Chapter 7
Burncourt was aptly named in Reaper’s opinion. “I’ll burn his fucking court to the ground.” His words were whipped away by the wind and swallowed by the thunderous hoofbeats of the war party as they made their approach to the Rath.
The Wolf Walker inside him, if Trace was to be believed, howled and frothed at the mouth for vengeance. The SEAL who’d spent so many years in covert operations cringed at the direct approach Fionn and his warriors had to warfare.
He guided his steed through the army of fifty Fianna warriors with Fionn at its helm. Reaper’s teammates surrounded him, all united in a singular purpose… get Cian back alive.
The twilight of Tír na nóg shimmered around them as they arrived at their destination in front of a circular ditch with a wooden palisade on top.
Fionn’s horse reared as he pulled it to a stop.
The High King of the Fianna pulled his sword from his scabbard and bellowed, “Rath Burncourt, I am Fionn Mac Cumhaill. Open your gates or face the wrath of the Fianna.”
“Fionn Mac Cumhaill is dead,” one of the guards called back. “Away from here with ye now. We’ll not be having the likes of ye in our village.”
“Fetch me Dian Cecht, now,” Fionn roared in return. “And bring my Hound to me, the one known as Cian of the Stag Clan.”
The guards stationed atop the ramparts hurled what sounded like insults in response, but they also called for Dian Cecht and his sons.
The tension was palpable, and Reaper’s heart pounded as they waited outside the massive wooden gate.
“Dian Cecht!” Fionn’s voice broke the hush, powerful enough to stir any spirits who may have been lurking among the trees. “Face us,” The High King demanded. “Are you so cowardly that you will allow your people to die by my hand?”
Reaper fixed his gaze upward, where movement rippled across the walkway atop the wall. A figure emerged, but his presence was shadowed by the timber structures. Even from fifteen feet below on the back of a borrowed horse, Dian Cecht’s aura was undeniable, regal yet somehow foreboding.
“You have no right to my son.” Dian Cecht’s voice was sharp as a knife, and cut through the air, splintering the facade of peace Burncourt usually held. “The Tuatha Dé Danann wants no war with the Fianna.”
Then you shouldn’t have kidnapped my man.
Um what?
Reaper clenched his jaw, his grip on the reins squeezing tight. Silently, he commanded his steed closer to Fionn and the Fianna warriors flanking him.
“We will not leave without him,” Reaper’s rage-filled voice lashed out. “Release Cian, my Hound, now.”
Silence reigned for a long moment that stretched taut like a bow ready to snap.
Then, Dian Cecht turned, his reply lost to the murmur of hushed words passed among his guards.
They watched him, waiting to see how he would respond to the demands of the greatest warrior time, myth or legend had ever forged… Fionn.
The Fianna warriors shifted uneasily. Their horses snorted and sidestepped as the tension trickled from warrior to beast. Ice flowed through Reaper’s body, Cian’s desperate yearning seeping into his thoughts like liquid fire.
The challenge was issued, and the outcome would be decided by the bastard who hovered above them all. Cian’s father.
Hurry up and wait sucks even in this place.
Behind him, the Fianna spread out in a loose but deliberate formation, their movements fluid and predatory.
Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords.
Each man’s fingers flexed in anticipation as they scanned the shadows.
The tension rolling off them was a storm front of barely leashed violence.
Reaper could sense their readiness, their fury, and their loyalty to Fionn and to each other.
He decided the Fianna were the Special Forces Operators of their time. They were the ones who went to war to save the innocent, protect the weak, and eliminate the enemies who would destroy the world they lived in.
At the top of the wall, Dian Cecht stood like a statue.
His face was a mask of cold authority, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, his eyes narrow slits as they locked onto Fionn.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze, the only sound the ragged, uneven rasp of Reaper’s breath sawing in and out of his lungs.
Then, like a crack splitting across a frozen lake, Dian Cecht’s composure fractured, just for a second, but it was enough.
His skin paled abruptly, the color draining from his face as if the danger his people now faced slammed into him.
“Fionn.” He said the name like a curse, but somehow his voice was also smooth and controlled. “You dare bring your dogs to my door?”
Fionn didn’t so much as twitch. When he spoke, his voice was the low, resonant rumble of distant thunder.
“You forget yourself, leech.” His words dripped with disdain.
“My Hound gave me his allegiance. That is a vow that cannot be broken. He belongs to the Fianna, and has for eight thousand years.” His gaze flicked to Reaper, then back to Dian Cecht, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with something ancient and dangerous.
“And you have stolen him from his Grá Croí.”
A muscle in Dian Cecht’s jaw jumped. His laugh, when it came, was bordering on a hysterical cackle.
“Belongs to you?” He spread his hands wide.
“Cian is betrothed. The bond will be broken, and he will take his rightful place among the Tuatha Dé Danann.” His voice hardened, the words cutting through the tension like a whip.
“There is nothing for you or the one who says he is my son’s Grá Croí here. ”
Reaper’s vision narrowed, the edges bleeding to black as if he were staring down the barrel of a rifle.
Betrothed.
Absolutely fucking not.
The word hit him like a high-caliber round, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound in its wake.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms and the mating mark on his arm showed its distress by growing farther up his arm, the pain so intense it stole his breath, and sent his pulse roaring in his ears.
No. Fuck no.
He is MINE!
A snarl ripped from his throat before he even realized he was moving. He kicked his horse forward, his body acting on pure, white-hot rage. “Like hell he is!” he roared.
Viper and Trace were on him in an instant, dragging him off the horse.
Their hands locked around his arms like vises, hauling him back with a force that would have snapped a lesser man’s bones.
Reaper thrashed against them, every instinct screaming at him to fight, to tear, to destroy anything that stood between him and Cian.
“Easy, brother,” Viper growled in his ear. Even though his voice was rough with the effort of restraining him, his grip remained unyielding. “This isn’t over.”
“He’s baiting you.” Trace’s breath was hot against Reaper’s neck, his voice a low, urgent rumble. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
Reaper’s chest heaved. His lungs burned as he forced air in and out, trying to rein in his temper.
The mark on his arm pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb a fresh wave of agony, a reminder of the bond that tied him to Cian.
Of the man who was his, who was in there where he could not reach him.
The man who had been taken from him. He could feel Cian’s fury, his desperation, and the raw, animalistic need of the wolf to break free.
It was almost a living thing inside him, clawing at his ribs, gnawing at his gut, demanding he act, that he move, that he burn this whole fucking place to the ground if that’s what it took to get him back.
Dian Cecht’s gaze flicked to Trace, and something like shock flickered across his features.
His composure slipped just enough to reveal the disbelief beneath.
“You,” he sounded almost disbelieving. “The Hound who stayed behind.” His lips twisted into a sneer.
“I thought you’d have rotted in the human realm by now. ”
Trace’s laugh was dark and terrifying, “Disappointed?”
Fionn moved his horse forward, and the very air seemed to shift with his movement.
His voice was calm, but the power behind it was dark and foreboding.
“You will return my hound to me, Dian Cecht.” The power of the Fianna rose around him like a tempest, swirling in the air and raising the hairs on the back of the SEALs’ necks.
“You will do it now.” Threat filled his voice.
“Or I swear on the old gods, if either Cian or his Grá Croí die, the Fianna will hunt the Tuatha Dé Danann to the ends of every time and every realm.” His words were a vow and a promise of annihilation.
“We will wipe you from history, we will erase you from memory, and when we are done, we will salt the earth where your halls now stand.”
The threat hung in the air, and Dian Cecht’s face darkened, his jaw clenching so tight Reaper could see the tendons standing out in his neck. For a long, stretched moment, no one moved or breathed. Until with a sharp, abrupt gesture, Dian Cecht turned on his heel and vanished from the walls.
The Fianna didn’t relax. If anything, the tension among them ratcheted higher, their bodies humming with restrained violence. Fionn motioned to Caílte and Oisín, his voice low but carrying easily in the charged silence. “Set up the war council. We move before dawn.”