Chapter 14
Fourteen
Sorcha
This was an arranged marriage. This man had refused to kiss me on our wedding day.
And I knew he’d come around, changed his mind, decided he was in it for real.
But waking up in his arms—to Neal stumbling along in Elvish to try and comfort me, his hands in my hair—was the most surreal and incomprehensible moment in my life.
And so I stayed quiet—not sure what would even come close to being the right thing to say.
My head was pounding and I was too hot and too cold all at once.
My mouth was dry and tasted like licorice and bile.
But Neal’s warmth was comforting—his arms around me and his fingers stroking the back of my neck felt like they somehow made everything just marginally more bearable.
After what felt like an eternity of letting Neal coddle me, Ansel got back to camp.
“Look who’s up,” he said, his cheerful, nonplussed tone a jarring contrast to what little I could remember from the last eighteen hours. “We gotta get a move on before that storm hits. Next town’s half a day’s ride and all in here is a wash. Don’t want us flooded out.”
“I need clothes,” I said, looking down and finding myself clad only in one of Neal’s shirts.
“Let me help,” Neal said quickly as I tried to push away from him and get up.
I froze for a moment, then let him. And soon I found myself dry and dressed and standing next to Chuckles, both hands gripping the bottom edge of the saddle, trying to convince myself that I could actually get on and ride.
“I can get you up,” Neal offered. I tried to nod.
But before he could intervene, my head swam, and I found myself once again puking in the dust. Again Neal’s hand went to my back, rubbing slow, calming circles.
Again he gave me water and wiped my face and kissed my forehead.
Again my brain screamed at the incongruity.
Screamed how I’d barely forgiven him. It was too much—his hand on my back and his soothing voice cutting past the sound of my own pulse ringing in my ears, the damp handkerchief wiping vomit from my face.
Against every thought in my rational mind still screaming at me to be grown up and hold it together, I started to sob.
I felt Neal pull me into his lap, soothing and comforting.
And while I was so indescribably grateful for the help.
While I was so indescribably grateful he actually returned my affection.
None of that undid the confusion. The trauma.
I tried to make sense of it, but the attempt only made me cry harder.
And then frayed nerves gave up and my brain and body pulled me back into sleep.
I woke up with my face pressed into Neal’s back, behind him in the saddle. My mind spent a moment playing catch up—taking in the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait, Neal’s warmth against me, the way his hand rested protectively over my own, holding my arms around his waist.
Suddenly, everything snapped into focus.
He loved me. He wanted me. He’d said as much.
Shown as much. And what’s more, I’d admitted my own feelings.
At first I’d wanted him purely for the comfort, a crutch to deal with my own grief and abandonment.
But as the days after my father’s death had stretched into weeks, I’d come to want him for himself.
I’d come to love his particular brand of steadiness, the way he listened, the exact tone he used to give instructions around the ranch.
I’d come to appreciate his gentleness, meticulousness, patient dedication.
I’d started to wait all day for the particular way my breathing relaxed when I could smell his scent, feel his touch.
I’d come to anticipate the gentle butterflies in my low belly when I saw how the light played off his red-brown hair.
And even our inexpressibly disastrous honeymoon and early marriage hadn’t been able to override it.
And now it was all out in the open. Feelings, apologies, regrets. Now we could just—be married.
Maybe almost dying wasn’t so bad after all.
“Love?” Neal reined the horse and turned as best he could to face me. “You awake again?”
I didn’t bother finding words, just nuzzled into his palm as he cupped my cheek. I managed to keep my eyes open as a sweet, gentle smile crossed his face.
“You called me love,” I mumbled, trying to get closer against him, seeking that comforting warmth.
“Yeah,” Neal murmured. “You’re finally letting me.”
I smiled, too tired to form a coherent response.
“You scared us there,” Neal murmured, fingers tangling into my hair.
“Where are we?” I croaked. “Where’s Ansel?”
“Three days ride from Austin now,” he replied. “Ansel’s finding us somewhere to stay before the storm hits.”
I looked over my shoulder, grateful for Neal’s steadying hands as I nearly lost my balance—heavy black clouds blanketed the horizon.
“How’s my fever?” I asked.
“You’re still sweating, so I think we’re okay,” Neal said, kissing my forehead.
“I’ve got you. I’m not letting anything happen to you.
” He moved a hand down from my face to my belly.
“Either of you.” Neal dismounted easily and held his arms up for me.
“Let’s get you off the horse. He needs a break anyways, you’re small, but the two of us is still a lot of weight for him. ”
“You feeling better?” Ansel asked when he returned, crouching in front of me. I was nursing another cup of yarrow tea while Neal fussed over the rash on my leg and tried to find a pressure point he swore would help with the nausea.
“I’m conscious. That’s progress.”
“I found us a place to ride out the storm,” Ansel said. “Old abandoned mission ten or so miles out. We leave now we can get there before the worst of the weather hits.”
I nodded agreement and let Neal help me up, then saw a distortion on the horizon—like a heat mirage, but oriented perpendicular to the desert, not parallel.
“Am I getting dizzy or is something going on over there?” I asked.
Ansel turned immediately to look.
“That’s . . .” Neal trailed off as the flicker turned into a streak of white light splitting open the sky. He hurriedly helped me back into the saddle and swung himself up as Ansel scrambled onto his own horse.
“That’s a portal,” Ansel said.
“And those are tentacles coming out of it,” I added as lengths of muscled, sinewy purple flesh emerged from the shimmering patch of air. “Charming.”
“Which means we need to get out of here,” Ansel said. “Now!”
“Where do we hide from an eldritch monster?” I asked as we urged the horses faster. Our pack mules trotted behind, driven forward by sheer terror.
“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Ansel said.
I nodded again and felt my breath hitch—I could feel my temperature edging higher, the headache building behind my eyes. This was far from ideal timing.
“You okay?” Neal asked, glancing over his shoulder. The giant tentacled beast was making far faster headway than it had any right to.
“Define okay?” I managed through the fever haze quickly setting back in.
“We got a plan here, Ansel?” Neal asked, voice tight and edged with terror.
The beast, best I could tell from quick looks behind me, was a giant octopus with purple tentacles fifty feet long, covered in suction cups bigger than a man’s head.
If anything I’d heard about regular, earth octopuses was true, this would be deadly.
Never mind any horrible demon powers it might possess.
“Ansel!” Neal urged as I felt myself start to sway in the saddle.
“You two down that wash,” Ansel said, pulling something from his saddlebags. It was a long-barreled, repeating iron pistol—etched with runes that started to flare and glow as the creature approached. “I’ll handle this.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“He’s sure!” Neal said, grabbing the reins from my trembling hands and urging both our horses down into the shallow gully.
“Come here,” he said, dismounting quickly and pulling me off beside him—my face against his chest and his arms around my shoulders.
The beast was eerily silent. There was the odd sucking and popping as the tentacles contacted hard patches of rock. But other than that the air was quiet and still.
Neal pressed my face into his chest. But when I heard Ansel yell, I wrenched Neal’s hand away.
And so we both watched as Ansel fired at the beast. The bullet hit at the juncture where one of the massive tentacles met the beast’s bulbous head.
Bolts of black lightning arced from the point of impact, slowly turning the writhing creature into a pile of dark, smoking dust.
“All clear!” Ansel shouted. He sounded almost excited as he trotted down to meet us in the gully.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Had an Ironmoot smith make it up for me,” Ansel said. “Only got ten or fifteen engraved bullets for it though. So a little high risk, high reward. But it bloody works, doesn’t it!”
“Any reason you waited until we were literally moments from death to tell us about it?” I pressed.
“Didn’t know if it’d work,” Ansel said with a nervous laugh.
“Fantastic, love the improvisation,” Neal sighed, pulling me even closer.
“You alright to ride again?” Ansel asked as he climbed back up the gully’s slope to fetch his horse and encourage the mules around the pile of smoking eldritch dust.
“A little dizzy,” I said, dramatically underreporting the fever I could feel creeping over my skin and the nausea roiling in my belly, “but I’ll be okay.”