9 AN EARLY START
SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON a fur near the banked fire, Ailsa drew the small file across her thumbnail.
The rasp of metal was the only sound besides Talia’s gentle snoring behind the hare-skin curtain.
The woman worked hard and had to get up well before dawn to bake pies.
As such, after Ailsa had filled her in on how things had gone at the Cutthroat Wynd ale-hall—and after a brief prayer before her shrine to The Five in the corner—she’d retired early.
Ailsa didn’t mind. It gave her much-needed time alone, time to file her nails with grim determination. She’d seen uneasiness in Talia’s eyes when she’d looked at her hands, twice, today. She’d hidden them away, ashamed.
Why didn’t she have nails like other women? If she didn’t file them regularly, they’d end up like claws.
Her hand stilled. Claws?
A short while ago, in that ale-hall, she’d wanted to rake her fingernails down that creep’s face.
Not merely strike him, but tear him.
And she’d never forget the attack in that wynd earlier on in the day either.
On both occasions, the certainty that she could do harm and enjoy it had seized her.
An oily sensation slid through her stomach then.
Gods.
Shakily, she collected the filings in her palm, studying them in the firelight. The curved slivers gleamed. Swallowing hard, she flung them into the embers, where they briefly flared and vanished.
Rubbing her palms on her skirts, her gaze traveled to the low table in the corner where four of Albia’s five Gods stood in a row.
Polished rosewood gleamed in the firelight.
The fifth deity—The Reaper—was never represented in art, as to do so was to invite bad luck.
His presence was always felt though. Always respected.
Ailsa’s brow furrowed. She should have brought Kayla’s figurines with her, for she needed The Five’s blessing more than ever these days. The Hag presided over this time of year, a fickle goddess who could give with one hand and take with the other.
What did The Hag think of Ailsa’s choice of bodyguard?
Dale.
She wasn’t sure what to make of the man.
Arrogant. Aloof. Impatient. Aye, there had been moments when she sensed irritation in him, as if it chafed him to humor her.
Ailsa pursed her lips then. How she wished she didn’t need his help.
Hiring him should have brought relief, but it hadn’t. He’d offered her his blade, had walked her home, and agreed to meet her at first light. Yet something about him wasn’t quite right.
It all seemed a little too easy. The man should have been harder to convince. The silver must be tempting, but the job was a dangerous one. Many mercenaries would have baulked or demanded more coin once they learned that they’d be up against six warriors. But Dale had barely hesitated.
Perhaps he had debts—or was just stupid.
She frowned.
He hadn’t seemed slow-witted. Those honey-colored eyes had been sharp, assessing. How in The Mother’s name had he known where she kept her knife?
Her frown deepened as she moved on to her next nail. You shouldn’t be surprised … he’s a killer.
She paused then, her pulse jolting as a strange tremble of excitement went through her.
Could I kill too?
Her stomach clenched.
No, she was nothing like him. She couldn’t take someone’s life. She’d hired Dale to protect her, to ensure she wouldn’t need to wield that blade in her boot. Let him be the one to spill blood.
All she cared about was getting Kayla back.
Finishing the last nail, she tossed the filings into the fire and slid her file back into her bag. Drawing her cloak tight around herself, she stared at the glowing embers.
And as she did, something else tickled at her.
She’d been sure she’d seen him before, and she still couldn’t shake it. He’d told her he was from Braewall. Maybe, he’d been one of Kayla’s customers.
It annoyed her that she couldn’t remember where or when she’d seen him.
With a sigh, she stretched out on the fur.
She needed to get some rest. Dale would be knocking on the door at first light.
Stretching out before the hearth, she wrapped her cloak tightly around herself.
The warmth should have comforted her, yet it didn’t.
Closing her eyes only brought back fragments of the evening, including the instant of sharp disappointment when Dale’s hand had fastened around her wrist, stopping her from clawing that man’s face.
Ailsa’s eyes snapped open again, bile biting the back of her throat.
What’s happening to me?
She had no answer to that.
Rolling onto her side, she stared into the embers until her eyes burned.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged her under.
“There’s a group of rough-looking bastards staying out back.” The man speaking was gap-toothed and sour-breathed, his eyes bloodshot and glazed with drink. “Next door to my room. Keep much to themselves.”
Darach nodded. “What else can you tell me?” Ever since leaving Ailsa, he’d gone from ale-hall to ale-hall, asking careful questions. Nothing.
But now, finally, his luck had changed.
“They turned up on foot … but brought horses in later. Not garrons mind … bigger, expensive-looking beasts.”
Darach stilled. So, they were planning to move on. Soon.
Fishing out two iron pennies, he pressed them into the man’s sweaty palm. “Show me.”
His new friend led him through the smoky interior, past tables of drunken patrons playing Liar, and out into a narrow yard.
Two long stacked-stone annexes flanked the space, with stables and a midden heap between them.
The stench of horse dung and rotting scraps caught in the back of Darach’s throat.
“That one.” The man pointed to a door on the left before scurrying back inside.
Darach approached slowly, boots whispering on hard-packed earth. His hand moved to the hilt of the long-bladed knife he carried at his hip as he studied the building. No light leaked around the shutters. No voices filtered through the wattle door.
His gut hardened.
It was too quiet. Something was wrong.
Reaching out, he tested the door. It swung open beneath his touch. They’d left it unlocked.
Grabbing a torch from a bracket near the stables, he stepped inside. The flickering light revealed a cramped room with three wooden pallets shoved against the walls. Furs lay in tangled heaps. Empty ale skins littered the floor alongside gnawed bones and crusts of bread.
They’d left in a hurry.
That wasn’t all bad. Rushing often meant mistakes.
Sweeping the torch higher, he scanned the space. There, in the corner, he spied a coil of rope, frayed in places. And on the packed earth floor beside the rope, scuff marks. Deep gouges where someone had struggled. There had been a fight; their captive was giving them trouble.
Moving closer, he dropped to a crouch.
In the dirt beside the rope was a symbol drawn in blood: a triple spiral.
A druid’s mark. A plea for aid.
Reaching out, he touched the markings. Blood. Still sticky.
His jaw clenched so hard that pain stabbed his ears. Kayla had been right here, and he’d just missed her.
If they’ve hurt her hands …
Straightening up, he spun on his heel and strode back outside. The stables. Maybe they hadn’t left yet. Maybe he’d catch them. He yanked open the stable door. A stocky garron turned to look at him, munching placidly on hay. There was no sign of the horses the men had just bought.
A wagon sat in the next stall. Abandoned.
Darach backed away, heart thudding against his ribs.
Ailsa had forced their hand. They’d abandoned a safe hideout and ridden north before they were ready.
He left the yard at a run.
Cutting through narrow wynds and steep vennels, he headed straight for the gates.
Reaching the massive wooden barriers, he halted. Bent double, he gasped for breath while a guard eyed him warily.
“Travelers,” Darach wheezed. “One of them a woman. Dark cloaks … riding horses. Did they leave tonight?”
The guard’s brow furrowed. “Aye. At dusk. Why?”
Darach’s belly dropped to his boots. Dusk? “Which way?”
The man shrugged. “They headed north … I think.”
Darach’s right thigh throbbed then, pulsing with dark heat. The beast stirred beneath his skin, responding to his desperation. He could feel it clawing at the edges of his control, wanting out.
He started to sweat. Not now. Not here.
Gritting his teeth, he forced it down and made himself think.
They had a head start on him, but if he ‘shifted’ and ran through the night, he’d catch them up.
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
No. He couldn’t do that. The transformation was getting harder to control. If he shifted now, he might rip his quarry to pieces when he found them. And in the process, he might accidentally kill Kayla.
That wouldn’t help him.
He couldn’t let the beast take over. It wasn’t a weapon but a curse.
Fuck it.
Kayla’s apprentice was to blame for this mess. If she hadn’t spooked those warriors, they’d likely still be here. Because of her, they’d gotten away.
He forced his temper to settle. The lass had already complicated matters, yet that didn’t mean she lacked value.
If he was going north—and he had to—her company might help him keep the beast at bay. And when he found Kayla, having Ailsa with him might make the tattooist more cooperative.
Still breathing hard, Darach turned from the gates.
His pulse drummed in his ears, even as the beast continued to growl.
Heaviness pressed down on his shoulders then.
Exhaustion loomed like a specter, but he wouldn’t give in to it.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. Every dusk brought the same dread. Would the beast emerge, or would it let him be? Either way, he was always relieved when dawn arrived.
The beast had taken almost everything from him.
He had no friends. No lovers. Even his horse grew skittish whenever the change threatened. Loneliness had settled deep in his bones of late.
All these years of running, hiding, and plotting. He’d made mistakes too, ones that had cost him dearly. Yet, he wouldn’t be thwarted. Not now.
If he could find Kayla—if she could fix him—then perhaps he could stop living like a hunted animal.