Dark Enchantment (26 page)

In his left hand, he held two lengths of tan leather, silver buckles dangling off one end.
Hospital restraints.
If he got those things on her, she was finished. But how in God’s name could she fight him off, as sick and weak as she was?

As she considered her plight, however, she felt desperate hope bloom in her heart. While she couldn’t fight this monster alone, if her friends were to revive as she had done, together they could take him down.

But a surreptitious glance in their direction found them both still sprawled unconscious beside her. How much had he dosed them with, anyway? she wondered. And how had he administered the stuff?
The coffee, of course.
Her next thought sickened her. That her two friends had consumed twice as much of the drug-laced brew as she had. The incessant pounding in her head, the unendurable nausea, was the result of ingesting a single cup of the vile concoction. There was no way Tara and Michaela would be any help to her. She only hoped to God that they hadn’t been overdosed. That they would survive this nightmare outing she had taken them on.

Fear for their safety and fury at what this man had done to them fired Arianna’s blood. The rush of adrenaline seemed to burn off some of the pharmacological haze. Acknowledging that she might well be her friends’ only hope for survival, Arianna lay, body coiled, primed for attack, and awaited Conor’s return.

All at once, he was reaching for her, oblivious to the fact that the proverbial tables had been turned. The hunter was now the prey.

Without warning, Arianna bent her knees to her chest and snapped a two-legged kick, pushing her feet into Conor’s solar plexus. She felt the give as a rib gave way. She heard him grunt, relished the whoosh of sound as air was forced from his lungs. Eyes wide with disbelief, he bent double, clutching at his abdomen. Taking advantage of his position, she leaped to her feet and followed through with a chop to the temple.

“Like that, you sick fuck?”

He toppled over and curled into an ignominious lump at her feet. Her foot snapped out and connected with his ribs again. She heard another satisfying crack, but he didn’t make a sound, didn’t move. She toed him over onto his back and watched his head drop to the side, mouth sagging open. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

As she stood over him, another wave of nausea crashed over her and she began to tremble. She spun around, making it to the rail just in time to spew the entire contents of her stomach into the ocean. She gagged and retched, intense, gut-wrenching dry-heaves, until she expected to bring up her intestines. When the vomiting ended, deep shuddering spasms rocked her body. White spots danced in front of her eyes. Dark waves of oblivion threatened to drag her back into their perilous depths.

“Oh, God, help me fight this,” she whimpered desperately, as she struggled to restrain Conor with his own leather straps.

But the burst of adrenaline that had ignited the fusillade fizzled like flame on a damp wick. Her knees buckled and she sank into a deck chair. “Get the phone. Call Caleb,” she told herself, teeth clacking together. “Get to your feet, dammit. Drag your ass down to the galley.”

But by then, the flurry of white spots in front of her eyes had become a blizzard. Cold, crisp, it took her back in time to her last night at the castle. Suddenly, Caleb’s mouth was on her neck, his hands on her heated flesh, his masculine weight pressing her down, down, down into a bed of purest snow….

Chapter Twenty-seven

I
t hadn’t gone unnoticed by Caleb. The way his staff had been steering a wide berth around him and his ill humor since he’d spoken with the infuriating woman earlier in the day. Unable to fake a pleasant demeanor for Granny, he had told her he’d work to do and retreated to his study to brood. Adding insult to injury, he’d accomplished little to naught all day.

Pushing abruptly away from his desk, he stalked over to the fireplace. Bracing a hand against the mantle, he stood there for a long time and stared into the flickering flames. He’d committed a grave error, so he had, having Arianna here, sharing his personal space. This room was usually a comfort to him, a hideaway from the stress and strains of his responsibilites, of concealing the existence of his race from the mere mortal world. When he’d returned from Scotland this morning, a trace of her essence had remained. The warmth of her smile, her teasing laughter, haunted these medieval halls like a ghostly apparition. Her absence left him aching with an emptiness he couldn’t explain.

Caleb fell into his chair, dropped his head into his hands. Something was smothering him. ‘Twas as if a cold, wet blanket of dread had been dropped over his head, blocking his intake of air, drawing tighter and tighter with every tick of the clock.

“I should phone her again now. Demand she and her friends get their arses back to Clare straight away. When she gets stubborn, as she surely will, I’ll fly the chopper over to get them. Render the lot of them unconscious with a fecking thrall, if I must.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face, then grabbed up his mobile and punched “9”, the shortcut assigned to her number. A short double-ring and his call transferred directly into voice mail.

He swore violently and tossed the phone onto the table beside his chair. She must have powered off her phone in a temper after they’d had words. He glanced at his watch. Ten past ten P.M.

His phone rang and he grabbed it up. “Arianna?”

“No, mate, it’s me, Seamus. I wanted to go over a few things with you privately about the meeting. But if you’re expecting a call from the little mortal, I’ll get with you later on it.”

“Her name is Arianna,” Caleb corrected, his voice tight enough to strangle him. “I tried to ring her, but the call went into voice mail. I’ve a sense something’s dreadfully wrong.”

“If you’re feeling that unnerved, why not drive by her place?”

“She and her friends have gone off to Inishmore to stay the night. Conor took them on a charter owned by one of his mates.”

“This time of year? That’s odd.”

“’Tis. And I’d be worried if anyone but the four of them were onboard.”

“Herself and her friends are likely checked into their room by now.”

“Shite.” Caleb plowed a hand through his hair as he mulled the problem over. “Wait, I know what to do.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve only to use the Knowledge to scout out the area. Even if I’m not after sensing her exact location, the absence of any lurking cover of darkness will let me know she’s not fallen afoul of any harm. Leastwise, not til I get my own hands around that slender neck of hers in the morning,” he growled.

“I’ve to confess I’ve an uneasy feeling about this myself,” Seamus admitted. “Sure, set your mobile down. I’ll hold while you check the area out.”

Caleb closed his eyes and cleared his mind, using his gift to project his essence astrally from the mainland to
Inis Mor.
Observing the island, he found the height and breadth of it shining in its clarity. No taint of evil—not even a lingering gray cloud to suggest a pub fight or domestic dispute—had disturbed the sleepy little community that evening.

With a sigh of relief, he picked the phone back up and reported his findings. “She’s safe, mate. There’s no wickedness, no trouble of any kind on the Island tonight.”

“Brilliant. Now, give us a shout if you hear anything…or if you don’t.”

After banking the hearth-fire, Caleb stripped off and slipped into the loo. Head down, he let the hard, driving pulse of the electric shower beat against his neck and shoulders, drawing out the tension. Then he toweled off and crawled beneath the goose down duvet. He fell asleep, calmed by the knowledge that there’d been no Evil lurking about on Inishmore.

* * *

The cabin cruiser was still anchored miles offshore. Tossed about on the rough seas like a matchstick in a maelstrom, the rocking boat encouraged Arianna back to consciousness. Still feeling dopey and confused, it took a few minutes before the harrowing events of the day began to filter through the drug-fogged haze.

Her first conscious thought was for her friends. Where were they? What had Conor done to them? Had they survived what she was sure now had been a drug overdose? Arianna choked back a tearless sob, as she berated herself for having passed out.

For having failed them all.

She was cold, shivering uncontrollably. Gooseflesh pebbled her bare arms and legs.
Bare?
She forced her heavy lids to open, sickened to learn that Conor had undressed her and put her in a white satin peignoir. She felt violated. What the hell had he done to her while she had been out cold?

The restraints she had been trying to get on him were affixed now to her wrists and ankles. Her hands, bound tightly together, were secured to a hook embedded in the bow at the front of the cabin. Her legs positioned spread-eagle, each foot had been secured to another hook on either side of the foot of a queen-sized bunk. On the other side of a drawn curtain at her feet, she could hear Conor clumping about the cabin, grumbling and complaining. Arguing with himself.

She was in agony. Her brain felt swollen, as if it were pushing against her skull in a desperate attempt to escape. Bile rose up her throat and she swallowed repeatedly, trying not to throw up. It was a battle she was destined to lose. She gagged, head twisted sharply to the right as she began to dry heave, terrified she would choke to death.

Afterward, lying in her own vomit, she noted the silence. The only sound was the eremitic creaking of the vessel, the sough of wind and waves. And then…

Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God.
She lay frozen as she listened to the sound of Conor approaching, his feet shuffling across the wooden floor. She had to remain limp, to appear unconscious, unresponsive. Maybe she could fool him into believing that the vomiting had been a reflexive action. That she hadn’t regained consciousness.

The sound of footsteps halted beside the bed. She could hear heavy breathing.

Of course, at that precise moment her nose began to itch.
Maddeningly.

“I was sure she’d woken up,” Conor mumbled. “Must have been mistaken.”

The dragging footsteps at her side meant he was lumbering away. Almost whimpering in relief, she felt a large hand slap down over her mouth. Pudgy fingers pinched her nostrils shut, cutting off her supply of oxygen.

Arianna’s eyes flew open, and she found herself staring into the cold, cruel gaze of a monster. Lungs starved for air, she began to suck ineffectually against the hand covering her mouth. In a mindless panic, she yanked against the leather straps that bound her.

Her frantic pleas made a muffled whining sound, as she rolled her head back and forth in a vain attempt to dislodge the suffocating handhold.

“Play acting again, is it? Fancy yourself a big man, kicking me the way you did?” He clamped down even harder. Arianna felt her eyes bulge. She wet herself. “Wonder how long it would take a body to die like this,” he taunted. “For the lungs to shrivel and collapse in on themselves. For the heart to flutter to its last beat, the brain to die.”

Her lungs were on fire! An insidious darkness stole across the edges of her vision. She tried to bare her teeth, to bite his palm, but succeeded only in chewing her own lip. She tasted blood. “Yield to me, you slag!” he bellowed. “Stop fighting and I’ll take my hand away.”

Oh, God Arianna. You gotta lie still!
she ordered herself.
It’s a power play. He’s demanding your submission. He’ll let you suffocate if you don’t do as he says.

But she just couldn’t do it. It was impossible. The urge to struggle for air was innate. She began to pray for God’s strength and grace. Eyes closed, she began to meditate, locating her center, her faith, a place of calm where nothing could touch her. Her muscles relaxed.

“Look at me.” Her eyes snapped open. Her body trembled as she struggled to retain control. “I’ll reward you now for your obedience.” He lifted the heel of his hand, making a slight tent over her lips. A hoarse, grating mewl came from her lungs as she dragged air in through her mouth. He released her nose then and leaned over her, his face mere inches away. His foul breath turned her stomach. Sour and reeking of alcohol, he smelled like a wino found dead in an alley after several days. He gripped her chin and Arianna flinched, terrified that he planned more torture. “Now you’ll apologize for kicking me.” he said softly.

“I-I’m sorry,” she gasped, choked.

“You cracked a couple of ribs.” He massaged the tender area with his hand. “And I couldn’t even kick the shite out of you. Any mark or blemish on that perfect flesh of yours and the sacrifice becomes unacceptable.”

Sacrifice? Ah, crap.

“Before tonight is over, though, I’ll have paid you back in full. I’d planned to leave you drugged, so you’d not feel the sting of the flames. But not now.” He smiled in vengeful satisfaction. “No, your flesh will melt off your bones as you scream for mercy. And not even the hand of death will be able to deliver you.”

The man’s certifiable. Totally freaking insane.
Arianna twisted and turned, struggling against the straps binding her.

Conor eyes gleamed in amusement. “You’ll not be getting out of those, luveen, not for all your trying. And they’re lined in lamb’s wool, so’s not to bruise or mar your flesh.”

“Where….” Her voice creaking like a rusty door hinge, she cleared the phlegm from a throat that was burning and raw. “What have you done with my friends?”

“Trussed up like a couple of Christmas geese, but otherwise unharmed,” he replied offhandedly. “They’ve nothing to do with this.”

“And what about me? What do
I
have to do with this, Conor?” Eyes beseeching, tone reasonable, Arianna played a role she hoped would save her life. “I don’t even know you.”

“Nor do you know yourself, ‘twould seem.” His head tipped, eyes roving her scantily clad body. It made her skin crawl. “So perfect,” he sighed. “Bloody temptation you were in the nip. Easy to see why my nephew was after hiding you away, keeping you for himself.”

Keep him talking.
“What do you mean, I don’t know myself?”

“Something Mam said when she was out of her head in hospital. About your mother, and everyone believing herself dead.”

“You’re saying my mother’s alive?” No, these were the ravings of a lunatic.

Conor yawned and checked his watch. “Half-ten. Time enough to get you to the Island and have everything ready for midnight.” He reached for a cup on a table near the bed. “And time for yourself and your mates to have another sip of oblivion.”

“Conor, no, please. Don’t feed me any more of that stuff—or Tara and Michaela. They’re all tied up, and you admitted they have nothing to do with this. I’m already so sick, I think I’ve received an overdose. If I die, your sacrifice will be—”

“Shut your gob!” he roared. The mattress sagged beneath his weight as he sat beside her. Fingers as inflexible as tempered steel embedded themselves in her jaw as he attempted to pry her lips apart, to administer what would likely be a deadly dose of the noxious concoction. The cup touched her mouth. A bitter, nasty tang coated Arianna’s lips. She twisted her head away and spat.

“Bitch!” With a growl of fury, Conor straddled her, a slavering dog hovering above her, jaws locked, lips pulled back over clenched teeth. With the cup balanced in his left hand, he pressed his right forearm across her throat, the pressure slowly crushing her windpipe.

The grotesque face filling her vision began to dim as wavy gray patterns moved before her eyes. She gasped for oxygen, mouth open wide like a dying fish marooned on the sand at low tide. Seizing the opportunity, Conor poured the bitter potion down her throat and lifted his arm. Forced either to swallow or drown, she aspirated the liquid, sputtering and choking until her eyes watered. But he was merciless, single-minded, continuing to tip the cup, spilling more of the stale, spiked water into her mouth to replace that which was running down her neck and into her ears, soaking her hair and pillow.

He left her then. He was going to dose her friends. Helpless despair became numb acceptance of their fate as her muscles liquefied, all conscious thought swept away on a black tide of insentience.

* * *

The icy chill of the North Atlantic winds jarred Arianna back to consciousness. She felt the hard ground beneath her. No longer on the boat, but where was she?

And why couldn’t she move her arms or legs? Had she been injured? Paralyzed?

Awareness of her surroundings came slowly. She realized she had been rolled to her chin in some sort of woolen carpet like a caterpillar ensconced in a scratchy cocoon.

She struggled to raise her head, which had to weigh at least ten thousand pounds. She had been left in a horseshoe-shaped enclosure constructed of standing stones, the open sides ending at the edge of a cliff. The heavy fog smelled of seaweed and brine. A distant crash of waves sounded below.
Dun Aengus.

At a muffled thud of footsteps, her eyes located Conor’s hunched form moving toward her. In the pallid moonlight, his features looked contorted. The man named Conor had become the embodiment of a devil’s spawn.

He was dragging a plank of wood behind him. Inches from the edge of the cliff, he stopped and began to raise it on end. Applying his body weight, straining and cursing, he twisted the wooden post, finally managing to force it between the gaping cracks in the limestone slab.

A survey of the surrounding area revealed that she was reclining on a sort of natural ledge. The square, flat rock formation, measuring some twenty-four feet square, rose about three feet off the ground. A ledge that would have made an excellent pagan altar for ritual human sacrifice.