2 FOREVER ALTERED

Caisteal Gealaich

The Realm of Sheehallion

I SHOULD NEVER have returned .

Pulse hammering, Bree kept her gaze fixed on the gleaming moonstone floor of the throne room. The hard tiles dug into her knees, but she remained kneeling. Misery constricted her ribs, while around her, she was aware of the gazes of the Ravens—Mor’s personal bodyguards—and the Raven Queen’s two advisors, drilling into her.

Meanwhile, Mor had gone silent. Never a good sign.

Bree’s skin prickled under the queen’s stare, nervousness fluttering up. All the same, it was difficult to focus. Not when she knew, to the marrow of her bones, that she didn’t belong here.

She belonged with her husband.

Her chest started to ache. Shades, I thought I’d freed myself of this . She’d been sure that going through the stones and becoming Shee once more would restore the order of things. She’d be herself again: cold, detached, and pragmatic. The Raven Queen’s favorite pet.

But the pain pulsing under her breastbone contradicted her.

“You were supposed to remain at Duncrag,” Mor said finally, shattering the silence. “Why have you come back so soon?”

Swallowing, she raised her chin, meeting the queen’s black gaze.

Mor sat upon a throne carven from moonstone, her lovely face stern with disapproval. She wore a storm-grey gown that hugged her lean frame and a heavy jet necklace that gleamed against the deep umber of her skin. As always, her messenger, Eagal, the raven, perched upon her shoulder. The bird watched the queen’s assassin, unblinking.

“I had to, My Queen,” Bree answered, steeling herself for what was to come. “I was compromised.”

Mor’s full lips pursed. “How so?”

Bree drew in a deep, steadying breath. On the journey back to Caisteal Gealaich from The Ring of Caith, she’d tried not to dwell on what she’d just lost. Instead, she’d planned what she’d say to her queen. It had provided a welcome distraction.

She had to be careful. Only a fool underestimated Mor. Despite that Bree had served her faithfully for over two centuries, this mistake could send her to the pit—a cavern under the fortress where the ravenous wyrm dwelt.

She wasn’t keen to wrestle with the serpent.

“The chief-enforcer was suspicious of me from the start,” she began, choosing each word with care. “The High King had forced him to take a wife. He was hostile and determined to be married in name only.” Her heart kicked then as she recalled all the times they’d clashed over the past moons. His coldness. His rudeness. And yet, she’d persisted, working her way under his skin like a thorn.

In doing so, she’d awoken something within him—within them both.

And now, she was forever altered.

Grief gripped hold of her throat then, its rough fingers squeezing tight, choking her.

Cailean .

She couldn’t believe she’d never see him again. She’d never hear the low rumble of his voice, or see the glint in those woad-blue eyes when she vexed him. She’d never feel his hands on her skin. Her throat started to ache viciously, and she blinked, wrestling to maintain her self-control.

“The chief-enforcer was vile and abusive,” she continued, wishing her voice wasn’t a rasp. She also tried not to remember the strain in Cailean’s face, his shadowed gaze, as they’d said goodbye before The Ring of Caith. He hadn’t wanted her to go either, but he’d thought he was doing the right thing. “With the manners of a goat.”

Mor’s expression didn’t change. So far, Bree’s tale wasn’t hitting the mark.

Panic washed over her. Concentrate! You can do better than this . Clearing her throat, she pushed on. “His temper was explosive … and his favorite trick was to shove me up against the wall and shout in my face.”

An image rose unbidden, of Cailean’s body against her back as he pressed her up against the wall of their alcove. The husk of his voice in her ear. The hunger that clenched her belly as she sagged against him. She started to sweat then; she could feel it under her arms and trickling down her back under her tunic.

Meanwhile, Mor’s lip curled. “I expected you to be prepared to deal with the brute,” she replied coldly. “Not whine about it.”

Bree’s pulse took off once more. “I did … as best I could,” she assured her queen. “But locked in a weak body … and impersonating a sniveling Marav … meant I had to be careful. Subtle.”

That was an irony. Her brother would attest that there was nothing subtle about Bree. Mor had sent an assassin to do a spy’s work, and right from the first moment she’d locked stares with the man she’d wed, her days at Duncrag had been numbered.

A chill silence settled over the throne room. Meanwhile, Bree’s pulse thumped in her ears.

Mor’s gaze had narrowed, while Eagal’s beady eyes felt as if they were slicing right through her.

“He started using his fists on me,” Bree continued, shattering the brittle hush. Yet again though, her mind betrayed her. Images of that torrid night they’d shared, of how good his touch had felt, flooded over her. Clenching her jaw, she tried not to think about Cailean buried deep inside her. Iron smite me, this isn’t the time! “I weathered his violence for as long as I could,” she plowed on, desperate now. “But on the eve before he departed on his mission to the north, he cornered me … and so I fought back.”

Mor’s mouth thinned.

“I punched the bastard in the throat and slammed my knee into his balls,” she said, recalling how quickly he’d deflected her attempts to maim him on that fateful evening. Aye, she’d fought well as a Marav woman, but she was no match for the realm’s most powerful warrior-druid. “A servant interrupted us … or I don’t know what might have happened. However, before leaving Duncrag, mac Brochan warned me that he’d ‘deal with me’ upon his return.”

Her spine straightened then, her confidence returning. Aye, she could get through this—if she held her regret at bay. She only had to keep up the act for a short while longer. Once she was alone, she could let her shields down.

She could rail at herself for coming back here.

“I had to kill two guards to gain access to the dungeon so I could find Bryce … and after speaking to him, I ended his life too,” she went on. “After that, my cover was blown … so I left the fort while I was still able. The High King enjoys torture. He’d held Bryce in the dungeon for moons, slowly carving him up before he revealed our secrets. I couldn’t let the same thing happen to me.”

The Raven Queen didn’t answer immediately. Mor leaned back, her long slender fingers drumming upon the armrests. She then shared a veiled look with the two sharp-eyed females, clad in long silver robes, who stood to her right—Nell and Sage, Mor’s most trusted advisors.

Both females were frowning.

Mor shifted her attention back to Bree. “Being married to the chief-enforcer would have been a trial,” she said coolly. “But I sent my best to Duncrag for a reason. Now I have no ear in Talorc mac Brude’s household.”

Bree swallowed. “I gained much that was valuable from Byrce, did I not?”

It was foolish to speak thus to Mor, yet Bree could feel anger quickening, momentarily eclipsing her misery. She’d put her neck on the line for her queen. A little gratitude would have been nice.

Mor inclined her head. “Aye … we were ready for them at Sheathan.” The queen’s eyes, the color of a moonless night, glinted. “Thanks to your warning, we ambushed the enemy … slaughtering the entire warband.”

Bree’s heart dropped to her belly.

The entire warband …

“You killed all of them?” she whispered, struggling to keep her voice even.

“Aye … even the prince. I watched him fall too. He was brave enough, coming at my Ravens with an iron blade in each hand. But it wasn’t enough to save him.”

Bree’s pulse took off.

The urge to ask the queen about the chief-enforcer surged through her, yet she swallowed it. Instead, she exhaled slowly, trying to calm down.

Careful.

“When did the attack take place?” she asked, with exaggerated slowness, as if the answer mattered not.

“Shortly before dawn.”

Weakness flooded through her, and she was grateful that she was kneeling, or her legs might have given way under her.

He’s alive.

Cailean hadn’t been at the camp just before dawn. Instead, he’d taken her south to The Ring of Caith and watched while she walked through the stones at sunrise. He would have returned to the woods, and the camp, to find everyone dead.

A chill skated down her spine then, the brief surge of relief draining from her.

He’ll think I knew … that I lied to him.

He would, but she couldn’t dwell on that now. Not when she could almost feel the wyrm’s hot breath on her back.

“Unfortunately, though, we found no sign of the chief-enforcer,” the queen added. “The bastard must have gone off on patrol.”

Bree didn’t answer immediately. She had to be very wary now, for suspicion glinted in the queen’s dark gaze, while her sinister-looking raven continued to stare Bree down.

Her breathing grew shallow, her limbs prickling in warning.

Mor could never learn about what she’d done—that she’d raced to the Hallow Woods and warned her husband about the coming attack.

“What now, My Queen?” Sage, one of Mor’s advisors, asked as the silence between them grew brittle.

“We’ve had a victory against the Marav … but things will not end here.” Mor’s fingers increased their tempo, a sign that anger thrummed inside her. “Too long has the High King hunted our people. Once, the Shee could roam freely in Albia, yet now we are pushed to the fringes. High Kings of old let us be, but not this royal line.” Her fingers wrapped around the armrests, squeezing hard. “Mac Brude and his father … and his grandfather before him … have increasingly persecuted us.” She leaned forward on her throne, a muscle feathering upon her jaw. “Aye, the High King has lost his son and half of his precious enforcers … but that isn’t enough. I will make him rue the day he ever sought to avenge himself upon me.”

Bree stilled.

She should have been relieved that Mor wasn’t currently focusing on her—but misgiving feathered down her nape at the ferocity on the queen’s face. She’d seen that expression before, after one of the queen’s brothers, Grae, had attempted to take the throne. In response, she’d sent Bree to hunt and kill him.

Once Mor fixed her mind on something, or someone, she wouldn’t be thwarted.

Talorc mac Brude had now drawn Mor’s full attention—a foolish thing indeed.

Someone cleared their throat then, and Mor glanced over her shoulder to see that it came from the captain of the Ravens, Gavyn Frostshard. His handsome face wore a hard, hungry, look. “What do you have in mind, My Queen?”

Mor lifted her chin, scowling at the intrusion. “We shall talk of my plans soon enough, Frostshard,” she replied, her tone sharp. “But for the moment, you shall exercise patience.”

Mor glanced back at Bree then, her eyes narrowing. She had a gaze that could melt iron.

“What do you ask of me , My Queen?” Bree asked, her throat suddenly parched.

“Nothing,” the Raven Queen replied, her voice as cold as an Albian winter. “Your failures outweigh your successes. You ignore instructions and lie when you find yourself backed into a corner … aye, don’t take me for a fool. I haven’t lived two thousand years to be so easily taken in.”

Bree broke into a cold sweat. “My Queen,” she gasped, ready to do whatever it took to save her skin. “I—”

“Enough,” Mor cut her off. “One more insincere word and you’ll be feeding the wyrm at sunset.” Mor halted then, a chill silence rippling across the throne room. “Now get out of my sight … before my merciful mood passes.”