Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The moon was high in the sky, the stars around it uncommonly bright. It was the kind of night that often filled Jocelyn's dreams, the kind of night where magic and faeries and, yes, witches and prophecies all felt more real. It was beautiful, shining and peaceful, and normally Jocelyn would have been enthralled by it.

But now she sat with her back against a tree, sitting on the cold, hard ground with her arms tied uncomfortably behind her. Bram's men had set up camp an hour before, and though there had been a campfire, they had deliberately tied her just out of the way of being able to feel its warmth. They'd roasted some kind of meat that one of the men had caught, but though the scent of it cooking had made her mouth water, they had not offered her even a bite.

Well, that was fine. They might think that the way they treated her would break her, but they couldn't be more wrong. What was one night of cold, one night of hunger, to Jocelyn? She'd faced worse growing up under her uncle's purported care. This petty meanness meant nothing to her, nothing at all.

When it had started to rain, the men had all acted like the sky was falling down, and Jocelyn found herself half-amused as she watched them run around like headless chickens trying to create a makeshift shelter. They had a single large tent that had once been for their supplies and the leader of the unit—but now their supplies were useless and their commander was dead. Only six of them remained alive, and so five of them had piled into that tent together. Jocelyn imagined they must all be pressed up next to one another, and the thought made her laugh at its absurdity. As if a little rain would have hurt them!

One man had drawn the unlucky lot and been left as her guard. He sat opposite her under the shelter of another tree, which, unlike hers, offered some coverage from the rain with its branches. It was not Barra—though given his behavior she would not be surprised if he had volunteered for the duty—but another man whose name she did not know. And now he was nodding off, falling asleep in the midst of the cold and rain.

Jocelyn was soaked to the skin, but rather than making her feel despondent, she felt invigorated. The cover of the rain was enough to hide the sounds she was making, and the slickness it gave her skin was helping in her attempt as she wriggled her wrists this way and that, trying to free herself from her bonds.

It was time to get away.

She'd already convinced them to untie her ankle bonds by complaining loudly and openly about needing to take a rest stop to deal with "women's issues". Pathetic men that they were, they had immediately grown too embarrassed to accompany her or even check, simply cutting free her feet and sending her into the bushes.

She'd been so tempted to run then, but she forced herself to stay put. She knew that if she'd have tried to escape at that moment, they would have killed her before she'd gone even a few feet. So she'd hidden in the bushes for just long enough to convince them, then returned. Thankfully, as she had hoped, they'd forgotten to retie her ankles afterward, simply binding her to the tree by the wrists while they made camp.

And so she'd waited, patient as she could, while the men around her noisily ate and drank and talked of what Bram would do to her when they arrived back at the castle. One man suggested a marriage to secure his legitimacy to the Lairdship—after all, nobles marrying their cousins for such things was hardly uncommon—and the thought made Jocelyn want to throw up. The other men had laughed at him though, pointing out that Bram would never be a man who took a wife, even if his sole purpose in life wasn't to kill Jocelyn and her sisters.

Jocelyn snorted at that. She knew it was true; Bram was a favorite of the madams at every brothel in the clan's borders and beyond, seeking pleasure often but never love, never kindness. She had no doubt he didn't have room for those things in his sad, blackened heart.

Once, she would have felt sorry for him, knowing the full story of what her father had almost done, knowing how paranoia over the so-called "curse" had warped Bram's mind. But now, after seeing his attack on Whisperer's Rest, she knew the truth. Bram was evil, pure evil, and no excuse could ever be reason enough to explain his actions. Her cousin was a monster, plain and simple, and until he was dead, the clan would suffer.

But Jocelyn herself had no interest in killing him. She was not the product of some prophecy, some curse. She was a woman, free and clear, with a fate of her own to make, and all she wished was to be with her sisters again.

And with Lachlan.

The force of the thought hit her hard, knocking the wind out of her. Was he truly all right? Had the girl been correct about his survival? She prayed it was true.

But there was only one way that Jocelyn would ever know for sure, and that was to be free of here. She twisted her wrists again, ignoring the burning itch of the rope, until?—

One of her hands slipped free!

Jocelyn had to bite her lip hard to stop herself from cheering in victory. She'd done it, she'd freed herself! All that she had to do now was to get away. Jocelyn found herself dearly missing Lightning, wishing her steed was with her now to carry her safely into the night at the speed of the wind. But no, of course, she was alone. She would not dream of trying to steal one of the men's horses. There was an excess of them, the horses of the dead soldiers led by those of the living, so it was unlikely anyone would notice if one went missing. But Jocelyn knew that if she tried, one would whinny in alarm, or the sound of the hoofbeats would wake the men.

No. She had to be silent, and escape on foot. She would find the trail that Bram's men had left bringing her here—hoping, that was, that the rain had not washed it away—and follow that trail back to the village on McFerguson land. There, she'd reunite with her horse and perhaps even with Lachlan and find her way to Blair.

All she had to do was escape.

She glanced over at her guard again. His head was dipped, resting on his chest, and Jocelyn was sure he had fallen asleep. It was now or never.

Slowly, as quietly as she could, Jocelyn rose to her feet. Praying that the heavy rain would continue so as to cover her footsteps, she resisted the urge to run as she began to make her way forward, slowly and steadily walking away. All she had to do was reach the deeper part of the woods, and she could flee. One step. Another. Another.

"Oi!"

Jocelyn muttered something extremely unladylike as she whipped her head around and saw the guard on his feet, rushing toward her. Throwing caution to the wind, she picked up the pace, running as fast as she could. She was glad she had lost her shoes somewhere; even though the stones in the ground cut her feet, she could better grip the muddy wetness that caused her pursuer to slip and fall behind her. She kept running, not daring to look back, half hoping she might be able to outrun him, when suddenly another man stepped out in front of her, grinning.

"Ye didnae think we left just one of us on watch, did ye?" Barra asked, smirking. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her forward and close to his chest. "I told them ye'd try tae escape."

Jocelyn struggled to break free, but his grip was like iron. "Let me go!"

"Ye ken, I always wanted tae have a taste of ye," Barra told her, his hands tightening painfully around her wrists. "He said that if we brought the three of ye back untouched, I could have a wee nibble as a prize." Roughly, he dragged her closer, dropping one of her wrists and instead grabbing her hair, yanking it hard so she was forced to look up at him. "But ye ken, I dinnae think he'll mind if I take it now. Tae teach ye a lesson about tryin' tae escape."

Jocelyn tried to kick him, but she couldn't get a proper stance on the mud, and her free arm was trapped, pinned against his chest. He pulled her closer, and she spat in his face.

He roared in outrage, tossing her backwards, and she fell on the ground in a heap.

"I'd rather die," she exclaimed.

Barra drew his knife, his face a mask of pure fury. "Die then!" he cried and lunged.

Jocelyn flinched, screwing her eyes shut as she prepared for the inevitable. She felt a hot spray of blood, but no pain, and heard a muffled cry of agony that did not escape her lips. She opened her eyes and saw Barra dead on the ground before her with steel protruding from his back, and a shadowy figure standing behind the body, his eyes gleaming.

The last time she'd seen those eyes, she'd thought they were closed forever.

"Lachlan, ye came for me," she breathed. Without thinking, she closed the gap between them and threw her arms around him. She heard him let out a small noise of surprise, but he put his arms around her in a very quick but also very tight hug.

After a second or two, he gently pushed her away. "Always. We've nae time," he told her in a low voice. "But Gods above, I'm glad ye're alive."

Jocelyn felt heat prickling at her eyes. " Ye're glad? How do ye think I feel tae see ye?"

She thought she saw him smile, but then he was bent over the body, drawing out his own sword and grabbing the knife that the dead man still gripped.

"Here," he said, straightening up and handing the knife to her. It was a wicked, deadly thing, and Jocelyn didn't really want to touch it. Nonetheless, she accepted it, knowing that her ability to defend herself now was more important than any comfort. "It isnae over, nae yet. How many more of them are there?"

"Six," Jocelyn replied, then glanced down at the ground. "Well, five now. Ye got rid of most of them at that village. There's one after me, he?—"

As if summoned, the guard burst through the treeline. Jocelyn didn't even think; she raised the knife in front of her, and felt the strange impact when it found its mark. Her pursuer collapsed, groaning and bleeding.

Jocelyn gasped, lightheadedness suddenly flooding her as she looked at the man dying in front of her—the man she had just stabbed to what would be his death. She felt no guilt; he would have killed her or Lachlan if she had not acted. But still, her body prickled with confused adrenaline. Discomfort roiled in her stomach, and she wanted to cry. Even when one had no other choice, it was no small thing to take a life, especially for the first time.

Lachlan stepped forward and finished the man off with a quick stab of his sword, offering him the mercy of a quick death rather than a slow bleeding out. It was more than the soldier would have asked for, and that thought galvanized Jocelyn. She couldn't fret now, couldn't think about morals and allow emotions. Now was the time for action.

"Ready yerself now," Lachlan told her quietly. They heard footsteps and the cracking of branches that told them the other men were approaching, and it sounded like they'd fanned out into the woods. They'd be coming from all angles. "Stormcloud is too far. We make our stand here."

Jocelyn nodded, trying not to let her hands shake. She moved to Lachlan's side and winced when she saw his injuries. Though his sword arm was steady, the other still hung strangely, and his gait suggested a wound in his abdomen that probably made every movement an agony for him.

But she would not mention it. She knew better than to try to make them stop. Besides, there was little option but to fight for their lives. To fight for each other.

"We cannae outrun them, but we can outsmart them, aye?" Lachlan continued. "They're expectin' a helpless lassie, and they think I'm dead. We must hunt them down one by one before they find us. Ready?"

"Nay," she replied, but nodded. "Let's go."

They split from each other, each taking a different direction in the trees toward the sounds of approaching soldiers. Jocelyn felt naked and exposed without Lachlan at her back, but she knew that she must not panic—she must focus only on the here and now, and get through this.

She found the first man quickly, walking with his sword drawn and a look of pure malice on his face. Like Bram, like many men of their kind, he might have been handsome once had not the darkness within him eaten away everything that was good about him. Jocelyn remembered him from the village, remembered him putting his torch to a cottage and kicking Lachlan's supposedly dead body. Her heart hardened, and she stepped forward, knife in hand.

"Are ye lookin' for me?" she asked softly.

He spun, then without a word ran toward her, his sword raised high. She clumsily ducked out of the way of his first swing, using a move she'd seen Lachlan perform, and managed to rake her knife across his ribs, tumbling on the ground on the way down. He howled in pain and anger, momentarily distracted from the battle, and that was all the opening she needed. Scrambling back to her feet behind him, she reached around with the knife and drew it hard across his throat.

He went down immediately with a gurgle and no other sound. Jocelyn felt sick at how easy the kill had been, how ruthlessly she had acted, but she refused to let it overwhelm her. A scream from further into the woods let her know that Lachlan had found his mark. She winced, knowing the sound would alert the other three.

They'd be moving in Lachlan's direction now—which meant she had to hurry.

Without a glance on the dead soldier, she ran through the trees toward the place the scream had come from, branches whipping against her as she pelted as quickly as she could into the darkness. Another scream sounded, another attacker dead, and Jocelyn sped up.

The gloom was so thick that she didn't notice the second man until he pounced, tackling her to the ground.

"Witch!" he spat. His eyes were crazed as he pinned her there on the forest floor, a knee on either side of her. The knife went skittering out of her grasp, and he held his own weapon up high, poised over her breast.

Terror crept into the edges of Jocelyn's heart and her head began to spin. She'd felt confident until now, bolstered by the fact she was in charge of her own fate, but without a weapon, she felt vulnerable and helpless. She struggled, trying to get free, but the knife was racing lower and there was no escape.

Then, all of a sudden, the weapon fell from a loose grip and the man collapsed forward, dead, with a thrown knife protruding from the back of his skull. Jocelyn gasped, trying to steady her breathing, before kicking herself free of the body and scrambling to her feet. Her heart was racing, and her head hurt where she'd knocked it when she fell, but none of that mattered.

She saw Lachlan not too far away, leaning heavily against a tree. He'd obviously thrown the knife that saved her, but he looked much worse for wear after his two battles in the woods. The wound on his abdomen has opened, and as Jocelyn watched, blood blossomed like a macabre flower on his shirt.

She rushed to his side, just in time for him to meet her eyes and whisper, "Jocelyn." Then his eyes flickered shut and his strength left him. He slid down the tree, unconscious, until he lay collapsed at its foot.

The last man burst from the trees, grinning at the sight of the unmoving man, and Jocelyn did not even hesitate. She turned and with both hands slammed her knife into the soldier's stomach.

"Ye…how…?" the soldier wheezed. He stumbled backward, past some trees, and Jocelyn followed him, no mercy in her heart now.

He fell down near some trees, staring up at her, clutching his belly where her knife had already killed him—it was only a matter of time.

"I never wanted tae be a wolf," Jocelyn told him quietly. Her throat burned and her voice was hoarse, but she forced her words out anyway. She knelt for a moment and wrenched the knife out again, causing him to cry out in pain. She wiped the blood on his shirt, cleaning the blade. "I never wanted tae hurt anyone. But if Bram wants tae make an enemy of our little pack, so be it. As ye now see, we have plenty of teeth tae bite back."

The man coughed weakly. "Bitch."

Jocelyn smiled wanly. "Perhaps I am," she replied. She reached over and ripped a long strip of fabric from the dying man's clothes, then got to her feet.

She wanted to walk away, but something stopped her. If she left him to die in agony out of spite, how was she better than Bram? And so, in one fluid movement, she leaned down and plunged her dagger through his throat, ending it.

"Farewell," she whispered, partly to the man and partly to a part of herself that would never return. She wiped the dagger clean again, then straightened up.

She stood there for a moment, conflicting emotions surging through her, then remembered.

"Lachlan…hold on…"