by KH LeMoyne
“I would tell you to trust in your partner, but that struggle is yours to handle.”
“My—” The sound of Bri’s laugh drew his gaze to the door. When he looked back at Agnes, she raised a brow.
“The nights are dangerous in these woods. You are both welcome to stay until dawn.”
“We should get going,” he said hastily, not wanting to invite more of her thoughts about Bri. Despite Grainne’s previous dictate, he didn’t want to risk a night under the roof of this ancient cottage. “Fiona needs the potion.”
“Stubborn.” With a resigned air, she shooed him away. “Take care, Makir. You are a hard man to help.”
He found Bri sitting under the tree beside Magnus. The young-looking man hadn’t moved that Logan could tell, but there were small bits of food across the clearing, littering the bushes at the edge. Two squirrels, one black and one white, danced between the branches. Their tails fluffed and fluttered as they grabbed the bits and stood eating the morsels.
Bri turned to him. Her smile became a quick flinch and she jerked, shaking her hand.
Logan reached her side and grasped her palm. A tiny circle of black rubbed away, leaving an impression of red. A singe mark remained where an ember from the pit had exploded and struck her.
An accident? Unlikely, given the clear outline of a trefoil left by the burn. He rubbed around the mark with his thumb. The flesh was hot and Magnus looked disturbingly pleased.
“Sacrifice to gain. The gift of blood beats through time, like water through the Mother Earth,” Magnus said.
Horse hockey. Logan was just about out of patience with the continuous riddles.
Bri frowned and leaned into Logan. “I’m fine, truly.”
He glanced at Magnus, but Agnes’s son looked away with no reaction to Bri’s pain. His strange words echoed around them.
“Ready?” Logan asked.
She tucked a small vial into her basket and nodded.
13
The sun dipped and the moon rose as they finished the first quarter of their return trip. Unease prickling along her spine, Bri paused and glanced behind them. Seeing nothing unusual, she turned and had to rush to catch up with Logan. Whatever he and Agnes had discussed had left him quiet, distracted, and determined to put distance between them and the cottage.
Logan stopped and snapped his arm behind him, halting her. “Something’s coming.” He grasped her wrist as he reached over his shoulder for the pommel of his sword, sliding it free of its scabbard without a sound. “Ever felt the drop in air pressure right before the lash of a huge storm?”
She glanced back and forth. Birds had stopped chirping and even the soft rustle of leaves in the trees had ceased. Silent stillness crept over them.
He tipped his blade forward, the steel reflecting white in the moonlight. “In front.”
For a second, she thought the edge of his weapon wavered with a blue rim of light from tip to guard. Then he shifted and the illusion disappeared.
A loud thunderclap reverberated around them with such violence, she expected a burnt tree or roiling clouds. Instead, three figures, cloaked head to toe in black, erupted from a fiery hole of red—a heinous fissure in the night air. Minions.
The cloaked creatures spread out and circled them, pinning them within a small section of the clearing.
“We can’t outrun them.” Bri twisted and removed her knife, eying the minion behind her. “Stay clear of their hands. Their claws are infectious.”
Logan frowned. “Their weapons look deadly enough.”
“They are.” She knew the danger well.
The minion before them withdrew a moon-shaped sickle. From the corner of her eye she saw another brandish a thin glowing rapier. The rapier lifted toward Logan and its brief slash stirred chills past her face.
Back-to-back with Logan they turned, gauging which minion would strike the first blow.
Logan’s first swing of his sword lit the night. It wasn’t her imagination. His sword streamed blue-white fire with a brilliance that robbed her of breath.
The blade made an impression on the two of the minions as well, and they retreated. Too intent on watching them, she nearly missed the third, more aggressive minion, slice toward her arm.
“Stay close, Bri. Don’t engage them. Don’t be brave.”
“Really? Instruction on swordsmanship from the man who’d arrived on this island with a knife wound?”
He grunted in response.
She sucked back irritation and wedged tighter against him. He was right about the danger, but fortunately, neither of them was defenseless. Despite their situation, Logan could swing his sword around her and almost reach the minion in front of her.
Until the minion got brave.
It sliced at her in a wide arc—too close to avoid, but Logan shifted them both in time to miss a strike. Bri’s own blade scraped across the minion’s hood and gouged into the darkness beneath. An inhuman screech filled the air. However, her success seemed to drive the minion on with greater vengeance.
The speed of the minion’s turns blew back his black hood, revealing a head formed inside out. Thick ribs of skeletal structure formed the outside of the skull. A tar-like substance spanned within the bony fibers, creating glossy, black webbing. The eyes glistened, dark cavities filled with flickers of ruby-colored light. Then its mouth yawned with a hiss, giving them an unneeded glimpse of an unending cavern of pitch.
“Shit,” hissed Logan.
Evidently, he’d gotten a glimpse of the head. Bri sucked in her breath. Focus. Focus. Stay alive. Don’t be brave.
She heard a screech behind her as a hot gust blew across her cheek. With a sudden swipe of her blade, she severed the hand holding the sickle and plunged her knife into the soulless body. Collapsing to her knees, she watched as a burst of light escaped, followed by billowing gas. “One creature down, two to go.”
On instinct she vaulted up and turned. Not soon enough to deflect the rapier of the next minion aiming for her back.
Logan lunged, knocking her aside before he rolled away. His sword missed by an inch as the creature dodged.
Bri reached around him to slide her blade home, though her aim missed, too.
“Get back down,” he growled.
She hesitated as he threw a handful of objects at the last two minions. Prepared to resume the fight, she froze.
Then Logan yanked her against him, his arm encircling her, and rolled them onto the ground.
A loud explosion rocked the ground beneath them. Tucked beneath Logan, she risked a glance. The minions writhed, rooted to their positions. One second they were there—the next—gone with a pinpoint snap.
She gripped his hand and twisted, anticipating another attack. “Are they really gone?”
“For several days, maybe a week if we’re lucky. At least that, so I’ve been told.” However, he didn’t release her. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek and glanced up to check on him.
“Agnes,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Handy.”
“I should have remembered sooner.” His hold on her eased, and with a soft curse he rolled off of her onto his side. His sword, glow and fire gone, lay dormant on the ground.
Oh Goddess, he’d been hit. She scrambled over him, patting his body and legs until he cursed again. “Where?”
“You could’ve just asked.” He laughed, but closed his eyes and hissed as she found the wound.
“I warned you not to let them touch you.” Her voice was shrill to her own ears, but the thought of losing him sliced through her.
“You’re welcome.”
Bri shook her head as he lifted himself up onto his elbows. The pant leg split groin to knee beneath her tug as she bent closer to get a better look. Moonlight bathed him in too many shadows and not enough light. She glanced behind her and waved a hand at a clear patch of ground nearby. The bright glow of her instant firelight confirmed her fears.
No blood, but a six-
inch glowing red gash edged in silver extended above his knee toward his hip. The spell and infection hadn’t permeated the body to the degree of Quinlan’s wound. Yet.
Logan shifted with a muffled grunt. “See? Not so bad.”
“Their touch isn’t only fatal,” she snapped, losing her control to panic.
“You afraid for my soul, Briallen?” His smile died out as he scrutinized her expression. Bleak resignation swept over his features for a fleeting second, revealing his awareness of the situation. Then he covered her hand with his and squeezed. “Bri, it’s going to be okay. We can put Grainne’s fire paste on it and I’ll be fine.”
“Now look what you’ve done.” She shook off his hand and ignored him, digging through her basket for salve and tonic to treat the wound. “You weren’t supposed to be brave, either. What kind of ally are you if you don’t follow your own rules?”
“Bri.” He pushed away her supplies and pulled her back against him. His arms tightened as she clenched her fists and refused his comfort. “Don’t give up, honey.” He brushed her hair aside, and his knuckles slid over the tears streaming down her face. “Not yet.”
As his lips whispered across her cheek, the fight bled out of her. This wasn’t his fault. The minions were the deadliest adversary of the sorcerer’s battalions. That she and his family had escaped this long was a miracle. She looked into his eyes filled with concern and worry. For her. Attacked and destined to die, and he worried for her.
Damn it, she’d waste time on tears later. With a swipe at her cheek, she gave him a nod and moved away.
“Lie down.” She conjured a thick layer of blankets beneath him to handle the night’s chill. “We’re going to do this, Logan.”
His hand reached again for hers. He pressed the cold handle of his sword beneath her fingers. “Take this. Go to Grainne. Get Robert. I’m not going anywhere, and those things aren’t coming back tonight.”
“No.” She leaned closer and threaded her fingers in his hair, tightening her grip. His eyes widened at her hold but he didn’t move. “I’m here with you. We do this together. I won’t give up on you, and you won’t leave me, MacKenzie.”
He closed his eyes, and for a second she thought she’d lost him already. “I’m at your mercy.”
“Finally.”
The corner of his mouth picked up, but he offered no smile. No expression of any kind. Even when she checked most of his body for other minion marks and left him with nothing to wear but a blanket across his groin.
She would handle this, somehow. She dug through the basket—a jar of Lady’s Mantle salve, bugle leaves Magnus had insisted she bring back to Grainne, and a tiny silver dirk he’d also pressed her to accept. Clean cloths, several bundles of herbs for teas and tonic, and a small pot. All in all, a pitiful combination to repair a wound that would bleed a man’s soul.
But it would have to do.
He had picked up her blade from where she dropped it. The wavy-shaped blade, the hilt encrusted with a pattern of jewels, glowed with a faint sheen of red glitter. She took the blade from him, placed it in the pot by the fire, and filled it with water.
“Is their blood toxic?”
“Infectious. I’ll try to purify it. The water probably isn’t sufficient, but I’m holding back on the more powerful magic everyone tells me I’m not supposed to use.” She sighed at the cynicism she couldn’t restrain. “I’m sorry, that was unkind of me.”
“No need.” His hand touched her knee and held there. His fingers flexed slightly when she poured the tonic over his wound and covered his raw flesh with salve and bugle leaves. With the final knot of cloth around his thigh, he released a sigh and his hold on her.
“What do the minions get out of stealing souls?”
“I’m led to believe they serve them to their master. Souls are a boon of power.” She pitched her supplies into the basket and sat beside him, keeping busy to stop her hands from shaking.
“What if my soul’s already claimed?” He watched her from beneath half-closed lids, a glint of humor back in his eyes.
“You’re not taking this seriously.” Bri’s voice broke.
Logan’s fingers wrapped around her forearm and pulled her to him.
“I am.” His fingers traced along her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth. The rack of shivers he couldn’t hold back vibrated along her skin.
“I’ll build up the fire and get you something warm to drink.” Her fingers conjured more blankets to cover him, but he continued to shiver.
“Just stay here,” he whispered. “You’re warmer than the fire.”
Bri curled against his side, working the blankets over them, and held him in her arms.
He gave her a weak smile. A sheen of perspiration on his forehead glistened in the firelight. “The blankets and fire trick—convenient magic.”
He shivered again and she tucked his forehead against her neck. “They’re borrowed. A trick my brother taught me once. You rest.”
The firm beat of his heart pulsed beneath her hands, his back warm despite his comments about a chill. She pressed her cheek against his hair and struggled for the control to delve into his mind. Fear of failure fought her efforts but she wrestled on, determined. She could bind him to her and ease his pain. At least she’d soothe his thoughts and aid his body at the end.
With a hard swallow, she searched for an answer. She’d give anything to have him healthy and whole.
Clutching him tighter, she opened her eyes and jerked. The silver dirk from her basket twirled in the air before her eyes. A glint of gold reflected from the fire, followed by a spark of silver from the moon as the dirk turned.
Sacrifice to gain…the gift of blood.
Bri gasped, a glimmer of hope bolstering her courage.
The gift of blood was a ritual to bind one individual to another—to share power and soul, like twins in the womb. Her powers could bind with Logan’s. She’d see his memories, influence his emotions, and pool his powers with hers. Once. Normally, at his death, she’d feel the tug of his loss and a painful severing. One she’d survive—mostly.
Binding with the gift of blood was stronger than her usual powers, pitting their fused efforts against the minion’s injury and the sorcerer’s pull. Her health and strength doubled his potential for survival. However, she shared his risk in dying.
Oddly, this spell was one of few her mother had let her see. A spell Bri had never considered useful.
Logan shuddered when she moved away and knelt by his side. His hand reached for her, seeking the warmth she now withheld. She cradled his palm in her lap as she pushed back a strand of his hair from his face.
Biting her lip, she grabbed the dirk and swallowed hard. He’d come through the portal without hesitation, following his sense of duty and honor, and her life had changed forever.
With trust in your skill, you leverage an army…you’re the glue…if you continue to stand apart…Logan will be weaker. Robert’s words reverberated with new meaning.
Don’t think. Just follow your instincts.
Bri dug the dirk into the burn mark in her palm. The blood pooled. One quick stab and Logan’s hand bled, too. She dropped the dirk and grabbed his hand with hers, holding him when he tried to pull away. His eyes opened, glazed with confusion, the infection taking hold.
She bent to his ear and softly murmured the words, sealing them together with her gift.
His soft moan filtered through the night. If he was mustering the energy to stop her, it was too late. She held their hands locked, ignoring the cold tingle of energy radiating from her fingers to her arm, and then to her torso. Her lips pressed against his whiskered cheek, her touch stilling the anxiety in him her strange words provoked.
“We’ll beat him together, Logan.”
Scooting back to his side, she pulled him against her, carefully avoiding his injured thigh. She opened her hand to the firelight. The blood was gone. Not even a scar remained. Only the faint outline of a perfect tiny trefoil graced her p
alm.
So be it. She had only one chance in her lifetime to offer the gift of blood. Once bound, the spell would never work for her again. But Logan deserved her sacrifice. And if they failed—no, she hadn’t come this far to fail. Neither had he.
“Cold.” His hand slid up her back beneath her shirt as he burrowed against her neck, his shivers relentless. Her own skin burned where he touched, a heat charging her with determination and something bordering on sensual.
If her skin kept him warm, she’d give him more.
In a blink, she’d replaced her pants and shirt with a gown of spider-fine mesh. What it lacked in modesty and grace, it provided in access to her skin.
He sighed as the tremors stilled. His arms dragged her closer until his thigh was wedged between hers, his face buried by hers and his abdomen warm against her belly with a healthy erection pressed against her hip. She hoped he was warm enough. She certainly felt the heat.
With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and sought peace. Logan’s involuntary twitches disappeared as she focused on his heartbeat. A razor-sharp slice of pain stopped her lungs.
Forcing herself to ignore the physical, she entered his mind and floated above his pain, her will sandwiched beside his. The gold strands of her power raced before her. Familiar with his presence, they continued without pause or caution.
Bri searched for the horizon of his memories and a place to make a stand against the assault she knew was coming.
Where Fiona’s mind had melded in disjointed memories of gray, Logan’s vibrated with cobalt, yellow, and vermillion, the hills and valleys of his memories and emotions, an endless stream of landscape.
She worked with deliberate precision, weaving threads around the perimeter of his mind. Silver strands greeted her, but the connection of his power and hers seemed never to meet. Frustration beat at her as she felt vibrations, then an approaching screech. The heavy weight of the infection, the sorcerer’s pull, forced tremors through Logan’s body.
