When I open my eyes, they’re inexorably drawn to the corpse. Quinn’s head, a contorted mosaic of wild-eyed pain, is barely attached to his body, and there’s a gaping, ragged valley beneath his chin. A blood-red second smile.
Good.
Aowen’s hunched over, staring at what’s left of Quinn while Sabre stares at her, awestruck. Worshipful. Like he’d kick the corpse aside, kneel in the blood of her fallen enemy, and propose right here and now.
Aowen rises, then staggers toward me, her anger pouring out in a long, keening wail as she pulls Desmond from my lap.
She rocks him against her torso, burying her sobs into his neck, mutteringbaby brotherandDesover and over again. They hadn’t spoken since the night he showed up in Tír na Lune to tell us he’d bargained her to Sabre. I cannot fathom her grief.
Lachlan stands beside her, resting a hand atop Desmond’s head. “Sleep well, my king. Until we meet again in the Afterlands.”
I stand and brush myself off, wondering what in god’s name our next steps are. Desmond was the answer to everything—my survival beyond the end of the Wild Hunt, Lachlan’s freedom, the Otherworld’s peace—and now … How much time do we even have left to fix this? Mere hours?
It’s not long enough.
I turn to Lachlan, and he opens his arms, about to?—
The ground beneath us shudders, branches crashing, and before I even have a chance to breathe, I see Mortis pounding toward us.
And with a powerful bolt of clarity, as if from Danu herself, I know what I must do.
Mortis stops before us, snarling. Aowen wipes off her thorn, Lachlan’s sword hisses out, and Sabre flips his scythe-daggers. Skadi’s glowing green eyes flash deep within the pines; she must have been stalking Mortis. I try to catch her gaze, let her know not to come any closer.
“Wait,” I say, too faintly for anyone to hear me. They’ve corralled me behind them, thinking I’ll be no help, but they forget I am the only advantage we have left.
“Wait!” I shout. Lachlan is the first to turn. “I’m going with him.”
“What?” He rears back. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Mortis creeps closer, advancing and retreating, toying with us like he did in Tír na Lune.
I grab Lachlan’s elbow. “Mortis will not kill me. I can end this. Please.”
I see the moment my plea reaches him. His hand comes to my face, fingers tightening on my cheek, his sapphire eyes asking a question I don’t have an answer for yet.
What happens after?
I cannot think that far ahead. I strip off my jacket, my boots, my pants, until I’m wearing nothing but the chemise from beneath my bridal attire. I un-plait my hair, then put the boots back on and tuck the thorn into the left with just the edge of the handle peeking out.
Aowen does a double-take at my attire. “What is she doing?”
Lachlan presses a kiss to my temple, audience be damned. “Saving us.”
I step toward the báshound with the ugly, jagged scar through his left eye.
“Mortis,” I say.
“Take me to your master.”
Chapter
Fifty-Seven
Mortis weaves through the forest, bending around trees, leaping over streams, bounding up rocks. My fingers tangle through his grizzled mane, holding on for dear life. He howls, a signal to his master that he’s captured their prey.
The sun dips ever closer to the horizon, panic a swift drumbeat in my chest. I hope Lachlan, Aowen, Vesper, and Sabre are not following us. It’s a fool’s hope; of course they are. But I pray they do not interfere with my plan.
Mortis slows as a break in the trees appears. Beyond, on a bald white rock jutting over the vast expanse of the Eldergrove, a figure stands in silhouette against the setting sun. Five spikes shoot from his head. I see he’s taken the liberty of crowning himself already.
