“Don’t die on me, Reyna,” he said softly, cupping her pale cheek before pushing off into a run once again. “One more hour, and we’ll be there. Don’t let your bloody stubbornness fail you now.”
Lorcan could no longer feel his feet in his boots. He knew they would be bloody and raw when he finally stopped, but he didn’t care. They were so close. He could even see smoke curling from distant chimneys, and small specks on the horizon where the land met the sea. He could not fail her now.
The moments passed in a blur. Lorcan could no longer think about anything but the simple movement of putting one foot in front of the other.
The village was before him now, a small cluster of mud-encased buildings squatting on top of a lush green hill overlooking the sea. The thatched roofs rustled in the soft breeze, reminding Lorcan at once of his childhood. The familiar din of village life rose up around him. Laughter drifting from the open tavern doors. The sound of wood splintering from the heavy blow of an axe. The clang of metal from the local blacksmith. And the soft hum of a mother hanging linen out to dry.
Lorcan’s heart ached for home. The village from his childhood. The people who he had known and loved and lost.
The ones his own father had killed.
Gritting his teeth, he shook the memories away and raced into the village, shouting for help.
There were several cottages clustered together at the edge of the village, squatting beside a tavern that buzzed with the steady hum of conversation and laughter. A few fae were wandering along the road that wound through the village, chatting together in groups or lugging barrels of water from a nearby stream.
Several of the fae slowed to a stop, eyeing Lorcan warily.
There were three of them. One was an older male with white strands peppering his mossy green hair, and deep lines around his eyes carved into his face like an ancient tattoo of wisdom. He had a flat nose and large verdant eyes, and the two younger females with him had matching features. All wore the simple garb of villagers: linen tunics and trousers, worn and faded.
“What’s this?” the wood fae asked, glancing at Reyna, at all the blood. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“We were attacked. She’s been hurt.” Lorcan inched forward, showing the fae the blood that had soaked through Reyna’s tunic. “Please. She’s dying. Is one of you a healer? Can you help her? Please.” His voice cracked on the last word.
He would have given them anything in that moment to save her. He would let his mark finally burn him up and tear his limbs apart. The world had taken so much from him already. This was all he had left, and he would die if it meant she could live.
One of the females stepped forward. Her eyes were kind and her voice soft. “Who attacked you?”
Lorcan did not know how to answer that. Nollaig believed this village to be safe and free from the wood king’s influence, but what if she was wrong? What if these wood fae were loyal to their court? His mind spun with lies, but he knew they would not believe a one of them. It was clear why he was here, a shadow fae with a dying ice princess in his arms. All he could offer them was the truth. “Some archers in the woods. Scouts for the king.”
“All right then,” she said, waving Lorcan forward. “You’re not the first bloodied fae to come rushing in here with an arrow poking out of a belly. She’s lucky she has you. She looks half dead.”
Lorcan’s heart twisted.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a kind smile. “I’ll stitch her right back up again. I’m Meredith, by the way. The local alchemist.”
Lorcan hadn’t known the Wood Court had alchemists. He didn’t think they believed in such things. From what he’d heard, they’d turned their backs on the ways of the Dagda, welcoming darker things, just like their king.
He followed the female past the cluster of cottages. She led him toward the tavern, up the rickety stairs, and into a room where a dozen wood fae fell silent in a hush of tense air.
His entire body tensed. His eyes flicked from fae to fae, spotting swords on backs, bows leaned against walls, and daggers on mead-stained tables. These were warriors. Every last one of them.
“Avalon,” she called out to the tavern wench with cascading ginger hair, who stood behind the curving oak bar at the back. “I need the following herbs: rowan, knit-bone, and willow bark. Some nettle tonic, too, please. And Duff, give the lad a drink or two and get him cleaned up. Don’t forget to burn that tunic. It’s drenched in her blood.”
Every single fae inside the tavern sprang into action. Avalon, the tavern wench, disappeared through a burlap flap behind the bar. Duff jumped to his feet, rushing to the bottles that lined the wall. And several other males joined in as well. They gently wrenched Reyna from Lorcan’s arms. At first, he resisted. He didn’t dare let her go. But then Meredith had given him an impatient slap on the arm, and he had relinquished his vice-like grip around Reyna’s broken body.
Meredith motioned for the warriors to follow Avalon into the back. Lorcan trailed behind them, his eyes locked on Reyna’s frail form, but Duff clamped a strong hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. The fae shoved a small metal mug into Lorcan’s hands. Amber liquid sloshed inside. “Drink.”
Lorcan shoved the mug aside. “I’m going with them.”
“You’re staying here,” Duff said steadily. “Have a drink.”
Lorcan shoved his shoulder against the wood fae’s, knocking him out of his damn way. The mug clattered onto the timber floor, the spirits splashing onto his boots. But three others stood from the table and blocked the path to the back of the tavern where they’d taken Reyna.
“Get out of my damn way,” Lorcan growled.
“We get why you’re angry, but there’s nothing you can do to help her now. The room’s not big enough, mate. You’d just get in the way.” Duff knelt down, grabbed the mug, and tipped a new splash of spirits inside. He held it out for Lorcan. “Besides, we need to get rid of all that blood. You’re covered in it.”
Lorcan glowered at Duff, and then turned his attention on the other three. They all wore well-worn boiled leather with no sigil stamp anywhere to be seen. They were broad and muscular, but much shorter than most of the air and shadow warriors Lorcan had met over the years.
The closest gave him a nod. “I know you’re worried about your lass, but Meredith can’t do her thing if you’re in there growling and knocking people over.”
“You came to us for help.” Duff’s voice softened. “Let us help you, mate.”
Lorcan’s shoulders slumped as he relented, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of Reyna trapped in the back room of a tavern, being tortured by wicked wood fae who just wanted to watch her bleed.
But if they’d wanted to kill her, they wouldn’t have bothered trying to hide it from Lorcan. And Meredith had said she would help. As a wood fae, she couldn’t lie. With a shake of his head, he grabbed the mug and downed the amber liquid in one gulp. He winced as the burning liquid hit his throat. Wood Whiskey. The strongest spirit in all of Tir Na Nog, and the most fiery.
“What’s all this about the blood?” Lorcan asked after he’d downed another shot. His nerves were spent, he realized. His entire body hummed as if it had been shot too close to the sun.