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Chapter Sixteen

Aoibheall's grudging respect for Janet is as apparent as Ciara and the Morrígan's bemusement. No one in the club knows quite what to make of my mortal, and that is quite satisfying.

Almost as satisfying as the fact that she seems to be quite the mouthy, confident thing when speaking to anyone but me.

I mean, she's mouthy and confident when she's with me, but she's also a deliciously melty little thing as well, and I'm glad that I'm the one who gets to entice that out of her.

Janet stands, and even my banshee subjects take a step back. There's something more about her now. Maybe it's the fact that she holds all the voice of a magical Pack in her head, or perhaps it's just her. That this whole experience has tapped into a magical vein that's been hidden deep within her soul.

She's Godstouched.

I consider Ciara for a moment, though not for too long, as the Morrígan tends to get a tad overprotective of her own mortal. She has a similar feel. It's almost as if whatever makes them mortal has somehow been indelibly changed.

I'm all in favour of it.

"Well?" Janet demands of my sister. "What's next?"

"I don't know," she says, shrugging helplessly. "I set the trials in motion, but I don't know what comes next. I've never known."

We all stand there, as useless as new-born lambs. It's as if all our legs have been cut out from beneath us. All of us, except Janet.

"There's got to be form," she insists. "I'm not going to just stand around and wait for something drastic to hit me. That seems ridiculous." She stares at us all. "Aren't you all supposed to be immortals? Don't you have some kind of control over fate?"

That makes us laugh. Even Aoibheall.

"If that were the case," she says, "do you think we'd have been caught behind a Veil for centuries?"

Janet exchanges a glance with Ciara. "I'm not wrong though, am I?"

Ciara nods. "You're not wrong at all, but I'm probably not the best person to ask. I didn't start forging my own fate until Red here came into my life." There's a grief in her eyes that calls my keening to the tip of my tongue, but I fight to get it under control. Whatever Ciara has been through, she doesn't need me calling her grief into being.

"Fine." There's that stubbornness in her. Her chin goes up and her dark eyes flash with fire. "If you're not going to do something about this, then I will. Clíodhna, what do you hate the most?"

"Other than snakes, you mean?"

Aoibheall has the grace to look abashed at that.

"Not as in what do you fear; what do you dislike the most? What hurts you?"

My eyebrows go up, but I see what she's getting at. The first trial had been about her losing control, and me facing my own fears. The second had been her encountering great magic and prevailing, and me giving up all control over the situation, and coping with it.

The third would have to comprise of some physical feat.

"Iron." The Morrígan's voice is low and hisses come from the surrounding banshee. "You fae hate iron the most."

There's truth in her words, for what good that will do us, for there's iron in this club. No self-respecting fae would walk through the doors if there were.

"I've got some in my truck," offers Ciara.

Everyone looks at her, horrified. "Why would you have iron in your truck?" I demand.

"You mean, aside from the fact that most cars are made from iron in some form or another? Red made me keep a chain of iron links in the back."

All fae gazes turn to the Dark Goddess accusatorily. She shrugs. "just because I get on with some of you, doesn't mean that I trust my Ciara with you. You've all got a pretty twisted sense of humour at times."

She stares each fae down and we all drop our eyes, even me. I might have banshee-red eyes that glow when I'm angry, but she's a triple goddess, the Dark Goddess. There's no challenging her.

"I'll go get it from the truck," she says, and then pauses and looks back at Janet. "Get yourself up on that cross; we'll lash you to it with iron chains. There isn't much else that the universe can throw at the two of you that would top that."

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