11 IRON CIRCLE ME

CAILEAN WANTED TO saddle up the following morning and ride as if a host of pike-wielding powries were pursuing him. He needed to get away from the devious Shee female he’d wed, and from his dangerous response to her.

But he wasn’t leaving Rothie just yet.

After a restless night—during which he’d lain by the glowing firepit, one hand on the hilt of his dagger—Cailean rose in the early dawn. Stepping over the ring of salt he’d scattered before retiring—for it was wise to take precautions when sleeping rough, especially in the wild north—he slaked his thirst with a few gulps of ale and kicked dirt over the smoldering embers of the fire.

Leaving Feannag saddled and ready to go upon his return, and Skaal to keep watch over his stallion, Cailean strode back into the fort.

He emerged cautiously from the woods, bracing himself to find Bree waiting for him.

But she wasn’t.

He was both relieved and unsettled by her compliance, although his gut told him, he hadn’t seen the last of her. His wife was as stubborn as he was. She wouldn’t give up that easily.

Smoke wreathed up from turf roofs, blending with an iron-colored sky. The air was damp and cold, yet he paid little attention to the weather. Instead, his thoughts were on the mission he’d set himself.

Where had Eilig gone? Three roads struck out from the fort. The first led south to Doure—this was the highway he’d recently traveled, so he ruled that one out—while the second stretched northeast to Cannich, and the third led up the coast north to Harra.

Harra . Cailean’s stride faltered. He hadn’t been back to his birthplace since childhood. But if Eilig had led his band there, he would return. Heat kindled in the pit of his belly then. It would be fitting to face that shitweasel in the place where everything had kicked off all those years ago.

As he approached the gates, Cailean’s gaze settled upon a grisly sight: a head upon a pike. The mercenary’s expression was set in a grimace, his once coppery skin ashen in death. Flies were buzzing around his mouth and nose.

Cailean’s lips thinned. He wasn’t sorry he was dead, for he’d been tempted to end him the day before. However, the sight of the mercenary’s head reminded him that he’d drawn far too much attention to himself.

It would be best to be discreet this morning.

As usual, a busy produce market was in full swing in the wide dirt space within. Not wasting time, Cailean wove through the press—mostly local women bundled up in cloaks with wicker shopping baskets looped over their arms—to the pie seller he’d spoken to a couple of days earlier.

“Back again.” The man flashed him a gap-toothed smile. “My pies are that good, eh?”

“Aye,” Cailean replied, digging into his coin purse and handing over two copper pennies. “Two more.” He wasn’t hungry this morning, although he’d need food for his journey.

“I have another question about the fighting band that stopped here the other day,” Cailean said as the pie vendor wrapped his purchases up in a square of oiled cloth.

The man glanced up. “I told you I didn’t go to any of the fights.”

“Aye, but did you hear where they went after Rothie?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “No.” He glanced then at where a plump woman standing before a stack of cages filled with live fowl was watching his customer intently. “Do you know, Ina?”

She nodded eagerly, smoothing her frizzy hair as Cailean focused on her. “I heard they were going to Morae.” Ina paused then. “Apparently, there was a poor turn out here … so they were hoping for a warmer welcome from the crannog dwellers.”

“Piss-poor entertainment, if you ask me,” the pie vendor said with a snort. “Watching idiots hack at each other.”

“Aye,” Cailean replied. He couldn’t agree more. He favored Ina with a half-smile in thanks, anticipation coiling under his ribs. Morae was just over a couple of days’ journey from here. He’d catch up with Eilig sooner than he thought.

Reckoning was so close now, that he could almost taste it.

“A woman was here the other day … asking after you,” Ina said then, continuing to primp her hair.

Cailean stiffened. Bree . “How do you know it was me she wanted?” he replied gruffly.

Ina grinned. “There aren’t many men matching your description, handsome.” She winked at him. “Friend of yours, is she?”

“No,” he snapped. With that, Cailean turned on his heel and stalked away.

I’m coming for you, Eilig .

Sheets of icy rain swept over Cailean as he rode away from Rothie, taking the highway northwest toward Morae. The vicious Gales of Complaint barreled in from the northeast, bringing with them a chill that cut straight to the marrow. Feannag bowed his head, and even Skaal flattened her ears back and tucked her tail between her legs.

But the foul weather couldn’t douse the hunger for vengeance that smoldered like a lump of peat in Cailean’s belly. It was a fever in his veins now, like earth magic, pushing him on.

The highway between Rothie and Morae was rutted and muddy, yet well-traveled. They passed merchants traveling to the coast and farmers with wagons piled high with neeps to sell at Rothie’s bustling market. And every traveler he saw stared at Cailean as if a wulver had just appeared on horseback. Unfortunately, the tattoos that crept up his neck and the fae hound that padded at his side made it impossible for him to blend in with his surroundings.

As he traveled, he cast the odd glance over his shoulder.

He’d expected Bree to tail him, yet there was no sign of her.

Even so, when he finally made camp at the day’s end, in the driving wind and rain, Cailean readied himself for his wife’s reappearance.

Surely, she was too pig-headed to stay away?

He’d stopped under the sheltering boughs of an old, twisted pine, where he tied his stallion up. There was no grass in this spot for Feannag to graze upon. Instead, he fitted his horse with a nosebag of oats before settling onto the damp, pine-needle-strewn ground, and leaning his back against the trunk. Meanwhile, icy rain slid down his face and the wind bit at any exposed skin.

The Mother’s tits, he was tired of sleeping outdoors in all weathers. What he’d give right now to crawl into a soft pile of furs. But his coin purse was getting alarmingly light these days, and traveling with a fae hound made finding accommodation difficult.

Skaal slipped away—off to hunt—while Cailean unwrapped one of the pies he’d bought that morning.

He hadn’t eaten all day, and his belly was now hollow and rumbling.

However, after a few bites, his appetite deserted him. Rewrapping the remains of his supper, he cast a sharp look into the gloaming.

Where is she?

Clodhead , he cursed himself. Disappointed, are you?

No, he wasn’t. He’d wanted rid of her, and he’d gotten his wish. Bree wasn’t as dogged as he’d thought.

Jaw clenched, Cailean dug into the salt pouch he carried at his waist and sprinkled a circle around the base of the trunk. Through the veil of rain, lights flickered in the trees to his right, and he stilled. It was hard not to stare at the beguiling golden flames that glowed warmly. However, he knew how to deal with corpse candles.

Cailean closed his eyes, his fingers flexing as he called forth his earth magic. His skin prickled, his tattoos glowing faintly as he built a mental ward between himself and the call of the beckoning flames. Years earlier, when he’d been an initiate druid upon the Isle of Arryn, a young woman who’d been set to take the bard’s path had followed the lights one eve. She’d walked into a peat bog and was never seen again.

Ever since, he’d never underestimated the lure of corpse candles. Beautiful yet deadly—like most things that came from Sheehallion.

Like his wife.

Cailean’s mouth twisted.

He needed to stop thinking about her.

I want us to be together again.

Her voice whispered to him then, husky and sensual, and his chest constricted, his breathing growing shallow. Even now, those words had a primal effect on him, but he’d managed to keep his reaction hidden. Aye, his wife was dangerous. To his sanity.

Nonetheless, this was a fight he’d win, even if it killed him.

Cailean’s skin prickled then, and he emerged from his brooding, his gaze sweeping the dark glade where he rested.

Someone was out there, after all.

He stiffened, his pulse quickening.

A figure emerged from the trees to the south of the clearing then, and as it moved toward him, he made out a tall and lissome form.

Cailean’s lips thinned. Curse her, he wasn’t in the mood for this.

But as the figure approached—and a sudden shaft of moonlight, which pierced through the heavy clouds above, illuminated her—he realized it wasn’t his wife.

It was a woman though, beautiful with pale skin and long wavy hair. She wore a flowing tunic and cloak, frosted by silvery light. Seeing him watching her, she favored him with a slow, sensual smile.

Lust, sudden and swift, ignited in the pit of Cailean’s belly, heat sweeping over him. His reaction to this strange woman caught him off guard. He wasn’t the sort of man to be led by his prick—or he hadn’t been before Bree crashed into his life—and his body’s response unsettled him.

“Lonely?” she greeted him in a low and honeyed voice that made his mouth go dry. “I can keep you company.”

Cailean’s breathing grew shallow, his groin hardening painfully.

Gods, he was lonely. His stomach ached from it. He longed to sink into softness and heat, to wrap himself around a lover.

However, underneath the haze of lust, something warned him. He didn’t know this woman, and yet with each gliding step she took toward him, he could feel his self-restraint unraveling.

Heart leaping into a gallop, he drew one of the knives strapped across his front and thrust it before him.

The stranger’s step faltered, the smile fixing upon her lovely face. “There’s no need for that, lover,” she murmured, her eyes dark, limpid pools. The chill of her breath feathered over him. “I only wish to keep you company this night.”

“Iron circle me,” Cailean rasped. “Keep light near and darkness afar. Iron circle me. Keep peace within and evil out.” It was a protection charm—one his mother had taught him as a child, lest the botach crawl out of the smoke vent and try to steal him away. He hadn’t spoken it in many years, yet the words had stayed with him, long after the memory of his mother’s face had faded.

The woman halted, tension rippling through her slender body.

And then her smile slid into a snarl, two sharp canine teeth glinting in the pale moonlight. The woman hissed, her hands clawing at him. Her fingernails were long and sharp.

But she wouldn’t come any further though. Salt wasn’t enough against some of the faery creatures that stalked the Albian night—but iron and a protection charm were another matter.

The woman whirled then, the cloak and long tunic she wore billowing around her—and Cailean caught sight of the cloven hooves protruding from the hemline.

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.