This is gonna suck.
He didn’t have time to second-guess himself. He hadn’t an iota as to what would happen or what they could do when they got to the other side. Did it matter? No, not when Cian’s howl, and the sound of the Dord Fiann still echoed in his mind, it didn’t.
When Ward finished the spell and the magic lowered to reveal the portal, Trace gestured to it. “As the Grá Croí who called for aid, Reaper should go first.”
Wait, what?
I don’t even have my weapons.
Damn, that’s one hell of an FNG mistake to make.
“Yo, Reap.” Zero pushed a weapon toward him. “You’ve got one in the pipe. Don’t go shootin’ your cock off. I got a feeling you’re gonna be needin’ it sometime soon.”
“Thanks.” He took the M4 and was grateful for it. But there wasn’t a hope in hell he was letting the wisecrack go. “Go over there and apologize to that tree for all the oxygen you’re breathing just by being here.”
“Ya know, I think my feelin’s are hurt,” Zero muttered. “Kaze, are my feelin’s hurt?”
“Dude, you wouldn’t know what a feeling was if it bit you in the balls.”
They stacked up at the edge of the Fianna Door, just as they would on a mission. Reaper glanced over his right shoulder at Viper. “On your word, sir.”
“Go. Go. Go.”
He stepped forward, and the world ripped itself apart. The first time through the portal had been like getting hit by a truck. This? This was like being flayed alive and stitched back together with live wires. The magic latched onto the mating mark, yanking it taut as the portal’s energy surged through his veins. His vision whited out, and his nerves screamed as every inch of him was stretched, compressed, and rewritten. The scent of ozone and crushed herbs filled his lungs, but beneath it all, he could still catch a faint scent that his soul told him was Cian.
Reaper’s knees hit the ground on the other side. He bounced back onto his feet as he fought not to puke, and moved to the left with his weapon at ready position. The world spun, colors bled together, but he squinted and tried to see what they faced as his Grá Croí mark pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a second rhythm thrumming beneath his skin.
What the actual fuck?
Viper landed beside him with a grunt, rolling to his feet in one fluid motion, SIG already drawn, as he moved to cover their right flank. The rest of the team fanned out around them, weapons up, eyes scanning the tree line. But Reaper barely registered them. His attention locked onto the horizon, where the silhouette of a horde of warriors loomed against the twilight.
“Viper.”
“I see ‘em. Trace?”
“Fianna.”
Jesus, it’s like a scene from Braveheart.
“Mel Gibson would rock Fionn Mac Cumhaill, because that’s some Braveheart shit right there.”
Reaper shot a quick glance at Juice.
Is he reading my fucking mind?
Worry about that shit later.
Worrying about what kind of powers Juice may have gained from mating with the legendary Cú Cullinan wasn’t exactly top priority when dozens of warriors lined the hillside, armed to the teeth, their swords already drawn. Fionn stood at the front, his massive frame unmistakable even from this distance. Beside him, Oisín’s golden hair was tied back in a warrior’s knot, his blades unsheathed and glinting in the fading light. The air thrummed with tension, the kind that preceded a storm—or a massacre.
Where is he?
“Do you see him, Trace?”
“No.”
“Me either.” His lungs burned with each ragged inhale, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears, drowning out everything but the roar of his own blood. Even when he didn’t understand why he was losing his fricking mind over a fantastical warrior he’d only met once, he was resigned to the trajectory he was on.
Ain’t no getting off this stupid merry-go-round without breaking my damn neck.
