Mystical Warrior (18 page)

“Into the sea
where,
exactly?”

Mac gestured dismissively. “It matters not. All that matters is that Atlantis truly exists and that as long as it does, humanity shall remain safe. But only if the Trees of Life, which are now growing all over the world, continue to thrive.”

“Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to believe there’s a bunch of trees that … what? What makes them so special?”

“In layman’s terms, they’re what power the world. They hold all knowledge, like a library of sorts, and keep the energies balanced. In actuality, they are humanity’s conscience. If you consider how trees are designed, you’ll see why my father chose them to hold everything together; they reach toward the heavens while their roots anchor civilization to the earth.”

“So, if these trees are scattered all over the world now instead of safely growing in Atlantis, who or what is protecting them from … the gods?” Trace couldn’t help but ask, despite knowing that he was hearing the mother of all tall tales.

“Each drùidh is charged with protecting his or her Tree. In fact, Cùram de Gairn, whom you know as Matt Gregor, and his wife, Winter, are protecting a new species right here in Maine, which grows on the mountain where they’re building their new home.”

“So where’s
your
tree?”

Mac smiled. “I’m not a drùidh, actually. I’ve just let everyone continue to believe I’m one because it’s less intimidating.”

Trace went perfectly still again. “Then what are you—
actually
?”

“Titus Oceanus’s son.”

When Trace just glared at him, Mac gave an impatient sigh. “The drùidhs protect the Trees of Life, and my father and I protect the drùidhs.”

“Lucky you,” Trace muttered. He rubbed his forehead, trying to dispel the uneasy feeling rising inside him. Christ, he hoped the bastard was lying, because if Mac was telling the truth, that he was even more powerful than the drùidhs, a quick trip to hell in a handbasket was starting to sound appealing.

“Look, I’ve enjoyed the history lesson,” Trace said, “but that still doesn’t explain what is going on
here
. I’ve seen you do stuff I can’t even come close to understanding, so tell me why you don’t just magically heal yourself and then zap on home to Daddy and tell him you’re sorry for whatever caused the rift between you, and would he please kill whoever is trying to kill you? Because I gotta tell you, if you just made up that elaborate tale so I’ll let you sit on my couch and watch television, you picked the wrong
hidey-hole
to hide in. I don’t know shit about any of this; I’m just
a highly trained weapon the military would point at a target they wanted destroyed. Kenzie and William are the demon-fighting experts, and An Téarmann is impenetrable because it’s under Matt Gregor’s protection. So tell me, why are you endangering Fiona and Gabriella after you went through all the trouble of giving them back their lives?”

Mac stared at him for several heartbeats, then turned and quietly sat down on the couch. “I can’t go to An Téarmann because I can’t get past de Gairn’s magic any more than the demons can. And I can’t heal myself.” He looked at Trace. “Haven’t you heard the saying that a physician who operates on himself has a fool for a patient? Hell, I could turn
myself
into a toad.”

“Your sister didn’t seem to have any trouble staying with Kenzie.”

“Carolina is not Titus Oceanus’s heir; I am. But my father had the foresight to implement a fail-safe system that, in effect, makes me … allergic to the energy a drùidh emits.” Mac grinned derisively. “Which he did on the off chance that his heir turned out to be a no-good rotten bastard.” He looked back at the television, his hands balled into fists on his thighs. “And to answer your questions as to why I can’t seek my father’s protection … well, I can’t return to Atlantis unless I happen to bring along a wife, preferably one who’s already pregnant with my child.” He looked back at Trace. “The rift between my father and me is over my failure—or, according to him, my stubborn refusal—to give him a grandson.”

Trace stepped toward the couch, his own hands balling into fists. “Are you saying that all you wanted Maddy for was as a broodmare?” he asked ever so softly.

Mac stiffened in surprise. “No! I truly was enamored with Madeline, and I sincerely felt I could grow to love her … in time.” He relaxed back against the pillows. “I certainly knew there would never be a danger that I would grow tired of her; Madeline’s light comes from within, and when she gets riled, that light outshines the sun.” He looked down at his lap. “And as much as I envy Killkenny’s good luck to have won her heart, I probably envy his courage to love her even more.” Mac waved dismissively without looking up. “Go away, Huntsman. Your knee is healed, and your truck is running again, so go pull your traps full of lobsters.”

It was only then that Trace realized he had been standing on two good legs for the last ten minutes, and when he looked down, he saw a pair of shiny new boots on his feet. Holy hell, the bastard really had healed him!

The porch door opened, and Trace heard Misneach race into the kitchen. “Oh, we’re just in time,” he heard Gabriella say. “The show is starting in ten minutes. But maybe we should watch it upstairs,” she continued in a whisper. “Mac might be having a nap, and we shouldn’t disturb him. The poor man needs to rebuild his strength.”

“You will put a stop to this, Oceanus,” Trace growled softly. “How in hell can you live with yourself, letting the girl idolize you like that?”

Mac dropped his chin to his chest. “Because I am a needy bastard, apparently.” He looked at Trace and nodded. “I will have a talk with her. But for the record, I felt I was helping Gabriella by letting her see that not all men are brutes.”

Trace scooped Misneach up in his arms. “No, some of us are just—”

“Good Lord, what happened?” Fiona cried, staring at the recliner.

“He did it,” Trace said, pointing at Mac. “He set my chair on fire—while I was in it, I might point out—and then doused it with water. So you make him clean it up.”

Gabriella shot Trace an accusing glare as she rushed over to Mac. “You don’t worry about cleaning up anything,” she said, fluffing several of the pillows and then pushing Mac back against them. “I’ll have that ratty old chair out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Are you hungry? I could fix you a snack before our show starts.”

Trace cleared his throat rather loudly, giving Mac a pointed look.

Blowing out a huge sigh, Mac captured Gabriella’s hand and pulled her down beside him. “I’m fine, Gabby. And I made the mess, so I will clean it up.” He handed her the remote. “You find which channel our show is on, and I’ll go get us a snack.”

“Oh no!” Gabriella said, jumping up. “You need to conserve your strength.”

Mac gave a laugh and pulled her down beside him again, then stood up and handed the remote back to her. “I knew our show was coming on, and I tried to find the correct channel but couldn’t. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it for me. Besides, your tender care has already worked its magic, and if you truly wish to help me finish healing, you must start encouraging me to stretch my muscles.”

Rolling his eyes, Trace set Misneach down and headed for the kitchen, but stopped when he saw Fiona’s surprise.

“You’re not limping,” she said.

“Nope, my boo-boo’s all better.” Trace pointed down at his feet. “And look, Mac gave me a new pair of work boots, and he claims my truck is running again.”

“A minor miracle to grant,” Mac said, coming to stand with them, “if it gets him out of the house.”

Fiona frowned. “If you could heal him with magic, why didn’t you do it sooner?”

“And miss out on all our male bonding?” Mac drawled. He looked over Fiona’s shoulder toward the kitchen. “Do you have any corn I can pop?”

She quickly stepped to block the doorway, her frown turning to a threatening glare. “I just spent three days cleaning that kitchen, and I’m not about to let either one of you anywhere near it.” But then her cheeks suddenly darkened as she glanced toward Trace and quickly looked away. “I mean … I …” She stepped past them and marched toward the couch, waving over her shoulder. “Oh, go on. Have yourselves a friggin’ field day,” she muttered, flopping down on the couch beside Gabriella.

Mac shook his head. “You’re a bad influence on that woman, Huntsman, as she’s even starting to sound like you.”

“That’s because imitation is the best form of flattery,” Trace said, walking into the kitchen—only to stop dead in his tracks.

“Sweet Neptune,” Mac whispered, coming up behind him. “I’m not the only one making magic around here.”

Trace stood speechless, trying to take it all in. Not only didn’t he recognize his own kitchen but he didn’t dare touch anything in it.

“Forget about the free milk,” Mac continued in a reverent murmur, “and claim Fiona now, before some fool shows up here wanting to
buy
an entire cow.”

“I’m not looking for a wife,” Trace snapped, striding to the door.

“And you dare accuse me of using Gabriella,” Mac muttered, following him.

Trace slipped into his jacket but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I can’t help it if Fiona’s got something against dust bunnies.” He nodded toward the living room. “When you replace my recliner, make sure the new one is soft Italian leather.” He grinned in the face of Mac’s glare. “We’ll consider it one of those thank-you gifts smart guests bring along when they show up
unannounced
for an
extended
visit.”

“Mac!” Gabriella called out. “Hurry up, our show is starting!”

“Good fishing,” Mac said, giving a wave over his shoulder as he walked away. “Try not to let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, Huntsman.”

Trace walked onto the porch, frowning at the uneasy feeling in his gut, which only worsened when he saw that a good portion of the snow had been shoveled out of the dooryard. He walked to his truck—which had also been brushed off—opened the door, and reached in to turn the key.

It started right up and quickly fell into a purring idle.

But instead of climbing in and heading to the docks to see if Rick was offloading today’s catch, Trace stood staring at the house, trying to figure out what was bugging him. And then he suddenly stiffened.

Goddamn it,
Mac
was the one looking for a wife!

Trace reached in and shut off the truck. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, you conniving bastard,” he muttered, trudging down the path Fiona had shoveled to the barn. “The only fox in this henhouse is
me
.”

D
id he have Fiona’s number or what? As he’d suspected, when he’d walked into his safe room not an hour ago, it had been to find it just as spotless as his kitchen. She had put all of the supplies back in the cabinet, shoveled out the debris, washed the blood off everything, remade the cots, and swept every damn last particle of dirt off the floor.

But had the woman stopped there? Oh no, she had gone on to completely reorganize everything. She apparently thought the cots should be at a ninety-degree angle to each other in the back corner, the cabinet obviously had no business blocking his secret exit, and the heavy folding canvas stools belonged on
top
of the cabinet. As near as he could tell, the only thing she hadn’t moved was the monitor, and then probably only because she hadn’t dared to mess with the wires.

Fiona Gregor didn’t merely have something against dust bunnies; she had an obsessive-compulsive disorder. And
like most OCD neat freaks, she had a sense of order with a theme only she could see, hers seeming to be that she liked to put stuff on top of other stuff. Stools belonged on the floor so they could be sat in, not stacked on top of the cabinet; which was why
he
had kept them lined up against one of the walls. And he kept his rifles hanging on the wall rack organized by caliber, but Fiona obviously felt they should be stacked according to length, with the longer ones on top, making an upside-down pyramid. She had rearranged all of the boxes of ammunition, too, and it had taken Trace a good twenty minutes to unstack them in the cabinet so he could grab the correct box in a hurry without having to read every damned label.

And she must have filched his revolver, because he couldn’t find it anywhere—or the bag he kept it in, or the box of bullets he kept in the bag.

But that discovery had actually made him smile; that is, until he’d remembered that the revolver had been shoved inside her pants the whole time she’d crawled through the tunnel and dug him free. He was going to have to take her to the gravel pit the first chance he got and teach the little thief how to handle a gun before she shot a hole in her floor—which was his ceiling—and killed him right there in his brand-new leather recliner.

Trace stopped trying to push the heavy beam back into place at the far end of the tunnel and stretched the kinks out of his back. Maybe he’d get her a nice little compact automatic instead, and that way she could keep the clip loaded without having a bullet in the chamber. He pushed several small rocks out of the way with the toe of his new work boot, and then threw his shoulder into the beam as
he kicked the bottom up against the dirt wall. The only problem was, Fiona needed a permit to carry a handgun, and he didn’t know how to go about getting her one if she didn’t have any documentation proving she actually existed.