Chapter 8
I t was a reckless risk, but he seized it. Whirling to face the Horsemen, Malcolm addressed Death once again. “This Druid has taken tens of thousands of souls from you, including her own, and locked them in the Void.”
Death narrowed dark, soulless eyes at Badb. “So she has.”
“I doona think that ye want us to break the Seals.” It was a stab in the dark, but something in the eyes of the Horsemen, in the way their steeds pawed the ground in impatience verified what he’d begun to suspect.
“We will unleash the might of the Underworld on this plane, whether we will it or not. Make no mistake of that.” Death gestured toward the book, lying innocuously on the stones. “The prophecy demands it.”
“Until then, it is yer duty to escort the souls to the Other World.”
His statement was met with expectant silence.
“I could offer her to ye.” Malcolm gestured to the Crone. “Ye could take her and the souls in her possession to do with as ye will.”
“You can’t!” Badb hissed. “Not in time to save your fire witch.”
“Heal her!” Niall demanded of Morgana. “Now!”
“Wait,” Malcolm ordered. “Doona cast.”
“Malcolm, Kenna is dying!” Her blood was now running into the grooves between the stones, creating gruesome rivers in his courtyard.
“I am your King,” Malcolm commanded. “You will obey me for once.”
The eyes of the man called Death were shrewd and unnerving as they narrowed on Malcolm.
“And what is your price for this trade?” Death inquired.
“One soul,” Malcolm answered.
“The Fire Druid?”
“Nay.” His throat tightened as he spoke her name. “Vían.”
“Malcolm!” Morgana cried, tears running down her cheeks. “Malcolm don’t do this!”
“I’ll kill you and your woman if you let her die,” Niall threatened through the flames. “Your magic is nothing against my wrath.”
Badb screeched, her powers flaring as she tried desperately to escape his hold. “I am immortal! I serve a master greater and more powerful than any of you! I’ll return and my vengeance will turn the green Highlands into nothing but blood and ashes!”
Malcolm ignored them all, gazes locked with the man who eventually held all the souls in the world in his grasp at one time or another.
“I don’t make deals,” Death said evenly.
“This isn’t a deal,” Malcolm replied. “It’s a threat. One that I don’t make lightly. Give her to me, or I cast with them and force yer hand.”
The time it took for him to draw his next breath felt like an eternity. Through the wall of flame, he could see Kenna twitching, her eyes beginning to flutter closed. His heart bled just as much as her body did, but he knew what would happen to her soul if she were lost.
She’d be taken to the Other World to wait until she was reunited with her mate.
Vían would be locked in a prison that not even Death could breach to set her free.
He couldn’t let that happen.
A silent look passed between the horsemen, and then Death nodded. “Your descendants will pay the price, Druid King,” he predicted, nudging his horse forward and up the stairs of Dun Moray.
Even Malcolm stepped out of his way as the harbinger of the Apocalypse swooped down and scooped up a spitting, cursing Crone before disappearing in a swirl of dark mist.
Bael used the distraction to leap through the flames, singing his dark hair, and beheading Nemain with a speed almost undetectable by the human eye.
Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.
And then Vían stood in the center of the courtyard, naked and trembling, her face wet with the evidence of her grief, and her beautiful eyes wide with disbelieving astonishment.
Malcolm was only dimly aware of the fire disappearing. Of Morgana rushing for Kenna. Of the three remaining Horsemen turning and disappearing into the shadows.
He could see nothing but her eyes. Those lovely irises such an unnatural shade of blue, they seemed purple. The color of Scottish heather in bloom. The color of Pictish royalty.
The color painted on his heart.
“Malcolm?”
His name on her lips was the most beautiful melody he’d ever heard. It was better than rustling leaves, waving grasses, or shifting stones.
Her legs gave with a sob as she collapsed to her knees.
Malcolm flew down the steps, and seized her. Reminding himself to be gentle as he pulled her back to her feet and into his arms. The last time his hands had been on her, he’d been punishing, but never again.
“You came for me,” she whispered against his neck. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
Dreams never felt like this.
“I’d have crawled into hell to come for ye,” he said against her hair. He left out the part where he’d nearly brought it to this world for her. She didn’t need that weight on her shoulders.
“I like your Druid wars!” Ingmar interrupted, leading a band of battle-weary, but generally good-spirited Vikings into the courtyard. How they’d gotten over his walls, Malcolm could only guess.
The Viking general sent a leer in Vían’s direction. “They always seem to end with explosions and naked women. What could be better?”
“Avert yer eyes, or I’ll pluck them out,” Malcolm growled harshly, ripping off his robes and spreading them around Vían’s perfect skin.
With a few guffaws, the Vikings complied.
“Malcolm,” Kenna croaked, pushing herself up on weak elbows.
Her blood still stained the stones, but through the blemished hole in her dress, new, healthy skin appeared. Morgana had been able to heal her, and Malcolm had never doubted that she would, even for a moment.
Shame settled in his gut, though not regret. “Kenna, I—”
“I forgive you,” she interrupted.
“I don’t!” Niall stood, his enormous shoulders taut and ready for a fight. “How dare you allow my mate to come to harm. I’m going to rip your limbs off with my bare—”
“Look at them, my love.” Kenna admonished. Struggling to push herself up for a second before her mate leaned down and lifted her. “Would you not have done the same for me in such an instance?”
Niall’s hard blue eyes softened down at his mate. “I’d slay every last soul alive if you asked me to.”
Kenna rested her head on his shoulder. “Then how can you be angry?”
Niall’s brows drew together, but he was silent.
Bael took Morgana into his arms, as well, sharing a silent and desperate embrace with his mate. Keeping a hand locked with his, she went to the Grimoire and retrieved it, unsurprised that it was completely intact.
“You heard what the Horseman said.” She ran fingers across the pages. “It is your descendants who will be the prophesied Four. The de Morays who will… who will break the Seals.”
Malcolm nodded. “I’ll do everything I can to make certain that they are ready when the time comes, to defeat the Horsemen in need be.”
“Is such a thing possible?” Vían murmured.
Malcolm blinked down at her, his heart too full for him to form any words for an answer.
She looked like the goddess, herself, swathed in his robes of green and gold, her ebony curls flowing over his colors.
He knew he looked like nothing more than an average man left in only his kilt and tunic. Stripped of all artifice, pomp, and duty, he could be only a man. A man who devoted his everything to her. A man who could give her what he’d given no other living soul. Could do what he’d done for none other.
Slowly, he bent his knees, lowering himself until they rested on the cold stones and he was kneeling at her feet.
A King, and yet her loyal subject.
“Though I rule this land, I know it will not be thus forever.” He took her trembling hand, his blood quickening at the adoration shining down at him from her eyes. That indefinable spark passing between them as it had in the very beginning. “Our ways will die, but our line never will. Do ye ken how I know that?”
Wordlessly, she shook her head, as fresh tears spilled from her eyes.
“Because my worship of ye is the most sacred magic there is, and if they are raised as a product of that love, then they will have every chance to write their own destiny.”
“As we have.” Vían smiled.
“No, mo ghaol , my love.” He rose and gathered her close. “Ye were always my destiny.”