She held out her hand expectantly.
Gregor pulled a sack the size of a man’s fist from his belt and threw it at her. It smacked hard into her palm with the weight of considerable coin. She closed her fingers over it and made her way to the surrounding woods, where she would wait and follow.
The carriage would make them easier to follow. They were slow and noisy. The journey would not be as difficult as she’d initially thought.
She sank into the snow-speckled bushes between two large trees and waited. The men continued to speak to one another as they swung up on their horses.
Sylvi closed her eyes and focused on the sound of their voices, letting them scrape through her mind and ravage the memories she never let surface.
The only man she knew by sight was the man with half an ear.
The burly man stood in front of her, his grizzled beard making him look very much like a troll from a story meant to frighten children. The knife in his hand dripped with her father’s blood.
Sylvi was scared. Frozen by fear—her body, her mind, even her heart.
This had to be a dream, and yet she could not allow herself to wake.
Sylvi stared down at her father, always so strong and powerful, as though nothing could possibly ever hurt him.
A horrible gurgling sigh hissed from the wound at his neck, and blood swelled out. Growing and growing and growing until the puddle licked hot at her naked toes.
A shriek echoed in her head, awful and unending. Someone grabbed her hard from behind, and the noise stopped.
She had been making the sound.
“Do we really have to kill the bairns?” The man behind her said, his voice deep and gravelly.
The troll in front of Sylvi slid her a look of contempt.
“What is unseen hasna been done.”
Sylvi’s mother screamed, a raw, animalistic sound. She ran at the troll and slashed a dagger at his face. He ducked to the side, but not before her blade sank into his ear and sliced. The hunk of it fell to the floor.
The arm holding Sylvi tensed, and she knew she was going to die, just like her father.
Something cool drew across Sylvi’s neck, and she was dropped to the ground. She landed on the hard floor, facing her father. A pool of blood bloomed from under her and crept toward the puddle her father had made.
Her mind whirled with confusion. Had her throat been cut? Why had she not felt it? Why could she not get up and fight?
Their puddles of blood touched and became one. Her mother’s scream was cut short and something heavy fell to the floor, a sound frighteningly similar to the sound her father made when he fell.
Sylvi closed her eyes, succumbing to the scrabbling fear pumping her life from her body, and pretended to be dead. For soon she knew she would be.
A cracking whip pulled Sylvi from a hole she had never allowed herself to crawl back into. Her eyes flew open. The carriage was leaving.
The man that day had been hesitant to kill a child and so his cut had been shallow. It had saved her life.
But he had meant to take it.
And he had taken those of her family. She’d heard them all stop screaming, one by one. After her mother came her sisters, Inka and Alva, their pitched squeals of fear cut short almost at the same time. Only little Einar’s cries remained at the end, breathless and pathetic with confusion and a fear he did not understand. It had been hard to keep her eyes closed when he finally fell silent.
She tore herself from the pain blazing in her heart and slammed shut the door to her memories. Her hands balled into fists and she welcomed the surge of hate to balm the rawness of loss.
Gregor was not Reginald, but she knew that gravelly voice. While she hadn’t seen him, that deep voice had rumbled against her small back. Oh, yes, she knew him. He was one of them. One of the men she had been looking for all these years. His voice had caught at something within her when he hired her, but she hadn’t placed it until just now.
She fixed her gaze on him as she strode soundless through the dark forest, no longer merely following, but stalking.
He would die.
Chapter 3
Sylvi wanted Gregor dead.
The desire to kill him pulsed hot through her veins, taunting her. Her muscles burned with the pace she’d kept with the carriage, her world focused entirely on the head of black and silver hair. No longer registering the cold biting at her face or the breath huffing easily from her lungs.
She could run out and swing up on the horse behind him. It would be so easy, she could feel it. The heat of his back against her chest, the constriction of his body in surprise. She would curl her arm around his torso before he could even react, her dagger ready to sink into tender flesh.
She would go deep enough to let the blade scrape his neck bones. His blood would gush over her hands, hot, like her father’s had been when it washed over her toes that horrific day.
The air came alive with the thought of Gregor’s blood, a coppery odor floating above the wet earthy scents of the forest. The odor coursed through her like a spell and left her body crackling with energy.
She wanted to fight, she wanted to kill. She wanted vengeance. Her mouth prickled with the metallic taste of it, and she clenched her teeth to revel in the savage effect.
Gregor had come to kill a child all those years ago. While he had hesitated, Ian had described him as the cruelest of all the men. Clearly he had overcome his trepidation.
She had been weak when Gregor had attacked. For only someone weak would cower in a pool of shared blood and pretend death while the cries of her family fell forever silent.
She was no longer a child. Her lifetime had been spent defined by those horrible moments, lost in the shadows of a darkened heart.
She was no longer weak.
The edge of the sun burned atop the peaks of trees and bled its brilliance into the clear, cold sky. Time tapped insistently in her mind as it passed.
Two hours had passed since she had given them Ian. The time from the room at the inn to the time they finally arrived had been nearly a full hour.
She was running out of time.
The pinprick focus of her world on Gregor widened to include the other two men and the jostling cart.
Not now. Her mind, the trap that held her nightmares and cajoled her toward vengeance, screamed for her to stop.
Now. Now. NOW! Her heart, the endless hole where her hurt and her family had been cast, shrieked for her to continue.
She could take on three men at once, but she wouldn’t be able to kill them all. If she did, she would never uncover their location.
There was also the possibility of failure.
If she attacked and failed, Ian would die and she wouldn’t find Reginald.
The hate curling in her gut drew taut. She would not fail. She could not allow Reginald to live.
Her gaze fell on the limp figure in the cart. She’d made a promise to Ian, one she intended to keep. There had already been enough death without his blood staining her hands.
But where the hell were they?
The forest twisted and tangled far into the distance. Wherever they were going, they would most likely not arrive soon.
Another glance at the high sun confirmed Sylvi did not have much time. She’d failed her family in the face of these brutal men, she would not fail another.
First, she needed a plan. She eyed the cart. One man rode on the horse pulling it, the other man rode beside it nearest her. Gregor headed the front of their small retinue on horseback. As much as she’d like to ensure he died during Ian’s rescue, she could not make him her focus.
She gave him one last long look and tried to shove the weight from her heart.
Poison still laced the blade of her dagger. Only a small amount had been used on Ian, and she’d been careful to not wipe the blood from the blade lest she lose the poison. She pumped her legs harder to run faster, to get ahead of the party. Her step
s were careful on the ground as she picked her way through patches of snow, light and easy, quiet enough for her efforts to be masked by the rattle of the carriage’s great wooden wheels.
Her breath came hard but steady, and she slowed. The carriage was several paces away. Perfect.
She edged closer to the trail and crouched in the low brush. Her breath fogged in white puffs, and the cold burned a path down her throat. She ought to go for Gregor first, she knew, yet if there were complications, the man with the cart could get away. With Ian.
She waited until they passed before launching from the foliage. The man on the horse beside the cart was caught off guard at her attack, an easy victim for a swipe to his thigh with the clean side of the blade.
He cried out, but she did not stop. She ran around his horse, blocking herself from the view of the remaining two men, and leapt onto the cart, careful to avoid stepping on Ian. The telltale whump of a body sliding from a horse sounded to her right. A horse began to gallop somewhere in front, the thundering hoof beats muffled by the forest floor but nevertheless discernible.
Gregor. Her heart tried to lurch from her chest. The coward.
Sylvi gritted her teeth. She could not think on him now.
She steadied herself against the sway of the carriage and pulled back the poisoned dagger.
The man on the horse pulling the cart turned, but the dagger had already been loosed and sailed at him. It slammed into his shoulder. A cocky smirk lit his face, and he reached for his sword. The poison was quicker.
His arm fell limp and the arrogant smile melted from his face before he too slid from his horse.
Sylvi jumped from the wooden frame of the cart and raced in front of its horse, who had easily stepped over the body of its rider. Gregor’s retreating back showed in the distance.
A split-second decision needed to be made. Grab the horse from the first man she killed, catch Gregor, and force him to tell her where Reginald was. Or save Ian.
Both could not be done.
A curse tore from Sylvi’s throat. Damn her and her promise.
At least she knew Reginald and the other men must be near. This area would give her a better place to begin her search for him than she’d had in all these years.
She reached for the cart horse’s reins and carefully stopped the beast before the cart could roll over the body on the trail. Ian had already been abused enough without being knocked to the ground.
Sylvi’s body quaked with the energy spent on battle, every muscle once powerfully strong now almost slack. Her breath dragged in and out of her chest.
Gregor would not be back, or at least she assumed. Cowardly men did not return, at least not alone.
She fell beside Ian on shaking knees and tried to shove aside the incredible weight of regret. The gilded morning light splayed over his colorless face like a death shroud. She pulled the vial from her pocket and sucked in a breath to still the trembling of her fingers to better slide the stopper free. Spilling the chances of his survival would not do. Especially with what she’d sacrificed to save him.
She lifted his head and pulled his lower lip down with her thumb. His flesh was still warm and pliant beneath her fingertips. Like the living.
With careful precision, she dribbled a small amount of the liquid into his mouth. It was a painfully slow process, delivering only several drops at a time, but she could not risk spilling any.
Percy knew all the proper measurements and calculations of the concoction she’d devised, not Sylvi. She would not see Ian dead for her ignorance.
Thoughts of Gregor clawed at her mind while she administered the antidote. Her head and heart warred over her decision like two dogs tearing at the remains of something ravaged. She’d kept her promise and had done the right thing.
What if this had been the one chance to question Gregor? What if he could not be found later?
What if the opportunity had teased over her fingertips before slipping away?
Regardless of what the answers might be, she had made her decision. Gregor was too far gone to even try to go after. If he came back with reinforcements, she would handle them. In fact, she rather hoped they did, and that one of them might be Reginald.
Her ears strained to pick up sounds of horses making their way toward her while she carefully fed Ian the antidote, and found none. Damn.
The last of the liquid fell from the vial and disappeared between Ian’s parted lips. Not a drop had leaked from the corners of his mouth.
She waited.
Nothing.
She looked up at the sky, where the sun boldly proclaimed a solid three hours had passed. Had she miscalculated the time? Her blood chilled. Had she been too late?
She stared at his handsome face.
He did not move.
She braced herself over him, every part of her begging him to be alive. He had trusted her, put his life in her hands. Surely she had not failed him.
She had sacrificed so much to keep her promise. She could not lose a life she’d intended to save.
“Don’t be dead,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “Don’t be dead.”
Minutes ticked by. Ian lay there, unmoving, and her heart crumpled further into her chest.
She had failed him. Like she’d failed her family.
Ian was dead.
•••
Everything hurt. Ian’s ribs blared hot rays of pain through his body, his head pounded, and damn it if his bollocks weren’t still aching.
Exhaustion lay on him like a heavy blanket, tempting him to remain in slumber forever. There, he could easily forget all the pain. His heartbeat came in long, slow, lulling pounds.
Sleep.
He let himself glide toward it.
A garble of muffled sound interrupted his relief, as if someone were yelling underwater. Far away and too thick to comprehend.
Pain exploded on his cheek. He’d just been struck.
He forced his eyes open at the affront. Brilliant golden light burned into his eyes and seared his aching skull, and everything was cold. He sucked in a breath and slammed his eyes shut. If he was dead, at least he’d gone to heaven.
But he wasn’t yet ready to be dead.
“Ian.” A woman’s voice sounded, her accent like those of the wealthy English, her voice husky and commanding.
He kept his eyes closed. “I’m no’ ready to die.”
“Then you should probably open your eyes.” Her reply came out dry and slightly sarcastic.
“Are all the angels in heaven as cynical as ye, or are ye the only one?”
The angel sighed. “You’re not dead.”
He scrunched his eyes tighter. If he did not see the golden light, he could avoid the truth he knew in his soul—that he was indeed dead.
At least he’d made it to heaven, a feat he hadn’t thought possible with the stains on his soul.
“If you were dead, would you hurt so much?” she asked.
A valid point.
He grunted and squinted his eyes open to the blazing gold.
“Ian.” Gone was the dry sarcasm, and in its place was a breathless relief.
His sight adjusted to the blinding light, and a woman came into focus, only inches away. Pale blonde hair framed her face, her cheekbones high and angular, an authoritative appearance to match the voice. Her lips and cheeks were flushed a warm pink, and her eyes were pale blue and wide with concern.
Concern for him.
God, she was beautiful, his angel. Not the soft-mouthed innocent type, but a vigilante—powerful and strong.
“My beautiful angel,” he whispered. “Kiss me.”
She pulled back slightly, her brow furrowed. “No.”
He hadn’t expected that. “Please?”
“No.” She did not come closer.
“I think … ” He swallowed, slathering on an extra layer of pity as he’d done as a lad trying to get sweets. “I think I may have died.�
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Her breath sucked in. “But you’re not dead.”
“I’ll know I’m real if ye kiss me.”
“Hell wouldn’t be this bloody cold.” She propped a hand on her hip, her fingers framed over the hilt of a dagger jutting from her belt. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“But I might be dead.”
“You’re not,” she answered firmly.
He raised his brows at her. “I should be sure.”
She grumbled in irritation and leaned over him to press a quick kiss to his forehead.
He pointed to his lips, and almost regretted the effort for how much it hurt.
She rolled her eyes but bowed over him to touch a kiss to his lips. Her mouth was soft and warm against his, and when she sat back, her cheeks were an even brighter red than they’d been before.
Ian liked that he’d had that effect on her.
She crossed her arms over her chest, her restlessness evidence of her obvious discomfort. “Are you happy?”
He grinned.
His angel scoffed and grabbed him by the armpits. She hauled him upright and pain blazed through his body. He loosed a curse.
“Told you you’re not dead,” she muttered.
They were on an open forest trail in a rough-hewn cart. Though the sun had come up, patches of snow still clung to the tops of bushes and the forest floor on either side of them. The woman in front of him, his angel, wore black trews and a black léine. Her hair was drawn back in a wild tangle of white-blonde braids. A single black ribbon adorned her neck.
It all came rushing back to him then. The fight they had when she tried to kill him, the deal they’d made.
“Ye kicked me in the bollocks,” he declared.
She gave him a pointed look. “That was hours ago. You’re fine.”
Sylvi. Yes, her name was Sylvi. His thoughts were sludgy and thick. Most likely an effect of the poison. And hopefully not a long-lasting one.
“Ye owe me a belt,” he added.
She glanced around them. “You’ll get it later. I want to search for Reginald’s camp. Can you walk?”
He leaned forward and pain shot through his ribs. “How much did they pay ye for killing me anyway?”
Highland Wrath Page 3