“There was a redhead name of Tilda in London. She had eyes like bluebells, a laugh like a siren. And dimples.”
Eyes narrowed, Branna slid a hand up his throat, squeezed. “Balancing the scales, are we?”
“As you’ve yet to witness Tilda’s impressive agility, I’d say the scales are far from balanced. But I should sleep better tonight for mentioning her.”
He dropped his forehead to Branna’s. “I won’t let him damage me, or us.”
Iona rushed in the back door, said, “Oops.”
“We’re just having some lunch,” Branna told her.
“So I see. You’d both better come take a look at this.” Without waiting, she hurried through and into the workshop.
When Branna and Fin joined her, they stood looking out the window at the line of rats ranged just along the border of protection.
Branna laid a hand on Kathel’s head when he growled.
“He doesn’t like not being able to see in,” she said quietly.
“I started to flame them up, but I thought you should see first. It’s why I came around the back.”
“I’ll deal with it.” Fin started for the door.
“Don’t burn them there where they are,” Branna told him. “They’ll leave ugly black ash along the snow, then we’ll have to deal with that—and it’s lovely just now.”
Fin spared her a look, a shake of his head, then stepped out coatless.
“The neighbors.” On a hiss of frustration, Branna threw up a block so no one could see Fin.
And none too soon, she noted, as he pushed out power, sent the rats scrabbling while they set up that terrible high-pitched screaming. He drove them back, will against will, by millimeters.
Branna went to the door, threw it open, intending to help, but saw she wasn’t needed.
He called up a wind, sent them rolling and tumbling in ugly waves. Then he opened the earth like a trench, whirled them in. Then came the fire, and the screams tore the air.
When they stopped he drew down the rain to quench the fire, soak the ash. Then simply pulled the earth back over them.
“That was excellent,” Iona breathed. “Disgusting but excellent. I didn’t know he could juggle the elements like that—boom, boom, boom.”
“He was showing off,” Branna replied. “For Cabhan.”
Fin stood where he was, in the open, as if daring a response.
He lifted his arm high, called to his hawk. Like a golden flash Merlin dived down, then, following the direction of Fin’s hand, bulleted into the trees.
Fin whirled his arms out, in, and vanished in a swirl of fog.
“Oh God, my God, Cabhan.”
“It wasn’t Cabhan’s fog,” Branna said with forced calm. “It was Fin’s. He’s gone after him.”
“What should we do? We should call the others, get to Fin.”
“We can’t get to Fin as we can’t know where he is. He has to let us, and he isn’t. He wants to do this on his own.”
He flew, shadowed by the fog, his eyes the eyes of the hawk. And through the hawk watched the wolf streak through the woods. It left no track and cast no shadow.
As it approached the river it gathered itself, leaped up, rose up, sprang over the cold, dark surface like a stone from a sling. As it did, the mark on Fin’s arm burned brutally.
