Enchanted Moon (Moon Magick Book II) (6 page)

He’d
come prepared?

A
man with no talent, no clear faith in magick, had come prepared to attempt a
spell?

“We
need no magick here,” she said, the lie sounding incredible, yet he did not
scoff. “But I agree. Staying will invite danger. Have you enough strength to
carry her further if I help?”

A
muscle in his jaw twitched.

Another
mournful howl penetrated the still night air. Closer this time. Much, much
closer.

“Grab
yer dagger, lass. It sounds like you’ll be needing it.”

Chapter Five

Quinlan
scooped the lifeless woman back into his arms. He understood naught about this
night. A simple, albeit risky, errand to confirm what befell the local herd had
become far, far more. The wolf’s strident calls coupled with the inky energy
seeping closer. He forced his bafflement aside.

Should
this poor woman die, it would be in his arms as he did all he could to prevent
it. “If that wolf has the taste of your blood on his tongue, he likely won’t
let go of ye till he’s drunk it.”

Ailyn’s
mouth fell open. She snapped it shut. “I’ll kill it first.”

Standing
as she was, arms wide, a blade in one hand, a fist made of the other, she
looked like a warrior princess, alive and breathing from a bard’s tale. He
could have laughed at her bold but hollow words. “If you were out to kill it, lass,
ye would have. I dinna mean any insult. You might have made the same choice,
but I’ll not be waiting about like a feast on a platter.”

She
considered him a moment, then dropped her warrior stance with a glare. “Is the
power you felt gone, then? Is it just the wolf?”

Quinlan
shifted the woman’s weight in his aching arms. “ ‘Just the wolf,’ she says.
Just the bloodthirsty wolf it is.”

He
set off, shaking his head. He’d not be explaining what he could not fully
appreciate, a phenomenon he could not describe to another soul, save Breanne.
Or his
grandmum
, had her spirit not passed many a
moon before. He strode through the trees, an idea forming. The wolf would keep
to the cover of the trees. Would the magick as well?

The
sea meant taking the lass and her friend away from Breanne’s home, though. As
such, he risked the woman’s life. She needed a healer. Fast. But the closer two
of the three devils—the wolf and the dark energy winding about his
calves, fingering up the backs of his thighs—mattered more.

The
lass strode with him, her dagger ready, her dark auburn braid tossed and
bounced with her long strides. The pull on his legs weakened. He took heart in
that. Another howl echoed through the trees, fainter. He smelled the briny sea
air before he heard the crush of waves far, far below the tall, steep cliffs
he’d played near as a child, giving his parents the frights of their life.

The
thicket of trees gave way to rock and grassy heather. Quinlan pressed forth,
the pull at his legs lessening to mere wisps. Could the power follow his trail,
track his scent like a wolf? At least the wolf had given up, mayhap found its
pack, chin low in shame—bested by a wee flame-haired colleen.

Och,
wee wasna the right word. Tall, she was, with curves of a woman grown. Her
bravado though, struck him as childlike. Fierce, aye, but uncertain. She kept
up, wary as she still was of him, stealing scowls his way.

They
broke through the trees. A whip of salty wind hit his cheeks. A blast of sweet
freedom. The tendrils pulling him evaporated. The weight in his arms lightened.
Alarmingly so. He dared not set her down, but the urge to check her heartbeat
and breathing gripped him hard.

Quinlan
scanned northward, praying to Christ that his memory served him well. Aye!
There, barely discernible in the dark, less than two furlong. “The old Druid’s
hovel,” he said to Ailyn.

Her
eyes widened as her gaze followed. “Druid?”

“Aye,
the nearest shelter, abandoned some ten years now, but a shelter nonetheless.”

Ailyn
hesitated, making Quinlan come up short. “What is it, lass?” Did the magick now
pull at her instead? Had she seen something?

She
shook her head, her eyes searching his. “I’ve no other choice, do I?”

Quinlan
frowned. “Choice? Do you jest, lass?” The woman nearly interrupted a dark rite,
then fled, next attempted a swim in nigh frozen waters, felled a wolf,
questioned every word he spoke and now, after he’d done aught but prove his
mettle, wasna sure about shelter? “Bah.”

Quinlan
lost his last shred of patience with Ailyn. There was only so much chivalry a
man could force upon a damsel before he left her to her damned distress. He
headed for the small home with one thing in mind and one thing alone.

A
warm fire.

“Infernal
female logic,” he muttered.

He
adjusted the limp form in his arms, hoping Heremon’s abandoned hovel might have
long-forgotten dry peat and wood for a good fire. His damned bones were nigh
frostbitten. The weight he carried fatigued his arms nearly as much as the lass
fatigued his nerves. He strode with purpose, guilt be damned.

The
silence behind him told him volumes. She likely stood as stock-still as he’d
left her, letting the distance gape between them. Did she not fear for her
friend now? Where had the panic that sent her into icy waters flown to? Guilt
gnawed a bit deeper. He’d no call to force her to be helped. She was a woman
grown with a mind of her own—baffling as it might be on a man—as
strong as any other, if not failing at the moment, in his humble opinion.

“Wait!”
she called to him.

Sighing
with relief, Quinlan paused, glancing down at the form in his arms. “She’ll not
be leaving you behind, after all. Rest easy.” Not that the woman needed
encouragement. Her raven-haired head bobbed limply as he adjusted her weight
once more before turning around. When he did turn, she’d closed the distance
and the wild light in her eyes had hardened into a fierceness he was beginning
to recognize. She might not like this role she’d been handed, but she’d be
filling it. He could see as much, and it banished his guilt.

“What
are you standing about for?” she asked, as though he’d been the one who hemmed
and hawed over life and death.

Quinlan
arched one eyebrow, snorted, and resumed his trek to the old Druid’s forgotten
home. The door eased open with a loud whine. A gust of the briny air swathed
over his cheeks, cooling his brow where he’d sweated from the exertion. Ailyn
entered first, took inventory of the room, looking left and right then pointed.

“Will
these do?” She gestured to a pile of moth-worn pelts.

Quinlan
nodded, and after she shook them out a bit, he knelt and settled the woman in
his arms onto the makeshift bedding.

He
frowned. “Why does your friend have sense enough to wear shoes, but you dinna,
lass?”

Ailyn
matched his frown, her cheeks reddening. “I removed mine.”

Quinlan
shook his head, deciding any attempts to talk sense into her would be futile.
Aye. She took hers off. What other explanation might he have hoped for, after
all? Her feet looked damaged, and though she fidgeted under his stare at them,
wearing breeches prevented her from hiding them.

“Sit,”
he ordered, pointing to one of the two chairs in the small room, but didn’t
wait for her to comply. Instead, he searched the next room for some sort of
salve. Breanne certainly would have kept supplies here back when she studied
with Heremon. He found several promising jars, but realized he had no way of
knowing which to administer.

Better
to leave such matters to Breanne.

He
glanced about the small room for the makings of a fire. Naught but a woolen
blanket. Unless he dismantled the only chair in the room. Might be their only
option. The nearing groan of thunder warned of a storm. On foot, he’d risk
getting caught in the downpour, though the wolf would not be a risk anymore,
his death of cold certainly would.
 
He needed to fetch Breanne. The healer was the limp woman’s only hope.
Breanne would know what to avail of in her old mentor’s home. “Stay put,” he
said.

Her
chin tipped a notch up, but she jerked a nod of compliance all the same.

“I’ll
be after some wood. Dinna open the door for any other. And if ye hear
scratching instead….”

She
shivered. “I’m not daft.”

That
remained to be seen, all actions considered. But a moot point it was now. He
let the heavy door thud shut and listened for her to bar herself and her friend
in. A new level of dampness clung to the air. Dawn would approach and the
coldest hour alongside that storm. A flash of light broke through the gray
canopy of sky.

He
used the search for firewood as a space in which to think. How much would he
share with Breanne once he darkened her door? In truth, asking her to come at
all might be a poor notion. Between the storm, her husband disliking their
speaking, and her belly being swollen with an unborn babe, begging her aid
seemed wrong. He knew Breanne, though. She’d be furious if she could help and
wasn’t even asked. He found some peat and branches, which he broke over his
thigh, enjoying the tight snaps in the air. A lonely sounding howl echoed in
the air amid another rumble.

Quinlan
strode back to the hovel with materials to build a small fire, warmth to keep a
few hours at best. He’d be back afore then, with Breanne’s instructions, if not
herself, in hand. He rapped on the thick wood, listening for movement. Two soft
voices carried through. Two women. Hushed. Hurried.

The
door opened and he pushed his way in, arms laden and damned tired. “Did yer
friend awake, then?”

“She’s
not lucid. I can’t understand what she’s saying.”

“Not
surprising.” He set the load to the hearth and built a bed of peat and stack of
wood, eyeing the sleeping form. “What did she say?” he asked, glancing up at
Ailyn, whose eyes widened.

“Nonsense.
Incoherent nonsense.”

Not
good. He’d seen men go mad from battle wounds. He struck a piece of flint down
onto the small chunk of steel, skating the glowing specks at the peat.
Something felt off, though. Was Ailyn lying? He felt she must be, but to accuse
as much would only push the lass deeper into her distrust of him. And to what
end? What the woman said wasna his concern. Quinlan shook off the urge to prod
and focused on the flint and sparks, blowing flames to life.

At
last, he rose.

She
backed up a pace, her hands in fists she might not even be aware of yet seeing
them irked him. He pushed back the ire.

“I’ll
be leaving you here. But I’ll return with a healer for your friend. I cannot
force you to stay, the storm might, but I ask you to stay, regardless. Your
friend isna fit for travel.”

Something
akin to pain flitted over her eyes. Again, she jerked her chin as a nod.

“I’ve
not been in here in years. I dinna ken what you’ll find, but you’re welcome to
whatever you do. Just take care. King Niall’s former Druid made his home here,
and he met an untimely death.” His hands took over where explanation ran dry,
gesturing in circles. “Blankets and clothing are all I mean.”

“Thank
you,” she said, which took him aback.

The
words were not easily spoken. She more gritted them out than spoke them. And
yet they pleased him, soothing his ire. Enough that he found himself speechless
again, simply meeting her eyes, wondering who she was, why she’d come to cross
his path this night. Thunder cracked overhead. The wind whined. Quinlan left
Ailyn and faced the stormy night.

Hearing
her latch the bar gave him the small comfort of knowing she was able to follow
instructions. Hysterics would undo her, and he knew not what stock she came
from. With such delicate features, such pale, creamy skin, he likened her to be
from the south, perhaps she’d come by the sea itself.

On
foot, the trek to Breanne’s home just outside the keep, might take an hour. He
set to a running pace, feeling the storm drawing ever closer. Dampness hung in
the air, clinging to his skin. His stomach growled. His energy waned. Ailyn’s
frightened eyes flashed through his mind again and again.

Her
fear wasna akin to a caged animal. It was unlike most fear he’d witnessed in
his life and battling at Wallace’s side had exposed him to a breadth of range
in human fear. Ailyn’s fear had a specificity to it that niggled his mind,
making him puzzle over it. It wasna him, nor the wolf, and he suspected neither
did her fear hang over the wounded woman. There was more.

A
full downpour hit, forcing him to give up his pace. Within seconds, Quinlan was
soaked to the bone. He had to seek cover. He cursed over the lost minutes that
would quickly become hours, but the inky dark and rain left him no choice.
Stumbling through the haze, he found shelter under a tree. He’d have to stay
put under the copse of branches or gamble three lives on making it to
Breanne’s.

He
prayed he would not end up being too late.

~

“Kristoph,”
Maera murmured.

Ailyn’s
pulse leapt. The man’s name felt like a grip on her throat, drawing memories to
the surface she’d fought to bury. The queen’s aide. Liar. Manipulator. The man
who nearly stole Ailyn’s virtue one rainy afternoon in a narrow alcove just
outside the queen’s bedroom. Ailyn hugged her waist, leaning in to hear Maera
better as she murmured in her sleep.

She
laid her hand on her princess’ arm. Her skin was so cold. “Kristoph? Maera,
what are you saying?”