37 DEEP INTO THE WOODS

THE MOON SAILED high overhead as Bree reached the southern edge of The Hallow Woods. Since leaving the standing stones, she'd ridden over bare hills and jumped the meandering burns between them. The sight of the dark tree line, looming before her, made her pulse race.

Are you sure about this? There's still time to turn around .

Bree's lips thinned.

No, she wouldn't retrace her steps. Her encounter with the Ben Neeya had shattered something inside her—something she couldn't put back together.

Instinct drove her now, fatalism settling deep into her bones .

Once she warned Cailean and told him who she really was—for she'd decided that she wouldn't hold back—he'd likely kill her.

Are you prepared to die to save him?

The question had drummed constantly in her chest as she'd ridden north from The Ring of Caith—and the answer was still ‘aye'.

Recklessness had dug its claws into her now. It was both liberating and terrifying to give up her hard-won control, to rush headlong toward her doom.

It was a fitting end for her, she supposed, for Bree had never done anything in half-measures.

As soon as she entered The Hallow Woods, silence descended. The chill, high-pitched Whistle couldn't penetrate here, but as Flint slowed to a trot along the overgrown path leading through the trees, a shiver crawled over her skin. The garron snorted, and Bree leaned forward, soothing him with her hand. She wasn't afraid of this place, having roamed amongst The Slew that dwelled here many a time.

Unlike the superstitious Marav, the Shee didn't fear the Unforgiven.

However, she wasn't Shee any longer, and Bree wondered if The Slew would turn on her.

Inhaling deeply, she straightened her spine. Fortunately, the woods weren't large. It wouldn't take her long to reach the High King's army. She guessed they'd make camp a few furlongs south of Dunmorth Barrow, biding their time.

A huge grassed-over cairn that rose like a hill in the heart of the woods, the barrow's narrow doorway led into a chamber where a king of the Ancients rested. The Marav feared the cruel wights who dwelt within these places, and hated barrows, for they were Shee portals. Druid magic couldn't protect them here.

Bree's mouth pursed then. She was saving those who intended to cut down the Shee in cold blood. She was possibly condemning her own people to death—all to save one man. The cruel irony wasn't lost on her.

Once I tell him the truth, he'll order a retreat , she tried to reassure herself. If I do this, I'll prevent bloodshed on both sides .

Her stomach cramped then. Aye, she could tell herself that, but she had no idea how the chief-enforcer would react, or what he'd decide in the aftermath.

Just a few yards into the woods, the first of the graves loomed from the undergrowth, frosted by the moonlight: pitted grey stones, some of them as tall as her, etched with lines of odd markings. This was the burial ground of the Ancients, the people who'd inhabited Albia before the Marav—back in the mists of time, when Bree's great grandparents had been younglings.

The gravestones and markers had once sat upon a vast meadow, yet with time, trees had grown up, their roots toppling some of the stones, while others leaned drunkenly.

Bree's gaze traveled over the dark foliage surrounding the moss-covered graves, and the ivy and vines that crept over them. Nettles and ferns covered the woodland floor, creeping out over the path that wended its way through dark sycamores and twisted oaks.

And between the stones, shadows unfurled, moving like mist in the moonlight. The Slew were waking up.

Bree's pulse quickened, and Flint sidestepped, tossing his head.

"Steady," she whispered, stroking his neck once more. "They won't touch you. "

Ancestors, she hoped she was right.

The chill around her deepened, and goosebumps pebbled her skin. Soon, the shadows, shapes that vaguely resembled the distorted bodies of men and women, swirled around her, their hands stretching out, fingers clawing at her.

For most of the year, The Slew lurked in graveyards—except for the night of Gateway, when they took to the skies like a swarm of corvids, shrieking their rage as they hunted for frightened Marav to feast upon.

But Gateway, which was the night when autumn slid into winter, was still a few turns of the moon away.

Bree breathed through the fear that flickered within her now. No, she couldn't let herself take that path. Her soul was still Shee, and her kind wasn't afraid of the dead.

And so, she let them touch her without flinching. And all the while, she whispered a charm, one her mother had taught her when she'd been a youngling—to soothe her pony's jitters.

Flint snorted once more, although the tension in his stocky body eased a little.

The Marav didn't know it, but The Slew fed on fear—and they'd take those who succumbed to it. Even so, Bree's skin crawled as the shadowy fingers brushed over her face and neck, plucking at the neckline of her tunic. Cruel, thin voices whispered in her ear, in a sibilant, long-dead tongue.

Keeping her gaze focused on the narrow, overgrown path ahead, illuminated by shafts of moonlight piercing the trees, Bree let The Slew slide over her, around her. She continued to breathe the charm as she rode, for Flint wouldn't make it through the woods without panicking otherwise.

A short while later, the garron halted and tossed his head. Bree swung down from his back, keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder as she looked around her. This wasn't a pinewood, and yet the air was heavy with the resinous scent of conifers, blended with the acrid tang of ash. Druidic wards were in place just ahead of them.

"We're here," Bree murmured, gently leading Flint forward. "They've protected the path to keep The Slew out … but we can pass."

They moved forward, and the air changed once more, warming slightly. Flint let out a low huff that sounded like a sigh. Bree led him under a spreading elm and stripped off his saddlery. "We shall say goodbye now," she whispered, even as her pulse spiked. "If I were you, I'd wait until dawn before leaving the woods … The Slew are less vicious then."

The pony whickered, and not for the first time, she wished she could touch minds with him. She hoped he was canny enough to linger within the wards until morning, where it was safe.

Bree stepped away from Flint then and was about to walk on when a large shape emerged from the undergrowth.

Her breathing caught. Skaal.

The fae hound's eyes glowed, her long dark-green coat frosted by the silvery light filtering through the woods, as she prowled toward her. Bree noted then that the dog's hackles weren't raised. No growl rumbled in her throat.

To Bree's surprise, Skaal moved close and nudged her in the ribs with her nose.

She exhaled slowly. She should have realized Cailean's hound would be patrolling the area. Tentatively, she reached out and ruffled Skaal's thick coat. "I'm here to help him," she whispered. "But you know that, don't you? "

Skaal gave a low whine, nudging her once more. There was urgency in the hound's gesture. Aye, it was marching toward midnight now. She needed to move.

Without a backward glance, Bree slipped through the trees. Pulling up the hood of her cloak, she flitted from shadow to shadow. She compressed her lips into a grim smile as she walked. Once again, despite that she was one of the Marav now, parts of her old form still clung to her. The Shee knew how to move unseen, how to become one with the darkness.

A useful skill indeed, for she passed sentries on the way in. Two of them were enforcers, and she gave them a wide berth, choosing to pass closer to the king's men instead. She'd heard that the warrior-druids had excellent night vision, much like the Shee did, and she wouldn't risk being seen.

Even so, it took her longer than she'd have liked to make her way into the tents that had been erected amongst the ancient graves.

And as she crept forward, the faint drone of a man's voice, singing what sounded like a dirge, reached her.

Bree's skin prickled, and she halted and dropped to a crouch. They'd brought a bard with them. She couldn't see him, yet the druid was nearby, holding vigil throughout the night.

Giving herself a shake, Bree pressed forward. The bard wasn't focused on her tonight, but on keeping the encampment safe from The Slew that pressed around the wards.

She was close to the barrow now, close enough that Bree felt the vibration of the air upon her skin—a faint buzzing that was present near the portals. A primal longing arched through her then. In her Shee form, she'd be able to run into that barrow at dawn and whisper the words that would open the veil between the two realms. But as a Marav woman, the way was closed to her.

Her jaw clenched then. Shee or Marav, she wouldn't be crossing back into Sheehallion. Not after what she was about to do.

As she crept farther into the camp, smoking torches thrust up from the damp earth, casting hallowed light over the tents. Save those on patrol, there weren't many souls awake at this hour. All the same, there were fewer shadows to hide her; Bree had to be careful. As such, she crouched behind tents, waiting until the odd warrior or enforcer moved by, until daring to creep forward.

She trailed one of the enforcers heading back into the camp, hoping that he'd lead her to where his leader slept. And he did. A knot of black tents sat on the western edge of the slumbering war band, and Bree singled out the largest of them.

Her insides started to churn then at the thought of seeing her husband again. Despite that the night was cool, she was sweating heavily now.

This wouldn't be a happy reunion.

Forcing down her dread, she waited until the enforcer she'd followed ducked into one of the smaller tents. The way was clear. She had to take her chance.

Bree closed the final yards to the chief-enforcer's pavilion, ripped aside the flap, and dived inside.

The soft light from a glowing brazier greeted her.

However, a heartbeat later, the figure who'd been sleeping upon a pile of furs erupted into movement. The chief-enforcer's speed was unnatural. He rolled to his feet so fast that Bree didn't have time to react, or even the chance to push back her hood so that he could see her face .

Before she knew it, he was on her, one hand clamping around her arm while a cold iron blade pressed to her throat.

"Cailean!" she gasped, as the sting of the sharp edge nicked her skin. "It's me."

With a whispered curse, he lowered his blade, the punishing grip on her arm releasing. "Fia?"

Heart pounding, she pushed back her hood.

Her husband stood before her, gloriously naked, his tattoos glowing faintly in the dimly lit interior of the tent.

Cailean's eyes were wide, his jaw taut. "Gods, I nearly killed you," he growled.

Bree swallowed. She raised her hand to where a thin trickle of blood marked her neck. He had , although she couldn't blame him. He hadn't expected his wife to sneak into his tent tonight.

His gaze narrowed then, jaw hardening. "What are you doing here?"

Bree drew in a shuddery breath. If only she could give him an easy answer. Moving close, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm. His gaze darkened at her touch, and Bree's pulse leaped, for his skin was warm, and the scent of him wreathed around her, muddling her senses.

"I have much to tell you, and time is short," she whispered. "But let me start with this." Her voice caught, yet she pushed on. "You were right … everything about me is a lie."