Chapter 16
The morning light slanted through the trees, and Cian stood motionless, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his dagger, the blade already notched with imaginary cuts.
His jaw ached from clenching it, the muscles in his neck coiled tight as bowstrings.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the pale, jagged lines marring Reaper’s skin, remembering the way his voice had gone hollow when he’d spoken of them.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder. He whirled, blade flashing, before he registered Trace’s scent. “Shite, sorry.”
Trace didn’t even flinch. “You’re vibrating.”
Cian exhaled through his nose, forcing the dagger back into its sheath. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” Trace jerked his chin toward the tree line. “I’m about to do a perimeter run. Want to come so you know the boundaries?”
The need to move, to do something, was driving him mad. “Yes, good idea.”
They fell into an easy lope, the forest swallowing their footsteps. The air was crisp and clean. It should’ve cleared his head… It didn’t.
“Want to talk about it?” Trace asked.
Yes.
No.
I can’t break Reaper’s trust.
Shite.
He ground his molars together as he tried to figure out what to do in this time and place. In Tír na nóg, he’d just take care of the problem. But Trace had warned him not to kill anyone. “If there is someone Failinis and I must kill, how do we do it?”
“Not allowed.” Trace’s voice was unyielding. “On this side of the Fianna door, it is not allowed to kill someone.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Trace skidded to a halt and grabbed his arm. “What happened?” His grip was like iron. “Who is it you want to kill?”
Cian bared his teeth. “I am just asking the question.”
“Somehow, brother, I think you are not telling me all of the truth.” Trace’s voice dropped lower. “This is my den. This whole place is my Dún Fianna. Here, we do not kill people, even if they deserve it. This time’s laws do not allow it.”
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.
Somewhere in the forest, a twig snapped, and Cian whirled with his blades raised. A glance out of the corner of his eye told him Ward hadn’t moved from his spot on the wall.
Failinis?
It is a deer.
“You’re good.”
Now that he knew there was no imminent threat, Cian lowered the swords slowly. “Not good enough.”
“Good enough to kill a man ten different ways before he hits the ground.” Ward’s voice was steady. “But it looks like you’re holding back. Are you?”
Cian bared his teeth. “I always hold back.”
Ward’s gaze flicked to the blades, then back to his face. “Why?”
Because if he didn’t, he’d shift and he’d hunt. If he and Failinis started to hunt, they would not stop until they found this San Diego place and Derek. Trace had made the rules very clear. “It’s not allowed here.”
“Right. The no-shifting-alone rule.” Ward cocked his head to one side. “That’s what you mean, right?”
Cian wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “Among other things.”
“You’re used to being the law.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re in a place where the law says you can’t be who you are.”
His grip tightened on the hilts. “Yes.”
Ward pushed off the wall and came closer. “Then what can you do?”
“Go mad.”
“I’m hungry, and it’s hot.” Ward stretched. “Let me introduce you to the wonders of ice cream.”
Cian’s muscles burned, a welcome sensation and much better than acknowledging the tangled knot of emotions churning within him.
The idea of ice with cream was foreign and strange, something he’d never encountered in Tír na nóg.
“What is this… ice cream?” He sheathed his swords, intrigued despite himself.
Ward’s grin widened. “It’s cold, sweet, and comes in flavors you can’t even imagine. You need to taste it to understand.”
Ward led the way back inside, the air cooler than the garden but not as unsettling as the hum of magic Cian had felt in the other rooms.
He watched Ward rummage through the cold food larder, emerging with a container and a pair of spoons.
“Prepare yourself.”
He handed him a bowl piled high with what looked like snow that had been flavored, only this snow smelled like the sweetest of creams. Cian eyed it warily, then dipped his spoon into it.
The first bite sent a chill down his spine, the sweetness blooming across his tongue.
A surprised hum escaped him. “This is… unusual.”
“Also addictive.” Ward took a bite of his own, nodding. “You’re adjusting better than most would.”
“Perhaps.” Perhaps not. He was struggling more than he wanted to admit. Failinis whined within him, yearning for the open forest of their homeland, for the familiar pull of pack and territory. But if ice cream was a symbol of this world’s oddities, he might survive.
Before Cian could delve deeper into this strange situation, the door swung open, and Trace and Juice entered, the urgency in their steps palpable.
Viper stood behind them, tapping the side of his talk box. “Listen up.”
Ward straightened. Cian followed suit, catching the shift in atmosphere.
“We’ve got a situation.” Viper’s tone was clipped, all business. “A helicopter is on the way. CO wants us back. We’re spinning up for a mission.”
The room went still, the weight of Viper’s words sinking in. Cian met Reaper’s gaze, sensing the shared tension. Being called back meant something big, something that would demand the full strength of their bond. He went to join him. “Is this usual?”
Reaper nodded. “It is like the Dord Fiann calling you to battle.”
The ice cream was forgotten as the reality of their bond met the demands of his mate’s world. Another battle loomed, one he knew without asking he wasn’t invited to.
The hum of the strange metal beast—helicopter, Reaper had called it—vibrated through the floorboards, rattling his bones, but he refused to cower.
He stood at the window, gripping the sill hard enough to splinter wood, watching as the thing descended like some monstrous, wingless bird.
It spun the air around it into a frenzy, sending leaves and dirt swirling in a chaotic dance.
Reaper came to stand beside him, close but not touching. “That’s our ride.”
He didn’t take his eyes off the machine. “That is not a ride. That is a death trap.”
“It’s faster than a horse.”
“Horses do not fall from the sky.”
“This one won’t, either.” Reaper’s voice dropped, rough with something Cian couldn’t name. “Look, I know this is—”
“You are leaving.” The words tasted funny in his mouth. “And I am not.”