Chapter 1
The white lace draped over the cool white satin on Catherine’s skin, leaving her delightfully breathless in the form-fitting wedding gown. While standing in the back room belonging to one of many shops owned by Mary, her dear friend who was busying herself just in front of her, she waited patiently for her to finish the adjustments.
“It’s just what I wanted,” Catherine sighed with bliss, running her hands down the fabric.
Mary handed some extra fabric to her young assistant. “Aye, that’s grand,” she said. With two silver combs holding her snowy waves back to let fall behind her shoulders, she turned and briefly looked up at Catherine with two perceptive blue eyes that seemed to have knowledge of the whole world sitting just behind them. A few pins stuck out of one side of her mouth. “Such a gorgeous bride, Caty. Vintage styles really suit you.” She fumbled to pick up a pin that had slipped out of the fabric. “Do you think the old man will like it?”
Catherine had gotten used to hearing Mary call her fiancé an old man. After all, a two-thousand-year-old druid doctor warranted such a nickname. Even though he started aging normally again shortly after Catherine first met him, and his physical appearance was the vibrant age range of mid-twenties, his revealingly deep eyes always gave away the old soul behind them. Unlike her, Mary had known right away. The nickname was always in fun, and Catherine liked that it would coax a chuckle out of Bowen. The rich yet uplifting sound set her stomach aflutter each time she heard it.
Catherine raised her eyebrows. “I hope so. What do you think?”
“He will. Aye, no man could resist.”
“Are you sure it’ll be ready in time?”
“Have I ever let you down? Just a few adjustments and I’ll have it done well before. No need to worry your pretty red head over it.”
Catherine smirked. “All right, I just can’t help feeling anxious,” she said, wringing her hands. “I want everything to go perfectly.”
“And it will, my girl. Let things flow as they do and you’ll be happier for it,” Mary said.
A faint snipping sound registered before Catherine felt a sudden stinging pain coming from her ankle. “Ouch!” She bent down to see dark drops of blood speckling her dress. She gasped. “What the hell?”
“Damn, I’m sorry. I flinched when I was trying to cut underneath the train. Did I hurt you?” Mary asked, examining the cut.
Mary’s assistant hurried over with a damp cloth. Catherine winced as the girl dabbed at the wound. “Don’t worry about that. What about the stains?”
“Now, Caty, I’ll handle it,” Mary said. “I’m finished anyway. Take it off, and I’ll see to those stains before you have a chance to dwell on it.”
After carefully removing herself from the elegant wedding gown, Catherine was practically pushed out of the room and out into the thrift shop. A few onlookers eyed her curiously. She could feel her reddened cheeks giving away her state of mind, and hurried out of the shop.
Walking quickly through and past the small village, Catherine slowed her pace as she went up a rolling trail overgrown with tall prodding grass beside the trampled, narrow footpath she followed. She stopped often to throw her head back and soak in every ounce of sun. For once, layers of Irish clouds weren’t encroaching on it. Despite her fair and sensitive skin, she knew she wouldn’t burn. She had magic now and the powerful sun-shared fire within her. She was the sun, and the sun was her, and the sun loved her. Deep in her bones, she loved it too, and she could feel it sate her body’s hunger for rejuvenating power like water poured over desert land. Lamentably, she and the sun could only share this connection when the skies allowed. She felt the energizing rays only in spurts through dark clouds and drizzle.
Unfortunately, the pain in her ankle kept interrupting her joy. The top of her shoe rubbed relentlessly against the cut, her ankle socks providing no protection whatsoever. Mary’s house was just up ahead, and she could already smell all of the different scents of the many colorful flowers she knew skirted the outside grounds. To make sure she wouldn’t be seen using magic, she would use them to her advantage. When she reached the red and brown cottage she now called home, she crouched down behind a three-foot-tall climbing Rosa canina shrub in the front garden, and rolled up her pant leg. The blood had clotted at last, but the insufficient bandage she’d just removed had done little to keep it from running.
After removing her shoe and sock, Catherine held out her right hand, palm up. Staring into it, she lightly blew out the faintest of breaths. Her palm instantly flared with red fire. She enclosed the flame against her cut, holding it there for a few seconds, and then pulled her hand away to examine her now flawless skin. The fire disappeared, leaving only tiny wisps of rising smoke as evidence of its occurrence.
Catherine rose up from behind the pale pink and white flowers, carefully avoiding their prickly hooked stems, and entered the small cottage in search of her husband-to-be. Finding no sign of life within, she ventured back outside to search the grounds. She walked up the hillside, breathing in deeply to enjoy the crisp Irish air. She loved the scents of nature and inhaled as many as she could on her daily stroll.
Since the ancient and sacred oak tree had given her the mysterious druid magic, all of her senses and physical abilities were enhanced. She could take leaps and bounds on a long morning run without breaking a sweat, and she was enjoying the increase of endurance. Whereas before her power had been dormant, slowly revealing itself just after she met Bowen, now it was fully released. She could feel the power pulsing through her veins. Her body was different—her body somehow was her magic, and it possessed too many magical secrets to have learned in one year. Her fire power, the unpredictable and instinctual fighting ability that took over when needed, was still mysterious as ever, even though it had become entirely part of her. She was always learning another layer and seeing yet another shade of herself as life went on.
As she neared the millenia-old stone ruins, she again breathed deeply and reveled in the bright sun blanketing her face and spreading through her hair from root to tip. After the revitalizing energy had soared through her, she walked more comfortably out of the thicket of shrubs at the end of the path and across the now level ground.
“I thought you and Mary were finishing up your wedding dress,” Bowen said, eyeing her intently. He was leaning casually against a tree just ahead.
Catherine grinned. “We finished. Why didn’t you wait so I could walk with you?”
Bowen shrugged, and his dark brown curls bounced lightly over his forehead. “I figured you’d be a while. From what I could tell outside the room, you two seemed wrapped up in it.”
She swiveled and rested her back against the tree beside him. “I literally was wrapped up in it. It looks beautiful, Bowen. I can’t wait for you to see it.”
“Anything you wear will look stunning,” he said and flashed the charming smile that always made Catherine melt. The intense vibes which seemed to constantly be pulsating off of him caught inside her and surged like nothing she’d ever imagined before she knew him. Her attraction to him was always too strong for her to ignore, and it had grown to the point that standing nearby without the slightest touch was practically torture.
“I think you flatter me too much.” She returned the smile, drawing close.
Bowen laughed. “I’m not. It’s true.”
Gazing into his piercing green eyes, both flecked with glorious gold highlighted from the sun, Catherine leaned her chin against his chest while he enveloped her in his arms. “Are you happy?” she asked.
“Very.”
“Only very?”
“Completely.”
Catherine closed her eyes, savoring their embrace.
“When are Danny and Bella arriving?” Bowen asked, his voice slightly muffled from her hair.
“Bella said they would show up sometime today. Depending on how fast she could get Danny out of the flat.” She snickered. Bowen’s chest rumbled with a deep chuckle. “I’m glad he’s been staying with her and not who-knows-where.”
Bowen nodded, and Catherine opened her eyes. She could feel his fingers running through the ends of her hair, which fell in long, thick waves past her lower back. They smiled at each other, lost in the warmth between them.
Catherine had spent the year relishing her love for Bowen. After the demise of their mutual enemy, Conall, and his army of loyal followers, she had finally begun to heal. Recasting the druid curse had been meant to trap Conall and his followers back in their caves. Had she succeeded, it would have also locked Bowen once again to the curse’s unique role set just for him, after he’d already served for millennia. It would have condemned him to an empty, ageless, and trapped existence. The fear of losing Bowen to that or death itself had disappeared with Conall’s defeat, giving Bowen back a normal life, free to age again, free to stay with her.
He wasn’t the only one with battle scars. She’d lost her twin sister, Kathleen, at the hands of Conall. This wrong would never be righted, but the peace of knowing justice, and the love of a different kind of soulmate, had given her life meaning again. Catherine had never believed twins could have soulmates other than each other until now. Bowen filled her heart, and they would spend their renewed life together.
He gently squeezed her hand, and instantly Catherine’s thoughts returned to the present. The touch was so warm and so perfect, and she never wanted him to let go.
The wedding was the next day, and everything was falling into place. They had always planned to be married, and Bowen had set everything officially in motion during a starlit stroll through the ruins one night when he asked Catherine to set a date. Catherine had wondered what kind of wedding they would have since only a few people knew she was alive. No one in her family but Danny knew. Another loss due to Conall’s actions, though this specifically wasn’t much of one. She and her siblings were never close to any living relatives other than each other, and none of her connections from her old life through work at the museum—or anywhere else, for that matter—knew either. No one except for Bella, her Australian-born best friend. Since their chance meeting when Catherine first moved to Ireland, their friendship had grown strong; they had become like sisters. Now, in the small village Catherine called home, she had come to depend on Mary, the elderly Irish woman who had taken her and Bowen in as family.
A ripple swept up Catherine’s back, as though a bone-cold finger had swiped the length of her spine. She snapped her head around. All she saw was the green grass speckled with ancient stone ruins of various sizes, many of which hovered well above Bowen’s tall figure. Looking forward again, she saw the black fae forest, far enough away that she didn’t have to worry about a surprise visit but still close enough to summon goosebumps on her arms. Catherine shivered at the memory of her venture inside. The fae she’d met was one of many kinds that existed in the faerie realm, but it was the unknown of each, and their magic, that kept her away.
Catherine watched the sun try to palm the top of the black forest and fail miserably. A hazy black aura remained. The tingling feeling she always got when something ominous was in the air was now moving across her forearms, and she hurriedly rubbed her hands over them.
“Something wrong?” Bowen’s voice brought her out of her hyper-focused state and back to the green eyes held steadily on hers. The brows just above them were furrowed.
Casting the bad vibes aside, she shook her head, smiling.
“Nervous about tomorrow?” he asked.
“Not really. I would be if more people were coming.”
“You’re not in the least bit nervous about the oathing stone?”
“Should I be?” Catherine frowned. “Mary said it’s merely tradition.”
“It may be considered a symbolic ritual now, but believe me, it’s one that’s tied to us. Not only is it tied to our vows but our very bodies as well.” Bowen shrugged lightly. “I only thought that because you’ve never seen it before, you might be nervous. Or rather you may be nervous about doing it correctly.”
“Maybe a little, now that you say that, but I’ve known about it for years.” Catherine recalled the first time she read about the oathing stone during her studies of Celtic archaeology. She’d learned more when reading myths and legends of the Emerald Isle for pleasure. The oathing stone was an ancient Celtic wedding tradition. According to legend, the stone transferred the wedding oaths to nature, forming a bridge between the sacred site, the couple, and their ancestors. Bowen clearly took it more seriously than she’d thought. “So, what do you want to use as ours?”
“Any piece of wood or stone will do.”
Catherine pulled away from his warmth just enough to start walking. “Come on,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s pick it out now then.”
Bowen chuckled quietly and ran his free hand through the thick curls that covered his head. “It doesn’t have to look a certain way.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want it to be random. This is our special day, for our special traditions. I want our oathing stone to be the best-looking stone or plank of wood I can find.”
Walking through the ruins and back down the shrub-lined dirt path on their lover’s search, both were so engrossed in their happiness that neither noticed the small white lights flashing far behind them, within the black forest.
A fair, elegant hand slithered across a tree trunk in the middle of a dark wood, the rough bark a drastic contrast to the delicate skin. Its owner followed, stepping out from behind the tree. Small beams of light reflected in the eyes of the beautiful, masculine face. Moving to take another step, he felt a strong tug on the long black braid running down his back. Alarm shot through him as he turned to face his attacker only to find darkness. Relief struck. His braid had caught on the tree’s jutting bark. He chuckled to himself and freed his hair. Turning back around, he remained in shadow and waited. Voices were drawing near, and he strained his elongated, sharp-tipped ears to hear them. Two male voices. He recognized them right away.
“I don’t trust Cadeyrn,” Loïc said.
Judicaël sighed loudly. “He’s always been a noble and good ruler.”
“Surely you know he reveals nothing of his daily actions as the rest of us do.”
“Those are his own affairs.”
“Yes, but each king is legally obligated to keep his affairs open.” Loïc sounded exasperated, as though struggling to maintain a respectful tone.
“To me.” From where Bricius was eavesdropping, he saw Judicaël stop abruptly.
Loïc followed suit and addressed the fae next to him. “My king?”
“Each king is legally obligated to keep his affairs open to me only, as high king. He is not required to have any dealings with you other than what I say. Just as you aren’t with him.”
Bricius trembled at the steely smoothness in Judicaël’s voice. The high king of the fae was as powerful as he was ancient. For everyone’s safety, it was important to never tempt his hand.
Loïc bowed. “Yes, my king. Forgive me.”
“It is forgiven.” Judicaël’s right eyebrow twitched, as though a thought had suddenly occurred. “Why do you suspect Cadeyrn? Nothing ill was seen?”
Loïc flinched.
“Out with it!”
The fae stood straighter to look into his king’s steel-gray eyes. “He has a lock!”
Judicaël breathed in sharply. Turning away from Loïc, he brought his slender, pale hand out from the folds of his weightless, silky garment and up to his cheek. His garments were nothing short of royal, each a varied pastel color, with plated armor covering his chest and over the front of his legs. Despite the darkness of the forest, where only low, natural fae light emanated, even a mere human would be able to see the high king’s beauty. The white light originated from Judicaël’s straight, flowing hair, which trailed behind him. It never dirtied or caught on forest debris. Each youthful strand was a crisp white, the envy of every fae creature, even those who were not of their order. The fae kingdoms were vast, but some orders held the form resembling that of mortal humans. Some found it repulsive that their mystical bodies matched those of such barbaric beings, while others found it enchanting and were allured by each human they spotted.
Judicaël came out of his thoughts and lowered his gaze. His high cheekbones and angular face made it difficult for Bricius to see his eyes and decipher any feelings from where he hid. Judicaël was usually easy to read, his every feeling was open for all to see in his mannerisms and expressions. “You know what this means, don’t you, Loïc?” he said, exhaling softly.
Loïc nodded.
“Did you see the girl?”
“No, my king. My sources say it was a woman.”
“This is deliberately against my wishes, and that of other court orders.” Judicaël sighed, his brows knitted together in deep concern.
“Is it not treason against your crown?” said Loïc, his voice filled with passion. “Treason against us all?”
Judicaël’s face looked strained as he rubbed a small patch of skin below his right eye. He lowered his voice. “Speak of this to no one. I will deal with it in my own way.”
Loïc bowed lower than before to his commanding king, an outstretched arm angled behind him in a customary show of complete obedience and submission, rather than just a bow of acknowledgment.
Judicaël’s gaze remained momentarily on his subject’s slicked-back hair. The onyx strands glistened and reflected the fae light he cast above Loïc. “Now, leave me and attend to your own,” he said with a wave of his hand before slowly walking away.
Bricius watched as his king, King Loïc, quickly rose upright and obeyed. While walking by, Loïc briefly turned his head toward him. Though Loïc’s own fae light wasn’t as bright as Judicaël’s, he still held an angelic glow that spread as far as two steps from him in every direction. Bricius felt comfortable in the darkness, and his fae eyes didn’t need the ancient royal light. He could see through every shade of black. Instead of looking noble and loyal, Loïc now looked arrogant and devious. He smiled smugly, and Bricius nodded in acknowledgment before Loïc continued walking.
One step of his mission had been completed. He had succeeded in pleasing his king. Bricius slithered back into the night to return to King Cadeyrn’s lands before his absence was noted.
