Chapter 45 Carwynn
CARWYNN
Bang!
A miss.
Bang!
Closer.
Bang!
Way off. Damn it.
We’d been at it for almost two hours now. Not once had I actually hit the thing dead center. But on a positive note, any improvement was improvement, right?
When we first got here, I’d accidentally pulled the trigger while taking the gun from Lochlainn. He didn’t appreciate almost losing a toe. Or my nervous laughter that followed, which shriveled what little confidence he had in me.
At least now I was hitting impressively close, within inches of the paper targets tacked to the stone wall. He clearly had me on the bunny hill of the shooting range. Two plain-Jane concrete aisles with generic targets posted at the end.
The simulation to our side flashed with color—loud, action-packed, and absolutely having more fun than I was. It was a torture to look at but too hard to look away, practically begging me to play.
Wyatt had trained me well enough with daggers and blades, so I could slaughter dummies half-unconscious when focused. But shooting was definitely not my forte.
“Much better. But ya seem bored,” Lochlainn called from behind me. “Don’t know why ya don’t put some power in it.” He leaned casually against the concrete and bit at his thumb. A mindless habit I noticed he had.
I lowered the gun with a frustrated breath, jaw clenched and pride battered.
The lesson started off promising, with Lochlainn’s instructions being surprisingly clear and helpful. Well, the verbal part at least. But then came the hands-on demonstration where his guiding hands got gropey pretty quick. I had to swat him away more than once.
A not-so-stealthy, lucky-charmed Casanova . . .
But the easy mood between us thickened fast as I refused to use my abilities while shooting. Lochlainn pushed, insisting I should be using them as often as possible. Said they were organic parts of me now—extra limbs that needed to be stretched and strengthened.
I held my ground. I wasn’t doing it. Not yet.
Before training with David and Wyatt, I’d never used magic to fight.
At least, not in the standard sense of the word.
And I didn’t plan to start now. The most important thing was to master self-defense without shortcuts, without magic doing the work.
I’d survived most of my life without power.
Why should this be any different? If shit ever hit the fan and I lost control on my abilities—which, let’s be real, is a strong possibility—I needed something else to fall back on. Backup skills that didn’t sparkle.
Still, irritation ate away at me.
Bang!
Another miss. Shit.
“No worries, love. I doubt any of the trials will require a gun,” Lochlainn said, holding out a hand to signal we were done. “Eostre Landers prefer more theatrical events.”
“Let me guess,” I scoffed. “Planting people in the ground like bulbs?”
“Aye,” Lochlainn said, chuckling. “Folk would say Queen Ostera is eccentric. Personally, I think she’s a self-righteous, tree-humping twit.” His arms crossed.
“Don’t you mean tree hugging?” I raised a brow. “I’m surprised you’re not a fan of her. Figured anyone who’d come up with a month-long orgy would be golden in your book.” I poked at the leprechaun, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “Maybe you could adopt your own version of Feck Fest here.”
Lochlainn’s face lit up, right before he bellowed a laugh.
“Feck Fest!” he exclaimed. “Now that’s bloody clever! Should’ve thought of that name myself.” The look he gave me sparkled as another aftershock chuckle bubbled out.
“Why, thank you,” I said, dipping in a mock curtsy.
“Ostera drowns herself in flowers and pretty gowns.”
I giggled watching him sarcastically reenact a lady holding up her dress with an unnaturally toothy grin. “All the while, with a smile that’s as bright as the sunrise.” Lochlainn shook his head. “No one’s that happy. I don’t trust her. And don’t even get me started with the prince—Thumper.”
“First of all, critical much? God forbid someone be happy,” I said, giving him a pointed look. “And secondly, I’m sorry—did you say his name is Thumper?”
Eostre Land was suddenly becoming first place on my list of curiosities.
Lochlainn rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask how he earned that name for himself. Just do me a favor—stay away from him. He’s as pretentious as his mother.”
Interesting. I had a feeling Eostre Land was going to be one hell of a ride. Was it the kind of ride that ended with laughter and windswept hair, or the kind that left you dangling, screaming for your life because the seatbelt came undone? Which one—I guess we’d find out . . .
“All right, let’s pack it up,” Lochlainn said, extending a hand again, waiting.
No. I wasn’t done. I could do this.
All week, my inkling had been gnawing at me.
A low, incessant whisper urging me to train at every opportunity I could.
That all-encompassing pull tugging me toward something important.
Which, today, happened to be Lochlainn’s secret hidey-hole.
I’d wokayen up to the smell of gunpowder on my mind and an itch to blow shit up.
“Not yet.” I shook my head. “Let me try the disco-tech simulation.” I glanced toward the flickering training grounds, then back at him. The most pathetic pout overtook my face, begging. “Please, Loch . . .”
I wasn’t sure when we’d crossed into the nickname stage of being friends, but it felt comfortable.
A glare. Then, he withdrew his hand and ran it through his beard with an exaggerated sigh.
“Ya know you’ll get your arse handed to ya in there, right?” he said, arm muscles tensing, folding over each other as an eyebrow raised in challenge.
My bottom lip puckered out even farther, turning on the puppy-eyes.
“Ugh,” he grumbled, “Fine, but one condition—” His index finger hovered in front of my face. “Use your magic.” Each word slowly annunciated.
I felt eight again. Back to the time I somehow convinced my foster mom to take me to the arcade at the mall. Turned out, she thoroughly enjoyed monster games as much as I did. Hands down, one of the biggest wins of my childhood.
I still believed learning au-natural was more beneficial. But for the glory of playing in the shiny disco range, I’d compromise.
“Yay!” I did a little shimmy and clapped my hands. Breena was rubbing off on me. “Okay. Deal!”
Lochlainn watched me. A small smile tugged the corner of his lips as he opened his mouth, about to comment when—
“Lochlainn!” Keeffe busted through the door, panting.
“Where the feck have ya—” His gaze landed on me and he immediately halted.
A pink blush crept into his cheeks. “Oh.” He shifted awkwardly, eyes ping-ponging between Lochlainn and I.
“Hey, Carwynn. Sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt .
. . anything.” Teeth met inner cheek as he flashed Lochlainn an apologetic smirk.
Keeffe wore his Luckman attire—tan pants, tucked white shirt, suspenders with gold clasps. Sharp, but wrinkled enough to prove he’d sprinted here. Dark red hair was wind-tousled with one stubborn lock clinging to his forehead.
“Oh yeah.” I lifted the gun toward the ceiling, waggling my eyebrows. “We were about to get real hot and heavy,” I said, my words swimming with sarcasm.
Did he seriously think this was some kind of date? That would’ve been awkward on so many levels, especially since Finley and I have gotten closer.
Lochlainn shook his head, exhaling hard.
“Out with it.”
“We’ve found the—” Keeffe hesitated, side-eyeing me. “Spoiled goods.” The words were vague, but his eyes were throwing a full monologue at Lochlainn.
Lochlainn stiffened at my side.
“I’ve got the men with me,” Keeffe added. “Figured you’d want to . . . go over things.” He didn’t give anything away, but the delivery was quite the opposite of covert.
Poor guy. He’d make a terrible spy. Completely missed the mark on the art of hidden messages. As if I’d believe there were some kind of panic over food poisoning in the Casino kitchens. Those drunkards would eat food off the floor if it even partially looked edible.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Translation: things are going really great in the drug Lord business, huh?”
Keeffe’s right hand twitched, the only indication of nervousness brewing.
The two men stared at each other. Longer than I could handle.
“All right,” I huffed, throwing up my hands. “I’ll head out so you two can have a little powwow.” I shoved the gun in Lochlainn’s hand and spun on my heel, about to leave—
“Someone poisoned our shipments,” Lochlainn said flatly.
The fact that his voice was tied to an actual answer stopped me in my tracks. I turned back.
Keeffe’s brows lifted, looking just as surprised as I did.
“Something so potent, people are fatally overdosing with just a few drops,” Lochlainn went on. “And I don’t think this is just a hit on my business.” Gold eyes slammed into mine, heavy and piercing. “I think it’s much bigger than that.”
The look on his face—it gutted me in the worst way, carving anxious knots in the pit of my core. There was more, so much more, but he wouldn’t say. He looked right through me.
Just overdoses . . . just a natural disaster . . .
Thoughts of the Loveland attack rushed in like floodwater.
Was this him again—the Skell King? Was Luckland next? Fuck. Was this because of me?
Shit. It had to be. He knew I was here—knew Luckland was my safe haven . . .
I swallowed so hard it nearly took my tongue with it.
“The attack on your runner. The Dullahan. Now this . . .” My eyes burned as I buried them into the floor. “I’m so sorry.”
All those people. Dead. And for what? Because some psycho king believed I was either his wicked-incarnate heir, or an escaped prisoner . . . the byproduct of his late wife’s lies.
The Dullahan made it seem like he wanted me alive. Which should be a relief, and yet, I found that even more disturbing.
“This is my fault,” I rasped. “Because I’m here.” I could only spare a quick glance at their frowning features.
First sorrow, then pity spread across Keeffe’s face.
A warm hand found a home under my chin and raised it up. Amber met gold as my sights locked on Lochlainn.
“This is not your fault,” he said, voice stone cold. “Not a single one of those bodies belongs on your conscience. Ya hear me?” The words struck like iron, and my spine snapped straight in response.
He searched my face, as if trying to find an ejection button for all the guilt that was building inside me.
His hand fell away.
“Greed runs in the blood of every Lucklander—an ailment we’ve learned to manage.
But in others, it’s a vile sickness. Slow to spread, festering until there’s nothing left but rot.
For that Skell bastard, enough will never be enough.
Not gold, not coin, not any treasure. He craves souls.
To drink the lands dry.” Lochlainn’s face drew tight.
“Ya may be his fixation for now . . . but one way or another, he’d come for the rest of us too. ”
Keeffe exchanged a look with him, quiet and knowing. As if confirming some plan that had already been laid in place—and it was now time to move.
Deep within me, my inkling stirred. No trace of deceit. No mask, no fabrication. I was meeting the raw, unguarded version of Lochlainn.
David and Faelad made a mistake in doubting him.
He’d been one step ahead this whole time.
Any facade Lochlainn put on . . . well, maybe he and Faelad weren’t so different after all.
Whatever drama laid between them needed to be set aside.
If he could just talk to Faelad—swap information, share what they knew—maybe we’d have a better chance of stopping the Skell King.
Or at the very least, figure out his next move.
“Loveland wasn’t a natural disaster.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. My mouth instinctually snapped shut.
Oops . . .
Lochlainn’s body went completely rigid—frozen.