She had to find a place for herself, the dark horse, and-
Where was the man who had escaped from the Witch's Hammer? He'd
come with her. She was certain he had. Where-?
He lay near her, the wounds on his neck and chest making her stomach churn. Something vicious and terrible had killed him. A fast kill. A recent kill.
Fear got her to her feet, got her stumbling toward the dark horse. He snorted.
Took a step back as she approached, then, trembling, held his ground.
"Easy, boy. Easy." Why was he afraid of her?
She raised her hand to give him a caress and pat.
The hand that lifted out of the fog was dark, leathery, had sharp, blood- smeared talons at the ends of its fingers.
She wept silently as she stared at the hand of the enemy from her dreams.
Quiet conversations died in his wake as Adolfo walked through the camp
and entered his tent, followed by fearful whispers.
He was still thirsty, but the wine held no appeal. And his sides itched, irritated by the cloth rubbing against it. He raised his hand to pull open the tunic's lacings .. . and stared, fascinated, at the skin that was turning darker, rougher, even as he watched. Stared at the nails folding in on themselves until they began to look like talons.
A hesitant scratching on the tent flap.
"What is it?" His voice sounded rough, raspy-not the smooth deep voice
that had persuaded hundreds of men to help him reshape the world as he wanted it to be.
An Inquisitor stepped into the tent. "Master Adolfo? Is there something we
can do for you? Is there something you need?"
Fresh meat. Hot blood. Everything he needed was standing within reach.
No. Not his own men. Not when there was prey close by. "Do we have other
prisoners?"
"Yes, Master."
"Bring two of them to me. It doesn't matter which two." He turned around to
face the Inquisitor. He smiled as he watched the man's face turn deathly pale. Deathly pale. The thought amused him. The fool had no idea how close to deathly pale he had been.
"Y-yes, Master," the Inquisitor stammered.
As the man fled from the tent, Adolfo looked at the glorious talons at the end of his right hand and laughed.
Two ghosts standing next to bodies still locked in the embrace of the fight
that had killed them.
Morag slid off the dark horse, moved toward the ghosts, then stopped. No.
She couldn't gather them, couldn't take them up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She was sick, hurt, exhausted. She had to find Ashk. Mother's mercy, she had to find Ashk, had to...
The meat was already spoiled from the heat of the day, the blood already too clotted and thick. But the best part of the feast remained.
Where were the ghosts? Where were the spirits she'd seen a moment ago?
She backed away from the bodies, shaking her head.
And realized she didn't feel quite so hungry, realized ...
The wolf with the burned hind legs tried to drag itself away from the predator, tried to run, tried to hide. Screamed as fangs and talons ripped its flesh, as a tongue lapped at the fresh blood while it died slowly, slowly.
It didn't like the taste of animal flesh, but It was too hungry to care. And the feast that rose from the animal flesh was a rich spirit, a strong spirit in the shape of the flesh It liked best.
It devoured-and still hungered.
... Morag dropped the reins, wrapped her arms around herself, and doubled over, gasping and weeping. She remembered the wolf, remembered the ghost that had risen from it. One of the western Fae who had ridden east with her and Ashk. She remembered him screaming her name. Remembered him
screaming as she ... as the thing inside her feasted on his spirit until nothing was left but wisps of memories.
She'd known him and still hadn't been able to stop It.
"Mother have mercy," she whispered. "Please, have mercy."
The dark horse trembled beneath her. Loyalty and courage. How many times
could he have run away during the past few hours? He had more trust in her ability to protect him from the predator inside her than she did. Would the hour come when that loyalty would be repaid with talons slashing his throat open? Would courage be rewarded by dying in terror?
She slowly placed one hand on his neck, careful not to let the talons prick
him. "I won't hurt you. I will fight with everything in me not to hurt you.
That much I can promise."
She straightened up and looked around. The fog was lifting. The first, soft light of the day was pushing back the night. The dark horse had brought them close to a large stone house. The baron's house? She could ...
Hunt!... find food there ... Flesh!... and grain for the horse. Feast!The Old Place was too far away. She had to find food now- before It got too hungry.
Chapter 50.
waning moon Breanna closed her eyes as the ponycart approached the circle of moonlight guarding Nuala's grave. She couldn't bear looking at the rose bushes-and wondered if she ever would be able to again. Best to close her eyes before the grief numbed her again. Best not to wonder if the light in the circle was really waning or if it was this soft light before dawn that made the circle look dimmer. Best not to think about what would happen to Nuala's spirit once the light waned since they could no longer spare men to guard the grave. Best not to think at all.
"I'm glad to have your company," Elinore said as she guided the pony over the stone bridge and headed for the baron's house. "And a chaperone, since I'm being escorted by four handsome men."
Breanna pictured one of the Fae huntsmen riding with them offering Elinore a hesitant smile, uncertain if flirting with Baron Liam's mother would be considered acceptable in the human world. Strange how the Fae had become more wary of dealing with humans now that they'd been forced to become more aware of them.
"Are you sure you won't come with me to the village?" Elinore asked. "I'm told the Widow Kendall wraps her hair around strips of rags at night to produce those curls other women envy. The result is certainly beautiful, but I imagine the sight of her first thing in the morning is something that takes getting used to. Since I'll be knocking on her door at an indecent hour, we might find out for ourselves."
Breanna opened her eyes and focused on the pony's ears. A safe thing to look at. "Thank you, but I'll just visit with Gwenn and Lyrra for a bit. I'm sure they'll be up by now."
"Yes, I'm sure they will be." She was grateful Elinore didn't continue trying to make conversation. She didn't want to talk to anyone. Not really. She just needed to get away from her home, from the rooms so choked with memories she couldn't seem to breathe. She just wanted to sit with two women who weren't kin and weren't bent under the same weight of grief.
But you don't know what happened yesterday. You don't know if they're breaking under their own grief.
When Elinore pulled up in front of Liam's house, Breanna got down from the ponycart. Elinore smiled at her, but the smile couldn't win over the worry in the older woman's eyes.
"If you want to go back before I return, one of the men will escort you,"
Elinore said.
Breanna just nodded and walked to the front door. She turned and raised a hand in farewell as Elinore and two of the Fae escorts headed for the village.
Watched the two other escorts lead their horses to the stable, where they would wait for her. Tried not to scan the fences and roofs and trees for some sign of-
She hadn't thought of him. Wouldn't allow herself to think of him. He hadn't come back to the Old Place. There were many who hadn't come back to the Old Place. She hadn't been able to help Fiona, Glynis, and the other women when the wounded arrived yesterday, but she'd heard the women talking. Heard the break in Fiona's voice when she asked if anyone had seen Rory.
How long would it take before she didn't look toward the clothes lines to see if the hawk was perched on one of the posts, keeping watch? Months?
Years?
She wouldn't think of him. Or she would pretend he had gone away. Back to Tir Alainn. Back to his home Clan. Had just gone away without saying good- bye. Which, in fact, was exactly what he might have done.
As she turned back toward the door, it opened. Sloane stepped aside to let her enter.