Building From Ashes
Prologue
Wicklow Mountains, Ireland
June 2010
He emerged from the earth, the acrid smell of smoke hitting his nose as he brushed the loose soil from his face. He could see the flames licking at the houses, and hear the shouts of the humans as they ran, some rushing to safety, others attempting to drown the fire that had already turned the main house to rubble.
His daughter sat at the edge of the garden, staring into the flames, leaning toward the heat as if drawn by some ineffable force.
Carwyn stalked toward her. “Deirdre.”
She looked up, her eyes feverish in the moonlight. “I kept everyone away. As soon as I realized… I kept them all away. No one’s been hurt.”
He pulled her up by the collar of her singed shirt. “What have you done?”
“As soon as I realized… She’s still alive. She must be, I think. The flames keep coming, and I feel… I knew as soon as she woke—”
“What have you done?” he roared as the roof of the barn adjacent to the farmhouse started to burn. He glared at her, the blood tears staining her cheeks and her auburn hair wild around her face. His grip on her softened.
Carwyn’s face fell, and his rage fled. “My daughter”—he groaned—“what have you done?” He let go of her collar, and Deirdre’s long legs seemed to crumple under her as she sank back into the cool soil of the summer garden.
He waded through the mass of people running away from the smoking farmhouse. The old building was in ruins, the top having collapsed onto the ground floors. Through the rubble, he could see the black doorway his son had dug into the hill hundreds of years before. What had once been a cozy passageway now gaped like a tomb, and rough stones had fallen in front of it, partially obscuring the entrance.
Carwyn walked toward it, listening for any sounds that escaped the scorched earth. He lifted his hands, forcing out his energy to move the rocks, as he toed off the shoes he’d been wearing. He dug his feet into the earth, letting the hum of elemental energy flow through him as he felt for her. The air hung thick with smoke, but a faint waft of new amnis, the immortal energy that animated their bodies, carried the smell of charred hawthorn to his nose, drawing him closer.
As he entered the dark passageway, he heard her; her shallow breaths echoed off the worn walls. He followed the trail of her scent and amnis, trying to keep his heart under control, knowing that any hint of danger could result in a rush of suffocating fire. He opened his mouth to speak, keeping his voice quiet, so as not to startle her.
“Brigid?”
A small hitch in her breath.
“It’s me.”
The panting picked up speed, and he scoured the past for something that might calm her. The soft refrain of a Welsh lullaby came to him, and he blinked at the memory of a solemn young girl sitting next to his son in the library, her brown eyes rose to Ioan’s, frowning to hear the fierce immortal singing a childish tune. Carwyn paused as a rush of grief threatened to overpower him.
Brigid had always been too old for lullabies.
“Brigid?” he called again.
Carwyn turned a corner, still humming the soft tune, and brushed away the remnants of a burned oak door, blinking away bloody tears as he entered the chamber.
The furniture had been pushed to the edges of the room by the initial blast. There were still flames teasing the edges of a bookcase and a desk, but the rest of the sturdy oak had been torched. He saw her huddled figure glowing through the smoke.
The small woman sat in the center of the room, curled into herself, utterly still. Her knees were drawn to her forehead, and her arms were wrapped around her legs. No trace of clothing remained on her delicate frame and no hair covered her head. She was naked as the day she had been born into the world, the red-gold flames swirling along her skin having burned away any trace of the human she had once been.
She did not breathe, but her heart began to race. He stopped humming and glanced around the room as he felt the slow draw of air gather around her body. Suddenly, Brigid’s head rose and she opened her eyes. Carwyn gasped. Her warm amber eyes had burned to ash-grey around the edge of her irises, and streaks of blood and soot covered her heart-shaped face.
The flames along her arms began to lick up her neck. Carwyn held up both hands.
“Calm, Brigid.”
Her face fell in pain and confusion. Then she opened her mouth, fangs gleaming in the firelight, as she let out a feral scream and the fire burst forth.
In the space of a heartbeat, Carwyn lifted his shoulders and pulled the mountain down.
Generations come and generations go,
but the Earth remains forever.
Ecclesiastes 1:4
Chapter One
Dublin, Ireland
December 1995
Looking back, Brigid Connor would not think it odd how comfortable she’d always been with monsters. The girl had learned at an early age that appearances could be deceiving. Surely her stepfather, with his soft brown hair, calm smile, and open countenance, looked like the picture of fatherly affection and care. Her mother, with her placid face and helping hands, was the ideal of domestic contentment.