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Tomorrow's Memories
Havoc...Destruction...Revenge…
With triumph heavy on their hearts, Kara O'Keefe and the survivors from the battle atop Yesterday's Dreams rush to Ireland and Tír na nÓg, carrying with them a weapon feared by gods and men. There they seek solace and healing for their warriors, and a miracle for Patrick, Kara's father, mortally wounded in the battle.
What they find is a siege of ancient enemies. Carmán's children have returned, united with a foe from the very dawn of the Tuatha de Danaan. Their combined forces threaten to be more than the immortal Sidhe and their human allies can combat.
Still coming to grips with her magical heritage, Kara must once more face ultimate evil and help to save the immortal bloodline from which she is descended.
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About the Author
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Danielle Ackley-McPhail has worked both sides of the publishing industry for over a decade. She has used her talent and her passion for writing to expand her knowledge of the rich mythology of her Celtic heritage and to make her mark in the world of fantasy. Danielle lives in New Jersey with husband and fellow writer, Mike McPhail, mother-in-law Teresa, and three extremely spoiled cats.
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Excerpt
The gloom of the darkened street lifted as the door of the pub swung open, releasing a burst of rousing music into the night. Mingled with the pulsing beat was the laughter and singing of men and women well into their pints, and yet there was a certain peaceful quality to the ruckus. The tall, poised man slipped out with an inhuman grace and carefully closed the door behind him, more a calculated move to avoid attention, rather than out of consideration for those that must wake before the sun to earn their living. His was another way to disturb their rest, but in his own time.
Humming to himself, Ewan–once known as Dulachan of the Tuatha de Danaan–casually strolled down the sporadically lit street, his well-cut brown suede blazer and time-molded black denim jeans blended with the shadows, while his shoulder-length, bright copper hair shimmered like muted silk until he entered the pool of the streetlight, where it blazed like the setting sun.
He looked like he should be on the stage or the cinema screen, not strolling the streets of Aberdeen. But here he was, content to lurk in this peaceful haven, with all the comforts of society, yet free of the predatory competition he would find elsewhere. Or so he thought; as he rounded the corner of the street where he rented a room in a boarding house, he was confronted by the sight a woman sprawled on the ground beneath the streetlight in front of his building. Her pale, bare skin was streaked a bloody red that was nearly as deep in shade as the tumble of fiery curls draped across her face.
His heart raced and he swallowed hard. Breaking into something more than a walk but less than a trot, he cast searching looks up and down the street. Had anyone seen what happened? Did the woman's attacker still stand nearby? Damn! This was too soon. So much careful planning, and if he didn't move quickly it would all go to waste. He suppressed a snarl of frustration as he again scanned the street, this time to determine if anyone watched from what they though was the safety of their darkened windows. There was no one in sight, even to his heightened senses. It was up to him to deal with the mess. Fortunate for him… too bad for the woman.
As he drew closer, he noticed the long, tapered nails visible on her out-flung hand were painted ebony. They also looked to be filed to sharp points. A punker then, or a goth, probably up from London. She should have stayed there instead of coming up here and disrupting his plans. If she weren't dead she'd soon wish she had been. He quickly stooped to get his arms beneath her and gather her up.
"Evenin', Ewan. You're out a bit late tonight."
Ewan flinched and snatched his hands away from the body; a part of him noting her velvety skin seemed to twitch as he did so. With the grace of a stalking panther he rose and turned. What a pity, MacDonald was not one of those he'd been eyeing, and hardly worth the effort of reaping, though that would make little difference now. Keeping his face neutral and his voice friendly, he stepped closed, angling his body to obstruct MacDonald's view. "Evenin' yerself, Jamie… Cameron was bendin' my ear at the pub, I could'na get clear o' him."
Why did the man not react? He wasn't blind, and yet MacDonald acted as if there was no body right there on the ground. Still, Ewan could not risk it. Better to secretly do away with two bodies, than one and all of his plans. He stepped even closer and called a bit of power to his hands.
"Did you drop something?" MacDonald asked and looked down towards his feet, as if whatever it was would all of a sudden be right there.
Ewan could not help but look himself, though he knew there was nothing to find. It was curious, though; he could have sworn the woman's hand had been just behind his foot. Damn! If she woke up he would have much more trouble silencing the two of them.
As if inspired by his thoughts, there was a shifting movement behind him. He thought he heard the whispering scrape of calloused skin on gravel and cursed more fervently. He realized he would have to move quickly. His hard, slate-blue eyes hooded and lips drawn up in the barest of smiles, Ewan advanced on his neighbor, whom he judged as the greater threat.
It was as he was about to strike the man down that Ewan's eyes flew wide and the smile slid completely from his face. Being wrong was always so unexpected. Instead of watching the pitiful human crumble before him as Ewan drew in what little he could gather from the un-Gifted Scotsman's necessarily swift death, the dark Sidhe suddenly found himself the victim. His back tried to arch away from the burning agony that abruptly slashed from his nape all the way down to his buttocks, as if a dagger had run the length of his spine, tearing through his clothes as if they were no more substantial than a butterfly's wing. A strangled cry caught in his throat, while the power he had gathered to strike down McDonald ebbed away… no, was drawn away.
"Here now, what ails ye, Ewan? Tell me what's wrong, man!" In shock, Ewan watched as MacDonald's brow furrowed and the farmer's hands flew up to brace him.
How ironic, but he couldn't worry about the man now; apparently, whatever had struck down the woman had returned. He started to twist around when his head was locked in place by an iron-tight grip. With dawning realization, Ewan looked down at the hand flexing around his throat, noticing streaks of blood on alabaster skin, and sharp, ebony nails that were proving to be far more than for show. Ewan quaked inside. He had not known such personal fear since the long-ago day several centuries before, when Manannan Mac Lir, no longer able to overlook Dulachan's dark… amusements, had cast him from the Land of Promise.
"Sweet Lord, what's wrong with you, lad? Are ye ill?"
He tried to focus on his neighbor, but a sickly sweet odor further muddled his efforts. As blood and oxygen seeped through pinched pathways, the added distraction of invasive whispers drifting through his head, intermittent and indistinct, did not help. When he noticed the pale movement of several more figures darting just beyond the circle of their streetlight, it occurred to him that MacDonald's reprieve would be short-lived. Ewan had his own concerns with this unknown foe demanding his attention.
What were they? He had never heard of any creature that could wrest power from the very grip of one of the Sidhe. How was he to combat such a threat? And why didn't MacDonald properly react to what was taking place right before him? How could he be so blind? Could he not see what was happening? Why did he just stand there? In an effort at his own defense, Ewan gathered more mage energy, only to hear a pleased moan by his ear as it was again drawn away from his control.
His breath came only in panting gasps as chilling shivers sent bursts of fire coursing across his back. The one thing he heard clearest of all was a snarling laugh, as the pale fingers with their complement of black enameled daggers wrapped around his throat and tore it free.
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