“Long Meg?”
“We are in the Yeavering now, my lady. Her power is less and she will not come after us.”
My head spins.
“The Yeavering?” I clutch at my temple, and my hand comes away red.
“Oh, Lady Ryle.” Warden gazes down at me in his arms. “He hurt you. Now I have to kill him.”
“Hazel,” I hear myself whisper. “My name is Hazel.”
WARDEN
Hazel.
It is a name I have heard before, and a beautiful one at that. One which should belong to my pretty lady. A lady who has gone very pale and limp in my arms.
I get out of the water before the damned Shellycoat comes back. Beal will pay for my mate’s injury, but until she wakes, he will have to wait.
Then I will find out if the ancient sea god has any form of mortality. If not, I will chop him into even smaller pieces until he has no immortality left.
The Shellycoat loves his immortality. He wears it along with his cloak of shells, like a trophy of all the creatures he has killed.
It will be interesting to add him to my list.
There are few places which will afford any safe haven for me or my mate on Beal’s coastline, but I thunder my way inland to the one I know I can get something other than driven away with torches and pitchforks or the occasional well-timed spell.
A castle now all but a ruin, but one where we will be safe, once we get off the death path which leads us there.
As my hooves drive me ever onwards, my mate stirs in my arms, her brilliant eyes opening and staring at me for a moment before they cloud with pain. My desire to return to the sea and wreak all the pain of the land on the Shellycoat for hurting her is incredible, but it doesn’t outweigh the overwhelming need to make her better.
I do not have the power to anymore, and I release a stream of curses at the foul creature who made me this way. My Hazel is fading in my arms and I cannot lose her.
I cannot lose her.
“Hold on to me, my sweet mare,” I croon, even as the wind whips my words away and the track gets rougher. “It’s not much further, I promise.”
I double my speed as her head lolls and her breathing becomes shallow. Hazel is mine and no one, not even the Reaper, will take her from me.
No one.
Nothing.
My hooves ring out on the stone flags leading to the tumbled gatehouse of the castle.
“Who goes there?” a voice calls.
“Warden, jailer of the Shadow Keep. I wish to see your mistress,” I respond. “And I will not be stopped.”
Indeed, I do not slow my pace as I gallop up the ramp to the gateway. The old portcullis has not worked forever, and I doubt very much it will work now. I hear a rattle of ancient chains, but I’m through into the bailey where the grass is long under my feet.
“Meg!” I call out her name. “Meg! Meg!”
“Goodness, Brag.” The old witch is beside me. “Such a lot of fuss.”
“My female…” I pant. “My mate. She is injured. She won’t wake.”
I proffer Hazel, her form now barely warm.
