“No, but we both have an important job to do.”
She stepped back then, releasing her grip on his vest and removing the blade from his throat. Blood slicked his neck, running down into the hollow between his collarbones. His chest rose and fell sharply then, as if in the grip of a strong emotion.
Indeed, he wore a strained expression, his skin pulled tight over his high flat cheekbones.
“Will you come north with us or not?” she asked, shoving the observation aside. Of course, he was flustered. An inch more and blood would be pumping out of his neck. “Will you form the third point of the triangle, so we can push the wraiths back into The Threshold … and close the door behind them?”
He swallowed, blood glistening in the lamplight. And when he answered, his voice held a husky edge. “I’ll think about it.”
Alar walked back to the fort alone.
Night had fallen, and a waxing crescent moon was rising. Away from the glow of torches, the darkness was alive. Whispers followed him, and icy fingers brushed his cheeks.
He hadn’t let on, but Mor’s story had shocked him. Even so, there was no denying reality.
The spirit world was growing increasingly troublesome.
He didn’t quicken his pace though. Instead, his hand rested on the pouch of salt at his waist—just in case something went for him. He didn’t want to hurry his path to the gates.
He needed this time to think, to untangle everything he’d been told and make sense of it all.
He’d agreed to consider traveling north with Mor and Lara at dawn. They’d told him he could bring a small group of wulvers with him, if he wished—generous of them—but he wouldn’t.
Lyall and Dolph would be incensed.
No, if he agreed to this, it was a journey he needed to make alone.
One he wouldn’t return from.
He’d had one shock after another this evening. He’d hidden his reaction well, but seeing his half-sister and his father standing with Mor had been a punch to the gut. He’d still been reeling when Mor began her tale. At first, he’d barely listened, but as she talked about The Shattered Crown and the wraiths that poured out nightly through the gaps, he’d focused. He’d only half-believed the Raven Queen though, which was one reason why he’d insisted on speaking with Lara alone.
His free hand lifted, tracing the cut on his neck. He then grimaced. It stung.
There had been a moment back there, as he’d stared into Lara’s furious green eyes, when he’d thought she’d throw caution aside and kill him anyway.
But he’d counted on her to do the right thing and stop herself.
She needed him alive.
Even so, as blood had warmed his neck and the cold iron blade burned against his skin, he’d wondered if he was breathing his last.
Lara had withdrawn in the end though, and despite the relief that had weakened his legs, he’d mourned the loss of contact. When she’d been standing close, the familiar scent of her had crowded his senses.
It had brought every memory back into sharp focus. If he was going to die this evening, he wanted to do so in her arms.
Shaking himself free of unsettling thoughts, he drew in a deep, steadying breath.What’s wrong with you?
He was losing himself these days. The old fire that had burned in his belly had gone out.
“Have you lost your Gods-damned mind?”
Beathan mac Glen slammed his cup of ale down on the low table beside the hearth, making Duana startle. The young woman sat on his lap, her face set in a rigid expression.
He’d been casually fondling her, one hand up her skirts, when Alar, Lyall, and Dolph had entered his alcove.
Alar had called his brothers to him, but wouldn’t reveal what had transpired in the camp until they met Beathan too. He didn’t want to repeat this tale.
Standing in the middle of the large alcove, warmed by a roaring hearth, Alar had recounted what Mor had told him.
