“Are you worried about your parents?”
Wise enough not to press, Cyn gave a slow nod. “Yes. I wish they would have been honest with me. It was bad enough when I thought they’d taken off without saying good-bye.” He didn’t try to hide the edge in his voice. “Now I have no way of knowing whether they’re okay or not.”
She offered a sympathetic smile. “They no doubt wanted to protect you.”
“I don’t want their protection,” he growled, glancing toward the mantel where he had a charcoal sketch of the two fairies who’d rescued him from the caves and taken him into their home. “If they’d stayed we could have faced the threat together.”
She didn’t bother to point out that his foster parents would die rather than place him in danger. Which meant that she was already learning he had a fierce belief that he was supposed to be the defender.
A good sign.
“What were they doing before they left?” she instead asked.
Pain twisted his gut at his last memory of watching Erinna and Mika strolling away from his lair, hand in hand.
If someone had harmed them . . .
He shook his head, refusing to even contemplate the possibility.
“They’d gone to Dublin to speak with the druids,” he said.
“About what?”
Cyn shrugged. When his foster parents had visited to say they were traveling to Dublin, he hadn’t paid much attention. It wasn’t like it was out of the ordinary. And they’d been careful not to allow him to sense they might be troubled.
“They didn’t say.” He grimaced, belatedly wishing he’d pressed for more details. “After the meeting they intended to stay for a gathering of the Irish fairies.”
“And they never returned?”
“No.” He gave a frustrated shake of his head. “I assumed they decided to remain with their tribe. Or that they were traveling. They often take off during the winter months, although they’d never disappeared without leaving a note for me,” he explained. “If I’d thought for a second they were in danger—”
“You couldn’t know; you can’t blame yourself,” she hastily assured him, moving close enough to lay her hand against his chest. “Besides, they more than likely are in hiding, waiting for the danger to pass. Fey are very clever creatures.”
His lips twisted. His princess hid a soft heart beneath her prickly independence.
Fate had chosen well for him.
“Very clever,” he agreed, his hands spanning her waist and urging her against his body.
Instant heat flared through her eyes as he urged her against the thickening length of his arousal, but she pressed her hand against his chest.
“Tell me why you feel that this is familiar.”
He smiled, his hand sliding upward to cup her breast. “This?”
“No.” She shivered, clearly struggling to recall what she wanted to say. “I mean the spell that the Commission is going to cast.”
“I was afraid that’s what you meant,” Cyn admitted, ruefully allowing his hands to drop.
When he took Fallon back to his bed he wanted her full attention.
“Well?” she prompted.
“It isn’t the spell itself that teases at my memory. I wasn’t even aware that it was possible to close the dimensions,” he admitted. “It’s more the overall threat to destroy demons.”
“Have you been able to track the source of the hieroglyphs?”
“No, but I suspect that it has a fey history, but the actual spell is more human . . . Shit.”
She looked alarmed. “What?”
Cyn restlessly paced toward the heavy arched doors. Shoving one open, he stepped onto the balcony that overlooked the vast lake that surrounded his lair. In the moonlight he could easily make out the lights of the village that was the only civilization among the rugged hills and broad valleys.
There was no worry any of his clansmen would catch sight of him. There were layers of magic wrapped around the castle to keep any prying eyes from seeing anything more than a thick mist.
He walked to place his hands on the stone balustrade, his thoughts catapulted three hundred years in the past.
For long minutes he silently shuffled through his memories, following a single thread until it reached the dramatic confrontation just a year ago.
There was a light touch on his arm as Fallon joined him on the balcony. “Cyn, what is it?”
“A human magic-user,” he muttered, turning his head to meet her concerned gaze.
“Do you know him?”
He shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of other humans who tried to destroy demons.”
“Who?”
“The witches.” With a sudden surge of determination, Cyn pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. “I have to speak with Dante.”
She blinked in confusion. “Who is Dante?”