Way Down We Go: Sons and Daughters of Lir, #1

By Andrea Jenelle

Tropes: Fated Mates; Star-Crossed Lovers; Marriage of Convenience

Callum has been imprisoned for over a thousand years.
He's finally free and he has three objectives:

Claim Her.

Steal Her.

Sacrifice Her.

The Prince of the North Sea will claim his vengeance on the descendant of the witch that stole his brother's life.

Meghan is a research librarian in modern day Chicago. And he's the new maintenance guy in her apartment complex.

A paranormal monster romance inspired by Scottish each uisge folklore and mythology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Jenelle
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962123013

Book preview

PART ONE:

CLAIMING HER

Chapter one

Way Down We Go (Stripped): Kaleo

Outer Hebrides Islands, Each Uisge Keep, 963 A.D.

I stare at my elder brother in disbelief. You would give up the peace we have held for three hundred years over this woman?

Eachann nods, his expression filled with a fervent adoration I’ve never seen. My brother is arrogant and entitled and accustomed to taking what he wants. As the heir to the Each Uisge throne, there’s little he denies himself. And he’s decided he wants the daughter of the village blacksmith. She’s a descendant of Maeve, but that connection is far removed. She’s a pious Christian and she and her family have turned their backs on the old ways.

The brine in her blood is weak. It’s her agile mind and fragile beauty that have enthralled him. ‘Twill be a miracle if she survives the sigil ceremony and the joining. If she’s even willing to follow him beneath the waves.

She won’t betray me, he claims.

I scoff at his certainty. In my experience, mortals always betray us. It’s why we even need an army it’s my duty to command. How can you be sure of that?

She made a blood oath.

Blood oaths mean nothing to mortals if they haven’t accepted the sigil. There is nothing to bind them to their vows.

Our love binds our blood oath and makes it sacred.

Our lore forbids us from spilling our seed in the womb of a mortal woman unless the union is first sanctified by ceremony and she bears the sigil of her mate on her wrists. In the mating ceremony, the inner skin of her wrists is carved with the mark of her mate’s beast. She must willingly allow this. After the ceremony, the old gods grant her the ability to dance in the waves and bear an each uisge of mixed blood. We’re all of mixed blood because the union between two each uisge has always proven infertile.

I have a sneaking suspicion he already mated with her, and her womb quickens with his seed. Does she carry your babe?

His answer is a grin bright enough to rival the sun. He claps his hand on my shoulder. I’ll be a father soon, Callum.

I shake his hand from my shoulder and glare. You will bring down the wrath of the village and the church on our heads.

Not if our union is sanctified, he reassures me.

So she’s agreed to leave behind her family and the cross she clings to because of you?

She has. I’m to meet her tonight on the sands of the secluded inlet.

The inlet is where we come ashore when we need to parlay with the mortals. It’s a hidden place where we transition from our monster form into our human one. If he’s shared the location of our secret cove, he’s jeopardized everything my armies and I have sought to achieve. She knows where we come ashore? I grimly ask.

He shakes his head enthusiastically. She promised not to divulge our secrets.

He’s always been this kind of man. Superbly confident in the benevolence of everyone he interacts with. He can’t comprehend the possibility of malice toward him or our kind. You had best hope she keeps those secrets close. If she reveals them, you put all of us in peril.

The only time an each uisge is completely at the mercy of a mortal is in the midst of the transition from beast to man. It’s why we keep the location of the cove a secret – even from mortals we’ve made alliances with. Our population dwindles every century as fewer people follow the old ways. As more and more frequently we become the target of pulpit condemnations courtesy of village priests and the hunting parties they incite to violence. As more and more frequently the spilling of our blood becomes a way for mortals to claim greatness.

She loves me, and she will bear my child. She will not betray me, he stubbornly declares.

I don’t share Eachann’s certainty. I think my cadre and I should follow you.

To do so is your prerogative, and I’ll welcome the company. But I don’t think an armed guard is necessary.

You are the heir to the throne and it’s my duty as commander to protect you, I remind him. He’s fond of slipping away and eschewing the trappings of his rank.

He grins again. Thank you, brother. We leave at dusk.

I watch him stride away with an ominous premonition lodged in my gut.

***

When we gallop from the waves, we aren’t greeted by my brother’s prospective bride. A hedge bristling with swords is our welcome and we are gravely outnumbered.

We’re striding from the surf mid-transformation and we’re vulnerable to the iron of their weapons. This is when we can be cleaved muscle from bone, our hearts torn from our chests.

They attack Eachann first. All of his brash confidence is gone. There is pallor and resignation in his features as he tastes the venom of betrayal. They cut him down on the sand before he can defend himself. He falls and they descend on him with righteous fury. Bring down the unholy! they cry.

We try to retreat back into the waves, but they follow. Hacking and cursing our very existence.

It’s a melee, and as I bring my sword arm down again and again, I’m weary. The battle is fierce and we’re holding our own even though my brother has fallen. I can’t allow my sorrow at losing Eachann to impede my ability to command my men and preserve their lives.

One of the last attackers is on the sand, cowering before my sword, when the ranks part and my aunt and uncle step forward. My father is hobbled and suspended on chains between them. My mother is nowhere in sight.

My eyes don’t leave him as I reach behind me and decapitate my enemy.

There is nothing left for you, my Aunt Creiddylad haughtily informs me. Your mother is distraught, and your father will soon meet his death. Your brother will be buried in consecrated ground to prevent his resurrection. You’ll be condemned as an insurgent and a traitor to the new crown for serving as his escort and leading the royal guard into a hazardous situation. The goddess Cailleach Bheure has agreed to put you under geas.

A geas? By what right? And who holds the new crown? I sharply ask. The feeling lodged in my gut was a premonition of far more than Eachann’s death. My uncle has no interest in adhering to the Old Ways or remaining loyal to our way of life. He’s always bitterly undermined my father’s authority and grasped at whatever power was within his reach. I don’t know what bargain they made with the gods to place me under geas. A geas is an unbreakable obligation placed on you. I’ll have to fulfill its terms before I’m free to make my own choices. If my aunt and uncle made a deal with the reaper goddess I will be bound to honor the terms.

Just as I suspected, Cairneach, my uncle, steps forward. The crown now rests on my brow. It should have been mine the last two thousand years. My brother wanted to keep our ways and our kind separate from those who would be our allies. I have no such reservations. As for your geas, the gods want the ocean sanctified with the blood of a consort. They were overwhelmingly enthusiastic about making certain your geas demands you sacrifice your mate after she delivers your babe and comes into her power.

You’ll rue the day you trusted the mortals, my father interjects.

My aunt cuffs him on the side of the face with the heavy silver of her bracelet. None of your insolence, she barks.

Even though you’ve used vile trickery to usurp my throne, I am still the rightful king, he regally informs her.

My men and I won’t follow you, I inform my uncle. And I don’t have a mate to sacrifice. The geas means nothing.

They’re no longer your men, he snidely replies. As of this moment, you are stripped of your command and your power. You’re sentenced to imprisonment in one of the caves on the remotest island until your mate is born and on the verge of claiming the magic in her veins.

The rest of the clan will not remain idle while you overthrow my family. And they’ll not condone chaining me to a wall indefinitely.

Anyone who refuses to bow in obeisance and pledge their loyalty will feel the wrath of their new ruler.

You cannot kill or imprison the entire clan, I scoff.

We won’t need to. Fear instills loyalty. When it becomes known what has happened to the king, the crown prince, and the commander, they’ll all fall in line, he smugly assures me. He punctuates his pronouncement by waving the guards flanked beside him forward. You’ll quietly submit to your fate.

I will not. Your reign will end in the destruction of everything and everyone I know and love. I fully transform into my beast form and strike out with sharp hooves and snarling teeth when the traitorous guards approach me.

My kick slices into the gut of the one on the right and I lift the other one at the nape with my teeth, flinging his snapped neck into the waves. The other attacker sinks to his knees, his intestines spilling onto the sand.

To me! I neigh to my men at arms.

They all transform into their each uisge forms and follow me into the rising tide. When I look over my shoulder, my uncle’s gaze latches on mine. He drives his dagger into my father’s heart before my eyes and cuts his head from his neck. I need to ensure my mother and sister are safe. My mother is bonded to my father like all mortal each uisge mates and will know the moment he bows to death. My sister is the first female of our kind born in hundreds of years, and I’m sure my uncle means to give her to his loathsome son, Morthecainn.

I plow through the water more forcefully than ever before because I know every moment I delay counts against all of us. My men doggedly follow in my wake.

***

My mother kneels before the throne. Her wrists are slashed, and the blood-soaked dagger lies beside her. He is gone, she bleakly informs me when I rush to her side.

You needn’t have done this, I grit past the lump in my throat.

Make sure your sister is safe, she pleads.

What about you? I can’t leave you here.

You can and you will. My life is empty without him. You know this. It is the way of mates. My sorrow would pollute the lives of my children.

It wouldn’t, I protest.

It would, she fiercely counters. You are wasting precious time. Go find your sister. They confined her to the ruined tower with iron manacles so she couldn’t escape or transform, her voice fades to a whisper as she slumps to the floor.

I briefly bow my head in acknowledgment of her death. I will let the grief fully consume me once I’ve ensured Sabhinion is away from the clutches of my uncle and cousin.

Chapter two

Madness: Tribal Blood

Outer Hebrides Islands, 974 A.D.

There’s a shuffling at the entrance to the cave and a hooded figure moves into the halo of light. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been imprisoned and how many have braved the remote location to either test me or torment me.

Gloved hands slip the hood back.

I inhale in recognition. My sister, and yet not my sister, stands before me. She’s no longer the reckless, wild uisge girl who found sanctuary in the library. She’s a woman grown.

I obeyed our mother and went to rescue her from the ruined tower. The tower was empty when I arrived. There was no trace of Sabhinion. No indication she’d ever been there. I was overcome at the thought of her suffering at the hands of our evil relatives and fell to my knees.

That’s how my uncle and cousin found me. They’d come to retrieve her and were furious to find her gone. And convinced she’d escaped with my assistance, and I had knowledge of her whereabouts. But I was as mystified as they were. And gratified my wily sibling had eluded them and their schemes.

Where have you been? I croak.

I’ve been searching for answers.

Answers to what? I thought you dead.

There is an ancient selkie prophecy I needed to decipher the meaning of. And it involves you. I think it’s why they put the geas on you, she archly informs me.

Even though I’m wretched, I’m glad to see her fire and her thirst for knowledge are unquenched. How does it involve me?

I am convinced you are the lodestone of the entire prophecy. The focal point around which it revolves.

If it concerns me, why have I never heard it?

Master Einoringen and I found it just before the coup, she explains.

That is why it wasn’t common knowledge. What is the dire prediction you braved capture to share with me?

The wind on the water is stronger than the oak of the mightiest fleet, Than all the warriors standing tall. It is here sorrow and chaos will meet, And the kingdom of kelp and brine shall fall. The prince shall reclaim his throne and save what they sought to destroy. The sacrifice will be heart and bone, And love the binding alloy.

Her eyes went distant and trance-like as she was reciting it and I want to ground her again. The prophecy sounded like meaningless gibberish, and I don’t know how she came to the conclusion it was about me. Why do you think it’s about me? The poem refers to a prince. I’m no prince. I was always the second son. The one who bathed in war and blood. The necessary evil instead of the favored child. And now our family no longer has a throne.

Eachann is dead. You are the prince now. And the kingdom is falling. The world will change, and we’ll be helpless against it.

The world is always changing. That’s the only constant. I have no way to escape.

When the time is at hand, I’ll make certain your imprisonment ends. I’m convinced the prophecy is about you and your mate.

My mate? Mortals conspired with our uncle to betray us. I would never trust a mortal woman enough to give her my sigil. I will never claim a mate.

She gives me a gentle, condescending smile. The gods and goddesses hold sway over such things. You won’t have a choice in the matter. When the salt and brine in your mate’s veins reaches its zenith and she is able to subdue your beast and bear your offspring, one of us will free you. And you will claim your mate. Because I know you, Big Brother. Your loyalty to our kind is unparalleled and you’ll do anything in your power to save them. One of us will make sure you’re free to do that.

One of us? Who are you working with, sister? Where have you been and where are you going?

There has always been a secret haven for scholars. That is all you need to know. Our enclave is protected from the reach of our uncle because he is unaware of its existence. We will free you when it is time.

I need my freedom now, I argue. I can rally those still loyal to our family and overthrow him.

She shakes her head. As much as I mourn the way of things and the slow destruction of our way of life, this is how it must be. There are cycles of bending and breaking, sowing, and reaping, that we must follow. You are not an exception to these cycles. If I free you now, what must happen will not happen. I cannot afford to anger those who weave our story and hold our fate in their hands.

You speak of the gods and goddesses, I snarl in disgust. I’d wager they’ve abandoned us, and you are wasting your efforts.

They have not abandoned us, she sternly chastises me. Everything happens for a reason. Perhaps your imprisonment is meant to teach you humility.

I have never needed lessons in humility. When a warrior becomes humble he loses his courage.

That very statement demonstrates why you need to learn humility. You’ve always been arrogant. Too sure of your strength and your sword arm. Too dependent on your ability to bluff and blunder and use might instead of compassion.

I was the commander of our army for almost two thousand years, I gruffly remind her.

And it did you no favors, she sharply retorts. It blinded you to the way words can be used as weapons far more efficiently than hooves. It blinded you to the rotting darkness that can live in the hearts of those who seem eminently deserving of your trust and loyalty. Your conceit is likely the reason you have been cursed with a geas.

I never trusted Cairneach or Creiddylad, but my failure where they are concerned is not enough to be punished with a geas. I grimly reply. Geas are inescapable curses. If I fail to fulfill the terms of the geas, there will be a dire outcome.

You may not have trusted them, but you did underestimate their influence. Their deceitful plot caught all of us by surprise, and you are partially to blame. If you hadn’t discounted the rumors of unrest, your action might have prevented the tragedy. Because of your inaction, we lost control of our kingdom. So now you have to bear the weight of a geas.

One of my sentinels had approached me and relayed some of the disquiet rumblings he overheard in the marketplace. I’d nonchalantly waved away his concerns because I was confident the rumors were no different than those that always plagued a kingdom. No one had questioned my judgment or my dismissal of the gossip. If I’d known that dismissal would end in an obligation that would twist my life, would I still have done it? How did you become aware of the rumors? Or the fact that they were revealed to me?

The scholars always have ears to the ground. Especially when revolt is brewing. Especially when it concerns an envious, avaricious, overlooked member of the royal family. Cairneach spent decades crafting a plot to overthrow our father and ensure our line wouldn’t survive.

I thought such premeditation was beyond his abilities. I falsely believed he lacked the patience to orchestrate a coup from within.

We all underestimated him. But father most of all. And he paid with his life. He should have banished our uncle at the first sign of rebellion before we were even born. But he didn’t. He claimed Cairneach deserved the opportunity to earn back his honor.

He never should have placed his trust in someone who betrayed him again and again, I bitterly observe.

No, he should not have done so. But the tide is out, Brother. We can do naught but await its return.

When will that be, Sabhinion? Tomorrow or ten winters hence?

She laughs merrily. You are optimistic, Callum. You know our lives are nothing more than single grains of sand. ‘Twill likely be dozens of years, or hundreds. Mayhap thousands.

Thousands? I grit out. You cannot expect me to bide my time chained to this wall for thousands of years.

You have no choice, she sternly emphasizes. We are at the mercy of the whims of our gods. We are lucky they deign to intervene on our behalf at all. You won’t be freed until you have the opportunity to lift the geas.

What are the terms of my geas? I bite out.

Your geas is wrapped in the words of the prophecy. To fulfill its obligation you must claim your mate, steal her and sacrifice her. If you don’t, our islands will sink into the sea beyond the mist. We’ll slowly fade away because our beasts will be forever caged within our flesh.

Why have I been singled out? I have never wavered in my devotion to the gods. I want no contact with a mortal woman beyond fucking. They are poison , I insist.

You were singled out because of your arrogance. But as I have told you, the world is changing. Their power wanes as new gods rise to take their place.

You speak of the rise in popularity of Christianity.

Yes. It will eventually obliterate our kind and our way of life. Already the priests set their congregations on us, offering bounty disguised as a guaranteed entry to their promised land.

So you do not know how long I will have to wait.

She shakes her head in sympathy.

When I am alone again in the veil of darkness and all I can hear is the soft ripple of the retreating tide against the slick stone, I bow my head in defeat. I vow I will never let a human exercise dominion over any part of me. I vow I will find my mate and claim her as I am bidden, but will feel no remorse when I spill her blood to save my people.

Chapter three

Land Below the Waves: Skipinnish

Outer Hebrides Islands, March 2023

He can taste the thrum and pulse of her beating dark heart. The blood that hurtles through her veins with the ebb of the evening tide.

He bracelets her neck with his grip and he can feel the throb of her pulse against the palm of his hand.

He raises the jeweled dagger over his head. The dull black surface of the blade is thirsty for the drench and flow of scarlet.

Over a thousand years after watching his brother Eachann’s broken body fall on that rocky beach he can finally claim his vengeance against the race of mortals.

The light fractures around him.

His eyes catch hers, and he hesitates. She’s not afraid. She has a look of knowing.

The manacles around my wrists clank against the rock. The lap of the incoming tide covers my feet. It’s cold and bracing.

My beast roars for freedom.

My eyelids flicker and my pupils narrow against the sunlight refracting across the smooth obsidian surface of the cave walls.

I blink away the dream and remember.

Our toes digging into the sand as we chased each other with branches brought down by the storm. Counting down the days until we could train with the warriors. Counting down the days until swords would take the place of branches. Until our beasts rose to the surface and it was our hooves pounding against the surf, not our feet.

The eerie howl of despair that echoed through the keep as our mother slit her wrists and sank to the floor. The unbearable sorrow when I closed her sightless eyes and knew she was gone forever.

My imprisonment. Because I would not willingly submit to my uncle’s rule. Because there were those who would always be loyal to my father’s line. Because I was a threat he couldn’t ignore, a loose end he needed to suture tightly shut.

Every few months I ask one of the selkies to tell me where we are in the calendar.

I know the dagger has been silent for over a thousand years. I know the family of the witch who betrayed my brother has spread its legacy through a poisoned tree. They have hundreds, if not thousands, of descendants and I know one of them is marked as my mate.

I’ve felt the silence and stigma of each and every year I’ve been isolated here. I’m alone. And the weight of that aloneness and isolation nearly crushes me beneath its inexorable weight.

The call of the brine stirs in the veins of your mate, the sibilant hiss whips my head around and I search the gray gloom for its source.

A kelpie