Destined Read online

  DESTINED

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, May 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1337 Commerce Drive, #13

  Stow, OH 44224

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0233-4

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  DESTINED Copyright © 2005 DAWN MADIGAN

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Heather Osborn.

  Cover art by Christine Clavel.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Destined has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Celtic Charms: Destined

  Dawn Madigan

  Author’s Note

  This tale is loosely based on Celtic myths. Some of the story elements can be traced back to their Celtic roots, while others can’t. There are many alternative truths out there. I chose the ones most suitable here.

  “From Falias was brought Lia Fáil which is in Temair, and which is used to utter a cry under every king that should take Ireland.”

  Adopted from Lebor Gabála Érenn (Book of Conquests)

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Chevy Silverado: General Motors Corp.

  Jell-O: Kraft Foods Holdings, Inc.

  Suzuki: Suzuki Motor Corp.

  Playboy: Playboy Enterprises International, Inc.

  Ford Bronco: Ford Motor Company

  Days of Our Lives: Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

  Guinness: Guinness PLC Corp.

  Incredible Hulk: Marvel Characters, Inc.

  Chapter One

  Somewhere on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon

  October 31

  The mother of all hellish storms was raging outside, a night truly fit for Halloween. Dara Neilan gave a short yelp as a windblown bough lashed wetly against her windshield, its muddle of dark leaves writhing in the violent gusts. She tightened her fists on the steering wheel, her slim body going rigid in the driver’s seat. She wasn’t cold, it took extreme measures to make her body fall ill with the shivers. Fear, on the other hand, followed different rules.

  Shifting forward in her seat, her eyes tried to scan through the swirl of darkness, oil-thick raindrops and things caught in the wind—things that kept slamming against her Chevy’s metallic frame and windows. She wasn’t supposed to be trapped in here, so close to midnight, wading through rain-washed streets within the false security of her truck.

  Trapped.

  If she had only missed that damn birthday party three days ago…

  She hadn’t even wanted to attend a party. She had hoped it would, somehow, make her feel better…help her forget. After all, it was for a good friend of hers, and she had convinced herself it wouldn’t hurt to engage in a little harmless fun. Goddess knew it had been awhile since she’d allowed herself the privilege.

  Now she growled at her own stupidity, smashing a small fist against the steering wheel. Feeling bad—bad enough so that each new dawn was a struggle—that she could handle. Memories, dreams that jolted her awake, sheened with sweat and fumbling in the dark—in the long years to come maybe they, too, would fade.

  Rowan Mackey, however…him she could not handle, nor make him fade from her thoughts.

  Dara stepped on the brake hard, and the Silverado came to a jerky stop within the vague boundaries of nowhere. A lonely woman in a big Chevy truck, she stared blindly at the soaking darkness lapping at her windshield.

  If she had only missed that party…

  Slowly, she shook her head with dawning realization.

  If she had, then he would have found her sometime, someplace else…

  The constant chatter of the merrymakers sounded like a soft hum from Dara’s place of retreat. She was wrestling with the fruit punch at a secluded table, drowning her cup in a tub of cherry-red. The fluid rippled with soft shimmers in the late noon sun, dousing her fingers with a rosy chill.

  “Why don’t you use this?”

  A male voice, rough around the edges, flavored with a softened foreign accent.

  Dara turned, clutching her dripping punch cup, and lifted her face to eyes of stormy green. Her gaze wandered up to the mop of rowdy copper-red framing a square-jawed face, brushing the man’s shoulders. Then her gaze dropped to a faded t-shirt hugging long arm muscles and hard pecs.

  He held out a ladle.

  “Too late for that now, isn’t it?” She smiled flatly, standing still since she had nowhere to go, caught between the grinning man and the punch bowl.

  “We have unfinished business, Dara.”

  The “R” rolled on his tongue. The stranger’s faint Irish brogue was now unmistakable. That alone forced stiffness into her muscles.

  “We?” She arched her brows. “I don’t know you.”

  “I should have introduced myself first, maybe.” He studied her expression. “I’m Rowan Mackey.”

  As if that made a difference! Dara’s knuckles were growing white clasping the punch. “Well, you obviously know my name, Rowan Mackey.”

  Mackey neglected to respond to the obvious.

  “I don’t recall ever having had business with you.” Her tongue absently flicked over her dry lips. The punch hadn’t yet touched her mouth.

  “Oh?” He cocked a fiery brow. “Well, ‘tis just a wee matter of life and death, Dara, nothing more. Can you drive?”

  “Who the hell do you think—?”

  “Aye, you can. That big Chevy parked outside is yours, isn’t it? Meet me on the third night from now. You’ll need to drive. You want to write this down?”

  Flushing with anger, she tossed her drink in his face, watching with dark satisfaction as the punch dripped from the now-soggy curls. His eyes shut briefly as the rosy liquid hit him, then cracked open into slits of green fire. Mackey’s smile broadened beneath the thin punch trickles. He gathered a stray pink droplet with a lingering sweep of his tongue.

  “Sweet,” he murmured.

  It didn’t sound like he was commenting on the punch. Dara gasped as his large fist closed on her hand clutching the cup, holding her captive with a calculated force.

  “Now, now, lass.” Mackey stepped forward, tugging Dara along with him. “You spilled your sweet brew. You should be more careful, aye?”

  His free hand dipped the ladle into the punch bowl. All Dara was able to do was watch, caught in this man’s steely, yet
gentle grasp, too stunned to protest.

  “Let me help you with a refill. With the blessings of County Meath.” He maneuvered her captured hand closer, pouring the red liquid into her empty cup with exaggerated care.

  He lowered his head, speaking softly into her ear, his mouth touching her hair. He told her where to meet him in three nights, and how she should get there. Each of his words ruffled her raven-dark locks, breathed over her skin like a warm breeze. The sensation made fine tremors course through her flesh. Mackey’s scent lashed at her unprepared senses, an intoxicating, sharp blend of male-beast she had once known.

  Dara now visibly shuddered, but not with fear alone.

  Again she lifted her eyes to the man, unaware that he had already let go of her hand. His gaze was too close, intent on her face, as if he were about to kiss her. Dara’s stunned gaze was inadvertently drawn to his mouth—to the succulent male lips whose fleeting touch had just singed her cheek.

  Mackey flashed her a slow smile, letting it spill into his eyes.

  “On the third night, Dara. I know about Aidan. Come to me if you value your life.”

  Dara’s own lips parted with an unspoken question, her dark brown eyes growing wide with fear.

  Mackey slowly straightened up to his full height, breaking their intimate closeness.

  He turned and vanished in the partying throng with a few long, leisurely strides, gone before she managed to force her reluctant muscles to move…

  A dazzle of blue light washed over the truck’s windows. Dara tightened in reflex as thunder came crashing down over her, sounding as if the whole world was shattering to pieces around her. It hauled her mercilessly back to the here and now.

  Why had that insolent Irishman demanded to meet her on this, of all nights, when the turbulent skies hid a ripe, perfectly round moon? It was the second full moon this month, the “Blue Moon” her mother had warned her about. An uncommon occurrence that left her shaky and fizzy through all the remaining days of the month.

  What other pieces of knowledge was Mackey holding about her… From her? The only piece she had, the one Mackey had obviously wanted her to have, was that he had come from County Meath, Ireland.

  Where her parents had come from.

  Where Aidan had been born.

  Was Mackey…her kind? Not that she had a great deal of knowledge what her kind exactly was—her parents’ skulking whispers had often slipped into Irish Gaelic whenever she’d been within hearing range.

  Dara’s hand instinctively dug beneath her thin woolen shirt, caressing icy steel. The concealed dagger’s blade burned with cold fire against her feverish skin, reassuring her of its lethal existence.

  She withdrew her hand, again clutching the wheel. Slamming a sneaker against the gas pedal, she was thrown back against the seat as the Silverado leaped forward.

  Yeah, she would get there, all right. Rowan Mackey was in for one hell of a surprise.

  * * * * *

  Private Property.

  Dara had almost run over the small signpost as her Chevy rolled along the narrow dirt road. The sign meant she was on the right track. Her heart reacted with a sudden jolt, then settled to pound wildly in her chest. She straightened up and leaned forward against the wheel, straining to keep to the murky road. It unraveled before the truck’s headlights piece by broken piece, the rest of the trail swallowed by thick, inky-black darkness. When the warehouse suddenly materialized ahead, she slammed her foot hard on the brakes and then sat, staring, behind the wheel.

  “Goddess,” she mumbled. “You’re going to pay for this one, Mackey.”

  Again she touched the sheathed dagger, this time feeling it through her thin shirt. The dagger was a treasured gift. The day Dara began her first monthly courses, her mother had pulled her aside, making sure the both of them had truly been alone. “Beware of Hounds,” she had whispered, and had forced the sheathed dagger into Dara’s startled grasp, her own hands shaking badly.

  Dara groaned, furious with herself for getting lost in memories. With added rancor she pushed the door open, hopping out into the storm.

  Outside, the wind hummed ruthlessly. Icy gusts jabbed rain needles into Dara’s eyes, snatched her thick hair and lashed it against her face. Her shirt billowed like a bell about her slim form. Gasping, she was flung back against the Chevy’s metal skin. As if fighting the storm weren’t enough, out here in the open every inch of her body was craving the pull of the full moon, though it was buried beneath heavy layers of black clouds.

  “Oh, shit!”

  She used her other arm to shield her wind-beaten face, aiming a look in the direction of the warehouse.

  A little rain wouldn’t kill her… One of Aidan’s favorite quips had been that she was made of rainproof sugar…

  Her throat clenched at the mere thought of Aidan, and she bit back the encroaching tears. Her right hand maintained a firm grip on the sheathed dagger’s bony hilt. She crouched against the wind, then launched herself into the tempest.

  Dara screamed as white-hot iron pierced her left shoulder from back to front, the violent blow forcing her to her knees. The raging gale smothered her cry as her body hit the muddy ground.

  Mackey…Mackey shot her?

  Coherent thought broke into jumbled fragments as the pain impossibly deepened and burrowed into the bone, paralyzing her left arm. She writhed in the mud, fumbling for her left shoulder, touching cold metal and something sticky and warm.

  Arrowhead…blood…

  Part of Dara’s mind registered this information coolly, analyzing it from somewhere faraway and safe. She threw back her head, eyes forced shut, whimpering with each movement that jolted the arrow jammed in her shoulder. Her right hand slid over the slick blood and tore the dagger away from its scabbard.

  You’re going down with me, Mackey…

  She closed her eyes and slackened her body with an effort, playing unconscious. She wasn’t too far from the real thing.

  Mackey’d tried to kill her… He’d come near her to make sure he’d got her, and then she would…she would…

  Another bout of pain forced any rational thought out of Dara’s mind. And then someone knelt by her side, gently drawing her hair away from her face. Squeezing out a broken cry of anger and pain, she arched her dagger into the air with a silvery flash and thrust it straight into—

  Rowan Mackey’s large fist caught her flying hand with ease, holding her at the narrow wrist. His green eyes, pools of mystery in the darkness, revealed surprise and…concern?

  “Easy, Dara. I’m on your side.”

  A pair of yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness behind his back and Dara screamed again.

  “Shhh, let me have a look at that shoulder, lass.”

  “Behind you!” she blurted with her last ounces of strength. Her fingers loosened their hold, the dagger plummeting into the mud with a soft wet sound.

  Rowan sensed the searing gaze on his back and swiveled with a growl, his own eyes flashing amber.

  By Danu, how much more careless could he get?

  His long muscles tensed, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the hostile darkness, knowing that it was already too late. The pouring rain had already erased all the scents, wiped away all the trails.

  The Cú—the Hound—was already gone.

  Rowan crouched beside Dara, collapsed in front of the Chevy. He hoped she wasn’t worse than unconscious. A stab of guilt and fear penetrated his core as he pressed his face against her cold, wet breasts in search of a heartbeat. He pushed the soaked shirt up over her rib cage and groaned with relief as he felt the quick, soft drumming of her heart against the right side of his face.

  He had managed to trick her into coming to him out of her own free will, as the ancient Law had demanded, but he hadn’t been betting on a Hound attack on these grounds.

  Great Danu, this territory was Talamh Slán…Safe Grounds!

  Not to mention that Hound hits had grown extremely rare for almost a century now. Dara should have been safe h
ere. For that reason alone had he chosen this desolate place to be the location of their first knowing. And to think he had the nerve to consider himself a Guardian…

  Hastily, he hefted her fallen dagger in his large palm. It was Scían, a traditional weapon made for self-defense, with a bleached-bone hilt and a blade of Damascus steel, its nearly black surface inlaid with swirling silver veins. He cursed as the silver stung his skin, and thrust the weapon through his leather belt.

  Shifting, he positioned his arms beneath his destined mate’s back and below the bend of her knees, and tenderly gathered her limp form into his embrace. Careful not to move the arrow lodged in her shoulder, he slowly scooped her up and sniffed the empty night air one last time. His eyes flashed golden again, attempting to slash through the shadows.

  Nothing was out there but wall of solid darkness.

  Rowan cradled his precious load against his chest and made a desperate run for the warehouse. Devouring the short distance in three long leaps, he bashed a steel-toed boot against the door, kicking it open.

  Chapter Two

  Cool, damp darkness and a stale odor greeted Rowan as he charged through the doorway. They indicated that the warehouse had been unused for a long time, just as he’d been told. This was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on the place. As the Law clearly stated, their first knowing should take place within the shelter of the Safe Grounds, in a location new to them both.

  As if responding to his thoughts, Dara moaned and stirred in his arms.

  He shot a quick glance around and walked deeper inside, spotting a dark corner where thick furry rugs covered the otherwise bare floor. He kicked off his boots and trod barefoot across the soft rugs without raising a single dust mote. The neatness of this hidden niche was undoubtedly the work of local Kanjali folk, pampering this area’s Safe Grounds.