Then the grin snaps back. “You must ask. I can only give direct advice to my soul-bound.”
But I saw it. That flash of something older than courts. Older than Fae.
I file it away with everything else I don’t understand yet.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Whispen. How many other forms did the Dagda take?”
“Many.” The sharp-toothed smile returns. “Now you’re understanding the game. I’m so excited.” He zooms in a circle around my head. “Cut the wood.”
Why—
No. I grab the axe and begin splitting timber, trying to think of every question we’ve missed. Which are probably hundreds. But one question. Just one.
I pause, axe resting on my shoulder.
“Can you get to Ash?”
He rolls his eyes. Scoffs. Grunts. “Maybe.”
“Whispen.” I groan. “All this time you could have gone to her? Kept her company? Fed us information?”
Now I truly understand why Orion threatens to kill him every five seconds.
“I had an assignment.” He blinks innocently and transforms into his child form. Wide eyes. Cherubic face. Absolutely evil.
“What assignment?”
“You three.”
“Who gave you an assignment that overrode your bond to Ash?”
He smirks at me. Leans close. “Morrigan,” he whispers.
Another manipulative ancient playing games with our lives.
I grab my wood, ignoring the little blue demon, and head back inside to work on the hearth. I glare at Whispen every five seconds while I stack kindling and coax flames to life.
“Morning,” Orion grunts from the stairs.
He lowers himself onto a bench with more care than usual. The wound in his chest, the one Dagda left when he ripped the Cauldron free, is still angry and red beneath his half-open shirt.
He catches me looking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to offer to examine it. Again.” He stretches out on the bench, wincing only slightly. “It’s healing. Leave it.”
He’s snoring within thirty seconds.
I don’t know how he does that, drops into sleep like falling off a cliff. My mind won’t stop cataloguing variables long enough to rest for an hour, let alone thirty seconds.
“Coffee?” Kieran appears in the doorway. Shadows under his eyes. Snowflakes melting in his dark hair.
We don’t look at each other for too long.
Three weeks since I told him if he’d warned us about his father’s plan sooner, we could have stopped this. Three weeks since he said nothing back. Which was worse than if he’d argued.
He wasn’t wrong to keep his father’s machinations close. I wasn’t wrong that we needed to know.
