The sounds of music, dance, and revelry had vanished, drowned out by the steady beat of rainfall. She wondered if the villagers had fled to their homes or if, like Barrow and her, they had stolen to nature’s harbors for protection from the downpour.
“Are you cold?” Barrow asked.
Lost as she was in the rhythms of the storm, his question startled her. Despite being slick with rain, her skin felt warm. Her heart only now began to slow after pounding with their flight from the ceilidh. She shook her head, but found herself shivering. It wasn’t from the night’s chill, but because of the path his eyes were taking from her face along her neck to her chest.
Ember glanced down and saw that her sodden dress clung to her body. A few raindrops that found their way through the barrier of tree branches chased each other from her collarbone over her skin, disappearing into her bodice. She looked up at Barrow and met his gaze, though she didn’t recognize his expression. Had she not known better, she would have thought he was in pain.
He reached out, lightly grasping her arms. Ember shivered again and her pulse quickened.
“Come closer,” he said. “You’re trembling.”
She stepped toward him, wanting to speak, but her throat had closed up. Her eyes were on his face. She was close enough to see droplets collecting on his eyelashes. She wanted to be closer. Her heartbeat outpaced the downpour, its speed stealing her breath, leaving her dizzy. When Alistair had drawn her into his arms and pressed his mouth to hers, she’d been breathless, but only in a way similar to being punched in the gut. The sensation had made her sick with fury.
But now she was tracing the shape of Barrow’s mouth with her gaze, wishing she could touch him with more than her eyes. With each moment she felt warmer, drawn to him in a way she didn’t understand. Barrow moved one hand to her waist. He was frowning, as if his confusion matched her own. His hand slid over the curve of her hip. With more than a little hesitation he drew her closer. He moved her slowly, steadily, until her rain-soaked form was fitted against his.
“Ember,” he said. Her name was like a siren song on his lips. She leaned into him. Her hands came up to his chest. She grasped his shirt, wanting to hear him speak again. As if he’d pulled the thought from her mind, he bent his head closer, whispering her name once more.
“Ember.” When he spoke, she could taste his breath, subtly sweetened by spiced wine. “Forgive me.”
She opened her mouth to answer and his lips touched hers. As she fell into the kiss, she understood for the first time what her sister had spoken of when she warned against the celibacy of the Guard. No sensation could match that of Barrow’s mouth moving against hers. Ember twisted her fingers through his damp hair, pressing into him and parting her lips further. His tongue slipped into her mouth. When Alistair had grabbed her, smashing his face into hers and invading her mouth with his thrusting tongue, she’d never imagined that a kiss could provoke anything but disgust from her. Now she knew better. The heat coursing through her veins was intoxicating.
Ember clung to Barrow because all she wanted was to be closer to him, but also because she feared what would happen when they finally parted. His hand moved up her rib cage, and his thumb traced the outer curve of her breast. Her body quaked and a small sound emerged from her throat.
He pushed her away, gazing at her face. The fear building in her chest was mirrored in his eyes.
His skin had gone pale. As he dropped his hand from her side, Ember realized he’d taken her soft cry as an objection to his touch.
“Barrow.” She grabbed his wrist, closing her other hand over his fist. She placed their joined hands against the damp skin above her breastbone. “I—”
She wanted to tell him that her lips were still warm from his kiss. That her body craved more than the skimming caresses he’d barely given it. Ember stood looking up at him, clutching his fist to her chest, unsure how to voice the tumult of revelations that filled her mind.
He returned her gaze, freeing his hand but only to twine his fingers through hers. They stared at each other, breathing hard, neither of them speaking. His other hand came up to stroke her cheek. Then he slid his fingers to the nape of her neck, drawing her close. She lifted her face, lips parting to welcome his kiss once more. But the kiss never came.
A piercing scream ripped through the heavy veil of rain. Barrow and Ember jumped apart. In the next moment they were running through the blinding downpour toward the sound, pushing through brambles and brush as another scream and then another rose in the night.
THIRTY
“HURRY!” BARROW CALLED over his shoulder as he stormed toward the village. Ember was falling behind, though her lungs felt about to burst from the effort she put into her pace.
The screams were horrible. Agonizing. Unceasing. Despite her shrieking instincts, which begged her to turn and flee, Ember ran toward the sounds of torment. Shadows were closing in around her. Torches and campfires that had kept the forest lit with the subtle glow of flame had been drowned by the rain.
Barrow’s long legs carried him through the woods faster than Ember could manage. She could barely see him through the maze of trees and blinding downpour. Each moment seemed darker than the last, as if night itself manifested into a living thing bent on smothering her.
She was almost to the village, she thought, but she’d now completely lost sight of him.
“Barrow!” she shouted. “Sorcha! Alistair!”
Whatever was happening, she hoped it was something they’d face as a united front, particularly since her only weapon was a dagger she’d secreted into her dress pocket. Out of the corner of her eye, Ember saw a tall shadow rise up, slithering from behind a tree trunk. Though her sense told her it was only her mind playing tricks, her body jolted to a stop and turned.
As she stared, the shadow continued to come toward her. Ember couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. What was this thing?
The creature had no flesh. Its form was utterly composed of shadow, or perhaps ink-black smoke—it gave off an acrid odor of burning and decay. In the darkness it was nearly invisible; only the constant movement of its ephemeral body gave away its presence.
Ember drew her dagger, already questioning whether something not made of flesh and bone could be injured by a blade. The sinister form slunk closer, dark tendrils snaking out to grasp her. She had lifted her hand to strike it when the shadow creature suddenly billowed up, as if it were hesitating.
“Ah!” Ember grasped the pendant that lay against her chest. It was hot, burning her skin.
The thing backed away, its form turbulent like boiling smoke. And then it vanished.
She stood still, breathing hard and using a light touch to probe the tender skin beneath the pendant. The gem was no longer hot in her fingers, and if weren’t for the sting of the burn on her chest, she might have believed she’d imagined the incident.
Where had it gone? Each shadow now seemed a menace. She had to find the others. Warn them.
“Lady Morrow!”
Ember whirled around to see Eira coming toward her. Unlike her companions who’d attended the festival, Eira wore full battle garb.
“Are you hurt?” Eira asked her. “You’re trembling.”
Ember shook her head. “Something’s happened.”
“I know,” Eira said. “That’s why I’ve come.”
“I thought the villagers weren’t supposed to see women among the Guard,” Ember said, frowning.
“That’s why I have this.” Eira donned a helmet. “Come with me. Stay close.”
Eira didn’t run, but walked at a fast clip toward the village. The screams hadn’t stopped, though some had weakened, becoming wails of despair. They reached the edge of the forest, and though Ember would have rushed into the fray, Eira grabbed her arm.
“Wait. You’re hardly ready for battle.”
Ember squinted through the rainfall, still hearing the screams but unable to see what was happening. “We have to find the others.” She brandished her
dagger. “I’ll manage.”
Eira looked at her. Ember thought she noticed Eira’s gaze drop to the pendant that hung from Ember’s neck before she nodded.
“Yes,” she said, releasing Ember’s arm. “Stay by my side.”
At a cautious pace that Ember found infuriating, Eira led the way into the village. They wove between clusters of thatch-roofed homes. The screams were close now. Their sound made Ember’s throat close.
“There.” Ember choked on the word as she pointed to a man who writhed on the ground. His body had been engulfed by the same sort of shadow creature that she’d encountered in the forest. The man screamed, his hands clawing at the earth as his attacker held him, its shadow body pulsing like a leech sucking blood. It seemed not to matter that the creature had no weight or substance; its grasp appeared inescapable.
Eira began to move away.
“But—” Ember was still watching the man in horror.
“Our purpose is to find our companions,” Eira told her. “We can’t help him.”
Though Ember’s stomach churned, she followed Eira farther into the village. The rainstorm at last gave them reprieve, but Ember couldn’t be grateful for the sights a clear view afforded her.
The shadow beasts were everywhere in the village, their victims chosen without regard to age or sex. Some lay limply, whether dead or unconscious Ember didn’t know. Others still flailed, desperate to escape their torment. Those she spotted were all strangers, men, women, and children from the village. With each new sighting Ember feared she would come upon someone she knew.
“What are they?” Ember asked, her voice shaking.
“Hush,” Eira said. “Don’t draw their attention.”
They reached the bonfire circle. Burning wood still spit and hissed, smoke and steam rising together into the night sky.
“Ember!”
The sound of Barrow’s shout brought tears to Ember’s eyes.
“Here!” she cried out, earning a stern glance from Eira.
He wasn’t alone. Lukasz and Sorcha were with him, both bearing daggers like the one Ember had carried in her dress.
Lukasz regarded Eira with alarm. “Why are you here? And in uniform?”
“I heard there was trouble,” Eira answered coolly. “And most of the Guard was absent. I thought it prudent to take precautionary measures.”
“Where are the others?” Ember asked. Alistair and Kael were still missing, as was Father Michael.
Lukasz shook his head. “I don’t know. Hopefully well away from the village. If we’re lucky, the rain drove them back to Tearmunn.”
“What is this evil that’s come upon us?” Sorcha hissed.
“We must return to the keep,” Eira said. “We can do no good here.”
“I wish I could argue with you.” Lukasz laid the blade of his dagger flat against his palm. “I threw my other dagger at one of beasts. It was like attacking a cloud.”
Eira turned and gestured for them to follow. “That’s why we mustn’t wait. Our only choice here is retreat.”
“I don’t know.” Lukasz hesitated. “Even after my attack, the creature didn’t turn on me. They seemed intent on attacking the villagers only.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Eira told him. “Follow me.”
She led them toward the forest. Now that the rain had stopped, Ember could see huddled figures in the woods. Some of the villagers had climbed trees. Others crouched in groups, gazing grief-stricken as they listened to their neighbors’ cries.
“Why don’t they run to the keep?” Ember asked Lukasz. “Wouldn’t we offer protection?”
“We would,” he told her. “But you’d be surprised at how much it can take to drive a man from his home. Some will stay even in the face of certain death.”
This very case proved the truth of his words, Ember thought.
Sorcha suddenly shouted, pointing to her right. One of the shadow creatures had abandoned its victim. It now flowed over the rain-soaked ground, moving away from them toward the center of the village. Sorcha turned and rushed after it.
“Where are you going?” Ember cried, and then she saw it.
A child, barely old enough to walk, tottered through the mud. It wailed, soaked by rain and full of fear, likely searching for its mother. The shadow creature kept its inexorable pace, bearing down on the toddler. Ember’s glance moved from the child, seeking any sign of hope for its salvation. Her gaze settled on a figure only a short distance from the toddler. A tall man leaned against the side of a house. His pose was casual and his head tilted as if watching this tragedy unfold were somehow amusing.
“Who is he?” Ember whispered. But no one heard her as Lukasz swore and started to go after Sorcha.
“No!” Eira stepped in front of him. “I’ll go after her. You must get the others to the safety of Tearmunn.”
“You take them,” Lukasz growled. “I should fight with Sorcha.”
“I’m ordering you, Commander,” Eira said, drawing her sword. “I’m more ready for a fight than you are. You’ve already lost one dagger today.”
Lukasz glared at her but nodded. “We’ll see you in the keep.”
Eira nodded. “Godspeed.”
When the others were out of sight, Eira broke from her run, instead walking calmly into the village. Ahead of her, Sorcha dove between the wraith and the child. Rolling to her feet, Sorcha scooped up the toddler and whirled to face the wraith.
With only a dagger to defend herself, Sorcha spat on the ground. “Go to hell, you fiend.”
Eira lifted her hand and the advancing coil of shadow stopped. Its nebulous form undulated, gave a sudden shudder, and then vanished. Sorcha stared in shock at the empty space where the wraith had been. With the child still wailing in her arms, Sorcha went very still, uncertain of her next move.
Behind her Bosque Mar straightened. “The menace is past!” he called in a voice that reached across the village. “See to your families.”
Creaks and whispers filled the air as hidden villagers emerged from within houses and beneath carts or piles of straw.
“Gather here! I have the fiend who brought this sorrow upon us!” Bosque seized Sorcha from behind, which made her drop the child. It sat in the mud, screeching.
Sorcha battled to free herself and shouted, but Bosque’s arms were locked around her, stronger than iron.
“Eira! Help me!”
Bosque looked at Eira, giving a slight nod. Sheathing her sword, Eira turned a regretful glance upon Sorcha. She’d known the night would end here, but she was sorry for it.
A true sacrifice.
Eira wished it hadn’t been Sorcha, but she also knew that the villagers were much more likely to accuse a woman of witchcraft than a man. And Sorcha had proved resistant, hostile even, to Eira’s call to arms. That made Sorcha an enemy. Once their plan had taken shape, its target had been an obvious choice.
At least I saved the girl, Eira thought, and Alistair believes she’ll join us.
With a sigh Eira pulled her eyes off Sorcha and slipped away. She wove her way between houses and finally stopped, crouching out of sight so she could watch and listen without being spotted.
Curious, frightened villagers began to cluster around the tall man who held a struggling woman fast.
“Jamie!” a woman cried, and rushed forward, sweeping the crying, mud-covered toddler into her arms.
“By the grace of God alone your child lives,” Bosque told her. “This witch would have taken your babe to sacrifice.”
Murmurs flew through the gathering crowd, punctuated by sobbing and grief-filled wails.
Sorcha ceased her struggling and her face blanched with disbelief.
“I am no witch,” she whispered, but as she began to fight against him once more, her voice became a shout. “I am no witch!”
“She is a witch.” Bosque tightened his hold on her. “Only the work of the devil could bring such sorrow here.”
Affirmative rumbles filled the air. The di
straught crowd pressed closer, men and women jostling each other to get a look at this man and his captive.
“We all know the devil must find agents to do his bidding,” Bosque told them. “Witches are the servants of the devil. They are his whores!”
This shout earned Bosque nods and calls of “aye!” from the mob.
Bosque raised his right hand, able to keep Sorcha imprisoned with only one arm. “I swear to you that I saw this witch command the demons that attacked us. When she tried to steal that child, she bid the creatures leave.”
“You saw this?” the mother of the child asked.
“Indeed I did,” Bosque told her. “And are not the demons gone? Have they not left us in our sorrow to bury the dead?”
“I saw it too!” a man called. He stepped from the crowd and turned to address his neighbors. “From where I was hidden under my wagon, I saw her command the demons to leave. She’s a witch!”
Wails rose from the villagers that blended with angry shouts.
Bosque shook his head. “And this is not all. I know this woman. She is not one of us but one of them.” He pointed northwest to the road that led from the village to Tearmunn.
“She belongs to Conatus. To the people of the keep.”
A man called out, “But the knights offer protection!”
“Is this protection?” Bosque asked. “Where are the knights now? Have they done anything to stop this?”
Sorcha thrashed in his grip. “These are lies!”
Bosque pressed his other arm against her throat, choking off her words. She scratched at his arms as he strangled her.
“Have we not long borne the rumors of their heresy?” he asked the crowd, who answered with shouts.
“I’ve heard they use the Saracens’ magic!”
“They steal women and children!”
“They should have burned with the Templars!”
The mood of the villagers shifted, their grief abandoned in favor of rage.
Sorcha’s face was turning blue. Bosque shoved her forward, and she fell to her hands and knees, gasping for air.