The haunting sound of the Dord Fiann was followed by the thunder of hooves and the spine-chilling war cries of the Fianna as they raced down the hill toward the Fianna door. It took every ounce of discipline that more than a decade of working in Teams had given him to keep his finger on the barrel of his weapon and not curled into the trigger guard. Using his thumb, he double checked the safety, just to make doubly sure he didn’t fuck up.
His gaze locked onto Fionn as the horses came to a stop, and for a second, when faced with the rage on the High King’s face, he was tempted to take a step back and let Viper or Trace take the lead on this one. But he held his ground, lifting his chin in silent challenge.
Well, this is just fucking peachy.
When Fionn dismounted, Trace stepped forward, but Reaper cut him off with a slash of his hand. “Where’s Cian?”
Fionn’s jaw clenched. “Gone.”
Reaper had a split second to feel itbuilding in his sternum before a wall of guilt slammed into him, and his stomach dropped.
Shit.
Is he dead?
Did the bond kill him already because I’ve been resisting it so hard?
Fuck.
“What do you mean, gone?” At any other time, he’d have been rather proud of the fact the words came steadily out of his mouth steadily, without a tremble to be seen. But today, it didn’t even cross his mind.
Oisín joined his father on the ground. His gaze flicked to Fionn before returning to Reaper. “Taken.”
Jesus, do neither of these fuckers know how to give more than one-word answers?
“By fucking who?”
“The Tuatha Dé Danann.” Fionn gestured for them to walk with him. “We were just about to go get him back.”
A cold, sick feeling coiled in Reaper’s gut. “Why the fuck would The Tuatha Dé Danann take him?” With his accent he knew he butchered the name. Both Fionn and Oisín’s winces confirmed it.
Fionn’s voice was a low growl. “They took what they believe is theirs. Cian is of the Stag Clan. His bloodline is... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Reaper’s molars ground together as he fought not to strangle the pair of them. At this point he barely recognized his own voice, because it was filled with a weird-ass snarl. Someone better teach these fuckers how to provide the intel for a mission brief. It shouldn’t be this freaking hard to find out what they needed to know. “And what is that sulfur smell?”
Fionn’s eyes narrowed. “His father is Dian Cecht. He is both leader and physician to the Tuatha Dé Danann. Cian was never meant to be one of us. But in the warrior games, he earned his place in my Hounds and gave me his allegiance. It has been a bone of contention between the two of them since.”
Dysfunctional families exist in the land of the forever young, too.
Who knew?
“Is that it then?” What did it mean for the marks growing up his arm? Or for the ones Cian surely had too?
“He is of their blood.” Fionn crouched and pointed to a disturbed piece of ground. “Some would say it is their right to claim what is theirs.”
Fuck that.
Reaper took a step forward. A snarling growl of rage hammered in his throat, demanding release. “Can we get him back?”
“Why is it you want him back, warrior?” Fionn asked. “If he is to die because you deny the bonds of the Grá Croí?”
Shit.
He knows.
“Will he not die anyway?” Viper asked. “I mean, if the bond is not completed?”
Oisín exchanged another glance with his father before answering. “In the old days, before we came here to Tír na nÓg, the Tuatha Dé Danann’s magic was stronger. They draw their power from the ley lines and the magic of Eire. Coming here muted that as the veil diminishes the magic a little. But nobody knows if that’s enough for them to break a Grá Croí bond that has started.”
