Free Released by Kerrigan Byrne Page A

excellent swimmer, which he’s not.”
    Rory’s temper warred with his desperation.  Yet, he forced as much diplomacy into his voice as he could muster.  “Was that necessary?” 
    The Druid’s face remained impassive.  “That remains to be seen, doesn’ it?”
    “Ye have nothing to fear from me if you give me yer word he willna be harmed,” Rory vowed. 
    “I give ye my word as a Druid.”
    “I’d rather take yer word as a man,” Rory countered.  “I know nothing of Druid’s, or their words.”
    “Obviously, or ye wouldna have called upon me to rid ye of a Banshee,” Daroch sneered. 
    “Lorne told ye of my curse?” Rory asked. 
    The Druid shook his head, upsetting the musical shells again.  “Nay, but she lurks right behind ye.”

Chapter Seven
     
    Kylah MacKay froze beneath the sudden regard of the entire great room.  Why had she come to this place? 
    She’d felt the hollow echoes of intense pain and barely-leashed fury call to her as she emerged from the swirling grey of the cold Fae nether.  It reminded her of what she was supposed to be feeling.  What she couldn’t make herself feel.  Drifting in a span of endless numb ambivalence, the strains of this new and potent force of emotion drew her toward it with undeniable power.  So she’d followed it.
    And it radiated from somewhere in this room.
    She scanned those closest to her.  Lowland strangers.  They were frightened, all but one. 
    Rory MacKay stood in front of them at the head of the table.  His handsome bronzed features swiftly flicking through a display of shock, hope, disappointment— then pity and shame. 
    He knew what his brother had done to her.  And he felt—sorrow.   
    He fed and cared for her mother, as much as he knew she’d allow from the likes of his family.  The question remained, why?
    Unsure of how to process this, Kylah became abruptly grateful that Rory had been absent that night.  He stood taller and wider than all her assailants.  His powerful arms would have caused her the most pain.  His deep, heavy chest would have robbed her of the most air.  His gentle, warm brown eyes would have confused her and given her the most hope for mercy.  Indeed, she would have plead with him most fervently, cried and begged and gifted him with the loss of her dignity as well as her innocence. 
    Aye, better that he hadn’t been there.  Because hope was dangerous, and Angus had taken that from her first.  Before he’d taken everything else. 
    The council table, full of familiar faces from her life, sat in stunned stillness.  No one blinked.  No one breathed.  They just stared.
    And Kylah wanted to scream at them all, if only to draw a reaction.
    But she didn’t.  She hadn’t screamed since the smoke billowing from her melting flesh had choked off her voice.  It went against everything she’d become in the afterlife, certainly.  And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  She didn’t have the energy to produce one. 
    Then she saw him.
    Sodden, torn layers of linen robes held together by a belt of vines draped over enormous, unimaginable power, whether natural or unnatural had yet to be shown.  The relentless downpour streaked grime from his face, revealing a beauty touched by the Gods and then forsaken by them. The dark tattoo crawled up the muscles of his neck and knotted across the left side of his face drawing the eye away from his hard, full mouth to his severe eyes. 
    His gaze went past observant to intrusive.
    Penetrating. 
    And all that keen intellect hidden by sinister markings of earth and ink concentrated on her . 
    Kylah swore the source of the beckoning misery came from him, but she had to be mistaken.  Though his hair and tense stance bespoke an untamed element, his fearless stare revealed an indifferent petrifaction that rivaled her own.
    “That’s not…”  Rory let out a loud hiss through his throat.  “That’s only one of them.”
    “Never heard of a silent Banshee