Page 26 of Ashes of Betrayal

His heart lurched. She was one of the bavaan.

With a shriek of rage, the vampiric faery fled, just as clouds covered the moon once more and darkness fell across the clearing.

Breathing hard, Cailean lowered his knife.

Leaning against the rough trunk of the pine, he stared out into the murky darkness, heart pounding.

His mouth twisted then. Even surrounded by salt and clutching an iron blade, he wouldn’t sleep easily, not after such an encounter. Bavaans usually preyed on hunters, seducing them before slicing open their throats with those talon-like nails and drinking their blood. Cailean had traveled from one end of Albia to the other over the years yet had always avoided these creatures. They were usually drawn to lonely men, ones that were easily duped by a pretty face.

It galled Cailean that the creature had smelt vulnerability on him.

Had Bree also marked his loneliness? He’d cloaked it well, but she was capable of seeing past his bitterness, anger, and lust for revenge.

Cold sweat bathed his skin as he railed against his weakness. He swore then that neither his wife nor a blood-sucking bavaan would catch him unawares again.

Time drew out, and eventually, exhaustion dragged at his eyelids. By this stage, the lashing rain and wind had numbed him, and he fell into a fitful doze. At some point, he was aware of Skaal joining him, her warm, wet body pressing up against his. Only then did he relax. The fae hound was wet and stank of blood and offal, but he didn’t care. Sinking against her, he finally slept.

12: WARY OF STRANGERS

IF CAILEAN HAD been paying attention, he wouldn’t have found himself this close to Bracehell Barrow at dusk.

But he’d been distracted. Instead of scanning his surroundings as he usually did, he’d been imagining the shock in Eilig’s pale-grey eyes, followed by agony, as he twisted a blade in his guts. He’d lean over the shitbag then and whisper. “For my family.”

It was only when he passed a marker—a stone laid by druids to warn passersby not to stray off the road—that he jerked from his vengeful thoughts. The marker indicated that the barrow lay around twenty-five furlongs to the north. Too close.

“Dung-brained fool,” Cailean cursed himself as he stared down at the lump of mossy spearhead-shaped stone thrusting from the roadside. A muddy puddle surrounded the marker, for the weather had worsened further as the day lengthened. Sheets of rain slashed in horizontally now, and the bitter Gales of Complaint chafed his skin.

Gods, by this stage he’d forgotten what it was like to feel dry.

The weather had turned against him. He felt as if he were riding through the Underworld—a dark and hostile place where winter storms lashed for eternity. Unlike the Otherworld, where most people went when they died, the Underworld was for thosewhom the Gods spurned. After the life he’d lived, Cailean had always believed he’d end up there.

And after this blunder, his arrival might be quicker than anticipated.

He couldn’t believe he’d been so careless. The night before, he’d sworn that he wouldn’t be caught off guard again, and now here he was, far too close to a barrow at sunset. The time before dusk and dawn was the most dangerous to linger in these places, for that was when the Shee crossed into Albia.

Cailean’s jaw tightened. What the fuck was wrong with him? Time was, he’d never have made a novice mistake like this. An enforcer didn’t let emotion drive him; he knew that. But the restlessness that had seized him as he stood in The Hallow Woods, watching his people burn, and his bitterness and anger toward Bree were affecting him.

He needed to rein the emotions in. When he faced Eilig again, he wanted to be dispassionate. In control.

He angled his gaze forward, to where the rutted road cut between two stands of tall pines. And all the while, the rain streamed down his face, stinging his eyes.

An instant later, he stilled, his hand straying to the hilt of his dagger.

Dark shapes crouched upon the road around ten furlongs distant.

Cailean’s pulse quickened as he squinted through the murky gloaming. Had the Shee come out to play?

His lips flattened then. If they had, they wouldn’t be expecting an enforcer laden with iron. Drawing the blade, he urged Feannag on.

But as he approached, he realized the Shee weren’t waiting for him. Instead, he made out a listing wagon and four struggling figures, who were attempting to free it from the mud.Meanwhile, the garron that pulled the wagon grunted under the strain as it valiantly tried to heave the cart forward.

The family—a man and woman and two sons of no older than twelve winters—wore thin woolen cloaks and were all soaked to the skin. Mud splattered their strained pale faces.

Upon noting his approach, they halted their efforts, their eyes widening nervously. And as expected, their gazes slid from him to the massive hound at his side. Skaal’s ears had pricked, and the ruff on the back of her neck lifted.

Like him, she was always wary of strangers.

Sheathing his dagger, Cailean drew up his stallion, his gaze flicking to the wagon. Its left wheel was stuck up to the axle in mud. “Need some help?” he asked curtly. He really was tempted to ride on, to leave this foolish family to their fate.

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