Her voice drops, and although she means to make herself sound threatening, the effect achieved is far from it. “Move before I shove you onto your ass in front of all your people.”
My smile grows. How could it not? This slight girl may have the willpower of a serpent, but she could no more fell a tree than she could push me. “Mórrígan’s humor never ceases to amaze me.”
Fallon’s dark eyebrows slant in that small frown that so often touches her brow when her mind absorbs something new. She’s attempting to expound our goddess’s identity without having to ask.
As swiftly as they kissed, though, her eyebrows spring apart, and her delicate chin rises a notch. “I don’t know who this Mórrígan person is and I don’t care. Now, flit the fuck off, Morrgot.”
That slur subdues my smile. “Don’t speak like that. It’s unbecoming of such a lovely mouth.”
Her pupils flare at my reproof.
“As for Mórrígan, she’s the Mother of Crows. A Shabbin witch from your bloodline. I suppose you weren’t taught about her in Faerie school.”
Her mouth, usually so fast to curve with delight, is no more than a stroke of red in her sun-kissed face. Even livid, she is exquisite. Who knew Cathal with his crooked nose and difficult jaw could produce a girl like this one?
Even though I don’t unfasten my gaze from Fallon’s, I can feel him watching us. He hasn’t yet recovered his speech. By nightfall, words should flow from my Crows. We’ve only been gone two decades this time.
After our five-century-long absence, it had taken my people several weeks to regain use of their atrophied tongues.
I wonder how long I will detest myself for having subjected them to our curse so soon after we’d escaped it. If Marco hadn’t threatened the humans, I would’ve let them live and remained a shadow whilst the curse-breaker matured.
My fingers twitch at my sides, coated with the phantom stickiness of all the lives the Fae spilled to strong-arm me into surrendering.
We will get our vengeance.
Soon.
Fallon’s palms land on my breastplate in an attempt to push me away. Her knuckles pale, and yet all I register are her frenzied heartbeats and heated pants. She huffs a growl.
I’m sorry,Behach Éan, but I cannot let you leave.
She stops pushing long enough to pour her anger into my mind.You cannot . . .?She snorts.Good thing it’s not up to you, Bilbh Éan.
My eyebrows tip in time with one corner of my lips.Working on your father tongue, I see.
She scowls.All of this may be some great joke to you, but it’s not to me.“I’m done being used. Now, let me pass. I need to get home to my grandmother and mother—”
The sound of hooves beating down on the soft pale stone of the mountain draws her gaze off mine. Does she expect her cowardly prince to have returned for her?
My jaw still aches from how hard I clenched it when he put his hands on her body. How tempted I’d been to sever his wrists and his neck, but Fallon would never have forgiven me. She hardly seems like she’ll forgive me for having kept her family tree a secret.
“Giana?” Fallon’s pretty lips pull apart, tugging me out of my unpleasant reminiscence. “Bronwen?” Her hands are still on my chest, radiating warmth through the thick leather, lashing my pulse with her own.
Although I sense this may be the last time she touches me for a while, I shift into my five crows and hook her clothing with my talons. Before her next breath, and subsequent snarl, I’ve carried her to the rooftop of my home, through the hatch door my Crows have already unlocked, and into the old stones of my home.
I set her down gently, then shift back into my human shape. “Your family and friends will be brought up shortly. Shall I show you around your new home, Behach Éan?”
“This place will never be my home!” she snarls as more Crows swoop inside and soar down the quiet hallways, filling them with beautiful noise.
I lay my hand on the cool stones that hold so many memories. Joyful ones but also tragic ones. “Wasn’t your dream to live in a castle and sit upon a throne?”
The tide of her anger swells like the breakers dashing against the foundations of my home. Even though I am its mark, I can appreciate its beauty.
“Are you offering me your throne, Lore?”
Her answer takes me by such surprise that a sound my lungs haven’t produced in years . . . in centuries . . . erupts from me—laughter.
And Fallon . . .
She spoils me with a smile intended to maim my dark heart, and I devour it beat by beat.
* * *
