by M. A. Grant
“Nearest town’s a half day’s ride,” he says, scratching a rough map into the dirt with a stick. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “A storm’s coming in, so we’ll ride out now and resupply. We’ll meet you here.” He indicates a point halfway between the town and our current location. “There should be some abandoned cottages there where we can set camp for the night.”
“Sounds like a good place to ride out the storm if necessary,” I agree, the words raspy in the still of the morning.
He nods and rises. “We’ll see you tonight.”
He starts to walk away, but I reach out and snag the hem of his cloak. “What do you want us to do?”
He gently pulls his cloak free of my grasp, which is so at odds with the stern look he pins me with. “Talk.”
“But—”
“Do you hear me, lad? You will sort this out. It’s gone on long enough.”
Properly chastised, I don’t speak up again. He waits a moment longer, then turns and rejoins the others. They ride away, leaving Lugh and me alone with nothing but the wide fields around us and the rapidly darkening sky above.
Once the sound of hoofbeats is gone, Lugh shifts on his bedroll. Of course the bastard was awake the whole time. “They like to meddle.”
“They worry about us.”
Lugh turns toward me, his brow pinched with irritation. “Do you want to talk?”
“No,” I admit. Lugh huffs and starts to roll away again, but freezes when I add, “But we need to.”
I wait, heart in my throat, and wonder if he’s as tired of this as I am. He must be, because a moment later, he grumbles, “If you start breakfast, I’ll start packing our shit up.”
It doesn’t take us long to find ourselves sitting across from each other, pointedly watching the fire’s flames while we quietly down our portion of the food and wait for the water to boil. I keep expecting Lugh to speak first, to accuse me of whatever he wants so I’ll have an opening to speak my side, but it doesn’t come. He just sits there, brooding, while I prepare our tea in equal misery.
When I hand Lugh his cup, he takes a breath of the fragrant steam rising up and his body tenses. “Peppermint?” he asks, the word strangely hoarse.
“For the headaches,” I murmur. “I haven’t been sleeping well and I know you haven’t either.”
Like that, he softens. A sigh escapes him and he drags a hand through his hair. We sip our tea and watch the fire burn down. I’m halfway done with my cup when Lugh asks, “Did it scare you? What I did in the village?”
I don’t even have to think about my response. “No.”
“Then why are you so angry with me for it? Because of the iron? I was careful, and—”
“No, Lugh. It wasn’t about the iron.” I remember my reaction that day and wince. “Well, maybe a little.”
“The shades then? I’ve seen them my whole life. I don’t think I can just make it stop.”
I clutch my mug tightly and wonder how words can fail me so easily when I’m not performing for others. “I’m not asking you to stop. That’s not who you are.”
“Then what’s this about, Keir?” He sounds exhausted, resigned in a way I don’t like.
“The shade who helped you find that blade... Did it reach out to you for help like the others you’ve talked about?”
He nods. “Yes. It offered to help and I chose to let it share those memories—”
“That’s why I was angry,” I interrupt. “You chose to let it in. You chose to let it do something to your body that you couldn’t control. That could hurt you.”
Lugh pauses, cup halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowed as he examines me. He points a finger toward my waist. “And how is that different than you using the belt? You give in to it the same way.”
Gods, it hurts to explain. It hurts to bare these little bits of myself, even to Lugh, who knows me better than anyone. After so long hiding everything, admitting this feels like treason. Feels like I’m crossing a line that she may use to separate us.
“Your mother offered me the belt because, as a human, I would be too weak to protect you in the future.”
Lugh’s eyes widen and the cup trembles as he lowers his hand, resting his arm on his knee as he stares at me. “What?”
“She and I discussed it after the incident with the lindworm. You were with the healers and she found me waiting outside. She said by saving you, I’d finally proven my worth. And she said if I wanted to stay by your side, I needed to become stronger.”
“I didn’t know. At the ceremony she acted like it was a reward—”
“There was no reason to tell anyone otherwise.” I take a breath and watch the last of the sticks in the fire collapse into a pile. “I chose to take the belt, Lugh. I chose it because it meant we would be together. Every time I use it, every time I give in, it’s to keep my promise of staying with you.”
Lugh, for all his self-effacement about his lack of intelligence, is not a stupid man. He doesn’t make me say what we both know—that his choice in the village was for a different reason. “Oh,” he mumbles at long last. “I... Oh.”
“You’re a prince of the Unseelie Court. You serve as the Sluagh’s Horned King. You have responsibilities I don’t, and never will, have. I may struggle to understand why you do things. I may get angry, but I won’t leave until you ask it of me. I just want you to be safe.” I finally look up from the fire and find Lugh’s hazel eyes already fixed on me. I can’t ask him to give up his magick. I can’t ask him to stop helping those who need him. And I would rather be with him, worrying about him, fearing for his safety, protecting him when I can, than choose to leave him.
“I don’t deserve a friend like you,” he says at last, so softly I almost miss it.
“Maybe not, but you have me.”
“I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll be more careful,” he promises. He opens his mouth to say more, but the sight of a single snowflake drifting down in front of him makes him pause.
The clouds have closed in above us, faster than I expected. Snow falls in a delicate dusting, light and airy. The first brush of winter has arrived at last.
“We should head for the cottages,” Lugh grumbles, gulping down the last of his tea. I toss what’s left of mine on the fire.
Damn Cybel for being right. Talking seems to have put the world to rights again. Lugh and I are once more moving as a team, sharing the responsibilities of packing the last of our gear away and stomping out the bank of dying coals. Before I can think about it too much, we’re in our saddles and heading off down the road in the direction Cybel has scratched out in his makeshift map.
Our newfound ease remains, even when the storm picks up and the air whips the snow about with fierce intensity. We pull up our hoods and soldier on, searching for the turn in the path that should lead us to the stone ruins. We ride on and on, slowed to a near crawl.
“I’m fucking freezing,” Lugh yells over the wind. “We need to find somewhere to get out of this damn wind.”
I point toward a dark smudge barely visible through the drifting snow. “Trees?”
“Better than nothing.”
Liath and Dubh must agree. They let us lead them over a bumpy field and into the first edge of the forest. It’s still cold in here, but the trunks and branches protect us from the worst of the storm’s fury. Lugh shakes off his cloak and rubs his hands together before brushing snow off Liath’s mane. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
“No. And I don’t want to risk getting turned around in this. What do you want to do?”
Lugh cocks his head and stares off into the forest.
“Lugh?”
“Do you feel that?” he asks. “It’s like a tug...”
“A shade?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. This is different.”
“Do you want to follow it?”
He bites at his lower lip and doesn’t quite look me in the eye when he answers, “Maybe.”
“Fine. But if it changes, if you feel anything threatening about it, we leave.”
“Agreed,” he promises easily, and urges Liath deeper into the trees. We weave in and out of the trunks, moving slowly for the horses’ sakes. The noise of the storm dies away for a while, then picks back up, though it sounds different.
“I think there’s a clearing ahead,” Lugh tells me.
He’s right. The trees open unexpectedly into a small meadow, partially protected from the wind by the towering trees surrounding it. It’s unnaturally quiet here, silent enough the fall of snow seems unwanted. The dilapidated ruins of a small cottage hunker at the edge of the space. The stone walls still stand, but the thatched roof and wooden beams have long since fallen and rotted away. The chimney rises out of the mess, a gnarled, blackened finger pointed toward the sky.
“This can’t be the place Cybel was talking about,” Lugh mutters.
“Not with only one building,” I agree. “At least it’ll give us a bit of shelter until the weather turns.”
Lugh dismounts and tosses me his reins. His boots make soft sounds as he strides deeper into the meadow, the snow well past his ankles. “I don’t feel it anymore. Whatever it was.”
I slide off Dubh’s back and lead both horses toward the remains of the building. I eye the doorway of the cottage. “What should we do with the horses?”
Lugh peers past me into the cottage’s interior. “They’ll probably fit,” he says, though he can’t hide his obvious doubt.
Too bad they’re both determined to not go inside. We try until one of them gives a harsh whinny of displeasure. Rather than risk upsetting them further, Lugh tromps the horses back to the tree line and hobbles them under the relative shelter of the evergreen branches. He’s shivering by the time he returns to me and I tilt his head up to get a better look at his bluing lips, surprised at how quickly he’s reacted to the cold. He stills when I press my thumb to his skin, worried about how much cooler it is than mine.
“You’re freezing,” I whisper.
“Maybe there’s enough wood to start a small fire,” he says, abruptly moving out of my grip. He ducks under my arm to make his way inside.
The ruination is even worse in here. Piles of snow drift over the exposed floor, while the sections still protected from the worst of the elements are layered with dirt and dead plants. A handful of clay shards from broken dishes lie scattered near the broken sink. Splintered stairs lead up to a narrow balcony that must have connected to a bedroom before the cottage’s collapse. I brush a hand over one of the fallen beams, noting its charred appearance. “Looks like a fire already came through,” I murmur.
Lugh hums his agreement, sidestepping burned detritus on his way to the stone hearth. It’s fairly sheltered, thanks to the way the roof tumbled down near the chimney. I have to work my way through the wreckage slower, taking care to not bump anything lest it come down on our heads. By the time I reach the hearth, Lugh’s already collected a small pile of wood scraps and is arranging them.
“It must have been a nice place once,” he says, and gestures to the decorative bricks.
I step closer and wipe the dirt and ash away from the pattern. It smudges, clears, and I blink when I can finally make out the shape. “Is that a...bird?”
Lugh pauses in his work and inspects the design. “A robin, maybe? I’m not sure. Seems a fancy touch for someone living this far out of the way.”
I leave him to gather more wood, larger pieces that will put off some genuine heat for Lugh, and turn back to find he hasn’t moved again. Instead, he stands by the hearth, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes wide. The powdery snow on the floor lifts in a sudden gust of wind and swirls about us. I lift my arm to my eyes to protect against the stinging flakes.
“Keir,” Lugh whispers. When I lower my arm, I see his cheeks have gone pale and his body shakes. Even I’m starting to suffer from the creeping cold; it settles under my skin, sending painful prickles of sensation through me.
Shit. We need to get the fire going.
“Here,” I tell him, moving toward the hearth. “Let me do this.”
“Keir, something’s here.”
I draw up, and some of the wood falls from my arms and clatters against the floor. “What?”
“We should leave. Something’s—”
The wind howls, the snow hits us and reduces the world to a stinging white emptiness, and before I can drop the wood and reach onto my back for my father’s axe, I hear Lugh scream.
“Lugh!” I bellow and reach out blindly to try to reach him through the whipping snow.
My fingers close on nothing except air. I draw my axe, but can’t risk swinging without knowing where Lugh is. The wind picks up to a high whistle, just off-key of Lugh’s cry, and I have to close my eyes and turn my face away when the delicate ice flakes cut against my skin like glass. And then, without warning, Lugh goes silent.
The obscuring clouds of snow drop back to the ground, spilling over the floor out from the small circle encompassing Lugh and me. I lift my axe and spin, checking the room for any sign of an enemy, but find no one. Lugh hasn’t moved. He stands only a few feet from me, his head tilted down toward his chest. The sensation that’s been growing under my skin stabs through my flesh and reaches its icy fingers deeper.
“Lugh?” I whisper, and flex my grip on the axe.
His head snaps up and eyes filmed over with a pale blue haze fix on me. The growl he gives is too big for his chest, rumbling and crawling out of him to echo around the ruined room.
“Where’s Lugh?” I ask.
The thing—the shade—wearing Lugh’s skin tilts its head. It doesn’t answer. Instead, it takes an unsteady step toward me. I step back, axe raised, offering up the iron and praying the threat of the metal keeps the thing back from me.
Lugh’s features warp around a wordless scream when I raise the axe a little higher. At least the shade doesn’t rush forward and risk injuring Lugh’s body. Instead, a too pale hand dips down and draws a long seax from his belt.
“Don’t,” I warn.
It doesn’t fight like Lugh. Lugh’s graceful and quick; he moves like a dancer and his strikes are about timing, not brute strength. The shade possessing him doesn’t know how to use his body to its advantage. It lunges at me, seax angled to stab, telegraphing its choppy movements so obviously I can block the first attempt and pivot away. I need to get out of the closed end of the room where the hearth stands, need open space if I have to swing the axe.
Its next attack is harder, and I swear when I block and feel the impact radiate up my arms and into my shoulders. There’s not enough time to dart away from the second blow. Lugh’s seax slams into the haft when I twist it to avoid taking the sharpened edge to my neck. This creature is stronger than me, ripping the seax free without hesitation before slicing toward my hands. Unavoidable in such close quarters. I turn and take the slash on my forearm instead, yelling when the blade breaks through fabric to dig into my skin.
The shade miscalculated the distance between us. Stepping forward to slice at me means it’s exposed now as the blade withdraws. I turn, planting my shoulder into its sternum to push it back, and continue the spin, lifting my other elbow so I can crack it—and Lugh’s body—in the jaw. It staggers away.
“Lugh, stop,” I order.
The only reaction I receive is an experimental shake of the head before it changes its grip on the seax and starts for me again.
Blade meets blade. A closed fist swings and meets my temple, leaving the world a mash of vibrant colors and sharp pain. I drop on instinct and sweep the axe haft toward Lugh. He topples, granting me the space I so desperately need. My belt stings against my waist, ready to unleash its magick at the barest suggestion of my will.
The shade drags Lugh back up to his feet. It darts to one side, comes back to the other, and I meet the charge. This time, I don’t hold back. I roar and throw my full strength behind the block, levering the seax up and away. The weapon skitters across the floor toward the open door and freedom. I expect the spirit to back down now that it’s unarmed, but it throws itself against me. I drop the axe to protect Lugh from the iron, centuries of careful reaction that the shade exploits at a critical moment; it’s on me, knocking me onto the floor.
This isn’t Lugh. The shade infests him, wraps its legs around me, digs its knees into my ribs, and presses its freezing hands against my throat. I reach up and grab at Lugh’s forearms, trying to rip free as his full weight presses down and crushes my throat. This isn’t Lugh, but my body doesn’t know what my mind does. He squeezes his thighs tighter and, for a terrifying moment, I feel my muscles relax, obeying the unspoken physical command to give in. My grip weakens.
“Please,” I beg, the words barely escaping. “Don’t.”
Lugh is still in there. We’ve fought side by side for so long, we don’t have to think anymore. We move and breathe and kill as one. I know he hears me, because there’s a split-second opening, a loosening of hands.
I draw my arms inside his and push them out, exploding up and knocking him off balance. A hard shove finishes pushing him off me. He hits the floor and skids away, as I stagger to my feet, coughing and gagging. The moment he starts to rise, I know he’s lost to me again. The shade’s back in control and its rage could consume the world.
My fingers brush over soft fur. Queen Mab’s magick explodes through me and—
It’s Lugh. It’s Lugh in there and I won’t let this transformation take me, not when it will turn on him. The magick cuts off, ripping through me as it springs back into the belt, its energy redirected to lash back at the user who dared limit its power.
Lugh’s drawn the short seax, his favorite because I gave it to him as a gift when he took over the Wild Hunt, and I watch as the new blade slices through the air toward me. I let it come, brace against the hot flash of pain when it parts the fabric of my shirt and scrapes over my ribs. Then I reach out, praying I’ve made the right choice. My hand settles at the back of Lugh’s neck. I clamp down, drag him in close, and spin him so his back is pressed to my front. The shade realizes my intention. It uses Lugh’s lean muscles to claw at me, but it’s too late. His neck’s cradled in my elbow, my other arm pressed across his nape, allowing me to use my greater weight to tighten the hold. He sags against me, his knees buckling, and I lower him to the ground, keeping him trapped.