry, Gwyn,” she whispered. “I wasn’t fast enough…” Her eyes closed. I think I’ll sleep now…
At the Nearby Castle
Rafael Cavallero lifted the werewolf off the ground and sprang into the air. Wrapping his muscled legs around the beast’s narrow waist, he grabbed its strong jaws, open and snarling, and jerked them apart, snapping the mandible and ripping off the top of the beast’s head. Dropping the body, he hovered over the scene, glancing around to make sure his friends were all still alive.
“Rafael!” Torin O’Roark yelled from his precarious position on the wall as he severed a werewolf’s arm, bright red blood showering his dark brown fur. The beast bellowed in rage but lost his balance and fell off the wall, landing somewhere on the other side.
Torin glanced down to where the beast had landed, then turned to face him. “Where’s Morgan?”
Using the sharp eyes of his wolf, Rafael’s gaze moved quickly over the scene below, but he couldn’t see her. His heavy, furred body rose and opened his mind, letting his inner sight move through the castle to the thick forest surrounding the castle, but he couldn’t find her outside the wall either. With a sinking feeling, he met Torin’s glare and shook his head.
“Find her!” Torin yelled as he jumped off the high wall, dragging his claws over the rocks until they found their grip and swung himself onto the back of the large, one-armed gray werewolf. He reached beneath the snapping jaws and sliced the beast’s neck before dropping to the ground. Torin lifted his wolf-shaped head and sniffed. With a burst of energy, he leaped to the top of the rock wall and disappeared back into the castle bailey.
In his mind, Rafael heard the faint whisper of his name as he raced back to where he had last seen Morgan, thinking she had followed him. He shifted into his fully clothed human form, something he had not dared to do in more than five centuries and never in front of the men he called brothers.
He’d seen the guilt Torin had gone through from being able to shift from wolf to human in front of the others. Call it self-preservation or just plain selfishness, but he had enough to deal with in his twisted life.
Gliding through the trees, an urgency grew in his gut, and he knew she was in trouble. I am coming, mi pequeño. Hold on for me. He prayed, all but flying as he ran to where she should have been. She wasn’t there.
Frantically, he searched the ground and found where she’d killed the first werewolf. The ground looked as if a bomb had exploded. He forced himself to stop and take a deep breath as he took in the grisly scene.
Following her almost invisible tracks, he glanced up and saw the small cave entrance several feet away. He stepped over two more dead werewolves, mentally praising her abilities. Killing one of the monsters was hard enough for him, and he had been doing it for centuries as he hunted down and destroyed the druid’s scattered army. His amazing woman had killed four.
A precursory glance showed him the battle that had taken place. Shattered crates and unrecognizable remnants of the objects inside littered the cave floor. He heard the slightest of moans, and his eyes immediately found the source.
“Morgan…” he breathed. In two steps, he landed in front of her, kicking the silver-infused body of the fourth and very dead Ironclaw off her. He sucked in a painful breath as he took in her blood-covered body.
Dropping to her side, he felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready, but her heart still beat. He forced a hiss between his clenched teeth as he ran his hands over her, trying to find where all the blood was coming from. Her shirt lay in tatters, not covering anything, and he ripped it off.
He stared in horror at the ribboned flesh that had once been her chest and stomach. Skin and muscles were so mangled, he couldn’t tell what anything was.
Letting his canines grow and sharpen, he ripped across his wrist and poured blood into her decimated body. She let out an agonized moan, forcing him to stop. Cupping her face between his palms, he leaned close to her head so she could hear him. “Morgan? Hold on, mi pequeño, please. Hold on, my little one.”
Her eyes fluttered open, the topaz dark with pain. She blinked and tried to smile, her gaze unfocused. “I—” cough, cough. “I told you I could fight.” Her weak voice cracked, and she gagged, choking on the blood filling her mouth. Too weak to talk, she met his gaze. Tell Gwyn I love…
He wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, waiting for her to finish. Panic poured through him as he stared into her sightless eyes. “You will NOT die, Morgan DuBois!”
He sliced both of his wrists and repeatedly clenched and unclenched his hands as his blood poured into her, watching as it pumped out of her many wounds almost as fast as he replenished it. He opened her mouth and tilted her head to one side, letting her blood continue to run out.
“I am so sorry, Morgan, but I have waited too long for you and cannot let you go.” With his sharp incisors, he bit into his lips and placed them against hers, letting his blood pool inside her mouth. He rubbed the front of her neck, keeping her head tilted back, as he forced the warm liquid down her throat.
“You might hate me for this later, mi tesoro, but I can’t let you die. The moment I saw you, I knew you would change my life, and you have. Whether you know it or not. I treasure you above all else.”
He sliced his wrist over and over, uncaring that he was putting his life in jeopardy, letting his blood spill into her wounds until he was weak and dizzy. He slid to the ground beside her and pressed his forehead against hers.
Once again, he’d failed. He had let the one person who held his future, his soul, die. He wasn’t worthy to be an Immortal or fight alongside his brothers. He opened his mind to hers, rifling through her memories until he found what he was searching for. Her last battle.
She rose from her hiding place and moved to the cave entrance to face the remaining three werewolves; her body braced to fight with twin silver blades in each hand. She was breathtaking. Her brilliant blue eyes blazed with determination, and a sneer curled up one side of her mouth. She moved from one foot to the other, waiting for the monsters to make the first move.
She leaned forward slightly, feinting downward and to the right, away from the smallest werewolf. He took the bait and lunged toward her. She turned and thrust the knife upward and sliced through his stomach. With a shrill scream, he fell, clutching at the organs spilling from his gut.
She ducked underneath the outstretched claws of the one closest to her. Holding the knives together, she plunged them both into the beast’s lower chest, burying the knives to their hilts. Without wasting any time, she pulled back, but not before the last werewolf caught her with his claws across her left shoulder.
He watched her step back, unflinching, and reached behind her with her good arm, pulling out one of Makari’s special knives. The creature stayed just out of her reach as she slashed the knife through the air, missing him several times. With his extreme speed and long reach, he managed to slash across her body again and again until she was bleeding everywhere.
She kicked at the werewolf’s snout. Rafael grinned, the beast’s sharp yip as he stumbled backward, sounding very pup-like. Dropping the paws covering his black nose, he growled deep in his barrel chest.
She watched the beast move, her eyes narrowed and focused. When the creature took a single step toward her, she let out a bone-chilling scream and lunged, the serpentine blade slicing across his thick neck.
The beast never stopped as he tore into her, slashing and clawing at her chest and stomach. She fell backward. In slow motion, the werewolf fell with her, a sneer on his ugly face as he landed with purpose, pinning her to the ground. Liquid silver pooled into the red-soaked dirt around them.
He heard the distant sounds of battle coming from the ruins as he lay back against the hard wall. Gently, he moved her until her head rested against his chest. Sliding his hand under hers, he raised it to his mouth and pressed his lips against her blood-covered skin. He inhaled the coppery scent and kissed her, uncaring as her blood soaked into his parched lips.
A blue light appeared, iridescent and shimmery. It solidified, turning into the Fae goddess, Nemain, as she crouched beside them. Ignoring him, she placed a hand over Morgan’s chest and closed her sea-green eyes. A golden shimmer appeared around her mangled body, traveling along her arms and into her chest.
After several minutes, Morgan’s eyelids popped open. Her confused gaze met his. “What have you done?” she whispered, but her long black lashes slowly closed, shutting out the glaring accusation in her sapphire-blue eyes.
Weary, Rafael squeezed the drumming pain in his temples, then let his hand fall to the ground beside him.
“There was nothing more you could do for her, my friend,” Nemain said, her voice soft. “I, however, could not let this amazing young woman die.” Her gaze dropped to Morgan, lying still against his chest.
She brushed back a strand of black hair from her forehead. “Her job in this war against Fer-Diorich is not done. While Gwyn may be carrying the babes foretold to kill him, it will be Morgan who stops him. I know not how or when, but she is the key to his downfall. Besides, dealing with the wrath of her grandmother isn’t something I want to experience, nor should you.”
Rafael’s gaze popped up to hers. “Her grandmother?”
“Morrigan.”
His heart stuttered in his chest. “I vaguely remember hearing that mentioned by my brothers, but I was concentrating on other things.”
“Like not noticing Morgan?”
His lips twitched. “Something like that.” He groaned and dropped his gaze to Morgan’s beautiful face. “I couldn’t let her go. The gods help me, but I just couldn’t.”
2
Near Immortal’s Caverns Near Tournai, Belgium
October 1
Morgan DuBois stood beside the tree, watching from across the field as her twin sister stared at a wide patch of fall flowers surrounded by a white picket fence. Gwyn’s mate, Torin, eased her to the ground and sat beside her in front of a small headstone in the shifter’s ancient cemetery. Morgan’s gaze dropped to Gwyn’s rounded stomach, then back up to the small child squirming in her arms.
Suddenly, he kicked out with his legs and jerked one arm back, smacking Gwyn in the face. He reached toward the ghostly outline of a woman standing behind Gwyn. The apparition also held a child in her arms, and from the dainty pink dress, the infant was a girl. His tiny body straightened as he strained to reach them.
As Morgan studied the two children, who looked to be maybe two years old, she couldn’t help but notice their similarities. While they seemed to be twins, she had never been a great judge when guessing ages.
If the guestimated birth date was correct, Gwyn wasn’t due until October 8th, so who were the children? What happened to the little girl? Unshed tears tightened Morgan’s throat as she watched their palms momentarily touch before the ghosts faded from view.
Torin took the boy from Gwyn, and as the two males stared at each other, the child’s hand rose, pressing against Torin’s cheek. She couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking.
That was what a family was supposed to look like. The thought cut through Morgan’s heart like a knife. She missed her parents so much and would give just about anything to see and talk to her mother. While her father had never been the best of conversationalists, he gave the best hugs, and right now, she desperately needed one.
Everything she wanted was down there, and here she was, alone. The story of her life. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the myriad of scents from the forest. The musty smell of rotting vegetation hit her nostrils first but was quickly overtaken by the bitter-sweet, yet refreshing, scent of pine as it settled around her. Layered over that was the magical sweet scent of lily of the valley. She also picked out something smelling like sweet lemon, then the headier scent of jasmine.
She let the familiar fragrances of the forest wash over her, bringing a soothing sensation of peace. She focused on the lily of the valley, breathing it in deeply and allowing it to permeate every pore. She knew the scent well, as it had been her mother’s favorite perfume.
