41
CARWYNN
I’d killed the Gorta.Like . . .
I. Killed. The.Gorta!
How in the actual hell was that even possible? I didn’t soothe its soul, I didn’t speak to it, I literally told it togo fucking eat itself!And itdid!
Lightheadedness took over. I slowly inhaled, realizing my lungs were spasming in panic.
Calm thoughts. Happy thoughts.No need to freak out.
Pogue still looked a little pasty. Hopefully just a side effect from the soul-sucking . . .
“But—” he began, then paused. “The Gorta’s an Ancient.”
Like the Dullahan—and its whip I’d managed to obliterate . . .
Most Ancients had always seemed like bedtime stories. Warped, monstrous things meant to scare misbehaving toddlers into obedience. Or perhaps they were the dinosaurs of legends, the original beasts of the realm, long extinct, with only tales of their immense power left behind.
But the Dullahan’s presence proved otherwise. Andaccording to lore, only the most concentrated, most potent forces could destroy an Ancient. Like a Lord or somethingunnatural. . .
What in god’s name was I?
My hand moved on its own, rubbing my chest.Then slipped upward to my throat, searching for the familiar ridges of my scar. But it met only the smooth fabric of the choker I’d put on, concealing it away. My fingers were gravely disappointed.
Pogue’s eyes had followed my every move.
I immediately dropped my hand to my side.
His gaze lingered on the choker, then shifted. As if he’d stumbled out of consciousness again.
“You all right?” I asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Having your soul ripped out probably felt worse than childbirth. Then again, maybe not. Men were such babies about things.
He blinked.
Scuffing echoed as he tore himself off the floor, steadying upright.
The room had darkened since my ability faded, no longer a walking nightlight. Still, I held a sliver of it. Just enough to see a few feet around us.
“That was brutal,” Pogue groaned, rubbing a hand over the red, blistering marks on his wrists. Imprints gifted by the Hungry Grass.
He’d no doubt be sore for a while. Another painful red line circled around his throat.
“I can only imagine,” I said. I caught the sight of dried salt near the corner of his eye where a tear fell during the worst of it.
I paused. I knew when not to push, but I wasn’t much for staying within boundaries.
“What did it do to you?” I asked carefully.
Silence.
Then softer, “Hallucinations . . . or memories?”
Seeing him being tormented like that, I knew he relived some nightmare. One you couldn’t just escape in the daylight. The kind that would stick, that’d leavescarsin the form of buried memories.
