26 MOONLIGHT AND SACRIFICE

"READY, MAC brOCHAN?"

The chief-sacrificer's voice had a goading edge.

The two men locked gazes. Watching them, it occurred to Bree that they weren't friends. Aye, they were both members of the High King's druidic council, but the animosity that crackled through the air made the fine hair on the back of her arms prickle.

"Aye," the chief-enforcer grunted. "Do it then. "

"On your knees … both of you," mac Hume gestured to the flat, carven, stone. "Facing each other." He cast Bree a sharp look then, for the instructions were clearly for her benefit.

Forcing herself not to scowl at him, Bree complied. Meanwhile, the sacrificers standing in a horseshoe around them started to chant.

"Hold your free palm up, above the center of the stone," the chief-sacrificer ordered.

Bree did as bid once more. Meanwhile, her other hand was still locked in mac Brochan's firm grip. She didn't look his way though. Instead, her gaze was fixed upon the chief-sacrificer and the iron blade in his hand.

Her pulse quickened, dizziness sweeping over her. Princess Lara had assured her the blood-letting ceremony wouldn't harm her, yet the sight of iron made her flinch. Loathsome metal, a bane to her kind.

The chief-sacrificer bent over then and drew the blade sharply across mac Brochan's hand.

Her husband's body jolted, his breath hissing between his teeth. " Fuck . That was deeper than necessary, Gregor."

"Was it?" mac Hume chuckled before the fingers of his free hand wrapped around Bree's wrist. "Hold still, Lady mac Brochan." He gentled his voice then as if he were speaking to a skittish horse. "This will sting."

Holding her wrist fast, he drew the knife blade across her palm, although much gentler than he had with her husband's.

Stinging pain bloomed, and Bree drew in a sharp breath.

Mac Hume lifted her hand then, pressing the cuts upon her and the chief-enforcer's hands together tightly. A moment later, he began to murmur words, ancient and guttural, of the long- dead tongue that only the druids used. And as he spoke, the tattoos on his neck began to gently glow.

Meanwhile, the gathered sacrificers continued to chant. The air around them stilled, and the smell of pine resin and ash filled Bree's nostrils—so cloying that it stuck in her throat.

She gave a wheezing cough, yet the druids ignored her.

Her husband had bent his head, while the chief-sacrificer's voice rose and fell.

Pain throbbed in the center of Bree's palm, in time with her heartbeat, although as the moments passed, heat started to build there. And then, mac Brochan's tattoos started to glow. Usually, they were woad-blue etchings, swirls, and patterns that had been etched upon his bare arms and chest from his first year of druidic training.

But now they were alive, glowing silver as if starlight illuminated him from within.

Forgetting the pain in her hand and the strange heat that burned where their cut palms pressed together, Bree watched, fascinated.

Part of her was repulsed by this ritual and everything it represented, and yet, she couldn't look away.

And then, she felt it—a strange and savage joy that bloomed under her ribcage.

Her breathing hitched, and the sensation spread, filling her body and causing her limbs to tingle. Warmth followed, swirling through her belly.

The Great Raven forgive her, she liked this. Lara hadn't lied, the experience was … intense. It was as if every burden she'd ever carried, every worry, every guilty secret, dissolved—and for a short while, she was reborn. For a few blessed instants, she gave up control. She was supposed to keep her thoughts and fe elings warded, but the sensation of release was overwhelming. It swept her away.

Bree's eyes fluttered, her breathing slowing and deepening.

Meanwhile, mac Brochan's tattoos continued to glow. Some of them even rippled, as if something pulsed through them, until eventually, they faded once more, returning to dark patterns upon the chief-enforcer's skin.

And the joy and warmth fled Bree's body. She couldn't help it—she sagged in disappointment.

Her husband lifted his head. His gaze was glazed, slightly unfocused.

However, the chief-sacrificer's eyes were sharp, probing. He was staring at Bree with a keen look that made her skin prickle in warning.

Iron smite her, she hoped she hadn't revealed any of her true self. Surely, her Marav body and blood had fooled him.

Moments passed, and then mac Hume stepped back, his expression veiling. "It's done." The chief-sacrificer made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Take him home, and put him to bed … he'll be himself in the morning."

Bree slid her hand from mac Brochan's before she turned her palm over and inspected it. The cut had sealed. There was nothing more than a puckered line of pink skin, and the wound upon the chief-enforcer's palm was similarly healed.

Her breathing quickened. Druidic magic was dangerous to her kind, and yet she'd reveled in the feel of it surging through her veins. And it had healed her.

"Help me up, Fia," mac Brochan's voice was even rougher than earlier.

Wordlessly, she stepped into him and let him use her to pull himself to his feet. Then, to her surprise, he wrapped a heavy arm about her shoulders, leaning upon her, as they moved off the sacrifice stone, letting the next couple take their place.

Together, Bree and the chief-enforcer made their way down the hill, to where they'd left their boots by the banks of the River Lethe.

"Are you strong enough to climb back up to the broch?" Bree asked, handing her husband his boots. "Or shall I fetch your horse?"

"I'll be fine," mac Brochan rasped. "I'll just take it slowly."

Bree's lips pursed as she took in his sweaty face and strained features. "Are you sure about that?"

He nodded. "I'll need your help again though."

Putting their boots on, they walked down to the causeway that led into Duncrag, passing the guards at the gate, who let them through without a word. Of course, they were used to these rituals.

She then glanced at the chief-enforcer's face. It looked even paler than before. "Lean more of your weight on me," she instructed. "I won't break."

He pulled a face. "I'm heavy."

"And I'm stronger than I look."

Her husband snorted. "I'll not argue with that." A moment later, he did lean on her more, and Bree set her jaw as they crossed the open space beyond the gates and began the long climb up The Thoroughfare.

"Gregor doesn't like you much," she said, slightly out of breath now.

He gave a soft snort. "No … the feeling is mutual though."

"Why?"

Mac Brochan's mouth pursed. "We're both ambitious and have always been … rivals. "

Bree waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. It was likely more than that—but her husband wasn't going to tell her. "Why do you need a woman's blood for the ritual?" she asked after a few moments.

"Female blood heals, energizes," he grunted, leaning on her even more heavily now as the way grew steeper. "It gives a man back what he's lost." He paused then, his breathing labored, and cut her a look. "Thank you, Fia."

Bree didn't answer. His response caught her off-guard, and she didn't know what to say. She didn't want his thanks, and yet at the same time, his words made a distracting warmth spread under her ribs—not unlike what she'd felt during the ceremony.

"Princess Lara told me she has partnered with you previously?" she said, deliberately casual.

She could have sworn the ghost of a smile curved his lips at her comment. "Aye."

That was all he had to say about Lara though, and the warmth under Bree's ribs deepened to a burn, a reaction that vexed her. No, she wasn't jealous. She didn't care whom this brute shared blood with. All the same, the intimacy of the blood-letting wasn't something Bree had been prepared for; in the aftermath, an unwelcome sense of closeness to her husband had settled over her.

By the time they reached the broch and made their way to the chief-enforcer's quarters, mac Brochan was staggering.

Bree groaned with relief as he let go of her and collapsed into the sleeping nook, rolling onto the furs and stretching out on his back. He closed his eyes then, his chest rising and falling sharply.

He still wore his leather breeches and heavy boots, although Bree guessed he was too exhausted to take them off. As such, once she'd removed her cloak and hung it up, Bree unlaced his boots and drew them off his feet for him, setting them down by the wall.

Meanwhile, Skaal got up from her place near the fire and padded across to the sleeping nook. Usually, the fae hound ignored Bree, yet tonight, she nudged her hand with a wet nose and licked the recently healed wound upon her palm.

Stiffening, Bree looked down at the huge dog.

Ever since her arrival, she'd been wary of Skaal. Fae hounds were perceptive creatures, and she'd worried that despite her transformation, Skaal might be able to sniff out the truth. "I'm all right," she murmured as Skaal licked her palm once more. She then nodded to mac Brochan. "And so is he … I think." She cleared her throat, her gaze focusing on the man lying on the furs. "Do you want some water, husband?"

"Aye," he replied weakly.

Patting Skaal lightly on the head and wrinkling her nose, for the dog was in desperate need of a bath, Bree moved around the fae hound and went to the table, where she poured a large cup of cooled boiled water. She then climbed onto the furs, next to the chief-enforcer. "Here."

His eyes flickered open, and with a groan, he propped himself upon an elbow before draining the cup. He then sank back down onto the furs. "That's better."

Meanwhile, Skaal lowered her large body to the wooden floor at the foot of the nook and curled up. It looked as if she'd be sleeping there tonight.

Silence fell in the alcove, and Bree stretched out in her usual place. She still wore an ankle-length, sleeveless tunic, but she couldn't be bothered taking it off this eve. Instead, she rolled onto her side and observed the man lying just a couple of feet from her.

Mac Brochan had closed his eyes once more. Fading firelight kissed his tattooed skin. The chief-enforcer's arms and torso were hard, sculpted muscle, and she found herself wanting to trail her fingertips across his skin. Even weakened like this, mac Brochan's raw masculinity sucked the air out of the room.

Bree's belly clenched then. Enough of this , she reprimanded herself. You're running out of time .

Aye, her husband wouldn't let her this close to him again. Soon Torran would ask the chief-enforcer if he'd gotten the missive he'd left for him.

She needed to find out something useful and send word to Mor before he did.