It devoured—and still hungered.
. . . Morag dropped the reins, wrapped her arms around herself, and doubled over, gasping and weeping. She remembered the wolf, remembered the ghost that had risen from it. One of the western Fae who had ridden east with her and Ashk. She remembered him screaming her name. Remembered him screaming as she . . . as the thing inside her feasted on his spirit until nothing was left but wisps of memories.
She'd known him and still hadn't been able to stop It.
"Mother have mercy," she whispered. "Please, have mercy."
The dark horse trembled beneath her. Loyalty and courage. How many times could he have run away during the past few hours? He had more trust in her ability to protect him from the predator inside her than she did. Would the hour come when that loyalty would be repaid with talons slashing his throat open? Would courage be rewarded by dying in terror?
She slowly placed one hand on his neck, careful not to let the talons prick him. "I won't hurt you. I will fight with everything in me not to hurt you. That much I can promise."
She straightened up and looked around. The fog was lifting. The first, soft light of the day was pushing back the night. The dark horse had brought them close to a large stone house. The baron's house? She could . . .
Hunt!
. . . find food there . . . Flesh!
. . . and grain for the horse. Feast!
The Old Place was too far away. She had to find food now— before It got too hungry.
Chapter 50
Breanna closed her eyes as the ponycart approached the circle of moonlight guarding Nuala's grave. She couldn't bear looking at the rose bushes—and wondered if she ever would be able to again. Best to close her eyes before the grief numbed her again. Best not to wonder if the light in the circle was really waning or if it was this soft light before dawn that made the circle look dimmer. Best not to think about what would happen to Nuala's spirit once the light waned since they could no longer spare men to guard the grave. Best not to think at all.
"I'm glad to have your company," Elinore said as she guided the pony over the stone bridge and headed for the baron's house. "And a chaperone, since I'm being escorted by four handsome men."
Breanna pictured one of the Fae huntsmen riding with them offering Elinore a hesitant smile, uncertain if flirting with Baron Liam's mother would be considered acceptable in the human world. Strange how the Fae had become more wary of dealing with humans now that they'd been forced to become more aware of them.
"Are you sure you won't come with me to the village?" Elinore asked. "I'm told the Widow Kendall wraps her hair around strips of rags at night to produce those curls other women envy. The result is certainly beautiful, but I imagine the sight of her first thing in the morning is something that takes getting used to. Since I'll be knocking on her door at an indecent hour, we might find out for ourselves."
Breanna opened her eyes and focused on the pony's ears. A safe thing to look at. "Thank you, but I'll just visit with Gwenn and Lyrra for a bit. I'm sure they'll be up by now."
"Yes, I'm sure they will be."
She was grateful Elinore didn't continue trying to make conversation. She didn't want to talk to anyone. Not really. She just needed to get away from her home, from the rooms so choked with memories she couldn't seem to breathe. She just wanted to sit with two women who weren't kin and weren't bent under the same weight of grief.
But you don't know what happened yesterday. You don't know if they're breaking under their own grief.
When Elinore pulled up in front of Liam's house, Breanna got down from the ponycart. Elinore smiled at her, but the smile couldn't win over the worry in the older woman's eyes.
"If you want to go back before I return, one of the men will escort you," Elinore said.
Breanna just nodded and walked to the front door. She turned and raised a hand in farewell as Elinore and two of the Fae escorts headed for the village. Watched the two other escorts lead their horses to the stable, where they would wait for her. Tried not to scan the fences and roofs and trees for some sign of—
She hadn't thought of him. Wouldn't allow herself to think of him. He hadn't come back to the Old Place. There were many who hadn't come back to the Old Place. She hadn't been able to help Fiona, Glynis, and the other women when the wounded arrived yesterday, but she'd heard the women talking. Heard the break in Fiona's voice when she asked if anyone had seen Rory.
How long would it take before she didn't look toward the clothes lines to see if the hawk was perched on one of the posts, keeping watch? Months? Years?
She wouldn't think of him. Or she would pretend he had gone away. Back to Tir Alainn. Back to his home Clan. Had just gone away without saying good-bye. Which, in fact, was exactly what he might have done.
As she turned back toward the door, it opened. Sloane stepped aside to let her enter.
"Good morning, Lady Breanna," Sloane said.
"Blessings of the day, Sloane. Is anyone up yet?"
"The Hunter, the Huntress, and Baron Liam rode out toward the village at first light. The Ladies Rhyann and Gwynith went with them, along with Lord Varden. Ladies Gwenn and Lyrra left for Squire Thurston's house a few minutes ago. The Bard sent a messenger to let them know Lord Donovan was badly wounded but had survived the night and was healing well."
"So Aiden and Donovan survived," Breanna murmured. "That's good."
Sloane smiled. "And Lord Falco. He made it back to the squire's house before the fog made travel imprudent."
She was suddenly lightheaded, floating. A warm hand closed on her arm, grounding her.
"Lady Breanna?" Sloane said. "Are you well? Have you eaten yet?"
"I. . . don't remember."
"Why don't you go sit in Lady Elinore's morning room? I'll have some tea and toast brought in for you."
"Thank you, Sloane. That's very kind of—"
A scream sliced through the house. A maid rushed through the servant's door at the back of the hall. She tripped over her skirt and went sprawling across the floor, still scrabbling wildly to reach the front door.
Sloane hauled her up by one arm and said sternly, "What's the matter with you, girl? There's wounded in the house. Do you want to give everyone a fright?"
"There's something in the kitchen," the maid gasped. "Something terrible."
Breanna moved toward the servant's door. This was her brother's home. These servants were her brother's people. Since he wasn't here to deal with this, she would. Somehow, she would find the strength to deal with this.
When she walked into the kitchen, she saw the cook and her helpers pressed against one side of the room, staring with terrified eyes at the black-haired woman bent over one end of the work table. Her black overdress and trousers were dirty and torn, and her breathing was as rough and ragged as her clothes.
"What do you want?" Breanna asked.
The woman spun around, snarling.
Not a woman, Breanna thought as her blood chilled. No longer a woman. Leathery skin. Sharp teeth. Talons at the ends of its fingers. But the dark eyes that stared at her. . . The woman was still in there, still aware, still fighting against what she was becoming.
The creature raised one hand. "Hot blood. Strong spirit." She shook her head fiercely, then turned away.
"What do you want?" Breanna asked.
"Food. Drink. Grain for the horse."
Mother's mercy. "Sloane, ask one of the footmen to fetch a small sack of feed from the stables."