Page 35

I lurch upright, a scream lodged in my throat.

My fingers grasp at the emptiness and find only a rumpled section of Kiaran’s coat, long since gone cold. The indentation beside me has nearly faded, erasing his presence like a half-forgotten dream. The crunch of footsteps shatters the quiet.

I grab my blade, hand finding the worn leather hilt as my eyes fly open.

Sorcha and Aithinne loom over me, moonlight carving their faces into sharp planes and hollows.

“So noisy,” Aithinne muses, head canting. “Is writhing and whimpering a normal human nighttime ritual?”

Sorcha gives a derisive snort. “Only you would find their base habits worth remarking on. It’s a wonder the rest of us refrain from wringing your neck on the hour.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same. I’ll happily stop ‘remarking’ the moment you stop inspiring murderous fantasies in everyone forced to endure your presence.”

The fire has long since collapsed into embers, but moonlight spills between the trees, painting the world in ghostly tones.

My gaze rakes the woods for any whisper of Kiaran. Nothing. Only his scent clinging to the coat he must have draped over me before vanishing. Pine and petrichor, the kiss of impending snow.

“Where is he?” The words tear out of me, jagged as broken glass.

Aithinne hums, brushing dirt from her hands. “You were alone when we stumbled through. Quite literally—we walked through a shimmering rip in the air, and there you were, snoring like a congested bear.”

Kiaran would never desert me. Not willingly. Not with the Morrigan prowling, hungry for blood.

Unease prickles under my skin.

“The Morrigan attacked us,” I bite out, lurching to my feet and snatching up Kiaran’s coat. His lingering scent steadies me. “He wouldn’t leave me defenceless. We need to track him down. Now.”

Aithinne’s brow furrows. “You only fell through that hole a few minutes ago. How could—”

“Don’t be dense,” Sorcha cuts in, voice dripping disdain. “Time moves differently here, varying by location. Just like in the Si?th-bhru?th.”

Wherever Kiaran is, his grip on control is slipping. If the Morrigan finds him in this state . . .

I refuse to complete that thought. Can’t. Instead, I strap my weapons in place, hands moving automatically. Sword at my hip, knives in my boots and tucked against each forearm. The cold bite of steel on skin, heavy as an oath. Heavy as a threat.

“Hurry up if you’re coming,” I toss over my shoulder, already making for the treeline.

Aithinne and Sorcha trade a loaded glance but fall into step behind me. Aithinne matches my stride, shooting me sidelong looks. A dozen steps in, and she apparently can’t contain herself any longer.

“So, is there a plan?” she asks, forcibly light. “Or are we just hurtling headfirst into danger on a whim?” My flat stare earns me an exaggerated grimace. “Oh, you don’t even know where you’re going, do you?”

“I’ll figure it out as I go.”

“How reassuring. Really puts my mind at ease.” Aithinne presses a hand to her chest in mock relief. “This isn’t so much walking into a fight as sprinting toward it blindfolded, with our ears removed for good measure. Just for the excitement.”

“Thank you,” I grind out, “for that vivid and entirely unnecessary metaphor. Did it occur to you I might not be in the mood for quips right now?”

“How remiss of me. Next time, I’ll be sure to run my cutting barbs by you first, to ensure they align with your emotional state.”

Another dozen steps, dry leaves crumbling underfoot.

Our breathing swells to fill the silence between us, but under it, the forest remains preternaturally still.

As if the air has been sucked out of the world.

It makes the space between my shoulder blades itch, an awareness of the predator crouched there, just out of sight.

I cast my power out in seeking tendrils, a net thrown wide.

Find Kiaran.

But there’s only void. Not a whisper. Not a flicker. Just endless obsidian pressing in from all angles, cold and fathomless as the abyss between stars.

Empty.

Barren.

Lifeless.

I forge ahead, twigs cracking under my boots. The snap of dry leaves, the erratic drum of my pulse—the only sounds in this tomb of a forest. A world trapped in a single, held breath.

Something desperate and ugly tears its way up my throat.

Sinks vicious claws behind my ribs and yanks .

Because every second Kiaran remains lost is a second he could be splintering apart.

A second the Morrigan could be embedding poisoned barbs in his mind, exploiting the cracks in his armour. Ripping him to shreds.

“Aileana.” Aithinne’s voice slices through my spiralling thoughts, sharp and grounding. “We need to plan our next move. You’re not—”

“We don’t have time,” I cut her off. “You should understand that better than anyone.”

She seizes my elbow, fingers digging into my arm. “Listen to yourself,” she hisses. “You sound halfway to madness already. Continue like this and you’ll be useless to him. To everyone.”

“She’s only human,” Sorcha remarks. “What did you expect? Logic? Restraint?”

Something in me breaks. A snarl rips from my throat, feral and unhinged. I’m on her in a heartbeat, the edge of my blade kissing her throat.

“You know where the Book is.” It’s not a question, but a demand. An accusation.

“Really, Falconer. I thought we were past this.”

Sorcha’s fingers curl around my wrist, tightening until the bones grind together and ache. I grit my teeth against a hiss of pain.

“As if you could ever intimidate me,” she says. “It might be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic.”

Crimson bleeds into the edges of my vision.

I lean in, applying the faintest pressure. The blade bites down. Parts flesh. The sight of Sorcha’s blood singing along the edge sends a fierce, dark thrill lancing through me.

“Answer me,” I say, soft as a caress. “Or I’ll start carving pieces off you.”

Silence. The weight of Aithinne’s assessing gaze. Sorcha’s pulse fluttering against my blade. And then—

Laughter. Cold and bright as cut glass.

“Oh, Falconer,” she purrs. “You simple, stupid creature. You honestly believe this pitiful display could intimidate me?” She leans into the dagger, letting it cut deeper, blood welling in a thin crimson line.

“Let me clarify the hierarchy here, since you seem to be struggling with the concept. You are an insect. An ephemeral blip. In a century, your name will be less than dust.”

My hand finds her throat, tightening until her voice chokes off into a wet rattle. “You’re operating under a dangerous misapprehension,” I tell her, almost gently. “When my consort is threatened, I’m not merciful.”

Blood slides down her jaw. Stains my fingers scarlet.

Behind me, Aithinne sucks in a sharp breath. “Aileana . . .”

I disregard her, focus narrowing to white-hot fury. My own howling need. The Cailleach’s tainted power writhes in my veins, clawing at my restraint. Begging for release. To rend. To break. To unmake.

I tighten my grip, fingernails biting into fragile skin. “Last chance, Sorcha. Talk. Or I liberate your head from your shoulders and solve both our problems in one fell swoop.”

Her shaking exhale skates across my cheek, warm and damp. “Yes. I found the damn Book.”

Vicious, intoxicating triumph sings in my blood. I’m drunk on it. On her capitulation.

“Where?” One syllable, honed to a killing point.

A beat. Two. An eternity trapped between the thunder of my own heartbeats. And then—

“I don’t remember.”

The world goes red. Narrows to thinnest crimson line—the hammer of my own pulse, the drowning roar between my ears. Sorcha’s twisting power, dark and taunting, slithering just out of reach. Dampened by this realm.

The Cailleach’s magic surges to the surface at my wordless summons.

Rising, rising. Slamming against my threadbare control.

None of us anticipate it. Not the sheer violence of it, the overwhelming force.

Sorcha bucks and thrashes against my hold, a wild creature snared in a trap, but the Cailleach’s power has already crashed through her fracturing mental defences.

Stop , I tell the magic desperately, fighting to wrest back control even as it pours into the splintered labyrinth of her mind. I can threaten her with weapons. Not this. Never this.

It’s killing me. Killing us both.

“Aileana.” Aithinne’s voice. “Enough. You’ll do something you regret.”

But it’s too late. I’m in too deep.

No way out but through.

A memory hurls at me. I see Sorcha, a broken jumble of limbs splayed across a forest clearing. Her blood paints the leaves, dark under the watching moon.

And she’s singing.

A reedy, wavering dirge punctuated by wet, rattling breaths.

Only her eyes appear intact, fever-bright and fixed on the trees.

She sings in the old tongue, the ancient words clawing their way out of her ravaged throat, twisted into a grotesque lullaby.

The song of something birthed in agony, existence defined by unending torment.

The relentless cycle of knitting back together only to be torn apart. Again and again and again.

This is wrong. Sorcha’s regenerative abilities were bound. She shouldn’t have survived injuries this bad. Unless—

Unless someone wanted her alive to suffer.

The discordant notes taper off. A dark silhouette detaches from the shadows beyond the treeline. But when the creature steps into the light, my stomach clenches.

Eyes the colour of cracked sapphires stare out from Aithinne’s face, ravenous and endlessly cold. The Morrigan wears her features like an ill-fitting mask, lips peeled back to bare elongated canines in a feral mockery of a smile.

She crouches beside Sorcha’s mangled form. Drags a lover’s caress down her blood-slick cheek. At the touch, Sorcha keens. A high, ringing animal sound.

“Such a pretty voice,” the Morrigan croons. “Sing for me again.”

Then she seizes a fistful of Sorcha’s hair. Puts her mouth to the ragged wound where her throat used to be. The thick, wet rattle of feeding fills the air, Sorcha’s thin wail spiralling up and up.

The Morrigan draws back, lips stained scarlet. Slowly, she licks the gore from her teeth. “Such sweet pain. I could feast on it forever.”

Sorcha keeps screaming.