“Don’t tell him that.” He smiled into Reaper’s eyes. “He’ll be insufferable.”
Miach’s voice cut through the darkness above. “Hurry! He’s almost here!”
Cian twisted, cupping his hands. “Jump!”
Reaper placed his foot into his cupped hands and leaped, his boots scrambling the wall for leverage. Cian followed, their bodies crashing into the grate just as Miach wrenched it open.
They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. Reaper rolled to his feet, his knife already in his hand. Cian’s blades materialized from the shadows, as side by side they readied for war.
But Dian Cecht’s voice bellowed, “You cannot escape me, boy.”
Reaper’s lips peeled back in a snarl that made even Failinis proud. “Watch us.”
He snarls like me!
The torchlight flickered against the timber walls as he and Reaper moved shoulder to shoulder down the narrow corridor. His blades were heavy in his hands, the weight familiar, but his body still hummed with the aftershock from both the magical restraints and the buzzing, thrilling bonding vow. “The passage splits in two up ahead.”
Reaper gestured for him to stop, and when they paused, he cocked his head to one side. “Someone is coming.”
Six warriors rounded the corner. Cian recognized them as his brother Cú’s men, the most loyal men to Burncourt in his father’s army…Or so he’d thought.
“Fighting in here is gonna suck.”
“Can you use a sword?”
“I’m better with an M4 or even an M16,” Reaper grumbled, “but your brother didn’t give me time to grab it.”
What’s an M4 or an M16?
He had the same question as his wolf brother, but as the first man lunged toward them, he didn’t have time to ask it.
Maybe it’s the firesticks.
Cian sidestepped the blow coming his way and blocked the spear with his sword, shattering it, and the impact vibrated up his arm. He twisted, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs, then kicked him back into his comrades. They stumbled, blinked at him, then their eyes flicked between him and Reaper.
“Move.” Reaper demanded, “He is mine, and I am his. Whoever the fuck you are, you have no rights to him.”
“He is your Grá Croí?” One of the warriors asked Cian.
“He is.”
Will they follow our laws or my father’s demands?
“You don’t want this fight,” he growled. “The fates demand no one may interfere with the bond of the Grá Croí. If you are afraid of my wolf, you do not want me to allow my mate loose on you.”
The first warrior’s jaw tightened, and he glanced at the others, but before he could answer, a deep and guttural snarl tore through the corridor. The warriors parted as a massive figure shoved through their ranks.
Bresal.
“Whoa, he’s a big ’un.”
“My father’s champion.”
A brute of a man, Bresal’s arms were corded with muscle, and his body a map of old scars. By the time he came within fighting distance, his axe was already swinging. Cian barely got his blades up in time. The impact nearly drove him to his knees, his bones jarred by the force. Bresal smirked. “Little pup still thinks he’s a warrior.”
Reaper buried his knife into Bresal’s shoulder. The champion roared and spun around with his axe, slashing toward Reaper’s ribs.
Cian lunged, his blade slicing across Bresal’s thigh. The man staggered, but his backhand caught Cian across the temple. Stars exploded in his vision, and he hit the wall, his breath knocked out of him.
