The sheer abundance of flowers and plants and how well they grew reminded him of the first time he’d gone to Death’s realm. Erith had a thing for flowers, and the plants seemed to bloom as she neared, as if they were eager for her attention.
Cathal found himself walking among the flora. There were posies, lavender, hollyhocks, and delphinium. He saw an outside table area that was covered with wisteria, growing all over it to keep it shaded. Then he spotted the rose garden. Cathal couldn’t help but take a closer look. There were blooms of every size and color. This section was twice the size of the other gardens, and the fragrance hung heavy in the air.
He was just turning away when he happened to see a weathered stick helping to support one of the rose bushes. It was only by chance that he caught what looked like writing on the one-inch thick wood. He leaned closer, but it was so worn that he couldn’t make it out clearly. That’s when he ran his finger over it and traced the small outline of a ward used to keep Fae out.
It was the first sign of any ward he’d seen. Aisling had searched the property, but she probably hadn’t thought to look in the gardens. He wouldn’t have either. It had been sheer luck that he’d even spotted it.
He straightened and looked over the plants to the cottage. The marking was old. Very old. It was wearing thin as well, which meant that the ward wasn’t strong. That could allow a powerful Fae to come onto the land. How much would it take to enter the house? Cathal walked around the dwelling again. This time, he looked at inconspicuous places to search for the wards. Unfortunately, he didn’t find any.
Cathal ran a hand down his face and blew out a breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. When he looked, he found a Fae on the neighboring property, looking at the Halfling’s cottage. Cathal was about to go to the Fae when he realized that he couldn’t take the time to chase each and every Fae away. While he was occupied with one, others could rush the house.
That left him with only one option.
He walked to the front of the house and onto the porch. Then he dropped his veil and knocked on the door.
Chapter Seven
The last thing Sorcha expected was a knock on her door. She jerked her head up from making tea and stared at the front of the house as if willing herself to see through it and to who wanted to talk to her. She didn’t move. Her ankle was swollen again from her hike at the pools. She just wanted to lay on the couch and pretend that the morning hadn’t happened.
The knock came again.
She turned her head. If she ignored whoever it was, maybe they would go away. She knew it wasn’t Rhona, because her cousin would’ve called to let her know that she was here. Whoever had come was a stranger, which meant, Sorcha didn’t want to answer the door and pretend to be nice. And the very last thing she wanted was to invite anyone in.
Minutes went by with nothing. Sorcha let out a sigh. Finally, something had gone right.
Then came the knock once more.
She dropped her chin to her chest. Was this Fate laughing at her? Telling her that it didn’t matter what she wanted, that she had to go to the door?
Fuck Fate. I’ve had enough. I just want to be left alone.
“I’m going to keep knocking until you open the door.”
Her stomach fell to her feet. She knew that voice. It was seared into her brain from the other night, and then just a little while ago at the pools. But what was the Irishman doing at her house? And how the hell had he found her?
She forgot about wanting to be alone and hobbled her way to the door. Without opening it, she said, “I told you I didn’t want to hear what you had to say.”
“That no longer matters. The simple fact is, the Fae are interested in you. And they’ll stop at nothing to get you.”
Sorcha frowned, not liking the feeling his words gave her. “This is Skye. Nothing can happen to me here.”
A long, drawn-out sigh reached her. “I wish I could say you’re right, but that isn’t the case. You don’t want to see me, and I respect that. But at least let me say my piece. Then, I’ll go.”
Could it be that easy? She knew it wasn’t. Nothing ever was. People said whatever they needed to get what they wanted. She didn’t trust anyone. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She trusted Rhona. Partly because she was family, and in part because Sorcha had known Rhona her entire life.
“My name is Cathal,” he said. “I give you my word that I’m not here to harm you. I could’ve done that in Ireland or a little while ago at the Fairy Pools. I did neither.”
Sorcha put her forehead against the door, her ankle throbbing. “Well, Cathal, that’s all very nice, but I don’t trust anything you’re saying.”
“Good,” he replied.
That made her pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You shouldn’t trust anyone. I don’t care if you crack a window and we talk through it, but I need to speak with you.”
“Then talk here.”
“I’d rather see your face.”
Sorcha frowned and looked longingly at the chair near the window. She could sit down and prop up her ankle to help with the pain. That’s what she had been making the herbal tea for. She couldn’t listen to him and deal with the agony, not as the throbbing intensified. “Can we do this later? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“It needs to be now.”
If it would get him to go away, then she’d listen to his nonsense. Sorcha used the furniture she passed as a crutch to get to the chair. She opened the window a few inches after she sat. “Cathal,” she called.
In two strides, he was there, looking down at her with his red eyes. Sorcha realized belatedly that she should be shocked that a Dark Fae was speaking with her. She’d seen one from afar before, but this was her first time speaking with one so close. She knew how dangerous they could be, which made her question her sanity for being so gruff with him. What kind of deranged person intentionally angered a Dark Fae?
Apparently, she did.
She inwardly rolled her eyes at herself. It would probably do her a world of good to talk to a therapist. Then again, would it really help to rehash things that only made her want to curl into a ball and pretend that the world around her didn’t exist? Not really.
Cathal pulled one of the rocking chairs from the porch around and sank onto it. Sorcha waited for the wood to groan in protest at his considerable height, but to her surprise, there was nothing. She watched a lock of hair that escaped his queue dance around his face before tangling in his thick eyelashes. Her fringe never looked like that, even with mascara. Thanks to her auburn locks, her lashes were all but nonexistent.
“Thank you,” he said.
She shrugged and shifted to lift her leg. “What is it you want?”
His gaze looked through the glass to her ankle. “Is that still bothering you?”
“Naw. I just like to pretend I have an injury.”
Jesus Christ! What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Sorcha? You’re never this vile to anyone. I wouldn’t blame him at all for punching through the glass and thumping your head.
She grimaced as she looked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’ve had a rough morning,” he said calmly.