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“Right,” Alex says, then flicks his gaze back to James. “And I said to cut in… did you take a scenic route, or were your feet arguing with the rest of you?”
James swings a hand out and swats at Alex’s arm, more warning than harm. “Watch yer mouth. Next time, I’ll let the beast have ye. Save myself the sprint.”
“Oi—watch it!” Alex jerks back with a hiss, clapping a hand over the gash. “Battle wounds, you great oaf.”
James fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Ye’ll live.”
“Aye,” Alex says, flexing his arm gingerly. “But I’d prefer to keep it attached.” His eyes pass over James—quick, wicked. “If you’re gonna be built like a battering ram, you’ve got to hit your intended target the right way.”
The banter comes too easily. It takes me a moment too long to register how naturally we’ve all slipped back into it, when moments ago I was certain I was about to die face down in a bog.
I look back to the fog where it vanished, half-expecting to see it there again, crouched beyond sight. Watching. Waiting.
“It just… left,” I say at last. “Did you notice that?”
James’s smile fades first. “Aye.”
Alex rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Do you think it’ll come back?”
“Maybe,” I say, though the word feels thin and useless. “I don’t think we frightened it off.”
James meets my gaze. Something sober and unsettled there now. “We need to go find my da.”
We don’t laugh after that.
We reach the house well past nightfall.
The castle rises out of the dark ahead of us, most of its windows unlit now, save for a single lamp burning low in one of the lower rooms. For a fleeting, ridiculous moment, I want to pretend this is ordinary—that we’ve been out too long, that Alex slipped in the bog and came up caked in muck, and that the blood we’re both trying not to notice has a sensible explanation.
Because I’m nothing if not practical.
And nothing about this night makes any sense.
The great door groans softly when James pushes it open, the sound rolling down the stone hall like a warning. Somewhere deeper in the castle, a chair scrapes, followed by the quick slap of bare feet on stone.
Róisín’s voice carries from somewhere inside, sharp with surprise. “James? Is that—?”
She appears at the end of the hall half a heartbeat later, shawl pulled hastily around her shoulders, a book tucked under her arm, hair loose as though she’d dragged herself from another world.
Her eyes move to James first, then to me, and then they land on Alex.
The colour drains from her face.
“Oh my—gods,” she breathes, already moving. “Alex—what happened? Ye’re bleedin’—”
“It’s not—” Alex starts, but she’s already there. He gives her a weak grin. “Were you waiting up on me?”
She smacks him sharply with the book.
“Don’t,” she snaps, hands hovering uselessly near his arm as if she doesn’t know where she’s allowed to touch, panic breaking through her irritation. “Don’t jest with me right now.”
“It looks worse than it is,” he adds, though his voice wobbles enough to give him away.
Róisín steps closer, and before Alex can say another word, she cups his face in both hands, turning it toward the light. Her grip is not gentle.
“What happened?” she demands, voice low and tight. “Don’t joke. Don’t lie. What happened to you?”
She releases his face and begins running her hands over him in search of an injury. Blood smears across her fingers with every touch.
