Beguiled (21 page)

O’Hara laughed, punched his friend in the face and shifted out of Mac’s grasp. When he rematerialized, he was still grinning like a fool as he watched Mac rub his aching jaw.

O’Hara moved to the sideboard, grabbed a glass and poured himself a healthy draught of nectar. “Then why do you moan and groan and complain like a troll in the rain? You’ve nothing to fear and mayhap we have all to gain.”

More mutters of disgust and still more complaints rose up in the room and Culhane ignored them all. O’Hara wasn’t threatened by the change. Most likely it was because O’Hara had probably had half of the female guards on their backs at one time or another. He, more than any of them, had seen firsthand the frustration simmering in the guard. He knew they were good fighters and didn’t fear having them join the warriors.

There was that word again.

Fear
.

Culhane mentally sneered at the thought. His warriors knew no fear. The very notion of it was insulting. Demeaning to the proud Fae he’d served with for centuries. This wasn’t about fear. This was about the fact that for eons, the male Fae of Otherworld had been no better than servants to their women. All but the Warrior clan. Here, in the Conclave, the male Fae were respected and needed. Here, there were no women muddying things.

And now, the female guards wanted to be included in the only truly independent environment a male Fae could claim?

No, Culhane told himself. This would not go well. There were too many centuries of bad blood spilled to be forgotten because a new and foolish queen hoped to turn everyone into a happy team working together. The gods alone knew what she was thinking. Didn’t she understand what this would do to his men? To all Fae males?

Those who did not serve as warriors looked to this clan as a source of pride. Here, they could say, the women did not rule. In the Conclave, it was a male’s world. Bitterness rose in his throat and nearly choked him. He hadn’t foreseen anything like this. The prophecies had said nothing about the future Queen turning Otherworld on its head. Had not mentioned that she would make Culhane want to beat his head upon a rock out of sheer frustration.

And had he known, he asked himself, would he have done anything different? Would he, even now, wish for Mab to be on the throne again rather than Maggie?

Ah. Such a question. And the answer was, no. He would rather Maggie with all of her unfounded notions be on the throne, because clearly, she was a female who appreciated equality. Though she was going about it in the wrong way. Giving the female Fae
more
power and stripping it from the men was not what he had had in mind.

“Enough,” he shouted, silencing his own thoughts as well as the other warriors. His men turned to him, their personal arguments forgotten in the face of his authority. “We can do nothing about Maggie’s plan at this time. Instead, we should concentrate on Mab. Send squads of warriors out. Groups of three. Search Otherworld until she’s found and then report back to me. We five will meet at the palace tonight.”

“Why the palace?” Mac asked.

“We’ll search that place top to bottom,” Culhane told him. “There may be clues to where Mab might go for help.”

“Makes sense,” Muldoon said.

“If we find her in our search, what then?” Quinn asked.

“
When
we find her,” Culhane corrected, “we do nothing. We observe. See what she’s stirring up. We won’t be able to stop her unless we know exactly what she’s doing.”

“Aye.” One by one, the warriors nodded and shifted out of the Conclave.

Culhane shook his head, thinking about what would have happened if the females had been given orders. Would they have shifted immediately into action? Or would they have stayed, demanding explanations and reasons and wanting to talk about all manner of things rather than simply accept a direct command and obey?

Gods, a warrior could go mad trying to figure out a woman. But as for his men, they would do their duty. As they had always done, he told himself. As
he
had always done.

Once they’d found Mab, Culhane could show Maggie that his warriors didn’t need the females to fight alongside them. She would see that the males had protected all Fae for longer than most could remember and they didn’t need any help.

Maggie was Queen. But he was Culhane, a mighty Fenian warrior. Nothing was going to change that.

“You haven’t found out anything?” Maggie faced Bezel and fought back her frustration.

“Nada,” Bezel said, grumbling. “There’s something going on with that grandFae of yours. I just haven’t caught him yet.”

“Great.” So she didn’t know any more than she had before. “Seriously, could my life get more screwed up?”

“Probably,” Bezel mused, rocking back and forth on his huge feet.

“Thanks for that.” She shook her head, grabbed a couple of wineglasses out of the cupboard and looked at him again. “Just keep watching, okay? I want to believe Jasic’s on the up-and-up, but . . .”

“He ain’t,” Bezel warned, his silvery eyebrows beetling on his forehead like live caterpillars.

“Then find something,” she said, turning her back on the pixie to join Claire in the living room.

“Are you even trying?” Two hours later, Maggie took a gulp of her wine and gave Claire a dirty look. The two women were seated on the floor in Maggie’s living room, a bottle of wine between them and a snoring Sheba stretched out across their feet.

It was nearly ten, and outside the living room windows, the night was dark but for the glow of the Christmas lights strung under the eaves. Up and down Maggie’s street, the lights and reindeer and laughing Santas had been going up all week. Normalcy was all around her, yet somehow, it didn’t quite come close enough to her to make a real difference in her life, Maggie thought.

Heck, she’d even used her still-growing Fae abilities to help her with the lights this year. Floating/flying? Much easier than dragging a rickety ladder around behind her. Of course, she’d had to hang the lights at night, so her neighbors didn’t notice her doing the floaty thing.

Nora, Eileen, Claire and Maggie had spent most of the evening dragging out Christmas decorations from the attic. While Bezel kibitzed from a corner, the women had buried their fears of Mab under layers of holiday spirit. A snowman Nora had made in a ceramics class three years ago sat on a silver tray surrounded by shiny, red glass bulbs. Red and white silk poinsettias burst out of every vase they owned and Eileen’s painting of a Christmas tree hung in a proud spot over the faux fireplace.

Maggie had floated up to the ceiling, stringing artificial pine boughs around the living room, and a wreath she’d had for years hung where the front door had been until her grandfather had paneled over it. There were cinnamon candles burning, scenting the air, Christmas music playing softly in the background and a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay on the table.

Nora and Eileen had gone to bed an hour ago, exhausted from the decorating—not to mention all the high drama and anxiety. Bezel was eating his way through more of Nora’s cookies in the kitchen and Maggie and Claire were slowly, deliberately, working up a heck of a wine buzz.

“Of course I’m trying, you silly cow,” Claire said with a short laugh that ended on a hiccup. “Visions come when they come. It’s not like turning on a bleeding TV, you know.”

“Bezel was right. Some psychic you are,” Maggie muttered.

“You know,” Claire mused, completely ignoring the dig, “if that dog didn’t snore when she slept, a body would swear she was dead.”

“She’s exhausted,” Maggie said in defense of the lazy golden retriever. “Like me.”

It had been a full day, she thought, what with freeing Mab, having sex with Culhane, only to discover that he’d been using her all along, and then watching him shift right out of her life. Not to mention all of the decorating and the drain of keeping a determinedly cheerful attitude so she wouldn’t upset anyone.

God. She wanted to curl up under the table with the dog.

“Yeah,” Claire said, “because all those naps she takes must wear her out.”

“Hello?” Maggie poured more wine. “Sheba’s sleep schedule’s not the most important thing right now. You’re not even
trying
to have a damn vision.”

Claire shook her head and sipped at her wine. “You know, when I first told you about being psychic and well, a witch, I was worried that you’d shut me out.” Her Scots accent was a purr of sound on the words that tumbled from her. “Most everyone I’ve ever known has pushed away once they learned the truth about me.”

Claire MacDonald had been Maggie’s best friend for ten years. But it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that Claire had confessed her little secret. Since then, the two women had become even closer. Since they were both dealing with the supernatural, it almost made them seem normal. To each other, at least.

“Ah,” Maggie told her with a smile, “but I’m not everyone.”

“That’s the God’s truth, I’ll say.” Claire laughed. “Most folks want to shuffle me out the door as fast as they can, while you, my very different friend,
order
me to have visions.”

“Well, what the hell good are they if you can’t drum one up when you need it?”

“A question I’ve often asked myself,” Claire admitted.

“It’s just ...” Maggie blew out a breath, shifted slightly because her right foot had gone numb under Sheba and then said, “Everything’s a mess all of a sudden. Mab’s out. Nora’s terrified, even though she won’t say it. . . .”

“Yes,” Claire said with a smile. “I noticed the two cakes, the muffins and the cookies in the kitchen. Though I thought there were more cookies a while ago.”

“There were,” Maggie told her, and laid one hand across her stomach. She’d had cookies for dinner. Not a good idea. “We’ll probably all get diabetes in the next few days, the way Nora’s baking. Especially now that she and Eileen are staying here because we have to watch out for Mab the Marauder trying to kill us in our sleep or something.”

“Ah no,” Claire said, lifting her wineglass in a salute to herself. “You’re forgetting I warded the house tonight. The strength of the spell I put on this place will keep out anything with a mind to cause harm.”

It had been pretty impressive, Maggie thought, watching Claire work. While Nora, Eileen and Maggie had been decorating like crazed elves with a deadline, Claire the Friendly Witch had been casting a spell around the house and grounds. She’d been pretty damn impressive, too. With the candles, burning sage and the fiery crystals humming with trapped energy, Claire had almost looked like an ancient wizard with the secrets of the ages shining in her eyes.

Maggie had actually
felt
the pulse of power when the spell had been completed, so yes, she did feel safer in the house.

“And I appreciate it,” she said. “But we could have used Quinn and Culhane, too, and they’re so pissed at me, they’ll probably stay away just when we need them the most.”

“You’ve got me, don’t ya?” Bezel shouted from the kitchen, insult clear in his raspy voice.

“And how do we rid ourselves of you, you little troll?” Claire shouted back.

“Witches,” he answered. “Always being snotty,”

“Go home, Bezel,” Maggie called out.

“I would if Fontana would let me,” he insisted, shifting into the living room to glare down at them.

Since he was standing and they were sitting, Bezel was actually taller than someone for a change. Maggie looked up at him. “I didn’t mean go home to Otherworld. I meant go home to your tree.”

He scrubbed one hand across his wispy silver beard and looked away. “Uh, thought I’d just stay in the house for a few days. Just in case.”

Maggie smiled up at the ugly little pixie in his green velvet suit. He talked mean and acted all the time as if he’d rather be anywhere but around them. Yet here he was, willing to stay inside the house—which he called a “human box”—rather than his tree house. Because, she knew, he was worried about them. Though Maggie also knew he’d never admit to that.

“Aww . . . that’s so thoughtful,” Claire murmured with a smile. “You’ll be here so we can throw you to Mab just to save ourselves.”

“You know,” he said scowling, “if my wife, Fontana, knew how crazy you people really are, she’d let me come home.”