Page 62 of Bound By Deception

Stinging pain bloomed, and Bree drew in a sharp breath.

Mac Hume lifted her hand then, pressing the cuts upon her and the chief-enforcer’s hands together tightly. A moment later, he began to murmur words, ancient and guttural, of the long-dead tongue that only the druids used. And as he spoke, the tattoos on his neck began to gently glow.

Meanwhile, the gathered sacrificers continued to chant. The air around them stilled, and the smell of pine resin and ash filled Bree’s nostrils—so cloying that it stuck in her throat.

She gave a wheezing cough, yet the druids ignored her.

Her husband had bent his head, while the chief-sacrificer’s voice rose and fell.

Pain throbbed in the center of Bree’s palm, in time with her heartbeat, although as the moments passed, heat started to build there. And then, mac Brochan’s tattoos started to glow. Usually, they were woad-blue etchings, swirls, and patterns that had been etched upon his bare arms and chest from his first year of druidic training.

But now they were alive, glowing silver as if starlight illuminated him from within.

Forgetting the pain in her hand and the strange heat that burned where their cut palms pressed together, Bree watched, fascinated.

Part of her was repulsed by this ritual and everything it represented, and yet, she couldn’t look away.

And then, she felt it—a strange and savage joy that bloomed under her ribcage.

Her breathing hitched, and the sensation spread, filling her body and causing her limbs to tingle. Warmth followed, swirling through her belly.

The Great Raven forgive her, she liked this. Lara hadn’t lied, the experience was … intense. It was as if every burden she’d ever carried, every worry, every guilty secret, dissolved—and for a short while, she was reborn. For a few blessed instants, she gave up control. She was supposed to keep her thoughts and feelings warded, but the sensation of release was overwhelming. It swept her away.

Bree’s eyes fluttered, her breathing slowing and deepening.

Meanwhile, mac Brochan’s tattoos continued to glow. Some of them even rippled, as if something pulsed through them, until eventually, they faded once more, returning to dark patterns upon the chief-enforcer’s skin.

And the joy and warmth fled Bree’s body. She couldn’t help it—she sagged in disappointment.

Her husband lifted his head. His gaze was glazed, slightly unfocused.

However, the chief-sacrificer’s eyes were sharp, probing. He was staring at Bree with a keen look that made her skin prickle in warning.

Iron smite her, she hoped she hadn’t revealed any of her true self. Surely, her Marav body and blood had fooled him.

Moments passed, and then mac Hume stepped back, his expression veiling. “It’s done.” The chief-sacrificer made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Take him home, and put him to bed … he’ll be himself in the morning.”

Bree slid her hand from mac Brochan’s before she turned her palm over and inspected it. The cut had sealed. There was nothing more than a puckered line of pink skin, and the wound upon the chief-enforcer’s palm was similarly healed.

Her breathing quickened. Druidic magic was dangerous to her kind, and yet she’d reveled in the feel of it surging through her veins. And it had healed her.

“Help me up, Fia,” mac Brochan’s voice was even rougher than earlier.

Wordlessly, she stepped into him and let him use her to pull himself to his feet. Then, to her surprise, he wrapped a heavyarm about her shoulders, leaning upon her, as they moved off the sacrifice stone, letting the next couple take their place.

Together, Bree and the chief-enforcer made their way down the hill, to where they’d left their boots by the banks of the River Lethe.

“Are you strong enough to climb back up to the broch?” Bree asked, handing her husband his boots. “Or shall I fetch your horse?”

“I’ll be fine,” mac Brochan rasped. “I’ll just take it slowly.”

Bree’s lips pursed as she took in his sweaty face and strained features. “Are you sure about that?”

He nodded. “I’ll need your help again though.”

Putting their boots on, they walked down to the causeway that led into Duncrag, passing the guards at the gate, who let them through without a word. Of course, they were used to these rituals.

She then glanced at the chief-enforcer’s face. It looked even paler than before. “Lean more of your weight on me,” she instructed. “I won’t break.”

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