Chapter 5
Reaper leaped to his feet, and the kitchen exploded into action around him. He bolted for the stairs. Something deep inside him urged him to move faster. In his head, he could hear the howling of a wolf.
Is that Cian’s wolf?
Why did it piss him off that the wolf sounded in pain?
He pounded toward the Fianna Door, paying no attention to the branches that slapped at his body.
He just needed to get there. His foot caught on something hidden beneath the grass, and he stumbled forward, barely remaining on his feet, only to surge forward again as fast as he could.
“Jesus, Reap, don’t faceplant,” Viper yelled from behind him.
“I’m fine. If you’re coming, move your ass.”
Can I cross the door?
Guess we’ll find out.
He skidded to a stop, almost slamming into the rocks of the Dolmen, his jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.
The mark on his arm itched like a motherfucker, the red tendrils creeping higher, wrapping around his bicep, and it just wouldn’t stop fucking growing.
He rubbed his palm over it because the sensation under his skin was a distraction, something real to focus on instead of the fact that he was about to step into the goddamn fairy realm a-freakin-gain because some ancient wolf-walker blood in his veins said so.
This is fucking insane.
Viper moved up beside him, his presence a solid, familiar weight. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, low enough that only Reaper could hear, but the intent behind his words was clear. Viper had his back. Always.
Reaper exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Yeah, I do.” He flexed his fingers, the need to do something—punch a wall, fire a weapon, run—hummed under his skin, screaming for action.
“Trace said if I don’t, we both die. And I’m not about to let some ancient warrior kick the bucket through the gates of Valhalla because I don’t want to be the dumbass in a shitty-as-fuck relationship with someone on a power trip again. ”
Viper’s lips pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows flew upwards, “Excuse me, what?”
Shit.
Reaper squeezed his eyes shut. “Later. I’ll tell you about Derek, the asshole, later. Right now—” he gestured toward the Dolmen, “let’s just see what the hell is going on through there, first, ’kay?”
“Hmm.” Viper was clearly not thrilled at having to wait for intel, but thankfully, he let it go as the others fanned out around them, their stances loose but ready.
Juice and Trace stood side by side as had become their normal.
Ward was already muttering under his breath, his fingers tracing patterns in the air as he worked the Fianna glyphs and Ogham with his druid magic.
Zero and Kaze flanked the group. Even though they knew the threat wasn’t on this side of the door, their eyes scanned the tree line, weapons at the ready.
Reaper would’ve laughed if the whole situation wasn’t so goddamn surreal.
A firefight in Tir na nóg. This is becoming a freaking habit.
The door pulsed again, the light flaring brighter, and a gust of wind kicked up, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and ozone after a lightning strike. Reaper’s stomach twisted.
That’s him. That’s Cian.
Why the fuck can I smell him?
I need to nope right on out of this situation.
STAT
The realization of why hit him like a sucker punch, and he staggered back a step, his boot catching on a root. Viper’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder to steady him. “You good?”
No. I’m not fucking good.
Some fucker in Fateville fucking manor has decided the rest of my life for me.
I swear to fuck, if this shit sucks too much, I’m planting an IED under their fucking asses.
Bastards.
But he jerked his chin in a sharp nod anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?
Admit that the scent of a man he barely knew made his skin prickle and his pulse race like he’d just chugged ten espressos after a twenty-klick ruck, lugging an eighty-pounder?
Or that the mark creeping and crawling up his arm was strangling every vein and bone it encountered.
Ward’s lips moved as he said words, but no sound came from his lips. The air around the Dolmen crackled with energy, and the hairs on the back of Reaper’s neck stood on end.
This is gonna suck.
He didn’t have time to second-guess himself. He hadn’t an iota as to what would happen or what they could do when they got to the other side. Did it matter? No, not when Cian’s howl, and the sound of the Dord Fiann still echoed in his mind, it didn’t.
When Ward finished the spell and the magic lowered to reveal the portal, Trace gestured to it. “As the Grá Croí who called for aid, Reaper should go first.”
Wait, what?
I don’t even have my weapons.
Damn, that’s one hell of an FNG mistake to make.
“Yo, Reap.” Zero pushed a weapon toward him. “You’ve got one in the pipe. Don’t go shootin’ your cock off. I got a feeling you’re gonna be needin’ it sometime soon.”
“Thanks.” He took the M4 and was grateful for it. But there wasn’t a hope in hell he was letting the wisecrack go. “Go over there and apologize to that tree for all the oxygen you’re breathing just by being here.”
“Ya know, I think my feelin’s are hurt,” Zero muttered. “Kaze, are my feelin’s hurt?”
“Dude, you wouldn’t know what a feeling was if it bit you in the balls.”
They stacked up at the edge of the Fianna Door, just as they would on a mission. Reaper glanced over his right shoulder at Viper. “On your word, sir.”
“Go. Go. Go.”
He stepped forward, and the world ripped itself apart.
The first time through the portal had been like getting hit by a truck.
This? This was like being flayed alive and stitched back together with live wires.
The magic latched onto the mating mark, yanking it taut as the portal’s energy surged through his veins.
His vision whited out, and his nerves screamed as every inch of him was stretched, compressed, and rewritten.
The scent of ozone and crushed herbs filled his lungs, but beneath it all, he could still catch a faint scent that his soul told him was Cian.
Reaper’s knees hit the ground on the other side.
He bounced back onto his feet as he fought not to puke, and moved to the left with his weapon at ready position.
The world spun, colors bled together, but he squinted and tried to see what they faced as his Grá Croí mark pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a second rhythm thrumming beneath his skin.
What the actual fuck?
Viper landed beside him with a grunt, rolling to his feet in one fluid motion, SIG already drawn, as he moved to cover their right flank.
The rest of the team fanned out around them, weapons up, eyes scanning the tree line.
But Reaper barely registered them. His attention locked onto the horizon, where the silhouette of a horde of warriors loomed against the twilight.
“Viper.”
“I see ‘em. Trace?”
“Fianna.”
Jesus, it’s like a scene from Braveheart.
“Mel Gibson would rock Fionn Mac Cumhaill, because that’s some Braveheart shit right there.”
Reaper shot a quick glance at Juice.
Is he reading my fucking mind?
Worry about that shit later.
Worrying about what kind of powers Juice may have gained from mating with the legendary Cú Cullinan wasn’t exactly top priority when dozens of warriors lined the hillside, armed to the teeth, their swords already drawn.
Fionn stood at the front, his massive frame unmistakable even from this distance.
Beside him, Oisín’s golden hair was tied back in a warrior’s knot, his blades unsheathed and glinting in the fading light.
The air thrummed with tension, the kind that preceded a storm—or a massacre.
Where is he?
“Do you see him, Trace?”
“No.”
“Me either.” His lungs burned with each ragged inhale, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears, drowning out everything but the roar of his own blood.
Even when he didn’t understand why he was losing his fricking mind over a fantastical warrior he’d only met once, he was resigned to the trajectory he was on.
Ain’t no getting off this stupid merry-go-round without breaking my damn neck.
The haunting sound of the Dord Fiann was followed by the thunder of hooves and the spine-chilling war cries of the Fianna as they raced down the hill toward the Fianna door.
It took every ounce of discipline that more than a decade of working in Teams had given him to keep his finger on the barrel of his weapon and not curled into the trigger guard.
Using his thumb, he double checked the safety, just to make doubly sure he didn’t fuck up.
His gaze locked onto Fionn as the horses came to a stop, and for a second, when faced with the rage on the High King’s face, he was tempted to take a step back and let Viper or Trace take the lead on this one. But he held his ground, lifting his chin in silent challenge.
Well, this is just fucking peachy.
When Fionn dismounted, Trace stepped forward, but Reaper cut him off with a slash of his hand. “Where’s Cian?”
Fionn’s jaw clenched. “Gone.”
Reaper had a split second to feel it building in his sternum before a wall of guilt slammed into him, and his stomach dropped.
Shit.
Is he dead?
Did the bond kill him already because I’ve been resisting it so hard?
Fuck.
“What do you mean, gone?” At any other time, he’d have been rather proud of the fact the words came steadily out of his mouth steadily, without a tremble to be seen. But today, it didn’t even cross his mind.
Oisín joined his father on the ground. His gaze flicked to Fionn before returning to Reaper. “Taken.”
Jesus, do neither of these fuckers know how to give more than one-word answers?
“By fucking who?”
“The Tuatha Dé Danann.” Fionn gestured for them to walk with him. “We were just about to go get him back.”