40 TOO LATE

CROSSING FROM ONE side of the stone circle to the other was harder this time.

Bree's Marav body wasn't as resilient as her old one—only the fact that the stones recognized that she'd once been Shee allowed her to pass through at all.

She was lost in the mist, the clear morning sky of just moments earlier gone.

The air became unbearably heavy, pressing into her on all sides, and it felt as if an anvil sat on her chest .

Gasping, she stumbled forward, her hands rising to cover her ears as they started buzzing. Ancestors, it was as if hornets were stabbing her eardrums.

She staggered and nearly went down, righting herself just in time.

Her head was throbbing now, each step a monumental effort. Her body screamed, stabbing pain convulsing each muscle. The veil between the two realms was not easily breached, and it didn't welcome her.

The pain overwhelmed Bree then, and she panicked, grappling with an invisible opponent in front of her. Screaming, she launched herself forward into the breach.

The move saved her, for it closed the distance to the two largest stones on the opposite side of the circle. She lurched through them, and then she was falling, tumbling down a slope.

Bree came to a stop at the bottom, winded, on her belly. For a few moments, she lay there, gasping for breath, before her fingers splayed across the ground.

Soft, sweet-smelling grass. The air that feathered across her heated skin was warm and scented with rose.

She raised her head, her gaze lifting to where a glorious pink and gold dawn streaked the sky. Her breathing hitched, and she swallowed the sob that clawed at her chest. Not even Sheehallion's breathtaking beauty could lessen the pain.

Pushing herself up so that she sat on her haunches, Bree lifted her hands, inspecting them. They trembled, yet her fingers were longer and slenderer than earlier, her skin pale gold. She then glanced down at her body to find the tunic, which had been snug on her Marav body, was looser. The hem of her tunic now reached mid-calf instead of her ankles .

Bree lurched to her feet with a fluidity that only the Shee possessed.

It had worked. She'd returned to her true form.

She drew in a ragged breath then, waiting for the sorrow to unknot itself from deep inside her breast, for indifference and selfishness to resurface. She'd welcome them back like old friends—anything to ease this crushing agony in her chest.

But long moments passed, and a chill washed over her.

She didn't feel any different.

Cailean stared after Bree, watching as the woman, cloaked in blue, disappeared between two of the stones.

His wife had just left him, and his chest ached cruelly, as if she'd slipped a blade between his ribs before going.

It had taken everything he had to let her go, yet he had.

She didn't belong in Albia.

From this angle, at the foot of the hill beneath The Ring of Caith, he couldn't see what happened once she strayed inside. The stone circles of this realm, which had been made by the Ancients, were sacred places for druids. Discovering that their enemies could actually pass between Sheehallion and Albia through the stones was a shock indeed.

Druids carried out rites at the Rings each solstice and equinox, but they never ventured inside the stone circles at such times. To do so was forbidden. Indeed, those who had risked it occasionally over the years had never been seen again.

Until now, they'd believed that the Shee feared the standing stones, as much as the Marav abhorred the ancient barrows. But passing through the stones came at a cost to the Shee, for it turned them into one of the hated, lesser, Marav.

Cailean continued to stare up at The Ring of Caith, even as his mouth thinned. How that must have galled Bree, a proud Shee female—the Raven Queen's assassin. How she must have ground her teeth at playing a Maid of Albia.

No wonder she'd done such a poor job of acting submissive.

The sun had almost cleared the tops of the mountains to the east, the craggy spine of the Goatfells. Bree had left her passing until the last moment, but now it was done.

Shaking himself free of a wrenching sensation that felt a lot like grief—an emotion he hadn't experienced in a long while—Cailean tore his gaze away from the stones.

"Enough," he muttered. There was no point in lingering here and staring after her like a halfwit.

Bree was gone, and he had to get back to the camp or they'd think something had happened to him. And now, thanks to her warning, the Shee wouldn't take them unawares.

He had time to act, for Sheathan wouldn't take place until that evening, at dusk. When she'd told him, Cailean had considered retreating. However, he dismissed that idea now. The High King would be incensed if they didn't face their enemy.

At least it'll be a fair fight. Two enemies on an equal footing. Talorc mac Brude would get what he craved too, a battle that would start a war between their races.

Despite that impatience flickered to life inside him, Cailean's step was heavy as he crossed to the garron. Murmuring an oath, he swung up onto its back.

He was still reeling from the truth—that he'd unsuspectingly shackled himself to a Shee assassin. Had Bree originally planned to kill him, once she got the secrets her queen was so desperate for?

Cailean's hands clenched around the reins as he urged the garron forward.

The king would annul his marriage, if he explained that his wife had run back to her family. However, Talorc mac Brude would never learn of Fia's true identity.

Cailean was loyal to the High King, but he'd not betray Bree to him.

Fucking idiot . And he was. She'd betrayed him, yet he couldn't bring himself to hate her. His feelings toward her were … complicated.

He set off north, back toward The Hallow Woods. Skaal ran alongside him, keeping up easily with the garron's short stride. The impatience that had risen inside Cailean earlier bloomed bright now. He needed to return to the army, to alert them all. But first, he had to ride through The Hallow Woods again and weather the hissing, clawing Slew.

Dread curled up as he urged the pony down the path, under the branches of interlacing trees, with worn gravestones thrusting from the shadows—yet Cailean swiftly tamped it down. Bree had warned him that fear drew the restless dead. Indeed, on the way in the day before, they'd lost a handful of warriors to The Slew, their screams rending the air as the hungry spirits dragged them off their horses and into the undergrowth before devouring them.

None of the enforcers had been taken though, for they knew how to master terror. And Cailean did now.

Even so, he breathed easier when he reached the warded area. Swinging down off the pony's back, he turned to where Skaal had halted beside him. " Stay here," he ordered, the rumble of his voice cutting through the dawn chorus that chattered around him. The fae hound gave a low whine, and Cailean bent at the waist, lowering his face to Skaal's. "This won't be a battle between Marav," he said, catching the dog's chin. "Protecting the Shee is in your blood; I'll not put you between us."

He stared into the hound's golden eyes. Of course, Skaal couldn't understand him, yet sometimes the intelligence he glimpsed in her gaze made him believe she could. Skaal's company had filled a void over the years; the sound of the hound's snoring at night had made him feel less alone. She was all he had now, and he would not risk her in a fight between Marav and Shee. Whenever he'd hunted Shee over the past few years, he'd left Skaal back at camp—and, usually, she heeded him.

" Stay ," he repeated before straightening up and stepping away from the fae hound. Then, he turned and made his way through the trees toward the tents.

The absence of sentries immediately alerted him that something was wrong.

Shortly after that, the birdsong stopped, and an eerie silence settled over The Hallow Woods. Skirting around a cluster of leaning headstones that sprouted from the roots of a gnarled sycamore, Cailean slowed his step.

A moment later, he drew the sword that was sheathed across his back. The rasp of iron against leather sounded obscenely loud.

Cailean walked on, and when the first of the tents hove into sight, with no guards to be seen, his heart lurched violently against his ribs. When he'd left, he'd heard Euan chanting. But now there was nothing but pregnant silence .

Many of the tents had collapsed, and those that remained upright listed drunkenly. The smoke from dying torches blended with a wreathing mist. Cailean's breathing grew shallow, and he summoned his magic. A moment later, his senses sharpened, and his limbs tingled, his fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword.

Cailean's nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of crushed grass and cloying rose. He knew that smell well, had hunted it often enough over the years.

Shee.

He crept forward, his tattoos searing his skin as they pulsed to life. His muscles tightened, readying him for battle.

But there was no battle to be had. He'd arrived too late. The fighting had ended. The bodies of Marav men littered the damp ground, and if any Shee warriors had fallen, they'd been carried away.

Pulse thudding in his ears, Cailean walked through the ruin of the High King's war band. Many men lay dead in their tents, while others, half-dressed, weapons in their hands, sprawled by the cold fire pits. And among the dead, he found his enforcers, including Tearlach. The warrior-druid lay upon his back, his throat torn open. Marking the grievous wounds of those scattered around him, Cailean realized they'd been vastly outnumbered. Even iron and druid magic hadn't been enough.

Euan mac Gordain was among them. Staring sightlessly up at the trees, his mouth agape, the chief-bard had an ax buried in his chest.

Blood roaring in his ears now, Cailean kept moving, heading toward the heart of the camp, where the bodies were piled thick, to the pavilion where the prince had slept.

Unsurprisingly, Kennan was dead too .

Naked to the waist and barefoot, two knives still clutched in his hands, the prince sprawled face down at the entrance to his tent. His long dark hair fell in a curtain around him, soaking into a puddle of blood. Kneeling next to him, Cailean felt the prince's neck, just to be sure. There was no pulse, although his skin was still warm.

He'd missed the ambush by only a short while.

Sitting back on his heels, Cailean surveyed the devastation.

Fire pulsed in his gut. Bree had warned him of a counter-ambush, but she had failed to tell him that it would come so early. Had she known? If she had, why hadn't she told him?

To save you , a voice whispered to him.

Bile surged up, scalding the back of his throat.

Gods, the bitch could twist him around her little finger. And the worst of it was that he let her.

Instead of sending his deceitful Shee wife home—instead of lingering to watch her pass through the stones—he should have taken her prisoner and readied his men to face the Shee. After that, he'd have dragged her back to the High King and handed her over to him. A prize indeed.

But he hadn't.

Instead, he'd let her play him for a fool … again.

To be continued …