“Do they talk under the water?”
“Well now, I’ve never had a conversation with a fish. Here now.” Sorcha pulled Teagan’s cloak more closely around her. “It’s getting cold.” She glanced up, saw the clouds rolling over the sun. “We may have a storm tonight. Best get home.”
As she straightened, came the fog. Gray and dirty, it slunk like a snake over the ground and smothered the sparkle of the day.
Not a storm coming, Sorcha realized. The threat was here already.
She pushed Teagan behind her as Cabhan rose out of the fog.
He wore black picked through with silver like stars against a midnight sky. His hair waved to his shoulders, an ebony frame for his hard and beautiful face. His eyes, dark as a gypsy’s heart, held both power and pleasure as he scraped them over Sorcha.
She felt them, like bold hands on her skin.
Around his neck he wore a large silver pendant shaped like a sun with a fat jewel—a glinting red eye—in its center. And this was new, she thought, and sensed its black power.
“My lady,” he said, and bowed to her.
“You have no welcome here.”
“I walk where I will. And what do I see but a woman and her small, pretty child alone. Treats for brigands and wolves. You have no man to see you safe, Sorcha the Dark. I will escort you.”
“I see myself safe. Begone, Cabhan. You waste your time and powers here. I will never submit to such as you.”
“But you will submit. Joining with me is your destiny. I’ve seen it in the glass.”
“You see lies and desires, not truth or destiny.”
He only smiled, and like his voice, his smile held seduction. “Together we’ll rule this land, and any others we wish. You will wear fine cloth in bright colors and drape your skin in jewels.”
He swirled his hands. Teagan gasped when she saw her mother wearing the rich red of royalty, the sparkle of jewels, and a gold crown studded with them.
Just as quickly, Sorcha flicked a wrist and was once again draped in her simple black wool. “I have no need, no wish for your colors and shine. Leave me and mine, or you will feel my wrath.”
But he laughed, the sound rolling from him in smooth and terrible delight. “Is it a wonder, my heart, that I want none but you? Your fire, your beauty, your power, all meant to be mine.”
“I am Daithi’s woman, and will ever be.”
With a grunt of disgust, Cabhan flicked his fingers. “Daithi cares more for his raids, his games, his petty little wars than for you or the whelps you bore him. How many times has the moon waxed and waned since he last shared your bed? You grow cold in the night, Sorcha. I feel it. I will show you pleasures you’ve never known. And I will make you more than you are. I will make you a goddess.”
Fear tried to crawl into her like the fog crawled over the ground. “I would die by my own hand before being bedded by you. You only crave more power.”
“And you’re a fool not to. Together we will crush all who stand against us, live as gods, be as gods. And for this I will give you what your heart most desires.”
“You don’t know my heart.”
“A babe in your belly to replace the loss. My son, born of you. More powerful than any has known before or will again.”
Grief for the loss struck, and fear, a terrible fear for the tiny seed of want in her for what he offered. A life growing in her, strong and real.
Sensing that fear, Cabhan stepped closer. “A son,” he murmured. “Bright in your womb. Thriving there, born strong and glorious, like no other. Give me your hand, Sorcha, and I will give you your heart’s desire.”
She trembled for a moment, a moment only, as oh, by all the gods, she craved that life.
And as she trembled, Teagan leaped out from behind her skirts. She hurled a rock, striking Cabhan on the temple. A thin line of blood, dark, dark red, trickled down his pale skin.
His eyes went fierce as he swung out. Before the blow could land, Sorcha shoved him back with sheer force of will.
She pulled Teagan up, into her arms.
Wind whipped around her now, one born of her own fury. “I will kill you a thousand times, I will give you agony for ten thousand years if you lay hands on my child. I swear this on all I am.”
“You threaten me? You and your runt?” He fixed his eyes on Teagan’s face, and his smile spread like death. “Pretty little runt. Bright as a fish in the water. Shall I catch and eat you?”
Though she clung to Sorcha, though she shivered, Teagan didn’t cower. “Go away!”
In fury and fear, her young, untried power slapped out, struck as true as the stone. Now blood ran from Cabhan’s mouth, and his smile became a snarl.
“First you, then your brother. Your sister . . . a bit of ripening first for she, too, will bear me sons.” With a fingertip, he smeared the blood on his face, crossed it over the amulet. “I would have spared them for you,” he told Sorcha. “Now you will see their deaths.”
Sorcha pressed her lips to Teagan’s ear. “He can’t hurt you,” she began in a whisper, then watched in horror as Cabhan changed.
His body shifted, twisted like the fog. The amulet glowed, the gem spun until his eyes sparked as red as the stone.
Black hair covered his body. Claws sprang from his fingers. And as he seemed to spill over onto the ground, he threw back his head. He howled.
Slowly, carefully, Sorcha set Teagan down again behind her. “He can’t hurt you.” She prayed it was true, that the magick she’d imbued into the copper sign would hold even against this form.
For surely he’d bartered his soul for this dark art.
The wolf bared its teeth, and sprang.
She pushed back—thrusting out her hands, drawing up her strength so that pure white light shot from her palms. When it struck the wolf it screamed, almost like a man. But it came again, and again, leaping, snapping, its eyes feral and horribly human.
The claws lashed out, caught Sorcha’s skirts, tore them. Then it was Teagan’s scream that sliced the air.
“Go away, go away!” She pelted the wolf with rocks, rocks that turned to balls of fire as they struck, so the fog smelled of burning flesh and fur.
The wolf lunged again, howling still. Teagan tumbled back as Sorcha slashed down at it. The little girl’s cloak fell open. From the copper sign she wore burst a blue flame, straight and sharp as an arrow. It struck the wolf’s flank, scored a mark shaped like a pentagram.
On an agonized cry, the wolf flew back. As it pawed and snapped at the air, Sorcha gathered all she had, hurled her light, her hope, her power.
The world went white, blinding her. Desperate, she groped for Teagan’s hand as she fell to her knees.
The fog vanished. All that remained of the wolf was scorched earth in its shape.
Weeping, Teagan clutched at her mother, burrowed into her—just a child now, frightened of monsters all too real.
“There now, it’s gone. You’re safe. We need to go home. We need to be home, my baby.”
But she lacked the strength even to stand. She could have wept herself to be brought so low. Once she could have summoned the power to fly through the woods with her child in her arms. Now her limbs trembled, her breath burned, and her heart beat so fast and hard it pounded her temples.
If Cabhan gathered himself, came back . . .
“Run home. You know the way. Run home. I’ll follow.”
“I stay with you.”
“Teagan, do as I say.”
“No. No.” Knuckling her eyes, Teagan stubbornly shook her head. “You come. You come.”
Gritting her teeth, Sorcha managed to get to her feet. But after two steps, she simply sank to her knees again. “I can’t do it, my baby. My legs won’t carry me.”
“Alastar can. I’ll call him, and he’ll carry us home.”
“Can you call him, from all this way?”
“He’ll come very fast.”
Teagan rose on her sturdy legs, lifted her arms.
“Alastar, Alastar, brave and free, heed my call and come to me. Run swift, run true to find the one who needs you.”
Teagan bit her lip, turned to her mother. “Brannaugh helped me with the words. Are they good?”
“They’re very good.” Young, Sorcha thought. Simple and pure. “Say it twice more. Three is strong magick.”
Teagan obeyed, then came back to stroke her mother’s hair. “You’ll be well again when we’re home. Brannaugh will make you tea.”
“Aye, that’s what she’ll do. I’ll be fine again when I’m home.” She thought it was the first time she’d lied to her child. “Find me a good, strong stick. I think I could lean on it and walk a ways.”
“Alastar will come.”
Though she doubted it, Sorcha nodded. “We’ll meet him. Find me a sturdy stick, Teagan. We have to be home before dark.”
Even as Teagan scrambled up, they heard the hoofbeats.
“He’s coming! Alastar! We’re here, we’re here!”
She’d called her guide, Sorcha thought, and a sharp stab of pride pierced her fatigue. As Teagan ran forward to meet the horse, Sorcha gathered herself again, pushed painfully to her feet.
“There you are, a prince of horses.” Grateful, Sorcha pressed her face to Alastar as he nuzzled her. “Can you help me mount?” she asked Teagan.
“He will. I taught him a trick. I was saving it for when Da comes home. Kneel, Alastar! Kneel.” Giggling now, Teagan swept a hand down.
The horse bowed his head, then bent his forelegs, and knelt.
“Oh, my clever, clever girl.”
“It’s a good trick?”
“A fine trick. A fine one, indeed.” Grasping the mane, Sorcha pulled herself onto the horse. Nimble as a cricket, Teagan leapt on in front of her.
“You hold on to me, Ma! Alastar and I will get us home.”
Sorcha gripped the little girl’s waist, put her trust in the child and the horse. Every stride of the gallop brought pain, but every stride brought them closer to home.
When they neared the clearing she saw her older children, Brannaugh dragging her grandfather’s sword, Eamon holding a dagger, racing toward them.
So brave, too brave.
“Back to the house, back now! Run back!”
“The bad one came,” Teagan shouted. “And he made himself into a wolf. I threw rocks at him, Eamon, like you did.”
The children’s voices—the questions, the excitement, the licks of fear—circled like echoes in Sorcha’s head. Sweat soaked her. Once again she grasped Alastar’s mane, lowered herself to the ground. Swayed as the world went gray.
“Ma’s sick. She needs her tea.”
“Inside,” Sorcha managed. “Bolt the door.”
She heard Brannaugh giving orders, clipping them out like a chieftain—“fetch water, stir the fire”—and felt as if she floated inside, into her chair, where her body collapsed.
A cool cloth on her head. Warm, potent liquid easing down her throat. A quieting of the pain, a clearing of the mists.
“Rest now.” Brannaugh stroked her hair.
“I’m better. You have a strong gift for healing.”