Calabi Chronicles: Bloodstone Page 9

  Kean turned to her and gestured toward an outcropping of rocks. “We’ll make land just beyond those.”

  Aideen arched one blonde brow at him. She saw nothing more than a sheer cliff of limestone beyond the rocks. She ran her hands over the lifejacket’s buckles and jerked the straps tighter.

  Kean looked down at her testing the lifejacket and a frown marred his chiseled features. “There’s a cave, with moorings and steps up to a safe house,” he explained. “And a barred gate to make sure we’re the only ones using it.”

  She gave him a small salute and gripped the edge of her seat as the cliffs loomed closer. The island, she knew, had cliffs three hundred feet above the water and she was briefly grateful that she only had about ten stories of cliff to climb. And no luggage, she thought. He could damn well carry the travel bag and be thankful that she wasn’t asking him to carry her. The absence of luggage reminded Aideen that she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes and she dipped her head and took a discreet whiff. Only the salt spray from the surrounding water was noticeable.

  “I hope this safe house has a shower,” she said as Kean pulled the boat alongside heavy cast iron bars set into the mouth of a limestone cave. “And some fresh clothes.” He frowned at her again just as her stomach growled. “And some food,” she added. She took the push pole from Kean and helped him guide the boat into the small cave.

  “Food, shower,” he grunted and jumped from the boat. Aideen handed him a heavy length of rope and his gaze swept over her smaller form. “We’ll find something for you to wear while your clothes are cleaned.”

  Kean hopped back into the boat and grabbed the travel bag and a flashlight. He placed them on the deck and, without warning, put his hands on Aideen’s hips and lifted her to the deck as well. She turned, ready to offer him a hand. He was staring at her in the cave’s low light. A lock of his blue-black hair had fallen across his face, further shadowing his features, but she still could see the speculative sparkle in his gray eyes. He took her hand and stepped lightly onto the deck.

  “The steps?” she said, her hand still trapped in his.

  His hand fell back to his side and he bent to pick up the bag and flashlight. He flicked the switch on and let the beam of light play against the back of the cave. Aideen saw the steps. They were carved from the rock and their small crystals glittered like jewels beneath the beam of light. Kean stepped in front of Aideen and held one hand out to her.

  “Slippery,” he cautioned when she hesitated to take his hand, “and dark.”

  Palms sweaty, she took his hand. They began the rough ascent, their bodies pressed close together while the lap of waves against the cave’s wall urged them on from below.

  Chapter Five

  The stairs widened at the top until Kean and Aideen were standing on a small landing. In front of them was a heavy oak door, its wood rotted from the cave’s constant dampness. Kean pressed against it, the wood scraping over limestone tiles set in what appeared to be a cellar. The room was empty and, at its opposite end, there was another door leading out. This door was metal and modern. Its surface was smooth, no handle or slot for a key marred its shiny perfection. Above it, a fluorescent light flickered and set into the wall next to it was an electronic keypad. Kean’s fingers danced over the numbers and Aideen heard the whining squeal of hydraulics as the door’s locking mechanism was disengaged. Kean pushed against the door and it opened onto a small, dimly lit hallway. He reached out to his right and flipped a few light switches. Motioning Aideen to step into the hallway, he reset the door’s hydraulic locks and then led Aideen to a galley-sized kitchen.

  “Nothing perishable,” he said and pulled canned soup from the cupboard. “But we’ll have a full stomach to think on.” He pointed to a white door at the end of the narrow kitchen. “There’s a shower and toilet through there with a washer and dryer. I’ll see what clothes I can dig up then start on making us some dinner.”

  Aideen entered the narrow washroom and examined its contents. As with the kitchen, there was a light coating of dust on the appliances and ceramic bathroom fixtures. Towels were neatly stacked above the toilet and she took two down and breathed in their scent. Clean but stale. There were dryer sheets in a utility cupboard and she put the towels in the dryer for freshening then stripped her clothes and dumped them in the washer without starting it. Shampoo and a dust-coated bar of soap were in the shower and she turned the water on, letting the heat build. It had been days since she’d slept in a bed and every muscle registered its complaint. She stepped under the showerhead, stretching and turning until every sore muscle had received a good dose of pressure and heat. She lathered up, her hands slowly exploring her body, her thoughts drifting to Kean only to be ripped away with an image of Cenn. She’d never known a dream to be so vivid, so detailed. Nine months of detail she thought and ran her soapy hands over her stomach, imagining that it was still full as she carried Cenn’s child.

  The water turned cold and Aideen finished rinsing off. She stepped from the shower, pulled the towels from the dryer and then started the washer. The towel fell from her and she bent to pick it up. Cenn will be able to get a shower around midnight, she grinned, if he’s lucky.

  Her hand still reaching for the towel, Aideen froze. She felt her heartbeat accelerate at the same time her breathing slowed. Her stomach, empty, threatened to force her to the toilet in dry heaves. She leaned her forehead against the washing machine. The cool metal and soft vibration brought some of the color back to her cheeks. She stayed in that position, resting, her eyes unfocused, until Kean knocked at the door a few seconds later.

  “Aideen, you okay?”

  Christ, she breathed, even the voice is as I dreamt it. Can you dream sound?

  “Aideen?” His voice was low, concerned, and she could tell he was speaking into the thin line where the door met the doorframe.

  “Yeah,” she answered hoarsely, her voice stuck in another time, talking to another man—one with the same voice and face. “Just give me a second.” She stood and tucked the towel around her and rubbed absently at her cheeks before she opened the door. As she moved, she tried to convince herself that she had seen Kean at the estate sale. She must have seen him and heard him, and the memory of him, the beauty of his voice, the strong features equally at home on a warrior or cover model, must have become embedded in her mind.

  Her mind set on asking him if he’d been at the estate sale, Aideen opened the door. Seeing the small bundle of clothes he held, she felt as if her spine had turned to stone. “No.” She kept her denial short and flat but he held them out to her.

  “There’s nothing else, Aideen,” he said. “And your street clothes will be washed and dried before an hour’s passed—”

  “I know what they are,” she said, looking at the white shift and its red robe embroidered in gold.

  Kean gave an irritated snort and pushed them closer to her. “What they are is irrelevant in this context.” When she still refused, he softened his tone and tried cajoling her into taking them. “Since when,” he asked, “does a woman find the finest silks and satin objectionable?”

  Aideen tilted her head, her gaze narrowing as her temper flared even higher.

  “Whatever,” Kean said with a resigned sigh. He put the garments on top of the washer and turned away, pulling the bathroom door shut behind him. “You can sit in here until your clothes are washed and dried. I’m getting something to eat.”

  Aideen listened to Kean clunking around the kitchen, making no attempt to hide his irritation. He was mumbling and she rested against the door, his words reaching her in broken phrases. She realized he was arguing with himself about the proper amount of gratitude an abducted woman should show when brought a gown fit for a queen.

  Not a queen, she corrected him in her mind. But a high priestess. She glanced down to find herself fingering the edge of the crimson robe. With the tip of her nail, she traced the golden outline of the figures that signified the feminine half of the godhead. Wate
r, cups, wisdom, air, plants. These symbols, she knew, would be complemented on the high priest’s robe by symbols of the masculine half. A ray of sunlight, a wild boar, a spear, a stag and a hawk. And was that other robe, she wondered, also here? She closed her eyes and imagined Kean wearing it. His image blended with her memory of Cenn and she felt a growing wetness between her legs.

  “You’ll be dead or in an insane asylum tomorrow, Aideen, girl,” she said and lifted the white silk shift above her head. “Might as well have a hot supper tonight.”

  * * * * *

  Kean wasn’t in the kitchen when Aideen emerged a few seconds later. She stepped into the hallway and noticed a door slightly ajar with soft light spilling from the room. Barefoot, she crossed the cold limestone flooring and pushed the door until it was fully open. Kean was sitting at an oversized mahogany desk. A tureen was in the center of the desk with a place setting on either side. An uncorked bottle of wine waited to fill two glasses.

  “You were expecting me?” she asked. The question came out harder than she meant and she took a tentative step into the room.

  “No.” He took the wine bottle and began to fill their glasses. He dipped his head so she couldn’t read his face. “Just hoping you would change your mind.”

  “I’m hungry.” Aideen sat down in the leather-cushioned chair opposite Kean. Arms folded, her hands tucked in at her sides, she watched him pour the wine and lift the tureen’s lid to ladle still steaming canned stew into her bowl. She took a ravenous bite then raised her eyes to find him watching her. She gestured toward his empty bowl. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  His gaze darted down to his bowl and he gave a little upward nod but didn’t move to fill it. Instead, he looked at Aideen while she ate. His finger traced the rim of his wine glass and he took a slow sip. “I’m glad you came out of the bathroom sooner rather than later,” he said before he finally spooned some of the soup into his bowl.

  Aideen shrugged, not looking at him, and took a gulp of wine, its natural bitterness making her wince. Kean went to add more wine to her glass and she abruptly pulled it away from him. “I think a clear head goes better with a full stomach when it’s time to be thinking,” she said and slid her glass to the edge of the desk.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her but didn’t argue. He slid the bottle and his glass along the desk until they rested next to hers. Without the glass to occupy his hands, he began to toy with a grapefruit-sized globe of smoky quartz.

  “Your crystal ball?” she asked sarcastically.

  The side of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. “Why don’t you look inside it and tell me what you see, Aideen?”

  Once he made the suggestion, Aideen found that she couldn’t avoid looking at it. Deep within the quartz, a swirl of electricity followed Kean’s caressing fingertip. She blinked and snatched the globe from its holder, turning it over in her hands, but the small storm had disappeared.

  “I do find that it gives me answers I couldn’t get elsewhere,” he said and held his hand out.

  Aideen dropped the globe into his open palm and saw the light begin its dance anew.

  “Parlor tricks, mind games—” she started, Kean’s narrowing gaze stopping the rest of the words before they could fall carelessly from her mouth.

  “You forgot the mold,” he said, his voice strained and tired.

  “Don’t ridicule me,” she bit out.

  “No, Aideen.” He placed the globe back on its holder. “It is you who are ridiculing me, my beliefs. Your father’s beliefs!” He leaned forward and pinned her with his cloudy gray gaze. “I do believe, Aideen, to the very core of my soul. As did your father. Just because you are incapable of holding a spiritual belief—”

  “That’s not true,” she shot back.

  “What then,” he asked and gestured to the book-filled shelves that lined the wall behind him, “do you believe in?”

  Aideen shifted in her seat, her eyes fixed on a small scar that ran down the desk’s front leg. She chewed at the inside of her bottom lip, the iron taste of blood corrupting her tongue.

  “Christ?” he inquired. “I’ve certainly heard you invoke his name enough times…”

  “I see my father taught you sarcasm as well as witchcraft,” Aideen said and pushed her chair away from the desk.

  Kean came around the desk and caught her by the wrists before she could leave the room. “Aideen, please. I’ve been feeling my way blindly through this since your father died. That you and I had a role to play didn’t mean that either of us could be trusted with the knowledge until the time came.” He foundered and looked around the room desperate for something that would convince her despite her lifetime of disbelief. “Your education…your experiences were incomplete…”

  Aideen tried to twist her hands free but he only pulled her closer to him. “Aideen, I need your energy…” He was touching her now, his chest brushing against hers so lightly she wouldn’t have felt it had she not wanted him to touch her. He brought her hands behind her back, loosely trapping her against him. “The stone will answer your call, Aideen. It will listen to your voice…they will listen to your voice…”

  “They?” she asked, her lips trembling against the strong curve of his jaw.

  “The mother—”

  “No!” she jerked her head back and tried to scramble from Kean’s embrace. “You bloody fucking bastard,” she yelled and slammed her bare foot against his shin.

  His grip roughened and he turned, pinning her against the wall. “If Meyrick finds us and takes the stone…it will be a black rain of acid and ash covering the world,” he warned. “You can’t even imagine what it will be like.”

  Aideen closed her eyes and remembered the battle at Kenmare. The constant fog and the vague creatures that stayed always just beyond the borders of recognition. She could indeed imagine it and a small shudder passed over her.

  “Aideen,” Kean pressed, his tone gentling. “It’s as much science as it is sorcery. Please…” He released her hands and stepped back, the barest semblance of calm falling over his features. “Just let me tell you what I know. Let me show you what I’ve seen, what you would have seen had you not turned your back on your father…on me…with that—boy.”

  “On you?” The question was a shocked whisper and she took a step toward him, reading but not understanding the source of the pain she saw in his eyes.

  He reached out and caressed the edge of her robe. “On me,” he confirmed and let the fabric drop against her breast. “You were to be my wife, Aideen.”

  Chapter Six

  After dropping his little bombshell, Kean turned back to the desk. He retrieved the Bloodstone and diary from one of the drawers and placed them on the desktop. He took pen and paper from another drawer and translated the cover glyphs while Aideen prowled in front of the desk, her thoughts raging at her father’s audacity. Kean ignored the increasingly heavier fall of her footsteps and opened the diary’s cover. His gaze widened in surprise as he found the loose sheets of paper with her translations of the text.

  “How much did you translate?” He leafed through the book and matched the pages with her notes.

  Aideen stopped pacing and looked at him. Her nostrils flared at their edges when she answered. “All of it.”

  “In two nights?” He shook his head in disbelief and started verifying her notes.

  A smirk surfaced at the corner of her mouth. Again, Cenn’s image surfaced in a warm, sensuous swell. “I was—shall we say—driven to get it done.”

  Her voice, husky and laden with remembered desire, compelled Kean into looking up from the diary. He noted her flushed skin and the deep rise and fall of her breasts before his gaze became lost in the soft curves of her hips and thighs. He ran one hand across the rough stubble of his evening beard, his color high on his cheeks, and dipped his attention back to her translation.

  “This doesn’t say much,” he said and placed her pages to the side.

  “Not on its surface, no,” Aideen agreed. Sh
e watched him as he flipped through the diary. Every few pages, his hand would casually brush against the Bloodstone. Each time, his immediate reaction was to lightly scratch the surface of his palm.

  “You think the text is layered then?” He began counting off the glyphs for some hidden message.

  “No,” she said and he seemed taken aback by the confidence in her voice.

  “There has to be more than this!” He closed the cover and rested his head in his hands for a moment before rubbing at his eyes.

  “Why is that?” she asked. Her head tilted, she continued watching him, a new calm filling her. When he didn’t answer, she took his left hand and traced a thin scar that ran across his palm in muted white anger. “Why does there have to be more?”

  Kean removed his hand from her easy grip and rubbed more vigorously at the scar. “We’ve just been looking for it for so long,” he answered flatly.

  Aideen sat back down in the leather-cushioned chair. “This is the first time you’ve seen the diary…or the stone for that matter?”

  Kean nodded and traced one of the cover’s glyphs. “It was as if the two were keeping themselves hidden from us.”

  “Yet you knew of them?” she asked, confused. Never, despite all her familiarity with Irish antiquities, had she heard of the Bloodstone or so impossibly old a manuscript as the Book of Cenn Cruach.

  “There is another diary,” he explained.

  At his words, Aideen felt the blood begin to drain from her face as some half-buried memory began to surface. “Another diary?”

  “Etain’s,” he answered. “Their lives have been distorted into myths, but Etain’s diary has been protected all these centuries, handed down from one generation to the next.”

  Echoes filled Aideen’s head and she tried to shake them away. …you are like a butterfly…I will call you Etain. She shook her head again against the possibility that she really had heard those words spoken so long ago.