Carlton, Amber - Trinity Magic (Siren Publishing Romance) Page 2

  “Christ, that sounded like gunfire.”

  Ryder glanced toward the main house. A cluster of women stood on the porch, their laughter drifting through the night air like a reprimand. They hadn’t heard anything, but something was wrong. He whirled around on the path, not sure what he searched for, but what he saw shocked the hell out of him. An eerie, blood red mist swirled a short distance away, rising from the ground between the cottage and the house.

  The cloud shaped itself into a rough circle and Ryder took a hesitant step forward. Another sound swelled now, rising and falling, caught in the evening air, a baying sound. The soulful keening wail echoed heartache, pain, and shattering grief. What the hell made a sound like that?

  Ryder kept moving, following a tendril of mist that beckoned him across the yard. The baying increased, winding through his body and stabbing at something very near his heart. It was the saddest sound he’d ever heard, and for some reason, it made him want to cry, but that would never happen. He’d closed those feelings off months ago, killing them with countless bottles of Jack.

  He stared into the circle of fog, and something shimmered there that looked disturbingly like the figure of a woman. The closer he got, the more vivid she became, until he stared at the most beautiful woman he’d seen in his life.

  His breath whooshed out of his lungs, and he raked his hands through his hair. “Oh, man, what the hell is this?”

  Dressed in a long pale yellow skirt and a shirt that might have been white in another century, she gazed into the rosy lavender of the darkening sky. The loose linen fell off her creamy shoulders and dipped low across her chest, displaying an enticing amount of cleavage, generous mounds of aching temptation pushed up by a seductive leather corset that hugged her small body tightly. A riot of burnished curls surrounded her face and fell down her back, rich lustrous strands, and exactly the shade of red that had turned him on for the last fifteen years. He’d always been a sucker for a redhead.

  Wow. Natalie had nothing to offer next to this little wench. For the first time in months, his dick stirred in his pants.

  You’re an idiot, Kendall, and you’re drinking way too much. She’s some kind of hallucination you conjured from a bottle, and a figment of your imagination should not give you a hard-on. There’s a perfectly good woman, a real woman, standing on the porch. Close your eyes and keep moving.

  He couldn’t do it. Real or not, he took a step closer and studied her face.

  Lush lips, a soft natural pink that did not come from a tube, the kind of lips a man could suck on till the end of time. That firm jaw could mean a stubborn streak. This little beauty might want her own way and, with a few concessions on her part, he wouldn’t mind giving it to her. He knew her pale, luminous skin would flush in anger and passion, and by the way she moved, he thought there would be lots of passion locked in that tight little bundle. His dick twitched again, growing so hard he had to shift it in his pants. Things were looking up.

  The entire package was hot, but her eyes held him spellbound, dark green, filled with an anxiety that made him want to wrap his arms around her, cradle her against him, and run his hands through her hair. Something had frightened the hell out of her. She cocked her head, and a visible shiver ran down her spine. When her voice drifted into the air around him, he heard the trace of an Irish accent. He was having one freaking, real hallucination.

  “Oh, no, please,” she whispered. “By all that’s holy, not a banshee.”

  A banshee? What the hell?

  A spasm of pain flickered across her face, and the woman clutched her stomach, doubling over. Her hair swung forward, sweeping the long, irregular blades of grass that surrounded her. Ryder wondered what had happened to his perfectly manicured lawn, but when she began to heave and gag, he rushed toward her. He tried to pull the hair away from her face, but his hand trailed through her body and caused her image to shimmer and waver. He panicked when she dissolved into nothing.

  He snatched his hand out of the fog, and she reappeared, coalescing from an indistinct fog into a shape once again. For one second, the warmth of her body shocked him.

  You’re in serious trouble here. There’s nothing real about this, but you’re starting to feel it. You’ve lost your freaking mind.

  When she stood, Ryder took a step backward. He feared she’d disappear but, more than that, he felt uncomfortable because things seemed to be shifting. The woman wiped her apron across her mouth then turned slowly in a circle. Reluctant to take his eyes off the girl, he followed her gaze into the distance, and he couldn’t reconcile his surroundings. He found himself in a foreign landscape.

  The main house simply vanished. The road that circled past his property and led to the tidy little village beyond disappeared, replaced with vast fields filled with wildflowers and towering forests long since harvested. The rush of the river water sounded louder, bursting with force and power. He glanced toward his cottage, which stood sturdy and welcoming, but his fence had melted away, and the lights blazing through the windows earlier had been replaced by the glow of a flickering candle. His gaze snapped back to the girl.

  Come on, baby, clue me in here. What the hell is happening? Who are you? Where are you?

  His mind seemed filled with her, but she had no thoughts of him. From the terrified look on her face, thoughts he couldn’t imagine filled her head. The wail continued rising and falling with pain and shattering grief. The mournful song punched a hole in his gut.

  The woman searched the mist, and Ryder searched with her. Meeting a banshee, even in some kind of fantastic vision, could not be good. The woman spoke softly, and it twisted something inside of him.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “There is nothing you can do to me that’s naught been done before. Do you sing for Stephen? Is it the price for my selfishness?”

  A tear slid down her cheek and her eyes hardened into slices of deep emerald. She forced words through a clenched jaw.

  “Bloody saints, Cameron, you could not leave us alone? You’ve left me no choice.”

  She lifted her face to the sky, hair tumbling along her back. She spread her arms toward the coming night. Droplets of rain fell now, splashing against her skin.

  “Children of the sky, I call you to return to me. Bring the blessed protection I seek, not for my own self, but for the three within. Time unravels, and we will be together again. The once forbidden is now allowed. Return to me.”

  Confused, Ryder watched the girl. Her glance swept the landscape, resting on the river where the fog covering the water undulated among the small whitecaps. Tiny twinkling lights appeared within the gray landscape, darting and flitting like lost fireflies. He twisted his head toward the meadow and the fields that now stretched across Trinity Island. Moving through the wildflowers and the crops in the distance, more lights raced toward her, pouncing randomly among the vegetation, twisting and dancing in the breeze.

  “What the fuck?” Ryder whispered.

  The glittering lights spiraled into columns, like birds in flight, their random movement now full of purpose. The intensity of the lights glowed brighter, flickering faster to match the rhythm of his escalating heartbeat. Shining colors appeared in the lights, a palette that swelled with blues and greens, pinks and lavenders. The sparkling iridescence of the lights was wondrous.

  It’s a brain tumor. Or alcohol poisoning.

  The dance of the lights reached them, flying around her, reaching into the sky, circling the cottage. A smile of lights, the happy radiance of children at play.

  You are one sick mother, Kendall. You’ve either punched a hole through reality or drunk yourself into one hell of a coma.

  The lights skimmed along her body, caressing her, landing on her hands and face and tumbling into the waves of hair. They skipped along her flesh, and jealousy consumed him. He wanted to touch her flesh, put his hands in her hair and take advantage of the pounding erection he’d managed to conjure from nothing. If he could just get his hands on her, he knew t
here’d be magic. He could feel it.

  The lights pulled back and hovered in a circle around her, pulsing with anticipation, and a collective sigh of small, happy breaths filled the air and shimmered in the rainy mist. Ryder couldn’t stay away from the girl. He moved closer so he could hear her.

  “’Tis gladness I have in my heart to see you again. I’ve a need to protect the cottage and three within—little lasses of fire, earth, and air.”

  The lights glowed eagerly, a symphony of radiance. Small arching rainbows spread through the darkness. The prisms twinkled and spread, disappeared and reappeared, moving across the air in colorful streams of fiery brilliance.

  She whispered something, and the rainbow prisms died. The lights blinked furiously. One of the lights darted toward her, and the woman spread out her hand. Ryder edged closer. The light nestled in the cup of her hand, sparkling in a pale pink aura. It was some kind of tiny creature.

  Oh, sure, let’s take this hallucination one step further into actual dementia. Now you’re seeing things from a Disney movie.

  A gossamer veil hid the creature’s body, and her golden hair swept the length of her frame, curling around her limbs. Tiny pinpoints of blue flame danced in her eyes. The fury of a hushed whisper disturbed the air around her. The woman smiled, and her finger skimmed across the pearly sheen of the gauzy fabric.

  “I see the concern, Adelina,” the woman said, “but ’tis hope I have you will come to love the lasses as I do.”

  Doubt flickered across the creature’s face, and she frowned, her forehead furrowing. She peered at the woman through the blue flame of her eyes and cocked her head. “The banshee cries. What has happened?”

  “’Tis my fear Stephen is dead,” the woman said, “and the Ganconor has done the deed. ’Tis why I need you.”

  The tiny creature huffed. “’Tis not what we expected. We have defied time and space for you, not your passel of mortal brats.” She paused, and another huff escaped her rosy lips. The creature was pretty darn cute and seemed to have much on her mind regarding mortal children. The woman waited patiently while the pink thing struggled with her next words, nearly choking on them. “Love a human? Three humans at that!”

  Ryder smiled, enjoying his little delusion. He’d always been a fan of Disney films.

  “’Tis wonderful children they are,” the woman said.

  The creature rustled her iridescent wings in a splash of magenta. She tucked her head, refusing to look at the woman “Loving a human can be very tiring.”

  “I know, faery mine, but hush now, you must hide. Someone comes.”

  Faery? Christ, when you conjure delusions out of thin air, you go all the way.

  The faeries—sure, why not?—darted into the tall grasses, and their lights vanished. A group of men emerged from the mist, carrying a bundle that held the shape of a man. Ryder stood silently with his perfect hallucination. The woman did not seem surprised. Not surprised at all.

  “Oh, Cameron, what mayhem have you done?” she whispered.

  She wiped the traces of tears from her face and walked toward the men. When she vanished into the fog, Ryder tried to follow but stumbled into the fence that surrounded his cottage. Faith called his name from the house.

  “No more drinking. You had one too many tonight.”

  He stared into the fog for another minute, thinking of the little beauty. He wanted that one. Too bad she was a figment of his imagination.

  He shook his head, and a drop of water slid down his face. Glancing at the clear, dark sky, he ran his hands through his shaggy hair, puzzled at the dampness. Plunging his wet hands into the pockets of his overcoat, he headed toward the house.

  Chapter 2

  Trinity Island

  Virginia Colony

  1639

  The needle bit into Arleigh Donovan’s skin.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered.

  She inspected the wound, leaning over the table toward the single candle that sputtered in the gloom of the corner. Large beads of blood welled from the puncture and dropped onto the cloth she sewed. She stuffed her wounded thumb into her mouth, gagging at the foul taste of the blood. Anger, bright and hot, pounded through her.

  “Bloody hell.”

  She settled back onto the bench, pressing her apron tightly against the injury, waiting for the sting to subside and the bleeding to stop.

  “I will ne’er get this done. I hate you for making me do this.”

  A single tear dropped from her eye. Reaching out with a trembling hand, she caressed the cloth spread upon the table, moving along the hills and valleys created by the body wrapped within the rough fabric. Anger roared through her again. She didn’t know if she was angry with Stephen, with herself, or the world.

  “You confronted him, didn’t you? Why did you think you could change anything?”

  She lowered her head. Hot brutal tears began to fall, tears that sprang from nowhere and poured unabated from a well that seemed limitless. She simply let them fall. She couldn’t make them stop, and when she tried, her head nearly burst. She brushed wearily at strands of tear-dampened hair.

  Her hand caught in one of the curls crossed over her shoulder, and she lifted it, watching it wind around her finger. She wanted to take a knife and cut it off, sever the memory and the bond she had with the family that had forced her to this place. She wanted to cut every strand of the dark red hair that had, for centuries, threaded through the Donovan clan and bound her to a family across an ocean. They had banished her, forgotten her, and driven her to this distant land. Why hadn’t they loved her? Why couldn’t they accept her?

  “Cursed. They were right. I am cursed. But it still hurts. Why didn’t they love me enough to keep me?”

  For years she had fought against the truth. As she looked at the cloth containing the corpse of the only ally she had in this despicable land, she knew everything the Donovans had said was the truth. She could no longer deny what she knew in her heart.

  “They pushed you out and exiled you from the village. Arleigh Donovan is a cursed woman, a pariah. They all said it, all felt it, and here is the proof.”

  Arleigh shivered and pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She could not seem to get warm. What made her shake uncontrollably? Was it the thoughts that tormented her mind or the night breeze blowing through the open window? Or could it be that high, keening wail she heard all the way to the marrow of her bones, that cry that seemed part of the fabric of the night air?

  The song of the banshee had grown softer, almost a whisper of grief in the autumn night. Arleigh shivered again. She moved to the window and gripped the sash, ready to lower it, but the breeze was not cold at all. In fact, it held warmth and comfort and brought with it the scent of a cleansing rainstorm brewing in the western hills. Her fingers tightened on the sill and bit into the splintery wood.

  “The chill is inside of me, inside of me where there is nothing but darkness.”

  She stared at her reflection in the hazy imperfection of the glass pane. She saw a small oval face nearly lost within the cloud of deep russet hair that tumbled around it. She looked so pale, so fragile, so helpless. She met the eyes of the frightened apparition, dark green eyes caught somewhere between reality and death. Tears dried on the cheeks of her ghostly counterpart, and the eyes seemed haunted and desperate, so unfocused Arleigh felt a flash of terror. Heart hammering, she grabbed at the thin curtains and yanked them shut with a sob. She dropped back on the bench.

  “The curse is real, Stephen. You doubted me, but here is the proof. You lie dead in a shroud, and my meager talents cannot even sew a decent burial cloth. Why didn’t you believe me? I knew what the outcome would be. Oh, aye, I certainly knew that. They whispered about my bond with the dark world all my life. I must pay for my thefts forever, and those who love me must pay, also. I’m sorry, Stephen. So sorry.”

  Although her hands shook, Arleigh picked up the needle and resumed her task. She pushed the needle through the rough fabric, w
inding it through again and again until her fingertips numbed. She wished she had something softer, more elegant, but in truth, she was fortunate to have what she had.

  The firelight scattered around the room, nipping at the shadows in the corners but bringing no warmth to her. The tears felt like slivers of ice cutting her face. She choked back the sobs that rose from her chest, refusing to express her grief.

  Stephen’s girls had offered to help, but she wanted to do the sewing as a last gift, her final gesture of love and respect, so she told them to rest. She’d not exactly lied, because they needed to be strong for what they must do later, but she’d not told the truth either. She wanted them to sleep because she could not stand to look into their eyes and see their broken hearts. Her own courage would fade even faster if she had to see those three sets of dark blue eyes filled with such sadness.

  Her fingers resumed their task, but her eyes continued to glance at the sleeping forms spread upon the floor. They had refused to be separated from her, choosing to sleep on the floor of the keeping room to be near her. Curled within quilts, Stephen’s daughters looked peaceful, but their eyelids fluttered against the dreams and their fingers curled around their blankets. Every so often, a sigh rustled the air and rose to meet the breeze.

  A strong bond held them together. The three sisters shared everything—their land, their hearth, and their dreams. They shared joys and sorrows and all the emotions in between that fate decreed. Today had been a day of sorrow, and even in sleep they shared their grief. As their minds spun dreams, their hands reached for each other. As their agitation grew, their fingers entangled and the glossy strands of black hair spread across the pillows merged and became indistinguishable. Their lovely faces were flushed from the heat of the hearth which spread a soft glow across their fair skin. Between them, they possessed enough beauty to twist the heavens into a jealous frenzy.