Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
LOCKE
Locke MacMurchada had always been afraid of the night, and yet here he was, drowning in a sea of smoke and flame, dying in the dark.
He watched through blurry eyes as Rory and the boy vanished into the mouth of the cave, a silent shimmer the only sign that they had once stood there, then let out a shuddering sigh of relief as the cailleach shrieked, a torturous scream of frustration and rage.
It did not bode well for him, that sound.
He wondered if it were the loss of Rory, of the boy, that infuriated her so, or if she had discovered what was left of the amadán dubh.
It had torn him into ribbons, that monstrous demon of the sídhe, and shattered his sword – his mother’s sword, he thought with a pang of sorrow, of regret, given to him by her own hands on the day he became a man.
How proud she had been, how proud they both had been.
He supposed he would be seeing her again, soon enough, and gods, he hoped she would still be proud, despite everything he had done and failed to do.
The amadán dubh had made him pay dearly for it, but still, Locke had killed it.
And now, he too would be killed – slain by whatever unholy curse the cailleach spat his way once she had finished raging over her loss, flinging spell after spell at the yawning mouth of the cave, shrieking with fury as they cracked uselessly, feebly against the unseen wall of the sídhe.
At last she turned, those sea-swept eyes landing on where he lay pinned to the earth by the fiery bonds of her infernal blaze, choking and gasping for breath, racked with pain from head to toe, and he saw it then – his death reflected in that lovely, evil face, glinting off her sharp white teeth, singing in an unholy voice as she let out a guttural stream of unintelligible curses.
His spine arched and his ribs shattered, one by one, agony most unbearable, and even though he wished he could waltz into the other-world with his pride intact, Locke let out a high-pitched scream as that curse slid its way down into his gullet, an obsidian stone knife of a hex, ripping and tearing him apart from the inside out.
His body twisted and writhed, and through the haze of pain, his gaze again landed on the small mouth of the cave, half-hidden beneath the vines and the new-budding leaves of greenery coming to life in the early spring night.
At least the boy was safe.
Rory was safe.
éire was safe.
And with that thought soothing the torment slowly, methodically, shredding him apart, Locke closed his eyes, and for once, welcomed the darkness.