longevity. And the Sídhe gave up some of theirs. Had she accepted him, Maire would have lived centuries, seen her grandchildren and great-grandchildren grown to adulthood.
She’d refused. Not just refused, but broken things off with him, because no one could ever take her husband’s place. “I don’t love you,” she had said. “And you have a chance now for something more.”
Now, she meant, that Miach no longer had to come first. Bound sorcerers and their right hands weren’t supposed to make commitments to partners outside that union, because the death of one could mean the death of all three.
After Miach had released him and Maire refused his offer, Elada had been free to explore his interest in Sorcha Kavanaugh, free to discover whether there was more to it than physical attraction.
He had not gone to the Black Rose immediately. Somehow he felt that would have dishonored what he had shared with Maire. But he’d stood outside the bar on more than one night and just listened to Sorcha sing, as beguiled by the power of her voice as humans were by the Fae. And he had imagined what it might be like to live with such a woman, to have music always in his house.
He’d confided his fantasies to Nieve, who had teased him, gently, about the unsuitability of a two-thousand-year-old warrior having a crush on a singer. Because Miach’s truce with Nieve’s husband’s family was still delicate, Elada often accompanied her on visits to her in-laws. He even, for her sake, deigned to drive the hated armored minivan. And when no one was around to hear, she called him “fan boy” and prodded him to act on his feelings.
The moment Miach had placed Sorcha’s file into his hands, everything had changed. He had waited too long. And the fantasies he had spun in his head about Sorcha Kavanaugh, of courtship and companionship unshadowed by the conflict brewing, had died. Every man, every woman, every Fae, every Druid who joined the fight to keep the wall between worlds standing placed themselves in mortal danger.
If Sorcha Kavanaugh was a Druid, the things he had been able to offer Maire, the financial support and the protection from crime and violence, would be meaningless. A Druid bard would be forced to learn to take care of herself. Elada, in short, would have nothing she wanted or needed.
He knew of only one other such bond. Helene’s best friend, Beth Carter, was a Druid archaeologist who had become bound to the Fae warrior Conn of the Hundred Battles. Beth would tell him that this was no impediment, that it allowed them to meet as equals. Beth had long since learned to defend herself from the Prince Consort and others who wanted to force her to bring the wall down. And still, she had remained with Conn.
But Conn was the most renowned Fae champion of his age, a fit helpmeet for a powerful Druid. Elada had no great fame as a champion. His skill lay in fighting in partnership with another, in a particular kind of close combat strategy that was only useful when battling beside a magic user like Miach. No one sang songs about the right hands of sorcerers.
His thoughts were interrupted when Nieve put her head in the door.
“How do you feel?” asked Miach MacCecht’s granddaughter, who would no doubt agree with him about his prospects with Sorcha Kavanaugh. Nieve had bound herself to Garrett, who was Finn’s son, and the boy promised to be as brilliant a mage as Miach one day. And Nieve was a fit partner for him. She had proven herself recklessly brave, fighting her eldest renegade brother and his band of bloodthirsty Druids when they had attacked the house last year.
“I feel fine now.”
His ribs still ached, but he was used to pain. And it would be easy to get too comfortable here. Nieve was a fantastic cook.
Even so, he wanted to get out of the fussy, overstuffed bedroom that was his when he slept at Miach’s house. The sorcerer loved the excess of the Victorians. Miach had bought his City Point mansion with
She’d refused. Not just refused, but broken things off with him, because no one could ever take her husband’s place. “I don’t love you,” she had said. “And you have a chance now for something more.”
Now, she meant, that Miach no longer had to come first. Bound sorcerers and their right hands weren’t supposed to make commitments to partners outside that union, because the death of one could mean the death of all three.
After Miach had released him and Maire refused his offer, Elada had been free to explore his interest in Sorcha Kavanaugh, free to discover whether there was more to it than physical attraction.
He had not gone to the Black Rose immediately. Somehow he felt that would have dishonored what he had shared with Maire. But he’d stood outside the bar on more than one night and just listened to Sorcha sing, as beguiled by the power of her voice as humans were by the Fae. And he had imagined what it might be like to live with such a woman, to have music always in his house.
He’d confided his fantasies to Nieve, who had teased him, gently, about the unsuitability of a two-thousand-year-old warrior having a crush on a singer. Because Miach’s truce with Nieve’s husband’s family was still delicate, Elada often accompanied her on visits to her in-laws. He even, for her sake, deigned to drive the hated armored minivan. And when no one was around to hear, she called him “fan boy” and prodded him to act on his feelings.
The moment Miach had placed Sorcha’s file into his hands, everything had changed. He had waited too long. And the fantasies he had spun in his head about Sorcha Kavanaugh, of courtship and companionship unshadowed by the conflict brewing, had died. Every man, every woman, every Fae, every Druid who joined the fight to keep the wall between worlds standing placed themselves in mortal danger.
If Sorcha Kavanaugh was a Druid, the things he had been able to offer Maire, the financial support and the protection from crime and violence, would be meaningless. A Druid bard would be forced to learn to take care of herself. Elada, in short, would have nothing she wanted or needed.
He knew of only one other such bond. Helene’s best friend, Beth Carter, was a Druid archaeologist who had become bound to the Fae warrior Conn of the Hundred Battles. Beth would tell him that this was no impediment, that it allowed them to meet as equals. Beth had long since learned to defend herself from the Prince Consort and others who wanted to force her to bring the wall down. And still, she had remained with Conn.
But Conn was the most renowned Fae champion of his age, a fit helpmeet for a powerful Druid. Elada had no great fame as a champion. His skill lay in fighting in partnership with another, in a particular kind of close combat strategy that was only useful when battling beside a magic user like Miach. No one sang songs about the right hands of sorcerers.
His thoughts were interrupted when Nieve put her head in the door.
“How do you feel?” asked Miach MacCecht’s granddaughter, who would no doubt agree with him about his prospects with Sorcha Kavanaugh. Nieve had bound herself to Garrett, who was Finn’s son, and the boy promised to be as brilliant a mage as Miach one day. And Nieve was a fit partner for him. She had proven herself recklessly brave, fighting her eldest renegade brother and his band of bloodthirsty Druids when they had attacked the house last year.
“I feel fine now.”
His ribs still ached, but he was used to pain. And it would be easy to get too comfortable here. Nieve was a fantastic cook.
Even so, he wanted to get out of the fussy, overstuffed bedroom that was his when he slept at Miach’s house. The sorcerer loved the excess of the Victorians. Miach had bought his City Point mansion with
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