The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (101 page)

A kaleidoscope of bright, tear-sparkled images flared behind Morrigan’s eyes as Mackinnon reached out to her. Would he ask forgiveness? After nearly killing Curran, whose only crime had been to marry, in innocence, the woman he wanted? Sorrow and fury trampled one over the other. She sighed. Then she went to him and knelt.

Olivia made a noise like a kitten’s inquiring meow and outstretched a hand, splay-fingered, towards Mackinnon. He hesitated, then lifted his own. The baby patted it, much like her mother patted her when she was upset.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Morrigan said. “He wouldn’t have shot you. You’re a monster.”

“I know what I am.” His hand moved to Morrigan’s forearm and grasped with surprising strength. “I wanted you to run away with me, but….” Pain drew him rigid, left him panting, then seemed to relent. “I’d kill anyone… I’d tear this world apart to be with you. But not this time. There’s that debt. And not… not after the others. You can’t lose Olivia too.” His jaw clenched and his grip tightened. “I love you, Morrigan.” He sighed and glanced at Olivia, then at the motionless Curran.

“Are you saying you planned it this way? That you knew Curran would come looking for me?”

“Of course he would. He always comes. As soon as you told me he was on Mingulay, I knew.”

“Why? Why?”

“You think… you think I can go on living, always knowing where you are, never… able to see you, speak to you? Worse… far worse than death, believe me. And….” Unbelievably, he smiled again. “He always shows up at the worst moments. Right when I’m kissing you. The bastard.”

“Oh, Mackinnon.”

He regarded her, eyes half-closed, hot bright with pain. One shaking hand hovered over the wound. “You always called me that,” he said. Then he added, “Be happy.”

Now that he’d said his piece, his eyes closed and he lay quietly. Tears streamed over his temples.

Whatever happened now, part of her heart and soul would remain on this terrible rock, bled into this stone with her lover’s. The lover who was willing to die in order to set her free.

The sea’s murmur blended with a final, distant clamor of thunder.

“Morrigan?”

“Aye, Mackinnon.”

“I will find you,” he said faintly.

“Morrigan!” It was Diorbhail. She ran towards them, then stopped and bent. When she straightened, she had the knife.

Half the blade was missing. It must have shattered on the rock when it was knocked from Morrigan’s hands.

Diorbhail would not be stopped. She would waste no thought on guilt or fear, right or wrong. One glimpse of Curran and she would sink that blade into Mackinnon, no matter that he stood at the gate into death already.

Diorbhail paused beside Curran. When she looked up, her face bore nearly as much rage as Curran’s had earlier. She ran forward, lifting the knife, baring her teeth exactly the way Morrigan had pictured Boudicca when she attacked the Romans.

Mackinnon seized Morrigan’s arm. “Don’t let her touch me with that. I don’t think… I can come back if she does.”

Morrigan jumped to her feet. “No!” she cried, placing herself between them. “Stop!”

Diorbhail had no choice but to obey or stab Morrigan. “Move,” she shouted. “If you won’t do it, I will!”

“He’s dying anyway.” Morrigan dropped to her knees. “Just wait. Please just wait.”

Mackinnon ran his fingertip over the pendant. He looked up into her eyes. “Take care of it for me.”

There was no color left in his face. “Next time,” he said, soft as a voice in a dream, “
I
will win.”

She could only shake her head.

“
Gus am faic mi a-rithist thu,
” he said.

He shoved her backward and rolled off the edge.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“WHY ARE YOU
laughing?” Ibby asked Seaghan. “I fail to see the humor in anything that’s happened here.”

Harpalycus was reveling in this feeling of strength, the deepness of his voice. He flexed his biceps. “I’m picturing the scene. Aodhàn and Morrigan, naked maybe, and along comes Curran with his gun. I’d give much to see it!”

“I don’t know what’s come over you this night, Seaghan MacAnaugh. Oh, how I wish you hadn’t told him to take a gun!” She glanced at Beatrice then quickly away. “And here lies Beatrice, dead at your hands, and what you… you did to her after! I know you didn’t like her much— truth to tell, nor did I, but it wasn’t Christian. You should be ashamed. Have you thought about what you’re facing? You’ll be brought up on murder charges.”

The fisherman glanced at Beatrice, still sprawled in the chair and stinking of his piss. “If you don’t let me be,” he said, “I’ll do the same to you, Isabel.”

She drew in a sharp, offended breath, but said nothing, obviously believing him. Instead she pulled a blanket out of one of the cupboards and threw it over the corpse.

He felt himself growing hard. For too long he’d been trapped in that noxious female. It felt good to be a man again, and it would feel better yet to celebrate by forcing his will upon some hapless woman, though Ibby would be his last choice. He’d rather have one of the kitchen wenches, or Diorbhail— he’d enjoy humbling that bitch, and he’d wager she would put up an entertaining fight— but they were gone and she was here. In the end he discarded the idea. She’d scream, and she was a dried-up old woman. He’d had enough of that. Besides, someone was bound to turn up shortly. He’d love to see who had won this round, Chrysaleon or Menoetius, but he’d best be off. His sense of self-preservation was strong, and if Chrysaleon came through the door and recognized him, nothing would stop him from murder, no matter the consequences. Seaghan MacAnaugh was far too conspicuous a body to remain in for long. He plucked his cap from the hook on the wall then went to the scullery, found a sharp butcher knife, and came back, opening the front door.

“Where are you going?” Ibby asked. He heard the hesitancy in her voice. She was afraid of him, as she should be.

“To see what’s what,” he replied and went off, heading for the village. Several boats floated in the bay. He dug in his pocket and brought out some coins, counting them carefully. He’d buy his way off Mingulay. When he got to Barra or the mainland, he’d pick a victim— a man— and use the knife to fatally injure himself so he could consume him. He’d be damned if he’d take another female’s body.

He’d always been good at knowing when to leave, though sometimes he was sorry to miss the final outcomes of his plots.

There was a woman in France, one who found pleasure in pain. They had enjoyed several encounters. Perhaps he would go to Paris and see if she was still there. He’d had enough of Scotland to last several lifetimes.

As it happened, he crossed paths with a solitary man who was younger than Seaghan, and who looked healthy. So be it.

The man nodded politely and tipped his cap. Seaghan smiled and fingered the knife stuck under his belt. He took a deep breath of the cool night air. Life was a gratifying thing, when one wasn’t afraid to make it turn in one’s favor.

* * * *

Morrigan scrambled to her feet, screaming, “
Mackinnon!
”

Diorbhail grabbed her shoulders and pulled her from the edge. “Don’t look. Don’t,” she cried, and would not let go.

Gradually Morrigan stopped fighting. “Aodhàn,” she whispered.

They stood together in silence, Diorbhail holding onto Morrigan steadfastly. “The sea claims final possession,” she said, and pressed her cheek against the side of Morrigan’s head.

“And leaves nothing behind.”

“Come,
a bhrònag
.” Diorbhail led Morrigan further from the edge. “Everything will turn out as it’s meant.”

“Will it?” Morrigan couldn’t stop her teeth chattering, or the shudders, racing one upon the next as though she’d caught a fever.

“Aye, see, Master Curran is moving.”

“Curran,” Morrigan said. “Aye, Curran. Curran is alive.” She gave Olivia to Diorbhail and ran to him.

He looked like an altogether different man. His eyes opened and closed without focusing. One leg bent at the knee. His face was covered in blood, and this somehow made him appear harder, colder. Morrigan was reminded of the dream they’d shared of the cave. That man’s face had possessed a similar hardness. The man in the cave dream was a killing force. Here, in the present, on this rock above Scotland in the modern age, Curran was again that warrior, his scar standing out as white as a slivered moon.

Rapidly swelling skin kept him from opening his eyes properly. His nose was broken, and his right cheekbone seemed… not right. Blood caked his bright hair. Had Mackinnon sought to destroy Curran’s beauty on purpose? If so, he’d succeeded.

“Morrigan? Olivia?”

“I’m here,” she said. “We’re here.”

“Aodhàn….” His voice faded.

“He can’t hurt us now, or ever again.”

Curran allowed her to help him sit. He groaned, pressed a hand against his side, and stared past her to the edge of the cliff. His face suffused with fury. “Damn you, Morrigan. Beatrice told the truth, didn’t she?”

“Truth?”

Curran looked from his child to her. His tone was accusing; so was his gaze. “She said you and Aodhàn meant to kill yourselves, and Olivia, that you’ve been his lover for months, that the babe you’re carrying may well be his.”

Beatrice? How… why… No wonder Curran was so angry. “
None
of that is true. Why would she say that?” Trembling cascaded through her limbs and her teeth started chattering again. “Whether you believe me or not, I would never let anyone hurt Olivia. Never.”

His stare was relentless. The redness and swelling around his eyes intensified the blue, making them appear hard as sword blades. “But… you?” The demand in his voice brooked no lies. “If Olivia hadn’t been here?”

“No. No. I’ve had thoughts, I admit, but I want to live.”

She ran shaking fingertips over her brows, her lashes and cheekbones. Seabirds squealed and the ocean soughed. The smell of fish and bird and salt water was strong.

Life.
Life
as she had seldom felt it, immediate and all encompassing.

“Give me Olivia,” Curran said.

Diorbhail brought the babe and handed her over then retreated, turning away to give them privacy.

Dark, sad peace replaced fear. Olivia was safe with her father. Mackinnon was dead. Everything worked out, set as though the universe had conspired to draw them into this final juncture.

“I was his lover,” she said. “Not before, but here on Mingulay. I won’t make excuses.”

Had she really believed death to be somehow noble? All because of a legend, true or not, that had come through the centuries, no doubt embellished and romanticized. She’d pictured herself and Mackinnon joined in death’s embrace, to be reincarnated in some other place and time. “Divorce me. Marry a woman who will give you all you deserve.” The words stuck and suffocated. “Lily, or someone. There must be hundreds who would love the chance to make you happy.”

“Lily again?” Impatience chilled his voice. “You’re wrong about her, and clear daft to think I’d stoop so low as to steal a friend’s wife. I’m not Aodhàn.”

She had no desire to defend Mackinnon. He had been selfish, until the end. Fear rose in her throat, but she knew she must defeat it and make one last request. She dabbed at her forehead with a torn sleeve. “I’ll go away. I’ll never cause you another problem. You’ll never see me again.” She thought of the sickle knife, of what it was designed for.
You’ll know when to use it,
Diorbhail had promised. But events had turned from their designed course. Some part of her, awakened by Diorbhail and her potions, suspected a rare opportunity had been missed, and this failure would bring unimaginable consequences.

“Diorbhail,” Morrigan said. “May I have the knife?”

“It’s yours,” Diorbhail said, and gave it to her.

A little less than half of the blade was sheared off. The broken edge was jagged, and possibly sharper now than it had been.

“Would you give this to Olivia when she’s old enough? And maybe tell her I loved her? She’d believe it from you.” She held out the blade, forcing herself to meet that hard, uncompromising gaze. “She shouldn’t think her mother didn’t care.”

He glanced at the knife and his frown intensified. “Where did you get that?”

“Diorbhail found it and gave it to me. This is what I used on Patrick Hawley.”

“That’s the knife from my vision… by Torridon. I killed the lion with it.”

They regarded each other, and the knife, and Olivia. Morrigan wondered what it could mean, and saw that he wondered the same thing.

His brows lowered. He looked well and truly enraged enough to strike, but he swiped at the blood running from his torn lip and grabbed Morrigan’s chin. “There’s no woman on this earth for Olivia and me but you,” he ground out, as though he hated the admission. “You. Now you want to abandon us. Christ, Morrigan, will you run your whole life, from everything?”

She tamped down the instantaneous spark of hope and tried again. “There’s something inside me. Something wrong. I don’t fit anywhere, and I don’t know how to change. It’s like I am this knife, made of glass, and I’ve been thrown against a wall. There’s no mending me. I think I’ll never do anything but bring you unhappiness. The kindest thing I can do, the
only
thing that makes sense, is for me to go away.”

“My children need their mother. Here. Hold her and tell me again how you’re going to leave.”

She handed him the knife and took Olivia. Amazing, how this child filled her with such confidence, strength, and resolve. How could she go on living without her?

Curran ran his hand over the hilt. “I remember using this like it happened today. And here it is. Real.” He looked at her. “How? How could this knife be real? It’s hot.”

She nodded. “Aye, it seems to carry some kind of heat.”

“Why did Aodhàn attack me like that… like he’d gone mad?”

The trembling started again. She stared at the ground. “I suppose he had a hard time accepting his fate.”

Olivia played with her mother’s fingers. Silence stretched until Morrigan lifted her gaze.

“When I first met you,” Curran said, “I mind thinking you could revive the heart of a drowned sailor. He was never alive until you came.”