«Thank you,» he said grimly.

Morrígan’s heart fell. She had hoped that things would be different once he was at Tara with her. At the very least she hadn’t expected him to behave like. well, like she had killed his favourite horse and allowed him to be slain, not by a stronger foe but by the deceitful use of sorcery. Morrígan rose from the bed and walked to the window. But that was exactly what she had done. She supposed his lack of enthusiasm for her company should not surprise her.

«My heart does not beat,» he said.

«No,» she replied absently. «It does not.»

«You should have let me go to the Summerlands.»

«Perhaps I should have,» she agreed. «But I could not.»

He was quiet for a moment and then he shook his head and asked, «Why, Morrígan? You do not love me. If you did, you would have come to me when I called you, when I needed you, over the years. What purpose does all this serve?»

Morrígan turned. «You never asked me that, you know, when we first struck our bargain all those years ago.»

Cullen snorted. «I was young. All I could think of was the glory to be found in battle. and you. But I am asking now.»

Morrígan nodded. «Faerie is not the only world that exists beyond the mortal realm,» she explained. «It is simply the one where the Veil is the thinnest. There are others, dark places filled with things far more terrifying than the gods or the sidhe. We call them the Demon Horde. Occasionally, the Horde attempts to break through the barrier between worlds. As of yet they cannot physically cross the Veil, but their evil can. The Horde has sent plague, famine, disasters of nature — all in an effort to weaken us. The pantheon believes that any death caused by their influence makes the Horde stronger, and that one day they will become powerful enough to cross the Veil. If they do, it will be the end of us all, Cullen. The inhabitants of Faerie are not strong enough to defeat them and the humans will be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.»

He looked at her dubiously. «I am good, Morrígan, but I am not that good. What is it you expect me to do?»

«You are now a creature unique in this world, Cullen. I expect you to make more like you. And they will make more and so on until I have an army of darkness at my disposal. Perhaps then we can defeat the Horde when they come.»

Cullen nodded. «All right,» he said gravely. «I will do it, not for you, but for all those innocents who will die if I don’t.»

Morrígan’s gaze raked across his naked chest. She licked her lips, feeling a tiny thrill as he shifted his legs to hide his body’s response to her.

«No,» she agreed, «not for me. I have never been innocent.»

Twelve

Castle Tara

Connemara, Ireland — 1260


Cullen leaned back against the wall and let out a ragged breath. Unable to stop himself, he glanced up at the north tower and watched as candlelight illuminated its windows. As surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning, he knew that before this night had passed he would climb the stairs to her room. It was as inevitable as the tide.

Cullen was a liar and he knew it. But then again, so was she. He loved her and she loved him. It had always been and would always be. But too much distrust and betrayal had passed between them for either to ever utter those tender words again. And perhaps that was for the best. He was a soldier who had made a name for himself on the battlefields of Eire. She was a death deity, a goddess of war. What did such as they know of love?

In the years after his death he had firmly believed that he’d been no more than a means to an end for her — the perfect warrior to beget her legion of vampires, the perfect king to lead her dark army. But time has a way of breaking down even the thickest walls and time was something he’d had plenty of. Finally, he had seen the truth. It was in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching her, in her touch when the passion of their lovemaking overcame her. She had chosen him. She was as old as time and yet she had bargained with a young man for his soul. She had sworn him to a covenant whose ramifications a beardless youth could not possibly have understood. He could not help but hate her for that. But on those rare occasions when he was brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that he could not help but love her for it as well. She had tricked him, coerced him, seduced him. Of all the men who had ever been, or would ever be, under her dominion, she had chosen him.

He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of hundreds of vampires tromping through his castle. This was not the afterlife he had imagined when he’d been human. It was not what the bards had promised every warrior would enjoy when his last battle was fought. Cullen opened his eyes and looked once again at the tower. No, Morrígan had cheated him of that. But then again, would he really have wanted an afterlife without her in it?

He smiled a wicked little smile and left the parapet, moving swiftly through the castle to the north tower. Climbing the stairs with determined strides, he didn’t even bother to knock at her door. Morrígan was standing in front of the window, staring down at the spot he had recently vacated. At his entrance, she turned and he felt a twinge of guilt at the sadness in her eyes.

«If you’ve come here to fight with me you can turn around and walk right back out of that door,» she snapped.

He closed the door and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. «But we are warriors, Morrígan. Fighting is what we do.»

She rolled her eyes. «Don’t you think you’ll get enough of that in the days to come?» she asked.

Cullen shrugged. «There are a couple of them who might give me trouble,» he replied as he pushed away from the door and crossed the room. «But I have never drunk from a human. The blood of the great goddess Morrígan runs undiluted in my veins. Not a one of them has a chance of defeating me. Now,» he said, reaching out and wrapping one lock of her black hair around his finger, «about the fighting.»

«I don’t feel like it tonight,» she said petulantly.

«Really?» he murmured, sliding his other hand over her hip. «What do you feel like?»

He pulled her against him and felt the shudder roll through her body. With a word or two whispered in her ear he could bring her to climax without ever taking off her dress. And he loved her for that.

Cullen stifled a grin as he watched her jaw clench.

Morrígan turned her black eyes up to his. «What do I feel? I am a harbinger of death,» she said coldly. «I don’t feel anything.»

«Liar,» Cullen whispered as he claimed her mouth, sliding his tongue inside as he pulled her hips against his.

They were almost the same height and a perfect fit. He knew the moment her icy reserve melted for him. She let out a ragged moan, a familiarly frantic sound that usually preceded the tearing of clothing. With a growl of triumph he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Breaking the kiss, he looked down into her beautiful face. She was flush with desire — for him. Always for him, only for him. For over one thousand years they had made love and war, and they would do so for the next thousand years.

Cullen cupped her face with one battle-scarred hand. «I hate you,» he whispered tenderly.

His goddess smiled up at him. «I hate you, too.»

«Aye,» her warrior laughed, «but you will always love me.»

Dara England

Eternal Strife

Conmaicne Rein, Ireland — 800 AD


Sinead shivered in the early morning cold, tugging her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she peered into the gloomy grey world ahead. Her breath hung in pale clouds on the air and mingled with the wispy mists rolling in off the water. Here along the lakeshore the earth was soggy and made wet sucking noises each time she pulled a booted foot free of the clinging mud.

Heart pounding, she held on tightly to the clay pitcher in her hands and searched for the resolve that had seemed so strong when she set out. She thought of her mother lying ill and alone in the draughty little cottage she had left behind. That was enough to bolster her determination.

It didn’t matter that Mother would have forbidden this desperate act had she been aware of the plan her daughter had in mind to save her. All that mattered was that Sinead was finally taking action.

Courage temporarily renewed, she walked with confidence, stepping free of the cover of the overhanging willow branches and wading through the waist-high grasses leading down to the edge of the waters. She refused to think of what might be crouching, slithering or lurking among the weeds, as she knelt to peer into the murky depths below.

Tiny minnows darted away from her shadow. The light was still too dim for her face to look back at her from the mirrored surface but she knew what she would have seen if it had: a thin young girl of eighteen, with hip-length hair as dark as the feathers of the raven. Somewhere amid that mass of wild, unruly hair would be a plain face, unremarkable but for its pale, tightly drawn features. Her wide green eyes — her most predominant feature — were doubtless large with apprehension at the moment. Yes, perhaps it was as well she couldn’t see.

Reluctantly, she inched further forwards until her toes were near the water and her skirts dragged in the filthy mud, so that she could scoop the pitcher into the deeper water.

She moved gingerly, making certain nothing save the pitcher touched the waters. All knew the folk of the lake guarded their watery home jealously and hated to be disturbed. Moreover, they could move as swiftly and silently as the fog; in one breath a man or woman might think themselves alone, in the next they appeared from nowhere to drag an unsuspecting victim down, screaming, into the icy depths of the lake.