Enchanted Moon (Moon Magick Book II) (26 page)

The air around her blurred.

Immediately she thought of the night she’d followed
Maera through. The veil.

Quinlan’s life-force was powering the bloodstone. The
bloodstone was conjuring the veil. Given enough power, it would rip the veil
apart. Ailyn shut her eyes and begged the goddess’ for their aide. She could
not do this alone. She called to her mother’s spirit. To any that would hear
her.

When she felt the cold settling in her stomach, this
time she recognized it.

Aye. She knew this chill deep within.

Power. Icy, steely power.

She focused on its pure, cold, cleanness. She watched
it grow and spread. She felt it course down her arms like rivulets of rain, up
her spine like a rod.

When she opened her eyes, she had the notion she could
fairly breathe this power out. Carefully, slowly, she rotated herself on the
slab. The light entranced the crowd. Niall was entranced by his own words.

Many had closed their eyes.

A mistake.

They would not see what they had awoken.

Ailyn rose to her feet, trusting that first instinct
now of not to rock the slab upon which she stood. Quinlan’s legs sprawled
between hers. They’d not take him from her. No one would.

The veil shimmered full, a curtain of energy. She
could see her kingdom on the other side, the faint outline of a wolf becoming a
man. Colm. Safe.

She would not see him again. The loss would cut deep
once she could feel such a thing again. Now, though, all she could feel was
cold certainty. She reached her hand forward and whispered in her father’s
sacred tongue. “This light, this love, is mine.”

Niall’s eyes slammed open as she spoke. His hand began
to shake.

“Mine alone.”

His hands covered the top of the glowing stone. He
shook his head, his gaze filled with a desperate plea.

“This love I keep.” His desperation touched her heart.
She felt his sadness. She understood. He only ever wanted what she now fought
for. His love to live. But not at the peril of so many. “This love I keep. This
light I extinguish.”

A wind whipped through the trees. The fires sputtered
out. The amethyst hues swept away. The veil trembled. The hum in the air quaked.

“This light I extinguish.”

The bloodstone’s glow burned brighter with every word,
hissing louder. Niall’s hands shook. He gave one last shout, commanding the
veil to part. But in his eyes she could see--he knew. He knew he’d failed.

There in his hands, the glowing stone exploded. Beams
of bright blue light shot outward. The crowd dispersed in a panic. Niall fell
to the ground, struck.

Slain.

Ailyn’s entire being shook. She lowered her arm,
gingerly lowering herself as well. The stillness in the air might as well have
been the darkness she and Quinlan leapt into. Except this was real. The ice
inside her was gone. The tendrils of light were gone. Naught but smoke from the
fires remained.

She put Quinlan’s hand in hers. He had lovely hands.
Roughened yet soft. Big, strong. And warm.

A drizzle of rain began.

She lay down next to Quinlan, letting the tension and
fear and shock run their course. Quinlan’s arm wound about her shoulders,
pulling her in.

“She was right.”

“Who?” Ailyn asked, her voice hoarse.

“Your mother.” When she tensed against him, he gave
her another squeeze. “Not now, lass. I promise you, I’ll tell you. We’ve a few
more critical tasks to attend to before such tales, love.”

Reluctantly, but also to fatigued to care much, she
relaxed back against him. They had time now. Time enough. Time aplenty.

Epilogue

At some point they would learn how they had survived
the fall. Eventually word would spread. Tales would be told. Those who had
gathered at the rite lived among them after all. Anonymously.

Or perchance Daniel would recall more than the
snatches of memory he could claim. Or Breanne would shed light on the true
events as they unfolded.

Some days later, lying in the low light of evening
with Ailyn’s warm body nestled in his arms, Quinlan could offer such details
little more than passing thought.

Naught could penetrate the spell he’d found himself
under.

Ailyn’s spell.

Not even the turmoil abounding through the entire
Tuath from losing a betraying king could pierce Quinlan’s joy. She was here. In
his arms. His. Was it possible? Was she real? Aye. The tickle of her hair as
she restlessly moved proved it. He sighed heavily, his heart seemingly ready to
break his chest open so full it was.

Three—or was it four?—days time was simply
not enough to take in all that had passed. His entire world had been kicked
onto its side, all he held to be true tumbling out. Never could he have guessed
what beauty would replace that hollowed out space. He traced a line from her
chin down her throat, watching the proof of her heart beating.

Was she truly his? Forever?

Grimacing adorably, Ailyn rolled over, knocking her
forehead smack into his chin. He grunted, adjusting his arm so as to rub the
offended area while his bride slept on unperturbed. He chuckled.

The fire crackled, his bride softly snored.

It took all his will not to wake her, to make love to
her again. But she needed rest, to be sure. He’d not make her suffer simply
because his reeling mind would not allow his own rest. Too much awe filled his
thoughts. Awe over the wealth and depth of emotion this woman wrought in him.
The awe nigh overwhelmed him until it muted back to shock. Shock over Niall’s
actions. Shock over Ailyn’s actions, shock at the sheer magick they’d conjured.

Shock that somehow in the midst of all this turmoil
he’d lucked into a love so pure, so fathomless he should he perish in this very
moment it would be in bliss. Ah, but death would mean missing more moments of
Ailyn. Such a fate would be most tragic.

He kissed her nose.

The cry of a baby nipped his musings. He grinned. The
priest had wed them under early dawn’s light. Daniel having returned to his
appropriate age had insisted he witness the ceremony. Quinlan suspected the man
carried a deep burden of guilt for not being better able to stop Niall and
Jamison. He trusted life would see him through, though. Perhaps even, one day,
love. With his own sister Rose eager to also witness the ceremony they’d
quickly after rushed Ailyn and Quinlan to Breanne’s.

Where they’d retired.

Spent days and nights in each other’s arms.

He had made love to Ailyn, fed her sweet lips and
slept hidden from the world.

Eventually they would need to emerge. If for naught
else but to thank their host and hostess, congratulate them on their own
blessing—a healthy babe.

Ailyn tossed and turned again, oblivious to his watch,
flopping her leg out of the covers and mumbling. Quinlan poked the tip of her
nose. “Does my beast awaken?”

She squinted one eye open, glaring at him. “Nay,” she
grumbled, winding her limbs around him.

Quinlan chuckled, pushing off just enough to get
space. “I’ll fetch us some sustenance, lass. Sleep.”

Ailyn grinned and let him go.

A splash of water hopefully helped diminish the smell
of sleep and…not sleep. The muscles in his thighs protested, a delicious
reminder of just how little they’d slept. Wearing a deep grin, he quietly
stepped into the hall only to nearly collide with Ashlon. Who all but dropped
the swaddled bundle in his arms.

The look Quinlan received would have sent another man
running the other direction. Quinlan grinned wider.

“Wake this child and I’ll murder you here and now,
Quinlan Blake.”

Quinlan chuckled deep in his belly. “Wouldn’t dream of
it, friend. In fact, I was on my way to inquire how Breanne fares.”

Ashlon’s expression softened as a tiny hand reached
free of its swaddles. “Getting much needed rest. News that her mother will heal
gave her much relief. I imagine your bride will be sleeping as well. Or do her
snores mark her keen boredom?”

“Aye. Bored stiff, she is. Naught will excite that
one,” he lied, pride welling up his chest. Bride. He loved the word. He’d never
have guessed. To think he’d once fancied himself in love with Breanne. That
young emotion paled next to this.

When he had first proposed they wed, he’d told himself
it was a matter of honor. Duty. Lies. He’d fallen for the lass from the moment
she’d walked into his world and upturned it. Then attempted to run the other
way. Yet kept returning to her. Quinlan scrubbed a hand over his face. He
sorely needed a shave. And a bath.

“I’ll be damned. You are in love with her,” Ashlon
said, gently rocking the tiny form in his arms.

Quinlan pinched his brows together. “Dinna tell me
I’ve gone as outright doe-eyed as you get over Breanne. I have, haven’t I?”

Ashlon clapped his shoulder. “Dinna fash yourself,
Quin. It happens to even the toughest of us. I promise to only tell every last
person in Tir Conaill who will listen.”

“Ah, how kind of you, Sir Ashlon.” He gave a sarcastic
bow. “I’ll be sure to do the same on behalf of your daughter,” he said,
gesturing at the bundle.

Ashlon shook his head. “Son, ye idiot. This is my
son.”

Quinlan guffawed, clapping his mouth at the
involuntary sound. “A son then? How much fury has Breanne spit over that minor
detail?”

A smug look crossed Ashlon’s weary face. “None.” A
twinkle lit his gaze.

“Well done, then, friend. Less to fret and gray over
with a son, I imagine.”

The twinkle vanished, Ashlon’s earlier scowl
returning. “I’ll be wishing a daughter for you and Ailyn then.”

Despite the light tone, Ashlon wore a somber
expression. Had he hit a nerve? Or did other events weigh on the man’s mind?
“How much does Breanne know of Niall’s fate?” Quinlan asked. Losing her
stepfather considering the young loss of her father had to be crushing for
Breanne.

“I’ve not yet told her. Only that
Una’s
good health has returned.”

Quinlan nodded soberly. There were many wounds to mend
in Tir Conaill, much lost in their king’s death, but also much to be grateful
for. A high pitched wail that could make ears bleed carried down to them,
followed by Breanne’s distinctive holler. “Ashlon!”

Understanding seeped into Quinlan’s fatigued mind as
he glanced at the sleeping babe in Ashlon’s arms.
 

“Not a word,” Ashlon warned, his scowl showing
something Quinlan had yet to ever see in the man’s gaze—terror.

The babe in his arms began to mewl as well, joining
his insistent sister, though at a much more tolerable octave. “Aye, Breanne,”
Ashlon called, striding for the stairs, mumbling. “Men have no place….”

Twins.

Deciding only two things in the whole world could make
this day more perfect, Quinlan headed to the kitchens for the first, aiming to
feed the second before wetting her appetite for something entirely more
powerful.

Something he’d never fully given, never truly
received. Until now.

Love.

Come what may.

~The END~

Dear Reader,

Thank you for sharing my world within these pages. I
hope you found Ailyn and Quinlan’s story as spellbinding as I do. If you
enjoyed this novel, please consider reviewing it online. It is a real gift to
us authors.

I look forward to bringing you more Moon Magick in the
next installment, Fae Moon Rising, Maera and Colm’s story. There is much
happening that Ailyn and Quinlan do not see.

Daniel’s story will follow in a spinoff series called
Gaurdians
of Tara. Avenging Escher will be the first
installment.

Waiting is the hardest part, I feel, so to tide you
over, please find goodies over at my website in the form of fan extras,
contests and news:
http://amberscottbooks.com

Much love,

Amber
Scott