The Wild Sight (20 page)

“Where are you hurt?” she whispered close to his ear.

“Only my knee.” But as he sought to reassure her, her eyes widened with panic and she caught her breath.

Donovan twisted around and saw Lynch levitating out of the pit in the grasp of the two specters. Flynn’s long bony fingers
closed around his throat. McRory gripped Lynch’s uninjured shoulder. The police inspector gave a strangled cry as his captors
shook him like a rag doll.

And when the ghastly pair were through with their victim, Donovan knew with dread certainty that he and Rylie were next.

He couldn’t walk unaided and doubted Rylie could either, so Donovan rolled over in order to crawl.

“Come on,” he urged her, but she seemed too terror-stricken to move. “Rylie, sweetheart, you can do it.”

By tugging on her uninjured arm, he coaxed her to turn away from the pit. They’d only gone a dozen meters when she stopped
with a strangled sob, tugged her hand free, and covered her eyes. He’d been so intent on dragging himself over the mushy ground
that he hadn’t looked up. But now he did, and saw the hideous form of Malachy Flynn hovering in front of them.

Black, hollow eyes fixed on Donovan’s face, and the long bony hand grasped his shirtfront. With inhuman strength, Flynn hauled
him upright and snarled, “You misbegotten bastard! You should never have been born.”

Ignoring the pain in his leg and gathering his strength, Donovan focused on calling Hain and Ro to him. But a shout and a
gunshot shattered his concentration.

The bullet passed harmlessly through the apparition, though it did release its hold. Staggering to remain upright, Donovan
saw Rylie on her knees, the pistol quavering in her hand.

Flynn’s blackened lips drew back and a repulsive laugh issued from them. “She would kill to protect you, just as your mother
did.”

Rational thought abandoned Donovan, and the image of his mother leapt into his mind. Only this was no longer a vision inside
his head. From out of the mist, his mother stood tall and proud as an Ulster warrior woman of legend. Her dark hair blew about
her shoulders, the butcher knife clenched firmly in her hand, confronting Flynn.

“I never got over you, Moira. Not even after all these years.” No longer the risen spirit, the mortal Malachy Flynn reached
a long finger toward her hair. His soft voice cajoled, “I’ve come to take you away with me. Somewhere the bleedin’ Provos
and feckin’ Scotland Yard will never find us.”

Her face a mask of hatred, Moira spat at him. Her vehemence made Donovan draw back right along with Flynn. “I’d not walk through
the Pearly Gates themselves if I had to go with you.”

Disbelief and anger raced across Flynn’s features. “Don’t be daft! O’Shea’s never given you anything and never will. I’ve
money enough to go anywhere you like, buy anything you like. I’ll even let you bring the boy, since I know he’s mine.”

“He’s no more yours than I am. My love, my heart is Dermot’s, as his is mine, in spite of what you tried to do.”

Her words inflamed Flynn’s fury. He raised clenched fists as if he might strike her. The gesture spiked Donovan’s own ire,
but before he could move, Flynn spoke. “I’ll take your daughter then. She’s almost grown and resembles you enough—”

She snapped at that.

“You shall lay not a finger on me and mine, ye Connacht devil!” she shrieked, swinging the knife in a low deadly arc.

Donovan’s own rage fractured at the same moment.

But instead of shattering, his control solidified into deadly ice. His focus narrowed to Malachy Flynn.

“Stop!” he commanded, and the lethal tableau before him dissolved.

The ghastly presence of Flynn reappeared and flickered between his living and phantom personas. The sword of Donovan’s warrior
self suddenly wavered in his own hand. He thrust the point at his enemy’s throat. “Go back into the grave where she put you.”

Once again, abhorrent laughter gurgled from the twisted mouth. “You can’t kill what’s already dead,” he mocked, and vanished.

“Donovan!” He heard Rylie’s cry as his knee buckled and, swordless again, he crashed to the muddy earth.

He felt her small hand clutching his arm in a vain attempt to help him rise. Gulping down the pain, anger and fear, he squeezed
his eyes shut and focused as hard as he could.

Hain . . . Ro . . . Help me!

A dozen labored heartbeats later, his efforts were rewarded, for he felt firm hands beneath his armpits. When he opened his
eyes, his long-time companions stood on either side, supporting him. The twin parts of his nature, healer and warrior. The
parts he’d tried for so long to suppress.

“Can you walk, Dony?” Hain asked anxiously.

Donovan shook his head. “Not unaided.”

“You and your wee golden lass must flee this place,” Ro added with equal concern. “Before the dire spirits return.” The Druid
helped Donovan balance on his uninjured leg while the big warrior assisted Rylie.

“No need to weep,” Ro soothed as if she was a small child, and he lifted her just as easily too.

Once Ro stood her on her feet, Rylie panted, “Are you all right, Donovan?”

She reached for him. Nodding, Donovan extended his hand and their fingertips brushed.

“Lean on this.” The Druid thrust a dead tree branch into his hand.

Donovan leaned his weight onto it, and the branch immediately bent and cracked. He fell heavily against Hain, and they both
nearly tumbled to the ground. Rylie reached for him again, in an effort to help him stay upright.

Ro picked up a much larger branch and hacked off several smaller limbs with his sword. “Try this, then.”

It was nearly as big around as his wrist and so heavy Donovan had to grip it with both hands. It easily held his weight, but
was awkward to maneuver. Nevertheless, it was far better than crawling.

“Go!” Ro ordered, hefting his sword into a fighting position. “I’ll see that the enemy does not catch you.”

With a brief nod, Hain supported Rylie’s uninjured arm and turned to obey.

The sudden sense that he would never see the big warrior again washed across Donovan’s harried mind. He shifted his hold on
his improvised crutch and searched Ro’s bearded face for confirmation.

“Farewell, my brother,” he whispered, but the other man melted away into the fens without a reply.

Making an ungainly turn, Donovan struggled after Hain and Rylie. The branch sank into the muddy ground and stuck every few
steps. He had to keep wrenching it free, so his progress was damnably slow. Though the other two didn’t move much faster,
they moved steadily ahead.

At last he recognized the burned trunk of the beech tree and knew they were near the edge of the fens. The nightmare was almost
over. But the tiny sprig of hope didn’t have a chance to fully form before it was dashed.

A dozen meters ahead, the specter of Aongus McRory hovered over the dried grass. Only this was a McRory he’d never seen but
for more than a glimpse. No Celtic warrior, but a deadly enemy, a Norseman. His legs were laced in leather, and a fleece jerkin
covered his chest. Black images of fanged serpents encircled his bare arms, and he held a rough club with metal spikes protruding
from one end.

“Stop!” he ordered. “The woman stays here with me.”

Frantically, Donovan hobbled forward as he watched Hain step in front of Rylie.

“She does not belong to you,” Hain pronounced.

Fingering his club, McRory scowled. “Nor is she yours, Druid.”

“Knock it off!” Rylie popped from behind Hain with more energy than she’d displayed in hours. “You already have two women.
Leave me alone!”

“But darlin’, ’tis you I want. And have since the moment I laid eyes on you.” McRory drawled in his familiar smarmy tone.
Then the Norse warrior snapped back into place. “And you I shall take.”

In that split second when Donovan watched the professor slide between personas, he knew what he must do. Tossing aside the
branch, he staggered the remaining distance and leaned possessively against Rylie’s good shoulder.

“No!” he shouted. “She is mine!” Then he murmured close to her ear, “As soon as I distract him, run.”

“Single combat, then,” McRory challenged.

“No!” Rylie contradicted. She eyed both him and McRory with equal contempt, though beneath his hand, Donovan felt her tremble.
“I’m not a prize in some barbaric he-man game.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m afraid that’s exactly what you are.” Donovan rasped, fighting against the pain in his leg.
“This is not civilized Professor McRory, but his blood-thirsty Viking predecessor we’re dealing with.”

He closed his eyes against her further protests. In some distant corner of his brain, he couldn’t escape the idea that by
calling forth this unknown power of his, he'd loosed these dreadful spirits, too. How else could he explain the appearance
of Flynn, then his mother? And now this?

Even though the professor had seemed friendly enough, Donovan never much cared for McRory. Some gut-level instinct had recognized
an adversary. Now, in this strangely altered reality between the living and the dead, McRory had emerged as an ancient and
most deadly foe. One who must be reckoned with on the same plane. Warrior against warrior.

Out of options, Donovan reached inward for those elemental parts of himself, felt the trappings of civilization fall away,
and in their place the familiar weight of sword and shield. When he opened his eyes a moment later, Hain’s worried gaze met
his.

“You are weakened, Dony.” Grim lines bracketed the Druid’s mouth. “In body and spirit.”

Unable to deny the truth of his friend’s words, Donovan answered, “I’ll manage.” Then he turned to Rylie, who seemed shocked
speechless by his altered appearance. “Run for the car. Break the window and call for help on my cell phone. ’Tis our only
chance.”

He knew if he’d said “
your
only chance” she wouldn’t go. Malachy Flynn’s taunt echoed inside his head,
You
can’t kill what’s already dead.
All he could do was try to save Rylie. His love. His heart.

“Single combat, O’Shea!” McRory demanded again. “Winner takes all.”

“Let me give you what strength I have,” Hain murmured. He bent and wrapped both hands around Donovan’s knee and muttered an
incantation. Donovan felt heat and power flowing up his leg and into his gut.

“Stop, that’s enough,” he hissed at his friend, and tilted his chin toward Rylie. “Give her whatever you have left.” In spite
of her recent bravado, she looked decidedly unsteady on her feet. Donovan feared she might not be able to cover the distance
from here to the cottage and the parked car.

But she must. He was certain if the raging Norseman who was McRory got hold of her, death wouldn’t come soon enough.

Hain dropped his hands and rose to his full height. A look of understanding passed between the two of them. Then the Druid
placed one hand on Rylie’s left shoulder and the other on her forehead. Closing his eyes, his lips moved. Rylie’s mouth flew
open in surprise, though she made no sound.

Donovan hefted his sword in his hand, and muttered, “Get ready to run.”

As he dropped his hands and stepped behind her, Hain vanished. With a shout, Donovan launched himself at McRory.

The sudden ferocious attack caught his enemy off-guard. He barely raised the club in time to fend off Donovan’s first blow.
Then he had to continue using the weapon for a shield as Donovan thrust and slashed repeatedly, driving him backward toward
the fens.

From the corner of his vision, Donovan saw Rylie streak around them in the direction of safety. But McRory saw her too, and
turned with a bellow of rage. Donovan lunged for his unprotected side, felt his blade hit a rib, and saw the dark stain spread
across McRory’s jerkin.

The Norseman howled with pain and fury. Then grabbing his weapon with both hands, he brought it down with enough force to
shatter Donovan’s grip and knock the blade from his hand. Gasping from the shock of the blow, Donovan instinctively raised
his own shield to block the next.

McRory rained three more successive, jarring blows before Donovan realized he could use the metal decorated slab of wood in
a counter attack. Like McRory, he used both hands and swung the shield at his opponent’s face.

When that didn’t work, he shifted his target to the metal spikes on the end of the club. On the third pass, his adversary
embedded the metal points deep into the center of the wooden shield. With a powerful twist, Donovan wrenched the club from
McRory’s hands.

Heaving the shield and club to the ground, Donovan drew the long dagger from his sword belt. But McRory already had his own
knife clenched in his fist and slashed a glancing blow to Donovan’s shoulder. Ignoring the sudden sear of pain, Donovan swung
his knife low, slicing through the leather covering McRory’s thigh, leaving another blood trail.

His enemy gave ground, and the two of them crouched into a deadly dance of feint, thrust, and parry. Panting, they circled
slowly, each searching for an advantage and finding none.

Time seemed to stretch out into an eternity. Then everything happened in a rush. Donovan’s heel came down on the hilt of his
fallen sword. Thrown off balance, he staggered and fell, dropping his dagger. Rolling quickly onto his side, he felt the rush
of air as McRory’s knife hacked the air directly in front of his face. He lashed back with his bare arm, momentarily knocking
his enemy aside.

Jerking to his knees, Donovan groped the ground under him for his weapon. Above him, he watched McRory raise his blade to
deliver the blow that would end his life.

Chapter 17

RYLIE SPRINTED AROUND THE TWO BATTLING WARRIORS. Whatever spell Donovan’s friendly Druid had cast on her seemed to have replaced
her pain with pure raw energy. She felt like she could run all the way to Ballyneagh, or even Dungannon. Instead, she halted
a safe distance and turned to watch.

While she now stood in darkness, the weird twilight still illuminated the two figures and the misty presence of the fens beyond
them. Though the horrible events of this night were all too real, her mind balked at accepting the supernatural explanations.
And most of all, she couldn’t understand this crazy fight between Donovan and McRory with
her
as the prize.

It wasn’t like she would stand meekly by to be claimed by the winner, and both men knew that. Didn’t they?

Where had all this sudden enmity come from?

And how could this be happening?

But it was. She edged her way back toward them for a better view. The ring of metal forcefully striking wood made her cringe
and grind her back teeth together as she ventured even closer. Light and shadows played over the two combatants so that they
appeared by turns modern and barbaric. Like the enormous, friendly warrior, Donovan sported little more than a sword, shield,
and body paint. McRory wasn’t wearing a whole lot more: a sleeveless tunic and some leather tied at his waist and wrapped
around his legs.

While Rylie watched in numb fascination, he knocked Donovan’s sword to the ground with a vicious blow from the ugly spiked
club he wielded. She bit back her cry of alarm as Donovan smashed his shield into McRory’s face. Then with a few more well-executed
swings, he hooked the club into the shield and disarmed his opponent.

No, not disarmed.

Without realizing she’d moved, she was close enough to see the yellow light glitter on knife blades in both men’s hands. Dark
blood oozed from a gash in Donovan’s shoulder, and from McRory’s leg and side. Rylie forced down her urge to vomit, and continued
to watch, mesmerized. She forgot to move, breathe as the two men slowly circled and lashed out at each other.

Then Donovan faltered. He must have stepped on something for his foot shot from under him. She watched for a horror-stricken
second as he stumbled onto the dead grass, and then she leapt. McRory swiped with his blade, and then drew back for a deadly
stroke.

Her own scream echoed in her ears, and she flung herself across Donovan’s body. A shield between him and McRory.

“Rylie, no!”

She heard Donovan shout, saw McRory jerk, and at the same instant, felt the tip of the dagger skid over her collarbone. Her
breath wheezed in sharply with the sudden pain.

But before she could exhale, Donovan’s hand came up and knocked hard into McRory’s, causing the dagger to fall from his grasp.
Bright red blood welled across the back of Donovan’s hand, where he’d connected with the blade.

Rylie gained her feet in unison with Donovan. McRory scrambled to retrieve his knife, and she planted her muddy sneaker firmly
on top of it.

“Stop!” she ordered. “You’re not animals! Just stop.”

As if to belie her words, McRory bared his teeth in a snarl. “I claim you by the ancient creed of single combat.”

“No!” Donovan denied.

She laid a restraining hand on his arm, relieved to feel knitted fabric, though his appearance still flickered between modern
and primeval, clothed and naked. The slash at the base of her neck burned like a long finger of flame.

“It’s too late for that,” she told McRory, who also wavered between his two personas. The effect left her dizzy.

“’Tis not,” he insisted, seizing her arm. “I’ve lost everything, my future, my life. But I
shall
have you, my Sidhe princess. And I’ll take you with me into my unholy grave.”

Rylie snatched her hand back in revulsion. “No, Aongus, you won’t.” He blinked at the sound of his given name, so she pressed
on in as reasonable a tone as she could muster. “Can’t you see? We’ll be just like Malachy and Moira. I love Donovan the way
she loved Dermot, with all my heart and soul. And if you force yourself on me, I’ll hate you forever.”

“Such things matter not to me.” He reached to reclaim her hand again, but Donovan stopped him.

Blood dripped from his fingertips onto McRory’s arm, and splashed on the leg of her jeans. She swallowed hard to fight the
woozy feeling rising up in her stomach.

“I believe they do,” she insisted, swallowing again to steady her voice. She willed herself to ignore both the searing knife
wound and the returning pain in her arm. “Because you know what it’s like to love and be loved. Brenna loved you, and so did
Sybil. And that love will live on in your child.”

“The child lives?” McRory suddenly solidified into a single image, the affable attractive professor Rylie had first met. His
mild hazel eyes probed her for the truth. Momentarily robbed of breath by his transformation, she nodded. “Sybil loved the
baby too much to get rid of it,” Donovan affirmed in a hoarse whisper.

In the rapidly fading light, he appeared strictly as his muddy, disheveled, bleeding self. Rylie grabbed the bottom of what
remained of her ripped sweatshirt and pressed it against the wound on his hand.

“Brenna will love the baby too,” she declared, marshaling her remaining strength. “Because it’s yours.” Then before McRory
could protest, she added, “Just as Dermot loved Donovan.”

Shadows darkened McRory’s once handsome face and turned it into the spectral apparition once more. Blackened fingernails dug
into Rylie’s shoulder. “How is it you have all the answers?”

“I—I don’t,” she replied, her arm throbbing. “I just have those.”

“Give it up, Aongus,” Donovan urged. “We’re no longer between and ’tis almost dawn.”

The gruesome being swiveled its head, and Rylie followed the sunken-eyed gaze to where gray light streaked the horizon.

“I give you my word,” Donovan continued. “That I will see your body given a proper burial on hallowed ground.”

A shudder rippled through McRory’s ruined body, and the hand gripping Rylie loosened and dropped to his side. She felt herself
sway also. The Druid’s spell was fading fast.

“And I’ll do all I can to see justice done,” Donovan finished.

“No need,” said the apparition with a hideous twist of its mouth. Whether in pain or irony, Rylie couldn’t tell. “I’ve taken
my own vengeance.”

Donovan laid his undamaged hand on her shoulder in a gesture of both comfort and possession. His voice was reasonable but
firm. “Then let it end here.”

Breath held, Rylie watched the malevolent fire in McRory’s eyes move from Donovan’s face to his hand on her shoulder, and
finally to her. For one awful, skin-crawling second, she thought he might turn back into the violent Norseman. Kill them both.

“I’ll tell Brenna and Sybil how much you loved them,” she blurted.

The loathsome creature stretched out its index finger and touched the bloody stain at the neck of her T-shirt. The dead flesh
felt stiff and cold. Donovan’s grip on her tightened. She bit her bottom lip, not daring to move.

“You do that.” Then the ghoul threw back his head, uttered an unearthly howl, and vanished.

Rylie released her pent-up breath in a rush, and her trembling body sagged against Donovan. Equally unsteady on his feet,
he nearly tipped over and sent them both sprawling. But somehow he regained his equilibrium and they remained upright. He
tilted his head in the direction of the cottage.

“The car,” he muttered, his voice tight with pain. “Can you walk?”

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure how far. And she was even less sure about him. Covered in streaks of mud and blood, from
his caked hair to his sodden sneakers, he balanced precariously, his left foot clearly not able to bear any of his weight.
Shoving her good shoulder under his arm, the two of them began a shuffling hop toward the cottage in a bizarre parody of a
three-legged race.

The distance seemed interminable. Every movement sent the pain in her arm shooting into her body, in addition to the fatigue
and dizziness draining her. But the idea that one of the murderous apparitions might swoop down on them again at any minute
kept her moving.

Afraid to look at anything except the ground a few feet in front of them, Rylie was taken aback when the whitewashed wall
of the cottage loomed in her field of vision. She jerked reflexively. Donovan hobbled around so that he slumped momentarily
against the wall instead of her. Without his body heat close to her, she shivered.

“Need something to open the car,” he panted. “You go on.”

Clutching at the rough exterior, he dragged himself toward the little lean-to fastened to the back corner of the cottage.
She didn’t have the strength to argue, so she stumbled around to the front yard.

The sight of the gaping door made her gasp aloud. No matter how long she lived, she would never forget the numbing terror
of Lynch’s pistol resting under her chin. The same pistol she had used to shoot him.

“
I’ve taken my own vengeance.
” The rasp of McRory’s hideous specter echoed inside her head.

So had she.
And she wasn’t sorry.

Resting against the front bumper of the car, Rylie fought against the waves of pain threatening to overcome her. After all
they had been through tonight, she refused to lose it now. She banished all thoughts from her mind and concentrated on willing
away the pain.

Using the ruined broom for a cane, Donovan slowly staggered toward the car. He could see Rylie’s slight form huddled against
the bumper. Though she was shaking, she remained upright, obviously on sheer stubborn will power alone. She’d saved his life
at least twice in the past few hours, nearly losing her own in the process. But that was not what made his heart pound in
his aching chest.

She loved him! And God in heaven knew how much he
loved her.

He was past caring whether he deserved her or not. He would never give her up.

The knowledge pushed him on when every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He reached her at last but had to steady himself
against the fender before he could toss aside the broom and touch her. His mud-encrusted fingers trailed across her icy cheek,
and he could see the glitter of pain in her eyes.

“Just another few minutes, I promise.” The words scratched his dry throat.

Her breathing labored, she nodded in reply.

With awkward and agonizingly slow movements, Donovan inched his way down the side of the vehicle. Using the screwdriver he’d
found in the lean-to, he fumbled with first the lock and then the seam of the door. When he got nowhere with either of them,
he summoned the last bit of his strength and whacked at the back passenger window. On the third blow, the glass cracked. One
more knock scattered chunks of safety glass onto the back seat.

He reached through the hole and flipped up the door lock. Heedless of the broken glass, he opened the door and heaved himself
onto the floor. After several long moments of thrusting his hands between the two front seats, he located his mobile. With
a grunt of triumph, he flipped the phone on and punched in 999, emergency.

“An ambulance,” he gasped at the nasally voiced female who answered. “Send an ambulance right away!”

Something warm ran down his wrist. The knife wound on the back of his hand was bleeding again. Ignoring the emergency dispatcher’s
question, he uttered a curse, then gave her the address and directions to the cottage.

“Hurry!” he admonished, and rang off. He’d leave it to her to contact the PSNI.

Donovan pressed his filthy left shirtsleeve against his bloody right hand, and struggled upright. Rylie stood, her uninjured
arm draped over the open car door for support, regarding him.

“They’re on their way,” he reassured.

“Good,” was her barely audible response.

She scooted aside and let go of the door so he could stand. But her legs started to buckle under her.

He grasped the door with one hand and pulled her against him with the other. “Easy there.”

“You’re bleeding again.”

She felt so small and fragile as she shivered against him. The need to protect her sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body.

“’Tis nothing.” In the grand scheme of things, that was certainly true.

Without letting go of her, he somehow finagled the front car door open. Then he dropped heavily into the passenger seat, pulling
her onto his lap as he did. She squeaked in surprise, but then snuggled against him. Her head rested beneath his chin, her
silky hair tangled and matted with mud. He shifted his legs and pulled the door closed with a jarring thud.

“So tired . . . ”

“I’ll just recline the seat back until they get here, shall I?” Donovan reached down with his left hand and pulled the lever,
sending the seat as flat as it would go.

Rylie gave a ragged sigh and scooted a bit lower on his lap. Her shivering subsided.

“Please . . . ” Her voice sounded miles away. “Don’t leave me . . . ”

She was the one about to leave him, but he wasn’t going to remind her. “Don’t worry,” he replied, tightening his hold. “I
never will.”

“Ummm . . . ” was all she said.

Donovan listened to her shallow breathing and watched the gray streaks on the horizon lighten while he tried to think of a
coherent explanation to give the authorities for their night’s escapade. He still hadn't pulled his jumbled thoughts into
order when he heard the singsong wail of sirens approaching. He had a hard time rousing Rylie, and the noise from the vehicles
sounded like they were almost to the gate before he succeeded.

“What?” she gasped in confusion. “Where . . . are we?” “’Tis all right, sweetheart,” he soothed, patting her hair. “The ambulance
will take us to hospital.”

She looked at him, but her gaze remained uncomprehending. “To see Dermot?”

He patted her hair again. ’Twould be far better if she didn’t remember anything. “Maybe later, after they fix your arm.”

“My arm . . . ” She glanced down, still confused. “And your hand?”