Chapter 11
“I’VE IMAGINED THIS moment so many times.
” Lara marveled at how steady her voice was.
Her temper had boiled over, heat pulsing under her ribs.
Fury yanked like a beast on a leash, and yet she was in control.
“You taught me much during our marriage … especially how to turn resentment into a weapon. Ever since you betrayed me, I’ve hardly slept.
Instead, I lie awake thinking about killing you. ”
Alar stared down at her, his eyes wide. They were standing so close, she could see the flecks of charcoal in amongst the iron-grey of his irises. He hadn’t realized it, but his words had yanked her right back to The Heather Path, to the things it had shown her. And this time, she’d reacted.
“You’re a lot faster than I remember,” he murmured. He didn’t move though. Not with her blade pressing against his windpipe.
“I’ve been practicing.” The urge to press the knife in hammered into her. “And during every session, I imagine I’m cutting up your smug, sneering face.”
He didn’t reply. Indeed, her own venom surprised her.
Gods. She didn’t sound like herself at all.
And yet, the rage was liberating. Anger and bitterness had built a prison around her over the past year, but she’d just broken free.
She’d walked that cursed greenway and been faced with the twisted truth. Now, she’d own her darkness.
“Food has lost its taste. I no longer enjoy warm sun on my face or appreciate a cup of sweet plum wine,” she went on, the words tumbling out of her now.
She hadn’t realized her hatred went so deep, yet it did.
“My need for reckoning is all that matters. And I don’t care if I die getting it. You will pay, Half-blood.”
He swallowed, carefully. There was no taunting light in his eyes now.
Her venom shocked him.
“Do it,” he replied, his voice roughening. “You’ll never get a better chance. Take your revenge now.”
White-hot rage consumed her then, blotting out all reason. All sense. She pressed the blade harder against his throat. Blood welled against iron. And as she watched, crimson trickled down his pale skin.
Surprisingly, he didn’t flinch. Instead, his stillness unnerved her. “Again,” he said quietly. “If it helps.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she ground out, even as she leaned into the dagger. Blood welled again, more of it now, running over the iron blade. And still, he didn’t move.
“I deserve worse.”
Lara stiffened, even as her fingers flexed around the dagger’s bone hilt. Finally. There was complete honesty in his voice. He’d dropped the arrogance, the taunting. There was no barrier between them now. “You do.”
But even as she whispered the words, something inside her shifted.
The bastard wasn’t supposed to submit to her like this. She wanted him to fight, to sneer, so she could enjoy watching him bleed out over the pine needles. His submission disturbed her. Revenge didn’t feel like victory when he offered himself up for it.
Neither of them moved. Instead, they stared at each other. It was a moment of raw honesty, and she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any closeness between them. Hatred was easier.
“Lucky for you, we need the three of us to perform the binding at The Shattered Crown,” she said finally. “My reckoning will have to wait.”
“You’re wasting an opportunity,” he replied softly. “It won’t be so easy to catch me unawares next time, Lara.”
“No, but we both have an important job to do.”
She stepped back then, releasing her grip on his vest and removing the blade from his throat. Blood slicked his neck, running down into the hollow between his collarbones. His chest rose and fell sharply then, as if in the grip of a strong emotion.
Indeed, he wore a strained expression, his skin pulled tight over his high flat cheekbones.
“Will you come north with us or not?” she asked, shoving the observation aside. Of course, he was flustered. An inch more and blood would be pumping out of his neck. “Will you form the third point of the triangle, so we can push the wraiths back into The Threshold … and close the door behind them?”
He swallowed, blood glistening in the lamplight. And when he answered, his voice held a husky edge. “I’ll think about it.”
Alar walked back to the fort alone.
Night had fallen, and a waxing crescent moon was rising. Away from the glow of torches, the darkness was alive. Whispers followed him, and icy fingers brushed his cheeks.
He hadn’t let on, but Mor’s story had shocked him. Even so, there was no denying reality.
The spirit world was growing increasingly troublesome.
He didn’t quicken his pace though. Instead, his hand rested on the pouch of salt at his waist—just in case something went for him. He didn’t want to hurry his path to the gates.
He needed this time to think, to untangle everything he’d been told and make sense of it all.
He’d agreed to consider traveling north with Mor and Lara at dawn. They’d told him he could bring a small group of wulvers with him, if he wished—generous of them—but he wouldn’t.
Lyall and Dolph would be incensed.
No, if he agreed to this, it was a journey he needed to make alone.
One he wouldn’t return from.
He’d had one shock after another this evening.
He’d hidden his reaction well, but seeing his half-sister and his father standing with Mor had been a punch to the gut.
He’d still been reeling when Mor began her tale.
At first, he’d barely listened, but as she talked about The Shattered Crown and the wraiths that poured out nightly through the gaps, he’d focused.
He’d only half-believed the Raven Queen though, which was one reason why he’d insisted on speaking with Lara alone.
His free hand lifted, tracing the cut on his neck. He then grimaced. It stung.
There had been a moment back there, as he’d stared into Lara’s furious green eyes, when he’d thought she’d throw caution aside and kill him anyway.
But he’d counted on her to do the right thing and stop herself.
She needed him alive.
Even so, as blood had warmed his neck and the cold iron blade burned against his skin, he’d wondered if he was breathing his last.
Lara had withdrawn in the end though, and despite the relief that had weakened his legs, he’d mourned the loss of contact. When she’d been standing close, the familiar scent of her had crowded his senses.
It had brought every memory back into sharp focus. If he was going to die this evening, he wanted to do so in her arms.
Shaking himself free of unsettling thoughts, he drew in a deep, steadying breath. What’s wrong with you?
He was losing himself these days. The old fire that had burned in his belly had gone out.
“Have you lost your Gods-damned mind?”
Beathan mac Glen slammed his cup of ale down on the low table beside the hearth, making Duana startle. The young woman sat on his lap, her face set in a rigid expression.
He’d been casually fondling her, one hand up her skirts, when Alar, Lyall, and Dolph had entered his alcove.
Alar had called his brothers to him, but wouldn’t reveal what had transpired in the camp until they met Beathan too. He didn’t want to repeat this tale.
Standing in the middle of the large alcove, warmed by a roaring hearth, Alar had recounted what Mor had told him.
All of it.
There wasn’t any point in leaving things out. Everyone needed to know about the danger that threatened to engulf them all. He’d responded flippantly to Lara when they’d been alone, goading her into anger.
He hadn’t given her a firm answer either, yet he knew how serious it was.
If wraiths continued to pour into Albia, everything he’d worked so hard for would be lost.
His brothers and sisters would be forced to flee Doure and Duncrag, to return to the dark forests and cower in the shadows. But, even there, they wouldn’t be safe.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Aye, victory had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but the reason he’d done all this remained. It didn’t matter if the wulvers didn’t look at him as they once had. Their leader. Their savior. He still owed them more than he could ever repay.
If traveling to The Shattered Crown and taking part in this binding ritual would save them, he’d do it. And if he didn’t return from the North, so be it. Fatalism had descended upon him during his walk back to the fort, and he hadn’t fought it.
And so, he told his companions that he’d leave with the party waiting in the pines that following dawn.
Lyall and Dolph had gone still, their amber eyes narrowing, as the tale had progressed. Beathan had stopped groping Duana, while across the chamber, Duana’s sister, Eithne, who’d poured everyone fresh cups of ale, had gone still.
Beathan hadn’t reacted though, until Alar announced that he intended to travel to Darkmere with Mor and Lara, and see this through. “This must be done,” he concluded, swirling the ale in his cup before draining it in a long draft. “The binding needs the three of us.”
“It sounds like horse shit to me.”
“I agree,” Lyall growled.
“You aren’t usually so easily convinced, brother,” Dolph added.
“No, but I can tell you why,” Beathan shot back. “The stupid prick is in love with his wife.”
“Watch yourself, Beathan,” Alar said softly.
The chieftain sneered, dragging his gaze over Alar. “That cut on your neck … did she do it?”
Alar’s pulse quickened. Beathan was far too sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t take us for fools.” Beathan’s dark-blue eyes bore into him.
“You’ve been pining for the bitch ever since we took Dulross.
You’re a fucking fool. Women need to know their place.
You never let one weaken you.” To make his point, Beathan grabbed a handful of Duana’s hair and yanked hard, pulling her back against him.
“They’re for humping, bearing bairns, and serving their men.
” He then twisted her breast with his free hand, and she cried out. “Nothing else.”
Angry now, he shoved the lass roughly off his lap. “Get out … the pair of you!”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Picking up her skirts with one hand, Duana swept from the alcove, pulling her younger sister after her.
Silence settled after their departure. Eventually, Beathan broke it. “That’s how you treat women. Instead, you walk out there, and hand your balls over to that Shee bitch and your wife, like some fucking eunuch.”
“So, you don’t believe the threat is real?” Alar asked, not rising to the bait. The chieftain’s insults washed over him.
Beathan made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “This is just a power play.”
“And what if it’s not?”
Beathan snorted. “Then we just drink, fight, and fuck until the end.”
“Let them leave tomorrow, Alar,” Lyall said roughly. “Let the two queens play their game … without you being part of it.”
Beathan screwed his face up. “No … let’s deal to them instead.” His blue eyes speared Alar then. “They’re a small band. We wait until just before dawn, and then we kill them.”
Silence followed these words.
The two wulvers exchanged veiled looks, while Alar’s heartbeat started to pulse in his throat.
This wasn’t going as he’d hoped.
Eventually, Dolph cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t even be considering helping them. You’re needed here.”
Am I?
He wasn’t sure his brother believed that. Both Lyall and Dolph were happier at Dulross than he was. Beathan encouraged them to expand their territory further—pushed them to want more than Doure and Dulross. But Alar was tired of it all.
He’d recently begun to realize that it would never be enough. He wanted no part of it.
He didn’t say as much to his companions though, for he didn’t like the way all three of them were eying him now: like he was a problem. One they weren’t sure how to solve.
As a rule, Beathan got on better with Alar than he did with Lyall and Dolph.
Like many Marav, he’d once scorned wulvers.
Although he’d swallowed his prejudices to side with them, he still wasn’t that comfortable with Alar’s captains.
Things were better here between the two races than they’d ever been in Duncrag, yet over the past turn of the moon, Alar noticed cracks appearing.
Beathan’s jibes about the stink of frying and smoking fish had started to wear thin. The chieftain often disregarded Lyall’s opinions at meetings, always asking Alar for his thoughts instead. This evening was the first time in a while he’d actively sided with either of them.
If anything, Alar’s absence would likely unite them.
They were all wary of what he might do next. He needed to tread carefully.
“I shall sleep on it then,” he said, moving over to the table where Eithne had been standing earlier, and replacing his empty cup.
“There’s nothing to sleep on,” Beathan growled out. “Ready yourself, Half-blood … and be at the gates with your wulvers before dawn.”