Page 278 of Blade of the Nightking

His head was still turned toward me, as though his gaze had followed me this far. But his eyes were closed now, his body utterly still.

"Rìan," I called sharply.

Nothing.

I started toward him when a prickling sensation crawled across the back of my neck. The tiny hairs there lifted, an instinct older than thought whispering that I was no longer alone.

I turned back toward the marsh just as a head smoothly breached the stagnant water.

Stringy black hair clung to translucent skin tinged with the murky green of the bog, dark veins webbing beneath it like trailing weeds. Its enormous black eyes never left mine even as a pale inner membrane slid over them in a slow blink. Pointed ears rose from either side of its narrow skull—faerie ears, stretched too long and frayed at the tips. It rose no farther than its chin, leaving whatever lay beneath concealed by the marsh.

Then, all around the bog, others emerged.

One after another, heads surfaced, scarcely disturbing the water, until dozens floated there like silent watchers.

Brinnekin.

Just as Rìan had said before we'd entered the cave, he'd sensed them here. They hadn't shown themselves then. The blood—on Rìan, on me—must have drawn them out.

The first Brinnekin detached itself from the cluster of reeds and slipped beneath the surface. As it dove, the bony ridge of its spine rolled through the water, crowned by a pale, tattered fin, before disappearing into the depths.

I watched the water.

Moments later it resurfaced only a few feet from the bank where I stood. It lifted higher this time, exposing narrow shoulders above the waterline. Slits along either side of its throat fluttered open. Closed. Open.

Gills.

I drew the bone knife from its sheath.

It hissed and flinched backward, lips peeling back over gums studded with needle-sharp teeth.

From this close I could see how gaunt it was. Its ribs jutted beneath its slick flesh, forming a delicate cage around a narrow chest where two deflated breasts marked it as female. Its slitted nostrils flared as it scented the blood coating my skin, Rìan's, the shoreline itself, but it made no move to come closer.

I backed toward Rìan, the knife still gripped in my hand, and dropped to my knees beside him. Gently, I turned his face toward me. His lips were parted, his breaths little more than shallow pulls of air.

I wrung what water I could from my sodden shirt into his mouth before slapping his cheek again. He didn't open his eyes, but a faint groan escaped him.

I could feel my own heartbeat slowing inside my chest, each beat stretching farther apart, as though it had begun to follow his into silence. The Eidra thrashed beneath my skin, desperate now, its radiance blazing through my flesh, lighting the night like a beacon.

I looked down at his face. Ashen. Peaceful, almost. And his mouth—those full lips that had explored mine with such impossible longing.

Again, something fluttered beneath my ribs, spreading through the numbness inside me. Too panicked to feast upon it, the Eidra ignored it.

"What can I do?" I murmured, my heart gave a painful squeeze.

A wet sucking sound answered from behind me.

I whirled toward the marsh.

The first Brinnekin hadn't moved any closer, but its mouth was working in slow, deliberate pulls, lips pursing and releasing over and over again.

Another joined it. Then another.

One by one, the Brinnekin began making the same sucking, rhythmic pulls until the entire marsh resounded with it, the sound multiplying until dozens of mouths moved in eerie unison.

I understood at once. It wasn’t a warning—it was an instruction.

The iron. They meant for me to draw it out.