The caverns were almost cozy. A curved hallway flickered with light; grooves in the wall carried flaming rivulets of oil. Open doorways punctuated the stone; Irian glimpsed cushions strewn between carven stools. Glossy tables, sloped bed frames, laddered shelves. Living chambers, all sleekly sculpted from the shimmering stone of the Cnoc.
Laoise waved each of their party into a waiting set of chambers. Sinéad gratefully slumped to her knees in the lush carpeting; Wayland slid through a narrow doorway only to swiftly shut it behind him, leaving a vexed Hog to wail at the jamb, scrabbling her claws and battering her wings. The aughiskies and Balor filed together into one broad, high-ceilinged chamber, looking supremely out of their element, until Laoise sent one of the draigs to show the aughiskies the underground rivers weaving beneath the Cnoc. Balor collapsed on his back and immediately began to snore.
At last, Laoise showed Irian to a room with few furnishings or decorations. One large bed hunched against a wall; beyond was a darkened bathing chamber. Irian set Fia gently upon the bed, swiftly unbuckling his armor before the change fully took hold of his wife.
Laoise lingered by the door. She said, obliquely, “There are more rooms.”
Irian fumbled with a clasp, the leather stiff without regular oiling. “Why so many?”
“You may take another, if you choose.”
Irian stilled. On the bed, a ruff of golden fur sprouted along Fia’s collarbones.
“The doors all lock,” Laoise added. “And there is nothing valuable that can be destroyed.”
Irian gritted his teeth. “That will not be necessary.”
“You have nothing to prove. We all know you love her. She knows you love her.”
“I will not leave her.”
“You cannot protect her if you drive yourself into an early grave.”
“That may be so. But I refuse to cage her.”
“As you will, Irian.” Laoise exhaled, backed away. “But think on what I said. Consider how well you can look after her if you are not looking after yourself.”
The door slid shut, leaving Irian alone for the first time in nearly a month. Somewhere far above these dense stone walls, nightwas falling over the Barrens. Russet fur licked at Fia’s hairline; a scurf of viridian scales surfaced along her shoulders; black feathers prickled her arms before smoothing away. Fia’s change would begin in earnest soon, as it had every night since the Longest Night.
Irian gazed longingly at the bed, sloping up from the black rock and covered with a handful of plush pillows and a mound of furs. Exhaustion throbbed along the contours of his bones, making his limbs heavier than they had ever been.
Laoise was right about one thing—Irian needed to rest.
He did not need much sleep; the power of his Treasure sustained him beyond what humans—or even Folk—required. But he neededsomesleep.
Briskly—as veins of silver-gold stood out briefly along Fia’s forearms before her skin was obscured by gray fur—Irian finished undressing, tugging his rumpled, stinking, salt-and-dirt-crusted shirt over his matted hair. Unhooked the belt carrying the Sky-Sword’s scabbard, dropped it to the ground. As Fia bared teeth that were lengthening toward vicious fangs, he lifted her from the bed and carried her toward the bathing chamber. He forcefully kicked the door shut behind them. Fia growled, low and threatening, and began to change in his arms.
The wolf was huge and night black. It lunged at him with paws the size of dinner plates and a mouth like damnation. Fangs snapped inches from Irian’s nose as he caught the beast around its neck and hauled it sideways, using its own momentum to shove it into the wall beside the tub. The impact jarred them both; Irian’s head snapped painfully backward even as the wolf whimpered and convulsed. Irian took advantage of its momentary weakness to wrestle the beast to the tiles, clasping his arms around its furred ruff and pinning it beneath his body. It growled with displeasure, thrashing as it fought to get its limbs beneath it.
“I am sorry, mo chroí,” Irian murmured into the beast’s tough pointed ears. “But I am not going to let you destroy the bed. I intend to use it. Eventually.”
As Irian’s transformed wife pivoted beneath him, raking a set of razored claws from his throat down to his navel, he knew: He might let Balor carry her, might let Sinéad ride with her, might let Laoise watch over her. But he’d be damned if he ever left her alone when she needed him. Her cries were his to hear; her pain his to witness; her torment his to feel.
In the depths of Cnoc Féigleann, Irian had no window to the outside.Timeseemed like a story he had heard as a child, then forgotten. Hours passed like minutes; minutes stretched like years. As mineral stars wheeled close overhead in the nighttime of the caverns, his mind flew, and he could almost imagine the past year had not happened. That he was trapped in a crumbling fort with nothing but shadows and wild magic for company. Thathewas the one who transformed beyond his control—from man to twisted, feathered thing, then back to man. Once, it had been so.
His skin brutally pierced by sharp black feathers, his bones viciously ruptured by grievous changes, his truest self tattered by magic he could not control.
When Fia at last stilled in his arms, Irian felt almost as if he were in a dream.
The dim bathing chamber was gauzy with heat. Irian’s sweat-slick skin molded sumptuously against Fia’s sleek frame. She clutched at him, her touch finding the ridges of muscles exposed beneath claw-torn clothing. She tangled her slender fingers in his hair as she drew him down over her.
“I don’t know where else to go,” she breathed against his mouth.
The words startled him back tohere.
Now.
Fia’s lips were pressed to his—her tongue sliding between his teeth, her barely covered breasts tight against his chest, her thighs latched around his hips. In his exhaustion, Irian’s body had already begun to respond to her advances—his hands dragging her closer, his desire rising. How he longed for her, how he wanted—
