Albie cried out.
Finally, I wrenched the bag open.
Something exploded in my face.
Chapter
Nine
TAVISH
The world twisted, then spat us out.
My boots hit the ground, and I staggered over a carpet of dead leaves. Gnarled trees surrounded me, their branches stabbing a cold, gray sky.
I spun, searching for Albie and Portia. Relief punched through me when I spotted them a few feet away.
Portia was on her hands and knees, but she already pushed to her feet. Albie slumped against a tree trunk, his spectacles dangling crooked on his nose.
I was at his side in three strides. “Are you hurt?”
“Fine,” he said, but his voice was strained.
Taking his shoulders, I searched his face. Sweat dotted his brow, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. Behind his spectacles, his good eye was clear, but the cursed one?—
“Your eye,” I said, sliding the spectacles into place.
“It’s just a small headache.” He pulled away, one hand going to his nape. He massaged the muscle as he avoided my gaze. “I slept wrong last night.”
Liar. I could always tell when the witch’s curse pained him. When it got really bad, it turned him inside out, leaving him hanging off the edge of the bed vomiting.
I wanted to argue, but Portia rushed over, leaves stuck in her hair. “Is he all right?”
“Aye,” Albie said before I could answer. He managed a weak smile. “Just disoriented.”
Portia didn’t look convinced, but she nodded.
“You still have the chronomancer’s spell?” I asked.
She reached into her bodice and pulled out the velvet bag.
“Good,” I said. “Put it back for now, lass.”
She stuffed it deeper, securing it between her breasts. I dragged my gaze away before I did something stupid like stare. There’d be time enough for that later. Right now, I had to figure out where the fuck we were.
Stepping away from Albie, I sniffed the air. Damp earth. Rotting leaves. Smoke—but not from a hearth. Deep in my mind, my dragon recoiled. The land smelled different. Wrong.
“This isn’t Scotland,” I said. “It’s England.”
Portia looked around, her brow furrowing. “How can you tell?”
“I can tell,” I said, distaste in my mouth.
She turned slowly, and anxiety laced her voice as she said, “I wasn’t supposed to end up in England.”
Noises drifted through the trees. Creaking wood, along with voices raised in anger. Something—and someone—was coming.
I grabbed Portia’s arm and yanked her behind a thick tree. Albie followed, quick despite his pain.
