The man spat in his face.
Neil did not blink. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, the blade never leaving the man’s throat. “I am going to give ye one more chance. Where is Alex?”
“Rot,” the man hissed. “Ye and him both.”
“Wrong answer,” Neil said, before plunging the blade into his throat.
The man’s body twitched, and blood spurted against the blade. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice disappeared into the night along with his soul.
Neil stood very still, listening. No more hooves, no more shouts, only the wind rustling the tree branches. He wiped his face again, then touched two fingers to the split skin at his neck and hissed at the sting.
“Alex,” he muttered. “Where in God’s name have they put ye?”
He stood for a moment with his palm on his horse’s neck while his breathing slowed. Pride would say ride on and tear the hills apart until his brother was found. Pride would get him killed, and Alex with him.
“Nae tonight,” he sighed.
He swung himself up into the saddle and clenched his jaw as the scars pulled. He steered the horse away from the dead and looked back once to make sure no one else was running after him.
If he truly wanted to find Alex, he had to do it from a place where he could heal. From his own turf, under his own rules.
The only place he could think of was his castle. He flicked the reins and urged the horse forward, a sharp breath escaping his lips.
The late afternoon light lay soft across the gardens, and the castle walls kept the wind to a murmur. Kristen stood by the path, with the hem of her skirt dusted in grass, her hands clasped so she would not fuss at every stumble.
“Careful, Finn,” she called lightly. “Watch yer steps, Anna. Daenae trip over Maggie.”
“Aye,” Finn shouted without looking back. He swerved around a box hedge and laughed when the big dog lumbered after him.
Anna ran forward with a proud little sway, both arms wide. “Mag-gie,” she sang. “Mag-gie, come.”
Maggie’s tongue lolled, patient and pleased. She kept to the children like a shadow with fur.
“Slow down a little,” Kristen said. “Ye can win without flying.”
Finn puffed up his chest. “Wolves fly.”
“Do they?” Kristen smiled. “I thought they ran and kept their feet.”
“They do both,” Finn said confidently.
He ran faster to prove it, but his toe caught on a root. Before Kristen could do anything, he pitched forward and hit the grass with a hard thump.
Kristen’s heart lurched. She crossed toward him once and knelt. “Finn, love, look at me,” she crooned, her hands quick. “Show me yer palms. Let me see yer knees.”
Finn blinked hard and bit his lip. “I didnae cry.”
“I see that,” she said. “Ye were brave. Hold still.”
A scrape shone raw on his knee. Blood beaded and tipped. Kristen pressed a clean cloth to it and counted to five in her head. Maggie bumped her wet nose against Finn’s shoulder and huffed.
“Easy, Maggie,” Kristen instructed. “Ye can sit.”
The dog sat, big and careful, her eyes fixed on the boy.
Kristen was still examining him for wounds when a prickle ran up the back of her neck. Her eyes flicked to the arches that opened onto the inner yard, then to the shadow at the far end of the gate.
There was nothing. The only thing that moved was the tree ahead.
