Chapter 10

THE MORRíGAN

I refuse to go back into the cottage with Ciara when her friend leaves. Something feels wrong in the woods; the forest whispering secrets that I can't quite decipher, and I don't like it.

I don't like that which I can't predict, and I can't predict what is going to happen today.

Ciara tries for a good fifteen minutes to persuade me, but eventually she gives up and locks the door behind her. I try to give off a don't-worry-about-me-I'll-be-fine feeling, but short of shifting into humanshape and telling her, I'm not sure she gets it.

She looks upset and keeps checking on me through the window to see if I'm okay. I wait for that to settle down before head down the road to shift into ravenshape.

If I can't tell what's coming, at least I can take to the skies and keep an eye on it all.

The shift to ravenshape is easier than taking on my humanshape, possibly because birds—much like wolves—have a simpler mindset. I'm not beset with a million emotions all at once, and my biggest urge is to leave the earth below and soar.

The current picks me up, almost caressing my feathers as I follow it, navigating through the forest in the direction that Ciara's ex-husband left the previous night. What's coming this way, I'm not entirely sure, but something is on the breeze.

Something is waiting.

I follow the road all the way out of the forest until I hit the Chorca Dhuibhne and see the expanse that is the sea, stretching out as far as my raven eyes can see.

Far down below, I catch sight of a speck of red moving along the road fast. Too fast. It's instantly recognizable and I'm cursing myself at leaving Ciara alone in the cottage.

I could fly back, but I can't fly faster than I could run as a wolf.

Shifting in midair is dangerous; even as an immortal I've taken more than my fair share of cuts and bruises from such foolhardy exploits, but there's not a moment to lose. I need to get back, and I need to get back now.

My wings have barely slipped beneath my skin as my paws hit the ground and I'm running through the forest, through the trees, howling my request for assistance as I charge through.

Terror volts through me at the thought of him reaching Ciara before me. Of her tear-streaked face last night, and the fear in her eyes.

I should have listened to my instincts, understood that I know exactly what those sensations are. I'm an immortal; I should know better.

The thing that humans always got incorrect about us gods was this foolish idea that we're omniscient. We're not. If we were, do you think any god or goddess would back the wrong side in a battle?

But the universe does whisper in our ear sometimes, giving us hints about what's around the corner. And I should have known better than to go tearing off after a feeling.

My paws are tired; I've been running for longer than I usually would, and over brambles and sharp rocks on the ground, but I don't slow down, don't pause—even for a moment.

By the time I pull up in front of the cottage, my mouth is open and my tongue out, panting.

And I'm not alone.

My howls have summoned the wolves of the forest, who stand, expectantly looking at me.

The two-legger in the cottage is one of us. I say. She is Pack.

It's all I manage to say before the red monstrosity zooms around the bend, all roaring metal and oil and it stinks. It smells so bad and the other wolves shuffle backwards.

He comes to challenge our Pack, I tell them, and it's far from a lie. He intends Ciara harm, I know it, and after I destroyed his speaking box last night, I doubt that he would hold back from attempting to hurt me too.

Attempting is key there, because this man knows not what he is up against.

The alpha of the pack looks to me—I am not alpha, but I am something else, and they all know it, they all sense it—and I turn towards red vehicle and I growl.

Robert gets out and looks at us.

The eight other wolves flank me, hackles rising, growls emitting from deep in their throats.

He doesn't even blink, which does not bode well. Instead, he reaches back into the vehicle and pulls out something long and black and shiny.

The panic from the other wolves is palpable. They scatter as he laughs, and the ch-ch sound draws Ciara to the window.

I see her face pale as she sees him, realizes he's back and then she registers what's in his hands. The curtains twitch and she is gone, disappearing back into the cottage.

I wonder what it is that has her so frightened, when the front door flies open and she rushes out, grasping a frying pan in her hands. "You fucking bastard," she shouts, and I've never seen Ciara this animated, this angry. "If you touch a hair on her head, I swear I'll kill you myself."

He clearly didn't expect that, didn't expect to see anyone other than a cowering, whimpering woman, browbeaten and terrified of him and his ways. He steps backward, and then tenses, the resolve in his eyes sharpening.

"Now, now, Ciara. You know you're not allowed pets." He turns and aims it towards me, and in an instant, I understand. This is a weapon, and he intends to kill me to get Ciara back in line.

He's in for a nasty shock.

I don't hesitate; I leap, knocking him to the ground and stand above him. Badb pushes past my consciousness and I have his throat between my jaws.

I wrest control back from her, but her voice remains in my ear, furious. End him, sister. Rip his throat out and bathe in his blood. I expect Macha to be the voice of reason, but she too is irate. It's the only way to keep her safe; we protect what is ours, sister. I listen for Nemain, but she remains silent. It's odd; she's usually at her most chaotic on the battlefield, and I sense that she is waiting for me to decide what to do.

Everything has gone very, very still. Ciara stands behind me in shocked silence, and the man whose pulse beats against my mouth is quiet.

The whole forest seems to have hushed.

And then one sound shatters it.