Then how do we avenge our mate?
I don’t know, Failinis. But we will find a way.
Trace cocked his head to one side as if he were listening to a conversation with Juice or Bran in his head. He released him, and stepped back. “Work has called a meeting; we need to go back.”
There was nothing else for him to do but to agree and follow him after him.
Trace deposited him in the kitchen. “Help yourself to food. I don’t know how long this will take, but Ward is around here somewhere, too.”
“It is good.” It wasn’t, but what else could he say? The door clicked shut behind Trace, leaving him behind. Voices leaked through the walls—Viper’s low rumble, Juice’s dry chuckle, the sharp crackle of whatever strange device they called a phone. He pressed his palm against the wood, half-expecting to feel the thrum of magic, but there was only the dull hum of human tech.
Ward came into the kitchen, took one look at him, and came to a stop. “You look like you’re about to punch a hole through the wall.”
Cian exhaled through his nose. “I need to do something.”
Ward pushed off the frame. “Then let’s do something.” He jerked his chin toward the back of the house. “Trace has a practice field outside. You can swing those swords of yours without taking anyone’s head off.”
The offer was a lifeline, and he snatched it gratefully. “I’ll get them.”
Ward followed, close enough that inside his head Failinis caught the scent of old books and his magic, but not the wild, singing kind from Tír na nÓg. This was quieter, as if it had been muted for thousands of years, and it was just finding its voice again.
“You’re not used to being caged,” Ward said.
Cian’s fingers twitched. “No.”
The swords waited in the room he shared with Reaper. He strapped the belts across his back and gestured to Ward to lead the way.
Sunlight hit the blades as Cian drew them, the familiar sight easing some of the disquiet inside him. The yard was wide, bordered by trees, and the grass was cropped short.
Do they have cows to keep the grass cut?
Ward stopped near the edge of the patio. “You need anything?”
“Space.”
“Then take it.” Ward lifted his hands and backed up, perching on the low stone wall that ringed the garden. “But do you mind if I watch? I’d love to know how your training drills actually work.”
“It is good.” He knew that it was Ward’s love of old things and old languages that had aided in releasing Fionn from the prison he’d been held in so far from Tír na nÓg. There was little the other man could ask for that he would not grant him if it was within his power.
He didn’t waste time with doing any practice swings and lunged straight into his training routine with his blades singing as they cut the air. The first strike was sloppy because rage had made his muscles tight. He growled, forced himself to breathe, and tried again.
Faster.
Sharper.
The swords became extensions of his arms, the movements a language his body knew better than Gaeilge.
Failinis prowled beneath his skin, restless.
We should hunt.
We can’t.
Then let me out. Just for a run.
No.
The wolf snarled, but Cian ignored him, driving himself harder. His shadow stretched long across the grass, a dark mirror of his strikes. He imagined what Derek’s face would look like on the end of his blade. Imagined the crunch of bone, the spray of blood. The thought should’ve satisfied him. It didn’t.
