Page 29 of The Gods Time Forgot

Twenty-Nine

Rua couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept replaying her conversation with Finn and all that she had learned, trying and failing to put it all together into something coherent for her mind to process.

She was a Morr í gan, Finn was C ú Chulainn, and they’d both arrived in New York, memoryless and wanting. The only difference was that Mara had facilitated Rua’s arrival. So how had Finn gotten here? And why? What were two immortals doing in Manhattan?

She’d gone back to the library and reread the anthology on demons and witchcraft, searching for any pertinent information. According to the author, the Morr í gan were nothing but vicious aggressors who wreaked havoc on the world. Ireland’s mightiest hero was struck down by the goddesses out of spite.

Rua tried to understand where her and Finn’s love story fit into that narrative. From everything she remembered, it didn’t. But it was there, and it was stronger than everything else.

He’d even slipped up and almost admitted it earlier. “I remember that I love you,” he’d said. Her stomach fluttered, then soured as she remembered that he tried to take it back because he was still engaged to Annette.

More potent than their love was the betrayal. It came to her after he said that, and it would stay with her forever.

Their fire was only a short distance from Cú Chulainn’s camp. It was there that the three beautiful sisters transformed into old hags, masters of deception. The demigod would never see it coming.

Macha’s mind was in pieces. She was bound by blood to her sisters, and her love for the warrior meant nothing.

“It is him or us, Macha,” Badb reminded her.

Given the choice, she would choose him. But Macha had no choice. Badb had taken it from her.

“His chariot approaches,” Nemain said.

Badb’s delight sickened Macha. She would never forgive her for this.

“Would you care for a bite?” Nemain called out as the warrior neared.

Cú Chulainn’s gaze swept over the three old women. Macha held her breath. He wouldn’t recognize her like this. He’d never know it was she who’d betrayed him.

The warrior looked at the meat they were roasting on the open fire, his lip curled in disgust.

“The champion is too used to dining with kings! He would never lower himself to eat with us,” Badb scoffed.

Macha knew that Cú Chulainn was a humble man despite his conquests. He would take the slight personally.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to offend you. I should love a piece,” he conceded.

“Go ahead, sister, cut the man some meat.” Badb nudged Macha, wearing a malicious grin, and offered her a knife. Macha took the weapon, her hand shaking.

“Are you all right?” Cú Chulainn asked.

Macha looked at him, her eyes begging him not to see her for who she was.

She turned to Badb, thinking she should plunge the knife into her conniving sister’s neck. How long had she been planning this?

“Cut it. Unless you want his suffering to endure a lifetime,” Badb whispered.

“Go ahead,” Nemain urged her gently.

A single tear fell from Macha’s eye as she sliced the meat and handed it to her lover.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it. Her heart was in tatters. So kind was Cú Chulainn that he would eat the vile meat to spare the old women’s feelings.

She watched in horror as he took a bite, the confusion and pain registering as the strength in his left arm disappeared. It dangled lamely at his side, the piece of meat falling from his hand, landing on his thigh. Cú Chulainn roared as his left leg was stripped of its ability to walk.

Macha turned away, drowning in her shame as Cú Chulainn limped away to his inevitable death.

“On the other side of that hill, an army of five thousand approaches. He’ll not survive the day,” Badb said triumphantly. “We’ve made good on our deal with Queen Medb. And we couldn’t have done it without you, Macha.”

It was no wonder he wouldn’t leave with her.

She stared at the ceiling as though the solution might suddenly appear. Every bone in her body wanted to run and never look back. Be free of the cage she was never meant to occupy. But Finn and his sensibleness had gotten under her skin.

Something wasn’t sitting right with her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Assuming everything she remembered was true—and it had to be, because, well, as inexplicable as it was, it made sense. The Morr í gan connection had always been there, through Mara, the hellmouth, and then the more obvious fact that she was living another woman’s life.

But if C ú Chulainn had died—and he did die; she was painfully certain of that—how had he come back? More importantly, why?

She was going to take Finn’s advice and gather more information, which was why she would still go to the hellmouth with Mara tonight. Something there might trigger the rest of her memories, and she could find out once and for all why she was here.

Stomach growling, she looked at the clock. It was five thirty, though she doubted breakfast would be ready yet.

Rua opened Mara’s diary to an entry from earlier in October. She was past the point of feeling any kind of guilt for stealing it.

October 9, 1870

She hasn’t left her room in days. The girl she hoped to befriend played a nasty trick on her. She is putting in a poor effort, and Mrs. Harrington has all but given up on expecting her behavior to be different.

Poor effort? Rua scoffed at Mara’s words. Although, she conceded, she had killed a man. She continued reading.

I am concerned she might be sent away and not make it to Samhain at all. And to make matters worse, the turmoil is driving her and the lord closer together. I don’t know how to stop it. Mother will not be pleased. But she has stopped asking to go to the hellmouth. Less than a month until I get Emma back.

Get Emma back. So Mara knew Rua wasn’t Emma. She wondered how long she had known.

It was a strange realization that the “mother” Mara was always referring to was likely Rua’s sister.

She skipped forward, wondering why Mara had agreed to bring her today, on the thirtieth.

Well, that was fine with Rua. Finn wanted nothing to do with her anyway. She pushed down the pain. She couldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t be so quick to get over a betrayal like that either. Though she wasn’t so easily killed.

“There you are.” An out-of-breath Mara burst through her doors.

Rua shoved the book under her dress. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re going to the hellmouth. Now.” Mara turned to Emma’s armoire, searching for something.

Rua moved to her side table and slipped the book in the drawer. When she turned around, Mara had picked out a cape.

“Right now?” she asked as Mara threw the dark-green cape over her shoulders. “I thought we were meant to go tonight.”

“Yes, but things changed,” Mara whispered urgently. “Let’s go.” She hurried Rua down the hall.

“What happened?” Rua asked. They paused at the top of the staircase. Voices echoed from below, which was odd; it was too early for a social call.

“I’ll explain on the way.” Mara yanked her toward the servants’ staircase.

“What’s going on?” Rua asked, trying to come to a stop, but Mara kept pulling. “Who’s down there?”

“Probably something to do with the hotel.”

Rua remembered how early the men had been at the worksite the first day she’d arrived in Manhattan, and she herself wasn’t accustomed to being awake at this hour, so it wasn’t for her to say if it was out of the ordinary.

But as Mara pulled her along, a feeling washed over Rua, telling her that what Mara said about the hotel wasn’t the truth.

“Why can’t we go tonight?” She struggled to keep up with Mara, who was practically running.

Stopping abruptly, Mara looked at Rua. “Do you want to go to the hellmouth or not?”

“Yes,” Rua answered, though now she was unsure. Mara knew she wasn’t Emma. Perhaps she was just desperate to get her friend back and didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

“This will be our only chance. Mrs. Smith made a comment to me about my nightly habits. I don’t want her to catch the both of us and tell your mother,” she said, out of breath.

Rua appraised Mara’s flustered appearance—the sweat beading at the top of her forehead, the unusual flush of her cheeks, the high pitch of her voice. Perhaps she really was worried they wouldn’t get another chance to get out of the house before Samhain and she would lose her opportunity to bring Emma home. But what was the plan? To camp out in Central Park all night?

“All right,” Rua said, guarded but willing. They continued down the back stairs and then out through a door she’d never used before. It opened to the garden at the side of the house.

They moved through the garden and through a side gate with ease. The fog was thick and the air was cool. Rua pulled her hood tight.

They crossed Fifth Avenue, Mara nervously looking over her shoulder, and made their way toward the park.

Rua glanced back at the Harringtons’ tremendous home. She wouldn’t miss a bit of it.

“How far is the walk from here?” Rua asked, realizing she had only her slippers on and the seams of last night’s gown were beginning to dig into her skin.

“Trefoil Arch is only a short bit away,” Mara said, stuffing her hands within her cape.

“In relation to what?” Rua asked. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so chilly.” She rubbed her hands together and shoved them in her cape like Mara.

They passed none of the familiar landmarks as they walked, not that Rua would have been able to see them anyway. The fog was so dense that her outerwear was beginning to feel damp.

Mara didn’t answer her as they continued walking north on Fifth Avenue alongside the park.

There was a shift in the air. Rua looked around, but there was no visible movement as the fog pressed in on them. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t alone.

Mara didn’t seem to notice, nor did she slow her pace.

They had walked so far from the Harringtons’ that Rua’s feet were blistering. It was impulsive to leave with Mara like this. She should have waited.

“Rua?” Mara broke the silence. “Were you searching through my things? I seem to have misplaced my diary.” She sounded more curious than annoyed.

Put on the spot, Rua’s heart stalled. Focusing on the familiar clicking of a horse’s hooves on stone and the slow roll of carriage wheels as they crept to a stop, she tried to come up with an answer.

“I …” She looked up then, realizing what Mara had said—what Mara had called her.

Rua .

Rua looked beside her, but Mara was no longer there. “Mara?” She turned around, finding a horse and carriage waiting on the road. The Harringtons’ carriage.

Her chest tightened as confusion gripped her. What was going on? She looked around for Mara, for help, but she was alone on the foggy street.

A sharp stab pierced her skin. She screamed, pulling a syringe from her neck.

“What have you done?” Rua’s words felt heavy on her tongue as she began to wobble. She fought to remain conscious as a figure emerged from behind the carriage.

Despite the weight of her eyelids, she managed to blink. It was enough to let her see the face peering over her as she slumped to the ground.

“I want my friend back,” Mara spat.