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Forty-Seven

Caed

E latha doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. He releases my mate’s beautiful blood-soaked hair with a final yank, black eyes sparkling with derision as she sags in the dirt, waiting for her death blow. For peace.

My heart seizes violently in my chest, the echo of her suffering blending with mine in a symphony that aches in my veins.

Once again, I curse myself for ever giving this asshole my name. I’ve done as I was fucking told, like a good dog on a leash. My swords are still battling the others, and I brought him the Nicnevin. I’m so caught up cursing myself that it takes me a second to figure out what that really means.

Right now, I have no orders. He’s distracted, discarding his halberd for a more practical sabre. Casting his gaze over the remaining warriors below, no doubt wondering if he needs to order more down here for his insane plan to work.

It’s a fleeting miscalculation on his part, one that won’t last forever.

I dart a look down at Rose for the last time, pushing every ounce of love and strength I have along our faded bond. Her hands are streaked with black veins, and I waste a half-second discreetly removing a familiar tin from my belt and dropping it, thankful that the púca is not quite so distracted as to have allowed sound to return just yet, because it makes the move more subtle than it ought to be.

One of the others will find it and use the herbal remedy within to reverse her iron sickness before it claims her.

She needs to live after this. She needs to close the portal and spend the rest of her days enjoying the peace she’s earned with her mates. They’ll be able to defend her properly the second I’m out of the fucking picture.

They’ll help her move on.

Without giving myself any more time to think it over, I launch myself forward.

My father, so used to my compliance, doesn’t expect me to tackle him. He’s so assured of his victory, and focused on the next battle, that he doesn’t see the blow coming.

In the end, it’s sickeningly easy to send both of us sailing towards the roiling mass of black that is the portal.

Whatever is holding the smoke back, it doesn’t impede the two of us as we cross the threshold.

And when oblivion comes, I embrace it with open arms.