Chapter 26
Zadriel
A fire burned in the Little Witch’s eyes, so bright Zadriel felt the sting of her flame. He pressed his hand against his side, where her power had first seared his skin, chasing away the echo of that ache. She was a dangerous creature, his mate. A beautiful, deadly thing.
The pieces of her he’d gathered, stolen bits of knowledge tossed out carelessly from a smug Cillian or torturous glances he’d managed for himself, pleased him greatly.
He shouldn’t have wanted what he couldn’t have, but, curse the Mother, he did.
Hard bricks cradled his head, snagging bits of black wool from his hood.
He sighed, mist puffing in the air with the long breath, and decided his search for Aoife could wait—he’d take his time watching Mora, savoring what little the Fates allowed.
For all he knew, this could be his last chance. One final gift from the Mother.
Dark eyes traced the curve of Mora’s cheek to her perfect lips; he ached at the sight of her frown, desperate to undo whatever made her weary.
He rubbed at the spot over his heart, a warmth blossoming beneath his fingers.
Purring within his chest. As if his blood sang at her nearness, humming along with a quiet music dancing in the winds.
Whispering to his soul. Beckoning him to follow all the way to where the Little Witch knelt on cracked cobbles, scrubbing at the bloodied stones with her cloak.
A few steps and he’d be by her side.
Before Zadriel could consider moving, a man with golden curls approached her, reaching for the stained garment. He froze, teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. Then, Mora slapped the man’s hand away, and the tension within Zadriel dissolved.
A Naturalist’s tree swayed, cracked rocks tumbling over moving roots to lie with the dead littering the street. Its branches stretched toward the darkened alley, reaching for Zadriel. Pointing the way.
Stunning amber eyes followed, those honeyed gems peering through the shadows to bore into Zadriel’s starlit stare.
“Mother guide me,” he murmured, unable to stop himself from taking a single step, snow grasping at his laces.
Brennan would take her from you.
A growl slid free at the thought, deep and rumbling, the sound animalistic. Purely Fae. Gods knew what Brennan would do to the woman who held all the power he coveted. Everything he’d stolen from Arcadia. Gifted to her by a delusional Cillian.
Mora’s lips parted, brow furrowing, attention sifting through the shadows and somehow dragging over every inch of his body. He stilled, frozen under her scrutiny. Nearly stumbling when she looked away.
He’d never known a deep breath to feel so hollow; without the weight of her eyes, Zadriel could hardly stand the taste of the stale air.
But we can be nothing.
If only they could run. Find haven on a ship to Eldenna and continue onward until they were so far Brennan would never find them. Aedlin wouldn’t need convincing.
But if something happened to Darius... How long would it take Zadriel to crawl back to Eden while the curse tore him apart, piece by piece?
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath.
It was little more than a dream, another stolen moment in his mind. A yearning for even a second with the Little Witch.
His mate’s shriek cut through the air, Zadriel’s throat working at the sound.
She rose slowly, moving like a creature of Arcadia, a furious tempo thundering in his chest at the sight of her wrath.
Those she stood against knew better than to provoke her; at the behest of the blond, everyone else left.
Zadriel pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly as he endured a building pressure in his lungs. The weight of his own emotions lay heavy on him, laced with echoes of a pain he could not name, emanating from Mora.
When she slung her bloodied cloak over her shoulders and walked away, the blond—Zadriel bared his teeth—following dutifully behind, his instincts screamed at him to follow.
To find a way around the cruelty of Brennan’s curse.
But he forced himself to remain in the shadows, frowning as the warmth around his heart slipped away, that enrapturing music consumed by ravenous wind.
She was better off without him.
When they were gone, he stalked over to where the Little Witch had sat on her haunches, scrubbing the cobbles.
A body lay sprawled on the stones, its severed head close to where Mora’s feet once were—had she taken his life?
Had any of the dead dared to lay a finger on her?
The ground was nearly pristine, but, as he sniffed the air, Zadriel could smell hints of lavender among the burning embers, the scent soaked in blood. Her blood.
Kneeling on the ground, he let the bags fall from his shoulder.
They plunked by his side, laces coming undone quickly as he hurried along.
Soft cowhide met his fingers, the hollow part of his chest, where Cillian’s tether once lived, aching when Zadriel pulled the waxed flask free.
It had been a gift. Cillian’s first enchantment with the ring.
“Zade!” Cillian called out, azure eyes sparkling as he ran toward the oak.
Zadriel stared at Arcadia, his focus trailing over a towering wall of trees, their shape growing more ominous by the day. Boughs twisting to entwine with their neighbors. Hiding the Forest from sight.
Would they welcome him if he tried to cross through? Did he have a home to return to?
“Look what I created!” his brother yelled, wheezing as he neared.
With a sigh, Zadriel turned, fingers tracing absently along an exposed root as Eden came into view.
It looked innocent enough. Horses roved through rolling pastures, cows grazing in the distance, a crowd gathering near a new home, preparing bundles of straw for the roof.
He supposed, to them, Eden was indeed heaven...
but Zadriel hated this place with every fiber of his being.
Cillian ran through the field, nearly tripping over his feet—he’d grown much taller over the summer, his long, thin legs often getting in the way. A smirk pulled on Zadriel’s lips. How would Cillian manage if he were Zadriel’s height?
“What is it?” Zadriel asked, patting the oak’s roots, willing them to move and make room for his brother. They didn’t listen, perfectly content to cradle Zadriel in their arborous arms. It was nothing new. They never moved for anyone but him.
Cillian frowned, acorns crunching under his shoes as he tried not to stumble, roots tangling with his feet.
“I enchanted something,” he declared, crouching in front of Zadriel.
The oak’s leaves blotted out the sun, but they couldn’t darken the gleam in Cillian’s bright eyes. He pressed a small object into the Fae’s hands.
Zadriel’s thumb swept over soft black and white cowhide, before settling on a wooden cork. “Is this a flask?” he asked, adjusting his hood with his free hand. Ignoring the beads of sweat peppering his brow.
Cillian flashed a toothy grin. “Yes! I made it myself.”
Citrus overwhelmed his senses when Zadriel sniffed the air.
A common scent in the Dother cottage; citrus fruits made for an easy preservative for their enchanting materials.
The scent so pernicious it permeated off Brennan, as if it had sunk into his skin.
Cillian, however, had just begun to carry the aroma with him.
He inhaled again... There was something else there. Something metallic. Copper?
No. Not copper.
Zadriel trailed his fingers over the fresh scars near his wrist, the mess of ruined flesh still stinging under his touch.
It was blood he smelled. The same blood Brennan had stolen from him the day before, insisting Cillian help.
Had Cillian used it to make this?
“Do you not like it?” Cillian chewed on his cheek, staring at Zadriel’s ruined arms.
“I...” With a shake of his head, Zadriel abandoned his wounds. “What did you enchant it to do?” he questioned, tracing the wooden cork instead.
An easy smile rose on Cillian’s cheeks. “Have a drink and see.”
Zadriel tipped his head to the side in question but twisted the cork free at Cillian’s urging and brought the flask to his lips. Cool water splashed on his tongue, chasing away the heat burning under his skin. He couldn’t help but drink it greedily.
The sun bore down on Eden, summer’s heat refusing to surrender, despite the late season.
While Zadriel reveled in the shade he’d found under the watch of gold-dusted, verdant oak leaves, it wasn’t enough—sweat gleamed on his olive skin, his cloak sweltering.
Yet, he’d remain here as long as he could, the discomfort more agreeable than what he might endure at Brennan’s cottage.
Wiping his lips on his sleeve, Zadriel hummed in satisfaction. “Thank the Mother,” he said, offering Cillian the flask. “I needed that.”
His brother refused to take it. “Tip it over and see what happens.”
Zadriel lifted a brow, but did as he was told, spilling water onto the ground. It splashed into the mess of unkempt grass, droplets splattering onto a mass of roots. Trickles of cold liquid slithered between the weeds, sinking into the edge of Zadriel’s cloak as they made for his legs.
“What in the name of the gods?” He stood swiftly, bare feet soaking in the puddle he’d made. He replaced the cork on Cillian’s flask, brows scrunching when water sloshed inside, the receptacle still full.
“It will never empty,” Cillian declared, his chin held high, pride shining on his face. “And the water will always be cold.”
Zadriel stared at his brother for a long moment—this was far more complex than anything he’d ever enchanted. “How did you manage this?”
“Enchanter’s secret.” Cillian chuckled.
Zadriel grimaced. He hated those dismissive words, and Cillian knew it.