“Yes, it is,” Reaper agreed. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until you see the house.”
Failinis prowled restlessly within Cian, urged him to allow him to be free so he could explore and follow the boundaries set by Bran. Ensuring his Grá Croí’s safety would be his top priority in this place.
Once the others were through the Fianna door and Ward shut down the magic, they fell into step with them and made their way through the thick forest. Cian kept pace with Reaper, their proximity a soothing balm to being unnerved by crossing the veil.
His senses were on high alert, absorbing the unfamiliar scents and sounds of this new world. Failinis poked at his consciousness, keen and curious about this place where his mate had spent so much of his life. Suddenly, there was a change in the air, a subtle shift that sang through his veins.
A boundary, unseen but not unnoticed, pulsed gently as they crossed it. “Protection magic,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, feeling the shimmering thread of enchantment that marked the edge of Trace’s domain. It hummed with a familiar resonance but felt strangely muted compared to the vibrant energy of Tír na nÓg.
“Yup, boundary’s right here.” Kaze grinned. “Keeps the crazies out, for the most part.”
“And the wolves in,” Trace added, casting a knowing look at Cian. “Bran set it up,” he explained. “Means we’re safe to shift here, as long as we check for any nearby strangers first.”
I do not like this rule of not shifting.
Me either, Failinis.
He scanned ahead and stopped in his tracks. A dwelling rose ahead, a sturdy and unfamiliar structure surrounded by wildflowers and grasses. He gaped at the slate roof, straight walls. It was nothing like the crannógs of his home—built atop water, their woven walls swaying with the currents. This place was rooted deep in the earth, solid and steadfast like it belonged to the ground beneath it.
Very different.
Failinis sniffed the air, and Cian mirrored him, inhaling deeply.
Smells odd.
Reaper chuckled beside him, sensing his surprise. “It's not so bad,” he said with a lopsided grin, nudging his arm with his shoulder. “Wait until you see inside. You’ll find it even stranger.”
“I already know this will be true.” He managed a grin of his own.
The oak door swung open, and he hesitated on the threshold, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his sword. The unease coiled in his gut like a serpent, but the faint, steady pulse of the bond with Reaper kept it from striking.
“I promise, nothing will hurt you here. This is Trace and Bran’s den.” Reaper glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “Trust me?”
“I do trust you.” And he did trust him. What he didn’t trust was this place. There had been no warriors here to guard it while Trace and his people had been in Tír na nÓg. He glanced around and realized the others had already disappeared into the building, and only he and Reaper remained outside.
“Then come with me.”
Reaper held out his hand, with his palm turned up.
Cian exhaled sharply, took Reaper’s hand, and followed his mate into the building. His footsteps sounded odd on the strange, smooth floor. The air smelled of smoke and meat, but beneath it, something smelled like the weapons the men carried, and his nose wrinkled in distaste.
This place is wrong.
It smells wrong.
I know.
He blinked in surprise when Reaper let go of his hand and went to a wooden shelf that looked to have been built into the wall, and it opened to reveal a door.
Magic.
Failinis growled low in his mind, hackles raised.
Magic or not, if Reaper goes, we go.
He followed him through the door and stumbled to a stop. “You make your stairs from swords?” His hand shot out to grab the metal railing. “Are you leading me into hell, Grá Croí?”
“No.” Reaper paused about four steps down the spiral. “Trace built his den in a cave system, and this is how we get to it.”
